The cell was a large, light, airy room on the first-floor of the big two-storied Convent building that stood in its spacious, tree-shaded, high-fenced gardens beyond the Hospital at the north end of the town.  Tall stained-wood presses full of papers and account-files covered the wall upon one side.  There also stood a great iron safe, with heavy ledgers piled upon it.  Upon the other three sides of the room were bookshelves, doubly and trebly laden, with Latin tomes of the Fathers of the Church, and the works and writings of modern theologians, many of them categorised upon the “Index Expurgatorius.”  Rows there were of English, French, German, Italian, and Spanish classical authors, and many volumes of recently-published scientific works.  It might have been the room of a business man who was at the same time a priest and a scholar.  There were roller maps upon the walls, and two or three engravings, Bougereau’s “Virgin of Consolation,” the “Madonna dei Ansidei” of Raffaelle, and a “Crucifixion” over the chimneypiece, which had three little statuettes in tinted alabaster a St. Ignatius at one end, a St. Anthony of Padua at the other; in the middle, the Virgin bearing the Child.

The Mother-Superior sat writing at a bare solid deal table of the kitchen kind, with stained legs to add to its ugliness, and stained black-knobbed fronts to the drawers in it.  Her pen flew over the paper.

Seated though she was, you could see her to be of noble figure, tall and finely proportioned.  The habit of the nun does not hide everything that makes for beauty and for grace.  The pure outlines of the small, perfectly-shaped head showed through the thin black veil that fell over the white starched coif.  The small, high-instepped foot could not be hidden in walking; the make of the thick shoe might not disguise its form.  The delicate whiteness and smooth, supple beauty of her hands, larger than the hands of ordinary women, their owner being of more heroic build, as of ampler mind and keener intellect, betrayed her to be a woman not yet old, though there were some deep lines and many fine ones on the attentive face that bent over the large square sheet of paper.

It was a curious face; its olive skin bleached to dull whiteness, its expression stern almost to severity.  I have heard it likened to a Westmoreland hill-landscape.  Lonely tarns lie under the black brows of the precipice; one feels chilly, and a little afraid.  But the sun shines out suddenly from behind concealing mists, and everything is transformed to loveliness.  I can in no other words describe the change wrought in her by her rare, sudden, illuminating smile.  Her voice was the softest and the clearest I ever heard, a sigh made most audible speech; but in her just anger, only turned to wrath by the baser faults, the fouler vices, it could roll in organ-tones of thunder, or ring like a silver trumpet.  And her eye made the lightning for such thunder, and the sword-thrust that followed the clarion-note of war.

She could have ruled an empire or a court, this woman who managed the thronged, buzzing Convent with the lifting of her finger, with the softest tone of her soft West of Ireland voice, devoid of all trace of the unbeautiful brogue, cultured, elegant, refined.  As I have said, the lessons that she taught bore great fruit during that red time of war that was coming, and will bear greater fruit hereafter.

A little is known to me of the personal history of Lady Bridget-Mary Bawne in religion known as Mother Mary of Bethlehem that may be here set down.  Some twenty-three years previously that devout Irish Catholic nobleman, the Right Honourable James Dominic Bawne, tenth Earl of Castleclare, Baron Kilhail, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, and D.L. for West Connemara, not contented with the possession of three very tall, very handsome, very popular daughters the Right Honourable Ladies Bridget-Mary, Alyse, and Alethea Bawne consulted his favourite spiritual director, and, as advised, offered his thin white hand and piously regulated affections to Miss Nancy McIleevy, niece and heiress of McIleevy of McIleevystown, the eminent County Down brewer, so celebrated for his old Irish ales and nourishing bottled porter.

