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Title: The cable
Author: Marion Ames Taggart
Release date: June 4, 2024 [eBook #73770]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Benziger Brothers, 1923
Credits: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CABLE ***
THE CABLE
THE CABLE
A Novel
BY
MARION AMES TAGGART
_Author of “No Handicap”_
[Illustration: BENZIGER BROTHERS]
NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO
BENZIGER BROTHERS
PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE
1923
COPYRIGHT 1923, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS
Printed in the United States of America
Dedicated
ex voto
to
THE LITTLE WHITE CHURCH
of
ST. MARY OF THE MOUNT
at
Mount Pocono
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Enter Miss Cicely Adair 9
II The Rôle of Perseus 24
III Miss Jeanette Lucas 39
IV Transplanting 56
V The Pinch of Necessity 72
VI Beginning 88
VII Codes 104
VIII Cable Strands 121
IX Atalanta’s Pause 137
X Public Franchise and Private Thraldom 154
XI The Weakness of Strength 171
XII The Strained Cable 188
XIII Darkness 204
XIV Indecision 221
XV Decision 236
XVI Witnessing 252
XVII Good-bye 268
XVIII Orientation 283
XIX The New Year 298
XX The Old Bottle for New Wine 314
XXI The Weaving 329
XXII Entangled Threads 344
XXIII The Next Step 360
XXIV The Beacon 375
XXV Port 390
THE CABLE
CHAPTER I
ENTER MISS CICELY ADAIR
A group of small boys stood on the corner, looking anxiously down the
shaded street. They ranged from eight to twelve years in age; from
grimy hands to universal griminess in uncleanliness; from comfortable
meagreness to ragged poverty in clothing, while in race they were
polyglot, but they were identical in the impatience with which they
scanned the sidewalk, vision-length, and found it empty though there
were frequent passers-by.
“Gee! What’s the matter wid her?”
“Say! She wouldn’t go th’ udder way?”
“Th’ odder way nothin’! Don’t she know we’re waitin’?”
The tallest, but also the raggedest, boy of the group made a fine
gesture, drawing a nickel watch from somewhere between his bagging
shirt and tight trousers. “’Tain’t so late,” he said, displaying the
watch’s candid face. “Twenty to one by mine, an’ I set her by the city
hall when de ball dropped’t noon. She ain’t so late.”
“Whatjer bet she’s got, sour balls ’r peanuts?” asked the smallest boy.
“Pennies, maybe!” hopefully suggested a young Israelite not without
guile; he was saving up for an excursion.
“Git out! She don’t hand ’em out less’n she didn’t have time to buy
nothin’,” a boy scornfully rebuked him. “Didn’ she tell us she hadn’t
no use fer money presen’s less’n she was up against it fer time?”
“I bet she’s got somepin!” declared a round little colored boy. “We’d
ought t’ be gittin’ down town; mos’ in gen’ly she’s here by now, an’
we’s gotter git our af’ernoon ’ditions.”
“Oh, chase yourself, Coony! ’Tain’t near two. Dere she is!”
The last speaker ended in a triumphant yell, wildly pointing down
the street as he jumped up and down, his bare feet thudding on the
pavement; his comrades echoed the yell with Indian War Dance gestures.
The cause of this suspense and final excitement was a slender young
figure, tall for a girl, but looking taller than its actual height
because of its boyish lines, the straight short skirt and straight
loose jacket which clad it.
The girl wore light-weight summer tweed, several colors blended in
its weave to a tone of warm brownish drab. Her gloveless hands were
thrust into the jacket’s side pockets; she wore a sailor hat, pushed
back somewhat from her brow, but even if it had been set on her head
straight, it would not have confined her masses of brilliant hair;
they wreathed her face in lawless rings which had the effect of a halo
worn in jest.
She walked with a free, careless grace, a stride that was businesslike,
yet springing, as of one who enjoyed the business which claimed her.
Her face, which was not pretty, yet was compounded of many irregular
charms, enhanced by a perfectly regular beauty of skin, was bright with
smiles as she espied the shabby, yelling band awaiting her; the smile
displayed an unbroken row of strong white teeth between full red lips.
She waved her hand at the lads with a gesture which was like their own
as they waved back at her, a straight-out motion from the brim of her
hat, then flung widely out to the right.
“Gosh, ain’t her hair red!” cried one of the boys, struck by the glow
of the rings under the sailor hat in the sunshine.
“Red nothin’! You shut up!”
“Sure it’s red! What is it, then?” The question in derision, not for
information.
“It’s--it’s hair.” The defender was at a loss, not being accustomed to
define.
“You bet! Red hair! Awful red hair!” The triumphant tone was for
victory, not because there was any desire to disparage this newsboys’
goddess.
“Red hair yourse’f! Your mother’s red-headed!” This was a shot in the
dark; acquaintance between these boys, being confined to the streets,
did not embrace knowledge of family tints.
“Sh’ ain’t! Black!” The wiry little Italian struck his opponent a hard
blow on the mouth with the back of his hand, and, with a growl like two
puppies, they clinched.
The approaching figure broke into a run and came down upon them, the
hair under dispute glowing to the utmost justification of its accuser,
but the girl did not come like an avenging angel; her smile had widened
and her eyes laughed with her lips, though it was a strong grasp that
seized a shoulder of each combatant and swung them apart.
“Here, you young heathens, what’s the matter with you? Fend fighting!”
she cried in a breezy, clear young voice. “Tony Caprioli, slow down!
Mike McGinty, what’s wrong with you? Breaking the law! Fend fighting,
you know, you scalawags!”
“He said you’d got red hair. I said ’tain’t,” muttered Tony, not yet
“slowed down.”
“He hit me first. I didn’t mean nawthin’ but--it looked red.” Mike
delicately altered the statement that he was about to make, implying
that the appearance of the hair was a thing of the past.
The girl threw back her head and the brilliant hair seemed to
scintillate as she laughed a jolly laugh.
“Tony, your name means goat--Caprioli--and I’m afraid you’re it! Shame,
my dear, when you’re doing your best to bleach my hair, but Mike
scores! My hair is red, hot red, and what’s more I’m not sorry it is!
Shake, boys, and stop your scrapping! Red hair is what gives me pep,
and pep is what makes me hustle around--when I’m late, too!--and buy
toffy squares for the crowd! So it’s all right, friend Tony, though
I’m much obliged to you for standing up for me! Catch, fellows! I
bought a box, two boxes, three squares apiece, and good luck to you
all! Hurry up! It’s almost one o’clock, and I’ll have to run the rest
of the way, or the girl I relieve will fight _me_!”
The animosity in the air cleared up like magic under the spell of this
girl’s merry laughter of eyes and lips. She rapidly dealt out sticky
squares of toffy to the crowd, and boyishly, though daintily, licked
her finger tips when the last square had left them.
“Enough of that!” she cried. “Suck it; don’t chew it! You’ll get no
more toffy till cool weather comes! I was a dunce to buy anything
so messy. Balls, or peanuts, or anything neat for mine--and so for
yours!--till September! So long, boys, dear; I’ve got to hustle. Hope
you’ll each sell more than any of the rest! Every last paper you take
out. Good-bye!”
She waved her hand to the adoring group; each boy waved back again and
shouted: “Good-bye!” in spite of the difficulty of enunciation caused
by a large, soft toffy square in the roof of the mouth.
The girl hurried away, not running as she had threatened to do, but
walking so fast that running would have been easier.
The group of boys melted around the corner, in the direction of the
shortest way to the newspaper offices, and the funny little daily
event was over for the time being. The red-haired girl had formed the
acquaintance of this young mongrel band, and it had been her kindly
whim to make for them a daily small joy to anticipate. She varied her
gifts, but she never failed them; that they adored her and exalted her
into an incarnate proof that human trustworthiness and kindness was
truth, not fiction, she was keen enough to see was the best result of
her action.
No one but herself and the boys knew about “this freak philanthropy,”
as she called it to herself; it took but a few minutes of her time
and not a great expenditure of money. “It was worth it,” so she told
herself, “to let her red hair light up the poor little snipes’ noon
hour.”
The girl swung into a tall building at a tremendous pace, her hands
out of her pockets now, her arms swinging to speed her action, not at
all breathless, but softly whistling: “Silver Threads among the Gold,”
a little twist around the corners of her lips as she considered how
distant that state of things was from her own radiant locks.
She burst out of the elevator and into the great room of the telephone
exchange almost with one movement, covering the intervening space
between one and the other door on a sort of slide.
“Well, Cis Adair! If I didn’t begin to wonder if you’d get here!” cried
a small, extremely-ornamented young person waspishly, as the boyish
red-haired girl appeared, throwing off her hat and jacket and hanging
them up rapidly, smiling her gay smile at the small person whom she
succeeded.
“Sure--ly, Amelia! Don’t I always get there, whether it’s to work or
to play? I’m only five minutes late, anyway,” cried the newcomer,
harnessing her ears.
“Five minutes is five minutes when you’ve got to get home, eat and
dress. I’ve got a date, I’d have you know, Miss Cicely!” retorted
Amelia.
“Lucky you! Fruit market’s always closed for me; can’t even get a
date, not ever!” sighed Cicely with a pensive droop of the head and an
inimitable little wink at the girl on her farther side. “Sorry, Amelia!
I’ll come five minutes early to-morrow, so get another date ready.
Might I hint that you’d get there sooner if you started, now I am here,
than if you lingered to reproach me?”
The other girls laughed, and Amelia Day flounced away with a toss of
her head. It was recognized in the office that there “was no sort of
use in trying to get ahead of Cis Adair.” Most of the girls liked her,
a few of them were her devoted admirers, so it was only Amelia who ever
really longed to damage her happy-go-lucky confidence in herself and in
all her world.
“Funny little old Amelia!” Cis said after Amelia had gone. “Seems to
disagree with herself so like fury, and not to be able to cut herself
out of her diet.”
“Oh, Cis!” murmured Nan Dowling, Cis’s next neighbor, at whom she had
winked. “You do say such ridiculous things, and such just-right ones!
You ought to write. That’s Amelia all over; she does disagree with
herself--little sour ball!”
“Thought we agreed not to fuss about her,” hinted Cis. “I don’t have
to, as long as my shift follows hers; I don’t have more than a
ships-that-pass-in-the-night, _au revoir_ intercourse with Miss Day.”
“No, but I do! I have her from nine to one, except during lunch, right
in your place! Why aren’t you on all through my shift, you blessed old
duck, Cis?” cried Nan.
“Never could answer whys, Nan; nothing harder,” said Cis cheerfully.
“Be glad you’ve got the chance to sun yourself in the light of my hair
from one to six! And that we don’t get a whole lot of calls on our
wires, usually, till after three, so we can ‘chin.’”
“Amelia is raving jealous of you, Cis, and you know why!” said Nan.
“She’d have your scalp, if she could get it.”
“If she could get it she’d be welcome to it,” declared Cis
imperturbably. “Anyone that lets a person get her hands on her scalp
so she can lift it, deserves to be scalped; that’s what I say! Amelia
can’t harm me as long as I do my work and tend strictly to my own
affairs. If you mean that Amelia Day is still stewing because that
puffy Harold Brown thought he’d enjoy thinking that he thought a lot of
me--” Cis shrugged her shoulders to conclude her sentence. “Stuff!” she
added.
Nan laughed, but she looked anxious. “All the same, Amelia would love
to get you out, Cis,” she said. “Of course you don’t care a rap what
Harold Brown does--”
“Care!” Cis interrupted her. “Ever see a chestnut worm?”
Both girls went off into a spasm of laughter, subdued, not to disturb
their companions. Harold Brown was large, plump, puffy and abnormally
white; nothing was needed to point Cis’s rhetorical question.
“Oh, Cis!” sighed Nan, as she sighed many times a day, in fervent,
admiring delight over Cicely’s high spirits. “Such a Cis!”
Nan had a call just then, but when she had answered it and was free
again, she turned to Cis.
“It’s not only Harold Brown, Cis; you don’t seem to care about any of
them,” she said.
“Meaning boys and men?” asked Cis. “Wrong you are, my Nanny: I love ’em
all.”
“Yes, like one of themselves!” retorted Nan. “But not the way they do
you! You’re like a jolly boy yourself, friendly as anything, but you
don’t--And there are lots of them crazy about you! You make them sort
of crazy over you, Cis, with your come-on-stand-off way, and your sort
of--heady charm, like champagne!”
“Oh, say!” protested Cis. “Much you know about champagne, kid dear! You
got that out of a novel; own up! The price of it per bottle, and the
Eighteenth sitting on the bottles, shows that’s a pure flight of fancy!
Stick to facts, Anna Dowling! Me heady! I should say not!”
With that Cicely had a call, followed by five other calls, which kept
her busy plugging in and attending to the time for awhile. When this
was over, a lull followed, and Cis turned again to Nan.
“That was a coincidence, a sort of coincidental run,” she said, “The
first call was Parkway 58--and we know what that is, don’t we, Nanny?”
“Of course; Miss Lucas,” said Nan promptly.
“Neither of us ever thinks of any other Lucas but Miss Jeanette Lucas;
we always forget there are other Lucases, a father, a mother, a younger
sister, and a few boys, too young to matter, scattering along,”
commented Cis. “But it was for Miss Lucas, and what is more, it was her
betrothed calling her. I always know his voice. To be truthful, I don’t
half like it; it’s sweet, cloying, yet it isn’t sweet--sounds the way
maple syrup tastes when it’s just beginning to work. At our house maple
syrup always seems to work before it gets eaten; I don’t know how often
Miss Spencer puts it on the table like that! It’s an awful sell when
you pour it over cakes! Well, about Mr. Herbert Dale’s voice. I’m nuts
on voices; I think they give their owners away more than anything else,
and I don’t like that voice over the ’phone. Hope I’m wrong, because
Miss Jeanette Lucas is a fine girl. I met her once, though she wouldn’t
remember it, probably. She’s a gentle, sweet, ladylike, old-fashioned
sort of girl, and I imagine she’s the kind that loves a man adoringly,
when she gets about it.”
“That’s the way to love the man one marries,” declared romantic Nan.
“No disputing the proposition, but it’s dangerous, because most men are
quite a good deal human,” Cis observed dryly.
“You needn’t talk! If you ever fall in love, you’ll pave the path of
the man with your whole self!” cried Nan.
“Heavens! Not so loud, Nan! That’s nothing to tell a crowd! Besides I
would not!” whispered Cicely.
Then with a swift abandonment of her position, she said aloud, with a
suppressed vehemence: “Well, what would be the fun of loving any other
way?”
“Not much fun, either, when you take it like a fatal disease,” said
Nan. “Where was the coincidence in Mr. Dale’s calling up Miss Lucas,
Cis?”
“Nowhere. But the coincidence was that the rest of those calls I had
were Miss Lucas calling up Oldboy’s store, and a dressmaker, and a
jeweller, and a garage,” Cis explained.
“She would, she does every day. Of course she would, now that she
is getting ready to be married as fast as she can,” murmured Nan,
disappointed that there was no more in Cicely’s mystery.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Cis. “I merely said that she called these
people as soon as her betrothed rang off. Ever notice the way he
calls? I’d not only know his voice over a wire in China, but he gives
the number so peculiarly: ‘I’d like to get 58, the Parkway, if you
please.’” Cis imitated an oily, smooth voice, unctuously used, and Nan
laughed.
“That’s he!” she cried. “You’re a mocking bird as well as a tanager, as
you call yourself, Cis! The paper last Sunday had Miss Lucas’ picture
on the society page, with Mr. Herbert Dale’s, and said they’d be
married on the 10th of next month, in our church, with a Nuptial Mass.
Is Mr. Dale a Catholic, Cis?”
“Not enough to notice, I think,” said Cis. “His people are. The Lucases
are strict; I suspect that sweet Jeanette will make him toe the mark
when it comes to the wedding. Probably she’s got a candle burning all
the time before the Lourdes shrine, and means to make him a saint at
the end of six months. Wish she may! I’m sure I don’t really know but
he’s going that way on his own, but I honestly hate his voice!”
“Aren’t you queer, Cis? You don’t often get down on anyone; you’re
pretty sure to give everyone the benefit of the doubt,” cried Nan,
wondering. Then she hesitated, and whispered: “Did you go to the seven
o’clock yesterday, Cis, dear?”
Cis shook her head, her color mounting slightly.
“I didn’t see you at the eight o’clock Mass, as usual,” persisted Nan
timidly, for Cicely looked forbidding.
“Good reason why,” said Cis shortly. “I wasn’t there. And I didn’t go
to Late Mass, so don’t go on to that, Nan; I didn’t go at all.”
“Oh, Cicely dear!” Pain crept into Nan’s words, though they were
whispered.
“Well! Oh, Nan dear!” Cis tried to laugh at her. “Yes, I know I’m bad,
but I was so tired! I was out till after one, danced, and ate such a
supper! I did mean to go to the eight, but I turned over, stretched
and--” Cis made a slight gesture that conveyed the suggestion of a
passage beyond daily affairs.
“Cis, oh, Cis! And you are so fine, so splendid! Why don’t you make it
perfect? You’re a Catholic,” sighed loving Nan, her gentle eyes clouded.
“I’m nothing else, at least, Nanny, but it doesn’t bother me a great
deal, all this that has to do with such far-off things! I’m sorry, nice
little Nan! I will brace up, I promise you, and go to Mass Sundays.
When I get there, it’s hot and crowded, and I’m just there in my body,
and not my mind, and it’s a mighty uncomfortable body, I can tell you
that! I wonder if it makes much difference whether you go or not,
when you go like an oyster? Sorry, Nanny,” Cis said again, seeing how
grieved Nan looked. “I didn’t have your training; maybe that’s it. I
went to public school and high school, and my mother died when I was
eight, and my father was no good, and went off to his own ways when
I was a baby, so I’m kind of a hybrid Catholic-heathen! Sorry, nice
little Nan!”
“You’re the biggest girl I know, the truest and finest, and I’m sure
God will pull you to Him. You’re too great to miss the Greatest,” said
Nan, with such earnestness in spite of her muffled voice, and with such
a light in her eyes, that careless Cicely was impressed.
“Put your candle beside Miss Jeanette Lucas’,” she said, knowing that
the look in Nan’s eyes foretold prayers for her beloved Cicely’s
safety.
“You two girls have talked enough in duet for one day,” remonstrated
another girl, a little distance down the table from Cis and Nan. “We
like a whack at Cis ourselves, Nan Dowling!”
“Won’t get much more chance to talk, duet or chorus,” said Cis. “Half
past two, and the afternoon buzz is beginning.”
It was a particularly busy afternoon in this uptown exchange. Nan went
off duty at five, but she waited that night to go out to supper with
Cis, whose hours did not end till ten at night, and who supped in
the restaurant on the top floor of the building, and returned to the
exchange to finish her eight-hours’ shift.
Cis did not know what fear was; she went about the quiet streets after
ten o’clock at night, when she was returning to her boarding place,
with the same careless assurance with which she walked the streets at
ten o’clock in the morning. There was that about her carriage, her
free, graceful walk, her faultless complexion, her glowing, abundant,
striking hair that made her a conspicuous figure; yet there was also
in her entire effect that indifference to notice, that light-hearted
frankness, that absence of self-consciousness, which reveals the
Una-like girl who walks the earth fearing no man because she seeks no
man’s admiration.
It is the glory of our American curious compound, that such a maidenly
girl is rarely molested if she keeps within decent neighborhoods at not
too-late hours, and Cicely Adair went and came as safely as if she
were a child playing in her father’s garden.
“I hate to leave you, Cis, but nothing ever does happen to you,” said
Nan, after they had supped, and Cicely was preparing to return to the
office and Nan to go home.
“You wouldn’t be a mighty protection, small Nan,” laughed Cis.
“Nonsense, child! I’m off by ten, and that’s only an hour after nine,
and nine is curfew hour, so that’s all right! I’ll go back to the
office and join up the rest of the world on wires, and go home as I
always do. Don’t you know, no one would dare molest a red-haired girl?
I fly a danger signal on top, and they turn out for me!”
CHAPTER II
THE RÔLE OF PERSEUS
Cis resumed her place at the long table, and slipped what she called
“her bridle” around her head with the cheerful philosophy customary
to her at this end of her eight-hours’ employment. She had somewhere
in the back of her brain a suppressed consciousness that there were
pleasanter ways for attractive and lively youth to spend an evening,
but this was “her job.” “My job” summed up in Cis’s mind and on her
tongue a whole unformulated, yet distinct code of duty. What was one’s
job must be done, that was clear enough, and done well, no shirking,
still more, no neglect. If one took a job, fidelity was implied in its
acceptance: “Take it or leave it, but if you take it, take it down
to the ground,” Cis would have put it. She despised a shirker and a
slacker; she “played the game straight,” whatever game she entered
upon. “Her job” stood for the flag in a soldier’s hand, the pledge of
an obligation. “If you take a man’s money deliver the goods,” Cis told
another girl who was not serving well her employer’s interests. It was
not a bad code to steer by, as far as it went; if it did not imply
supernatural motives, it was a good foundation upon which to build
them.
The girl who had taken Nan’s place while Cis was out, was by no means
Nan; she was an unattractive person to Cicely. Indeed, there was no
other girl in the room for whom friendly Cis, who felt kindly disposed
to them all, ready to oblige and amuse them, cared in the least.
Cicely, who had been graduated from high school, and Nan, the devout
little product of the parochial school, were better educated than any
of their companions. Neither Cis nor Nan had time, nor desire for much
reading; they were far from being cultivated girls, but they were well
taught, and they found little to attract them in the foolish interests,
badly expressed, the tiresome conversation of their working mates.
So when Cis resumed her place, she nodded in return to the nod from the
bobbed hair now beside her; said a few words which set the girl to whom
they were spoken, off into a giggle, and turned her attention to her
switchboard, as a hint that business only was her end in view.
In this uptown exchange early evening calls were many; there would not
have been the opportunity for talk, had Cis desired it, which she and
Nan usually found in the afternoon. Cis plugged-in rapidly; answered
questions--rather more than was her office--corrected errors, untangled
the difficulties of the old gentleman who turned in many calls every
night and regularly called wrong numbers, till nine o’clock was
recorded on the wall clock regulated by telegraph from Washington, and
Cicely Adair drew a long breath.
“One more hour!” she said aloud. “Went fast to-night!”
“Someone meetin’ you, Cis?” asked her neighbor.
Cicely shook her head. “I’m the cat that walks by herself,” she said
lightly. “Not a man will bother with me--but, as to that, none will
bother me going home, so it works good and bad!”
“Yes, I guess so!” her neighbor derisively replied. “Pity ’bout you! Us
girls are on to you, Miss Adair! The fellers’d tumble for you if you
didn’t jack ’em up!”
“Fiddlesticks! But I won’t have anyone calling for me; puts you under
obligations,” said Cis impatiently.
“You said a mouthful!” the girl endorsed her, then added significantly:
“I got one comin’ after me, but I don’t get off till one, Q. T.
Dang’rous goin’ alone at that littlest hour!”
The girl laughed and Cis looked disgusted, drawing away with a slight,
involuntary movement before she recalled herself. Then she said:
“One is a lot later than ten, more than the four hours later. Glad
you’ve someone to see you safe, Mimi.”
Cicely turned back to her switchboard, refusing to share the humor of
Mimi’s being escorted home, and as she did so she received a call.
“I’d like to get 12, the Boulevard, if you please,” a voice said.
Cicely said sharply: “_What_ number did you say?”
She recognized the voice and the peculiar form of its call. It was
the oily, yet sub-acid voice which Cis had said was like maple syrup
beginning to ferment, the voice which she distrusted, the voice of
sweet Jeanette Lucas’ betrothed, to whom her marriage was imminent.
“What number did you say?” Cicely therefore said sharply; could he have
possibly mistaken his call? Parkway 58 was the Lucas call, and this,
Boulevard 12--Why, in the name of all that was good and loyal was this
Herbert Dale calling Boulevard 12?
“I’d like to get 12, the Boulevard,” repeated the suave voice, this
time with its sub-acid quality less submerged.
Cicely plugged-in for the required number, but her wits were working
quickly, her warm heart was beating fast, sending the blood up to her
bright hair with a generous, pitying indignation for the girl whom she
admired at a distance, whom she had set up in a sort of shrine as the
ideal maiden.
Cicely was not in the habit of indulging curiosity by “listening in”;
indeed, she felt little curiosity as to other people’s affairs, but now
what she felt was not curiosity, but a burning sympathy for that other
girl. Therefore she listened in. Only a few moments did she listen to
the conversation between Herbert Dale, on one end of the wire, and
someone at Boulevard 12 on the other. She heard enough to satisfy
her that her favorite theory of voices being indicative had a solid
foundation in fact. She jerked herself away from her eavesdropping, let
her hands fall into her lap, nervously twisting her fingers, her head
bowed as she rapidly examined herself as to what she meant to do about
it.
“For the love of Pete, Cis Adair, your face’s redder’n your hair;
you’re _all_ red! You listened in! What’s up?” cried her neighbor,
putting out her hand to follow Cicely’s example.
“Keep off! It’s my business!” ordered Cicely sharply, and the girl
thought it better to abandon her plan, warned by the flash in Cis’s
eyes.
“Just hold your tongue, Mimi, a bit; I’ve got to think,” Cis added, and
again Mimi obeyed her.
“She won’t thank me,” Cis told herself. “Not now, anyway; may later.
But it’s not a square deal to keep her in the dark. If she chooses to
go on with him, it’s her business, but she ought to have the chance
to choose; that’s it! She’s no sort of idea. She’s a little idiot if
she marries him, knowing he can’t be trusted when such a girl’s that
has set the 10th for the wedding. But that’s her affair. I’ll not deal
straight with her if I don’t let her in on what I know. It’ll hit her
hard, poor kid, but it might be worse, only she won’t see that now. It
will cost me my job. Mimi’s sure to tell Amelia; she’s thick with her.
I’ll be giving her my scalp, sure and certain. Well, what of it? What’s
my job, beside the whole life of a mighty fine girl? Mimi may hold her
tongue--No, she won’t! Well, if it makes me pay, what’s that to do with
the rights of it? I’d take it pretty cruel if another girl didn’t stand
by me in Miss Lucas’ place. I’m going to do it!”
Cicely set her plug in Parkway 58; her hand trembled as she did so.
Mimi, watching intently, saw it shake. She was suspicious. To let
anyone in on a wire to listen to a conversation was to break one of the
fundamental laws of the company.
Mimi suspected that Cicely Adair was breaking that law now.
“Is this Miss Lucas? Miss Jeanette Lucas?” Cis asked. “Please hold your
receiver. I’m connecting you on a wire. It’s something you must hear.
Go ahead.”
Then Cis dropped her face into her hands and sat quite still, as if she
were waiting for the stroke of fate. No stroke fell, however; the call
for Boulevard 12 was rung off; Cis noted the excess rate, which was
considerable, and notified the public station whence the call had come,
of the amount due. She half expected to be called by Jeanette Lucas,
impersonally, as “Central,” but no such call came, and when the office
clock pointed to ten, Cicely arose, doffed her “bridle,” and turned to
Mimi.
“See here, Mimi,” she said, “I never did think there was much use in
asking a girl for a solemn promise to keep a secret. If you tell her
you don’t want something told she won’t tell it, if she’s white; if
she’s any other color all the promises this side of Jericho won’t stop
her talking. Now, of course you know I did something to-night that’s
dead against the rules, but I tell you that it was the only decent
thing to do, and whatever happened I knew I had to do it, and I’d do
it again this minute, because it _was_ right. I’ve had time to think
it over, and I’m surer every instant that I did the square thing.
That’s all I can tell you, or anyone, because the rest is none of our
business. I don’t want you to tell a living soul what you saw and
heard; I ask you not to. And that’s all I can do about it. If you keep
your tongue between your teeth I’ll not forget it of you, and I’ll do
you a good turn the first chance I get. Signed: Cicely Adair.”
Mimi laughed. “Sent special? All right; I got it. Say, Cis, Amelia
’n me ’s pals, but I’m not with her ’bout you. She’s jealous, that’s
what’s eatin’ ’Melia. I ain’t; I don’t haf to be! I won’t tell. It’s
a rich one, but I won’t tell; honest, cross m’ heart! The comp’ny
wouldn’t do a thing to you if they heard it, I’ll tell the world! Don’t
you worry, Cis; I like you; you’re a great one. I’ll never give you
away, don’t you fret! Gee! What d’you s’pose ’Melia’d do to you if she
had you down like this! She says you think you’re the cat’s miauw.
