THAT WHICH WAS LOST.

Otago Witness, Issue 3886, 4 September 1928, Page 80

THAT WHICH WAS LOST.

By

Olive E. Ellison.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.) As if her spirit were floating through illimitable space, the girl came back to consciousness. An all—pervading perfume seemed to permeate the atmosphere. Her gaze rested on a darker patch on a wide expanse of wall. Vaguely she studied it, trying to remember. Slowly she comprehended that it was somehow familiar—a framed picture of a motheiand her baby—yes, that was it, the Madonna and the Child. . . Then she shut her eyes, as, in a sudden flash, memory came back. So it was over. She had been through the valley of the shadow, and was still alive. . . But what about the baby? Again she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the realisation of it all, trying to go back into that blessed state of unconsciousness from which she had emerged—where nothing seemed to hurt or worry, and where one felt- no appalling sense of oppressing shame. . . . Perhaps the. baby had been born dead. . . “ O, God,” she breathed, “ please may it be dead.” Just at that instant, as if in swift rebuke to sueh a thought, there came a faint, wailing cry. She was conscious of a strange sensation. It seemed to call to her and yet she did not want to answer. She turned her head on the pillow toward the wall, away from the sound of it. She heard footsteps coming towards her, and then the matron’s voice, speaking cheerily, as she bent over her. “ Well, my dear,” she said, “ feeling better now?” The girl did not speak nor move, as she tried to shut out sight and sound. “Would you like to see the baby?” continued the matron's voice; “he’s a fine little chap.” With a sharp, half-stifled sob, the girl shrank away, and pressed her face into the pillow. “No,” she said with passionate vehemence, “I hate it! O, why didn’t God let it die?” “Hush, hush! Joyce,” said the matron, as she gently stroked the girl’s hair, “ you mustn’t say such things as that. He’s one of God's little lambs.” But still the girl shrank away, her shoulders heaving with heart-rending sobs, that came like long shuddering gasps. “Hush, my dear! ” the matron said again; “you mustn't excite yourself like this. In time you’ll grow to love him.” After all, she thought, as she looked down on the girl’s curly close-cropped head, and her ringless little hand, such a little kiddie to be a mother! And poor little unwanted baby! Why did life hold such hard problems? In spite of the number of years that she had been matron of the Mary Magdalen Home, and the many “ cases ” that had pased through her hands, Sister Margaret had never yet become accustomed to facing these ordeals —when the girlmother realised that the shadow’ that had hovered ever nearer, had at last become an actual reality. . . Words seemed so inadequate at such a time. One had just to stand aside, and leave the issue in God’s hands. . .

With the passing of the days the girl’s strength returned; for, in spite .of the weight of crushing sorrow’, youth’s vitality reasserts itself. Life in the Mary Magdalen Home, as in all such institutions, was ordered by rules and regulations. One of the rules in this case was that each of the girlmothers must stay in the Home for three months following the birth of her child, taking her part in the work entailed in the care of the babies.

Attached to the institution there was a small chapel, where the girls attended services, and where the babies were baptised. There was a miniature stained glass w’indows, above the little altar, representing the Good Shepherd carrying a lamb in His arms. Many a girl who had come in, sullen, and hard-hearted, thinking everyone’s hand was against her, had found here a sanctuary and a sense of peace and comfort. . . Was it not for such as she that the Good Shepherd had come to seek? Was not she herself the little lost lamb He was carrying in His bosom? . . It was indeed just this attitude of mind that it W’as hoped the atmosphere of the Home would help to create; and that, having had time for calm reflection, and to readjust her values, each girl W’ould go out into the w'orld again, strengthened and encouraged to make a fresh beginning. And no one could better fill the position of matron than Sister Margaret. It w’as her firm conviction that more could be done in the way of character-building by an understanding sympathy—rather than reproof. Instead of hitting those who w r ere down, why not help to pull them up? The Mary Magdalen Home, being as it was, one of the most up-to-date institutions of its kind, every thing Was run on the most moderii and hygienic principles, in accordance with the latest and most scientific methods, with regard to

infant welfare. Consequently, it was much frequented by visitors,* some of whom came, it must be admitted, merely from a sense of curiosity. How Joyce hated these ordeals—when, with downcast eyes, as she went about her work, she felt the scrutiny of curious eves.

