THE GREAT STRIKE AT ERRICKDALE.
Errickdale is famous for its coal-pits. It has dozens of them. All night long their fires glow red through the darkness, and all day the sound of pick and hammer, and the creak of rusty iron chains dragging heavily-loaded cars up the slope of the mines into the light, and the cry of the miners, and the tramp of their hob-nailed shoes as they come and go, fill the place with noisy life. It is a lonely place otherwise, close to the sea-coast. A ponderous stone wharf juts far out into the water, and a tramway runs down to it for the use of the cars which take the coal to the vessels that are constantly loading.
The village of Errickdale, at the time of our story, consisted of the black buildings connected with the mines, the rows of tumble-down tenements where the miners lived, and one spacious, rambling, old-fashioned dwelling, built a century previous by the first owner and opener of the mines, and preserved intact ever since, in its antique and solid elegance, by each new owner of the place. Eight months of the year it was closed, with the exception of a few rooms occupied by the agent, the old housekeeper, and two servants; one other apartment being always kept in readiness to receive the master whenever, for any reason, he chose to make his appearance.
But for four months, from June to October, the whole house was thrown open and filled with a brilliant company, who spent the summer days in merry idleness, and made Errickdale a scene of delight.
Beautiful it was always, in spite of its loneliness—a loneliness so extreme that not another town or village, or house or hut, was to be met with for a dozen miles around it, except Teal, lying hidden from sight behind the hills, and five good miles away at that, and the lighthouse which rose up eerily on the summit of the dangerous, ugly rock-ledge in the centre of Errick Bay. That bay gave ample opportunity for sailing, rowing, bathing, fishing; the beach was firm and good for those who cared to walk; the rocks were bold and tempting for those who cared to climb. In the fields the wild pink roses bloomed, and strawberries, raspberries, baked-apple berries, and blueberries followed one upon the other in superabundance. The heaps of coal-dust, the begrimed men, the care-worn women and dirty children, the comfortless dwellings, marred very much the beauty of the place; but what would be the place without them? The guests who came there soon forgot such trifles as the days sped by in merry-making; and in the city of Malton a summer at Errickdale was spoken of as a season of unrivalled pleasure.
It was in Malton that John Rossetti, the present owner of Errick mines, had his palace-like city home. There he had collected such treasures as few men could boast, even in that city, famed for its eager pursuit of the beautiful and the costly; and all of them he lavished upon the only being who made life dear to him—the daughter whom his idolized young wife had left to
him when, at the child’s birth, she died.
It is a marvel that Eleanora Rossetti grew up as amiable and gentle as she was; for she scarcely knew what it meant to have a wish thwarted or the merest whim of her fancy ungratified. Delicate and fair like some sheltered plant, she won love and tenderness wherever she went, and it seemed to her only as the air she breathed—she knew nothing else. That she should yield her will to another’s never entered her mind; that she was to do anything for others was an idea quite unknown to her. Life was hers to enjoy; hearts were hers to command; let her do what she would, no one wished to hinder her. She saw the beggars in the streets of Malton, she saw the poorly-clad people in Errickdale, but they never weighed upon her heart in the least. They must be very lazy or very shiftless, she thought—if she ever thought of them at all.
With the approaching winter of her eighteenth birthday—the winter of that great strike at Errickdale which was to set the country ringing—there came many prophecies of want and famine, but Eleanora did not heed them. She had a little dinner-party one evening. They were sitting around the table loaded with costly silver and delicately-painted china and rare viands. “Papa,” cried Eleanora from the head of the board, where she presided in girlish state, her clear voice ringing down to him like a flute and attracting every one’s attention—“papa, I mean to keep my eighteenth birthday by a masque-ball at Errickdale.” And then, glancing along each file of delighted and expectant guests with her brightest smile, “You are all invited
at once,” she said, “without further ceremony. The night of the 20th of January, remember. How I hope there will be snow underfoot and stars overhead and a biting frost! There will be bed and board for all, though some of the beds may have to be on the floor; and sleighs or carriages will be waiting at Teal station. Oh! how delightful it will be!”
Nobody waited to see if permission would be granted her. Eleanora Rossetti always had her way. At once a Babel of voices arose.
“We will make summer of winter,” Eleanora said. “The whole conservatory shall be sent down. It shall be a ball of the old régime; and mind, all of you, no one shall be admitted who does not come dressed as a courtier of some sort to grace my palace halls. I shall never be eighteen again, and I mean to celebrate it royally.”
