Miss May Iverson, Daughter of General John Lamar Iverson of
This City, to Take the Vows of a Nun of the Sacred Cross
The article which followed was illustrated with photographs of my
father, of me, and of the convent from which I had graduated nearly
four years ago. It sketched my career as a reporter on the New York
_Searchlight_, mentioned my newspaper work and my various magazine
stories with kindly approval, and stated that my intention when I
graduated at eighteen had been to enter the convent at twenty-one, but
that in deference to the wishes of my father I had consented to wait
another year. This time of probation was almost over, the _Sentinel_
added, and it was "now admitted" that Miss Iverson, "despite the
brilliant promise of her journalistic career," would be one of the
thirty novices who entered the convent of St. Catharine in July.
All this I had read only once before thrusting the _Sentinel_ out of
sight under the mass of copy on my desk. Now, word by word, it
returned to me as I built the heads that were to startle our reading
public in the morning. Around me the usual sounds of the city room
swelled steadily into the familiar symphony of our work. Typewriters
clicked and rattled, telephone bells kept up their insistent summons,
the presses, now printing the final evening editions, sent from far
below their deep and steady purr, while through it all the voices of
Farrell and Hurd cut their incisive way, like steamboat whistles in a
fog, to members of the staff. It was an hour I loved, even as I loved
the corresponding hour at St. Catharine's, when students and nuns
knelt together in the dim, beautiful convent chapel while the peace of
benediction fell upon our souls. I wanted both the convent and my
work. I could not have them both. And even now, toward the end of my
fourth year of professional life, I was still uncertain which I was to
choose. For months I had been hesitating, the helpless victim of
changing moods, of conflicting desires. Now, I realized, there must be
an end to these. The article in the _Sentinel_ had brought matters to
a focus. In one way or the other, and for all time, I must decide my
problem.
It was six o'clock when I sent down the last pages of copy, closed my
desk, and walked out of the _Searchlight_ building to find myself in
an unfamiliar world. Around me lay the worst fog New York had ever
known--a fog so dense that the forms of my fellow pedestrians were
almost lost in it, though I could hear their voices on every side.
From the near-by river the anxious warnings of horns and whistles came
to my ears thickly, as if through padded walls. The elevated station I
had to reach was less than a block away, but to-night no friendly eye
of light winked at me from it, and twice as I walked cautiously
forward I was jostled by vague bulks from which came short laughs and
apologies as they groped their way past me.
It was an uncanny experience, but it seemed, in my present mood,
merely a fitting accompaniment to my own mental chaos. Resolutely I
tried to steady my thoughts to pull myself together. I knew every inch
of the little journey to the station. In a few moments more, I
reflected, I would be comfortably seated in an elevated train, and
within half an hour, if all went normally, I would be safely at home
and dressing for dinner. It was pleasant to remember that I had made
no engagement for that evening. I could dine alone, slowly and
luxuriously, with an open book before me if I cared to add that last
sybaritic touch to my comfort--and later I could dawdle before my big
open fire, with a reading-lamp and half a dozen new magazines wooing
me at my elbow. Or I could take up my problem and settle it before I
went to bed.
My groping feet touched the lowest step of the elevated stairs. I put
my hand forward to raise my skirt for the ascent, and simultaneously,
as it seemed, a cold hand slipped through the fog and slid into mine,
folding around two of my fingers. It was a very tiny hand--almost a
baby's hand. Startled, I looked down. Something small and plump was
pressing against my knee, and as I bent to examine it closely I saw
that it was a child--a little girl three or four years old,
apparently lost, but obviously unafraid. Through the mist, as I knelt
to bring her face on a level with my own, a pair of big and wonderful
brown eyes looked steadily into mine, while a row of absurdly small
teeth shone upon me in a shy but trustful smile.
"Fine-kine-rady," remarked a wee voice in clear, dispassionate tones.
Impulsively I gave the intrepid adventurer a friendly hug. "Why, you
blessed infant!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing here all alone?
Where do you live? Where's your mama?"