v ’ How splendidly everything is arranged—so much light and air—and all the latest conveniences! ” gushed a woman, showily and expensively dressed, whom the matron was showing round' The girls were bathing the babies at the time; and the woman stopped for a while to watch. “What a dear little baby,” she said in a patronising voice, as she stood beside Joyce, and putting her finger under her baby’s chin tilted his face to look at him. Then, leaving a strong scent of lavender water behind her, she rustled off with the matron, continuing her comments in an audible whisper. “Dear, dear! Well, it does seem a shame! And such a nice refined-looking girl. One never would have thought it.” IVith a burning blush of shame, Jovce bent lower over her task as she bathed her baby. Her thoughts were hard ind bitter. Oh, the smug self-satisfaction of these self-righteous women — casting stones at their fallen sisters from their impregnable position of the estate of holy matrimony! How did they know that had they been placed in like circumstances they would have passed unscathed through the fierce fires of temptation! How could one judge another! What if some day the same thing should happen to her own daughter! A tear fell on her baby’s head. Impulsively she clutched his little wet body to her breast, and kissed his little soft neck. Ever after that, with a fine perception for the feelings of the girls. Sister Margaret kept them out of the way as much as possible whenever visitors were being shown round. As the time drew near for her to leave the Home, Joyce began to realise how much she would feel parting from her baby. In accordance with the rules of the institution, the baby was to be left there till the mother could support him, she herself paying a certain weekly sum towards his keep, in addition to the maintenance demanded by law from the father ; for on entering the Home, each girl had had to swear, with her hand on the Bible, the name of the father of her child. And so it happened that the last night before Joyce left the matron, waking suddenly, and thinking she heard footsteps in the night nursery, got up and went* to investigate. At the door she met a little white-robed figure with a bundle in her arms. “ Joyce,” she said in amazement, as she switched on the light, “ now you know this is quite against the rules. The babies must be left to sleep in the nursery.” “ Oh, but just for to-night,” pleaded the girl, “ please let me have him with me. It’s my last night, you know; and I’ll miss him so. And he’s my own little baby,” she added as she held him closely. There was a tremble in her voice, as if the tears were not far off. Sister Margaret hesitated for a moment, as she looked at the curly, cropped head held almost defiantly as she asserted her right of ownership. Then human nature won the day, and she gave in weakly. “ Well—perhaps just for this once,” she said; “but remember it’s quite against the rules, you know; and you must have him back in the nursery before the others wake.” Could this really be, she wondered, on her way’ back to her own room—actually the same girl who had wished that her baby had been born dead! Truly the ways of God were wonderful. . . .

From behind her counter in the large city drapery establishment, Joyce counted the time till closing hour. It was only a little longer now—and she would be home with her baby! A tender little smile curved the corners of her ftiouth. In imagination she could see him, sitting up in his cot, trying to catch the sunbeams as they played upon the wall.

Sometimes her sales companions wondered why, in the moments between serving her customers, she appeared so preoccupied. She was quiet and retiring, and kept very much to herself. As soon as work was over, she always quickly slipped away; and they knew nothing of her private life.

She sought no one’s companionship; and seemed to live in a world of her own, finding happiness in her baby. Jealously she had guarded her secret. Now that she was able to support him, she had found quiet lodgings in the house of an elderly widow, who, for a small extra sum, cared for the baby while the mother was at work. But no one knew _ she was his mother. After careful consideration she had come ■ to the decision- to pretend that the child