She’d give you a miauw, I’ll say she would!”
“Thanks, Mimi. It’s straight of you to keep this to yourself. Good
night,” said Cis, and went away. “Little snipe! Sure she’ll tell
Amelia!” she thought as she walked rapidly down the quiet street.
The next day passed without anything unusual to mark it, to Cicely’s
surprise. She felt that anything and everything were imminent, but
nothing more exciting befell her than being one bag of peanuts short
in her noon distribution to her gamin friends, owing to the unforeseen
appearance of Tony Caprioli’s little brother, who had to be compensated
with a nickel. It was a perfectly satisfactory substitute, Cis found
to her relief, mainly because Tony divided his peanuts with the young
Luigi, who thus came out well ahead of the game.
The second day, however, Cicely’s bright head fell under the
guillotine, a martyr to a certain kind of nobility which makes the
figure of the guillotine not unsuitable.
When Cis came into the office, nearly ten minutes ahead of her
schedule, there fell upon all the girls that significant hush which
eloquently declares by its silence that the newcomer has been the
subject of conversation up to the moment when the door swung. Amelia’s
face was red beyond and additionally to the paint which frankly
adorned her cheeks and lips; she looked malevolent and triumphant.
Nan was flushed, almost purpling; her eyes were nervously excited and
tearful. All the other girls looked uncomfortable, and most of them
looked regretful, Cis was glad to see, for she instantly knew what had
happened.
“I’m workin’ double shift, Cis; no need you settin’ down. I’m doin’
your shift till the next orders. You’re to go to th’ office soon’s you
show up,” said Amelia gloatingly.
“Well, they were slow about it!” exclaimed Cis swinging around. “I
thought I’d hear this yesterday.”
“Oh, Cis, Cis, dear!” moaned Nan.
“Nobody’s to blame but yourself, Cis Adair! Mimi didn’t want to tell
on you, but when she tol’ me, I said she’d ought to come out with
it, not let nice girls that kep’ the rules get looked at crooked for
what _they_ wouldn’t do, not for nothin’. What I say is, it’s easy
rule to keep; simply tend to your own bus’nuss. Listenin’ in ain’t
what int’rusts _me_; it don’t girls that’s got gentlemen friends an’
ev’rything. I’ll do your work to-day, Cis Adair, but the comp’ny won’t
let _me_ overdo long, I’ll tell the world! You’re wanted in the office,
Cis Adair, an’ it’s a cinch you’re not wanted elsewheres!” Amelia
delivered her speech explosively.
Cis laughed lightly as she went toward the door.
“Do you honestly think that I didn’t know precisely what would happen
when I--when I--danced, would you call it? I knew what the fiddler
would cost,” she said. “Don’t weep for me, Amelia! Nancy, stay down
and have supper with me, will you? I’ll be waiting for you in the drug
store.”
Nan nodded, speechless, and Cis went off, without outward sign of
perturbation, to meet the manager of this office, who had always been
her friend, as he had proved in many trifling ways.
“Ah, Miss Adair, I’m sorry to have to see you to-day, and for the
reason which made me summon you. Please be seated,” he said. “I think
you must know that reason?”
“Not much use in play-acting, Mr. Singer, so I’m not going to pretend
I don’t! Yes, I know,” said Cis.
“One of our subscribers reported to us yesterday that a girl in our
exchange had connected another of our subscribers with a conversation
which he was holding. This action has, justly, too, infuriated the
gentleman whose conversation was thus overheard. He has demanded that
we find and properly punish the offending operator. Her action has led
to the most disastrous consequences, in fact to great loss and grief to
the gentleman--”
“No! Has it, though?” cried Cis almost springing to her feet. “Then she
was game; she did have sense enough to throw him down!”
“Evidently, Miss Adair, your action was intended to work harm to the
gentleman. Do you know him personally, or the subscriber whom you
connected with his wire?”
Mr. Singer, Cis felt sure, was controlling a desire to laugh.
“No, indeed, but when a nice girl is getting fooled--”
“Now, Miss Adair, that will do. Let us avoid open allusions. Knowing
you, I am inclined to think that you acted from a sort of mistaken
chivalry; that you yielded to an impulse to save another girl from
what you feared would be greater sorrow than you were inflicting upon
her. You see, I give you full credit for good, even for rather fine
motives, and I acknowledge that it is refreshing to find a girl with
ideals such as this reveals. But it won’t do, Miss Adair, it won’t
do! The telephone company is not in business to guard morals, nor its
subscribers’ welfare; it is in business to transmit messages and to see
that their privacy is secured to their subscribers. You have broken
one of the fundamental, inviolable rules of your office, and there is
nothing for me to do but dismiss you.” Mr. Singer ended with regret in
his voice.
“Sure, Mr. Singer!” Cis agreed. “I knew it would come out, and I’d be
thrown down. Sorry, but I’d do it right over again this minute.”
“I quite believe that!” Mr. Singer allowed himself a sound of
laughter in his throat that did not pass his lips. “You have been a
good operator, Miss Adair; quick, yet patient; faithful, punctual,
and--until now--highly honorable. I’m exceedingly sorry to lose you,
sorrier to dismiss you. I wish that you had not felt it necessary to
load your gun and take a shot at birds, which were, after all, not in
your field.”
“If you had a daughter, or a sister, a nice, a lovely girl, all
innocent and--and well, _white_, Mr. Singer, wouldn’t you give her a
chance to keep out of a regular sell, wouldn’t you put her wise and
let her have her chance, at least? I bet you would, and I did!” cried
Cicely.
Mr. Singer arose, holding out his hand in farewell, not otherwise
replying to Cicely’s question.
“Good-bye, Miss Adair, and good luck. If I can be of use to you, let me
know. But in your next position keep to your rules, and don’t let your
imagination lead you into quixotic scrapes,” he said. “The cashier
will give you your check. I’ll gladly recommend you to anyone whom you
may send to me, but I cannot condone your disobedience here.”
“Of course not!” Cis heartily agreed. “Thanks, Mr. Singer. I knew I’d
lose my head, so don’t feel sorry about it. You know red heads get
through worse thickets than this one. You’ve been downright dandy to
me; much obliged, honest! Good-bye; sorry to say it to you, but I’m
glad about the rest of it.”
“We had a little difficulty in identifying the offender, but at last
we did so, through one of the girls whose friend had been a witness to
your imprudence,” said Mr. Singer, politely holding the door open for
his unrepentant employee to leave him.
“There weren’t many between whom to choose; all you had to do was to
ask me; I’m on till ten on that section. I’d have told you I did it, if
you’d asked me,” said Cis, halting in the doorway.
“You certainly would have, Cicely the Sincere!” cried Mr. Singer, and
this time he laughed aloud.
Nan hurried from the exchange at five o’clock sharp, and around to the
drug store where Cicely was awaiting her.
“We don’t eat to-night in the Tel. Restaurant, Nancy Bell; we eat at
Hildreth’s, one of his regular old ripping platter suppers: lobster;
little necks sitting around him; broiled finan haddy, relishes--who
minds being a Catholic on Friday when she’s got the price of Hildreth’s
about her?” cried Cis, seizing Nan’s hand and tucking it into her arm.
“Drew my last check from the Tel. Co., so it’s on me, and a treat at
Hildreth’s, just to celebrate!”
“Oh, Cis, Cis, what are you going to do next?” sighed Nan, yielding,
yet disapproving this extravagance.
“After the supper? I hadn’t thought. Movie? But we don’t care for
movies!” Cis pretended to meditate.
“You know I don’t mean that! What sort of work will you try for? Where
will you go--”
Cis interrupted her by whistling blithely, as well as any boy could
whistle, as indifferent as a boy to passers-by: “Oh, boys, where do we
go from here?”
“Wait till after lobster, Nan, and I’ll tell you,” Cis then said,
seeing Nan’s real distress.
“Oh, that means something that would spoil my appetite!” cried
prophetic Nan.
After a delicious supper in the famous sea-food specialty restaurant,
to which Cis did fuller justice than Nan, Cis lay back in her chair,
her small cup of black coffee before her, her eyes on the contorted
shoulders of the ’cellist of the orchestra of four pieces which “helped
float the fish,” Cis said.
“Going to tell me?” hinted Nan.
“I hate to, Nan, because I know you’ll hate it, and so do I, when I
think of you. But I’m going to get out of here, altogether; I’m going
to Beaconhite to try my luck,” announced Cicely.
“Beaconhite! Whatever _for_?” gasped Nan.
“Never could tell you,” said Cis airily. “Always wanted to try that
little city. Spells its name so crazy, that’s one reason; must have
been Beacon Height once, of course. I always had an idea I’d like
it; it’s hustling, yet settled. I’ve some money saved up; not much;
enough to carry me on till I get to earning, and I’m dead sick, dead
tired of here! Not tired of you, little Nan, but of the place. I think
I’d better move up a square or two; ’tisn’t good to cork up too much
fermentation. Honest, Nan, it’s lucky I’ve not taken up that vitamine
bug they’re all rushing so! If I ate yeast cakes, like the rest of
’em, I’d fly to pieces! I’m going to Beaconhite and show it what a
red-haired girl can do to it! Nanny, don’t look so sorry! And don’t
cry, dear! That lobster shell had enough salt water, and too much hot
water!”
“You’ll forget all about me, and I love you dearly, Cis,” faltered Nan.
“I’m just as fond of you as you are of me, nice little Silly!” cried
Cis. “Only I’m not keen on mushiness. You’ve got to allow me one
virtue: I stick when once I’m stuck; no waving around to this solid
body! We’ll be just as good friends, and we’ll get together again, here
or there, but it’s the truth, Nan; I’ve got to break off, and break out
new, or my red hair’ll blaze up like a fire balloon, and there’ll be
no more of Miss Adair! I hated to tell you, but I’m glad it’s done! If
this hadn’t happened in the office I’d have left next October; now it
has happened, I’m going right off--or sooner.”
“Right off? How soon, Cis?” faltered Nan.
“This is Friday; don’t you think Monday is a good day to start a new
record? First day of the week, first _week_ day of the week, and
washing day?” Cis suggested.
“I don’t suppose any other day would be easier,” admitted Nan. “Will
you stay with me Sunday night, start from my house? Oh, Cis, Cis!
There are only two days before Monday, and I never dreamed, never once
_dreamed_ this morning that I’d ever lose you!”
“I’m not dreaming it now, Nanny dear. We’re friends for keeps. You
can’t lose me; I’m not that sort. Come along, Nan. I’m fed up on
lobster, and I’m much more fed up on those fiddlers three--like Old
King Cole’s. But I seem to miss a jolly old soul in this crowd of two!”
Cis jumped up, paid the reckoning, and tucked Nan under her arm
after her usual custom, her height and Nan’s being adapted to this
arrangement.
Thus they left the restaurant, Cis humming an old song which she had
picked up from one of her elders: “You can’t lose me, mah Honey,” as
appropriate to her assurance, to Nan, and as if she had not a care in
the world.
CHAPTER III
MISS JEANETTE LUCAS
Cis spent Saturday forenoon picking up her belongings, packing certain
things in a large old trunk, others of more immediate emphasis in a
perfectly new, smaller trunk, leaving pictures and the few pieces of
bric-a-brac which she owned, to be boxed.
She was entirely cheerful over these preparations, whistling softly
between closed teeth, sometimes breaking into a snatch of song; it was
evident that change was by no means unwelcome to her.
Nan Dowling, on the contrary, sat on the edge of the bed, avoiding
physical comfort as her body dropped from extreme mental discomfort,
watching Cis with her hands clasped, hanging forward between her knees;
her lips drawn down, her eyes gloomy. She had the forenoon free because
she was going on duty at one, Cis’s old time, having made an exchange
with another girl who gladly accepted the chance to have an evening
off, especially Saturday evening.
“Cis, don’t take everything you own with you!” remonstrated Nan. “Pack
a trunk to leave at my house.”
“I wonder why?” said Cis absent-mindedly. “Believe I’ll give this
blouse to the waitress. It’s a bit tight for me, though it’s still
as good as ever, but that poor little lean thing will like something
decent, and she’ll be able to lap it over the way it was meant to go; I
can’t.”
She held up a pretty linen shirt-waist, turning it by the shoulders,
considering it in the sunshine’s strong light.
“You wonder why you should leave a trunk with me?” Nan persisted,
ignoring Cis’s suggestion of the gift. “Because it looks so horridly
final when you’ve taken everything with you; you may want to come home
again. At least you might let me hope that you will, let me feel I had
a link with you.”
“I won’t come back next winter, Nanny; I’ll push on farther if
Beaconhite doesn’t appreciate me--or I appreciate it. I don’t say I’ll
never come back, but I know I’m going to keep away a while,” declared
Cis. “So there’s no telling what I could get on without. And as to that
word ‘home’ you used, where’s my home? In those trunks! A girl like me,
without kith nor kin, boarding or lodging, hasn’t a home. Of course,
I’ll always call this old town home, because I was born here and grew
up here, but that’s nonsense, when you come to think of it. You’re the
only thing here to come back to; I don’t need to leave a trunk to hitch
me up to you, small Person! So your silly Cicely takes all she owns
with her. Say, Nan, why do you suppose they didn’t nickname me Silly,
instead of Cis? Comes just as straight from Cicely!”
“Oh, dear Cis! You always make me feel as if you were a kite and the
rope was slipping through my fingers! You’re the friendliest thing, yet
you don’t care one bit for people--unless it is for me?” sighed Nan.
“Aren’t you going to say good-bye to Father Lennon? And--and--go to
confession this afternoon before you start?”
Cis shook her head hard. “Not time for confession for me yet; not
for quite a long while. I’ll turn up somewhere by Easter, maybe at
Christmas! Don’t look bothered, good little Nan! I’m going to be
honest whatever else I am. I often wonder if I’m honest to go at
all. You don’t think God can like us to pretend, do you?” Cis turned
unexpectedly serious.
“I think He likes us to hold on hard when we are tempted to let go,
and that we can be honest in wanting to hold on, at least,” said
Nan slowly. “I’m pretty sure this idea you have of being honest is
dangerous. Isn’t it just as honest to receive the sacraments because
you know you ought to, as because you happen to feel like it? And
there’s more merit in it, so it is sure to earn the feeling for you
after a while?”
Nan spoke hesitatingly; she stood in awe of Cis, of her cleverness, her
reserves, and also her unreserve, which was likely at any time to shock
Nan.
“Maybe, nice Nanny,” Cis assented lightly. “I’m so full of pep that
I don’t crave anything that life can’t give, and I don’t think I’m
a great sinner, honest! I’m pretty square; I tell the truth; I hate
lowness; I don’t harm people, I even like to oil other people’s springs
when the going’s hard. I don’t know exactly what religion does mean to
me; I’ve got some, at least I’d never be anything but Catholic, but I
can’t see why I’m not living a decent life, better than some people’s
who are at confession every couple of weeks or so.”
“Of course, Cis, and you’re a peach; you know what I think of you, part
of it, anyway. But that’s not all of it. I’m no good at explaining,
but all that’s just this world,” Nan faltered; she could have made her
meaning clearer, but she shrank from preaching to Cis.
“This world it is, Nancy Bell! Where else is our address? I’ve heard
about it; you mean what they say in church about ‘natural virtues.’
Well, I’d like to know who created nature, what’s wrong with natural
virtue? It’s a nice, natural thing to be jolly, and kindly, and not
jealous, or hen-minded--hen-minded and snake-acting! And you’ve got to
own up that some pious people are just as jealous and harsh as can be,
wouldn’t deal half as decently with other folks as Cis, the Sinner!
So that same Cis can’t feel she’s so awfully a sinner! As to saying
good-bye to Father Lennon, why on earth should I bother him and myself,
now I’m going away, when I never saw him to talk to him when I was
here?” Cis flicked a scarf into Nan’s face, adding:
“Smile awhile, Nancy! I may be headed wrong, but I’m not dying, and
perhaps I’ll brace up and turn saintly before Father Lennon--or someone
else--comes to say good-bye to me for good and all!”
“You’re so big and brave and daring; you’re like a soldier! I can’t
bear to have you miss connections, Cis.” Nan said softly. “Not enlist.”
“Nice Nanny!” Cis began again, then held up her hand.
“Footsteps on the stairs, strange ones! Nan, they’re coming this way!
Think the company is sorry, and is sending me an appointment in the
main office?”
Cis opened her door to a boy who knocked, a messenger boy.
“Miss Cicely Adair,” said the boy, glancing from one to the other girl.
“Answer. I wait--R. S. V. P., see?”
“I see!” cried Cis, smiling at the boy in perfect sympathy with his
boyhood.
“I’m the lady you seek! Sit down--but for goodness’ sake don’t sit on
my best hat! I’ll read, then I’ll write--maybe!”
She tore open the envelope addressed to her in an unknown, feminine
hand, an unusual hand, full of character and refinement; she drew forth
its contents.
“Well, Nan!” exclaimed Cis. “It’s from Miss Lucas! Here, read it!”
Then she threw on the floor a pile of articles which covered a straight
chair’s seat, shoved back other things from the table end, and wrote:
DEAR MISS LUCAS:--I’ll be at your house between three and four, as
you ask.
Yours sincerely,
CICELY ADAIR.
She addressed an envelope, folded her tiny note, sealed it in the
envelope, and handed it to the boy, who rose to go.
“You’re one!” he said admiringly. “That’s the kind o’ letter! Don’t
have to hurt your eyes over it! Mostly they writes tons. Had the deuce
of a time findin’ you!”
“Don’t blame you one bit!” said Cis cordially. “I have an awful time
finding myself! But I think it pays in the end.”
“Yeh,” the boy grinned, instantly, like all boys, in perfect sympathy
and understanding with Cis. “So long. Much obliged, but it’s paid, both
ways.”
“Of course it is, but an ice cream cone does no harm, and that’s
outside your day’s wages,” retorted Cis, letting him out. Then she
turned to Nan.
“What do you suppose she wants of me? Is it to bless, or to curse me?
I’ve got to go, couldn’t refuse and wouldn’t want to, but at the same
time if you want to play my part I’ll lend you my clothes, Nan,” she
said.
Nan laughed; she would have tripped on Cis’s skirt, short though skirts
were, and fallen through her jacket.
“Your clothes are not a good fit for me, Cis, and I’d be less of a fit
in your place at Miss Lucas’. I’ll never be able to wait to hear what
happens there!” said Nan.
“Pity you’re on duty all this afternoon and evening! But I’m going to
Mass to-morrow, sure. If you go to the eight I’ll meet you and tell
you all I know,” Cis suggested.
“All right; that’s fine!” Nan’s face brightened. “It’s time I went home
to lunch, if I’m to be at the office by one. Remember, you’re to spend
to-morrow night with me. Oh, Cis! Your last night!”
“Oh, I don’t know! I look forward to many more nights, Nanny, and some
of them with you!” laughed Cis, persistently cheerful.
Cis dressed for her call on Miss Jeanette Lucas with more trepidation
than she would have been willing to acknowledge. She looked exceedingly
well in setting forth, all in white; plain-tailored linen skirt; fine
hand-wrought shirt-waist; a simple white hat of soft straw, with a soft
white bow on one side its sole trimming; her masses of glowing, shining
red hair emphasized by its snowy setting.
Cis noted her effects in the mirror with approval.
“Not so bad, Cicely, my dear,” she said aloud. “Neat, but not
gaudy--except your hair! You’re not in the least a beauty, but you look
kept-together, and I’m not ashamed to walk out with you, Miss Adair!”
She nodded at her reflection in the glass, sighed as she took up
gloves, which she detested, and ran downstairs, dreading her coming
call, yet afraid of being unpunctual.
The Lucas house stood back from the street behind its tall trees,
screened from its surroundings, although its neighborhood was the best
in town. “The old Lucas place” was a landmark, built shortly after the
building of the Republic; it had been finished in time to entertain
Lafayette when he had returned to see the new order which his youthful
love of adventure had helped to establish on the western continent. It
had been deemed a pity that the old estate was exposed to the danger
of ultimate transformation into a Roman Catholic institution by the
conversion of its present owner to the Faith of France, a Faith which
might do very well for French heroes, born to it, but did not do at all
for unheroic Americans.
It was an unwarranted anxiety that apprehended such a transformation
for the stately house; besides Jeanette, his oldest daughter, Robert
Lucas had an older married son, three younger boys and two younger
girls, so that heirs were not wanting to save the house from a
Sisterhood, nor was its neighborhood falling off to bring about a
desire on the part of the Lucas family to sell it.
Cis went up its broad front walk to its wide, simply beautiful front
door, impressed and quieted by the repose, the certainty of fundamental
things, which reached her even on the exterior of the house.
A soft-footed, soft-voiced maid, with perfect manners, responded to
Cicely’s summons. She said: “Please come in, Miss Adair. If you don’t
mind, will you go right up to Miss Jeanette’s room? She is expecting
you, and gave those orders. I will show you the way.”
She led Cis up a long flight of stairs--the house was remarkably
high-ceiled--its steps low, mounting at the easiest possible angle, yet
with a broad mahogany handrail to aid in progress. There was a deep
recessed landing more than half-way up, an arched window lighting it, a
splendid old clock standing back against the wall in its corner.
The maid knocked on a door that stood slightly ajar at the rear of the
hall on the second floor, and instantly pushed it open.
“Miss Adair, Miss Jeanette. I brought her right up to you as you told
me to,” she said.
The maid stepped back and withdrew down the hall. A girl about Cicely’s
age arose from a low couch on which she had been reclining, and said,
speaking low, lifelessly, as if speaking were an effort:
“Please come in, Miss Adair. You were kind to come. Will you take this
chair?”
She drew forward slightly a deep chair, softly cushioned in dark
blue, and herself dropped back on the couch, sidewise among its piled
pillows, not lying down, but resting on her elbow. Yet, listless though
her attitude was, her left hand clutched the corner of a pillow,
wrinkling it tautly in a nervous grasp.
She was dark eyed, dark haired; Cis thought that she had never seen
anyone so pale; her olive skin, naturally beautiful in tint and
texture, was almost greenish in its livid tint; there were great
circles under her eyes which looked sunken, as if they had been
staring wide open into the dark for sleepless nights. Cis forgot her
embarrassment, her uneasiness as to what might be before her because
of her share in what had befallen this girl, in an overwhelming pity
for the grief which had thus wrecked her loveliness.
Miss Lucas suddenly spoke, clasping and twisting her fingers, her hands
thrust forward on her knees, her eyes burning as they stared at Cis.
“I’ve seen you before,” she said.
“I was introduced to you at a benefit for the Orphans; I served cream.
I didn’t expect you to remember me,” Cis answered.
“You have a face to be remembered,” Jeanette Lucas said. “We had hard
work tracing you. We--I, rather--wanted to find the girl who----” she
broke off; her low, husky notes gave way to a strident tone in her
voice. She waved her hands as if she were throwing something away. “See
here, Miss Adair, we’ve got to talk frankly, as one girl to another.
There has been too much between us to beat about the bush, to try for
foolish, futile disguises of speech.”
“I never like them,” said Cis.
“Then--why did you do what you did? Do you know--have you ever
known--Herbert Dale?” demanded Jeanette, speaking with such eagerness
that she could hardly enunciate.
“Never. I’ve seen him,” replied Cis.
“But you knew that night who he was; you knew it was something
concerning me nearly, horribly, tragically nearly. How?”
“He called you often; we get used to voices and ways on the wire, Miss
Lucas. All the world knew from the papers that you were to be married;
that’s easy to explain,” Cis answered gently.
“What was your motive? Why did you connect me with that wire? Did you
hate him, or me?” asked Jeanette.
“Oh, Miss Lucas, why do you say that? Can’t you see why I did it?”
cried Cis distressed. “I’d been admiring you; you’re so pretty, so
fine, so good, so stainless! It made me sick to think that you might be
walking into unhappiness, blind, tricked. I did what I’d want done for
me in your place; I put you where you could know, and then whatever you
did, you’d do with your eyes open. I wanted you to have a square deal,
dear Miss Lucas.”
“At first I loathed you, I would have punished you,” cried Jeanette.
“But even at first I knew that I could not marry him. I tried to think
I could, that I’d be a St. Monica, but no, oh, no! I could not see him;
I could not think of him; he was a painted mummy case that held another
body, not the body in which my heart was buried. It was not hatred,
it was worse--distrust, horror! He was not only wicked, but he was
deceiving. Oh, Cicely Adair, when you put me on that wire you killed
innocent, poor young Jeanette Lucas! I don’t know what it has done to
me; I shall go on, but never again the girl who answered your call that
awful night. We don’t lightly break a promise to marry, we Catholics,
but Father Lennon said that I could not marry a man from whom I shrank
with horror. I am not going to marry. But I’m not blaming you. I have
been blessing you through long, black hours of day and night, all
alike dark! I should have died if I had discovered that my husband
was a liar, wicked. I thought that I should cure his one defect, his
indifference to religion. I know now that he was false to all things,
to me as well as to God! Cicely Adair, you’re a Catholic girl; remember
this lesson when you think of marrying. I am grateful to you, but, oh,
I loved him, I loved him, and he never lived! I can’t mourn the loss of
the man I loved; there was no such man. You can put flowers on a grave.
I myself am the only grave I have: I am dead, but the man I loved never
lived. Oh, me, oh, me!”
“Dear, dear Miss Lucas! Oh, I’m sorry!” cried Cis, beginning to tremble.
“No! Be glad! I’m glad; indeed I am glad and grateful that you saved
me from worse! My father never trusted Herbert Dale. Mother liked him,
but father was afraid. He blesses you for what you did. It was fine
for one girl to stand by another, unknown girl like that! I sent for
you to tell you this. I hear the company found out, and dismissed you.
There was a fearful scene when I gave back my ring and told Herbert
that I knew him at last. He guessed--not at first, but after a while;
I’m too dull to keep a secret against his experienced questioning--he
guessed how I found out. He swore he’d have the girl dismissed who had
put me on his wire. I know that he succeeded. I am profoundly sorry.
I owe you what cannot be repaid, but--will you let my father help you
in some way? He told me to say to you, when I told him that I meant
to find you and thank you, that you would be still more generous and
unselfish than you’ve already been, if you would let him help you to
your feet again. He said he would be honored in recommending you to any
position, a girl with such fine kindness and loyalty and true standards
as yours are! Will you be frank with me, please, dear? I’ve spoken to
you without the thinnest veil over my face!”
“Bless your dear, sweet soul!” cried Cis. “I’m all right. I’m leaving
town to-morrow, going to seek my fortune, if you can imagine it!”
“Oh, no! Are you? It’s worse than I thought,” cried Jeanette aghast.
“What a pity, what a shame! And all for me, to save me from being a
wretched wife! How could you be so kind to me? Indeed, indeed you must
let us do something about it!”
“Dear girl,” said Cis, leaning forward, taking one of Jeanette’s
burning hands in her firm, cool, shapely ones, “you mustn’t take that
hard. I’m a restless fish; I’ve been wanting a change. I could find a
job here, but I’ve been wanting to go away. I’m taking the chance the
company’s given me to pull up stakes; that’s all. I’m going Monday, to
Beaconhite, just for sport, so don’t you worry over it, you dear!”
“Beaconhite? Oh, father could help you there! His brother is the
president of the biggest bank in the city, and if you had a letter to
him he’d give you something splendid, I know he would! Will you let
father give you a letter to Uncle Wilmer? Please, please say yes!”
Jeanette pleaded with hands and eyes, leaning forward eagerly.
“Sure I’ll say yes!” laughed Cis. “And then I’ll say thank you! It’ll
be great not to be without a plank on a new ocean. But all I ask is
that you and your father will quit feeling that you owe me anything.
I knew the company would drop me, but that’s nothing! I tell you I’ve
been fidgeting lately. Anyway, what’s that beside marrying the wrong
sort? I’ve been fond of you this good while, Miss Jeanette Lucas; I’ve
taken comfort in making believe I knew you, and that we were friends.
Funny, maybe, but all girls have sort of far-off crushes, I guess!
Then, when I’d a chance to be a friend to you in good earnest, you’d
better believe I liked it! So that’s all there is to that, my dear!”
Jeanette looked at Cis hard and long, then she leaned over to her and
kissed her. “Strange,” she said slowly. “You have come into my life
deeply with one stride. No other girl is bound up into my life as you
are. As long as I live I shall remember you, the girl who saved me. I
shall keep your face, your wonderful red hair, in my mind when I am old
and feeble--if I live to be so! It doesn’t seem as though I could go on
living, but I know people can’t die because they no longer really live.