Still kneeling, I waited for an answer, but none came. The soft little
body of the new-comer leaned confidingly against my shoulder. A small
left hand played with a button on my coat; its mate still clung firmly
to my fingers. The child's manner was that of pleased acceptance of
permanent and agreeable conditions. Into the atmosphere of well-being
and dignified reserve which she created, my repeated question
projected itself almost with an effect of rudeness. On its second
repetition it evoked a response, though merely an echo.
"Fine-kine-rady," repeated the young stranger, patiently. She
continued her absorbing occupation of twirling my coat button while I
pondered over the cryptic utterance. It meant nothing to me.
"She's certainly lost," I thought. "I wonder if Casey would remember
her if he saw her."
I peered through the fog, looking for the big Irish policeman whose
post for the past two years had been here at the junction of the three
tenement streets that radiated, spoke-like, from under the elevated
station. He must be somewhere near, I knew, possibly within ear-shot.
I decided to try the effect of a friendly hail.
"_Oh-ho--Officer Casey!_" I called, careful to speak cheerfully, that
the cry might not frighten the child beside me. "_Where--are--you?_"
After a moment I heard an answering hail; an instant later the
familiar bulk of Casey towered above me in the mist.
"Who's wantin' me?" he demanded, and then, as he recognized me:
"Hel-_lo_, Miss Iverson! Sure ye're not lost, are ye?" he added,
facetiously.
"I'm not," I told him, "but I think some one else is. Do you recognize
this youngster? I found her here just now--or, rather, she found me."
"Fine-kine-rady," murmured the child, antiphonally. She had turned her
brown velvet eyes on the policeman in one fleeting glance which seemed
to label and dismiss him. His existence, her manner plainly said, was
no concern of hers. Casey bent down and surveyed her with interest--a
task made somewhat difficult by the fact that she was coldly
presenting the back of her head to him and that the top of it was
about on a level with his knee.
"Let's take her up t' the waitin'-room," he suggested, "an' have a
good look at her. Can she walk, I wonder--or will I carry her?"
At the words the independent explorer below us started up the stairs,
dragging me with her, her hand still clinging to my fingers, her
short, willing legs taking one step at a time and subject to an
occasional embarrassing wabble, but on the whole moving briskly and
with the ease of habit.
"She understands English," remarked Casey, as he admiringly followed
her, "an' she's used to stairs. _That's_ clear."
We found the waiting-room deserted except by the ticket-seller and the
ticket-chopper, who were languidly discussing the fog. Both took an
animated interest in our appearance, and, when they learned our
mission, eagerly approached the child for minute inspection of her. In
the center of the little circle we made under the station lamp the
mite bore our regard with the utmost composure, her brown eyes on my
face, her hand still firmly grasping my third and fourth fingers. She
seemed mildly surprised by this second delay in getting anywhere, but
entirely willing to await the convenience of these strange beings who
were talking so much without saying anything. The ticket-seller
finally summed up the result of our joint observation.
"Whoever that kid is, she's a peach," he muttered, in spontaneous
tribute to the living picture before us.
She _was_ a peach. Her bare head was covered with short, upstanding
curls, decorated on the left side with a cheap but carefully tied
scarlet bow that stood out with the vivid effect of a poinsettia
against black velvet. In her cheeks were two deep dimples, and a
third lurked in the lower right side of her chin, awaiting only the
summons of her shy smile to spring into life. When she lowered her
eyes her curly black lashes seemed unbelievably long, and when she
raised them again something in their strange beauty made me catch my
breath.
She wore no mittens, though the night was cold, but her tiny body was
buttoned tightly into a worn, knitted, gray reefer-jacket, under which
showed a neat little woolen skirt and black stockings and shoes which,
though very shabby, revealed no holes. She was surprisingly clean. She
had, indeed, an effect of having been scrubbed and dressed with
special care and in her best clothes, poor though they were. Her
complexion had the soft, warm olive tint peculiar to Latin races.
