The Martyrdom of Madeline

by Robert Williams Buchanan

‘Have you been long here—in this house, I mean?’

‘Not long—a few weeks. I was sick, and in need of country air, and a kind friend (ah, the kindest in the world) had me sent down here. It is very pleasant all around, and reminds me of my home, and Sister Ursula is so good, but there are many here whom you would detest. You, mademoiselle, are different; I saw that at a glance; for abroad we can tell a lady always from one of these canaille!’

The girl spoke rapidly in her own language, while her companions, attracted by the foreign speech, listened without understanding a word, whispered, and made signs to each other.

‘You mistake——, I am no lady,’ cried Jane Peartree, eagerly.

Without contradicting her in speech, the French girl smiled sceptically and shook her head. She then began to prattle on, with the fluency of her race, until the new comer, sometimes listening and sometimes questioning, was furnished at last with a tolerably complete account of the house into which she had accidentally been brought, and of the individuals by whom she was surrounded.

The house, as she had already been informed, was called Mount Eden, and it formed the centre of a small estate, consisting of woods, arable and grazing fields, farm buildings, and outlying cottages. Originally an old country manor, it had about ten years before come into the market, and had been purchased by the lady named Sister Ursula (partly out of a large inheritance of her own, and partly by means of voluntary subscription) for the purpose of founding in it a home for penitent and fallen women. The scheme on which the establishment was based was unusually wide and broad in its provisions. In the first place there were no religious barriers, and in the second place there was no attempt made to imitate the severe ethics of the penitentiary. The place was, in the truest sense, a Home. All the inmates, if in good health, were required to work in some way—generally in the way to which they had been best accustomed; some performing the higher or lower household duties; others working in the laundry; others, again, doing dairy and field work on the home farm—all in fact being occupied pleasantly and profitably, with a goodly share of interest in the result of their own labours. No attempt was made at any irritating supervision of the morals of the inmates; once admitted it was taken for granted that they were tired of evil doing, at any rate for the time being, and that it was unnecessary to preach to them, six days out of seven, on the wickedness of their ways. At the same time they were daily brought into contact with sound, sweet, and beautiful associations.

A special feature of the establishment, copied from some of the Magdalen institutions in France, was the reception—particularly in the summer season—of sick and delicate children, many of them babes in arms, from the neighbouring city. These children were distributed among the poor sisters, and it was wonderful to see with what eagerness they were received, with what tenderness they were guarded, by these kind foster-mothers. Many a helplessly degraded woman, on whom all their holy influences had been unavailing, was saved and consecrated by the necessity of tending a child; many an evil creature felt for the first time, with tiny arms clinging round her neck, the instincts of a pure maternity and the inspiration of a heavenly hope.

Another rule, to which indeed the foregoing was a pendant, gave to an inmate, if a mother, the privilege of bringing her own offspring with her, and of rearing it in the house. No attempt was made to separate mother and child. No penitentiary laws were in existence, based upon the assumption that the former was an alien, and the latter a ‘child of sin.’

Sister Ursula herself was the younger daughter of a peer of the realm. In her girlhood she had made a marriage, unfortunate in a worldly point of view, and had completed her folly by afterwards forming an attachment for an officer, with whom she eloped. Few, however, would have traced in that calm, cold face the record of strong passions and improprieties, if the lady herself had not, with a curious persistency, insisted on making no secret of her own sin; her theory being that one who had herself been a sinner, and sadly acquainted with the world’s sorrows and temptations, was better qualified to deal with fellow-sinners than the most irreproachable of female saints.

During the night the wanderer snatched a troubled sleep, starting up at times to listen to the wind which shook the windows, and to gaze wildly round the dark room; but towards morning she slept quite soundly. She was awakened by the loud ringing of a bell in the hall below; and, opening her eyes, she saw the four companions of her chamber busy dressing.