“She looks like a princess this moment,” said a youth on her right, loudly enough for her to hear, and to make her blush with pleasure; and like a princess she looked indeed, slender and tall and stately, in her heavy purple robe, with ermine and rare laces at the neck and wrists, and diamonds in her ears that sparkled no more brightly than her eyes.
Down in Errickdale that night a northeast gale was blowing, the waves were dashing their spray high up over the wharf and against the cliffs, and the rain drove in slant sheets across the bay, where the red eye of the lighthouse glared steadily.
In a cottage of three rooms, apart from the tenements, yet little better than they, another John is sitting. John O’Rourke this, an Irishman, come eighteen years since from the old country; and with him sits his only daughter,
who will be eighteen in February. Bridget O’Rourke has no need to fear the verdict if she is compared with the heiress of Errickdale; she is full as tall and stately, and her dark, severe beauty would be noticeable anywhere. But there is no sparkle in her eyes, that are heavy with unshed tears, and no smile is on her lips.
These people are not poor, as Errickdale counts poverty. It is much, very much, to have a house to yourself, even though it be of three rooms only, and floor and walls are bare. It is much to wear whole clothes, though the dress is cotton print and the coat is fustian. It is much to have plenty of bread and cheese and a bit of cold meat on your table, and to have a decent table to sit at. Errickdale counts these things luxuries. John O’Rourke is a sort of factotum for the agent, and, next to him, has higher wages than any other man on the place; but, for all that, his brow is lowering to-night, and as he sits in moody silence his fingers work and his hands are clenched, as though he were longing for a fight with some one.
“You’re not eating, Bridget, my girl,” he said at last, draining the last drop of his cup of tea. “You’re not as hungry as I.”
She pushed her plate away. “I can’t eat, father,” she said. “Down in the hollow Smith’s wife and babes are crying with hunger, and over at Rutherford’s the girls haven’t a shoe to their feet in this bitter weather.”
“And so you must go hungry too, girl?” he asked.
“I can’t eat,” she said again. “It chokes me. Why should I have good things, and they go starving? I wish I was starving with them!”
“Tut, tut, girl! What help would
that be? And what’s Smith, anyhow, and Smith’s boys, but Orangemen, that hoot at ye Sundays, and laugh at your going ten miles, all, as they say, to worship images?”
Bridget smiled faintly. This righteous John O’Rourke was no very fervent Catholic in his deeds, whatever his words might go to prove. It was seldom that he found himself able to foot those good ten miles with her, though she did it regularly, in spite of ridicule and difficulty.
“Orangemen or not,” she answered, “they’re flesh and blood like me. God made ’em. If I try to eat, I think I see them with nothing, and I long to give all I have to them.”
“I tell ye,” O’Rourke exclaimed, “times are bad enough now, but they’ll be worse soon, if master don’t take heed. There’ll be a strike in Errickdale before the winter’s out.”
“O father! no. I hope not. Nothing like that would ever move the master. He’s that set in his own way, he would only hold out stronger against ’em—he would.”
“I think so myself, girl—I think so myself. I’ve known him well these eighteen years; he’s firm as rock. But the men don’t credit it. They are murmuring low now, but it will be loud shouting before we know it. Bridget, I’ll to Malton and see the master myself, come morning.”
“Yes, father,” said Bridget; “and I’ll go with you and speak with Miss Eleanora.”
A few hours later, the city lady and the Irish girl stood face to face in Eleanora’s boudoir. There was a startled look in Eleanora’s eyes. What strange story is this which Bridget tells her? There must be some mistake about it.
“They are very poor in Errickdale,” Bridget said slowly, keeping down the quiver from her voice and the tears from her eye. “House after house they have nothing but potatoes or mush to eat, and nothing but rags to wear. I don’t think it’s the master’s fault maybe. Sometimes I fear the agent is not all he should be, miss.”
As if John Rossetti did not know the character of the man whom he had left in power among his miners! Alas for Bridget! and alas for Errickdale!
“But do you suffer, Bridget?” and Eleanora looked at her compassionately, and then with deep admiration. She had let her talk, had let her stay, where carelessly she would have sent off any other, because it was such a delight to her to see that face in its grave and regular beauty, and to hear the rich voice with its sorrowful cadence like the minor note of an organ chant. Even had she been of like station and wealth with herself, Eleanora would have felt no pangs of jealous fear; for her own beauty and that of Bridget were of too perfect and delicious a contrast for that, and her trained artistic taste was considering it with pleasure all the while that their talk went on.