This lady, being sufficiently youthful, of good education and manners, and of like faith with her elderly wooer, undertook, in return for an ancient name and the title of Countess of Castleclare, to find the widower in conjugal affection for the rest of his mortified life, and to do her best to supply him with the grievously-needed heir.  There was no wicked fairy at Lord Castleclare’s wedding, distinguished by the black-browed beauty of the three bridesmaids, his daughters; and two years later saw the beacons at the entrance of Ballybawne Harbour, on the West Connemara coast, illuminated by the Castleclare tenants in honour of the arrival of the desired heir, upon whom before his birth so much wealth had been expended by Lord Castleclare in pilgrimages, donations, foundations, and endowments that, some months after it, his lordship conveyed to his three daughters that, in the interests of the Viscount, to whose swollen gums a gold-set pebble enclosing a pious relic of an early Christian martyr was at that moment affording miraculous relief, he, their father, would be obliged by their providing themselves as soon as possible with husbands of suitable rank, corresponding religion, and sufficient means to dispense with the customary marriage portion.

Lady Alyse saw the justice of her father’s views, and married the Duke of Broads, an English Catholic peer; her younger sister, Alethea, went obediently to the altar with the aged and enormously wealthy Prince de Dignmont-Veziers.  Lady Bridget-Mary Bawne, eldest and handsomest of the three, pleaded if a creature so stormy and imperious could be said to plead a previous engagement to an Ineligible.

“We have all heard of Captain Mildare of the Grey Hussars, my dear child,” said Lord Castleclare, going to the door to make sure that those shrieks that had proceeded from the Viscount’s sumptuous suite of apartments, situated at the top of the staircase rising at the end of the corridor leading from his father’s library, were stilled at the maternal fountain.  Finding that it was so, he ambled back to the centre of the worn Bokhara rug that had been under the prie-Dieu in the oratory of James II. at Dublin Castle, and resumed.  “We have all heard of Captain Mildare.  At the taking of Ali Musjid arah! at Futtehabad, with Gough arah! and at Ahmed Khel, where Stewart cut up the Afghans so tremendously, Mildare earned great distinction as well as the Victoria Cross, which I am delighted to see, in glancing through the Army and Navy Gazette, Her Majesty has been pleased to confer upon him.  As a gentleman and a soldier he presents all that is desirable; as a member of an old Catholic family, he certainly commands my suffrages.  But as the husband of my eldest daughter I cannot look upon a younger son with arah! toleration.  Honourable reputation is much, bravery is much, but my son-in-law must possess arah! other other qualifications.”  The old gentleman stuttered pitiably.

“One other qualification, you mean, father, if that term can be given to the possession of a certain amount of money,” said Lady Bridget-Mary, standing very straight and looking very proudly at her father.  “Will you object to telling me plainly for how much you would be content to sell your stock, with goodwill?”

Lord Castleclare was a thin, courtly old gentleman, who had conquered, he humbly trusted, all his passions, except the passion for early Catholic Theological Fathers and the passion for Spanish snuff.  But he was stung by the irony.  He spilt quite a quantity of choice mixture over the long, ivory-yellow nail of his lean, delicate thumb as he looked consciously aside from the great scornful grey eyes that judged and questioned and condemned him as a mercenary old gentleman.  And he caught himself wishing that this fine fiery creature had been born a boy.  He looked back again at his eldest daughter.  Her white arms were folded upon her bosom, her pearl-coloured silk evening gown was swept aside from the fire, to whose warmth she held an arched and exquisite foot.  Her noble head, with its rich coronet of silken black coils, was bent; her broad brows had ceased to be stormy.  With a half-dreamy smile upon her beautiful firm mouth, she was looking at a green flashing ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand.  And the sight of her so sent a sudden pang of remembrance leaping through the old man’s heart.  He forgot his spoiled pinch of snuff, and stepped over to her, and took the hand, and looked at the emerald ring with her in silence.

“My dear daughter,” he said, more simply and more sweetly than Lady Bridget-Mary had ever heard him speak before, “I think you love this brave gentleman sincerely?”

