Chapter XXVIII.

With a woman's tact, Adelaide set to work to provide some powerful attraction for her father; and luckily the proposed formation of a scientific society brought many men of his own way of thinking to town just then: and among them Mr. Spence, and a lord or two of "promotion of knowledge" celebrity. Having managed thoroughly to interest her father in this society, Adelaide told him that sea-air would benefit Hester's health, that she intended to go with her for a few weeks to try it, that meantime Mr. Spence would keep him company in the house, which Lucy Fairfield would take charge of. To this Mr. Godfrey, though somewhat taken by surprise, assented: he had already, at Adelaide's request, invited Mr. Spence to spend a few weeks with him; but that gentleman was not exactly well pleased to find on his arrival that the ladies were already preparing for departure. He had intended to win a bride during his visit, thinking that even if Hester proved obdurate, he might have a chance with the fair young widow. But the carriage was already at the door. "I shall send the carriage back, father, in a day or two;" said Adelaide. "I do not care to have my horses at a livery stable; Hester and I are going to rusticate, ride donkeys, climb hills, and throw pebbles into the sea: we take only Norah with us, and you will have to see that the carriage horses are duly exercised every day." She waved her hand in adieu, giving no time for reply. The gentlemen could only bow their assent. Mr. Godfrey was too well acquainted with Adelaide's imperious temperament to think of disputing her commands; he had long learned to respect even her eccentricities. Was she not a duchess?

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The journey went on well enough the first day, but on the second, Adelaide surprised her retinue by sending them back with the carriage, telling them she would proceed onward with a hired vehicle. The coachman and footman looked as if they would like to remonstrate, but it had been proved to be somewhat dangerous to argue with this very positive lady, accustomed to obey no will except her own. They submitted in silence, therefore, though much against their inclination. "Now," said Adelaide, when they had departed, "we can enjoy the luxury of being ourselves, unencumbered by state and trappings. Hester, do you think you can teach Norah to call me plain 'ma'am,' for a little while, till we return home? I am again Adelaide Godfrey, that name will tell nothing and will enable us to act as we like, observed by any."

It was not found difficult to initiate Norah into the idea that the great duchess wanted to lay aside her dignity for a while, for the truth was Norah's difficulty had ever been to get herself to say "your grace," on requisite occasions. These preliminaries settled, the ladies proceeded on their journey, took ready furnished lodgings in H----, and prepared to lead the quiet life of the middle classes of society when out on a "bathing for health" excursion.

The location of the Catholic chapel was soon examined, the priest's house communicating with it. In neat straw bonnets trimmed with white, and plain muslin dresses, Adelaide and Hester assisted at the daily mass. In the priest they recognized at once the Abbé Martigni, and in the noble-featured youth who knelt by his side Adelaide traced the likeness, now first becoming dear to her, of her late husband. A day or two elapsed ere she could summon courage to call at the house. At length the moment arrived for the looked-for visit; the sisters had, however, scarcely gained entrance to the outer court, when their attention was attracted by loud sobs from a little boy and girl, who stood weeping as if their hearts would break. The abbé was speaking to the woman with whom they came; he then turned to the children, and patting them on the heads, said tenderly: "I will come directly, my poor children." He turned hastily away without receiving his visitors. Adelaide took the boy's hand kindly. "What is the matter?" she asked. The boy could not speak for weeping, but the woman answered: "His mother, my lady, poor Biddy, shure, she has fallen from her seat, on to the stone pavement, while she was cleaning the windows of a large house in Queen street, and they say she must die."