We are friends, dear, and your sweet, queer dream of me came true.”
“I’m so sorry about you, I ache,” said Cis simply. “What are you going
to do, what will become of you? Don’t talk of dying!”
“Father is going to take me to Europe for six months. That’s all I know
of a future,” said Jeanette. “I’m stunned; it doesn’t seem true most
of the time. Then it is the only truth in all the world, and I reel
under the feeling that all else, all I trusted and believed, is false.
I never knew wicked people, and if the one who seemed noblest, best,
is treacherous, wicked, how do I know, how do I know? I’m not easy to
transplant, Cicely; my roots won’t take hold again. But your clear,
changing, warm, pitying face looks true. My father and my mother are
good, good and dear! I must find my way. Don’t you think I shall?”
“Stop brooding over it,” advised Cis, out of her complete ignorance.
“There’s not a man born worth worrying over. Set it down to experience,
and quit thinking of it.” Jeanette looked at her wondering, then a
faint smile passed over her face, hardly more than the shadow of one,
but Cis rejoiced in it.
“That’s good advice, dear,” she said quietly. “But if you have poured
yourself, all of yourself, your life and all its parts, into one vessel
and it is broken--how do you go on, how gather it all up, into what?
Tell me this, brave, wise, ignorant Cicely Adair! Don’t love anyone,
Cicely; it hurts!”
“Well,” said Cicely, “I hope I sha’n’t. I like people lots, but I never
wanted anyone so I lay awake five minutes wanting them. I must go now.
You’ve been mighty good to me. I was afraid you might almost hate me. I
think I could love you.”
“You could love someone, and find it as hard as I do; you are the sort
that can love,” said Jeanette. “I think I’m fond of you, Cicely Adair.
I’m too numb to feel anything but the one pain that absorbs me, but I’m
sure I’m fond of you. Father will send that letter to you to-morrow.
I’m glad it’s to be Beaconhite, where he can introduce you, but I’m
sorry, sorry you are suffering through me.”
“Not a bit of it! I love to go, honest! I was brought up by strangers;
my mother died long ago; I live in lodgings; what’s the difference?
Good-bye, you dear, dear, lovely Miss Lucas! Go to sleep; you look all
in. When I think I made you look like that----”
Jeanette shook her head, and took both of Cicely’s hands.
“It was a blessed deed, dear,” she said. “I sent for you to tell you
I’m grateful; not to thank you, because I can’t. We are friends,
Cicely. We can’t be parting for always; we have been drawn too close.
Will you let me know what happens to you, if letters aren’t too
burdensome to you?”
“I’ll tell you, if you care,” said Cis. “Good-bye.”
Jeanette followed Cis to the head of the stairs, and rang for the
maid to show her out. Cis looked back, smiling up and waving her hand
half-way down.
Jeanette leaned over the broad mahogany rail, her soft silken negligée
drawn around her, her eyes burning in their pallid setting, her dark
hair loosely shading her face, her white lips pitifully pulled into a
smile for Cicely.
Cicely, boyish, unscathed by suffering or desire, yet knew that the
girl, Jeanette Lucas, whom she had idealized, had died under that
surgery by which she had cut off from her what would have slain her.
Cis walked slowly down the street, pondering the mystery of this
contradictory truth.
CHAPTER IV
TRANSPLANTING
Cis spent her last night before setting out to try her fortune, Sunday
night, with Nan in the Dowling, pleasant, somewhat crowded little house.
Mr. Lucas had sent to Cicely the letter of introduction to his brother
in Beaconhite, promised her by Jeanette. Briefly, but forcibly, it
expressed Mr. Lucas’ conviction that Cicely Adair was a person whose
ability and fidelity were of the highest order; that he, therefore,
felt no hesitation in asking his brother to place her to her advantage,
in acknowledgment of a debt which Mr. Lucas owed her and which he did
not hope ever fully to cancel.
Cis read the unsealed letter with an elated sense of being armed to
meet her new, experimental venture, and hurried around the corner to
the public telephone station to call up Miss Lucas, thank her and her
father, and tell her that now she knew that she was all right, though
she had never been fearful, and to bid Miss Lucas good-bye again, with
the injunction not to worry over her. “Or anything else,” Cis added as
an afterthought.
Then she went back to her lodgings, finished putting into her suitcase
the articles which she needed for that night and her first night in
Beaconhite, took a quick, humorous survey of her room, which embraced
its every detail, and waved her hand to it, nodding farewell.
“Good-bye, good luck, friend Room,” she said. “You’re not much of a
home, but you’ve been mine over two years. Hope you get on well with
your new chum, and get dusted regularly, and that she won’t make a fuss
over that loose board, nor the broken blind fastening. Wonder if I’ll
sleep as well in my new room as I’ve slept in you? One thing, I’ve
never in my life had anything to keep me awake nights, so far!”
She took up the suitcase, waiting beside her--it was not light, though
it held no heavy articles, but there never was a light suitcase,
however packed--and went down the stairs.
Her landlady was awaiting her; she came out of the dining room when she
heard Cis’s step, to wish her good luck and bid her good-bye.
“I hope you won’t be sorry, Miss Adair,” she said, without any
indication that she considered the hope well-founded. “Personally,
I think no one could find a better place than the city we live in,
but maybe Beaconhite ain’t so bad. You’ve been a good lodger; always
pleasant; prompt with your payments; reg’lar in hours, and you never
abused the light priv’lege with an iron, or any such. I’m sorry to lose
you; I can truthf’ly say that much, and I wish you well, wherever it
may be.”
“Thanks, Miss Spencer. We’ve got on fine, take it as a whole, and I
hope the next one in my room may be taken wholier--holier might easily
mean two things!” laughed Cis. “Good-bye, good luck! Look after the
cat; I like that cat, and she’ll miss my petting. Animals need more
than mere food. Good-bye!”
“Now I’m launched!” thought Cis, going off down the street, having shut
the front door for the last time with her customary vigorous slam.
“No, I’m not! Supper at Dowlings’ and the night there first, then
I’ll really be launched! I like Nan heaps, but her mother is quite
advice-full!”
Mrs. Dowling was not perfectly sure about Cis, as Cis was sharp enough
to perceive. She did not like her indifferent brand of Catholicity,
but aside from that, she found nothing to condemn in the girl, or had
not so far. “So far” summed up Mrs. Dowling’s attitude toward Cicely;
when Nan told her mother that she knew no other girl so intrinsically
upright and pure-minded, Mrs. Dowling always said: “I hope she is!”
and Nan was helpless to defend Cis against a charitable hope, however
dubiously expressed.
Cis was too attractive to men to be wholly trustworthy, Mrs. Dowling
felt, with the bias of the rather dull woman who has married the one
man who ever noticed her. She could not understand the vivacity that
drew others, combined with the nature that allowed no one to pass
within definite barriers.
Then young Tom Dowling, only a year and a half Cicely’s junior, found
her far too charming; it was bad enough that Nan was her humble adorer,
but Tom was another matter. Mrs. Dowling was one of the many women
who mistake jealousy for love of their children. Down in the bottom
of her heart, Mrs. Dowling felt sure that the act of Providence which
removed Cicely Adair from her present field was easily understood,
corroborative of her secret misgivings.
Nan and Cicely were bedfellows that last night; like true girls they
talked far into it of their views, their hopes, Cicely’s adventure, of
Jeanette Lucas and the risks and promises of marriage.
Cis declared that she did not want to marry, nor ever would marry
unless there came into her life a man who so filled it that she would
be maimed and crippled, lacking him. That man, she added, she did not
believe existed. Cis felt self-sufficient, rejoicing in her ability to
take care of herself.
Nan, on the other hand, did not mind acknowledging that she thought
that she could be quite fond enough of a man to marry him and be happy
with him without a cataclysmic passion; he must be good, she added,
like a wise little second Eve, because, chiefly, she hoped that she
would have many children and she would want their father to be an
example to them.
Cis laughed aloud at this, and Nan smothered the laugh in the
bedclothes, fearing to disturb her mother at one o’clock.
“I don’t believe many girls pick out a man for the sake of their
children; I’m dead sure I’d pick him for myself,” declared Cis.
“I don’t care; they ought to,” maintained Nan stoutly. “How can you
bring up children well if their father is bad? And if he’s a good
father, he’ll make his wife happy. All women are first of all mothers
of souls, like the first woman.”
She admitted to Cicely’s gleeful questioning that she had derived
this idea from a mission sermon; in return for which admission Cicely
admitted that she had no doubt it was quite right; that she couldn’t
object to it as long as she herself didn’t have to marry posterity’s
ancestor.
Breakfast was somewhat hurried. Beaconhite was distant over a hundred
miles, but its inaccessibility counted for more hours’ travelling than
the miles. To reach it Cis must go to New York; cross there to another
railway station, and start again for her destination, therefore she was
to take an early train to New York.
Tom and Nan were going to see her off. Mrs. Dowling put up a delicious
lunch for Cis, and gave it to her with the utmost kindness, and much
excellent advice as to conditions and conduct of which young Cicely,
accustomed to the world and to make her way in it from her childhood,
knew ten times as much as the older woman, and had practically and
instinctively formulated her own rules.
“And, my dear,” Mrs. Dowling ended, “I wish you’d at once go and call
on some fine priest, get him interested in you. You’re a girl that
needs it, though all do who are alone like you. And where’ll you stay
to-night, till you find a nice room, in a decent house? And how’ll you
know what any house’s like in a new place, unless you call on the
priest and he sends you to the right one? You can’t be too careful,
Cicely; you heed what one who is old enough to be your mother tells
you.”
“I wouldn’t know what to say to the priest if I called on him, Mrs.
Dowling,” laughed Cis. “I’ll stay at a hotel, pick out a good one. I’ve
made up my mind to take a week off, not present my letter to that other
Mr. Lucas for a bit. I’ll get a hotel for five dollars a day, I’m sure,
and I’ve decided to spend thirty-five dollars on myself laying off,
sizing up Beaconhite for a week. Then I’ll roll up my sleeves and pitch
in. I may get acquainted with some decent young fellow of my own age.
You take a risk when you pick up a girl, but with a boy you don’t. Then
a boy never misunderstands you; you can be honest and friendly with
a boy, and he’ll always see it if you’re straight, and play right up
to you, good chum-fashion, not looking for trouble, nor for anything
behind your jolly good times. I’ll try to find a nice boy, first, in
Beaconhite and he can steer me to his sister, or his cousins, and other
girls. Isn’t that all so, Tom?”
“Right you are, Cis!” cried Tom. “Fellows know what girls mean--worse
luck! It wouldn’t be half-bad if a chap couldn’t always dope you out so
easy.”
“Cicely Adair, I wish you had a mother!” cried Mrs. Dowling.
“Don’t you suppose I do?” Cis exclaimed. “The right sort; but we always
think our mother would have been the right sort, if we’d had her, of
course! You’ve been kind, Mrs. Dowling; indeed I thank you for it.
Don’t worry about me. I don’t believe I’ll take a plunge; I sort of
believe in my luck. I’m going to keep in mind that I’ve got to be the
old maid godmother to Nan’s children, and that she’ll expect a perfect
lady for the part! Isn’t it time we were getting off, children? If you
make me lose that train you can stop down in town and order crepe for
your mother to put on!”
“Loads of time, Cis,” said Tom. “However, we may as well mosey along.
No use putting off amputation; hurts any time.”
He picked up Cicely’s suitcase, went outside, pulling his hat down over
his eyes, to wait with a gloomy face while Cis bade good-bye to his
mother and the rest of his family.
“Rotten! No sense in her going!” muttered Tom under his breath.
At the station there were many others waiting to see Cicely Adair on
her way.
Young Tom had no chance for a tender leave-taking, for which Cis was
devoutly grateful. Now that the time to go had come, Cis found herself
moved by the parting. After all, one’s native place and lifelong
acquaintances mean a great deal, even to self-confident youth.
Cis wrapped little Nan in a close embrace and her bright eyes were
dimmed by the tears which did not fall; Cis was not a crying girl. Nan
wept aloud, in spite of Cis’s promise to return.
“You’ll never come back, not the same, anyway. We’re too young to part
and join on again without changes,” sobbed Nan, unexpectedly far-seeing.
Cis settled into her seat next the window with a long breath of relief;
she disliked feeling emotionally upset, it puzzled her and offended her
with herself; she was unaccustomed to distress of mind.
She took off her small close hat, rumpled her bright locks which it had
flattened, and leaned her head against the window to watch obliquely
as long as she could see them, those whom she was leaving. Then, when
the last handkerchief and waving straw hat had been lost to view, Cis
burrowed in her hand-bag for a tiny powder box and puff, held up a
small mirror and dusted her eyelids and the tip of her nose, restored
the vanity articles to their place, pulled a magazine from the straps
of the suitcase at her feet, selected the box of candy of the five
beside her which promised her keenest pleasure, and settled herself for
the journey to New York. If there were no use in crying over spilled
milk, neither was there any use in spilling tears over partings which
she herself had chosen should occur.
It was half after four that afternoon when Cis found herself being
pulled slowly into the station of the city which she had selected as
the scene of her winter residence, chiefly on the whimsical ground
that it spelled its name Beaconhite when it obviously should have been
Beaconheight.
There was a better approach to this small city of some hundred
thousand inhabitants than is commonly found along railway tracks, and
the station, with its roofed-over platforms covering outlying tracks,
and flower beds along its banks at either end, was attractive.
“You look quite spiffy, Beaconhite, my dear, but handsome is as
handsome does; we’ll wait to find out what you do to me!” thought Cis,
playing with herself after her usual fashion.
Cis “grabbed a bus in the dark,” as she told herself, one of three
which bore the names of hotels, this one being “The Beacon Head,” which
hit Cis’s fancy: it chanced to be the best hotel in town; not the most
pretentious, but the most dignified and well-conducted.
“Luck’s holding!” thought Cis, having registered and been assigned
a room at her limit of price, and finding the room comfortable,
well-furnished, its two windows giving, one on an enclosed court, but
the other on the main street.
Cis went to bed early, after a remarkably well-cooked, nicely served
dinner. She debated going out in search of amusement, but decided for
early sleep and a long night.
“If you re going to spend a week loafing, my girl, you’ll have a hard
enough job putting in the time, and when you’ve got to work at enjoying
yourself, don’t make the job harder by plunging the first night, using
up scanty materials for fun,” she advised herself, taking the lift to
her room on the second floor merely for the luxury of it, though she
preferred walking up stairs.
Cis awoke early, thoroughly refreshed, but she carried out her
principle of compelling herself to be luxurious by not rising till
after eight. Then, bath and breakfast over, she sallied out to see the
city.
Cis found Beaconhite greatly to her liking; she came back to the Beacon
Head with a good appetite, and the conviction that here she should like
to stay. She would not defer presenting her letter of introduction till
the end of the week; she would present it to Mr. Wilmer Lucas the day
after to-morrow. It was not likely that she would at once step into
employment; she must allow time for a position to be found for her,
so she would be prudent, and use her introduction sooner than she had
intended doing. In reality, one forenoon of luxurious idleness had
shown active Cis that many days so spent would undermine her spirits
and her patience.
On the third day after her arrival in Beaconhite, Cis made herself trig
and trim in the well-cut suit which she was wearing that summer, with
a fine fresh shirt-waist, and her simple white hat. She had dressed
carefully and looked her best; she sallied forth to call on Mr. Wilmer
Lucas less hopeful than confident.
She found the bank of which Mr. Lucas was president, to which Jeanette
Lucas had directed her to find her uncle, a really impressively
magnificent building, its furnishings and finish declaring its assets;
its architecture and material announcing its security. Mr. Lucas, she
was told, did not come to the bank every day; this was one of the
mornings on which he was to be found in his law office. It was not far
from the bank; Cis turned her steps thither, and was shown into Mr.
Lucas’ private office after a sufficient time had elapsed for him to
read the introductory letter from his brother, which Cis sent in to him
by the messenger who came forward to her in the outer office.
“Miss Adair?” said Mr. Lucas as Cis entered. “My brother has spoken of
you in the highest terms, as you probably know. Will you be seated, if
you please?”
Cis took the straight chair before the desk, so placed as to give Mr.
Lucas the advantage of the light from the window above it, full on her
face. He looked at her keenly, and what he saw seemed to satisfy him,
for he nodded almost imperceptibly, with a softening of his glance
that betokened acceptance of Cis. Cis’s bright, irregular face, with
its straightforward look of humorous kindliness invariably won for her
friends, and, from elder, experienced people, appraisal and trust.
Cis on her part saw a man older than the Mr. Lucas whom she had often
seen at her home; a large man, greyed around the temples, with a face
that was harder than his brother’s face; an intellectual face that
might reveal selfishness, but did not indicate self-indulgence. Cis
felt a little afraid of him, yet to herself she characterized him as
“the real thing,” and decided that it would be agreeable to be in the
employ of such a fine gentleman.
“My brother tells me that you would like a position, Miss Adair, or
implies that. What can you do?” Mr. Lucas asked.
“I write a clear hand, that can be read; I am quick at figures; I know
shorthand and can type. I can do as I’m told,” Cis added the final
statement with a twist of her lips, a sudden, crooked little smile that
revealed her strong white teeth.
“Great virtue, that last,” commented Mr. Lucas, his eyes reflecting
Cis’s smile.
“My brother speaks of his obligation to you; may I ask in what way you
have put my brother under obligations to you?”
Cis shook her head. “Sorry, Mr. Lucas, but that can’t come into my
dealing with you, if I’m lucky enough to deal with you. It wasn’t such
a great obligation; it wasn’t doing anything worth talking about, but
you’ll see that I can’t talk about other people’s affairs, even your
brother’s, or--” Cis caught herself up short.
“‘Or’? Well, Miss Adair, I suppose that you are within your rights in
refusing to answer me, but you will see that I, also, have rights; that
I should know all about a person whom I employ?” said Mr. Lucas.
“It’s not so much within my rights, Mr. Lucas, as within my duty,” said
Cis, with her sunny smile of good fellowship, as if she expected Mr.
Lucas to understand and sympathize with her. “I’ll tell you anything
under the sun that you want to know about myself.”
“Why have you left your home? Why were you not able to find employment
there?” asked Mr. Lucas, his voice intentionally made harsher.
“I left my home for no reason at all, just because I wanted to shake
myself. I think I could have found employment there; I didn’t try. I
wanted a change,” said Cis promptly. “But I’m going to tell you that I
was employed in the Telephone Exchange and was dismissed for breaking
an important rule. So now you know the worst they’d tell you of me at
home.”
“Broke an important rule? Yet you this moment told me you could obey.
Did you break it deliberately?” demanded Mr. Lucas.
“Yes, Mr. Lucas, and I knew they’d bounce--dismiss me. Please don’t ask
anything more about it, because the rest of it doesn’t concern me; it
concerns someone else.” Cis looked at Mr. Lucas appealingly, yet with a
frank certainty that he would trust her.
“H’m,” Mr. Lucas murmured. “I am a lawyer, Miss Adair; my specialty
is collecting and weighing evidence for my firm. Let me see: You were
a telephone girl; you broke an important rule; you were dismissed,
as you foresaw that you would be for that disobedience; my brother
feels profoundly indebted to you; his daughter, Jeanette, is the very
core of his heart; she was to have been married shortly; she is not
to be married, I hear; she discovered that her lover was perfidious,
unworthy; how did she discover it? Heh?” He bent his keen eyes,
frowningly, upon Cis.
“The newspapers said that the marriage was off; they didn’t tell us
anything else about it,” said Cis, but she turned crimson and looked
alarmed.
“Did you ever see my niece, Jeanette Lucas?” persisted Mr. Lucas, and
as Cis nodded, he added: “Lovely girl, lovely in mind as well as body!”
“I saw her at a bazaar, spoke to her, and I’ve loved her ever since;
she’s the loveliest thing!” cried Cis fervently, then stopped, confused
as she saw Jeanette’s uncle smile.
“Very well, Miss Adair,” he said, pushing over some papers on his
table and leaning back in his chair as if to indicate the end of the
interview. “I will see about your application. I suppose you are
applying for a position with me? I may tell you that I need someone
who can be trusted, rather unusually trusted, with matters which must
be absolutely and completely buried within these walls. I need a
confidential clerk who will take down notes for me, write letters, and
whose honor must be beyond suspicion, beyond the reach of temptation
by bribery or cajoling, whose discretion must be equal to her--or
his--honor. I may say that I am inclined to forecast the use of the
feminine pronoun; it has been my experience that women are loyal to the
death, if they are capable of loyalty at all, and that, when they are
to be trusted, there is less danger of advantageous offers to betray
winning them over, than there is of men’s being so led away. If I took
you on could you begin next Monday?”
“That would just suit me. I thought I’d like a week off before I took
up anything, though it’s going to be long enough, too!” Cis laughed at
herself.
“Habits are our masters, Miss Adair; work gets its iron hold on us
quite as tight as any other vice,” observed Mr. Lucas. “Learn to loaf
while you’re still young.”
To his satisfaction Cis laughed up at him--they had both risen--her
eyes spilling over fun, her lips parted, a hitherto unrevealed dimple
appearing in one cheek.
His solemn warning was not mistaken by her for serious earnest.
“I think she will do; I think Robert has estimated her justly. She
would not tell me anything that might betray confidence, or her inside
knowledge of the other Lucas family’s affairs. I need a girl who can
hold her tongue, and be loyal. Somehow, she is the source of Jeanette’s
discovery of her lover’s perfidy. I think she’ll do exceedingly well.”
These thoughts ran through Mr. Lucas’ mind as he politely bowed Cis out
of his office, but all that he said to her was:
“You shall hear from me not later than Saturday. At the Beacon Head?
I see you wrote that address on the envelope which you sent in to me.
Good morning, Miss Adair. Not later than Saturday; sooner, I think.
Good morning.”
“Luck still running strong, Cis dear!” Cis gaily told herself as she
walked fast away from the office. “He’s going to take you on. He’s like
a duke and the Tower of London, combined with a magnifying glass which
shows how you’re working inside, but I think I’ll like the combination,
especially the duke part of it! I must go back and write Nan all about
it; she’ll be worrying over lucky me, little goose!”
CHAPTER V
THE PINCH OF NECESSITY
By Friday of the week of her arrival in Beaconhite, Cis found herself
a burden on her own hands. Five days of what had become compulsory
idleness and pursuit of pleasure, were too many for the nerves of
active Cis Adair, trained by her lifelong habit into ways of industry.
Beaconhite did not offer enthralling pleasure to dwellers on its
surface. There were theatres, one principal one, two insignificant
ones, a vaudeville house, but even to the best of these, first-class
companies did not come; this week the third-class company which
was giving a metropolitan success for six nights and a matinée in
Beaconhite, had already been seen by Cis when they were doing the
same thing in her native city. There were “movies,” but Cis happened
to be one of those persons to whom silent drama is annoying; she
wanted the spoken line, and disliked the necessary exaggeration of
the pictures. She went one night to see again the play which she had
already seen, and another night to the moving pictures; here she found
a film showing, which she had seen twice before, and this, added to her
dislike for this form of entertainment, sent her back to her hotel in a
bad temper.
She had hoped to hear from Mr. Wilmer Lucas by this time, founding the
hope upon his suggestion that he might communicate with her before
Saturday, but no word came from him.
“Looking up my record at home, maybe, though Mr. Robert Lucas’ letter
ought to be enough for him,” thought Cis. “Goodness, if he shouldn’t
take me at all! I’ll be dippy if I hang around after Monday; all I can
do to hold out till then! If I don’t get into Mr. Lucas’ office, I’ll
have to take a job at anything, good or bad; I’ll kick the stall out if
I’m left standing any longer. Besides, I can’t stay on at $5.00 per,
at the Beacon Head longer than that; $35.00 is my limit to spend on
loafing--and I haven’t had my money’s worth so far!”
Cis realized, as she had not done, how much she had depended upon
companionship. She had earned her living among girls, some of whom she
had liked, some disliked, to the great majority of whom she had been
indifferent; but they were quick-witted, full of life and spirits;
“they kept things moving,” Cis told herself, and the days spent without
anyone to speak to except a hotel clerk, a chambermaid, waiter and bell
boy, grew oppressive.
Cis tried to talk to some of the attractive girls who were always to
be met in the lobby, the elevator, in the dining room, but all of them
froze up when she made advances to them; all but one replied to her
small talk, but replied so forbiddingly that Cis did not persist.
“Afraid I may be the wrong sort and that it’ll come off!” thought Cis.
“Idiots! How do you ever get anywhere in this world if you tote a shell
around, like a snail? Miss a lot if you don’t try people out first,
and freeze up afterward, provided you find them the kind that needs
dropping! I wanted to jar poor Mrs. Dowling when I said what I did
about picking up boy acquaintances, but it’s the truth, nevertheless.
I’m going to look around for a nice fellow and try him out, see if he
won’t be bold enough to risk a decent answer. I’ve got to get someone
started, that’s sure! This hotel and town are getting to feel like a
diving bell, ’way down below human noises.”
With deliberate intention to carry out her plan, purvey to her need,
Cis scanned the male portion of her fellow-guests in the hotel for the
rest of that day and evening, but none measured up to her requirement.
They were a lot of average young Americans, but the frank face, the
businesslike air, the quality of manliness that conveyed the ability to
understand and meet her like a fellow-being, not like a girl seeking
attentions, seemed to Cis wanting to them all.
She went to bed lonely and discouraged, somewhat inclined to tears,
but so healthy-minded that she quickly fell asleep instead of crying.
Her last waking thought was that if Beaconhite showed her no jolly,
sensible girls, no friendly, chummy boys, it was no place for Cis
Adair, and that she might move on by Monday, Mr. Lucas or no Mr. Lucas.
Friday morning found Cis refreshed and ready to postpone her decision
to move on, also quite sure that before the day was over she should
hear from Mr. Lucas that he was ready to test her in the highly
honorable position of his confidential clerk. Therefore her merry face
was as bright as ever when she had finished her toilette and came down
to breakfast like a sun maiden, all in white, her red hair gloriously
shining above her snowy raiment.
Two young men breakfasting together looked smilingly up at Cis as she
passed their table, unmistakably ready to leap out into acquaintances
at the least sign of welcome from her; indeed one of them slightly
pushed out the chair next to him, leaning forward with an ingratiating
smile. Cis knew the type and “had no time for it,” she would have said.
“Call themselves men!” Cis once had exclaimed to Nan.
After her solitary breakfast, which she enjoyed as a hungry girl
should, Cis turned her mind upon the problem of how to dispose of that
day; she found it insoluble. “May as well take a trolley and ride till
it stops, but of all stupid things, sliding along past a lot of houses
is the worst! Wish I had my bunch of little newsys here! Wonder if they
miss me badly, poor little scraps! I made Tom Dowling promise he’d do
something for them.”
Cis left the dining room and went to the desk. Here she found two
letters in the pigeonhole that bore the number of her room, but neither
was from Mr. Lucas, as she had been sure one must be. There was a
brief note from Jeanette Lucas in reply to one which Cis had written
her, telling her that she had seen her uncle and that he held out hope
of a position for her. Miss Lucas said nothing of herself beyond that
she was to sail for Europe the following week. She wrote to Cis with
much more than the politeness of a slight acquaintance; the short
note breathed warmth of feeling for Cis, and a personal sadness that
depressed Cis, though she could not have said wherein it lay.
The other letter was a long one from Nan, full of love and longing for
Cis, and all the trivial news of the office, her home, their common
acquaintances, which are such important items to an exile, just because
they are so homely and unimportant. Cis folded this letter and slipped
it into her pocket with homesick heaviness of heart that surprised her.
“Of course there’s nothing to prevent me from going back if I want to,”
she reminded herself.
Deciding against the trolley trip, Cis arose from the leather seat
upon which she had been sitting, and began to stroll up and down the
lobby, and down its adjacent corridors, returning on her beat. One of
the corridors had shop-like rooms up and down its length, rented for
various sorts of business--a little toy shop, candy shop, book shop,
flower shop, a shop for fancy work materials, all sorts of attractive
things offered for sale; while a manicure, a chiropodist, a barber and
a bootblack were lodged there, in their respective rooms, to minister
to the personal comfort of the patrons of the hotel, and people from
beyond its walls.
