CHAPTER XLI.—THE SISTERS OF MOUNT EDEN.

A considerable interval of time must have passed from the moment when the woman recovered consciousness; for on opening her eyes she found herself lying in bed, in a large, dimly lighted room. The bed was white and clean, with snowy hangings, and the chamber contained four other beds of the same description. The curtains of the window were closely drawn, and on the hearth there burnt a cheerful fire.

Seated close to the bedside was a young girl, dressed like a nurse, in clean white cap, white apron and cotton gown, and reading a book.

For some minutes the wanderer lay silent, not stirring, but looking vacantly around her; on the cleanly papered walls, cosily lit by the firelight: on the engraving of the Crucifixion, hanging over the mantelpiece on the snowy beds, at the head of each of which hung a picture of the Madonna—each different, but all copies from the works of Raphael; and finally, on the quiet, thoughtful-looking girl, who sat intent upon her book.

At last, thoroughly awakened, she uttered an exclamation. The girl looked up, and their eyes met.

‘Where am I? What place is this? Why am I lying here?’

The girl smiled, and, without answering, touched a handbell standing on a small table at her side. Scarcely had she done so when a tall, slight figure, also wearing a white cap, entered the room. Her hair was quite white, but her face seemed fresh and young; and her eyes had a cold virginal steadfastness which harmonised well with the lines of a mouth firm almost to hardness. No sooner, however, did her gaze fall upon the occupant of the bed than her face was lit by a smile of strange brightness and sweetness; the coldness passed from her eyes, the lines of her mouth grew soft and tender; and her whole expression was transformed into one of winning kindness and beauty.

The girl rose and curtsied as the newcomer advanced to the bedside.

‘You are better now?’

The wanderer looked up wildly, scrutinising the kind thoughtful face which was bending over her.

‘Where am I?’ she cried again. ‘What place is this?’

‘You are among friends,’ was the quiet reply.

‘In the hospital? Have I been ill?’

‘You were faint and weak when they brought you in, and afterwards you fell into a sleep.’

‘Yes, I remember—but this place, and you? I do not know you.’

‘I am Sister Ursula. Perhaps you have heard my name?’

‘No.’

‘Nor the name of this place—Mount Eden? 5

‘No! no!5 cried the wanderer, in surprise.

‘You are welcome all the same; but, before we talk any more, let Barbara’—here Barbara, as the young girl was called, curtsied—‘bring you some warm soup, or some tea and toast. I am sure you are weak from want of food.’

At first the invalid, confused and to some extent alarmed by her position, refused to take any sustenance, but Sister Ursula, with gentle firmness, at last persuaded her to drink some warm tea and eat a little dry toast. When she had done so, and Barbara, at a signal from her superior, had retired, Sister Ursula sat quietly down by the bedside.

‘And now, may I ask you a few questions about yourself? Do not think I speak from mere curiosity, and do not answer anything unless you please. In the first place, am I right in guessing that you are in trouble?’

‘Yes.’

As she answered, almost under her breath, the wanderer kept her large, wistful, watchful eyes fixed, with strange intensity, on the Sister’s face.

‘Next, may I ask your name?’

There was a long pause, but at last, in the same low tone, the answer came—

‘Jane Peartree.’

‘Well, Jane (may I call you Jane? it is our habit in this place to call each other by the Christian name), I do not wish to inquire into your history, until you choose to tell me it, or any portion of it. What I wish you to do is to regard me and all here as friends and sufferers like yourself, sisters in sorrow and in heavenly hope. You will rest here, certain of help and sympathy, until such a time as you feel strong enough to face the world again. By-the-bye, are you a Londoner?’

‘No; I was born in the country.’

‘And you have lived—-’

‘Do not ask me! I cannot tell!’

And as she spoke, she turned her face upon the pillow, crying.

‘You shall tell me nothing,’ said the lady softly, ‘until you wish it of your own freewill. I can see that you have had sorrow, great sorrow; and that, unlike so many who come here, your speech is gentle, and your manner that of a lady. Take courage! Whatever your offence has been, whatever pain you have undergone, you are as safe now as a little child on its mother’s breast—no one can tempt you, no one can harm you, here.’

The wanderer turned her face again, and looked long and wistfully at the Sister; then she sighed deeply, while her tears still fell.

‘You have not told me what place this is, but I suppose it is some religious home. Well, I am not religious; I scarcely know what religion is. All I ask is a night’s shelter, and then—I will pay you for it, and go away.’

Sister Ursula’s face looked very grave.

‘We never accept payment from those who take shelter here; and you are mistaken—this is not a religious house in the sense you mean. True, we believe in one God and one Redeemer, and our experience teaches us that, for the truly sorrowful and penitent, knowledge of Christ the Saviour is the only preservation.’

The wanderer sighed drearily.

‘You are Roman Catholics, I suppose?’ she said, with a curious indifference. ‘I have heard they are good people.’

‘We are of all religions,’ returned Sister Ursula, smiling; ‘that is to say, the unfortunate are welcome here, whatever their creed. I myself am a member of the Church of England, but some of our inmates are Catholics, others Dissenters, many, like yourself, of no particular persuasion. We do not insist on these things. Our love and sympathy are for all the world.’

‘And the house is—not a religious house? What then?’

‘A refuge for sisters who have fallen, and who repent.’

