VIII
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.