“Not that way,” Bridget answered her. “I’ve food and clothes a plenty myself. But it’s as if the hunger and want were tugging at my heart instead of my body, by day and by night. The lean faces and the wailing come between me and all else. Miss Eleanora, I wish you could once see them—only once.”
“What’s this! Bridget O’Rourke here too? A well-planned plot, truly.” And John Rossetti strode into the room as though on the point of turning the girl out from
it, only his daughter, coming to meet him, stepped unwittingly between.
“Yes, papa,” she said, “it’s Bridget, come to the city, I suppose, for the first time in her life. And, papa, she tells such a sad story about Errickdale. Will you please send them some money at once?”
“Not a penny,” her father answered. “Not one penny of mine or yours shall they have. These people think to force me to their will by a strike! They shall learn what manner of master they have. Do they not know that Errick mines might lie idle a year, and I hold my head above water bravely? And do they dream there are no men willing and glad to be hired for the price they cavil at? Let them strike when they please. That is the only message John O’Rourke has to carry home with him for his pains, and all that you shall have either, Bridget. Take it and be gone.”
“Oh! no, Bridget, not yet,” Eleanora cried. “I am not ready. Papa, what can you be thinking of—sending her away when I am not ready to have her go? Let us consider for a minute, papa. She is so troubled”; and, indeed, Bridget’s face was livid in its distress, and when she strove to speak her voice died away in a moan. “How much do the people want, papa?”
He laughed grimly. “I shall grant them nothing,” he said. “However, since you are curious, they do not want as much as your ball will cost me, my love. How would you like to give that up for them?”
“My ball! Of course not. What a ridiculous idea! All Malton knows of it by this time, and twenty people are invited already, and I have sent for my dressmaker. Of course
I could not give that up for anything! But you were only jesting, papa dear. I know you could not mean it. Bridget, papa knows best, you may be sure. I never trouble my head about business. But I will tell you what you shall do. I am going to have a masque-ball at Errickdale in January—such grand doings as were never known there before—and you shall come to it! You shall be where you can see the splendid court-dresses and the flowers and the feast, and hear the music—the very best music that Malton can furnish. So don’t worry any more, Bridget, and you shall surely be there.”
Bridget looked slowly round the room, full of warmth and light, and comfort and beauty. From the picture-frames haggard eyes seemed to stare at her; in the corners, and half hidden by the velvet hangings, figures wasted by want seemed to stretch their bony fingers towards her; through the canary’s song and the splash of the scented fountain voices weak with fasting seemed to call on her for aid. But it had become impossible for her to utter another word in their behalf. A plan, a hope, flashed through her mind.
“Yes, Miss Eleanora,” she said, “I will come to your ball.” And waiting for no more words, she went away.
“She is worrying her life out,” Eleanora said pityingly. “I don’t believe she eats properly.” And taking more trouble for a poor person than she had ever done before, she wrote to the housekeeper at Errickdale to send Bridget O’Rourke every day substantial and tempting food enough for an entire meal. Then she dismissed the whole matter; or rather the dressmaker was announced, and the important
question as to whether her balldress should be of velvet or satin drove all minor subjects, such as hunger and cold and nakedness, from her mind.
Meanwhile, Bridget strove to calm her father’s wrath, which he poured forth volubly as the train carried them home; and when he was still, she thought out to its full scope the plan which had occurred to her. She would go to the ball, and, when the guests were assembled, she would step forth from her hiding-place, and stand before them all, and plead the people’s cause. But the more she thought of it the more her heart misgave her. Why should she hope they would heed her then rather than to-day? Would not the master only be the more incensed against his miners, because of the shame to which he would be exposed? Yes, she felt sure that this would be the result. And then the long, long days and weeks which must elapse before the chance would come at all! How could she endure it? She put that sudden hope and plan away. Instead of it, she prayed again and again with smothered sobs: “O Christ! who for love of us died for us, save thy people now.”
But she walked the long walk home from Teal station without fatigue, and came into Errickdale strong and well, to meet the woes she yearned to heal. The children had learned to understand her pity for them. They welcomed her return with cries for food; she gave them what she could, and lay down supperless herself that night to rest. After that, each day brought her a full meal from the great house, but she never tasted of it; there were those who needed it more, she said.
Once, on her way to a poor family
with a basket of these provisions, the smell of the well-cooked food produced such a violent craving that it seemed to her for a moment that she should go mad. With a great effort she controlled herself and stood still. “Christ,” she prayed, “have mercy! Shall I eat dainties while the children starve?”
