"Mary," said Mildred, "speak low and tell me everything."
She sat in my chair, I knelt by her side, took one of her hands in both
of mine, and told her.
I told her that I had fled from my husband's house because I could not
bear to remain there any longer.
I told her that my father had married me against my will, in spite of
my protests, when I was a child, and did not know that I had any right
to resist him.
I told her that my father--God forgive me if I did him a wrong--did not
love me, that he had sacrificed my happiness to his lust of power, and
that if he were searching for me now it was only because my absence
disturbed his plans and hurt his pride.
I told her that my husband did not love me either, and that he had
married me from the basest motives, merely to pay his debts and secure
an income.
I told her, too, that not only did my husband not love me, but he loved
somebody else, that he had been cruel and brutal to me, and therefore
(for these and other reasons) I could not return to him under any
circumstances.
While I was speaking I felt Mildred's hand twitching between mine, and
when I had finished she said:
"But, my dear child, they told me your friends were broken-hearted about
you; that you had lost your memory and perhaps your reason, and
therefore it would be a good act to help them to send you home."
"It's not true, it's not true," I said.
And then in a low voice, as if afraid of being overheard, she told me
how she came to be there--that the woman who had travelled with me in
the train from Liverpool, seeing my father's offer of a reward, had
written to him to say that she knew where I was and only needed somebody
to establish my identity; that my father wished to come to London for
this purpose, but had been forbidden by his doctor; that our parish
priest, Father Donovan, had volunteered to come instead, but had been
prohibited by his Bishop; and finally that my father had written to his
lawyers in London, and Father Dan to her, knowing that she and I had
been together at the Sacred Heart in Rome, and that it was her work now
to look after lost ones and send them safely back to their people.
"And now the lawyer and the doctors are downstairs," she said in a
whisper, "and they are only waiting for me to say who you are that they
may apply for an order to send you home."
This terrified me so much that I made a fervent appeal to Mildred to
save me.
"Oh, Mildred, save me, save me," I cried.
"But how can I? how can I?" she asked.
I saw what she meant, and thinking to touch her still more deeply I told
her the rest of my story.
I told her that if I had fled from my husband's house it was not merely
because he had been cruel and brutal to me, but because I, too, loved
somebody else--somebody who was far away but was coming back, and there
was nothing I could not bear for him in the meantime, no pain or
suffering or loneliness, and when he returned he would protect me from
every danger, and we should love each other eternally.
If I had not been so wildly agitated I should have known that this was
the wrong way with Mildred, and it was not until I had said it all in a
rush of whispered words that I saw her eyes fixed on me as if they were
about to start from their sockets.
"But, my dear, dear child," she said, "this is worse and worse. Your
father and your husband may have done wrong, but you have done wrong
too. Don't you see you have?"
I did not tell her that I had thought of all that before, and did not
believe any longer that God would punish me for breaking a bond I had
been forced to make. But when she was about to rise, saying that after
all it would be a good thing to send me home before I had time to join
my life to his--whoever he was--who had led me to forget my duty as a
wife, I held her trembling hands and whispered:
"Wait, Mildred. There is something I have not told you even yet."
"What is it?" she asked, but already I could see that she knew what I
was going to say.
"Mildred," I said, "if I ran away from my husband it was not merely
because I loved somebody else, but because. . . ."
I could not say it. Do what I would I could not. But holy women like
Mildred, who spend their lives among the lost ones, have a way of
reading a woman's heart when it is in trouble, and Mildred read mine.
"Do you mean that . . . that there are consequences . . . going to be?"
she whispered.
"Yes."
"Does your husband know?"
"Yes."
"And your father?"
"No."
Mildred drew her hand away from me and crossed herself, saying beneath
her breath:
"Oh Mother of my God!"
I felt more humbled than I had ever been before, but after a while I
said:
"Now you see why I can never go back. And you will save me, will you
not?"
There was silence for some moments. Mildred had drawn back in her chair
as if an evil spirit had passed between us But at length she said:
"It is not for me to judge you, Mary. But the gentlemen will come up
soon to know if you are the Mary O'Neill whom I knew at the Sacred
Heart, and what am I to say to them?"
"Say no," I cried. "Why shouldn't you? They'll never know anything to
the contrary. Nobody will know."
"Nobody?"
I knew what Mildred meant, and in my shame and confusion I tried to
excuse myself by telling her who the other woman was.
"It is Alma," I said.
"Alma? Alma Lier?"
"Yes."
And then I told her how Alma had come back into my life, how she had
tortured and tempted me, and was now trying to persuade my husband, who
was a Protestant, to divorce me that she might take my place.
And then I spoke of Martin again--I could not help it--saying that the
shame which Alma would bring on him would be a greater grief to me than
anything else that could befall me in this world.
"If you only knew who he is," I said, "and the honour he is held in, you
would know that I would rather die a thousand deaths than that any
disgrace should fall on him through me."
I could see that Mildred was deeply moved at this, and though I did not
intend to play upon her feelings, yet in the selfishness of my great
love I could not help doing so.