His daughter’s large, beautifully-shaped hand closed strongly over the old ivory fingers.  The great brilliant dark grey eyes looked at him through a sudden mist of tears, though she lifted her head and held it high.  She said in a low, clear voice: 

“Father, you remember how my mother loved you?  And Richard is as dear to me as you were to her.  I want words when it comes to speaking of so great a thing as the love I feel for him.  But it is my life....  I seem to breathe with his breath, and think his thoughts, and speak with his voice, since we found out our secret, and we are each other’s for Time and for Eternity.”  Then she added, with a lovely smile that had a touch of humour in it:  “And he will be quite content to take me with only my share of mother’s money.”

“Tschah!” said the old father.  “Nonsense!  Of course, St. Barre will be delighted to provide for you.  Excuse me ...  I must go.”

St. Barre, in the Castleclare nursery, had set up another squeal.

Thenceforwards the course of true love might have been expected to run smoothly for Lady Bridget-Mary and her gallant lover.  But she had reckoned, not without her host, but without her Grey Hussar.  In love there is always one who loves the more, and Lady Bridget-Mary, that fine, enthusiastic, tempestuous creature, was far from realising that she was less to her Richard than he was to her.  The reason was not farther to seek than a few doors off in London, when the Ladies Bawne occupied their sombre old corner-house in Grosvenor Square.  It was Lady Bridget-Mary’s dearest Lucy and bosom-friend, who had married that handsome, grey-moustached martinet, Richard’s Colonel.  In Lady Lucy Hawting’s drawing-room Lord Castleclare’s elder daughter had met Captain Mildare, the hero of Futtehabad and Ahmed Khel.  The Colonel’s wife was a pretty, delicate, graceful creature, some three years older than her black-browed handsome friend, and much more learned, as, of course, befitted a married woman, in the ways of the world.  And Lady Lucy saw the budding of young passion in the heart of her junior ... and it occurred to her that it would furnish a very excellent excuse for the constant presence of Captain Mildare, if ...! the sweetest and most limpid women have their turbid depths, their muddy secrets and she had confided everything to dearest Bridget-Mary, except the one thing that mattered!

Well!  We all know for what reason Le Roi Soleil addressed himself to the wooing of La Valliere.  Louis fell genuinely in love with the decoy, not quite so Richard.  But sometimes, when those proud lips meekly gave back his kisses, and that lofty beauty humbled itself to obey his will, he almost wished that he had never met the other.  A day came when the secret orchard he had joyed in with that other was threaded with a golden clue, and the hidden bower unveiled to the cold-eyed staring day.

Captain Mildare and Lady Lucy Hawting went away together, and from Paris Richard wrote and broke to the girl who loved him, and had been his betrothed wife, the common, vulgar, horrible little truth.  Bridget-Mary had been deceived by both of them from the very beginning.  Estimate the numbing, overwhelming weight of that blow, delivered by a hand so worshipped, upon so proud a heart.  Those who saw her, and should have honoured her great grief with decent reticence, say that she was mad for a while; that she grovelled on the earth in her abandonment, calling upon God and man to be merciful and kill her.  Pass over this.  I cannot bear to think that the mere love of a Richard Mildare should bring that lofty head so low.

While the scandal lived in the mouths of Society, Lady Bridget-Mary Bawne remained unseen.  She was pitied oh, burning, intolerable shame!  She was commiserated as a catspaw, and sneered at as a dupe.  Her sisters and her stepmother, her father and her seven aunts, her relatives, innumerable as stars in the Milky Way, found infinite relish in the comfortable conviction that every one of them had said from the very outset that Bridget-Mary would regret the step she had taken in engaging herself to that Captain Mildare.  Sharp claws of steel were added to her scourge of humiliation by a thousand petty liberties taken with this, her great, sacred sorrow, as by letters of sympathy from friends, who wrote as if she had suffered the loss of a pet hunter, or a prize Persian cat.

A suitor ventured to propose for that white rejected hand, addressing himself with stammering diffidence to Lord Castleclare.  A young man, the son of an industrious father who had consolidated the sweat of his brow into three millions and a Peerage, hideously conscious of the raw newness of his title, painfully burdened with the bosom-weight of a genuine, if incoherent love, he seemed to Lady Bridget-Mary’s family tolerable, almost desirable, nearly quite the thing....