The bootblack’s establishment especially attracted Cis’s eye; it was
the apotheosis of the elevated chair and foot rest and the active
little Italian ministrant, to be found on street corners. Here were
several chairs, better said, thrones; the walls were panelled in
attractive colors; there were hangings of deep yellow, framing the
casement of the door and one window at the rear; a table, with papers
and magazines upon it, in its centre a well-shaped vase holding two
perfect yellow roses.
Cis looked into this palace of charity to wayworn shoes, admiring its
perfection. There were two or three assistants at work on as many
customers, and there were two other customers waiting to have their
shoes polished. In a chair unmistakably comfortable sat one of these
waiting customers; he was reading a magazine. As Cis loitered, looking
in at the open door from the hotel corridor, this customer turned over
his magazine, which he held doubled over for convenience in reading it,
and his eyes met Cis’s eyes.
He was exceedingly good looking, dark haired, blue eyed, fresh tinted,
with well-cut features, but it was not for his good looks that Cis
instantly decided that here was the person for whom she had been
seeking. It was rather for an indescribable air of man of the world
about him; the ease of his excellent clothes and their manner of
wearing; his steady, unembarrassed gaze, that did not intrude upon
her, yet seemed to take Cis in as to her every detail, to approve her
and like her, be ready to meet her friendliness on its own ground; “be
a human being,” Cis would have summed it up. But there was no denying
that this young man possessed decided good looks and instant charm
which were not a necessary part of the qualifications upon which Cis
had insisted as a part of the outfit of the person whom she should
adopt as the one who should make her wilderness blossom with comradery.
Cis Adair had never hesitated to take anything that she wanted, nor,
if it did not come after her, to go out after it. She had never wanted
anything that was forbidden by the highest, nor the lower laws, but
she invariably reached out after what she wanted. Now she glanced down
at her shoes, which were shapely, fine as to leather, and which she
decided were enough in need of polishing to warrant her treating them
to it. She entered the attractive shop.
The customers happened at that moment to be all men, but Cis had no
shyness with men; she was nearer to shy with women. She came in without
embarrassment, though every eye turned on her. The young man who had
innocently trolled her hither at once got upon his feet; the other
waiting customer did not move.
“This is the most comfortable chair,” he said, indicating the one
which he had just vacated for Cis. “Please take it; I’ll sit here.”
He dropped into the chair next beyond his former one, which Cis took
with a hearty “Thank you,” and a bright smile. His voice was quite
beautiful, soft, rich, mellow, caressing, like a musical cadence, as he
spoke these few words.
“I never saw a bootblacking place like this,” Cis commented.
“No. There can’t be many as nice. There’s one in Chicago that--well, we
won’t say it is better, because we ought to be loyal to our own city,
but it’s by way of peachiness,” said the young man, and his smile was
as gay and bright as Cis’s own, and it revealed two dimples to her one.
“I don’t have to be loyal to Beaconhite,” said Cis. “I’m a stranger,
staying in this hotel, but I don’t mind sticking up for its bootblack.”
“I fancy you’d be good at sticking up for anything that you felt
belonged to you,” said the young man, and Cis suddenly perceived
that he was not as young a man as she had at first thought him. His
brilliant coloring, his grace and charm gave him the effect of greater
youth than was his. Cis decided that he was well on in his twenties, if
not just beyond them, and this somewhat checked her readiness to take
him on in the capacity of good fellowship. Yet this was silly, she told
herself; a good fellow was one at any age. What did it matter if this
one were anywhere from five to ten years her senior?
“You aren’t a Beaconhitette then?” he went on. “That’s hard luck. Now
I am. I wasn’t always; came here last year, in fact, but I’m living
here, and may go on living here, till I cease living altogether. You’re
a jolly girl; you ought to stay.”
His eyes were keen on Cis’s face, handsome eyes, softly blue, somewhat
veiled by dark lashes, yet seeing eyes that could be keen as they now
were, studying this singular girl who was so ready to talk, yet did not
strike him as bold, but rather as maidenly. “Boyish sort, I think, but
you never can be sure of them at first,” thought the man.
“I may stay on,” Cis was answering meanwhile. “I came to stay, if
things worked out; got tired of the place where I’d always lived,
and jumped off. I’ve a letter to Mr. Lucas, here, and he may have a
position for me by Monday.”
“You’re one of the independent army, then?” asked the young man. “Well,
you don’t look like a pampered, spoiled one! (This partly explains
her”) he thought. “Do you mean Wilmer Lucas? Dear me! Your letter was
addressed high up in the line of this town; Wilmer Lucas is _the_ big
man of Beaconhite!”
“That’s the way he struck me,” agreed Cis. “There’s a chair vacant for
you.”
“Certainly not; you take it,” protested the young man.
“Not a bit of it! You were here first; I’m not one of the sort that
wants to grab privilege, because I’m a girl. I’m in the world like a
man, and I like give and take; straight play. Besides, I’m just killing
time; I’ve nowhere to go, nothing to do till I get my position--if I
do!” said Cis.
The young man glanced down at Cis’s shoes, which were not badly in need
of polishing. He was far too attractive not to have known long ago that
women liked to talk to him, admired his face and manner. Had this girl
come in because she saw him, and wanted to make the acquaintance of
so personable a young man? She had said that she was killing time. He
speculated upon Cis while he took the chair which she refused, and the
attendant treated his shoes, which sadly needed it.
The next chair vacated was Cis’s in justice; the other man who had been
waiting a turn had preceded Cis’s acquaintance; his shoes had been
attended to and he had quickly gone out.
Cis mounted her chair, and another attendant dressed and polished her
shoes, which her neighbor and acquaintance viewed with approval.
He was through before Cis, but he lingered; in an instant, after
hesitating, he turned to her, and said:
“You are merely killing time, and I’ve nothing on this morning; I’m
going to wait for you.”
“That’s nice of you!” cried Cis heartily. “I hoped you would. It’s
pretty punk being alone, a stranger in a strange land.”
She paid her charge, dismounted, and went out into the hotel corridor,
followed by her new acquaintance, still somewhat uncertain how to take
Cis, but considerably helped in an accurate estimate of her by the
boyish frankness with which she had acknowledged hoping that he would
wait for her.
“How about going into the tea room and fitting on our labels?”
suggested the young man. “There’s not likely to be anyone there at this
hour, and I feel it in my bones that we’ve not met just to part, so we
ought to waste no time in learning whom we’ve met, each of us. Names
matter less; they’re only labels, but I’d like to have you tell me all
about yourself. You’re not like most girls.”
“All right; tea room is all right,” assented Cis. “It won’t take me
long to tell you about Cecily Adair; she’s _just_ like other girls!”
“That’s never your name! Why it’s a song!” cried the young man.
“Mine, though!” laughed Cis. “I’m called Cis. Haven’t you a name;
chorus or hymn, if mine’s a song?”
“Yes, but it’s just a name, nothing in the musical line. Hope you don’t
mind names parted in the middle? My name is George Rodney Moore, but I
use the middle name, sign G. Rodney, you know,” said the young man, and
he looked as if he really hoped that Cis would not disapprove his name.
“Gee! Rodney!” cried Cis, but quickly added, as if she feared to hurt
him by what was not ridicule, but unavoidable nonsense:
“Rodney is a fine name; I like it. I don’t blame you for shedding the
George, and using it. I suppose I’d drop George altogether, and keep
only Rodney, but you can do that later, if you want to. Oh, do you like
stuffy tea rooms? Why not go out into the air--that is, if you really
want to lighten my gloom?”
“It’s the other way about, Miss Adair. I should like being out on
this fine day, but you surely have been taught by this time that you
are sent into the world to lighten the gloom of any man whom you will
tolerate,” G. Rodney Moore said experimentally.
They had turned toward the side entrance of the hotel; in the doorway
Cis stopped short.
“See here, none of that; cut it out, if you please,” she said. “I like
boys, but I don’t like them one bit when they forget I’m not one, and
you wouldn’t say that sort of thing to a boy, now would you?”
“No, I’m free to confess that I would not!” cried Moore, and he
chuckled. “All right, old chap, you’re the kind that makes it jolly for
a pal--better?”
“Heaps!” said Cis, and laughed. “You lead; you know the country and I
don’t.”
“Like to walk? Because I know a nice place, but it’s fairly far, and
taxis grow in this soil, if you’ll have one,” suggested Moore.
“I’m a walker; I’ll risk the distance,” replied Cis, and they started
out.
Three miles from the Beacon Head they came into a pretty glade, wooded,
suggestive at a glance of song birds and flowers. Here they seated
themselves, Cis on a bank, G. Rodney Moore just below her. All the
way there they had talked, Cis with her customary frankness, till, on
their arrival, Moore had justly decided that she was exactly what she
seemed and announced herself to be; a single-minded, honest girl, of
extraordinary directness and simplicity; lonely, wanting comradeship,
not hesitating to take it where she should find it, with confidence
that she would find understanding where she found congeniality, and
without the smallest shade of coquetry, or of hidden purpose.
“Mighty odd, quite unique, but the gods were good to me when they let
her decide that I’d answer for a stop-gap till she got acquainted in
Beaconhite. Never saw her equal! It will be my own fault if I let her
drift away from me, and I won’t!” he told himself, listening to Cis’s
merry talk, watching her changing face, all gay laughter and wholesome
sweetness, its red hair framing it in an aureole, wind-made.
Cis told Rodney all about herself; he told her some things about
himself. They were friends at the end of the little excursion, “pals,”
Cis liked to call it, finding this “pal” more delightful than any other
she had known; clever, humorous, charming. She did not hesitate to
speak of this charm.
“I didn’t know anyone but a girl had your kind of fun; boys don’t
usually know how to play your way,” Cis cried delightedly. “You’re lots
of fun, and you’re really as nice as you can be!”
“I’m not a boy, Cicely,” Rodney replied, a trifle sadly--they were
Cicely and Rodney by this time. “I don’t suppose I played this way when
I was a boy, but I had the material in me and experience cultivated it.
Glad you like me, jolly Cicely.”
“Yes, I do. It was luck that made me find you to-day; I knew luck was
running my way when I came to Beaconhite! Aren’t you a boy, quite
young, anyway? You haven’t told me that,” said Cis.
“I’m thirty, shall be thirty-one next spring, and that’s beyond
boyhood. Why do you lay such stress on boyhood, my dear? Neither it,
nor girlhood lasts,” he said.
“I shall be twenty-two on Christmas Day,” said Cis slowly. “I don’t
know why, but I belong with boys; I don’t belong with grown men.”
“Only with this grown man. We’re friends, and dates don’t alter it,”
he said quickly. “Were you born on Christmas Day? What a sell! Shame,
Pal-Cicely.”
“Shame? Why is it? I always liked it a lot; nice day to be born on,
seems to me,” cried Cis. “The whole world glad on your birthday,
and----” she checked herself.
“Does you out of a separate _festa_, and additional gifts,” said
Rodney. “But your magnificent hair would serve for Christmas
decorations; I never saw such hair, Cicely! I’m going to call you
Holly; do you mind?”
“Not I!” Cis laughed delightedly. “It isn’t that kind of red, but it’s
pretty flaring.”
“It is glorious; copper, gold and pure flame! Wouldn’t Titian have had
a fit over it! Holly, I hate to say it, but if we’re to lunch, we’ve
got to be getting back to it,” suggested Rodney.
“I am hungry,” agreed Cis. “I’ve had a fine morning; much obliged.
You’ve no idea how lonely I was beginning to feel, and the girls I
tried to creep up toward poked me off with icy finger tips, wouldn’t
stoop to use a whole palm! Are you going to introduce me to some nice
girls?”
“Want another pal already?” Rodney said reproachfully.
“Oh, no; you’re all-around satisfactory, but I do want to know girls,
too. Please let me know your nicest friends,” begged Cis, laughing, but
in earnest.
Rodney considered. Rapidly he passed in mental review the girls whom he
knew; society girls, young matrons, some of other rank. None to whom he
could compare this dewy, sweet, merry, daring, innocent Cicely, none
with whom he could think of her in combination.
“I’ll look some up, Cicely,” he said. “I had a sister, but she has been
gone these many years, and would have been too old for you; older than
I am. We’re all right as we are for the time being, aren’t we?”
“Happy as clams!” cried Cis. “Now if I get my position, with a pal in
town, and a place like that--how about it?”
“Nifty!” cried Rodney. “Will you go to a show with me to-night? I know
of private theatricals for a charity, and they won’t be half-bad. Will
you go, dear young pal of mine?” He sang the refrain of the song, one
word appropriately altered.
“Yes, but Dutch treat!” cried Cis, and as he was about to expostulate,
she added: “Or not at all. If I’m to be a real pal, then I stand on my
own, just as real pals do and should. Dutch treat? Say yes, and I’ll
say yes, with pleasure.”
“Yes, then, but you’re a girl all right; girls insist on their own
way,” grumbled Rodney.
Cis laughed, and threw her hat into the air, catching it deftly.
“Best of both parts, the girl’s and the boy’s, that’s what this Cis
Adair is out for, and independence comes both ways,” she triumphed.
CHAPTER VI
BEGINNING
Coming back into the lobby of the Beacon Head, Cis darted ahead of
Rodney Moore and up to the clerk’s desk. Here in her particular
pigeonhole, held down by the key of her room with its broad, portable
mooring displaying the same number as the pigeonhole, lay a letter,
fallen almost flat. Cis saw at once that the upper left corner bore the
name she sought: “Lucas and Henderson,” in exceedingly clear-cut small
Roman letters, the firm address engraved below them.
“My key and mail, please,” said Cis, trying to appear casual, in
reality stirred by hope and fear. Somehow she did not want to leave
Beaconhite; suddenly she found it desirable to stay on here, and this
letter might compel her to travel on, unless she were able to stumble
upon employment by strangers, to whom she had no introduction.
Cis walked back to where Rodney Moore awaited her beside a small
leather-covered sofa, turning the letter in her hands.
“My verdict has come in; my lawyers have notified me,” she said,
dropping on the brown seat, tipping her head back against the
sofa-back, unconscious that the dark brown leather made a perfect
background for her copper-red hair. “Wonder if it is that I’m to go
farther?”
“No, sir! Too certain that you’d fare worse!” declared Rodney promptly.
“You’re not going an inch out of Beaconhite, that’s flat! I can put you
into something; poor enough, but enough to hold on by till you find
what you want. Open up, Cicely; read your offer of $10,000 a year!”
Cis “opened up,” slitting the end of the envelope with the point of her
bar pin, prolonging the operation in a way unlike herself.
The communication which she unfolded was brief, compactly typed in the
middle of a large page. It read:
Miss Cicely Adair,
The Beacon Head, Beaconhite.
Dear Miss Adair:--
I am prepared to offer you a position in my personal service, as my
secretary. Your duties I vaguely outlined to you when you called upon
me. Your salary would be, to begin, $42.00 per week, or $7.00 per
day. If you prove competent, still more, if you prove satisfactory
in the ways more important than mere skill, of which I spoke to you,
your salary will soon exceed this sum. If this offer is acceptable
to you, kindly report for duty on Monday next, at my office, at
nine-thirty in the morning.
Yours truly,
WILMER LUCAS.
“Great little old snarled up signature!” commented Rodney, whom Cicely
had permitted to read the letter with her. “Wouldn’t be easy to forge!
Not a bad salary, my Holly friend, and the increase will be swift, or
else you won’t stay. Not bad. We’ll have a supper after the private
theatricals, to celebrate; just we two!”
“Let me off from the theatricals, please, will you, Rodney?” asked
Cis. “I’ve been sorry I said I’d go, anyway; it’ll be kind of a cross
between a place where you’ve a right to go, and a place where you’re
intruding. I know ’em; they’re always like that! All the friends and
relations of the performers are there--like a funeral!--and they talk
across to one another, and look at a person as if they wondered how on
earth you broke in--selling tickets for a charity doesn’t calm ’em. But
what’s more, I ought not to go anywhere to-night, except to boarding
houses. I’ve got to find a place to live, if I’m going to stay in
Beaconhite; can’t stand $5.00 a day at this hotel, wouldn’t leave much
for--well, for having my shoes polished, for instance!” She stopped to
enjoy her own allusion with the liquid gurgle of laughter that did not
pass her throat, for which Rodney Moore had already learned to wait
with anticipation.
“But it is a nice salary to begin on, isn’t it? I knew Friday was my
lucky day! Found a jolly pal who suits me fine, and got my job! Wonder
if Christmas fell on Friday the year I was born?” Cis ended with
another little suppressed laugh.
“What a girl! You don’t mind letting a chap know that you think he’s
all right, and are glad that you found him, do you?” cried Rodney,
puzzled but admiring, somewhat piqued, nevertheless; such frankness was
prohibitive as well as welcoming.
“Don’t mind anything that’s honest! Besides, pals don’t flirt. You
didn’t say whether you’d let me off from the movies--I mean the
theatricals?” Cis said.
“What else can I do?” retorted Rodney. “If you don’t want to go, I’m
not going to force it. But as to boarding places, what’s the matter
with coming where I am? Funny old girl keeps it, but her heart’s so
big she has to cover it up. She sets a great table, and neat’s no word
for her! You could be as happy with one of her old-fashioned dinners
served on the floor as on the table, and her kitchen’s shining clean!
You’ll never find another place as good. I’ll speak to Miss Gallatin,
and engage the place for you; I know there’s a room empty now, though
it doesn’t often happen.”
“Good boy, Rodney Moore!” Cis approved him. “Then I won’t go hunting
board, but I don’t want to go to the theatricals. I’ll write Nan and
Miss Lucas.”
“You’re not bidding me run away and play by myself this first evening,
are you?” Rodney made a great show of consternation, but watched Cis.
“Not if you want to play with me,” Cis told him. “But how about those
theatricals? Thought you were booked for them.”
“Oh, bother the theatricals! I’ve bought two tickets and that’s all I’m
obliged to do about them,” declared Rodney. “I’d rather play with you;
you’re a discovery, Miss Cicely Adair.”
Then he remembered the handsome girl who was playing the leading part
in the theatricals that night, the girl who had social position,
wealth and glorious beauty, though not charm, nor more than a somewhat
minus allowance of brains, but in regard to whom G. Rodney Moore had
definite plans. He was surprised to find that he had forgotten Gertrude
Davenport till Cis indirectly reminded him of her; remembering her now,
her beauty did not seem so glorious as usual as his eyes rested on the
varied expression of Cis’s face. There was no denying that this new
girl had charm and to spare.
“A discovery? Well, if it comes to that, I’m not as sure as I’d like
to be that I’m the discovery; I suspect that I discovered you. Come
around, if you want to, and tell me what your Miss Gallagher says about
taking me to board; get her terms, and the whole thing. But if you
change your mind about the theatricals, it’s perfectly all right. Call
me up, though, please, because if I’m not going to your boarding house
I’ve got to hunt up another, start out early in the morning. I’ll look
for you at half past eight or so, but I’ll not mind a speck if you go
to your private theatricals. So don’t feel tied up.” Cis spoke with
crisp cheerfulness, having risen and begun moving toward the stairs,
her eyes on the clock behind the desk.
“H’m! Pleasant to be told you’re as welcome to be absent as to be
present, that you don’t matter a whoop!” grumbled Rodney, and meant it.
“I’ll be around, Miss Cicely, and don’t you forget it! I’d come, if it
was only to begin your lessons in finding me necessary! Congratulations
are in order, by the way; I forgot to offer them. You landed a big
fish when you landed the private secretaryship to Wilmer Lucas! We’ll
celebrate--when? To-morrow? Sunday?”
“Not to-morrow; I’ve got to get settled living somewhere, permanently,”
said Cis.
“Sunday, then? Do you lie late Sunday? Any objections to a pleasant
time on that day? I don’t suspect you of Puritanism! I myself get up
about noon on Sunday, but I’m ready to forego my needed rest and trot
you out in the forenoon. If not, we’ll lunch somewhere, and go for a
jolly time afterward,” suggested Rodney.
“Time enough to talk about Sunday,” returned Cis. “I usually get up
fairly early; Sunday, too, but I don’t spend the day psalm reading.
Run along; I’m busy. Let me know about Miss Gallagher by telephone, or
otherwise.”
“Otherwise; at eight-thirty sharp. By the way, it’s Gallatin, not
Gallagher. Good-bye, Holly. You’re a peach, and I’m glad we had our
shoes polished!” cried Rodney.
Cis laughed, and ran up the stairs, scorning the elevator. At the
landing she caught a glimpse of Rodney standing where she had left him,
watching her. She started to turn back to wave him a supplementary
farewell, but checked herself, and went on without betraying that
she knew he was still there. She finished her journey up the second
section of the stairway, wondering at herself. Never before in all her
life had she refused herself the expression of a friendly impulse. Was
it shyness? Could it be coquetry that had held her hand from that
last salute? She had never been shy; she scorned coquetry. “Air of
Beaconhite doesn’t agree with you, Cis, my dear old chap!” she warned
herself.
Miss Hannah Gallatin was a character, as Rodney had implied. She was
tall and gaunt, almost stern in manner, curt of word, severe, but there
was no kinder creature in the world than this lonely maiden woman who
had no one of kith nor kin on whom to lavish love, who therefore,
perhaps, had taught herself not to express it except by ceaseless deeds
of kindness, done as if they were penal.
She was a convert to the Catholic Church, one that would not have been
predicted, but Father Morley, of St. Francis’ church, himself the
son of a convert to the Old Faith, had many converts to his credit;
among them Hannah Gallatin, who, if she did not grace it in one sense,
certainly was an honor to it in all essential senses.
To this fine, though eccentric person G. Rodney Moore repaired upon
his return from the Beacon Head. In the course of his walk, meditating
upon Cicely Adair, he had warmed into a great admiration for her wit,
her charm, her kindliness, her unmistakable purity of thought and deed
below her boyish daring, which might easily be misunderstood. Therefore
the enthusiasm he felt for Cis escaped into his eyes and voice as he
laid before Miss Gallatin the need that “a friend of his” had of a good
home, a comfortable room, nice surroundings, “not the ordinary boarding
house,” he added, feeling himself diplomatically clever. “This Miss
Adair,” he went on to say, “is precisely the kind of girl whom Miss
Gallatin would like about; he felt proud to be the one to offer such a
perfect fit, from both points of view, for Miss Gallatin’s cozy room,
now vacant.”
“Oh!” said Miss Gallatin, regarding Rodney attentively. She did not
wholly like this one of her boarders, though she knew no justification
of her distrust. He had come to her, a stranger in the city; had been
regular in his goings and comings; orderly in the house; agreeable to
his fellow-guests; he never went to church, but Miss Gallatin knew that
in the present generation of Protestants this proved nothing worse
than that they had let go of the illogical anchorage of their fathers;
she did not know that G. Rodney’s last name had been drawn from that
green sod wherein church-going was a totally different matter. If
she had known that this Moore had been an Irish name in the time of
its present possessor’s great-grandfather, she would have exclaimed:
“There!” triumphantly, but she had no suspicion that Rodney Moore had
been brought up to go to Mass. “He did not show it,” as she might have
said. “Oh!” Miss Gallatin now exclaimed, adding at once: “Ah! Friend
of yours, you say? Schoolmate? How long’ve you known her? Live in
Beaconhite?”
“She is going to live here,” said Rodney, flushing, annoyed, trying
to hide it in order not to frustrate his own ends. “She has just come
here, five days ago. She is to be Wilmer Lucas’ secretary; his brother
sent her to him, and she’s not the sort of girl to chum in with all
sorts. She’s an awfully nice girl, Miss Gallatin; just your kind!”
“Like me?” hinted Miss Gallatin. “Character or looks? About my
complexion and figure, I’ll bet a dollar! Can’t be quite my age. How
long did you say you’d known her?”
“Not long,” said Rodney. “But I know her well; she’s that frank sort
that hasn’t a thing to hide; fearless, straight, boyish, but not
tom-boyish--get the idea? I’m perfectly sure you’ll like her beyond
anything. I’ll bring her around this evening; she’s at the Head. You
can let her see the room, arrange terms, give her a look over with your
eagle eye--and the thing’s done! I’d like her in the house, of course;
she’s the kind of girl that is like a nice sister, chummy, helpful, if
you get me? But for her own sake I want her here, where you’ll give her
just what she needs in every way. I’ll bring her around; I told her I’d
see her after dinner to-night.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” declared Miss Gallatin. “You told me
you had tickets for the theatricals. Isn’t Gertrude Davenport in ’em?
Forgotten all about it? Met this new girl for the first time to-day,
I’ll wager! She must be something of a cyclone! You needn’t bring her
around, Mr. G. Rodney Moore; I’m not going to let my vacant room to
her, whether all you say of her is true, or whether it isn’t!”
“You’re not willing so much as to show it to her? To meet her? Strange
way to act, Miss Gallatin! I am justified in resenting it,” said
Rodney with dignity.
“Nothing of the sort!” cried Miss Gallatin briskly. “Don’t have
theatricals here; better go to them. She may be a nice girl, but the
nicer she is the more reason for keeping her out of the same house
where the young man boards whom she got acquainted with, dear knows
how! I wouldn’t consider taking her, not if every room but yours was
vacant! So that’s settled.”
“She is a fine girl, I tell you! She’s not exactly pretty, but she has
the sort of face you like to watch, and her hair is a wonder; loads
of bright coppery red hair, and she is full of jolly, kiddish fun,
straight and good. I respect her like everything. Good gracious, Miss
Gallatin, I’m over thirty; do you suppose I don’t know a nice girl when
I see one and talk to her unreservedly? I respect Miss Adair as much
as I admire her!” cried Rodney, surprised later on to find how much he
cared about the defence of Cicely.
“Right! Keep on respecting her,” said Miss Gallatin. “Send her to Mrs.
Wallace’s; she keeps a good house, sets a good table, good’s mine. I
won’t have her here. Hold on a minute, Mr. Moore! Send her around to
talk with me to-morrow, sometime. I won’t let her board here, but I’ll
take her to see Mrs. Wallace. If she can’t come to-morrow, send her
Sunday. Don’t you take her to Mrs. Wallace’s; I will. She’s a stranger
here, going to work for Mr. Lucas where she’ll be noticed. Don’t start
her wrong by escorting her to look up her boarding place. People are
queer things; they’re more than likely to hope for the worst. Send
the girl to me. I won’t take her in here, but I’ll do by her as I’d
want done by me, if I was a young Hannah Gallatin, setting out to
earn my living in a strange place. From what you say of her, she’s a
conspicuous sort of girl that people with keen palates for gossip will
be likely to lick to get a flavor of delicious suspicion! That’s the
best I can do and say, so take yourself off, Mr. Moore, if you please;
I’ve got my weekly accounts to make up, and it’s always a trial to my
eyes, and my nerves, also my temper--of course, after the other two!”
There was nothing for Rodney to do but to accept defeat with as much
grace as he could summon. There was consolation in the thought that
Miss Gallatin was willing to see Cicely, though only to conduct her to
a rival house. He hoped that seeing her, Miss Gallatin might yield her
position; he felt entire confidence in Cicely’s ability to win anyone’s
complete trust and liking. There was no denying that Miss Gallatin was
a wise and kind dragon in her guardianship of this girl whom she had
never seen.
Sunday morning Cicely betook herself to Mass at eight o’clock, keeping
up her old hour, reflecting with a sense of bewilderment that only the
previous Sunday she had heard Mass in the only church which, up to this
time, she had ever known, and that Nan was with her, and that she had
returned with her into the familiar Dowling household, where young
Tom gloomed over their near parting and Mrs. Dowling lectured her on
probable dangers which clearly implied her own deficiencies. And now
she was beginning life in Beaconhite, uprooted, yet already replanted,
on a larger salary, in promising conditions. She had a new friend with
whom she was to do something new and pleasant that afternoon. She was a
lucky Cis, she thought, kneeling, without much concentration upon it,
before the altar, well in the front of the church of St. Francis Xavier
at the eight o’clock Mass.
The priest who said this Mass was not young; he was remarkably tall,
his shoulders contracted from the reading habit; his hair grey; his
eyes deep-set and glowing with singular light; his nose large and
handsome; his mouth finely cut, somewhat sad, yet ready to smile, as
Cis found out when he turned to his people and began to speak after
the reading of the Gospel. A remarkable man, whom Cis began to watch
intently, feeling at once attracted and repulsed by him, as if she
sensed in him the implanted power of the Holy Ghost which all who
knew Father Morley said was his gift, the power that reads souls and
irresistibly draws them.
