“No. I was always top.”
“So she would not have come to you, probably, even if you
“I don’t think she would, unless I had come upon a doubtful reading, and had actually asked her advice.”
“What did she say when you went to her?”
“ ‘Not now, Ulrica. Go along and have your tea.’ The nuns were always kind to me about food.”
“She thought you had come for advice about your work?”
“She must have done. It was obvious that she did not know that I had come to make apology for absence.”
“I see. And you didn’t go again?”
“I saw no need. No harm was done by my non-attendance. The actual piece of translation which had been set I got from another girl and wrote out in my own time later. It would perhaps have grieved Mother to know that I had deliberately missed her lesson. It seemed kinder to let the whole thing drop.”
These sentiments seemed to Mrs. Bradley admirably sensible, although she found the manner of their expression supremely irritating. She was aware, however, that her opinion was not shared by Mother Francis, so she sent Ulrica to her formroom, and grinned at the headmistress, prepared to argue the point on behalf of the girl. Mother Francis forestalled her, however, by remarking:
“The enquiry seems doomed to end in a cul-de-sac. Nothing seems to lead anywhere.”
“I wonder why Ulrica left my house and came back here?” said Mrs. Bradley, determined not to be sidetracked.
“I can answer that. She came to me before school this morning, and said that there was no Catholic church within twelve miles of your house, and that your son had commandeered the car to go and play golf.”
“He is plus two,” said Mrs. Bradley, in explanation, Mother Francis gathered, of this selfishness. “That would be the old car,” she added. “I wonder he could get it to go. Even for George its response is not enthusiastic.”
Mother Francis made no reply to this statement, although she could think of several remarks which, to her mind, would have been in keeping.
“Ulrica is not a Catholic, though,” Mrs. Bradley went on pensively.
“It is only a question of time, and of receiving formal instruction,” Mother Francis said quickly. “Still, she should not have returned without permission, as I explained when I saw her this morning.”
“The temptation, probably, was strong. Where, by the way, are the originals from which Mother Saint Simon- Zelotes made her copies of the paten and chalice?”
Mother Francis betrayed no surprise at the sudden change of subject, but replied:
“Reverend Mother Superior was so much impressed by your evident fear for their safety, that she had them taken on Saturday morning to the Kelsorrow branch of the Exe and Wye bank. It is in the High Street, almost opposite the fire-station.”
“And the distinguished visitors?”
“They have all been put off, except the Bishop. He is to have a private view of the work on Wednesday morning.”
“But not with the originals for comparison?”
“That I cannot tell you. Reverend Mother seems greatly impressed, as I say, by your anxiety not to have the originals on show, but, on the other hand, Sister Saint Simon’s work loses interest if no comparison is made with what she copied.”
“Even so,” said Mrs. Bradley, “they should not, on any account, be shown publicly, even to the Bishop, until Thursday.” She glanced at the nun, and, yielding to an impulse similar to the one which once before had caused her to gratify what she felt must be the intense, but unexpressed curiosity of hot-blooded, energetic, repressed and self-controlled Mother Francis, she added, nodding: “Ulrica Doyle is to sail for New York on Wednesday. When she is gone, all will be well. Don’t, please, tell anybody that.”
“I will say nothing. You regard Ulrica, then, as the root of the troubles?” She did not sound at all surprised, Mrs. Bradley noticed.
“She will be much better out of the way,” Mrs. Bradley answered.
Nobody knew better than Mother Francis, who had given a good many similar answers in her time, how far from the point of the question this reply was. She folded her hands in her sleeves, bowed slightly, smiled with a warm red mouth which no training could make anything but sensuous and sadistic, and said nothing else at all, but walked beside Mrs. Bradley out of the hall and along the dim, cold corridor to her room.
“You will have Ulrica watched, will you not?” said Mrs. Bradley, before they parted, the one to deal with school stock required for the coming term, the other to telegraph her son that his charge was safe at the convent. “She ought to be under the supervision of at least two people all the time.”
George drove her to the Kelsorrow post-office.
“Letter follows,” she telegraphed to her son, after indicating that Ulrica was safe. Having sent off the telegram she obtained a letter-card, and wrote immediately, remaining in the post office to do so:
“dear ferdinand,
“This in a great hurry, as I do not want to be absent from the convent for a minute longer than I can help between now and Thursday. Ulrica came back on a milk train like Mr. Wodehouse’s heroes, and arrived here before the opening of morning school. Do not worry about her. I had overlooked the point that we have no Catholic church in the neighbourhood at home. I wish, if you can manage it, you would put Ulrica on to the boat at Southampton on Wednesday. I will send her in charge of two of the sisters, who will make certain that there is no hitch. It is absolutely essential that she should leave this country on Wednesday. A train gets into Southampton Docks at three, and the ship, the