The wanderer shuddered, for she had read of such places; then, after a moment, she gave a low, faint, bitter laugh.

‘How stupid I was not to understand! And you think I am one of those—those women?’

‘I think, Jane, that you have a great trouble, whatever it has been; but do not think I am judging you, or wishing to proclaim your fault. Whatever you are, I am no better than yourself. Twenty years ago I left a good husband, and lived in wickedness and shame with another man, who afterwards abandoned me. I have suffered a great deal, though no more than I deserve.’

Raising herself upon her elbow, the woman calling herself Jane Pear tree gazed in amazement at the calm grey sister, who, without a tremor in her voice, coldly proclaimed her own sin to a stranger.

‘I am no better than the worst here,’ said Sister Ursula; ‘but my own experience has helped me to be of service to those who, like myself, have sinned and suffered. Many here are infinitely my superiors insomuch as they have suffered, and been dragged into pollution, through no fault of their own.’

As she spoke, a bell sounded in the distance, and a sound of footsteps was heard upon the staircase beyond the chamber. The door stood open, and Jane Peartree saw numerous female figures, all clad in white caps and aprons, pass quickly by. Several looked in, smiling at Sister Ursula, and cried, ‘Good-night.’ Then four young women, clad like the others, entered that chamber, curtseying and looking curiously at the stranger.

‘It is ten o’clock,’ said Sister Ursula, rising, ‘and bedtime. We breakfast early, at half-past seven, but you are weak and must not attempt to get up. Good-night, Jane.’

Stooping gently, the lady kissed Jane Peartree on the forehead, and then, with a bright good-night to the others, left the room, closing the door behind her.

Jane lay still, and looked at her companions, who were slowly undressing by the light of a small lamp. The eldest was about eight-and-twenty, the youngest not much over eighteen; and, with one exception, they showed no refinement either of appearance or of manner, and clearly belonged to that portion of the lower orders from which society recruits its domestic servants. The exception was a pale, slender girl, obviously in delicate health, who exchanged but few remarks with her companions, and spoke, when she did speak, with a strong French accent. She sat on the side of the bed, slowly removing her outer garments, and breathing heavily, while the others chattered in low tones to each other and occasionally gave vent to a vacant giggling laugh.

Presently her eyes met those of Jane Peartree, and after a moment’s hesitation she walked across the room and stood by the bedside.

‘Pardon, mademoiselle,’ she said gently, ‘but you are not well, and you are a stranger. Can I get you anything?’

Jane shook her head; then, seeing the other hesitate, and being attracted by her foreign grace, she asked, in her own tongue—

‘Are you French?’

The girl’s face brightened strangely at the sound of her native language.

‘No, mademoiselle; I am Belgian. I came from near Brussels.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Adèle, mademoiselle.’

‘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.

No sooner had she awakened than Adèle, who had been watching her, came over and said gently, in French:—

‘I am glad you have slept, mademoiselle.’

Jane Peartree thanked her, and, rising on her elbow, looked round her, as if preparing to rise also.

‘Ah! but you must not rise,’ continued the other. ‘It is very early, and Sister Ursula says you are to keep your bed. Shall I fetch you a cup of tea?’

Jane Peartree did not reply. She was looking around her in a vain search for the clothes she had worn the previous day, and of these there was no sign.

‘I must get up,’ she said impatiently. ‘Call the lady—tell her I wish to go. I have a long journey before me, and I cannot remain any longer in this place.’

But even as she spoke her head swam round, and she sank shivering back upon her pillow. On her cheeks there were two hectic spots, her eyes seemed wild and wandering, and the left pupil of one was widely dilated.

A minute afterwards Sister Ursula entered the room, and, after a quiet good morning to the other women, bent over the occupant of the bed.

‘Good-morning, Jane,’ she said, smiling.

Jane Peartree looked up; as she did so her face flushed and her teeth chattered in her head.

‘Please let me have my things,’ she cried. ‘I wish to go away.’

‘So soon?’

‘Yes. They are following me. It will kill me if they find me. I am quite well. Quick! Let me go, for God’s sake!’

Sister Ursula did not reply, but stooping over the bed took the girl’s hand and placed her fingers upon the pulse, which she found bounding with all the force of violent fever.

‘Take my advice,’ she said gravely, ‘and stay with us to-day; to-morrow, perhaps, you will be strong enough to go.’

‘I am quite strong. I must go now. You have no right to detain me!’ cried the wanderer; and as she spoke she sat up, looking wildly and even angrily at her protectress. But it was only for a moment. Her head swam again, and she sank back shuddering.

‘O, madame!’ cried Adèle, ‘I am afraid she is very ill.’

‘Hush!’ said Sister Ursula. ‘Go down, and leave us alone together.’

The girls, accustomed to obey, left the room in a body, and Sister Ursula sat down by the bedside.

Jane Peartree lay moaning, and it was soon evident that her mind was wandering. She made no more attempts to rise, but murmured wildly to herself. Presently, when Sister Ursula bent over to speak to her again, she remained with half-closed eyes and made no articulate reply.

‘Poor child,’ thought the lady. ‘How pretty she looks, and different to most of those who come to this roof for shelter. And she has a secret, which weighs upon her mind.’

She added, still to herself—

‘“Jane Peartree.” That was the name she gave me. Yet the initials upon her linen are “M. F.” Who can she be?’