Original.
The Godfrey Family; or,
Questions Of The Day
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?
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. 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.