Once Cis was sure that the priest’s eyes met her own, full and
steadily; that he knew her for a stranger, and measured her. She liked
him, yet she feared him; coming out of the church slowly, borne by the
pressure of the immense throng into the outer air, she was conscious of
relief, and was glad that it “was not her way to know the priest; that
one was----”
Someone touched her arm, a tall, thin, stern looking woman, with
clear, kindly eyes, at whom Cis looked questioningly, her formulation
of Father Morley suspended. “Are you Miss Adair, I wonder?” asked the
woman.
“Yes; Cicely Adair,” replied Cis.
“I saw you were a stranger. Taking your hair, and all together, I
thought you must be the girl Mr. Moore talked to me about taking. I’m
Miss Gallatin, Hannah Gallatin. Come home with me; I’m going to get
you a good boarding place, but not in my house. Fasting?” said Miss
Gallatin, speaking with a sort of crisp rapidity.
“No; I had breakfast at the hotel as soon as the doors were opened,”
said Cis. “Mr. Moore said you didn’t want me, because he knew me, or
words to that effect.”
“Neither do I, though I see he judged you right; G. Rodney always
struck me as a man who could judge a woman accurately,” said Miss
Gallatin. “Didn’t suppose you’d turn out to be a Catholic. Convert,
like myself?”
“No,” said Cis. “I was born one; I’m several kinds of races, all
Catholic, except my mother, and she had English blood; half of her
blood was English Protestant. But none of my people came from their old
countries lately; they were all great or still greater grandparents
who came over here, so I’m quite thoroughly American, as things go.
Goodness, I don’t care a rap about such things! I’m here, Cis Adair,
and what do I care!”
“Verse?” asked Miss Gallatin.
“No; worse! Just a fluke; it does rhyme, doesn’t it?” laughed Cis.
“Rod said you wanted to steer me to a house you knew about, though you
wouldn’t have me in yours. Kind of you, Miss Gallatin--at least half of
it is!”
“It surely is, and it’s the half you don’t mean!” agreed Miss Gallatin.
“I’ve had no breakfast. Come with me, and after I’ve seen to my
household, and eaten, I’ll take you to Mrs. Wallace. Mr. Moore never
gets up till noon, Sundays; you won’t see him. You call him Rod; known
him long?”
“Mercy yes! Forty-eight hours!” Cis’s laugh rang out. “You see, Miss
Gallatin, I’ve been out in the world, earning my living since I was
old enough to earn it, and that was early, because I was always quick
to learn, and I was about twenty when I was fourteen. I’ve always had
boy friends, and I’m not a bit afraid to chum with them. I’ve some
good girl friends, chiefly one, but it’s the nice boy who always takes
you as you want to be taken. So when I met Rod Moore we fell right
together; I was getting green-lonely, and I’m pleased as pleasure to
have him like me and see me on my way.”
“I see!” Miss Gallatin evidently did see, yet Cis felt that her
agreement was noncommittal, involving something that she did not
understand. “I like you, too, Cis--did you say Cis?--Adair, and I hope
you’ll let me help you out, if ever Beaconhite gets too tight for you;
presses on any sore spot.”
“Haven’t one!” cried Cis. “Thanks, Miss Gallatin; I like you, and I
didn’t like you one bit till I saw you! I suppose it’s all right of you
to shove me off, but it isn’t sensible, either; I could board in the
house with all my boy chums, be the only girl in the offing, and it
would go as smooth as silk.”
“You may have knocked about the world, as you say you have, Cis Adair,
and you may have been twenty at fourteen, but at twenty-two--I’d
guess?--you are four in some ways, and your experience is by no means
rounded out,” said Miss Gallatin oracularly. “Prudence is one of the
gifts of the Holy Ghost, my dear, as your catechism taught you, and
it’s one of His most valuable gifts to attractive young women, left
alone in the world.”
“I don’t remember much catechism, Miss Gallatin,” said honest Cis, with
her happy laugh. “I learned some of it when I was confirmed, but I’m
not much of a Catholic. Of course I’d never be a Protestant,” she added
hastily, “but my religion doesn’t bother me much.”
“No; it wasn’t founded for that purpose,” returned Miss Gallatin. “I
wonder how you will be taught to value it? You’ve got to learn, of
course you know that.”
Cis looked at her startled, and she was silent for a moment in which
her mind went out toward an invisible, infinite track, down which
sorrow and suffering, vague, threatening, nameless, molding events,
were advancing upon her. Cicely Adair, fearless, free, strong,
independent, would be tamed, bound, caught, crushed, perhaps; signed by
the cross, and thus learn its meaning.
Cicely shook off the fear that gripped her, the first fear that in all
her life had ever assaulted her deep in her heart. Why had it thus
assailed her? What had made her vulnerable to a shaft from the hand of
this gaunt woman, past middle age, whose effects were almost grotesque?
Cis threw back her radiant head with a short, unmirthful laugh.
“Did they name you Hannah because you were going to be a prophetess,
Miss Gallatin?” she asked.
CHAPTER VII
CODES
Cicely had been three weeks in the service of Mr. Wilmer Lucas, four
weeks a resident of Beaconhite. Although it lacked three days of
being a calendar month the time seemed to her to stretch indefinitely
backward into such length, that she had to stop to reckon up how long
it actually had been. New experiences were crowding upon her, filling
each day with interests so absorbing that the hours sped by, yet left
a residue of the effect of more than twice their duration. Cicely was
conscious of changes wrought upon herself by these swiftly passing
days, changes so far undefined, yet not the less perceptible.
For one thing, her new friendship was proving interesting as none other
had ever before interested her. Cicely had had many friends among the
boys, and, later, among the young men of her acquaintance, but though
they had been “jolly good fun,” as she put it, they were not especially
interesting. She was easily the dominant one in every case; the chief
interest afforded her by these youths was when they temporarily spoiled
her theory of perfect comradeship between the sexes, which was devoid
of sentiment, by falling in love with her, but this, although it
interested her, displeased her. She invariably swung back into her
faith in the possibility of a chum of the opposite sex, but it was
annoying to find it so often a theory that failed only in its workings.
In G. Rodney Moore, Cicely had a friend of a totally new sort. He was
older than she was, for one thing; he had seen immensely more of the
world than she had, for another; he had read more than she had, let
alone than any of her previous male friends. Most of all, he had an
easy certainty of himself; an amused toleration of her insufficiently
grounded opinions; a ready wit; great charm of face, voice and manner,
so that, for the first time, Cicely found herself by no means able to
hold the ascendency over him with which she had set out dealing with
him, which had always, heretofore, been hers in dealing with young men.
And, being essentially feminine beneath her boyish ways, she liked
the man who dominated, while he admired her. There was much of the
excitement of exploration for her in advancing constantly farther into
friendship with this man.
Her work was also opening out new vistas to Cicely, daily demanding
from her hitherto dormant capacity, skill of hand, but far more
quickness of brain, judgment, discretion, all-around intelligence.
It was transforming her day by day; although she did not definitely
recognize this, yet its effect upon her was to increase the
bewilderment of mind with which she was adjusting to new conditions,
and to what was to prove the greatest experience of her life.
Cicely had been well educated with reference to practical ends; she
and Nan had been superior to the majority of the girls amid whom they
were employed; their position in the telephone exchange had been
honorable, but not dignified. Now Cicely found herself surrounded by
the portentous dignity of the private office of a lawyer who was, at
the same time, a bank president, _the_ great man of the city.
Solid men, both physically and financially solid, came to consult Mr.
Lucas; Cis was gravely saluted by them as they entered and departed;
she heard matters discussed which her keen wits soon showed her were
of gravest importance in the money market, even in national affairs.
All her former days had been lighted by nonsense for which she found
opportunity among her companions; fun and nonsense were as the breath
of life to Cicely Adair. Now from nine till four there was not only
a complete dearth of opportunity to play, but the mere thought of
trifling within those solemn, mahogany wainscoted walls, intruded like
a profanation.
Cis was expected to be well-dressed, perfectly groomed--but this was
natural to her. She was expected to take down any sort of dictation
correctly, even to the dictation that she be elegantly correct in
manner, reserved, silent, yet devoted, and this dictation was never
given her directly but by the assumption that she was all these things.
“I’m getting turned into a regular heavy damask, ten dollars a square
inch,” she told Rodney.
It was true that this outward pressure inevitably had an inward effect
upon the girl, yet nothing could ever quite subdue her native sense of
humor, her frank friendliness to all the world.
“Miss Adair,” said Mr. Lucas one morning, “I have waited till we were
mutually assured of your permanence in this office before initiating
you into one of its secrets. You are quite sure that you desire to
remain with me?”
“If I suit you, Mr. Lucas,” answered Cis. “I’m happy here, but I’m not
sure how I’m coming on.”
“Satisfactorily, Miss Adair. On my part there is no question of
severing the connection. Are you settled upon continuing?” Mr. Lucas
looked at Cicely kindly, and she blushed with pleasure.
“Yes, Mr. Lucas,” she said. “I’m settled upon settling.”
“Ah!” her employer smiled. “Then I am going to ask you to learn the
office code.”
“Code?” repeated Cis.
“We are often involved in cases which would be disastrous to great
interests if they were known to the public. The mails are safe enough,
and yet, like all human arrangements, they may sometimes miscarry.
Mr. Henderson; our senior clerk, Mr. Saunders; our office in Chicago,
and Washington, and myself use a code in relation to these affairs
known only to the principals in our Chicago and Washington offices,
and the three persons in this office whom I have mentioned. We have
decided to have you learn the code, to use it when occasion arises in
correspondence with our other two offices. Will you learn this code,
Miss Adair, and are you willing to give your solemn pledge that under
no circumstances, to no human being, will you ever disclose it?” Mr.
Lucas explained, and waited for Cicely’s reply.
She looked at him with widening eyes, her brilliant eyes, dark, of a
color that was hard to determine, varying with her mood and as the
light struck into them.
“Sounds like a dandy detective story!” Cis said involuntarily. “Yes,
I’ll learn the code, provided I can learn it, and of course I’ll never
teach it to anyone else. How do I learn it?”
“It is set down in a sort of chart; you will study it here, of course;
the chart must not go out of the office. There is an alphabet connected
with it; I am afraid that you will find it troublesome, but I should
like you to master it. By the way, my brother has become a Roman
Catholic; his family is brought up in that religion; do you happen to
be a Romanist?” Mr. Lucas frowned slightly as he asked the question.
“Yes, Mr. Lucas; I’m a Catholic,” said Cis. “Why, please?”
“Always running to confession? Asking advice of the priest on every
known and unknown point, I suppose! What about the code and its
secrecy?” said Mr. Lucas.
Cis laughed outright. “Never asked a priest’s advice on anything in all
my life; don’t go to confession more than twice a year. I don’t know
what you mean about the code, Mr. Lucas,” she said.
“You Romanists are a difficult lot to adjust to,” said Mr. Lucas. “I
strongly object to the principle which is fundamental with you, of
laying down your liberty of thought, being subject to a man, taking
your opinions from an elevated priest over in Rome and acting on them
at the dictation of a lot of half-educated common priests over here.
Yet when you don’t keep up with the practices of your Church, you are a
worthless lot, not often trustworthy. I make an exception of you, Miss
Adair; I am satisfied that you are trustworthy, though, apparently,
you are what I’ve heard your co-religionists call ‘an indifferent
Catholic.’ Perhaps you are on your way out of Romanism? It would be a
consummation devoutly to be wished. As to the code and its secrecy,
what I meant is this: Suppose a priest wanted to get hold of it--they
are great people for dipping their oar into other people’s waters and
muddying them! Suppose a matter concerning politics, or the like, were
afoot, and a priest heard of our code, in which we should correspond on
such affairs--they are great people for finding out things that no one
could ever have imagined their knowing! Suppose this priest, as I was
saying, heard of our code and bade you in the confessional reveal it to
him, what would you do?”
Again Cis laughed, this time with such heartiness, such manifest
enjoyment of an absurdity that Mr. Lucas was already answered by her
mirth.
“Why, Mr. Lucas,” cried Cis, “you don’t know how funny that is, really
you don’t! I go to confession at Easter, usually at Christmas; it’s my
birthday, too. And there’s a regular mob; it’s all the priests can do
to get them all heard. Imagine one of them holding up the line while he
talked code to me! How would he know I was in your office, anyway? I
wouldn’t have to confess that; you only have to confess sins, and it’s
not a sin to be employed here, Mr. Lucas! Why the poor priests try to
get in a word of advice to you, and tell you what your penance is, but
they can’t always do much more than say about ten words to you! No fear
of the code getting talked over! Honest, Mr. Lucas, that’s _funny_!”
Mr. Lucas looked as though he were not sure that this was not
impertinence on Cis’s part, but he decided to accept it for what it
actually was, bubbling amusement over a mistake that struck her as
absurd.
“Well, I’ve certainly never confessed,” he admitted, “nor ever shall,
but I still think, though my supposition is outside your experience so
far, that the case is entirely possible. What I want to know is what
you would do if such a demand arose?”
“Hold my tongue, of course; what else could I do?” replied Cis with
convincing promptitude. “He’d have no right to try to get it out of me,
and I’d have no right to tell him.”
The code was put into Cicely’s hands the next day, her duties so
arranged that she should have time for its study. To her chagrin she
found it difficult, although her difficulty was usually in learning too
fast to be secure of retention, rather than in acquiring her tasks.
The third day of work on the code left her still uncertain of it when
she quitted the office at four o’clock to go with Rodney Moore on a
part aquatic, part walking expedition up the river in his boat, out
through a lovely wooded country to a knowing little restaurant whither
Beaconhite people loved to repair to dine. A letter from Nan had come
to add to Cis’s depression; she set forth with a marked diminution of
her usual blitheness, although this expedition with Rodney, in the
height of the foliage season in October, had been anticipated by her
for two weeks. When Rodney met her at Mrs. Wallace’s he instantly
marked the shadow on Cis’s face; he was quick to note every change in
that variable face which was rapidly becoming the goal of his feet, the
image hourly before his memory.
“Anything wrong, Holly-Berry? You haven’t so much of your usual effect
of Christmas-all-the-year-around! I thought of that last night, Cis,
that you were a sort of perpetual Merry Christmas; your joyousness was
probably a birthday gift to you,” Rodney said, pulling her hand through
his arm with unmistakable satisfaction.
“That’s nice, Rod!” Cis cried. “I’d like to be a Merry Christmas sort
of thing. No, there’s nothing wrong. I’ll tell you when we get to the
place where you’re taking me, or while we’re rowing.”
“Tell me exactly how there’s nothing wrong, Holly? I knew your lights
were slightly dimmed. How you show your feelings!” Rod laughed with
satisfaction in this proof of their intimacy, that he could instantly
discern Cicely’s moods.
“Caught me that time! But it’s nothing, truly. That old code bothers
me; never tackled anything else that wouldn’t stay by me over night!
The alphabet is ridiculous; little scriggles going one way, crossed by
little scriggles going the other way--and they’d all look exactly as
well, or as crazy!--reversed! I get to wondering why they don’t go the
other way about, and then I can’t remember which way they _do_ go! But
of course I’ll get them fastened down soon; it’s not worth bothering
over, Rory, my pal.” Cis beamed on Rodney, liking his sympathy.
“Rory?” queried Rodney.
“Sure-ly! Rory O’Moore, don’t you know? That’s really your name; it
came to me this morning while I was getting ready to go out!” Cis
laughed softly.
“Oh, by jiminy, Cis, I don’t care what you call me if you’ll think of
me so frequently. It means I’m getting on the inside!” Rodney’s delight
was unmistakable. “Are you Kathleen bawn?”
Cis shook her head. “Why?” she asked, then blushed fiercely as the
words of the old song came to her: “Rory O’Moore courted Kathleen bawn.”
Before she was called upon to speak, just as Rodney murmured:
“Rory O’Moore courted Kathleen bawn:
He was bold as the day, she as fair as the morn,”
an extraordinarily handsome girl, sumptuously dressed, beyond the
strict propriety of a walking costume, swung around the corner which
they were about to cross and almost ran into Cicely and Rodney.
“Why, Gertrude--Miss Davenport!” exclaimed Rodney.
“Oh, good evening, Mr. Moore; I beg your pardon.” The handsome girl’s
glance swept Cis from head to foot. “Glad I wore my pongee,” thought
Cis, reflecting with satisfaction on the lines of her tailor-made
skirt and gown, its fine linen collar and cuffs with their exquisite
hand-wrought scallop and corners.
“Awfully glad to meet you, Miss Davenport,” Rodney continued. “I’ve
wanted you to meet Miss Adair. Please waive convention, and let a man
give you two girls a street introduction. Miss Davenport, this is Miss
Cicely Adair, a recent and great acquisition to Beaconhite. Cicely,
this is our city’s pride, which is not at all the same thing as civic
pride.”
Rodney knew that he was speaking nervously, and that his would-be
cleverness halted at its intention.
Gertrude Davenport nodded, a crisp nod, her head held sidewise, an
amused smile on her lips.
“Delighted to waive ceremony, of course. Hope you like Beaconhite, Miss
Dare. We may meet again; hope so. I’m not going your way, and am in
a hurry. Good evening, Mr. Moore, I began to think you were no more;
glad to see you are still in town, alive, you know. I’ve been awfully
occupied lately, but I’ll receive you if you wish to come to the house
where you heretofore spent practically _all_ your time; dad’s rather
grateful for one less to disturb him! He says he’s glad he has only
_one_ daughter!” Gertrude Davenport laughed, but her large, full eyes
flashed fire.
“He couldn’t hope to have two like Gertrude; his other one, if she’d
been born, would have had to wait till Gertrude was out of the way
to be visible. Thanks, Miss Davenport; I’ve been waiting my chance,
but I’ll get it soon, and you’ll see me disturbing the pater!” Rodney
assured her, with an unfortunate note of condolence in his voice.
“Thanks; so good of you! Good-bye!” Again Gertrude nodded crisply,
sidewise, without more notice of Cis than another swift, comprehensive
glance. Then she went rapidly on in her original direction.
Rodney laughed and tucked Cis’s hand into his arm. He had been weighing
in his mind the overwhelming attraction which Cis possessed for him,
against the great advantages which a marriage with Gertrude Davenport
included: Wealth, social position, solid business connections, through
her father; not least a wife so handsome that wherever he appeared
with her all the other men would turn to look at her, envying him. But
now that Gertrude, in all her splendor of face and form and raiment
had suddenly appeared beside Cis, Cis’s irregular, winsome face, her
merry kindliness, her clear-eyed purity of heart, mind and purpose so
overtopped all Gertrude’s advantages, that he knew at once that there
could be no more debate in his mind as to which girl he wanted to
marry. Debate! Why, what was gold beside Cicely’s copper hair? What
social position beside such a comrade? What regular beauty beside
Cis’s charm? As to money, he could earn all that he needed. Rodney
knew that his mind was made up for him by the gravity weight of Cicely
Adair, drawing him; to do him justice he was suddenly glowing with an
unworldly and genuine love for the girl, resolved to win her with such
desire that there was no question of sacrifice for that end.
“Miss Davenport doesn’t like red hair, perhaps?” hinted Cis demurely.
“Perhaps not, Holly. Perhaps she likes to do her own liking, solo. But
if you ask me, I don’t think it matters to the value of one of those
red hairs, what Miss Davenport doesn’t like, nor--which is far more
important--what she does like,” Rodney said.
Cis raised her eyebrows; she had not missed symptoms, and she was
accurate in their diagnosis.
“It’s a world of changes, Rory O’Moore,” she said. “A wise girl accepts
them, and, if she’s still wiser, she looks for the next change.”
“You young sinner! Do you mean--”
“Sinners aren’t prophets, Rod; never mind what I mean,” Cis interrupted
him.
Rodney pressed her hand in the crook of his elbow; they both laughed
and went on their way rejoicing, Rodney exuberantly light-hearted, as
if he had just fallen into a fortune, or had escaped a threatening
danger.
Arrived at their ultimate destination, after a pleasant row up the
river, Rodney inducted Cicely to the pretty glade of which he had
told her, and placed her comfortably upon a low knoll. The blaze of
autumn-tinted maples, oaks and sumacs was all around them, so beautiful
that Cis caught her breath, then laughed to cover the emotion which
dimmed her eyes.
“I wonder how it can be so much more beautiful than we can take in!”
she said. “It gives me no chance at all, though; makes even my hair
look drab!”
“Drab! I’d say so!” agreed Rodney derisively. “Cis-Holly, how about
that code? I’ll help you with it, if you like; I’m a bird at things of
that sort.”
“Can’t be done, Rod! I’m under the solemnest, swearingest vow to keep
that to myself. I’ll master it by to-morrow; I’m sure it will jump into
my brain suddenly when it gets ready,” Cis answered, thanking him with
a smile.
“Something else is shading you,” Rodney reminded her. “Said you’d tell
me here.”
“It’s nothing to shade me, really; I ought to be glad: it’s Nan,” Cis
said slowly.
“Nan? Anything wrong with her?” Rodney asked; he knew Nan by repute.
“No. But there is a youth, quite a nice youth, who has been tagging on
after her for some time, and I’ve noticed that he was overhauling her,
creeping right up on her. And she has written me that he has asked her
to marry him, and she has told him that she would give him his answer
in a week; she wants me to tell her which answer to give,” Cis spoke
disconsolately.
“Must be a great girl if she has to ask another girl whether she wants
to marry a man or not!” exclaimed Rodney. “He’d be tickled pink if he
knew it, probably! What shall you bid her say?”
“Oh, as to that, she knows what she is going to say; that’s only a
natural balking, natural to Nan, anyway!” Cis smiled. “I’ll tell her
to say yes. She’s fond of him, and he truly is all right; ever so much
better than most fellows.”
“What do you know about ‘most fellows,’ Holly? Then, if it’s all right,
why do you look downcast over it?” Rodney naturally inquired.
“Silliness,” responded Cis promptly. “But I’m fond of Nannie; no girl
likes to see her best friend marry. It isn’t grudging her happiness,
it’s, it’s,--I don’t know what it is, but it hurts.”
“Well, heaven knows, marriage is a bad thing to go into in half the
cases, and at least half of the other half are dragging, defeating,
miserable endurance. It isn’t the girl that needs all the pity and
anxiety; believe me, marriage is rough on a man, too. The only comfort
is that it’s easy enough to slough it off; you can usually get a
divorce, luckily!” Rodney spoke so bitterly that Cis stared at him.
“Is marriage so awful?” she asked. “It isn’t because I ever thought
that it was such a fearful risk, that I’m sorry about Nan; it separates
us more than my coming to Beaconhite does. But divorce is horrible, at
least Nan would never think of it; she’s a devout Catholic, and so is
Joe Hamilton, whom she’ll marry. Have you known marriages that turned
out so bad as you say?”
“Rather!” Rodney’s brevity made his answer more emphatic, and Cis
wondered at the grim look upon his face. “Poor Rod, it must have been
his mother! I’ve thought that he didn’t want to talk of her,” she told
herself. Then, to banish that grimness, she jumped up and cried: “Let’s
explore a little, Rod; then we must start back; already it gets dark
early, and I’m going to be hungry in six and a half minutes, precisely!”
“You can’t have anything to eat for fifteen minutes!” Rodney laughed,
throwing off seriousness and triumphing in Cis’s surprise that food
were within a quarter of an hour’s accessibility. “Did you observe that
camera, as you thought it, that black case? It holds a light supper, my
ruddy Holly, to preserve your life till a solid one is to be had. Now
tell me I’m careless of your comfort, am mean, and not a good provider!”
“Never shall I tell you that, Rory O’Moore! I never knew anyone so
thoughtful. It’s fun to take a snack out here, but, please, I don’t
want to stay late, Rod!” Cis said.
“Will you go out on Sunday for the whole day? Start early? I’ll get
up at half past six; we’ll be off before eight--and I can’t give a
stronger proof of how I rate the privilege of a day with you in the
autumn glories!” Rodney smiled, yet meant it.
“I couldn’t start before--let’s see! Eight, nine--about quarter to
ten, Rod. I’d love to go, though,” Cis answered.
“Too late; the train we’d take leaves at 8:20. Why can’t you get off as
early as I can? You rise early Sundays, you told me; I don’t.” Rodney
looked vexed.
“Well, there’s Mass,” said Cis. “I always go at eight; it’s the first
one.”
“Mass!” Rodney fairly shouted the word. “Good heavens, _Mass_! I never
once suspected you of that! Are you a holy Roman?”
“Not holy; just a Roman,” Cis corrected him. “Neither did I suspect
you of prejudices, of minding what I was. I used to miss Mass once in
a while, but I knew better, and when I came away I promised Nan I’d go
every Sunday, unless I positively could not go. I don’t bother much
with religion, but I keep inside the Church, sort of on the last step,
in the vestibule!”
“Cut it out, Cicely!” cried Rodney. “Drop the thing. You aren’t the
girl to let stuff that no one knows a thing about get hold of you.
It’s silly to hang on to a chimera, and it’s dishonest, cowardly to
be afraid to chuck it. Make a break right here, Cis, and come with
me early next Sunday morning. I used to learn catechism myself; I’ve
learned now that no one has any right to try to teach it. Chuck that
nonsense, brave, free, honest Cis; believe me, you’d better! And it
only means being honest with yourself; if you believed in it, you’d
never hang around that last step of yours.”
Cicely looked at him gravely, with troubled eyes. Then she said slowly:
“I’ve often thought exactly what you say, Rod; I’m afraid I’m not
honest. Then again I think I am honest in trying to keep hold. You
know there’s something in the Gospel about there being virtue in the
hem of the garment; I don’t like to drop the wee edge I’m holding.
It’s something like the code, you know, Rodney dear; I can’t learn it
easily, but I’d never think of giving it away--don’t you see?”
“Cis, Cis, Cis, _drop_ it! It’s a danger; it’s your enemy, it’s my
enemy! That horrible system will wreck your life! Cis, for my sake,
in pity say you’ll come with me on Sunday, and cut out the Mass! Cis,
it’s a test, Cis; you _must_ come! Cis, Cis, for my sake?” Rodney spoke
quite wildly, crushing her hands in his.
Cis looked at him, frightened, and then a great tenderness flooded her
face, a look that it had never worn before.
“All that isn’t true, Rod; it is sheer nonsense, but one Sunday can’t
matter. I’ll go with you, if you care so much to have me,” she said
gently. Then as if a new fear came upon her, she added: “Dear old pal
of mine!” hiding behind a phrase.
CHAPTER VIII
CABLE STRANDS
That night Cis took the pins out of her hair and let it fall around
her, like a screen of molten metal which miraculously could envelop and
not sear her. It shone above her white petticoat and over her bare arms
and shoulders so resplendent that it was a pity that there was none to
see it, though Cis felt no such regret. She did not consciously see
herself as she stood before her mirror, letting down her Brünhilde-like
tresses; her mind was filled with other thoughts, and she turned from
the glass to switch off the electric light the better to follow out
these thoughts and their conclusions.
She went over to the window and seated herself in a low chair, her
right foot boyishly resting on her left knee that she might easily
remove its shoe, but having removed it she absent-mindedly let it drop
on the floor and stroked her silk-stockinged instep, forgetful that
normally one takes off its mate when one shoe has been removed.
Cis was reliving her outing with Rodney that afternoon; it gave her
food for new and serious thought. Rodney had definite and adverse views
in regard to religion from her views and, apparently, he was especially
adverse to hers, to the Old Faith. This surprised her. She had thought
of him as indifferent, with an indifference not greatly unlike her own,
the difference being that she was indifferent within her faith, while
he was indifferent outside of any faith; the difference between two
persons without an appetite, one seated at a table, the other resting
in an ante-room. Yet this was an exaggeration of the situation as she
had previously conceived it. Cis meant to keep her Faith, somewhat as
one keeps a valuable piece of lace, not letting it get lost, but not
often getting it out of its storage drawer. Rod, however, had pleaded
with her, speaking with impassioned earnestness, not to adhere to the
Church, to cast it off as a shackle. She had been amazed to find that
he cared, violently desired to get her to drop out of her Church. Why
did he? What difference could it make to him that she held to it,
provided that it did not get in the way of their friendship? If she
bothered him with it, tried to convince him of its truth, let it come
between them in any way, behaved about it as Nan would, for instance,
Rod might justly consider it a nuisance, but as it was, why did he
mind? He had said that he had once learned catechism. What catechism?
Episcopalian? Cis thought that Lutherans, and Presbyterians also, had a
catechism, but she was not conversant with the ways of the Protestant
sects. It could not have been the Catholic catechism? In that case
Rod himself had once been to Mass, had probably been instructed and
received the Sacraments as she had. But this was not likely; Cis did
not believe that G. Rodney Moore had ever been within the Church.