The craving did not cease, but strength to resist it came. She entered the wretched room to which she was bound, and fed the inmates who crowded around her; then she hurried home. In the cupboard were a few crusts and a bone already well picked. How sweetly they tasted! And while she feasted on them a woman crawled feebly in. “I’ve fasted long,” she said, and quietly Bridget gave her all she had.
Twice afterward she felt that horrible craving, and then it ceased. Her father saw that she ate little, but never guessed how little it really was; he saw that she grew pinched and pale, but fancied it was grief alone that caused it. He did not know, and no one knew, that, with what Errickdale counted “plenty” at her command, Bridget was living like the poorest. The thirst for self-sacrifice, the thirst of a supernatural love, consumed her. “He did it,” she used to say to herself. “He was poor for us, and he died for us.” From her room one by one her possessions departed; she carried them to those who, as she thought, needed them more, or she disposed of them for their use. Soon the attic room, which no one but herself ever entered, held literally nothing but the crucifix on the wall. Laying her weary limbs on the hard floor at night, she thought of the hard cross whereon her Lord had died. “Mine is an easier bed than his,” she said, and smiled in the darkness.
“May he make me worthier to share his blessed pains!”
But the nights were few that she spent on even so poor a couch as this. There was sickness in Errickdale as well as want, and Bridget was nurse, and doctor, and servant, and watcher beside the dead. And in her princess life at Malton Eleanora Rossetti counted the same long hours blithely, eager for her festival to come.
* * * * *
The 20th of January! Stars overhead, and snow underfoot, and a biting frost to make Errickdale as merry as its heiress wished. Winter without, and want and woe perhaps; but who needed to think of that? In the old mansion summer itself was reigning. Orange and lemon trees mingled their golden fruits and spicy bloom in the corridors and halls and up and down the winding stairs. Lamps burned some faintly-scented oil, that filled the warm air with a subtle, delicious odor, and lamps and tall wax tapers flooded the room with golden but undazzling light. Fountains played among beds of rare ferns and exotics; and magnificent blossoms lay in reckless profusion upon the floor, to be trodden upon, and yield their perfume, and die unheeded. And in doublet and hose and cap and plume, and all the gay festival gear of a king’s court of mediæval times, hosts of servants waited upon Eleanora’s word.
The winter twilight fell soon over Errickdale. In its gathering shadows John Rossetti was galloping home from Teal on his swiftest horse, when the creature shied suddenly, then stopped, trembling all over. A woman stood in the path, ghostly and strange to see through the gloom. Fearless John Rossetti started at the unexpected sight.
“What do you want of me?” he asked.
“Food,” the woman answered, in a voice that thrilled him with inexplicable awe; from some far-off land it seemed to come—a land that knew nothing of ease and joy. “Your people die of want, and cold, and pain,” it said. “In the name of God Almighty, and while you have time, hear me and help them.”
Then this fearless John Rossetti sneered. “While I have time?” he said. “I have no time to-night, I warrant you. Choose better seasons than this for your begging, Bridget O’Rourke.”
He struck the spurs into his horse, but, though it quivered all over again, it would not move an inch. The woman lifted her hands to heaven. “God, my God! I have done all I can,” she said. “I leave it now with thee.” And so she vanished.
In Errick Hall Eleanora was speaking to a servant. “Make haste,” she said. “I had almost forgotten it. Make haste and bring Bridget O’Rourke to me. I promised she should see it all.”
The servant hurried obediently to John O’Rourke’s cottage. Its owner was crouching sullenly over the fire. “Where’s my girl?” he said. “Miss Eleanora wants her to see the sights? See ’em she shall, then. It’s little she gets of brightness now, poor thing. Bridget! Bridget!”
But though he called loudly, no one answered. He climbed the stairs to the dark attic, and still no reply.
“Give me the light, boy,” he cried, with a dull foreboding at his heart, and he and the servant entered the room together.
She was not there. What was more, nothing was there—literally
nothing—except the cross of Him who gave his all, his very life, for men.
“I fear, I fear,” this John said, trembling; and he took the crucifix down, and carried it with him for defence against invisible foes whom he dreaded far more than anything he could see.
“We will go look for her, O’Rourke,” the servant said. “I must find her for Miss Eleanora, if not for her own sake.”
In the kitchen supper was on the table, and the fire crackled on the hearth. Her loving father had been waiting long for her. Where was the child?