Adelaide whispered, "take me to your mother;" the boy looked at the woman; "aye," said she, "do you and Sissy go home with the ladies, I will wait to show his reverence the way." Led by Adelaide and Hester, the girl and boy threaded back the way to their wretched home, and entered it some time before the priest arrived. In one of those dreary places of large cities called a "blind alley"--where the houses nearly meet in the upper stories, and where the sunshine of heaven is excluded; surrounded by bad smells, and the very atmosphere of which makes us shrink and shudder as we enter the damp and dirty houses, the inhabitants of which are for the most part very dirty also--here in a cellar, darker even than its neighbors, lay a poor widow with four children weeping around her. The woman was barely sensible; her brain and spine were injured; the doctor had said she could not live till night; two women, neighbors, were with her trying "to get sense out of her," as they said. It was the first time the sisters had ever witnessed such a scene. The very walls were covered with dirt; the floor was partly brick, and where these were broken away, the foot slipped into holes of the bare earth; the windows were so covered with dust and cobwebs it was difficult to find out what they were made of. {36} On a low pallet, on a dirty straw-bed, with no blankets, no sheets, naught save one dirty coverlet, lay a figure with long, dark, lank hair, almost covering her face and person. Adelaide approached, but the woman heeded her not; her large dark eyes were set: she moaned from time to time, but spoke not. "Where do you feel pain?" kindly inquired the lady. "Oh I bless you, my lady, she cannot spake," said one of the women. "The Lord be praised, here comes his reverence," said the other. "May the sweet Jesus lend her her senses a few minutes, to let her spake to the priest!" The abbé entered; he looked very grave; he sat down on the bed (there was no other seat in the room) to examine the pulse and breathing of the patient. He spoke to her. She answered not. "Try to rouse her," he said to the women. They called to her: "Biddy, dear, shure here's his reverence. Biddy, won't you spake to the priest?" She continued unconscious. "Have you a smelling-bottle?" he said to Adelaide. "We must bring her to consciousness, I wish I had some _eau-de Cologne_." "I will fetch you some," laid Adelaide.

The sisters went out and purchased the _eau-de-Cologne_, also bread and refreshments for the children; and then in that damp, unwholesome den, the duchess watched long hours by the side of the unfortunate woman. She was unattended too, for Hester had grown faint, and Adelaide had insisted on her going home, and the abbé had left for a while. At length consciousness returned, and the poor mother opened her eyes again. The priest was immediately sent for, as he had desired to be, and the first words she whispered betrayed a consciousness of his presence, for they were: "Bring me my God! O my sweet Jesus, come!" The room was cleared for a few moments. Biddy had been a faithful member of the church--she was a monthly communicant, and the last sacraments brought unspeakable consolation to her. She had remained silent and in prayer for some time. A change came over her, and she motioned the father to come near to her. "I am dying, father, and but for one thought it were sweet to die. My children--oh! my children! I have struggled--father, you know I have struggled to keep them in the true faith, to make them love Jesus and Mary; and _now_, must they go to the scoffers? must they hear their faith laughed at? O my God! O my Jesus! have pity on my children! Mary, my mother, send a mother to my children. Let me come to thee in love and not in fear. O mother of God, pity my children!" Agony caused the drops to stand on the poor woman's brow; tears streamed down her cheeks; her hands were clasped convulsively together; it was as though the soul were anxious to depart, but delayed in order to plead with heaven in favor of the dear little ones it left behind. There was a solemn pause within that dreary chamber. The dim candle seemed to take a bright unearthly light. The spirits of all were hushed in awe. Surely angels were hovering near, whispering to the mother that her prayer was heard, for a smile broke over the features, the hands unclenched themselves, peace overshadowed the room; and then, as if moved by a power she could not withstand, Adelaide came forward and knelt down in solemnity by the dying woman's side. Taking within her own that now almost lifeless hand, she said: "I promise you, my sister, before God and this holy priest, that I will take care of your children while I live, and that they shall be carefully brought up in the holy Catholic Faith." The woman's eyes were no longer sensible to sight, but her spirit beard the promise. "I thank thee, O my God!" she uttered. Shortly after a ray of indescribable rapture lighted up her features, "Jesus, Mary, I come!" she said; and the soul had flown to its home in the bright, bright realms of everlasting bliss.