Perhaps poor Cis found it hard to believe that anyone who had ever been
actually within her could ever be actually outside of her.
She had promised Rod to go with him out into the country early on
Sunday morning, to do which she would omit Mass. A mortal sin? That
was what she had been taught, but she had missed Mass before, for less
cause. Poor Rod! He had so eagerly begged her to do this for him!
He showed such intense feeling about it; it seemed to matter to him
beyond the intrinsic importance of taking that special train, going
to that particular place on this coming Sunday. Again: why? But how
could it be a mortal sin to gratify the dear fellow? She was not going
to give up the Church, of course, but it did go rather far in some
things, notably in the matter of turning meat-eating on forbidden
days, and Mass-omission on commanded days into a mortal sin. She
intended to remain a Catholic, but it could hardly be that missing Mass
deliberately on a Sunday would shut one out of heaven if she died that
night unshriven, uncontrite. She hated to break her promise to Nan for
the first time; she would write Nan in the morning and tell her that
she should not be at Mass on Sunday, but not to mind; she would go
other Sundays. It was fair to let Nan know that she was breaking her
promise; letting her know seemed to lessen the breach of faith with
nice Nannie. She must also hasten to advise her to marry Joe Hamilton.
Funny little Nannie! As though she would not marry him anyway! Nan
was fond of him, Cis was sure of that, fond enough of him to predict
the marriage happy, but Cis thought that she might have been equally
fond of another nice boy; Joe was a nice boy. It was all right for
Nannie; Cis recognized in her the woman whose children would be the
absorbing devotion of her life, her husband would be sure to drift
pleasantly into second place. It was all right for Nan, but it would
not do for Cis! If ever she married it would be a man whose presence
blinded her to all other creatures; whose life and death included
her own; she would worship him, live for him, breathe in him, count
nothing costly that contributed to his welfare, even to his pleasure.
She would be good to her children, love them, look after them to the
best of her ability, but--weigh them in the scale with her husband?
Preposterous! She would be first of all what Eve was to Adam, his
mate superaboundingly. Why had that handsome, bad-tempered Davenport
girl acted as she had acted? She wanted Rod. Why did she? Cis felt a
fierce sort of fury toward her, and clutched Rod in her thoughts; she
gloated over him and over the thought that the Davenport girl could
not take him from her. She had never before been dominated for even
an instant by an unreasoning, overpowering hatred for a person, as if
she would cut her down as she stood, if she moved hand or foot upon
her preserves. _Her_ preserves! What did it mean? Jealous? But what
did that mean? Of all things, what did _that_ mean? She, free, frank,
comradely Cis Adair, whom all the boys had liked, who had liked them
all in return, whose pulses had never quickened at the thought or sight
of any one of them, much less her heart contracted as hers did now in
thinking of this.
Cis was not stupid; she knew what it meant. With a great wave of
terror, of resistance, of joy, of triumph, of profound humility, she
laid her head down on her bare white arms, folded on the window sill,
and her splendid red hair fell over her as the outward symbol of the
royal garment which she had donned, the vestment of her womanhood.
For Cicely knew that she had come into the kingdom of her own self,
her life’s crisis. Never again should she be the old careless, free,
light-hearted Cis. A loss, perhaps, but at what a gain! She lifted her
face, wet as the light of the street electricity fell upon it, and
pushed back her masses of red-gold hair from her hot cheeks.
“Miss Mass for him! Yes, oh, yes! I’d lose my soul for him, if it
would make him happy!” she cried aloud, rising to her full height and
stretching her arms upward with a royal gesture, as though she at once
renounced and received.
Cis arose early the next morning to carry out her intention to write to
Nan. She wrote rapidly, at gossipy length, on a writing case resting
on her knee, seated at the window where she had sat long on the night
before.
She told Nan all about events in the office; her struggles with the
code; about women boarding at Mrs. Wallace’s, whose idiosyncrasies
she touched off to the life, with merry ridicule which was keen, yet
not unkind. Only at the end of the letter she turned serious. “Nannie,
dear,” she wrote, “of course I say marry Joe, though I’m mean enough
to be a little sorry to let you marry anyone. If you love him, that
is all. You must love him, or you would not consider it at all. He is
a lucky fellow, but he is all right himself. You have my blessing. It
is everything to love someone with all your heart, but if he loves
you, too--Oh, Nannie, you are in luck, my dear! Though I should think
a great, tearing love would always be returned; simply melt the other
one. I’d never hesitate over _anything_ if I loved a man--you silly
little thing! I’ll see you some day, before you’re married, I hope.
By the way, speaking of nuptial Masses, I’m going to cut church next
Sunday; wanted to tell you I’m breaking my promise this once. I’ve got
a fine pal here--I told you about him--he wants me to do something; go
off too early Sunday morning to get in Mass, too, and he wants it so
badly that it’s right to give him the happiness. I’d do more than that
to make him happy. I don’t suppose it really is a damning sin to miss
Mass, but I guess I’d go to hell, if it would make things easier for
him. So now you can see how I feel about this pal o’ mine! There was
one of him made, and then the mold was broken! I’m happy, but I’m not
at all sure he’d go as far as purgatory for me. Your loving Cis.”
Cis read her letter over with her cheeks aflame, her eyes wet, her
breath short.
“Well, she won’t show the letter, that’s one thing sure, and I never
could see why it is anything to be ashamed of that you love someone
like mad! You can’t begin to love a man the instant he asks you to! Nan
will say: ‘She’s still honest Cis, that’s one sure thing!’ Poor little
mouse; she’ll worry her head off; probably think he’s a Jew with a
Calvinistic mother, or something!”
The hours that must pass before that early train started from
Beaconhite on Sunday morning sped fast for Cis, in spite of her
eagerness for the time to come. The feeble undercurrent of regret for
her choice of man instead of God, for her broken promise to Nan, she
stifled; indeed it hardly needed her attention, so eager was she now
for a whole day with Rodney, so sure that he was going to take her into
pleasant and beautiful places, show her how to grow ever happier with
him.
She arose much earlier than was necessary, dressed carefully in the
golden brown tailored suit, with its accompanying smart, small hat of
golden brown beaver, a bright wing of henna-orange laid on its brim its
sole trimming, the new suit which was her pride and which Rod had said
made her look “like the twin sister of Phoebus Apollo.”
Cis went out of the house and ate a hasty breakfast at a restaurant
because she was leaving before Mrs. Wallace’s regular breakfast hour.
She hurried so fast that she had considerable spare time on her hands
and walked to the station to fill it in; Rod had asked her to meet him
there because there was risk of missing their train if he came to fetch
her from her boarding place.
Cis was surprised to see that there was a look of relief, as well as
great joy on his face when she appeared; he was already waiting for her.
“Ah, my Autumn Maiden!” he cried, seizing her hand tightly. “I don’t
know why, because you’re a girl of your word, but somehow I was afraid
you’d get cold feet at the last minute and not turn up! Awful glad you
didn’t, Holly! You’re a Maple Tree Symphony in that rig! My, but you’re
stunning, Holly!”
“Nonsense, Rod! As though I didn’t know I wasn’t pretty!” cried Cis,
her whole face spilling over rapture.
“Pretty? Perhaps not; I said stunning! You don’t give a fellow time
to consider whether you’re pretty or not,” rejoined Rodney. “You’re
mighty easy to look at! No, you’re not, by jiminy! It’s hard afterward,
anyway!”
“If you talk stuff to me, Rory O’Moore, I’ll turn around and go home,”
cried Cis.
“Then I won’t, not till the train gets to pulling fast! Had anything to
eat? It’s a beastly time to ask you to turn out, but I’m not regulating
this railroad!” Rodney said.
“Had my breakfast outside, not to bother Mrs. Wallace,” Cis told him.
“Ate oodles.”
“Doubt it. Never can trust a girl to feed herself when she’s got
anything better to do,” Rod corrected her. “I’ve provender in that
basket you see at my feet; some pretty nifty sandwiches, fruit, candy,
iced coffee, in a cold thermos. It will hold you alive till we get
dinner. We’ll have one dinner, that I promise you! Ever hear of Pioneer
Falls? They’re seventy miles from here, through as pretty a country as
you’d ask for, and the falls are as good as they’re advertised to be.
But the main consideration is that there’s a hotel there which sets up
the best dinner I ever ate anywhere, and let me tell you I’ve knocked
around some, and I’m a connoozer of food! So don’t you worry, Holly,
that you’ll wither and fade away in my hands!”
“Not a worry, Rod! I’m not afraid of what will happen to me in your
hands,” Cis assured him with a gay little laugh, but her eyes expressed
something remote from laughter.
“By all that’s truthful, Cicely, if anything unhappy, or unfortunate
ever came to you at my hands it would be because you would not let my
hands work freely for your good,” Rodney said, with such emphasis that
Cis looked startled, but he immediately added: “Our train’s made up,
Holly: Let’s get our places; better than standing here.”
He led her through the gates, his tickets ready in hand; selected seats
on the shaded side, luckily the one which gave the better view of the
country which they were to traverse; arranged her coat on a hook; had
the porter bring a footstool to lay before her chair; settled himself;
swung his own chair full in front of hers and sank back to gaze at her
with eyes which needed no tongue to interpret them.
Cis knew that the intimacy of this early journey, with all the world
excluded from their consciousness, with its inevitable suggestion of
other journeys, always together, especially of one other journey which
this almost might be, so fast, so blissfully her heart was beating, Cis
knew that it was to Rodney, as to herself, a new rapture, poignant,
almost unbearably delicious in its present, and in its future promise.
She knew as well as if he had spoken, that Rodney Moore loved her and
intended to tell her so; to ask her to go with him on all his ways till
death.
She realized that this day was to be filled to overflowing with that
tremulous, delicate bliss which preludes those unspoken words, when
both man and woman know that they are to be spoken and how they will
be answered, a bliss that almost surpasses the joy of full possession,
as anticipation always must surpass fulfilment, the mystery of dawn be
lovelier than the full noontide.
“Shall we go to Niagara instead, Holly?” asked Rodney, bending toward
her.
“No, indeed! I would rather see Pioneer Falls! Niagara is too big,”
Cis said quickly, catching the significance of his allusion to the
conventional bridal-tour point, resolved to keep this day under the
glamor of what was to follow it, not to let him speak yet. “Besides, I
couldn’t get to the office at nine-thirty from Niagara! Rod, I haven’t
seen you to tell you! The code straightened out for me yesterday, just
as I knew it would, suddenly, sometime! I’ve got the horrid thing so it
will eat out of my hand!”
“Good for you! You’re a great one, Holly dear!” Rodney answered,
settling back into his chair, following her lead.
The train took them through beautiful scenes of farmland, valleys and
hills, beside a peaceful river, through small forests, everything,
everywhere glowing with October colors, “like Cis,” as Rodney said.
Neither Rodney nor Cis were inclined to talk; it was too beautiful
for comment, too sacred for small talk, this lovely setting of their
romance, also rapidly nearing its destination.
Pioneer Falls was the name of the station. Rodney picked up his basket
and preceded Cis to a small motor car, billeted: “For hire,” which took
them to the falls.
Here they climbed steep paths, and descended long, narrow steps, to see
the falls from above and below, hushed by the wild and solemn beauty of
their setting, chilled by the evaporation of their heavy waters, the
dense shade of their surrounding pines and hemlocks.
“It’s not half-bad to get into a dining room after all that, is it,
Holly?” asked Rodney when they had seated themselves at a small table
tête-à-tête, and the waiter had withdrawn, after sending Cis’s blood
to her hair by asking whether “Madame would take lettuce, endive, or
salade Romaine?”
“It’s not the smallest fraction bad, Rod,” replied Cis, grateful to
him for not taking advantage of the waiter’s mistake. “And I’m ravenous
in spite of your lunch!”
Over the demi-tasse at the end of dinner Rodney lighted a cigarette and
smoked silently, scrutinizing Cis.
“What?” she asked him, looking up to catch his gaze.
“I was wondering if you didn’t think that it had been better, wiser,
more natural, after all, to come off with me, when we like so much to
be together, without going to church? Don’t you honestly think, little
Holly-Cis, that we hallow this day?” he promptly answered.
“Well, Rod, I’ve been perfectly happy,” Cis answered. “I suppose,
maybe, once in a way--” She stopped. “Funny you brought that up,” she
went on. “I’ve been thinking ever since that day of what you said. What
catechism was it, Rod, that you studied? What are you?”
“The penny catechism, my dear; Third Plenary Council of Baltimore, I
believe they said it was. Who made you, et cetera,” replied Rodney.
“Catholic? Are you a Catholic?” cried Cis.
“Now, Holly, do I look it, or act it?” demanded Rodney. “No, my dear;
I’m nothing, but they did start me on the same catechism you had; my
people are all Catholics.”
“Left the Church?” Cis looked startled.
“You funny child! When you don’t care tuppence about it!” Rodney
laughed at her.
“I dropped it; that’s better said. I don’t believe in it. They tried
to control me in matters of my personal rights as a man. They would
interfere with me now if they could. They will with you, if you let
’em. They’ll ruin your life, my Cicely. All wrong, all wrong! I want
you to drop it, too. Cicely, believe me, it will warp you, destroy your
God-given instincts and desires; ruin your life, Cis! I am free now
to do as seems good to me; I want you to be free with me. I believe
there’s a God, though I never heard anyone prove it who tried to, but
I believe it. You keep your faith in Him, if you want to, but drop
this Church business, with its laws. Cicely, I am afraid, _afraid_, I
tell you, to think of your sticking blindly to all that! Let it go.
You needn’t abjure it, do anything formal, but let it go. Go around
to lectures, Sundays, or, what’s better, come with me out into clean,
still places and we’ll read the poets and philosophers, and have
music--I play the violin fairly well, Holly, dear; you haven’t heard
me--yet! Drop it, Cis, for both our sakes, I beg of you! This is one of
the things I brought you here to-day to say. I’ve studied; I know the
thing from top to bottom. Nonsense!”
“Why do you care so much, Rod? You look half wild when you speak of it.
Why do you care? What difference would it make to you if I kept on in
my half-way Catholicity?” Cis asked more puzzled than impressed by his
plea.
“Why do I care?” Rodney burst out, then checked himself. “Oh, Cicely,
because it separates us! Child, you don’t know; I do! As sure as
the sun rises and sets it will break your heart and plunge me into
wretchedness and despair if you continue, even in your half-way, as
you call it. There is no half-way. Either you are a Roman Catholic,
or you’re not. You may be a cold one, or a hot one, but one you are,
unless you drop it wholly. It is a barrier between us.”
“Rod, what foolishness!” cried Cis. “We shall be--friends--whether I’m
in or out of the Church. Am I narrow-minded; are you? And if I were
good you might come back!”
“Not I! Never!” cried Rodney. “Cis, my Holly, my bright, hope-giving,
joy-giving Christmas Holly, you’ve done for me what I never thought
could be done! I was wretched, and you have healed me. Will you plunge
me down again?”
“No, Rod; I couldn’t do that,” Cis said simply, softly. “I don’t see
how being a Catholic could do that, but if it did--”
“You’d give it up?” Rodney eagerly interrupted her.
“I don’t say that,” Cis spoke with slow consideration, weighing her
words. “I don’t see how I’d ever be able--But I couldn’t hurt you
either, Rod! Can’t it just go on? I’m not one bit pious; I don’t see
how it could bother you if I went to Mass Sundays, and once in a long
while to confession?”
Rodney looked at her long without speaking. “It’s up to me, I see,” he
said at last, and Cis accepted what seemed to be a concession to her,
although she had no conception of its terms.
And then there happened one of those trifling things which so often
sway human decisions and actions. Two shabby, dirty little Italians had
been looking in at the door, unnoticed by Rodney and Cis. Now there
came the landlord, blustering, to chase them away with harsh words, and
the children turned to go, the little girl bursting into frightened
tears, the boy muttering something, helplessly fierce.
Instantly Rodney sprang up and hurried to the door.
“Here, come back here! Wait!” he cried.
He turned to the landlord. “What harm were the little scraps doing?
They may be hungry. Get them a half a pie apiece, and a lot of cake,
and nuts, chestnuts! They’d be sure to like chestnuts! And coffee, big
cups, plenty of milk and sugar, and some oranges, and put it on my
bill,” he ordered.
“I won’t have dirty children in here,” cried the landlord.
“Dirty! Dirty! Weren’t you ever dirty when you were a small boy? But
who asked you to have them in here? There’s room outside on the grass.
Good gracious, you have enough left over every meal to feed half a
dozen kids. Set ’em up on me!” Rodney ordered impatiently, and soon he
and Cis had the satisfaction of seeing each child blissfully struggling
to circumvent the contents of the juicy half of an apple pie from
attaining its release, backward from the crust, as it was deeply bitten.
It was a small thing, yet it set Cicely’s heart glowing with tender,
admiring love for this big-hearted, gallant Rodney, who flew to the
rescue of the helpless, and gave food and happiness to God’s little
ones. Illogically, it seemed to prove Rod right in saying that the
Church and fidelity to it did not matter. Had he not left it, and yet
he shared with beggars, like a modern version of St. Martin of Tours?
“You are great, Rod!” Cis said proudly as she stood with her eyes on
the children outside the window, and Rod, helping her on with her coat,
watched them also, over her shoulder.
He had an uncanny way of reading her thoughts. Now he whispered into
her ear, though there was no one near to hear:
“You may give up the practices of religion, yet not give up true
religion, my Holly! I’m not all bad, though I don’t confess my sins!”
CHAPTER IX
ATALANTA’S PAUSE
“The only defect in this sort of a day is that it has to end so early.
It makes things seem thin and flat to pick up and start back on a train
leaving a few minutes past three,” grumbled Rodney, putting Cis into
her car chair and bestowing himself opposite to her, as they had come
up to Pioneer Falls.
“Oh, no, it doesn’t!” Cis contradicted him happily. “Don’t be greedy,
Rory! Greedy and ungrateful. Think what a beautiful day, and--four,
six, ten--it will be more than ten hours long by the time we get home!”
“Ungrateful I’m not; but greedy? Well, why shouldn’t I be? Hungry
people are greedy, especially for the kind of food that best nourishes
them. Philosophy is all very well, but it’s not always a satisfactory
symptom! Don’t you be too easily satisfied, Miss Holly Adair! One
day couldn’t satisfy me; it whets my appetite!” Rodney’s eyes were
literally devouring, his voice sharp.
“Oh, well, Rod!” Cis said softly. “I’m not exactly easy-going. One day
at a time! They sing a silly hymn at church, all about not praying
for anything, not even to be good, except ‘just for to-day,’ when of
course we’re saying all the time: ‘Now, and at the hour of our death,’
and we’re made to pray for final perseverance! But ‘just for to-day’
comes in all right now; this is our day, and a pretty nice one! I’ve
been happy all day long, and we’re still happy, with two hours and a
half ahead, and I love to ride on the train. A whole day happy is a big
thing!”
“Cis, you speak as if you were afraid! There are years of happy days
ahead, my girl! When I first knew you, Holly dear, I thought I’d never
seen a creature who had passed the twenty-first birthday, who was so
absolutely without a thought of the morrow as you were.” Rodney looked
at Cis questioningly.
“Ah! When you first knew me!” Cis breathed the words so softly that
Rodney leaned forward to catch them. “I’m changing fast, Rod; I have
changed; I’m getting tamed. Happiness scares you when you know you’re
happy. Before I came here I was happy, but it was the way kids are
happy. I didn’t know I was happy; just went along as if I was a boy,
whistling. Now--I think about it.” Cis pulled herself up short, then
she added: “They tell you that life isn’t particularly happy when you
get well into it, that happiness is not meant to last. I suppose what
everybody says is true; how can I help being afraid? But it’s a queer
thing: I’m happier when I’m afraid than I was when I wasn’t afraid one
bit!”
Rodney smiled on her, well-content with her unconscious revelations, or
was it that Cis was so trusting, so honest that she was conscious of
revealing, yet did not mind it?
“Do you believe that you will not be happy, Holly dear? That _we_ shall
not be happy? Do you believe all these croakers who try to make you
think life is a dismal thing, and all true happiness is beyond the
grave? That’s religion’s talk! Don’t you heed it. Of course no clock
strikes twelve every hour, but you’ll see what bliss life holds, and
that we’ll keep tight grasp on it, provided you steer straight. Why,
little kid Cicely, you’ve no more notion of what bliss is ahead of
you than a small brown bunny out in those woods yonder! Believe me,
you glowing, gorgeous-tinted Holly, you will laugh at your fears when
you get over the drunkenness of the joy you’re going to have!” Rodney
smiled at Cis with flashing eyes.
Cis smiled back at him, her breath a little short, but her candid
eyes looked into his unafraid. Whatever Cis feared or dreaded, it was
nothing within the compass of Rodney’s control; to him she trusted
herself completely.
She leaned back in her chair, her hat in her lap, luxuriously rumpling
her hair by rolling her head slightly on the chair’s plush back.
Her face grew grave and sweet as her thoughts travelled onward from
Rodney’s promise of lasting happiness to her own conviction that sorrow
must come. It did not matter greatly as long as fundamentals held.
Rodney’s “_we_” destroyed fear. Womanlike, she felt that sorrow that
was shared would in itself hold a sweeter joy than happiness; that if
she could lighten a burden for Rod there would be no weight in the
heaviest burden upon herself. The prescience of the woman showed Cis
the profound meaning of a true marriage; not, first in importance, to
be happy together, but to learn to be happy in being unhappy together.
“Cis, I did not know that you could look like that!” cried Rodney
suddenly. They had been silent for a little space, and he was watching
Cis’s changing expression with awe and wonder, unable to follow her
mental processes, yet guessing their course.
“You look at me so strangely, yet as if you hardly saw me.”
“I see you, Rod, but farther than in that Pullman chair. How did I look
at you?” Cis asked.
“As if I were a baby, or a bird with a broken wing; I know you’d look
like that at either of those things!” Rodney answered slowly.
“I was thinking,” she said simply. “Then, afterward, I was thinking how
dear and good you were to those forlorn children, and how fine it was
to be good like that, yet strong and brave, and what a lovely day you’d
made for me, too!”
“Sweet Cicely! I don’t believe that you’ve the least suspicion of your
own value!” Rodney cried, sincerely moved by her humility, which was
less humility than the lack of all self-seeing.
He lay back, still watching her, while she looked dreamily out of the
window at the flaming trees rushing past them in units of beauty,
massed into a splendid whole. He was thinking: “She has been utterly
content and happy the livelong day! She will soon get around to
thinking that the day was complete, and completely innocent, without
Mass; I’ll have no trouble turning her away and holding her fast!”
Rodney had a strong reason for wanting to get Cicely to drop her
Church, as he had done; he was delighted to believe that there would
be no obstacle before him there. But Rodney was wrong in thinking that
Cicely was tending toward easy weaning from it. She was remembering
that she had deliberately stayed away from Mass that morning in order
to gratify Rodney; she was determining that she would not do so again.
Hitherto she had not felt any more longing for God than had one of His
young four-footed creatures; she had played in His sight, innocently as
to the actions condemned by man, careless of His service. She had made
her First Communion with awe and faith to a degree, but without the
enkindling of her soul. It did not mean much to her, although she would
have answered correctly any question in the catechism relating to the
two sacraments for which she had then been prepared. She had no mother,
no one to whom her approach to her God mattered vitally, as it must
to a mother whose twofold love for her God and her child breathlessly
watches their compounding. Cis had gone on through her brief years
to the present, sound in mind and body, wholesome and true, but with
not much more spirituality than a kitten. Now she began to grope for
God, afar, dimly; she wanted to find Him to give Him to Rodney. For
Rodney she wanted the best. Like Portia, she began to reach out after
greater values with which to deck herself that she might stand high
in his regard, be fit thus to stand. And she took her first, actually
seeking steps toward God to find Him, the one, all-embracing God in
order to give Him to Rodney. Rod had drifted away; he was not like her;
he had deliberately turned from his Church. Well, she had heard of a
woman, a saint--her name was something that sounded like Money--who had
brought her son into heaven. Surely! St. Augustine, it was, and his
mother, Monica! She, Cis Adair, was by no means a saint, but she might
do that, too, if Rodney loved her well enough. And he did love her!
How he looked at her, with eyes that made her own drop and her cheeks
flush, and then with such gentle tenderness that she could weep. He was
not going to tell her to-day that he loved her; she was glad of that;
she would like to hold off that revelation in spoken words a little
longer. It was so beautiful to look up and surprise its revelation in
his handsome, dear face, and pretend to herself that she had not been
sure that she should see it there! She was a bad girl to have indulged
him by omitting Mass that day, yet how happy it had made him, and how
happy it made her to make him happy! Perhaps it was not so bad, just
this one time! After this she would keep to Mass faithfully and coax
Rodney there with her. Curious that the Beaconhite church where she
went, the one nearest to her boarding place, had no Sunday Mass before
eight! She thought there were always earlier Masses. It was partly the
fault of St. Francis Xavier’s church that she missed Mass to-day; if
there had been one at six she could have heard it before she took the
train. She did not push herself to state in her thoughts whether she
was entirely sure that she should have done so.
“You have not spoken for a half hour, Holly!” Rodney rebuked Cis at
last. “What are you thinking about? We’re getting into Beaconhite, and
you’re cheating me!”
“Thinking--thinking--Oh, about something like the suffrage; woman’s
influence!” cried Cis arousing, puzzled at first how to answer, then
answering with laughter in her eyes, her one dimple playing just beyond
the deep, sweet corner of her lips.
“Great trick not to be precisely a pretty girl, yet look so much better
than pretty ones, Holly!” cried Rodney involuntarily, remembering
Gertrude Davenport and her tiresome perfection of beauty.
“Let’s walk to the house, Rod,” suggested Cis, when they came out of
the station into Beaconhite’s main street.
“Let’s walk to the restaurant first of all!” Rodney amended her
proposal. “I’ve no notion of being conveyed to the hospital on an
ambulance call, perishing in the street from inanition!”
Accordingly they walked briskly toward the small hotel in a cross
street, several blocks from the station, where, Rodney affirmed, “there
was the most decent chef in Beaconhite.”
They came upon a block where there had been a fire; cordons were
stretched across the sidewalk, into the road; within them a blackened
mass of still smoking débris was all that was left of what that morning
had been a block of small houses, each house divided into four- and
five-room tenements at low rentals. Just as Cis and Rodney came up
there emerged from the side street, evidently coming around from the
rear of the burned block, a tall, thin figure in a long black coat; Cis
instantly recognized Father Morley, and as quickly he recognized her,
at least for one whom he had been seeing at the eight o’clock Mass. He
possessed the natural gift of retaining faces in his memory, a gift
heightened to the highest degree by the training of his Order, and his
intense interest in the soul behind each face.
Cis, meeting his deep-set, keen, gentle eyes, bowed instinctively. The
priest instantly returned the bow with a smile that lit up his ascetic
face as if a light had been thrown upon it, but in this case the light
came from within, outward.
The Jesuit stepped up to Cis’s side, taking it for granted that he was
welcome.
“Good evening, my child,” he said, and his voice, which always thrilled
Cis when he preached his five minutes’ sermon from the sanctuary, was
still more moving heard in conversational tones at her elbow. She saw,
too, that his face, thin, ascetic, worn, as she had seen it at the
distance intervening between the church pews and the sanctuary, was
more deeply graved with fine lines than she had seen; he looked like
a man who had found life a serious matter, and whose bodily health was
not the best.
“Good evening, Father Morley,” Cis replied.
“I do not know your name, but I know that you belong to me,” said
Father Morley. “I am sure that I have not met you. I see you at my
Mass, at eight o’clock. Have you been long in Beaconhite?”
“No, Father. I came early in the summer. My name is Cicely Adair; I am
Mr. Lucas’ private secretary. You never have spoken to me before,” said
Cis. “Father Morley, this is Mr. Rodney Moore.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Moore,” said Father Morley with a quick,
comprehensive look at Rodney. “English More, or Irish Moore?”
“My people on the Moore side came from Ireland,” said Rodney, uneasy,
and omitting the courteous title at the end of his reply to Father
Morley.
“That’s good!” said the priest, as if Rodney deserved credit for his
ancestry. “Though, to be sure, the English More once meant great
things, when the lord chancelor bore the name who would not betray his
God to save his head! Not that we would not all reckon martyrdom a
splendid prize for which to hold out! You are in another parish, not
St. Francis’? I don’t recall your face.”
