Of our journey to Rome nothing remains to me but the memory of sleeping
in different beds in different towns, of trains screaming through
tunnels and slowing down in glass-roofed railway stations, of endless
crowds of people moving here and there in a sort of maze, nothing but
this, and the sense of being very little and very helpless and of having
to be careful not to lose sight of Father Dan, for fear of being
lost--until the afternoon of the fourth day after we left home.
We were then crossing a wide rolling plain that was almost destitute of
trees, and looked, from the moving train, like green billows of the sea
with grass growing over them. Father Dan was reading his breviary for
the following day, not knowing what he would have to do in it, when the
sun set in a great blaze of red beyond the horizon, and then suddenly a
big round black ball, like a captive balloon, seemed to rise in the
midst of the glory.
I called Father Dan's attention to this, and in a moment he was
fearfully excited.
"Don't worry, my child," he cried, while tears of joy sprang to his
eyes. "Do you know what that is? That's the dome of St. Peter's! Rome,
my child, Rome!"
It was nine o'clock when we arrived at our destination, and in the midst
of a great confusion I walked by Father Dan's side and held on to his
vertical pocket, while he carried his own bag, and a basket of mine,
down the crowded platform to an open cab outside the station.
Then Father Dan wiped his forehead with his print handkerchief and I sat
close up to him, and the driver cracked his long whip and shouted at the
pedestrians while we rattled on and on over stony streets, which seemed
to be full of statues and fountains that were lit up by a great white
light that was not moonlight and yet looked like it.
But at last we stopped at a little door of a big house which seemed to
stand, with a church beside it, on a high shelf overlooking the city,
for I could see many domes like that of St. Peter lying below us.
A grill in the little door was first opened and then a lady in a black
habit, with a black band round her forehead and white bands down each
side of her face, opened the door itself, and asked us to step in, and
when we had done so, she took us down a long passage into a warm room,
where another lady, dressed in the same way, only a little grander, sat
in a big red arm-chair.
Father Dan, who was still wearing his knitted muffler, bowed very low to
this lady, calling her the Reverend Mother Magdalene, and she answered
him in English but with a funny sound which I afterwards knew to be a
foreign accent.
I remember that I thought she was very beautiful, nearly as beautiful as
my mother, and when Father Dan told me to kiss her hand I did so, and
then she put me to sit in a chair and looked at me.
"What is her age?" she asked, whereupon Father Dan said he thought I
would be eight that month, which was right, being October.
"Small, isn't she?" said the lady, and then Father Dan said something
about poor mamma which I cannot remember.
After that they talked about other things, and I looked at the pictures
on the walls--pictures of Saints and Popes and, above all, a picture of
Jesus with His heart open in His bosom.
"The child will be hungry," said the lady. "She must have something to
eat before she goes to bed--the other children have gone already."
Then she rang a hand-bell, and when the first lady came back she said:
"Ask Sister Angela to come to me immediately."
A few minutes later Sister Angela came into the room, and she was quite
young, almost a girl, with such a sweet sad face that I loved her
instantly.
"This is little Mary O'Neill. Take her to the Refectory and give her
whatever she wants, and don't leave her until she is quiet and
comfortable."
"Very well, Mother," said Sister Angela, and taking my hand she
whispered: "Come, Mary, you look tired."
I rose to go with her, but at the same moment Father Dan rose too, and I
heard him say he must lose no time in finding an hotel, for his Bishop
had given him only one day to remain in Rome, and he had to catch an
early train home the following morning.
This fell on me like a thunderbolt. I hardly know what I had led myself
to expect, but certainly the idea of being left alone in Rome had never
once occurred to me.
My little heart was fluttering, and dropping the Sister's hand I stepped
back and took Father Dan's and said:
"You are not going to leave your little Mary are you, Father?"
It was harder for the dear Father than for me, for I remember that,
fearfully flurried, he stammered in a thick voice something about the
Reverend Mother taking good care of me, and how he was sure to come back
at Christmas, according to my father's faithful promise, to take me home
for the holidays.
After that Sister Angela led me, sniffing a little still, to the
Refectory, which was a large, echoing room, with rows of plain deal
tables and forms, ranged in front of a reading desk that had another and
much larger picture of the Sacred Heart on the wall above it. Only one
gasjet was burning, and I sat under it to eat my supper, and after I had
taken a basin of soup I felt more comforted.
Then Sister Angela lit a lamp and taking my hand she led me up a stone
staircase to the Dormitory, which was a similar room, but not so silent,
because it was full of beds, and the breathing of the girls, who were
all asleep, made it sound like the watchmaker's shop in our village,
only more church-like and solemn.
My bed was near to the door, and after Sister Angela had helped me to
undress, and tucked me in, she made her voice very low, and said I would
be quite comfortable now, and she was sure I was going to be a good
little girl and a dear child of the Infant Jesus; and then I could not
help taking my arms out again and clasping her round the neck and
drawing her head down and kissing her.
After that she took the lamp and went away to a cubicle which was
partitioned off the end of the Dormitory and there I could see her
prepare to go to bed herself--taking the white bands off her cheeks and
the black band off her forehead, and letting her long light hair fall
in beautiful wavy masses about her face, which made her look so sweet
and home like.
But oh, I was so lonely! Never in my life since--no, not even when I was
in my lowest depths--have I felt so little and helpless and alone. After
the Sister had gone to bed and everything was quiet in the Dormitory
save for the breathing of the girls--all strangers to me and I to
them--from mere loneliness I covered up my head in the clothes just as I
used to do when I was a little thing and my father came into my mother's
room.
I try not to think bitterly of my father, but even yet I am at a loss to
know how he could have cast me away so lightly. Was it merely that he
wanted peace for his business and saw no chance of securing it in his
own home except by removing the chief cause of Aunt Bridget's jealousy?
Or was it that his old grudge against Fate for making me a girl made him
wish to rid himself of the sight of me?
I do not know. I cannot say. But in either case I try in vain to see how
he could have thought he had a right, caring nothing for me, to tear me
from the mother who loved me and had paid for me so dear; or how he
could have believed that because he was my father, charged with the care
of my poor little body, he had control over the little bleeding heart
which was not his to make to suffer.
He is my father--God help me to think the best of him.