was hei nephew—both of whose parents were dead, and who had left him in her care. As she seemed a quiet, refined girl the landlady had been quite satisfied with her explanation, and had asked no further questions, much to her relief. She- had been half-tempted, when going to seek for lodgings—for the sake of the child—to wear her dead mother’s wedding ring, and pretend she was a married woman. But on second thoughts she had decided not to do so. She would not desecrate her mother’s ring by living such a lie. . . . And yet’, alwavs gnawing at her mind, was* the dread that sometime she might be recognised, and her secret known. It was not for heiself she minded, but on account of the baby. How dreadful it would be if, as he grew older, he should ever lealise the true facts of the case—and she should see doubt and suspicion take the place of his confidence and trust in her! However could she bear it—if her child should grow to despise her! If only it were possible to keep him from ever growing up! And yet, she reasoned, in this city it was hardly likely that she should ever be recognised. Following the advice of Sister Margaret she had been taken there, away from everyone she knew, and all her old associations, in order to make a fresh beginning. Once more she glanced at the clock. Only five minutes more till closing time! •Suddenly she was conscious of being scrutinised, and could not help but heir some remarks in an audible whisper, made by a woman to her companion, while ostensibly studying some Brussels la ce. ‘‘ I seem to remember her face quite well, but can’t quite recollect where it was I saw her. Ah! I remember now—one of those poor girls from the Mary Magdalen Home.” “Dear, dear!” said her companion, with ,a.covert glance at Joyce. The girl bent lower over her work as she measured off ribbon for a customer, but her face was suffused with a burning blush. She was acutely aware that others liad also heard the remarks and were scrutinising her—amongst them the sales girl standing beside her at the same counter. lhen Joyce, suddenly raising her eyes, unflinchingly met the insolent gaze of the elder woman, and gave her a look before which she quailed. The woman’s loud whispering suddenly ceased. “Did you see that?” she said excitedly to her companion, as they moved off together; “the airs and graces shels giving herself! The bold little hussv! She wants putting in her place!” Then her face wore a malicious look as a sudden idea came to her. Just as he was about to leave his office the manager was informed that a lady wished to see him. She was accordingly shown in. "So sorry to detain you, dear Mr Morton,” gushed the woman, “ I won’t keep you above a minute; but I wanted to ask you if you would be so good as to give me the private address of that y oung woman in the ribbon department that one with the short, dark, curly hair.” } Any complaints to make?” inquired the manager. Oh no, not at all; but she’s one of those poor girls from the Mary Magdalen Home, you know —and I take an interest in their welfare. I thought I would like to send her—privately and anonymously —a small parcel of clothes for the baby. I didn’t like to address her personally—one has to be so careful; sometimes they re so sensitive, you know, and resent kindly interest as curiosity and interference.” Yes, indeed,” said the manager, as he wrote down the address and handed it to her. As he did so she did not fail to notice the expression on his face, as if he had made a mental note of the information she had imparted. “ Thank you so much, Mr Morton. So sorry to have detained you. Good afternoon.” It now seemed to Joyce that everyone must guess her secret.* She tried to reassure herself, but all night long she tossed and turned, while the words of the woman kept ringing in her ears—“ One of those poor girls from the Mary Magdalen Home . . . . ” " ° Oh, why were the self-righteous always so ready to hound down those who had strayed from the path of rectitude! In the morning, when she arrived at work, two of the sales girls were talking in an undertone. They looked selfconscious when they saw her, and suddenly ceased their conversation. During the morning she received a message from the manager that he wished to see her in his private office at the beginning of the lunch hour. She wondered what it could portend. Could he be displeased with her ? Had she not been giving the firm satisfaction ? The sales girl beside her, who had also heard the message, giggled arid whispered to another, with a covert look in her direction. When she reached the manager’s office she was trembling with’ agitation.