“I’m in the St. Francis Xavier parish,” said Rodney shortly.
The fine face of the priest changed slightly as he correctly
interpreted this answer.
“I missed you this morning, Miss Adair,” he said. “You know, a priest
gets into the way of unconsciously looking for familiar faces when he
turns to give the notices and read the Gospel; you are weekly in the
same place. I am glad that you are not ill.”
“No, Father,” replied honest Cis, making no excuse to gloss her
absence. “I did not go to Mass; I wanted to take an early train.”
“Good for her; coming straight out, no cringing!” thought Rodney,
misinterpreting Cicely’s honesty.
Father Morley shook his head. “And not make the effort required to go
to six o’clock Mass first, or even to the Mass at two? It is worth
considerable effort to keep from offending God,” he said.
“Six o’clock? The eight o’clock Mass is the first one, isn’t it?” cried
Cis.
“No, indeed! Who ever heard of such a late hour for the first parish
Mass in such a large parish?” exclaimed Father Morley. “We have a Mass
at two a. m. for the newspaper men and other night workers, trolley
men, railroaders, all those people. The next Mass is at six. Then ours
is not the only church in town! There are nine churches in Beaconhite,
all told.”
“Bad influence, danger ahead!” thought the wise priest. “I like the
girl!”
“I could have made the six o’clock at St. Francis Xavier’s; I might
have asked if there was one, but I didn’t,” Cis looked straight into
the priest’s keen eyes. “I’m a careless girl, Father; I never thought
so much about these things as Nan--that’s my friend at home--did.”
“Difficult to think too much of things which are unending,” commented
the priest. “I approve of Nan and am glad that you have so good a girl
friend.”
He smiled, with a slight sigh, and walked onward in silence beside
Rodney, taking it for granted that they would continue together as
their ways lay in the same direction. Rodney was at once uncomfortable
and angry, angry that he was uncomfortable. There was a silent power in
this priest that he felt and resisted; it annoyed him to see that Cis
felt it and did not resist it. It was impossible to say wherein it lay,
but it was there, strong and as unmistakable as it was indefinable.
That it was the manifestation of the sum total of the gifts of the Holy
Ghost did not occur to him, nor would he have admitted it, but just as
those recorded in the Gospel cried out against that Power to which they
would not yield, so Rodney in his heart cried out against this quiet
person, walking beside him unintrusively, saying nothing remarkable,
certainly nothing in direct rebuke. Yet every fibre of Rodney’s being
rebelled, and he felt that Cis was accepting and readjusting to that
implied reproach.
“Must have been quite a fire,” Rodney said, trying to introduce a topic
that was indifferent.
“Indeed it was, a shocking fire,” Father Morley corroborated him. “It
was a gasoline fire in a tenement; could anything be worse? The young
daughter of one of the tenants was cleaning gloves, I understand, in
a room which was dark, using a lighted lamp, and there was not much
air in the stuffy place. She did not realize how far the fumes would
draw to heat where there was so little oxygen. Not only that tenement
burned, but the entire block. Most of these people had kerosene oil
in cans. Ah, it was a frightful fire! The firemen saved every life,
but several people were badly burned, dangerously so, and a child was
nearly trampled to death. One of the firemen was hurt; I came to anoint
him and one or two others, but none will die--thank God!”
“Well, I suppose ‘thank God’ is the conventional phrase, but it doesn’t
always fit,” said Rodney with a bitter, short laugh. “I suppose, too,
that all these people had palm in their houses, blessed especially for
protection against fire, lightning and general violent catastrophe!”
The Jesuit frowned slightly; Cis looked half-amused, and he saw it.
“‘Thank God’ is appropriate to whatever befalls those who trust
in Him,” he said. “I would imagine the blessed palm was in those
tenements, since, in spite of carelessness and ignorance, against which
we cannot expect protection from their lighter consequences, no lives
were lost. I am glad that you recognize the Providence that intervened,
Mr. Moore; many people miss the province of its workings.”
“I think that I recognize its province precisely, Father Morley,”
Rodney said. “It is distinctly limited. I would say that, if there be
a God, He sets things going, and then leaves them to themselves. I am
not a Catholic, though my people were.”
“I would hardly have mistaken you for a Catholic, my poor son,” said
the priest quietly. “You have left the Church of your fathers? Better
come to confession; remove the impediment to faith, and faith will
revive. Strange to throw away that treasure to acquire which so many
sacrifice everything earthly! My father, for instance, was an Episcopal
clergyman. He came into the Church and suffered actual want, besides
the cruel persecution which only near and dear kindred can inflict, in
order to possess the Truth and the sacraments. But you are young and
God’s arm is long; you will come back. A good friend can do a great
deal for us!”
The priest smiled at Cis, who looked up at him with a smile in return,
yet a troubled look.
“A _good_ friend can, Father, but lots of people don’t have _good_
friends--like Nan!” she said, with emphasis on the adjective.
“All goodness is comparative, my child,” Father Morley said. “I see
that you regret your own deficiencies, which is a most healthful
symptom! It is everything to be honest, and more than everything to be
humble!” He laughed at his intentional clumsiness of word. “It must be
a little lonely for you, a stranger here? You say you are Mr. Lucas’
secretary? I know Mr. Lucas’ brother.”
“It was he who gave me my letter to Mr. Wilmer Lucas,” cried Cis
eagerly.
“Really? He is a noble man; I don’t wonder that Mr. Lucas welcomed
you,” Father Morley looked pleased; he was beginning to feel cordial
liking for Cis, with a perceptive anxiety for her safety. “I know Mr.
Lucas, this Mr. Lucas, but he is not my friend, as his brother is.”
Father Morley did not explain that he had instructed Mr. Robert Lucas
and received his submission to the Church, and that this new instance
of the Jesuit wiles had made Mr. Wilmer Lucas cross the street from
that day to this whenever he saw Father Morley coming.
“I have a club of fine girls, all self-supporting, a jolly, delightful
lot, they are! How would you like to come to one of their ‘open
nights’? That’s what they call the nights when outsiders are admitted.
You’d enjoy them, and they’d take you right in. No need of being
lonely, my child! Let’s see: Thursday, Holy Hour; Friday the League;
Monday night their private, members-only night; Wednesday! That’s it!
Come on Wednesday, and see my fine girls!” Father Morley beamed at his
triumphant conclusion.
“Thank you, Father,” said Cis, and meant it. “I’m not lonely. I am
happy in Beaconhite; I don’t have much spare time. But you are good to
ask me.”
“Not a bit good!” said the priest. “The club is for girls, isn’t it?
And you are a girl, aren’t you? I turn off here. Good night. Good
night, Mr. Moore.”
He held out his hand and Rodney unwillingly took it.
“God bless you, my poor lad,” said the priest gently. “Help and bless
you.”
He turned to Cis with great kindness, a sweet gravity, a steady look
that told her that he fully understood her situation and recalled her
to her duty with something of the infinite pity of God and His love for
souls which grope. She knew that the priest saw that she loved Rodney,
and that his prophecy of the outcome of that love would not accord with
Rodney’s own forecast of her perfect bliss.
Father Morley held out his hand and Cis put hers into it, lifting her
eyes to the deep-set ones above her, which rested upon her as if they
would draw her up through their light into the Highest Light.
“Good-bye, my child. Remember that we hear confessions at St. Francis’
regularly on Fridays and Saturdays, afternoon and evening, and at any
other time when we are called out, and that a mortal sin should not
rest an hour upon the soul. Come to see me in the house; I should like
to know you,” he said, ignoring Rodney, whose anger flamed into crimson
in his cheeks and flashed in his eyes.
“Thank you, Father Morley,” replied Cis, ill-at-ease, conscious of
Rodney’s annoyance, devoutly wishing that “Father Morley wouldn’t,” yet
responding to his summons with a half perception of its value to her.
“I shouldn’t know how to call on you; I never knew a priest, not that
way. And I don’t get time, really.”
“And you are not lonely now, and would rather not have an old Religious
bother you, my dear? Very well; but remember that when you need him,
Father Morley is waiting, and, when things get too hard to bear, or the
strain is too strong for your young hands to hold back on the ropes,
come to him and he will help your feebleness. Don’t forget, Cicely
Adair, that I shall be watching for you.”
So saying, the Jesuit raised his hat with a courtesy that included
both the young people, and went off down the side street with a long,
striding gait, his hands thrust into his coat-sleeves, his shoulders
bent forward like a man so accustomed to meditation that the instant
that he was released from talk, from attention to the needs of others,
he was off and away to other realms than this.
“The old meddler!” exclaimed Rodney. “Don’t you go near him, Cis!
They’ll make you into one of their idiot women, crazy for novenas and
church work, always lighting candles and trotting around to ask a
priest whether roast pork really is indigestible, or whether all-wool
flannels are better than half-wool, or whether it is a sin to use a mud
worm for bait, because it looks like flesh, and the fish eats it, and
we eat the fish on Friday! Idiots! I’d beat a woman, if she belonged to
me, and got feeble-minded in that particular way!”
Cicely moved slightly as if she were awaking; her eyes were fixed on
Father Morley’s retreating figure; she had not heard Rodney’s diatribe
against piosity.
“He is good,” she murmured. “I feel as though the statue of St. Joseph
in the church had been talking to me! He’s like that, like something
that looks like a man, but is ’way beyond one. And he’s kind, like St.
Joseph; he must have been kind! And he’s ready to do anything for you,
but he never could be common human! I wish----” Cis checked herself.
“Oh, Rod,” she said, turning to him with a flooding blush upon her face
and clutching his sleeve as if she feared to lose him, “Oh, Rory, dear,
you are hungry; you said you were! Let’s get a supper for you; I’m not
hungrier than a box-of-crackers supper!”
“Crackers nothing!” growled Rodney, but he tucked Cis’s hand into his
arm. “That restaurant is right around the corner. The old chap has half
spoiled my appetite! Come along, though, Holly, and hang on to me; I’ll
feed you well!”
CHAPTER X
PUBLIC FRANCHISE AND PRIVATE THRALDOM
There was a matter of state and interstate, if not of national
importance afoot, a lively correspondence in its regard flying between
the Lucas and Henderson offices in Chicago, Washington and Beaconhite.
A franchise was in question which must pass, not only the legislatures
of three states, but at last be established or annulled by the passage
of a Congressional Act which would react upon the state legislatures’
decisions on the franchise, making it effective or practically without
value. Energetic and clever lobbying to insure this franchise was
vehemently carrying on in the capitals of the three states concerned,
and at Washington as well. Millions were at stake upon the issue;
immense sums being spent for the passage of the bill; greater sums
waiting those lucky stockholders who should profit by the enterprise
when it was in working order, notably those who “got in on the ground
floor,” who took up as much of the stock as was put out on the market
for sale, at a price beyond which shares would rapidly soar once
the inevitably profitable scheme was proved successful. There would
not be much, or comparatively little of the stock offered upon the
market; the corporation behind the enterprise was made up of solid
men who could afford to wait for their future big percentage, secure
to them if the thing went through. They did not purpose to let the
general public share the chippings from the shell of their golden
egg, except in numbers enough to forestall enmity to it on the ground
of its being a private profit, maintained through public tolerance,
via the Congress and legislatures. Correspondence in regard to this
important matter passed in great bulk through Cicely’s hands; she was
interested in it to the highest point. The newspapers were full of
allusions to the franchise, opposing it, supporting it, according to
their bias for or against the political party favoring the measure. It
amazed inexperienced Cis to find that this was the basis of newspaper
influence, never the abstract benefit or harm to the public at large,
which seemed to her mind the only ground upon which to favor or oppose
the franchise.
Rodney laughed at her, and called her “Donna Quixote,” a name that
Cicely liked because it was linked with tender mockery in Rodney’s
eyes; she had never read “Don Quixote.”
The correspondence in regard to the franchise which assailed Cicely’s
desk in Mr. Wilmer Lucas’ office was couched in the code that had at
first been such a stumbling block to her, but which she now read and
wrote with complete fluency. It was excitingly pleasant to get inside
information upon a subject that was occupying so much public attention.
“I feel as biggity as Brer Rabbit to be so deep in the know!” she
told Rodney. Therefore on the Monday morning after her Sunday spent
at Pioneer Falls, Cicely started out for Lucas and Henderson’s office
with her mind joyously attuned to anticipation, the anticipation of an
interesting day superimposed upon the delicious certainty that Rodney
loved her as well as she loved him, better perhaps, and that it was a
matter of a few hours before she could be his promised wife.
Perhaps she should have been that now, had they not met Father Morley
the previous evening. The priest had intruded upon the perfect oneness
of her comradeship with Rodney; he irritated Rod, and, though Father
Morley impressed her as a saint, and attracted Cis herself powerfully,
yet Rod said that priests “were good things to keep away from,” and
if he felt so, then one could not expect him to find Father Morley’s
inopportune intrusion upon them agreeable.
But how beautiful had been Rodney’s manner to her, Cis thought, as, in
the knowing little hotel to which he had taken her, he had ordered and
pressed upon her delicious food for which she had slight appetite, yet
of which she ate, coaxed into eating by the wondrous delicacies and
Rodney’s ministrations to her.
They had not talked upon disturbing subjects, pleasant or the reverse,
but had chatted happily, in complete harmony, laughing over their
own nonsense, telling each other new bits of confidences, those
insignificant-significant trifles of past experience which, taken
together, make up a mosaic of complete mutual knowledge. There was
nothing for Cis to tell except school scrapes and triumphs, funny or
piteous things which she had encountered on her short road so far
through life; stories of people whom she had known, pleasures and
annoyances; her reactions toward them. They were simple tales to which
Rodney harkened with profound interest, deriving from them an accurate
estimate of this clean-minded, gallant Cis who loved him, as he saw;
whom he meant to marry, and not Gertrude Davenport with her money,
realizing that in Cis he had found the woman whose existence his
experience had led him to doubt.
In return for her confidences Rodney told Cis similar stories of his
boyhood, of his merry college days, of victories which he had won on
the fields of sport, and, later, in the field of business competition.
That there was much that Rodney did not tell her, honest Cis never
suspected, still less that there was a side of his life, parallel with
his advancement in business, upon which he did not touch. She listened
breathlessly to Rodney’s charming recitals, treasuring up his every
word, so that it surprised him later to find how conversant she was
with his boyhood and youth; proudly recognizing him as the cleverest
and the best of lads whose present perfection had been clearly
foreshown, missing nothing, because she looked for nothing beyond his
revelations.
The remembrance of these intimate confidences of the evening before,
lay warm at her heart; the picture of the close-drawn crimson sash
curtains in the leaded window beside them; the cream-white table, with
its heavy cut work doilies; its delightful copper candlesticks, their
parchment shades decorated by a skilled hand in Persian colors and
designs, made a poetic background for her memories. Cis went out on
Monday morning, whistling in her mind, her breath keeping up the air
soundlessly against her motionless lips--Cis, the secretary, no longer
whistled in the street as Cis, the telephone operator, would have
done--and she almost ran into Miss Hannah Gallatin.
“Good morning!” they cried together, as Cis swerved to avoid a
collision.
“I sort of hoped I’d meet you, Miss Adair; I had an idea you went out
about this time,” Miss Gallatin said, and added: “Mind if I walk along
to talk to you?”
“Glad to have you, Miss Gallatin,” Cis replied truthfully. “I’ve
thought of you lots of times, and of how kind you were that morning
when you asked me home with you, and advised me about boarding at Mrs.
Wallace’s.”
“But haven’t felt the need of a friend yet, so haven’t hunted me up, as
I told you to in case you ever did need one?” Miss Gallatin commented.
“I’ve been busy, learning all sorts of new things in the office----”
“And out of it,” Miss Gallatin interrupted Cis. “See here, my dear
girl, let me ask you bluntly: Are you engaged to my boarder, Mr. Moore?”
“No, Miss Gallatin, but I am really engaged without being! It is
exactly the same thing, and I’d have been engaged when you asked
me, if you hadn’t asked me to-day!” Cis laughed, but Miss Gallatin
shook her head violently, having been shaking it gently as a running
accompaniment and comment from the first syllable of Cicely’s answer.
“Girl alive, it’s not in the least the same thing!” cried the gaunt
woman energetically. “Making love to a girl, and tying up to her under
bonds are by no means the same! Men flirt and flit; woo and walk,
and the girls think that there’s so much honor back of warm looks
that they’re as secure behind a bow as a vow. Now, my honest Cicely
Adair--for I know you’re as straight a girl as walks--these words may
sound alike, but their sounds and sense are quite different. I’m going
to tell you something about G. Rodney Moore; he was running hard after
Gertrude Davenport a while ago; she’s a rich beauty, and now he’s
dangling after you. Honorable?”
Cis laughed long and merrily; it is not unpleasant to have victory
over another girl attributed to oneself, however humble-minded and
gentle-hearted the conqueror may be. Cis began to sing the once popular
song:
“‘But I never knew, dear,
That I should meet you, dear;
So let’s forget the girls I met
Before I met you!’”
“H’m!” grunted Miss Gallatin. “That’s no answer, though it’s been
given as one ever since Noë’s grandson went gallivanting! Miss Adair,
you’re a good girl not to slap me and bid me go about my own affairs,
but I suppose you know that I want to befriend you. I know that you go
off seeing the country with my captivating lodger, and it worries me. I
don’t trust that fellow; I never have. Now you _will_ slap me! You’ll
put up with my meddling, but not with my misjudging your hero; is that
so?”
“Well, I don’t like it,” said Cis, “but I’m sure you mean it kindly,
and can’t help seeing Rod crooked. In reality he’s splendid, true as
steel, kind--_splendid_, that’s all!”
“He tells me that he shall not stay with me all winter, that he is
looking about for an apartment, a small one. Know anything about that?”
Miss Gallatin demanded.
“Oh, the absurd fellow!” cried Cis, blushing furiously to the roots of
her brilliant red hair. “This winter! Mercy! No, Miss Gallatin, I don’t
know anything about it, but I suppose--This winter! Just imagine!”
“I do hope there’s a deaf and dumb saint who intercedes for girls
in love!” cried Miss Hannah Gallatin impatiently. “It would be the
only one who could thoroughly understand her! Evidently you think the
apartment means that G. Rodney expects to cage his bird, but I think
that’s by no means certain. You blind, honest little bat, it might mean
anything else but that! Cicely Adair, I found out lately, accidentally
dropping a book out of which a card tumbled--one of G. Rodney’s
books--that he was once a Catholic!”
“Yes, he was,” Cis said carelessly. “I knew that. He doesn’t believe in
any form of religion; he thinks it’s all nonsense, but I’ll learn to be
a good Catholic myself, and then Rod will get straightened out.”
“Cicely Adair, look out for the man that is not true to his faith;
disloyalty to his God is a mighty poor argument for his loyalty to
a woman. And do your converting before, not after you marry him!
Something there I don’t like; never have. I’m afraid for you, Cicely
Adair. I wish I had proof--or else no doubts!” Miss Gallatin looked
troubled.
Across the space of several months Jeanette Lucas’ voice reached Cis as
Miss Gallatin spoke; it said again to her:
“I thought that I should cure his one defect, his indifference to
religion. I know now that he was false to all things, to me as to God!
Cicely Adair, you’re a Catholic girl; remember this lesson when you
think of marrying.”
Cicely shivered involuntarily, and the chill of the memory of this
warning from the girl whom she had revered, then pitied, drove out the
quick anger with which she had heard Miss Gallatin’s last words, and
made her answer quietly:
“I think you mean to be good to me, Miss Gallatin, and I appreciate
it, but, please, nothing more against Rodney Moore to me. I ought
not to have let you say one word! He loves me, as I love him, and he
trusts me as I trust him. I don’t know what he will say when I tell
him that someone warned me against him and that I let them--of course
I must confess it to him! I shall marry him. There isn’t anything else
to do when the whole world would be black-empty without him! Even if
I’m to be unhappy, still I must marry him. But I’m not afraid of being
unhappy. How silly, how wrong, but still more how silly, to suspect
people without a grain of reason! You haven’t the least proof of Rod’s
being anything but what I’ve found him, the best, as he is the dearest,
cleverest, kindest, biggest, truest man in all the whole wide world!”
“Forgive my meddling, Miss Adair,” said Miss Gallatin humbly. “No
one ever rescued a girl in love from her fate, even though she
brought tons of proof against the man. And I have none; you’re right.
Nevertheless--But I’m to say no more! I like you, my dear; I truly
like you, and I’ve known what it was to love a man madly, trust him
utterly, and find him false and evil! If G. Rodney leaves my house for
that apartment and you’re not domiciled in it, will you come to board
with me? I’d like to have you under my roof. And the day may come when
you’ll find queer, lean, ugly Hannah Gallatin better than no one. Like
Mrs. Wallace’s?”
“Oh, yes; it’s all right,” said Cis, glad to be let off from answering
the previous questions. “It’s clean, and she gives us lots of good
food, but--Mrs. Wallace’s women boarders are not all my fancy might
paint them!”
“Fancy sketches ’twould be!” returned Miss Gallatin. “Women boarders
are a species by themselves; idle, censorious, meddlesome. Hers aren’t
peculiar to Mrs. Wallace; she’s not to blame for ’em; mine are just the
same! They’re all alike, mostly, and when they’re different from the
rest, heaven help the different ones! The things I’ve seen women, who
were supposed to be ladies when they were away from a boarding house
table, do to get the hearts of the celery--gracious! I’m sure those at
Mrs. Wallace’s pick at you; you’re too gay and independent to escape!
Too young, besides! Well, that would be the same anywhere, but come to
me if ever there’s a chance. You can’t come while G. Rodney’s in the
house; I won’t have you! Now, good-bye, my dear! I do like you, and,
somehow, the thought of you anxiously haunts me. Believe me, if you are
happy with G. Rodney and can bring him back to his faith, if he’ll be
to you what you expect him to be, no one will be more glad than queer
Hannah Gallatin! So don’t hold a grudge in your memory of me, and come
to see me some Sunday--if you have spare time!”
Cis heartily shook the worn hand which this peculiar, but sterling
woman held out to her. She resented her suspicions of Rodney, yet in
spite of them, she liked her cordially, and left her with a surprising
warmth for her in her own heart, and a pity that recognized the tragedy
which Miss Gallatin’s brief allusion to her own perfidious lover
revealed.
Cis walked on thoughtfully for a short distance after leaving Miss
Gallatin, her thoughts grave, almost somber. It was gloomy to know
that once this woman had been young like her, full to overflowing with
the joy which now filled Cicely, joy which had congealed under the
cruellest ice, the cold of disappointment and disillusionment. But the
perfidy of that older lover did not involve the perfidy of Rodney.
Rodney! The word “perfidy” was an absurdity in connection with his
name! Cis threw off her depression, squared her shoulders like a boy,
and broke into a swinging pace, softly whistling: “But I never knew,
dear,” the song which she had hummed replying to Miss Gallatin. This
time, casting aside her dignity as Mr. Lucas’ private secretary, Cis
whistled aloud in the street, albeit softly.
There were piles of letters waiting upon her desk when Cis sat down to
it, letters in ordinary long-hand and typed letters, but the majority
of them written in the code peculiar to that office and to the secrets
of its clients and associates.
Cis plunged into them, reading and assorting into piles letters
relating to legal affairs, cases in which Lucas and Henderson, as a
firm, were retained; letters relating to Mr. Lucas’ personal clients,
people who retained him as advisor in their affairs, rather as a wise
man of sterling integrity than as a lawyer; letters of appeal, or
asking information; last of all, letters in the code relating to the
matter of the pending franchise; reporting its progress in the three
states dealing with it, and with Congress; the likelihood of the bill
passing which would make it possible; suggestions of means which would
further its success. The mail relating to the franchise, as well as his
personal correspondence, Cis laid upon Mr. Lucas’ desk; he would not
come in before eleven, or possibly noon that day, having first gone to
the bank to conduct that part of its business which fell upon him as
its president.
Then Cis plunged into correspondence from yesterday’s notes, which she
must write up and dispatch. She was immersed in this when Mr. Lucas
entered.
“Good morning, Miss Adair,” he said and passed her to take up the
papers which she had laid down, awaiting him.
He read rapidly, putting aside a few letters for a second reading, but
he merely glanced through the letters which were not written in the
code, stacking them for a return to them later on; evidently the one
absorbing, pressing matter of that day was the franchise, soon to be
decided.
“Miss Adair, you know a great deal that the outside world is eager
to learn,” said Mr. Lucas, looking over at Cis as she busily wrote
at her desk, a short distance from his own. “There are many people’s
hopes hanging upon this pending franchise; many waiting to snatch up
the shares of the new enterprise, to get them at the lowest possible
figure. What would they not give to know now that the franchise is
secured? They could buy to-day at 32¼, and sell within two months at
fifty per cent above par! A profit not to be despised! And within a
year that profit will at least double. The newspapers are agog for
inside information, for a tip as to the probabilities of the outcome,
partly to secure a scoop over other papers, partly to serve political
ends. What do you purpose doing with your knowledge, Miss Adair? Sell
out to the highest bidder? Offer your knowledge, say, to a New York
paper, and make it do something handsome for you, in return for the
advantage you offer it?”
Mr. Lucas spoke with a smile that showed that he considered Cicely far
beyond the reach of temptation thus to betray confidence. His face
also expressed great satisfaction, even relief. As the president of
a national bank, it might prove unpleasant for him if the failure of
the franchise disclosed him deeply concerned in its success. Mr. Lucas
was playing with Cis and the fancy of her betraying him, under the
necessity for some outlet for the satisfaction which his face revealed.
Cis looked up and smiled.
“No; I won’t sell you up, Mr. Lucas,” she said. “Is it settled then? Is
the Big Deal on? Is the franchise secured?”
“I thought you read the letters, Miss Adair. You aren’t forgetting the
code, are you?” Mr. Lucas looked half-annoyed, half-amused. “I want you
to go over the mail carefully, and I surely want you to read the code
straight.”
“I did read the letters, Mr. Lucas, and I understood that they were
favorable, but--to tell the truth, I understood what I read enough
to do the right thing with them, but the letters did not make much
impression on me; I had something important on my mind,” candid Cis
explained.
Mr. Lucas laughed outright. “A girl is a girl, clever or stupid,
faithful or unreliable! I’d wager I could shrewdly guess the important
subject. Important, mark you! The franchise being a mere bagatelle!
Well, well, Miss Adair, I’ve no doubt that you did precisely as you say
you did, read and understood, and forgot for really ‘important matters’
when you had read! The franchise is assured, Miss Adair, and great
events are afoot! I am as delighted as I have been anxious about it.
We shall all profit, but it is my honest conviction that the profit to
the public will exceed the money returns. Be careful not to know all
this, if you please; the information must not leak out yet, not for two
months more,” Mr. Lucas warned Cis.
“I’ll keep quiet, Mr. Lucas. I’ve been approached by a few Poll Prys,
but--nothing doing!” Cis laughed gaily, permitting herself a relapse
into the slang which her new dignity had been making her eschew.
That evening Rodney met Cis just beyond the door of the building which
housed the Lucas and Henderson offices, when she came forth at nearly
five o’clock.
The sight of him, handsome, faultlessly dressed, debonair, smiling
happily as they came toward each other, set Cicely’s pulses bounding
joyously; his presence was the sufficient answer to the doubt of him
suggested by Miss Gallatin, repudiated by Cis, yet, like all doubts,
hard to silence completely, even when downed.
“Oh, Rod, I’m glad!” cried Cis almost running over the short distance
intervening between them.
“Oh, Cis, I’m gladder!” echoed Rodney. “What’s amiss, Cis? Amiss-Cis;
goes along slick, but Cis is never amiss!”
“I want to confess to you, Rory,” said Cis, as Rodney turned to walk
with her.
“The only one I want you ever so much as to think of confessing to,”
Rodney said approvingly.
“Someone warned me that it wasn’t safe to play with you, Rory O’Moore,
that I’d be sorry later on, that you weren’t quite, quite all right,
trustworthy, you know. I didn’t really listen; I did not believe, and
I said that sort of talk had to stop, but it was said, Rod, and I’m
ashamed of myself that I let more than your name get past. I didn’t
listen, I didn’t truly, but too much was said.” Cis poured out her
confession eagerly.
“Who was it? Who was she? Safe to say _she_, of course! What else did
she tell you? Anything I ought to know--and that you ought not to
know?” Rodney looked furiously angry, and somewhat alarmed.