They asked the question at every tenement and every room. The people joined them in the search for her whom they all held dear. On the outskirts of the place, and where the road stretched out without another sign of habitation for five miles to Teal, was a lonely hovel.
“She’s there,” one woman said to another. “’Course she’s there. Might ’a’ known it. Jake Ireton’s wife had twins yesterday, and it’s little else they have. She’s there, caring for ’em.”
Yet they paused at the door, as if loath to open it. The whole throng seemed to feel that vague foreboding which John O’Rourke had felt; those who were able to crowd into the narrow room entered it timidly. What was it that they dreaded?
In the grand saloon of Errick mansion, decked like a regal ballroom, John Rossetti’s daughter, attired gorgeously like the French queen in the famous painting which is Malton’s pride, received her courtiers; and the band played the gay dance-music, and the light feet of the dancers glided over the floors.
In the poorest hut of Errickdale John O’Rourke’s daughter received her courtiers, too, in regal state.
It was dark and silent there before the torches were brought in. By their flaring light the people saw the poor mother on a bed of rags and straw.
“Be still as ye can,” she said softly. “Is’t thee, O’Rourke? Thy good girl’s been wi’ me this four hours. One o’ my babbies died, thank God! She laid it out there all decent.”
And then, in the dim light, they saw the outline of a tiny form beside the bed; such being the roses and adornings of Bridget’s court.
“She heard a horse go trampling by, and went to see ’t,” the woman said. “When she came back, says she: ‘’Twas master. I’ve pleaded my last plea for my people. My heart’s broke.’ Then t’other babby cried, and she took’t to still it, and she lay down wi’ it, and, ever since, they’ve both been still, and I hope she’s sleepit and forgot her woes awhile, God bless her!”
Sleeping on the hard floor, but she does not feel it. They bring the torches near her; she does not heed the glare, though the baby on her bosom starts and wakes and weeps. She does not hear it weep. In truth, this queen has forgotten her woes in a dreamless slumber, and truly God has blessed her; but with bitter wailing her courtiers kneel before her in the court of Death, the king.
There is food on the table which her own hands had placed there; there is fire on the hearth which her own hands kindled. She who lies there dead has not died of cold or hunger; she has died of a broken heart.
And the viol and flute and harp ring sweetly, and the trumpet and
drum have a stately sound in Errick Hall, and youths and maidens dance and make merry. The great doors were flung open, and in long procession the guests passed into the banqueting-hall, where was room for every one to sit at the magnificent tables, and Eleanora was enthroned on a dais, queen of them all. Reproduced as in a living picture was a ball of Le Grand Monarque. “John Rossetti has surpassed himself,” his guests said with admiring wonder. In a pause of the music Eleanora’s silvery laugh was heard; she looked with pride at her father, and spoke aloud so that all might hear: “Yes, there never was such a father as mine. His birthday gift is beyond my highest expectations.”
“Rossetti of Errickdale!”
From above their heads the strange voice came. Far up in the embrasure of a window a man with a lighted torch was standing. John O’Rourke’s eyes met John Rossetti’s, and commanded them, and held them fast.
“We mean no harm,” he said. “We come peaceable, if you meet us peaceable; but if not, there’s danger and death all round ye. I warn ye fairly. Miss Eleanora bade my Bridget come to see her feast, and we’ve come to bring her. Ye’d best sit quiet, all of ye, for we’ve fire to back us.” And he held his torch dangerously near to the curtains. Errickdale hall and Errickdale master were in his power.
Coming through the hall they heard it—the steady, onward tramp of an orderly and determined crowd; the notes of a weird Irish dirge heralded their coming. Two and two the courtiers of Bridget O’Rourke marched in.
Men in rags, their lips close-shut and grim, a rude and flaring torch
borne in each man’s hand; haggard women with wolfish eyes and scantly clad, leading or carrying children who are wailing loudly or moaning in a way that chills the blood to hear, while the women shrilly sing that dirge for a departed soul—would the terrible procession never cease? Blows and clamor would be easier to bear than this long-drawn horror, as two and two the people filed around the loaded tables and gayly-attired guests.
Rising in amazement at the first entrance of these new-comers, throughout their coming Eleanora stood upright, one hand pressed upon her heart, as if to quell its rapid beating. Beautiful, and queenly despite her pallid cheeks, she stood there, yet two and two the people passed slowly up the hall, and slowly passed before her dais, and made no sign of homage. It was another queen who held them in her sway.
