“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.