For a long time she bore the close scrutiny of our four pairs of eyes
with her astonishing air of calm detachment. Then, as the inspection
threatened to be indefinitely prolonged, she became restless and took
refuge against my knee. Also, with an obvious effort to rise to any
social demands the occasion presented, she produced again the
masterpiece of her limited vocabulary.
"Fine-kine-rady," she murmured, anxiously, and this time her lips
quivered.
"She's Eye-talian," decided Casey, sagely, "an' 'tis a sure thing she
lives somewhere near. Hasn't _anny_ of yez set eyes on her before?
Think, now."
Hopefully he and I gazed at the station employees, but both heads
shook a solemn negative. The light of a sudden inspiration illumined
the Celtic features of Casey.
"I'll tell ye what we'll do," he announced. "'Tis plain she's strayed
from home. I c'u'd take her t' th' station an' let her folks come fur
her--but that's the long way t' do ut. There's a shorter wan. 'Tis
this."
He tried to draw me to one side, but the little manoeuver was not
successful. Tightening her grasp on my fingers, the object of our
solicitude promptly accompanied us. Casey lowered his voice to a
whisper which was like the buzzing of a giant bee.
"I'll take her back to the fut of th' stairs an' _lave_ her," he
pronounced. "She'll start home, an' she'll find her way like a burrd.
Av course," he added, hastily, apparently observing a lack of response
in my expression, "I'll folly her an' watch her. Av she don't find th'
place, I'll take her t' th' station. But she _will_. Lave it to her."
I hesitated. "I suppose that's the best plan," I unwillingly agreed,
at last. "Probably her mother is half frightened to death already.
But--couldn't we lead her home?"
Casey shook his head. "Not an inch w'u'd she budge, that wan," he
declared, "unless she was on her own. But lave her be, an' she'll find
her way. They're wise, thim young Eye-talians. Come, now."
He took the child's free hand and tried to draw her away. A pathetic
wail burst from her. Frantically, with both arms she clasped my knee.
Her poise, so perfect until now, deserted her wholly, as if she had
finally decided to admit to an unfeeling world that after all there
was a limit to the self-control of one of her tender age.
"Fine-kine-rady," she sobbed, while great tears formed and fell from
the brown eyes she still kept fixed on my face, a look of incredulous
horror dawning in them.
"I simply cannot send her away," I confessed to Casey, desperately.
"It seems so heartless. I'll go with her."
Officer Casey was a patient man, but he was also a firm one. "Now, see
here, Miss Iverson," he urged. "You've got sinse. Use ut. 'Tis just a
fancy she's takin' t' ye, an' sure I'm th' last t' blame her," he
added, gallantly. "But think av th' child's good. Ain't her mother
raisin' th' roof over her head somewhere this minute?" he added, with
deep craft. "Wud ye be killin' th' poor woman wid anxiety?"
"Well--" Again I gave way. "But you won't lose sight of her for one
second, will you?" I demanded. "You know if you did, in this fog--"
Casey turned upon me the look of one who suffers and forbears. "W'u'd
ye think ut?" he asked, coldly. "An' me wit' kids o' me own? But I'll
make her _think_ I've left her," he added. "I'll have to."
There seemed nothing to do but try his plan. Holding fast to the
mental picture of the anxious mother "raising the roof" somewhere in
the neighborhood, I gently pried loose the child's convulsively
clinging fingers and turned away. The wail and then the sobs that
followed wrung my heart. Casey picked up the frightened, almost
frantic baby and started down the stairs, while I followed at a safe
distance to watch their descent. As they went I heard him talking to
and coaxing the small burden he carried, his rich Irish voice full of
friendly cajolery, while, as if in sole but eloquent rebuttal of all
he said, the shrill treble refrain, "Fine-kine-rady," came back to me
sobbingly from the mist.