“He has boiled jam into sweetness for the whole civilised world,” said the most influential and awful of Lord Castleclare’s seven sisters, a Dowager-Duchess who was Lady-in-Waiting, and exhaled the choicest essence of the Middle Victorian era.  She still adhered to the mushroom-shaped straw hats of her youth, trimmed with black velvet rosettes, in the centre of each of which reposed a cut jet button.  She went always voluminously clad in black or shot-silk gowns, their skirts so swelled out by a multiplicity of starched cambric petticoats, adorned with tambour-work, that she was credited with the existence of a crinoline.  She had, in marrying her now defunct Scots Duke, embraced Presbyterianism, and though her brother believed her, as far as the next world was concerned, to be lost beyond redemption, he entertained for her judgment in the matters of this planet a great esteem.

“He has boiled jam enough to spread over the surface of the civilised globe, and now proposes to hive its concentrated extract for the benefit of our dearest girl, in the shape of a settlement that a Princess of the Blood might envy.  I call the whole thing pretty,” pronounced the Dowager, “almost romantic, or it might be made to sound so if a person of superior intelligence and tact would undertake to plead for the young man.  His terrible title has quite escaped me.  Lord Plumbanks?  Thank you!  It might have been Strawberrybeds, and that would have increased our difficulty.  No time should be lost.  Therefore, as you, dear Castleclare, with your wife and the boy, who, I am gratified to hear, has cut another, are going to Rome for Holy Week, perhaps you would wish me in your absence to break the ice with Bridget-Mary?”

Lord Castleclare’s long, solemn face and arched, lugubrious eyebrows bore no little resemblance to the well-known portrait of the conscientious but unlucky Stuart in whose service his ancestor had shed blood and money, receiving in lieu of both, a great many Royal promises, the Eastern carpet that had belonged to the monarch’s Irish oratory, and the fine sard intaglio, brilliant-set, and representing a Calvary, that loyal servant’s descendant wore upon his thin ivory middle finger.  He twiddled the ring nervously as he said: 

“She has gone into Lenten Retreat at a Convent in Kensington.  I arah! I do not think it would be advisable to disturb salutary and seasonable meditations with arah! worldly matters at this present moment.”

“Fiddle-faddle!” said the Dowager-Duchess sharply.

Lord Castleclare lifted his melancholy arched eyebrows.

“‘Fiddle-faddle,’ my dear Constantia?”

“You have the expression!” said she.  “Young women of Bridget-Mary’s age and temperament will think of marriage in convents as much as outside them.  Further, I dread delay, entertaining as I do the very certain conviction that this weak-minded man who has thrown your daughter over will be back, begging Bridget-Mary to forgive him and reinstate him in the possession of her affections before another two months are over our heads.  That little cat-eyed, squirrel-haired woman he has run away with, and against whom I have warned our poor dear girl times out of number” she really believed this “is the sort of pussy, purring creature to make a man feel her claws, once she has got him.  Therefore, although my family may not thank me for it, I shall continue to repeat, ’No time is to be lost!’ Still, in deference to your religious prejudices, and although I never heard that the Catholic Church prohibited jam as an article of Lenten diet, we will defer from offering Bridget-Mary the pot until Easter.”

But Easter brought the news that Lady Bridget-Mary had decided upon taking the veil, and begged her father not to oppose her wishes.  The Dowager-Duchess rushed to the Kensington Convent....  All the little straw-mats on the slippery floor of the parlour were swept like chaff before the hurricane of her advancing petticoats as she bore down upon the most disappointing, erratic, and self-willed niece that ever brought the grey hairs of a solicitous and devoted aunt in sorrow to the grave, demanding in Heaven’s name what Bridget-Mary meant by this maniacal decision?  Then she drew back, for at first she hardly credited that this tall, pale, quiet woman in the plain, close-fitting, black woollen gown could be Bridget-Mary at all.  Realising that it could be nobody else, she began to cry quite hysterically, subsiding upon a Berlin woolwork covered sofa, while her niece rang the bell for that customary Convent restorative, a teaspoonful of essence of orange-flower in a glass of water, and returning to the side of her agitated relative, took her hand, encased in a tight one-button puce glove, saying: 

“Dear Aunt Constantia, what is the use of crying?  I have done with it for good.”