Was it over at last?—for the procession that seemed to have no end ceased to file through the lofty doors. The men stood back against the wall, still with their lips close-shut and grim; they lowered their torches as banners are lowered to greet a funeral train. The women flung up their lean, uncovered arms, and shrieked out one more wail of bitter lamentation, then stood silent too. The very babes were still. And all eyes were fixed upon the door—all except John O’Rourke’s, that never stirred from John Rossetti’s face.
Borne in state, though that state was but a board draped with a ragged sheet—her face uncovered to those stars and to that biting frost, her feet bare to those snows for which Eleanora wished; the face marked by a suffering which was far deeper than any that mere cold or hunger causes, yet sealed by it
to an uplifted look which was beyond all earthly loveliness; the hands crossed on a heart that ached no longer, over the crucifix which was this queen’s only treasure—so Bridget O’Rourke had come to Eleanora’s feast.
And so they bore her up the hall; and before the regal dais this more regal bier stood still.
Then at last Eleanora moved, and started, and stretched out her hands. “What do you want of me?” she said. “What is it that you want of me? Speak to me, Bridget O’Rourke. Speak to me.”
They were face to face again in their youth and beauty, but the contrast between them now brought no delight. They were face to face again; but let this heiress command as she might or beg as she might, never again would the rich voice speak to her with passionate pleading, or the grave eyes meet her own with a stronger prayer than words. This Queen of Death made no answer to her royal sister, except the awful answer of that silence which no power of earth can break.
“Rossetti of Errickdale!”
Once again from far above their heads they heard him calling—the man whose earthly all lay dead before them.
“We threatened to strike for food, and we feared ye. We suffered sore like slaves, for we feared ye. It’s ye that may fear us now, I tell ye, for to-night we strike for a life. Give us my good girl’s life again—my good girl’s life.”
He was wild with grief, and the people were wild with want and grief. Echoing up to the arches, their shout rang loud and long. “We strike for a life,” they cried. “Give us back that life, or we burn ye all together.”
Owner of princely wealth was he
upon whom they called. Seven hours ago that life was in his gift—one act of pity might have saved it, one doled-out pittance kept the heart from breaking. Let him lavish his millions upon her now; he cannot make her lift a finger or draw a breath.
“John O’Rourke!”
It was not the master’s voice that answered. For the first time John O’Rourke’s eyes turned from the master and looked upon Eleanora. The queen of a night held out her hands again to her who had gone to claim the crown of endless ages.
“John O’Rourke,” she said, gently and slowly, so that each word carried weight, “what is it that Bridget wants of me? What would she ask if she could speak to me to-night? I will give her whatever she would ask. Does she want her life back again?”
The unexpected question, the gentle words, struck home. Suddenly O’Rourke’s defiant eyes grew dim; and through his tears he saw his good girl’s face, with the deep lines of suffering plain upon it, and the new and restful look of perfect peace. It pleaded with him as no words could plead.
“Miss Eleanora,” he cried, “I wouldn’t have her back. Not for all the world I wouldn’t call her back. She’s been through sore anguish, and I thank God it’s over. Give us food and fair wages, miss—that’s all she would ask of ye.”
He paused, and in the pause none dreamed how wild a fight the man was fighting with his wrath and hatred. But still that worn and silent form pleaded with him and would not be gainsaid. At length he spoke, huskily:
“And she would ask of us, miss, not to harm one of ye, but to let master and all go free for the love of God. Shall we do what Bridget would ask of us, my men?”
His strained voice faltered, he burst into loud Irish weeping—a lonely father’s weeping, touching to hear in its patient resignation.
“Yes! yes!” the men and women answered him; and in the hall rich and poor wept and laughed together, for the great strike of Errickdale was over, and peace was made, and want supplied. But through the tumult of sorrow and rejoicing she alone lay utterly unmoved and silent who had won life at the price of life.
The story is often told in Malton of a young girl, very beautiful and much beloved, who renounced the world on the night of her eighteenth birthday, in the very midst of a feast of unequalled splendor, and at the threshold of a future full of brilliant promise. They say she dwelt in lonely Errickdale, among the poor and ignorant, and lived like them and for them. And now and then they add that, when once some one ventured to ask her why she chose so strange a life, she answered that she had seen death at her feast in the midst of pomp and splendor, and had learned, once for all, their worth. But when she was further asked if she could not be willing, like many others present at that feast, to care for the poor and to give to them, and yet have joy and comfort too, the fire of a divine love kindled in her eyes, and she answered that she counted it comfort and joy to live for the people for whom she had seen another content and glad to die.