At the foot of the steps he set the child on her feet, told her to "go
home now like a good wan," and disappeared under the stairway. I crept
down the steps as far as I dared, and watched. The forlorn little
wanderer, left alone in a fog that was alarming many grown-ups that
night, stood still for a moment staring around her, as if trying to
get her bearings. A final sob or two came from her. Then in another
instant she had turned and trotted away, moving so fast that, though I
immediately ran down the remaining steps and followed her, I could
hardly keep her in sight. A little ahead of me I saw Casey hurriedly
cross the street and shadow the tiny figure. I pursued them both,
keeping my eyes on the child. I trusted Casey--indeed, my respect for
his judgment had increased enormously during the last two minutes--but
I felt that I must see for myself what happened to that baby.
Like wraiths the two figures in front of me hurried through the fog,
so close now that they almost touched, Casey unaware of my presence,
the child unconscious of us both. Not once, from the time she started,
had the little thing looked back. She made her way swiftly and surely
along the dingy tenement street that stretched off to the right; and
at a certain door she stopped, hesitated a moment, and finally
entered. Casey promptly followed her.
For a moment I stood hesitating, tempted to return to the station and
resume my interrupted journey home. The little episode had already
delayed me half an hour, and it seemed clear that the child was now
safe. Surely nothing more could be done. Yet even as these logical
reflections occurred to me I entered the door, impelled by an impulse
which I did not stop to analyze, but which I never afterward ceased to
bless. The heavy, typical smell of a tenement building rose to meet
me, intensified by the dampness of the night. It seemed incredible
that anything so exquisite as that baby could belong to such a place;
but, looking up, I saw her already near the head of a long flight of
dirty steps that rose from the dimly lighted hall. Casey, moving as
quietly as his heavy boots permitted, was at the bottom. I waited
until he, too, had climbed the uneven staircase. Then I followed them
both.
At the right of the stairs, off a miserable hall lit by one dim,
blinking gas-jet, was an open door, which the child had evidently just
entered. As I paused for breath on the top step I caught a glimpse of
Casey's rubber coat also vanishing across the threshold. I slipped
back into the shadow of the hall and waited. What I wanted was to hear
the reassuring tones of human voices, and I found myself listening for
these with suspended breath and straining ears; but for a long moment
I heard nothing at all. I realized now that there was no light in the
room, and this suddenly seemed odd to me. Then I heard Casey's voice,
speaking to the child with a new note in it--a note of tense
excitement that made my heart-beats quicken. The next instant I, too,
was in the room.
Casey stood under the single gas-bracket, striking a match. As I went
toward him, the light flickered up, dimly revealing a clean, bleak
room, whose only furniture was a bed, a broken chair, and a small
gas-stove. On the chair lay an empty tin cup and a spoon. The child,
her back to both her visitors, stood beside the bed. Characteristically,
though Casey had spoken to her, she ignored his presence. She was
whimpering a little under her breath, and pulling with both hands at
something that lay before her, rigid and unresponsive.
With a rush I crossed the room, and the desolate mite of humanity at
the bed turned to stare at me, blinking in the sudden light. For an
instant her wet brown eyes failed to recognize me. In the next, with
an ecstatic, indescribably pathetic little cry, she lurched into the
arms I opened to her. I could not speak, but I sat down on the floor
and held her close, my tears falling on her curly head with its brave
red bow. For a moment more the silence held. Then the child drew a
long, quivering breath and patiently uttered again her parrot-like
refrain.
"Fine-kine-rady," she murmured, brokenly.
Casey, his cap in his hand, stood looking down upon the silent figure
on the bed. "Starvation, most likely," he hazarded. "She's bin dead
fur an hour, maybe more," he mused aloud. "An' she's laid herself out,
d'ye mind. Whin she found death comin' she drew her feet together, an'
crost her hands on her breast, an' shut her eyes. They do ut
sometimes, whin they know they's no wan to do ut for thim. But first
she washed an' dressed her child in uts best an' sint ut out--so ut
w'u'dn't be scairt. D'ye know th' woman?" he added. "Have ye ivir seen
her? It seems t' me _I_ have!"
Holding the baby tight, her head against my shoulder, that she might
not see what I did, I went forward and looked at the wasted face.