“You are so dreadfully changed and so awfully composed, and I always was sensitive.  And, besides, to find you like this when I expected you to beat your head upon the floor or was it against the wall, they said? and pray to be put out of your misery by poison, or revolver, or knife, as though anybody would be wicked enough to do it ...”

A faint stain of colour crept into Lady Bridget-Mary’s white cheeks.

“All that is over, Aunt Constantia.  Forget it, as I have done, and drink a little of this.  The Sisters believe it to be calming to the nerves.”

“To naturally calm nerves, I suppose.”  The Dowager accepted the tumbler.  “What a nice, thick, old-fashioned glass!” She sipped.  “You hear how my teeth are chattering against the rim.  That is because I have flown here in such a hurry of agitation upon hearing from your father that you have decided to enter the Novitiate at once.”

“It is true,” said Lady Bridget-Mary, standing very tall and dark and straight against the background of the parlour window, that was filled in with ground-glass, and veiled with snowy curtains of starched thread-lace.

“True!  When not ten months ago you declared to me that you would not be a nun for all the world....  You begged me to befriend you in the matter of Captain Mildare.  I undertook, alas! that office....”

The Dowager-Duchess blew her nose.

“A little more of the orange-flower water, dear aunt?”

“‘Dear aunt,’ when you are trampling upon my very heart-strings!  And let me tell you, Bridget-Mary, you have always been my favourite niece. ’For all the world,’ you said with your own lips, ‘I would not be a nun!’ Three millions will buy, if not the world, at least a good slice of it....  Figuratively, I offer them to you in this outstretched hand!” The Dowager extended a puce kid glove.  “The husband who goes with them is a good creature.  I have seen and spoken with him, and the dear Queen regards me as a judge of men.  ‘Consie,’ she has said, ‘you have perception....’  What my Sovereign credits may not my niece believe?”

Lady Bridget-Mary’s black brows were stern over the great joyless eyes that looked out of their sculptured caves upon the world she had bidden good-bye to.  But the fine lines of humour about the wings of the sensitive nostrils and the corners of the large finely-modelled mouth quivered a little.

“Drink a little more orange-flower water, dear, and never tell me who the man is.  I do not wish to hear.  I decline to hear.”

The Dowager-Duchess lost her temper.

“That is because you know already, and despise money that is made of jam.  Yet coal and beer are swallowed with avidity by young women who have not forfeited the right to be fastidious.  That is the last thing I wished to say, but you have wrung it from me.  Have you no pride?  Do you want Society to say that you have embraced the profession of a Religious, and intend henceforth to employ your talents in teaching sniffy-nosed schoolgirls Greek and Algebra and Mathematics, because this Mildare has jilted you?  Again, have you no pride?” She agitated the Britannia-metal teaspoon furiously in the empty tumbler.

Lady Bridget-Mary took the tumbler away.  Why should the humble property of the Sisters be broken because this kind, fussy woman chose to upbraid?

“You ask, Have I no pride?” she said.  “Why should I have pride when Our Lord is so humble that He does not disdain to take for His bride the woman Richard Mildare has rejected?”

“You are incorrigible, dearest,” said the sobbing Dowager-Duchess, as she kissed her, “and Castleclare must use all his influence with the Holy Father to induce the Comtesse de Lutetia to give you the veil.  All of you think I am damned, and possibly I may be, but if so I shall be afforded an opportunity (which will not be mine in this life) of giving Captain Mildare a piece of my mind!”

So the Dowager-Duchess melted out of the story, and Lady Bridget-Mary Bawne became a nun.