In silent dignity she gazed at the face and hands of the dead—curiously at the lighted candles and emblems of the faith of the departed, and at the habit which covered the body, now straightened in the rigidity of death.
She was very composed, and soon signified her desire to be conveyed to her carriage, and in silence she returned to her home. I thought Miss Etheridge showed, in this act of going to pay the last mark of respect to her humble friend, true heroism and charity. She was a mark of curious observation to a crowd of people with whom she had no sympathy, and her helplessness and peculiar infirmity made her more sensitive to the notice and notoriety which she knew her going would bring upon her; and yet she had the courage to brave such results. Only a true lady, lifted above all vulgar fears and considerations, would have done this. No mean soul would have desired so to do.
“The chains have fallen off her now,” she said to me. “I wonder if she remembers and thinks of me. You think of her as being in a different state from that which I have been taught to believe as that of the departed; but we will not argue about it now. I only want to do for her yet—something which I do believe she would, poor soul, have done for me, had I gone first. It pleases me to do what she would in life have liked to think would be done for her, whether availing or unavailing.”
And with this apologetic remark, Miss Etheridge actually placed in my hand a large sum of money to convey to Father B—— for Masses to be said for the repose of the soul of Mrs. McGowan. I was truly astonished. Was this the fruit of our reading of Morte d’Arthur? If so, I blessed the day we did it. But I was afraid of being hopeful overmuch, Miss Etheridge might never advance beyond this liberal yielding of a stubborn prejudice. It was the last thing she could do for her poor friend, and her generous soul took pleasure in doing it. I was afraid that this was all; and for a time it seemed to be all.
The summer passed into autumn, and I was recalled to my city home. I parted with Miss Etheridge with great regret, and the more so because she could not write to me, save by the hand of another. I promised to write to her, and she said that I should get tidings of her from time to time in some way. “According to my message shall my scribe be,” she said, and so we parted.
I did write from time to time, and I had a brief note now and then, written by Miss Etheridge’s business agent, telling me of her continued good health, but increasing infirmity. But during Easter-tide I received a longer missive, written in the delicate penmanship of Sister Francina. “According to my message shall my scribe be,” she had said to me, and now I knew her meaning, for the message was that she was a Catholic.
As I folded up the letter, the words came to my mind:
“These through great affliction came.”