"You were the first of my girl friends, Mildred--the very first. Don't
you remember the morning after I arrived at school? They had torn me
away from my mother, and I was so little and lonely, but you were so
sweet and kind. You took me into church for my first visitation, and
then into the garden for my first rosary--don't you remember it?"
Mildred had closed her eyes. Her face was becoming very white.
"And then don't you remember the day the news came that my mother was
very ill, and I was to go home? You came to see me off at the station,
and don't you remember what you said when we were sitting in the train?
You said we might never meet again, because our circumstances would be
so different. You didn't think we should meet like this, did you?"
Mildred's face was growing deadly white.
"My darling mother died. She was all I had in the world and I was all
she had, and when she was gone there was no place for me in my father's
house, so I was sent back to school. But the Reverend Mother was very
kind to me, and the end of it was that I wished to become a nun. Yes
indeed, and never so much as on the day you took your vows."
Mildred's eyes were still closed, but her eyelids were fluttering and
she was breathing audibly.
"How well I remember it! The sweet summer morning and the snow-white
sunshine, and the white flowers and the white chapel of the Little
Sisters, and then you dressed as a bride in your white gown and long
white veil. I cried all through the ceremony. And if my father had not
come for me then, perhaps I should have been a nun like you now."
Mildred's lips were moving. I was sure she was praying to our Lady for
strength to resist my pleading, yet that only made me plead the harder.
"But God knows best what our hearts are made for," I said. "He knows
that mine was made for love. And though you may not think it I know God
knows that he who is away is my real husband--not the one they married
me to. You will not separate us, will you? All our happiness--his and
mine--is in your hands. You will save us, will you not?"
Some time passed before Mildred spoke. It may have been only a few
moments, but to me it seemed like an eternity. I did not know then that
Mildred was reluctant to extinguish the last spark of hope in me. At
length she said:
"Mary, you don't know what you are asking me to do. When I took my vows
I promised to speak the truth under all circumstances, no matter what
the consequences, as surely as I should answer to God at the great Day
of Judgment. Yet you wish me to lie. How can I? How can I? Remember my
vows, my duty."
I think the next few minutes must have been the most evil of all my
life. When I saw, or thought I saw, that, though one word would save me,
one little word, Mildred intended to give me away to the men
downstairs, I leapt to my feet and burst out on her with the bitterest
reproaches.
"You religious women are always talking about your duty," I cried. "You
never think about love. Love is kind and merciful; but no, duty, always
duty! Love indeed! What do you cold creatures out of the convent, with
your crosses and rosaries, know about love--real love--the blazing fire
in a woman's heart when she loves somebody so much that she would give
her heart's blood for him--yes, and her soul itself if need be."
What else I said I cannot remember, for I did not know what I was doing
until I found myself looking out of the window and panting for breath.
Then I became aware that Mildred was making no reply to my reproaches,
and looking over my shoulder I saw that she was still sitting in my
chair with both her hands covering her face and the tears trickling
through her fingers on to the linen of her habit.
That conquered me in a moment.
I was seized with such remorse that I wished to throw my arms about her
neck and kiss her. I dared not do that, now, but I knelt by her side
again and asked her to forgive me.
"Forgive me, sister," I said. "I see now that God has brought us to this
pass and there is no way out of it. You must do what you think is right.
I shall always know you couldn't have done otherwise. _He_ will know
too. And if it must be that disgrace is to fall on him through me . . .
and that when he comes home he will find. . . ."
But I could not bear to speak about that, so I dropped my head on
Mildred's lap.
During the silence that followed we heard the sound of footsteps coming
up the stairs.
"Listen! They're here," said Mildred. "Get up. Say nothing. Leave
everything to me."
I rose quickly and returned to the window. Mildred dried her eyes, got
up from the chair and stood with her back to the fire-place.
There was a knock at my door. I do not know which of us answered it, but
my landlady came into the room, followed by three men in tall silk hats.
"Excuse us, my dear," she said, in an insincere voice. "These gentlemen
are making an examination of the house, and they wish to see your room.
May they?"
I do not think I made any reply. I was holding my breath and watching
intently. The men made a pretence of glancing round, but I could see
they were looking at Mildred. Their looks seemed to say as plainly as
words could speak:
"Is it she?"
Mildred hesitated for a moment, there was a dreadful silence and
then--may the holy Virgin bless her!--she shook her head.
I could bear no more. I turned back to the window. The men, who had
looked at each other with expressions of surprise, tried to talk
together in ordinary tones as if on common place subjects.
"So there's nothing to do here, apparently."
"Apparently not."
"Let's go, then. Good day, Sister. Sorry to have troubled you."
I heard the door close behind them. I heard their low voices as they
passed along the corridor. I heard their slow footsteps as they went
down the stairs. And then, feeling as if my heart would burst, I turned
to throw myself at Sister Mildred's feet.
But Sister Mildred was on her knees, with her face buried in my bed,
praying fervently.