There was something vaguely familiar about the black hair-line on the
broad, Madonna-like brow, about the exquisitely shaped nose, the
sunken cheeks, the pointed chin. For a long moment I looked at them
while memory stirred in me and then awoke.
"Yes," I said, at last. "I remember her now. Many evenings last month
I saw her standing at the foot of the elevated stairs when I was going
home. She wore a little shawl over her head--that's why I didn't
recognize her at once. She never begged, but she took what one gave
her. I always gave her something. She was evidently very poor. I
remember vaguely that she had a child with her--this one, of course. I
hardly noticed either of them as I swept by. One's always in a rush,
you know, to get home, and, unfortunately, there are so many beggars!"
"That's it," said Casey. "I remember her now, too."
"If only I had realized how ill she was," I reflected aloud,
miserably, "or stopped to think of the child. She called me 'kind
lady.' Oh, Casey! And I let her starve!"
"Hush now," said Casey, consolingly. "Sure how could ye know? Some of
thim that's beggin' has more than you have!"
"But she called me 'kind lady,'" I repeated. "And I let her--"
"Fine-kine-rady," murmured the child, drowsily, as if hearing and
responding to a cue. She was quiet and well content, again playing
with a coat-button; but she piped out her three words as if they were
part of a daily drill and the word of command had been uttered. Casey
and I looked at each other, then dropped our eyes.
[Illustration: "D'YE KNOW THE WOMAN?" HE SAID]
"_Find kind lady_," I translated at last. Then I broke down, in the
bitterest storm of tears that I have ever known. Beside me Casey stood
guard, silent and unhappy. It was the whimper of the child that
recalled me to myself and her. She was growing frightened.
"Oh, Casey," I said again, when I had soothed her, "do you realize
that the poor woman sent this baby out into New York to-night on the
one chance in a million that she might see me at the station and that
I would remember her?"
"What else c'u'd the poor creature do?" muttered Casey. "I guess she
wasn't dependin' on her neighbors much. 'Tis easy to see that ivery
stick o' furniture an' stitch o' clothes, ixcept th' child's, was
pawned. Besides, thim tiniment kids is wise," he repeated. His blue
eyes dwelt on the baby with a brooding speculation in their depths.
"She's sleepy," he muttered, "but she's not starved. Th' mother fed
her t' th' last, an' wint without herself; an' she kep' her warm. They
do that sometimes, too."
With quick decision he put on his cap and started for the door. "I'll
telephone me report," he said, briskly. "Will ye be waitin' here till
I come back? Thin we'll take th' mother t' th' morgue an' the child t'
th' station."
"Oh no, we won't," I told him, gently. "We'll see that the mother has
proper burial. As for this baby, I'm going to take care of her until I
find an ideal home for her. I know women who will thank God for her. I
wish," I added, absently--"I wish I could keep her myself."
Casey turned on me a face that was like a smiling full moon. "'Tis
lucky th' child is to have ye for a friend. But she'll be a
raysponsibil'ty," he reminded me, "and an expinse."
I kissed the tiny hand that clung to mine. "That won't worry me," I
declared. "Why, do you know, Casey"--I drew the soft little body
closer to me--"I feel that if I worked for her a thousand years I
could never make up to this baby for that horrible moment when I
turned her adrift again--after she had found me."
* * * * *
Two hours later my waif of the fog, having been fed and tubbed and
tucked into one of my nightgowns, reposed in my bed, and, still
beatifically clutching a cookie, sank into a restful slumber. My maid,
a "settled" Norwegian who had been with me for two years, had welcomed
her with hospitable rapture. A doctor had pronounced her in excellent
physical condition. A trained nurse, hastily summoned to supervise her
bath, her supper, and her general welfare, had already drawn up an
impressive plan indicating the broad highway of hygienic infant
living. Now, for the dozenth time, we were examining a scrap of paper
which I had found in a tiny bag around the child's neck when I
undressed her. It bore a brief message written in a wavering, foreign
hand: