A week passed, and then the time came for Martin to go to Windsor for
his investiture. There had been great excitement in Sunny Lodge in
preparation for this event, but being a little unwell I had been out of
the range of it.
At the moment of Martin's departure I was in bed, and he had come
upstairs to say good-bye to me.
What had been happening in the meantime I hardly knew, but I had
gathered that he thought pressure would be brought to bear on me.
"Our good old Church is like a limpet on the shore," he said. "Once it
gets its suckers down it doesn't let go in a hurry. But sit tight,
little woman. Don't yield an inch while I'm away," he whispered.
When he left me I reached up to see him going down the road to the
railway station. His old father was walking proudly by his side,
bare-headed as usual and still as blithe as a boy.
Next day I was startled by an unexpected telegram. It came from a
convent in Lancashire and was addressed to "Mary O'Neill, care of Doctor
Conrad." It ran:
"_Am making a round of visits to the houses of our Society and would
like to see you on my way to Ireland. May I cross to-morrow? Mother
Magdalene_."