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“Where was she, then?” Mrs. Bradley enquired, whilst the school stood silent but excited. A girl wearing a badge stepped out of the line and said:

“We didn’t notice until we were ready for our lesson, and then we didn’t say anything, as her cousin wasn’t there either, and we thought they had both had special permission to be absent.”

“Ulrica Doyle, do you mean, was not in class either?”

“Yes. The two forms, ours and the fourth form, had music together that afternoon, and we thought— and we thought—”

“I see. Very well, girls, thank you. Now, the fourth form—where was Ulrica Doyle that afternoon?”

Thereupon ensued one of those dramatic interruptions which schoolgirls dream about, and of which schoolgirl literature is full. Ulrica Doyle herself, who had been driven to Mrs. Bradley’s home at Wandles Parva, came forward from the back of the hall, and looking even more pallid (from her self-inflicted injury, Mrs. Bradley supposed) than usual, said very calmly and distinctly:

“I spent that Monday afternoon in Church.”

“In Church?” Mrs. Bradley betrayed no surprise at her sudden appearance. It was almost as though she had expected it. Ulrica came up to the platform. Still very pale, she was, as usual, entirely self-possessed.

“Did anybody else know this?” Mrs. Bradley enquired.

“No,” the girl replied, and a faint smile, such, Mrs. Bradley thought, in a moment of irritation, as martyrs probably wore, appeared at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, wait, though. One of the guest-house people came in. She saw me, I believe, and may remember.”

“But what made you go into Church?” Mrs. Bradley demanded, recollecting Mrs. Trust’s evidence.

“Saint Jeanne d’Arc,” the girl calmly replied.

“Voices?” said Mrs. Bradley sceptically, and with a considerable amount of distaste.

“You must believe what you choose,” said Ulrica, quietly and firmly, her pale face lifted and her nostrils quivering slightly. “I was under compulsion to spend the time in Church, and school rules no longer had meaning. I shall explain this to Mother Saint Francis as soon as the Voices give me leave.”

“Odd,” said Mrs. Bradley; but she was not referring to the girl’s last sentence, a fact which was patent to Ulrica but lost to the rest of her hearers, including Mother Francis. The nun, having promised to maintain a policy of rigid non-interference, was keeping silence, but her expression, to those who knew her—and even to Mrs. Bradley, who did not—boded no good to Ulrica, the embryo saint and martyr. Mother Francis was, in fact, as the girls remarked later on, positively seething with fury. At a nod from Mrs. Bradley she dismissed the school to their classrooms, but herself remained in the hall.

Mrs. Bradley fixed her black eyes on Ulrica.

“You will never make a nun if you disobey orders,” she said, “and your orders surely must be to attend lessons, and fit yourself, through education, for life. I have a certain amount of sympathy, always, with rebellion, but I shall be interested to know why you did not remain at my house until my son sent you over to your grandfather.”

“Saint Jeanne’s orders,” said the girl, speaking with a defiance none the less real because her voice remained quiet and her tone courteous, “were to disregard the orders of those who considered themselves her mental and spiritual superiors, and carry out orders from God. What would have happened to France if she had faltered?”

“How long did you stay in Church?” asked Mrs. Bradley. The abrupt question, cutting through an heroic daydream, apparently flustered the girl. She went very pale, turned suddenly crimson, and replied:

“I don’t know, exactly. The girls were not still in school when I came out, so I went to find Mother Saint Benedict to apologise to her for having missed her Latin lesson.”

“What about Mother Saint Gregory? Hadn’t you missed her music lesson as well?”

“I knew she wouldn’t have noticed I wasn’t there,” replied Ulrica, fixing a calm and fearless eye on Mother Francis. “Mother Saint Gregory is an artist. She is not conscious of other people, except in the mass and dimly. She also is very short-sighted.”

“What had Mother Saint Benedict to say?” asked Mrs. Bradley, amused to think that artistry and shortsightedness should appear to be the same thing.

“I discovered, before I could confess to my absence from her lesson, that she had not missed me, either. She had taken the double class, while Mother Saint Dominic was at the dentist’s, and had set some translation, and had gone round the class to help the slow ones.”

“You were never a slow one?”

“No. I was always top.”

“So she would not have come to you, probably, even if you had been in class?”

“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.”