Much to tier surprise, the manager told her that the firm were so pleased with her services that he had decided to transfer her from her present department to the office staff, as he wished her to become his private stenographer—which, of course, he added, would draw a higher salary. Her eyes shone with happiness. It would then be possible, she thought, to get all she required for the baby without having to stint herself. Suddenly she was conscious of bis appraising scrutiny, and her eyes fell before his gaze. He laughed,softly when he saw her embarrassment, and with a dexterous movement he put one arm round her shoulders, and with the other hand lie tilted up her face towards him. She quickly drew away from him. “ O come, come!” he said in a tone of raillery. “ Surely you’re not going to pretend, are you, that you’ve never been kissed?” ' She wrenched herself away, and looked at him in scorn. “ Oh, I see,” he said. “ It’s a case of ‘ once bitten, twice shy.’ ” There was no mistaking the meaning in his tone. So evidently he also had heard, and thought she was fair game. “ After all,” she said, her voice trembling with anger, “ I have no desire to become your private stenographer.” He looked at her in amazement. He was not accustomed to having his advances met with rebuffs. Women usually made much of him. He was still a bachelor, and had a large income. Besides, it would never do to allow himself to be snubbed by one of his employees. In his hurt pride and anger he resorted to his only method of retaliation. “ Very well,” he said, “ since you will not fall in with my arrangements, I shall have no further use for your services after the last day of the month.” The woman, having secured Joyce’s address, had lost no time in carrying out her well-laid plans. Soon after the girl had left for work, her landladyhad been surprised to receive a morning call from a well-dressed woman. The information she had imparted during the course of conversation had been quite a shock to her. “ Well, she said, as she continued to wipe her hands on her apron, “and just to think that all this time I never guessed that she was the mother of the baby.” “ Of course,” said her visitor hurriedly; “there will be no need to let her know how you came to find it out. But you see, I have always taken such an interest in those poor girls from the Mary Magdalen Home; -and I wanted to give her this small parcel of clothes. • for the baby, and thought it better to leave it privately with you without mentioning my name. I like to do my charity anonymously and unostentaciously; besides, you know,” she added, “ sometimes they’re so sensitive, and resent kindly interest as curiosity.” “ Well, well,” the woman said again, as she closed the door behind her visitor, ” oever would ’ave thought it—and a nice quiet-lookin’ girl like that! ” The news had made such an impression on her that in the afternoon when she had finished her work she dicided to run round the corner and drop in for a few minutes to see Mrs Harris, and tell her all about it. She would not be gone very long, so the baby would be quite safe fast asleep in his cot. There were some clothes airing on a chair by the kitchen stove, and some more on a small line stretched just below the mantelpiece. She was halfinelined to take them away before going out,, but assuring herself that everything would be quite safe, as -she would be away only for a few minutes, she hurried round to see her friend. The news concerning her lodger had surprised Mrs Harris just as much as it had herself. “ You don’t tell me, Mrs Timms,” exclaimed Mrs Harris, throwing up her hands, “ well, I never did! One never knows ’o to trust. I wonder ’o the father is ? ” They talked it out in all its bearings over a cup of tea, and then, when they had thoroughly threshed the matter out, they began all over again. “ Well, any’ow, I sez this,” said Mrs Harris, “ even though the pore girl ’as made a mistake she’s tried to turn over a new- leaf, and we ought to try to ’elp ’er. It’s no' use turnin’ ’er out to go on the streets. You sez she pays ’er board and lodgin’ regular; well, let ’er stay, I sez. We all makes mistakes at times, and after all, ’er money’s as good as anybody’s.” They were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not realise how the time was going. The baby had wakened from his sleep, and was sitting up in his cot. With little crows of delight he was trying to catch the sunbeams as they danced beside him on the wall. Dow’n below, in the kitchen, the front of the stove had fallen open and a cinder had fallen out. Soon a curling flame was licking round the clothes that were airing on the chair. Gradually it crept upwards, till it reached the other clothes that were on the little line above it. Up and up crept the flames, getting stronger as they spread. On the mantelpiece there stood a bottle, filled with kerosene, which Mrs Timms always kept there, in order to coax a reluctant fire. Greedily the flames reached out, with long, fiery fingers. There was a sudden crack as the heat broke the bottle. Quickly the flames pounced on . it, turning the liquid into fire, dancing and leaping in delight. , Joyce was in a tram, returning from her w’ork. She felt utterly despondent. _ She would now have to seek a new. position. Was she always to be followed by

the consequences of her folly? How slowly the tram seemed to go. Suddenly she was conscious of a strange intuition that there was danger threatening her baby. She tried to reassure herself. What harm could come to him—safe at home with Mrs Timms? “ Dear me!” said Mrs Timms, suddenly glancing at the clock, “ Can that be the right time? I’ll ’ave to run. The girl will soon be ’ome, and I’ve left ’er baby.” “Just ’ave another cup o’ tea,” pressed Mrs Harris. “ You look that upset, and worrit-like. Dear me:” she ejaculated, “was that the fire-engine? There—listen!” “Mercy me!” shrieked Mrs Timms, as she rushed to the door. Sakes alive! I do believe it’s my place—and I’ve left the baby!”. -When Joyce alighted from the tram she sped along with quickly beating heart. She was still oppressed with a sense of danger threatening her baby. Again she told herself that it was a foolish fear. It must be because her nerves were unstrung. What was that! Was it not the siren of an approaching fire-engine ? Her heart beat to suffocation as she hurried onward. As she turned the corner she saw a crowd collecting. She took a glance at the house, and her face -went deathly pale as she saw smoke ascending. Why did the crowd hem her in? Why did they impede her? Like a mad thing she rushed through them, though they tried to hold her back. Her one thought was her baby. She heard them shrieking to her, and again the siren of the fire-engine, as it reached the spot. But, regardless of the danger, up the shaking stairs she went, choking—almost blinded by the fierce heat and smoke. “ Dear God,” she breathed. “ 0 please let me be in time!” * * * The brave fire-fighters had done their best; but it was of no avail. The house was old and tindery, and the flames had spread with such rapidity that it collapsed like a house built with a pack of cards. .... Amongst the charred debris they found her—with her baby in her arms. . . . . And in the little chapel at the Mary Magdalen Home, as the light shone through the stained-glass window, it seemed to cast a radiance round the form of the Good Shepherd. It seemed that His face looked down with infinite compassion, and yet with calm tranquillity—for had he not found the little lost sheep which He had come to seek—of which it had been said, “He shall gather them in His arms, and carrv them in His bosom.”