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 spo............