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"This must be a pauper's funeral," said Adelaide, as she rose from her knees. "Father, I am a stranger here; will you appoint some one to see to it?" She placed her purse in his hand as she spoke. The father looked at her. "Surely I have seen you before," he said; "your face is familiar to me, but I cannot remember where we met." Adelaide blushed. "I will see you after the funeral," she said; "meanwhile, may I ask you to point out some woman to go home with me, and take charge of these children? I will pay her well for her trouble." The abbé sent for a woman; a coach was called, and Adelaide took the poor children to her lodgings. Here they were fed, washed, clothed in neat mourning, and made ready to do the last sad honors to their mother's remains.

A large concourse of Irish neighbors attended the funeral, though of course all eyes were attracted to the stranger ladies, who walked up the aisle with a child at each side of them. The priest was evidently moved as he turned to address the assembly; and ever and anon his eye would glance to Adelaide, as if trying in vain to make out who she was. His discourse was on the history of poor Bridget, who lay before them. It ran something after this fashion: "My friends, as we pass through life, and the actions and thoughts of _real_ human beings come under our notice, one reflection seems to strike us more forcibly than all the rest; it is this: that the _real_ heroism of the earth is often overlooked, not only by the world at large, but also by the actors themselves. The greatest acts of virtue are performed by those who are unconscious of their greatness--the greatest works done in this miserable world are done by those who never dream that they are heroines at all. A lady is thought wondrously condescending if, from charity, she sit for a few hours in an atmosphere which the poor one she is tending endures always. She is deemed charitable if, from her abundance, she bestows alms on the naked and starting. Now, all this is _well_, very well; I would encourage such efforts to the utmost; they bring a blessing both to the giver and receiver: but for heroism, it is oftenest with the sufferer. I will relate to you a history with which I have only been made acquainted within these few hours. I had it from the lips of a friend who arrived from Ireland two days ago, in search of her who now lies before us. Bridget Norton was the daughter of an Irish farmer, who was somewhat better off than the majority; the farm-house was well kept; the dairy was a picture of neatness. Everything around the place was so fixed that they added to the completeness of the landscape. Bridget was a fine handsome girl, sought after by many, and unfortunately among her suitors was one base enough to vow revenge for the preference she gave to the man she married. Bad times came; the rejected suitor became agent for the landlord, and he perpetually harassed Norton for cash on every possible pretense; while he made base proposals to the wife, which were rejected with the scorn they deserved, and the rage of the deceiver increased. The landlord was unluckily a proselytizer. He conferred great gifts to all who would go to the English church, but was relentless against all who held out. Young Norton took sick; when he was at the worst, the agent found a flaw in his lease, and served an ejectment on the family at the very time that the husband was unable to leave his bed. Then his cattle died, some said by poison, and his crops failed. The man sank under these reverses, and died. The landlord made many offers to Bridget of assistance if she would send her children to his school and to church, and the agent contrived many species of persecution to get her into his power. Bridget fled to Liverpool, and by sheer hard work contrived to maintain her family decently for some time; but her persecutor traced her, followed her, blackened her character, so that she lost her employment. {38} Again she fled, but sickness overtook her ere she had made herself known; she lost one of her children by sickness also, and, lastly, was compelled to sell her little furniture to buy bread; last week she moved to the cellar where she died. You know in what state she was found there. Yet throughout these trials her confidence in God never has faltered; she has for the last five years suffered hardship, penury, want, and persecution. Amid all she has kept faithful to God, forgiven her enemy, and taught her children the catechism. They have often wanted food, but never missed their prayers; they have often been clothed in rags, but never neglected a mass of obligation. This, for one brought up as Bridget had been to love neatness and take pride in appearing respectable, argues no small victory over human respect. But the love of God was deeply rooted in her heart; she knew that exercise elicits virtue; she felt herself at school to an all-wise Father, who appointed for her the lessons best suited to bring out that unfailing trust which was conspicuous in her character, and which, in spite of her many trials, bore her cheerily throughout them all. Yes, cheerfulness was (as is attested by all who knew her) Bridget's most amiable characteristic, and it proceeded from her implicit trust in God. She had a martyr's courage and a martyr's love, and I think it would be risking little to suppose that even now she may be wearing in heaven the martyr's crown. Yet she passed through the world unnoticed, and certainly was not counted among its heroines."