The stark red walls of the institution stood as before, only dim and
gray and cold under a frosty winter moon. It was three of a chill, cold
morning. She had come a long way, drooping, brooding, half-freezing
and crying. More than once on the way the hopelessness of her life and
her dreams had given her pause, causing her to turn again with renewed
determination toward the river—only the vivid and reassuring picture
she had retained of this same grim and homely place, its restricted
peace and quiet, the sympathy of Sister St. Agnes and Mother St.
Bertha, had carried her on.
En route she speculated as to whether they would receive her now, so
objectionable and grim was her tale. And yet she could not resist
continuing toward it, so reassuring was its memory, only to find it
silent, not a single light burning. But, after all, there was one, at a
side door—not the great cold gate by which she had first been admitted
but another to one side, to her an all but unknown entrance; and to it
after some brooding hesitation she made her way, ringing a bell and
being admitted by a drowsy nun, who ushered her into the warmth and
quiet of the inner hallway. Once in she mechanically followed to the
bronze grille which, as prison bars, obstructed the way, and here on
one of the two plain chairs placed before a small aperture she now sank
wearily and looked through.
Her cut eye was hurting her and her bruised hands. On the somewhat
faded jacket and crumpled hat, pulled on indifferently because she
was too hurt to think or care, there was some blown snow. And when
the Sister Secretary in charge of the room after midnight, hearing
footsteps, came to the grille, she looked up wanly, her little red,
rough hands crossed on her lap.
“Mother,” she said beseechingly, “may I come in?”
Then remembering that only Mother St. Bertha could admit her, added
wearily:
“Is Mother St. Bertha here? I was here before. She will know me.”
The Sister Secretary surveyed her curiously, sensing more of the
endless misery that was ever here, but seeing that she was sick or in
despair hastened to call her superior, whose rule it was that all such
requests for admission should be referred to her. There was no stir in
the room in her absence. Presently pattened feet were heard, and the
face of Mother St. Bertha, wrinkled and a-weary, appeared at the square
opening.
“What is it, my child?” she asked curiously if softly, wondering at the
crumpled presence at this hour.
“Mother,” began Madeleine tremulously, looking up and recognizing her,
“don’t you remember me? It is Madeleine. I was here four years ago. I
was in the girls’ ward. I worked in the sewing-room.”
She was so beaten by life, the perpetual endings to her never more than
tremulous hopes, that even now and here she expected little more than
an indifference which would send her away again.
“Why, yes, of course I remember you, my child. But what is it that
brings you now, dear? Your eye is cut, and your hand.”
“Yes, mother, but please don’t ask—just now. Oh, please let me come in!
I am so tired! I’ve had such a hard time!”
“Of course, my child,” said the Mother, moving to the door and opening
it. “You may come in. But what has happened, child? How is it that your
cheek is cut, and your hands?”
“Mother,” pleaded Madeleine wearily, “must I answer now? I am so
unhappy! Can’t I just have my old dress and my bed for to-night—that
little bed under the lamp?”
“Why, yes, dear, you may have them, of course,” said the nun, tactfully
sensing a great grief. “And you need not talk now. I think I know how
it is. Come with me.”
She led the way along bare, dimly lit corridors and up cold solid iron
stairs, echoing to the feet, until once more, as in the old days, the
severe but spotless room in which were the baths and the hampers for
soiled clothes was reached.
“Now, my child,” she said, “you may undress and bathe. I will get
something for your eye.”
And so here at last, once more, Madeleine put aside the pathetic if
showy finery that for a time had adorned and shamed her: a twilled
skirt she had only recently bought in the pale hope of interesting
_him_, the commonplace little hat for which she had paid ten dollars,
the striped shirtwaist, once a pleasure to her in the hope that it
would please _him_.
In a kind of dumbness of despair she took off her shoes and stockings
and, as the Mother left, entered the warm, clean bath which had been
provided. She stifled a sob as she did so, and others as she bathed.
Then she stepped out and dried her body and covered it with the clean,
simple slip of white which had been laid on a chair, brushing her hair
and touching her eye, until the Mother Sister returned with an unguent
wherewith to dress it.
Then she was led along other silent passages, once dreary enough but
now healing in their sense of peace and rest, and so into the great
room set with row upon row of simple white iron beds, covered with
their snowy linen and illuminated only by the minute red lamps or the
small candles burning before their idealistic images here and there,
beneath which so many like herself were sleeping. Over the bed which
she had once occupied, and which by chance was then vacant, burned the
one little lamp which she recognized as of old—her lamp, as she had
always thought of it—a thin and flickering flame, before an image of
the Virgin. At sight of it she repressed a sob.
“You see, my child,” said the Mother Superior poetically, “it must have
been waiting for you. Anyhow it is empty. Perhaps it may have known you
were coming.”
She spoke softly so that the long rows of sleepers might not be
disturbed, then proceeded to turn down the coverlets.
“Oh, Mother,” Madeleine suddenly whispered softly as she stood by the
bed, “won’t you let me stay always? I never want to go out any more. I
have had such a hard time. I will work so hard for you if you will let
me stay!”
The experienced Sister looked at her curiously. Never before had she
heard such a plea.
“Why, yes, my child,” she said. “If you wish to stay I’m sure it can
be arranged. It is not as we usually do, but you are not the only one
who has gone out in the past and come back to us. I am sure God and the
Blessed Virgin will hear your prayer for whatever is right. But now go
to bed and sleep. You need rest. I can see that. And to-morrow, or any
time, or never, as you choose, you may tell me what has happened.”
She urged her very gently to enter and then tucked the covers about
her, laying finally a cool, wrinkled hand on her forehead. For answer
Madeleine seized and put it to her lips, holding it so.
“Oh, Mother,” she sobbed as the Sister bent over her, “don’t ever make
me go out in the world again, will you? You won’t, will you? I’m so
tired! I’m so tired!”
“No dear, no,” soothed the Sister, “not unless you wish it. And now
rest. You need never go out in the world again unless you wish.”
And withdrawing the hand from the kissing lips, she tiptoed silently
from the room.