Richard Vandermarck Part 24

"You may well ask. I have just brought her home, and find here, the man-servant ill, one woman too old and inactive to perform much service, and another to whom I would not trust her for a moment. I must ask _you_, who shall I get to take care of her?"

"You have no friend, no one to whom you could send in such a case? One of life and death,--I hope you understand?"

"None," answered Richard, with a groan. "There is not a person in the city to whom I could send for help. All my family--all our friends, are away. Is there no one that can be got for money--any money? no nurse that you could recommend?"

"I have a list of twenty. Yesterday I sent to every one, for a dangerous case of hemorrhage, and could not find one disengaged. It may be to-morrow night before you get on the track of one that is at liberty, if you hunt the city over. And this girl is in need of instant care; her life hangs on it, you must see."

"In G.o.d's name, then," said Richard, with a groan, pacing up and down the room, "what am I to do?"

"In _His_ name, if you come, to that," said the Doctor, who was a good sort of man, notwithstanding his professional cool ways, "there is a sisterhood, that I am told offer to do things like this. I never sent to them, for I only heard of it a short time ago; but if you have no objection to crosses, and caps, and ritualistic nonsense in its highest flower, I have no doubt, that they will let you have a sister, and that she'll do good service here."

"The direction," said Richard, too eager to be civil. "How am I to get there?"

The Doctor pulled over a pocket-case of loose papers, and at last found one, which he handed his companion.

"I give you three quarters of an hour to get back," he said. "I will stay here till then, at all events. Do not waste any time--nor spare any eloquence," he added to himself, as Richard hurried from the room.

CHAPTER XIX

SISTER MADELINE.

Yes! it is well for us: from these alarms, Like children scared, we fly into thine arms; And pressing sorrows put our pride to rout With a swift faith which has not time to doubt.

_Faber._

Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend Towards a higher object. Love was given, Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end; For this the pa.s.sion to excess was driven--- That self might be annulled; her bondage prove The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.

_Wordsworth_.

The next thing that I recall, is rousing from slumber, or something related to slumber, and seeing a tall woman in the dress of a sister, standing by my bed. It was night, and there was a lamp upon a table near. The unusual dress, and the unfamiliarity of her whole appearance, made me start and stare at her, half raising myself in the bed.

"Why did you come here?" I said. "Who sent for you?"

"I came because you were sick and suffering, and I was sent in the Name ----" and bending her head slightly, she said a Name too sacred for these pages.

I gave a great sigh of relief, and sank back on my pillow. Her answer satisfied me, for I was not able to reason. I let her hold my hand; and all through that dark and troubled time submitted to her will, and desired her presence, and was soothed by her voice and touch.

Sister Madeline was not at all the ideal sister, being tall and dark, and with nothing peculiarly devotional or pensive in her cast of feature. Her face was a fine, earnest one. Her movements were full of energy and decision, though not quick or sharp. The whole impression left was that of one by nature far from humility, tenderness, devotion; but, by the force of a magnificent faith, made pa.s.sionately humble, devout from the very heart, more than humanly compa.s.sionate and tender.

I never felt toward her as if she were "born so"--but as if she were rescued from the world by some great effort or experience; as if it were all "made ground," reclaimed from nature by infinite patience and incessant labor. She lived the life of an angel upon the earth. I never saw her, by look, by word, or tone, transgress the least of the commandments, so wonderful was the curb she held over all her human feelings. Nor was this perfection attained by a sudden and grand sacrifice; the consecration of herself to the religious life was not the "single step 'twixt earth and heaven," but it was attained by daily and hourly study--by the practice of a hundred self-denials--by the most accurate science of spiritual progress.

Doubtless, saints can be made in other ways, but this is one way they can be made, starting with a sincere intention to serve G.o.d. At least, so I believe, from knowing Sister Madeline.

She made a great change in my life, and I owe her a great deal. It is not strange I feel enthusiasm for her. I cannot bear to think what my coming back to life would have been without her.

Of the alarming nature of my illness, I only know that there were several days when Richard never left the house, but waited, hour after hour, in the library below, for the news of my condition, and when even Uncle Leonard came home in the middle of the day, and walked about the house, silent and unapproachable.

One night--how well I remember it! I had been convalescent, I do not know how long; I had pa.s.sed the childish state of interest in my _bouilli_, and fretfulness about my _peignoir_; my mind had begun to regain its ordinary power, and with the first efforts of memory and thought had come fearful depression and despondency. I was so weak, physically, that I could not fight against this in the least. Sister Madeline came to my bedside, and found me in an agony of weeping. It was not an easy matter to gain my confidence, for I thought she knew nothing of me, and I was not equal to the mental effort of explaining myself; she was only a.s.sociated with my illness. But at last she made me understand that she was not ignorant of a great deal that troubled me.

"Who has told you?" I said, my heart hardening itself against Richard, who could have spoken of my trouble to a stranger.

"You, yourself," she answered me.

"I have raved?" I said.

"Yes."

"And who has heard me?"

"No one else. I sent every one else from the room whenever your delirium became intelligible."

This made me grateful toward her; and I longed for sympathy. I threw my arms about her and wept bitterly.

"Then you know that I can never cry enough," I said.

"I do not know that," she answered. After a vain attempt to soothe me with general words of comfort, she said, with much wisdom, "Tell me exactly what thought gives you the most pain, now, at this moment."

"The thought of his dreadful act, and that by it he has lost his soul."

"We know with Whom all things are possible," she said, "and we do not know what cloud may have been over his reason at that moment. Would it comfort you to pray for him?"

"Ought I?" I asked, raising my head.

"I do not know any reason that you ought not," she returned. "Shall I say some prayers for him now?"

I grasped her hand: she took a little book from her pocket, and knelt down beside me, holding my hand in hers. Oh, the mercy, the relief of those prayers! They may not have done him any good, but they did me. The hopeless grief that was killing me, I "wept it from my heart" that hour.

"Promise me one thing," I whispered as she rose, "that you will read that prayer, every hour during the day, to-morrow, by my bed, whether I am sleeping or awake."

"I promise," she said, and I am sure she kept her word, that day and many others after it.

During my convalescence, which was slow, I had no other person near me, and wanted none. Uncle Leonard came in once a day, and spent a few minutes, much to his discomfort and my disadvantage. Richard I had not seen at all, and dreaded very much to meet. Ann Coddle fretted me, and was very little in the room.

Over these days there is a sort of peace. I was entering upon so much that was new and elevating, under the guidance of Sister Madeline, and was so entirely influenced by her, that I was brought out of my trouble wonderfully. Not out of it, of course, but from under its crushing weight. I know that I am rather easily influenced, and only too ready to follow those who have won my love. Therefore, I am in every way thankful that I came at such a time under the influence of a mind like that of Sister Madeline.

But the time was approaching for her to go away. I was well enough to do without her, and she had other duties. The sick-room peace and indulgence were over, and I must take up the burden of every-day life again. I was very unhappy, and felt as if I were without stay or guidance.

"To whom am I to go when I am in doubt?" I said; "you will be so far away."

"That is what I want to arrange: the next time you are able to go out, I want to take you to some one who can direct you much better than I."

"A priest?" I asked. "Tell me one thing: will he give me absolution?"

"I suppose he will, if he finds that you desire it."