Her mother said no more, but she could not have employed a more convincing eloquence.  The reticence wrought upon Eileen’s nerves.  After a couple of months of maternal meekness and family poverty, the suggested sacrifice began to appeal to her.  A letter from Doherty on his steamer (forwarded to her from Paris by Marcelle), passionately protesting against her intention to take the vows, came to remind her that sacrifice was what she yearned for.  The coming of the letter was providential, she told herself:  if Marcelle had not posted hers against her will, she might not have had this monition.  To return to the Castle as a bride, martyred for the family redemption, was really only a way of returning to the Convent.  It meant a life of penance for the good of others.  To think of her mother sunning herself again upon the battlemented terrace, or sleeping—­if only as guest—­in the great panelled bedroom, brought a lump to her throat; her poor tenantry, too, should bless her name; she would glide among them like a spirit, very sad, yet with such healing in her smile and in her touch.  “Sure the misthress is the swatest angel God iver sint, so she is.”  At home she would sit and spin in the old tapestried room, her own life as faded, and sometimes she would dream in the hall, among the antlers and beast-skins, and watch the great burning logs, so much more poetic than this peat smoke which hurt one’s eyes.  Ah, but then there was O’Flanagan.  Well, he would not be much in the way.  He liked riding over his new estate in his buckskin breeches, cracking his great loaded whip.  She had met him herself once or twice, and the great shy creature had blushed furiously and ridden off down the first bridle-path.  “I turn his horse’s head as well as his,” she had thought with a smile.  Yes, she must sacrifice herself.  How strange that the nuns should imagine you only renounced by giving up earthly life.  Why, earthly life might be the most celestial renunciation of all.  But Lieutenant Doherty, what of him?  Had she the right to sacrifice him, too?  But then she had never given him any claim upon her—­she had been merely his little mother-confessor.  If he had dared to love her—­as his passionate protest against the veil seemed to suggest—­it was at his own risk.  Poor Doherty, how grieved he would be in far Afghanistan.  He would probably rush upon the assegais and die, murmuring her name.  Her eyes filled with delicious tears.  She sat down and scribbled him a letter hastily, announcing her impending marriage, and posted it at once, so as to put herself beyond temptation to draw back.  Then she dashed to her mother’s room and sobbed out, “Dear heart, I consent to be martyred.”

“What?” said Mrs. O’Keeffe, opening her eyes.

“I consent to be married,” Eileen corrected hastily.

“Do you mean to Mr. O’Flanagan?” Mrs. O’Keeffe’s face became red as the sun in mist.  The cross heaved convulsively on her black silk bosom.