Another conversation in which he took part about this time helped Hyacinth still further to understand the position of his new friends. Tim Halloran and he were smoking and chatting together over the fire when Maguire joined them.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Halloran. ‘You look as if you’d been at your mother’s funeral.’
‘You’re not so far out in your guess,’ said Maguire grimly. ‘I spent the morning at my sister’s wedding. Would you like a bit of the cake?’ He produced from his pocket a paper containing crushed fragments of white sugar and a shapeless mass of citron and currants. ‘With the compliments of the Reverend Mother,’ he said. ‘Try a bit.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ said Hyacinth.
‘Oh, I assure you the Sisters of Pity do these things in style,’ said Maguire. ‘It’s a pretty fancy, that of the wedding-cake, isn’t it? But you’re a Protestant, Conneally; you don’t understand this delicate playfulness. I was present to-day at the reception of my only sister into the Institute of the Catholic Sisters of Pity, founded by Honoria Kavanagh. I’ve lost Birdie Maguire, that’s all, the little girl that used to climb on to my knee and kiss me, and instead of her there’s a Sister Monica Mary, who will no doubt pray for my soul when she’s let.’
‘What was the figure in her case?’ asked Tim in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone.
‘Six hundred pounds,’ said Maguire. ‘It must have put the old man to the pin of his collar to pay it. The only time he ever talked to me about his affairs he told me he had got four hundred pounds put by for Birdie’s fortune, and that I was to have my medical course and whatever the old shop would fetch when he was gone. They must have put the screw on pretty tight to make him spring the extra two hundred. I dare say I shall suffer for it in the end. He must have borrowed the money.’
Hyacinth felt intensely curious about this young nun. Like most Protestants he had grown up to regard monasticism in all its forms as something remote, partly horrible, wholly unintelligible.
‘Why did she do it?’ he asked. ‘What sort of a girl was she? Do you mind telling me?’
‘Not in the least,’ said Maguire. ‘Only I’m not sure that I know. Three years ago—that is, when I left home—she was the last sort of girl you could imagine going into a convent. She was pretty, fond of nice clothes and admiration, as keen as every girl ought to be on a dance. I never supposed she had a thought of religion in her head—I mean, beyond the usual confessions and attendances at Mass.’