“Don’t ask me who it was; I won’t tell. I won’t say it was a woman; may
have been a man. And nothing was said, more than I’ve told you; that
the person doubted your being safe for me to play with,” cried Cis.
“I’m sorry I heard more than one word.”
“The old gal, I’ll bet! Funny old Gallatin; she always suspects me,”
cried Rodney. “Why, Cis; why, Holly, my darling, there’s no one on
earth half as safe as I for you to play with! How dares she think I’d
harm you, grieve you? Never any other man loved a girl as I love you.
I’m mad about you, Cis, you--you glowing Holly-berry! I never dreamed
there was such a girl on earth. When we’re married--My heavens, _when
we’re married_! Cis, oh, Cis, you can’t dream how happy we’re to be!
Did she think maybe we wouldn’t marry? Cis, we shall, we must! You’re
going to marry me, aren’t you, my darling, my glowing ruby-jewel?”
Cis looked up, trembling, forgetful of fear, of doubt, responding to
the call of this love that blotted out the world with as much ardor as
its summons held. “Yes, oh, yes! I’d die else,” she said.
Rodney drew her to him oblivious to the highway and its many
passers-by, but Cis came to her senses, and eluded his arms.
“Oh, Rod, Rory dear, we’re engaged!” she almost sobbed. “We are really,
truly engaged, and isn’t it beautiful! Do people get engaged like this,
without meaning to, just sort of talking, and then there you are? And
it’s so public, and so queer! But, oh, Rory O’Moore, it’s so beautiful!
What can it mean, it’s so beautiful?”
“It means that by your birthday, by Christmas, my Holly-berry, you’ll
be in your own home, in _my_ home, my wife, and that no cold nor storms
shall ever touch my Christmas bride! Oh, Holly, Holly of my heart, red
and glowing, thorns for all else, but for me the crimson fruit of your
love!” cried Rodney, stammering under an emotion which unconsciously
turned back to the phrases of his Celtic forbears for its expression.
CHAPTER XI
THE WEAKNESS OF STRENGTH
“I see the whole world through your tresses, Holly! They cover my eyes
as a veil and everything glows, shines with glory!” Rodney had said to
Cis.
It was true of them both that a joy past realization, past expression,
filled and flooded their ways and their days. Cicely gave herself up to
the rapture of a love so mighty that it was almost pain; gave herself
with the generosity of a nature honest, fearless, intense. Rodney
found her love for him far exceeding his expectation of it, and he had
expected to be endowed beyond the average man by the love of a woman
who, more than any that he had ever known, asked nothing for herself
but to be allowed to submerge herself.
He was delirious, breathless at times when she bared to him her rare,
sublimated passion, yet there was in her a quality which awed him,
while she enkindled him. Cis loved him with all the forces of her royal
human nature, yet with it she also loved him with a purity of soul that
frightened the man, ten years her elder, versed in the ways of lesser
women. Crimson as a flame fed by her lifeblood burned her love upon the
altar she erected to it, but over and above the red flame of human
love, burned a white flame of utter devotion, idealization, spiritual
detachment; it dominated and sublimated the love that, though it was
rare, yet was lower than this, its supplement. Wonderful in a girl
whose life had not trained her for the highest form of love, was this
purity of aim which Rodney recognized at all times in her.
Rodney himself arose to reverence this idealized love, to defer to it.
He was not a man whose life was notably better, nor was it worse than
the average man’s life. He had thrown off his religion because it would
have thwarted him; because its law bore heavily upon his particular
case; because it never had meant much to him, and this world fully
engrossed him. He meant to be both rich and happy; he had intended to
marry ambitiously, but Cis had come, with her red hair, and it had
burned like dross everything that would have stood between her and him.
He had fallen in love with Cicely Adair passionately and honestly; to
get her and hold her his he was more than ready to throw over any other
woman, however full her hands might have been when he had espoused her.
After he had won Cis, Rodney was ready to stake anything on himself;
he felt that he was sure to get the worldly goods which he craved. Cis
must be first. Now that he had Cis, he knew that, even if he missed
the riches, he should be rich. She filled his horizon, filled his eyes
and heart, yet she held him indescribably above himself; she humbly
worshipped him, abasing herself with wonder that such as he should love
her, yet never descended to what Rodney himself knew was his natural
level, nor ever for an instant suspected that she held him down while
she lifted him up by assuming that he was the type of man whom Arthur
tried to form to sit at his Round Table.
Cicely mystified Rodney; she was at once flame and starlight. He could
not understand that the flame was of the sort that burned away dross;
that Cis loved him with such overwhelming love that she walked under a
sense of consecration. He could not understand, yet he recognized this
and deferred to it in a way that amazed himself when he came to think
it over. He could not risk letting Cis find him less than she believed
him. Her trust in him, her idealization of him, humbled him and
intrigued him. Could he marry Cis, deceiving her? Could he undeceive
her? After they were married Cis would learn to accept things as they
were; she would not love him less; she would love him more, tremendous
as her love now was, for then there would be the complete blending
which was marriage. Cis was not the sort of woman to criticise her
husband. She would understand and justify him when she was his wife,
nor would her slender hold upon the dominant Old Church be maintained
against the clutch with which she would hold to her husband. Rodney’s
fingers tightened as he thought how he would hold his wife, although
Rome itself were hurled upon his grasp that held her. He knew that his
love now flooded Cicely’s whole being with joy; when he was married to
her he would show her that she had known no more of joy than the bird
in the shell knows of the sunlight awaiting it.
Cis had received her engagement ring from Rodney, not the conventional
diamond.
Rodney had a friend who was a dealer in precious stones; from him he
had obtained a ruby perfect in color, beautifully cut, and he had
himself designed its setting. Holly leaves laid one upon another,
points resting each upon the following leaf, formed the ring; four leaf
points converged to hold the wonderful ruby high to catch the light.
It glowed and pulsated upon Cicely’s slender, nervous hand as if it
refracted the light within her, the glow of her love for her lover.
“Oh, Rod, my dearest, it’s beyond words to praise!” sighed Cis, turning
her hand to give the ruby light upon every side. “It’s too wonderful
for me!”
Rodney caught her head between his hands and kissed and kissed her red
hair. Then he crushed her face against his and held her lips to his in
a long kiss.
“I deserve it,” he said releasing her. “The ruby is you; how can it
be too wonderful for you? No white diamond for you, but a ruby, like
this one. You are my Holly, my glowing, ruby-red Holly! My Christmas
Gift! Cis, we shall be married on Christmas Eve? Cis, I beg of you,
don’t ask me to wait longer! That’s almost two full months! I’ve found
the apartment; I haven’t told you, but it’s a little bit of all right!
Christmas Eve our wedding! Christmas morning, when the bells ring, to
say for the first time: ‘Good morning, my wife!’ ‘Good morning, Rod, my
own man!’ And our Christmas breakfast in our own home--no trips away
then; perhaps later!--but I yours, you mine, wholly, forever, my Holly
upon my own walls! Cis, in mercy--say yes!”
“Rod! Rory, my darling!” Cis caught her breath, her words almost a cry.
“I want to come and I can’t! It’s too soon, Rod dear! Only two months;
not quite that! I could leap with you into fire when you call me, yet
I can’t marry, not so soon! Girls--girls--Oh, yes! Girls have to get
ready, get clothes and things, and it takes time, Rod!”
“Cis, you’re a royal princess, a giver by rank and nature! Would you
put me off with such a mean, a dishonest excuse? Do you know what you
ask when you ask me to wait? You, the generous, the unselfish, the
royal giver! As though you hadn’t clothes! If you have enough to go to
Lucas and Henderson’s every day you have enough to live in your own
home, hidden from all eyes but mine--and they won’t see your clothing,
my Holly! We’ll live only about seventy years, all told; less than
fifty more! Will you waste time? How dare you waste time, youth time,
too! We should have been married these four years, at least. You could
have been married at eighteen, if I’d have known you then--No, we
couldn’t! I couldn’t have married you then, my own. You are my own,
Cis! Nothing else is mine! Cis, I’ve had a harder life than you know;
I’m going to tell you when we’re in our home, sitting down all alone,
you in my arms, your dear red head on my shoulder! But don’t be a
niggard with me, generous Cis! Make up my hard luck to me. Oh, make it
up to me! You’ll wipe out memory of the word hard luck! Cis, how can
you think of delaying life together? It’s cowardly, unfair, cold love,
and these things are not in you! Christmas, Holly?”
Rod had pleaded with such quivering earnestness that Cis paled and
trembled before it, swept beyond her power to hesitate, even beyond
deciding.
“My poor Rory! Were you so badly off four years ago?” she murmured.
“But I’d have married you, if you were a beggar with a little dog on a
string! I’ll come home to you at Christmas, then, my own Rodney; I’ll
keep my birthday with my husband in my own home. Oh, Rory O’Moore!”
For Rodney had fallen at her feet and was kissing her hands over and
over again, kissing the ruby which he had placed upon one of them, as
if he feared his own joy, and for the moment dared not rise to the
level of the girl who had shackled her brave freedom for his sake, who
so trusted him and sacrificed for him.
Three days later Cis received an invitation from Miss Gallatin to dine
and spend the evening with her. Rodney had told his eccentric, but
fine landlady of his engagement and speedy marriage. In default of
relatives on either side Miss Hannah Gallatin felt it incumbent upon
her to do something as a mild celebration of what had happened, the
more that she had doubted Rodney, and, for lack of anything else upon
which to hang that doubt, had feared that he was playing with Cis,
would never marry her. Besides this, with the ardor of her own strong,
and comparatively recent adherence to the Catholic Church, she was
anxious about Cicely’s marriage to a renegade from it, Cicely, whose
own lukewarmness was only too evident.
Miss Gallatin was not an ordinary boarding house keeper; queer as
she was in appearance, uncouth and almost shabby in attire, she had
come of good stock; her youth had passed in refined, even luxurious
surroundings; she was well-read, clever, was what used to be meant
by “a gentlewoman.” She was dependent upon her own exertions for a
livelihood because her patrimony had passed from her wholly into a
brother’s hands, owing to her father’s conviction that nothing of
his must ever be administered by one who would be likely to use its
smallest fraction to benefit that menace to American institutions, the
Roman Catholic Church.
Miss Gallatin did not invite Cicely to dine at the common table; it was
not covenable to expose a young girl to criticism among her lover’s
fellow-boarders; she was so far from being their concern that they were
sure to watch her closely and later to comment on her violently.
A small table was spread in a cozy room near the general dining room
and in it Cicely and Rodney were to dine with their hostess, and a
gentleman whom Miss Gallatin explained to Cicely in private.
“I feel honored to entertain him, the gentleman whom you’re to meet at
dinner, Miss Adair,” she said. “He’s a great man, doing great things
as if they were less than little ones. He has a fine estate and plenty
of money; is not married. He is not so much a good Catholic, as an
enraptured one; he consistently puts his faith before all else. He has
travelled everywhere, speaks several languages, has a great library,
reads much, writes, too, a little, I believe; essays, articles on
current questions, giving the Catholic point of view. He is organizing
Catholic lay men and women to be ready to serve the Church wherever
it is needed, and his quite splendid big house is the headquarters
for this league of his. He has people staying there all the time who
need what he can give; a chance for a convert to get on his feet, for
instance, one who is impoverished by coming in, and a chance to find
friends if he is alone, lonely, needing countenance and advice. He has
a teacher of Italian there, to fit people to stem the tide of theft of
Italian immigrants through bribery by the Protestant sects. All these
sorts of things he does. He is well on toward forty; a knight riding to
rescue, if ever there was one! I call him Sir Anselm--not to his face!
In fact, I rarely see him. He’s in town, and I’m gratified to death
that he’s going to stay here. He’s come to see Miss Miriam Braithwaite;
she’s a great friend of his, one of his sort, a convert. His name is
Anselm Lancaster.”
Cis heard this long tale of the man whom she was to meet, without
actually hearing it; she felt no smallest interest in this fine
gentleman, nearing forty, who was spending his days, strength and means
for his Church and hers. If she thought at all of what Miss Gallatin
told her as she made her hair tidy for dinner, it was that he “must
be fusty and musty, pokey and dull to fuss over things like that.” In
the attractive little room where she dined, Cis was introduced to Mr.
Lancaster. She saw him tall, slenderly built, elegant in dress, fine
of feature, handsome, perhaps, and with a gleam of pure humor in his
eyes which was unexpected to her in an extremely devout man. Then she
forgot all about him, for Rodney began to talk to Miss Gallatin, the
stranger joined in, and in listening to Rodney, who did talk well and
fluently, Cis forgot all else, her eyes as well as her cars feasting
upon Rodney’s perfections.
Occasionally Cis spoke, uttering one of her characteristic quick
speeches, much to the point, with a humorous turn and a keenness of
insight that made Mr. Lancaster look at her attentively, smiling upon
her as if he were ready, desirous more correctly, to draw her into
conversation, but Cis did not see this, nor did she respond beyond the
requirements of civility, to the remarks to this end which he addressed
to her. It came out that Cis was secretary to Mr. Lucas, and when he
heard this Mr. Lancaster turned to her with alacrity.
“Mr. Wilmer Lucas?” he cried. “Lucas and Henderson? That office is
deeply concerned with the franchise now before the legislature and
Congress. Everybody is agog to know how it is going. I, myself, am
imploring all the saints to get it through! It will matter greatly to
my plans, if it succeeds. I’m going to be able to found an Italian
colony, if it goes through; give employment to many heads of families,
and save no end of bambini from proselytizing societies for their
destruction! You must know something about the way the matter is
tending, Miss Adair. Please admit that it is trying, to feel that the
knowledge one needs is just across the table, but wholly inaccessible,
enclosed by the nimbus of your hair, sacred as a trust.”
“I know all about it,” said Cis. “I handle the whole correspondence,
but I’m not talking.”
“Don’t imagine that I would suspect you of betraying a trust, still
less that I would want information at that price,” said Mr. Lancaster.
“It must soon be decided and made public. Interesting to see the inner
wheels go around, drop a little accelerating oil on them in a hidden
corner!”
“Yes,” agreed Cis. “I like wheels, things getting done. But I don’t
care more about that franchise than anything else, except that
everybody seems to be wild about it. Rather sport to be the only one in
the know, except your principals! What I’d like to find out is who’s
going to carry off the World’s Series Championship!”
Mr. Lancaster laughed, with a friendly and admiring look at unconscious
Cis, who was laughing at Rod’s assurance that he could tell her, only
she wouldn’t believe him. They had a bet on the result of the baseball
season, on the chances of which they differed.
After dinner there was music; Mr. Lancaster played the piano remarkably
well, and Rodney had brought his violin; he played with brilliant
excellence music that was sometimes sentimental, sometimes frolicsome,
always popular, and never classical. Cis had a pleasant voice and sang
with natural expression and taste, but she could not be induced to
utter a note.
“I don’t want to sing where I can be heard,” she explained. “Padded
cell, solitary confinement for my concert hall!” and again Mr.
Lancaster laughed at her; he evidently found her unaffected gaiety
refreshing.
At last the evening was at an end, and Miss Gallatin was helping Cis
into her coat preparatory to her leaving.
“So it’s all settled, Miss Adair--let me call you Cicely, will you?”
said Miss Gallatin.
“No, but say Cis; I like it!” Cis responded to the affection in the
rugged, patient, lonely face over her shoulder. “Yes, it’s settled! See
the ring? I’m to be married at Christmas, if you please! My birthday.”
“Are you a Noël maid?” asked Miss Gallatin. “I noticed the ring; most
beautiful! Now I understand the holly leaves and the ruby single holly
berry. A marvellous ruby, a significant and beautiful design for a
Christmas girl!”
“Rod made the design; he calls me Holly,” said Cis proudly. “He’s a
great Rodney!”
“Has he come back to the Church to thank God for you where He should
be thanked?” asked Miss Gallatin softly. “I want to be sure of your
happiness, my dear.”
“Dear me, no, he hasn’t, Miss Gallatin!” Cis laughed, but she spoke
impatiently. “He is so good as it is, that I’m sure he’s all right. I
can’t seem to worry over Rod!”
“You’ve got to build your house square with its foundation, if it’s to
stand,” said Miss Gallatin. “Dear Cis, I do hope you’ll be happy; be
blessed, which is more. I suppose it may be that you’re to be the torch
bearer, lead G. Rodney Moore to heaven. God sees farther than we can!
Did you like Mr. Lancaster?”
“Who’s Mr. Lancaster? Oh, that man downstairs? He seems all right,
plays like a dream, though I always think it is a little queer for a
man to play the piano. Isn’t he sort of religious-crazy? All right to
be a Catholic, but you can’t keep at it all the time, as if it was a
hurdy-gurdy and the pennies would stop if you stopped grinding it!” Cis
laughed at herself, and gathered up her gloves, ready to go.
“Oh, my child, can’t you see the difference between grinding at a thing
and being permeated with it?” cried Miss Gallatin. “You don’t grind
at the thought of Rod; you feel him, you breathe him, though you are
not consciously thinking of him. So it is with the love of God; God
is, and you exist in Him; there is nothing that is not of Him in all
your actions and thoughts, though it may be only that His presence is
beneath it all, not conscious every instant to your mind. Thus Anselm
Lancaster loves God.”
Cis stopped short in her passage to the door, and stared silently for a
moment at Hannah Gallatin. Then she said slowly:
“I never stop thinking of Rod; he is ceaselessly before my eyes; I
breathe him, not air. Do you mean to say that anyone ever feels like
that to God, to _God_, Whom you do not see, Who is--well, far off, not
part of us, just--Oh, how shall I say it? Just _God_, heard about in
church, not very well known?”
“Who is ‘just God.’ You said it well, poor Cis. Who is our Beginning,
our End, in Whom ‘we live, and move and have our being’; Saint Paul
answered you before you asked your question. I mean that He is loved in
that way by many, and that unless you share in that love to a degree,
all other love will fail you, and life be wretched in its course and in
its end,” said Miss Gallatin solemnly.
Cis stared at her for another instant, then she turned to go.
“I never once thought that piety meant that,” she said. “Yet of course
God is what you say. It’s quite nice; I never thought I liked piety
much. Perhaps if you hang on tight when you don’t get it, God lets you
get it later on. But you must hang on awfully tight when you don’t
feel like hanging, I suppose! Well, I certainly don’t get it now!
Thanks, Miss Gallatin. And thanks for the dinner and nice evening.”
On the way to Mrs. Wallace’s Rodney broke a long silence by saying:
“That man was interested in you, Holly; he sat up and took notice when
you spoke.”
“Did he? Who did?” asked Cis, emerging from her thoughts.
“Who did! How many did you meet? I’d think you were playing off, Cis,
if you ever played tricks, off or on! That Lancaster stained-glass
ecclesiastical piece, to be sure!” retorted Rodney. “Gracious, what a
fool a man makes of himself--woman, either!--when he or she get going
on religion! Thank the gods, we are free from humbug! Say, Cis, how
much do you love me?” Rodney sought her hand to punctuate his question.
“Kids say: ‘More’n tongue can tell!’ I suspect that’s the answer, Rory
O’Moore!” said Cis.
“I want you to prove it, my treasure!” said Rod. “I’ve been thinking
of it for some time. I saw when you were talking to-night of that
franchise that the matter was already decided, that you knew which
way it was going. Cis, I’d never ask you to betray that code of your
firm’s; I’d never ask you to do a thing that was wrong, but I more
than ask, I beg of you, give me a hint, tell me whether the franchise
is going through or not. Cis, listen before you answer! I’ll never, I
swear to you, let another person have a hint of what I know, nor will
anyone ever guess I’ve had inside information. I’ve a little money,
a few thousands; that stock can be bought for, say .33, brokers’
commissions and all told. It will sell for 200 within a year, if it
goes at all. Tell me only this: Shall I take the stock to the limit of
my capital, or is it hands off? See? I don’t ask for a word directly on
the franchise, but shall I buy or let it alone? Tell me, Cis; it’s for
us both, you know.”
That last appeal stiffened Cis. She cried impatiently:
“Do you think I want to profit by dishonor?”
“Cis, Cis, my Holly-bride, my wife in eight weeks, do listen to me!”
implored Rod. “It isn’t wrong to give me the tip; I won’t let anyone
else share it; you wouldn’t be betraying confidence, but you would
share your knowledge with your full self. You and I will be one person
months before that franchise matter is public, likely. Only this, Cis:
Shall I buy that stock, or not? Just nod yes, or shake your head, no.
Make me by a nod, or save me by a shake of the head; that’s all! I need
money, Cis. You hesitate! Fine old love yours is!”
“Oh, Rod, I can’t! Don’t you see I can’t?” begged Cis. “Don’t ask me,
don’t! Mr. Lucas--they all trust me. I never played anyone false in all
my life----”
“Except me!” cried Rodney bitterly. “You’re my wife, or as good as
that, with all yourself pledged to me, yet when you can serve me,
merely by a tiny nod when I ask: ‘Cis, shall I buy that stock?’ you are
stiff-necked and indifferent; you won’t by the tiny inclination of
your head help me upon my feet! Shame, Cicely Adair! It’s not what I
call love; it’s not what I counted on in you! I thought you’d die for
me, if need were! It’s not the money, not first! You fail me, Cis; you
refuse to help me!”
“Oh, Rod, oh, Rod!” cried Cis in torture. “You know, you know it’s all
false! I--can’t! Oh, I will, I will! Oh, Rod, don’t look like that, not
at me; not at Cis! I’ll die for you, I will! I shall be dead if I’m no
longer trustworthy, but I’d die for you! Buy the stock. The franchise
is decided; it is going through! Oh, Rod, Rod! Oh, what have I done!”
“Right, my precious, my darling! Anyone would say you had done right.
No one will be the worse for it, and I’ll be far, far better! We’ll be
better! Bless you, my Holly girl, my brave, true, loyal Holly girl!”
cried Rodney triumphantly.
“Don’t call me loyal!” Cis gasped. “And plan so I’ll never profit by
that money. Rodney, it is heaven to love you, but, oh, it can be hell
to have anyone so necessary to you that everything goes down before the
dread of paining him!”
Rodney left Cis on the steps of Mrs. Wallace’s house, looking wan and
pale, grief and terror in her wide eyes, but he did not pity her. He
was sure that she would soon throw off what he considered her morbid
exaggeration of her failure to keep her employers’ secret.
“Fancy her not telling me! The silly darling!” Rodney thought, striding
away, whistling loudly the air with which he serenaded Cis when
he passed down her street at night; he was sure that she was still
standing within the open door; listening to his receding steps and his
merry whistling.
“I’ve got her where I want her! Exactly where I I want her! She’d
throw over this world, and the next, and everything in them for me!
There’s not another like her; all mad love for me, yet crystal-clear
in soul! Oh, _soul_! It’s not that; it’s her honesty, her truth, her
selflessness! I can’t seem to face fooling her; I guess I’ll have to
lay the cards on the table in front of her, before Christmas, too! I
don’t want to fool Cis Adair! And there’s not the slightest risk in
doing it, not now! Probably there never was. She’s no doddering slave
of ignorant prejudice! Besides, I’ve got her where I want her; to-day
proved that! Dandy good thing it happened; tested her, gave me pluck
to start in square with her, and honesty’s the only policy with Cis,
that’s sure! Just where I want her! My splendid girl! It hurt, but she
stood pat! Conscience won’t make a coward of brave Cis! And afterward
I’ll know how to salve the conscience if it happens to smart a little.
After Christmas I’ll be her conscience! Just where I want her, that
gorgeous Cis of mine!”
Rodney went on glowing with triumph, the haunting dread of his past
weeks almost laid, and Cis, when the last echo of his going had died
away, closed the door and went up stairs slowly, for the first time in
all her life seeking her bed with a heavy heart.
CHAPTER XII
THE STRAINED CABLE
There was a new element in life for Cis, a chord in its accompaniment
that jarred, though she tried not to hear it. For the first time since
she had been old enough to deal consciously with other people, Cis had
done something in relation to another of which she was ashamed. When
she omitted Mass on days of obligation, when it occurred to her that
her infrequency at the sacraments was not to her credit, she was a
little sorry, half resolved to do better, but she was not ashamed; she
indirectly counted upon “fixing it up.” It is a noteworthy fact that
people who do less for God expect Him to do more for them; they read
the text: “because she has loved little much is forgiven her.”
But in relation to question of honor, “dealing straight” as she put it,
Cis was acutely sensitive. She told herself that it would be too much
to expect of anyone not to give her betrothed information which she
possessed and which would not go farther, which would, without harm to
another, greatly benefit him. The fact which she could not argue down
as it faced her frowningly, was that Mr. Lucas had made no exception
to his prohibition against disclosing the secret which her position
necessitated her knowing, that she had given her pledge to keep
it--and had broken it! For the sake of Rod, only, of course, to whom
she owed her best help, but she had broken it!
The knowledge that she had failed in honor for the first time in her
life shamed her, afflicted her. And back of this shame was a more
poignant pain which she did not admit in her thoughts. It was Rod’s
pleading, his making this a test of her devotion to him, to which she
had yielded. Rod had been indifferent to her duty when it stood in the
way of his advantage. Was Rod, could Rod be--Cis never went farther,
but that was far enough to leave her weary in mind.
The visible result of her inward torment was to make her more
demonstrative of love for Rodney; he was surprised to see in her daily
new proof of its strength, of her disregard of the reserve which, up
to this time, had tantalized him in her, while it whetted his delight
in the expressions of feeling which he wrung from her. Now she adored
him openly, frankly, with a feverish eagerness which he might have
correctly construed if his understanding of this type of girl had been
more profound. He thought it was due to the rapidly nearing date of
their marriage, and it made his head swim to think what Cis would be to
him in her own home if the approach to its threshold so multiplied her
sweet ways.
A letter had come to Cis from Nan in reply to hers announcing her
marriage on Christmas eve, a Nan-like letter, full of love for Cis, but
no less full of anxiety. “It seems so quick, Cis darling!” Nan wrote.
“To think that you’ll be married before me, and I’ve known Joe almost
all my life! You have not said that your Rod is a Catholic, but Moore
is sometimes Irish, so I suppose he is one. You would not marry anyone
who was not a Catholic? We’ve so often decided that it is madness to
set out on a certainty that there’ll be something serious to differ
upon, when it’s so hard, at best, for people to grow close together,
so easy to differ. Besides, it’s wrong; for the children’s sake it’s
wrong--but you always said that yourself, so I’m sure Rod Moore is a
good Catholic. Dearest Cis, I never could tell you how I hope and pray
for you! For I’m always fonder of you than of any other friend I have.
Lovingly, Your same old, Nan.”
“Wonder what she’d say if she knew Rod had been a Catholic and given
it up? Nan would far rather he’d always been Protestant, of course; it
would be better, too. Wonder what in all the world she’d say if she
knew he was determined to get me to give it all up myself? Nan would
take the first train on here, carrying a big jug of Holy Water, and
she’d simply souse Rod and me to drive off the devil--bless her heart!
But I’m not going to quit. To be sure I did miss Mass last Sunday, but
I go pretty regularly; I’ll go every Sunday after I’m married, because
it will be up to me to set a good example, bring Rod back. A person
must have some religion, and it’s silly to have one made by Luther, or
Henry the Eighth, or someone; I could make one myself as well as that
bunch! I suppose it would be easier to convert a Protestant than turn
Rod back; he’s awfully down on it, really! I wonder why? That’s not
like being slack and lazy-minded! ‘For the children’s sake,’ Nan says!
Well, I hope I’ll have children, certainly, but I’m not going to marry
to please them, I’ll tell them that right now! They’ll have to take
what they find, and if they’ll grow up as splendid as Rod is, Church or
no Church, I’ll be proud of them! Funny little Nannie!”
“Rory O’Moore,” Cis said that evening to Rodney, “I’ve got to ’fess to
Mr. Lucas!”
“You’ve got to do nothing of the sort!” Rod angrily exclaimed. “Cis,
don’t be an idiot! What good would it do? Could you take back what you
told me? You’d be a miserable sinner if you would, provided you could!
Mr. Lucas is happy while he is ignorant; let him alone in that form of
bliss! No harm is done, nobody wronged, nobody the wiser. What good
would you do by telling on yourself? All you’d do is to mess up the
situation. You’ll be married and out of the office soon. My wife isn’t
going to keep on in business! Thanks to your tip, my dearest, we’ll
have a nice little increase to our income.”
“I can’t answer one of your common-sense statements, Rod,” said Cis
slowly, “but I can’t go along with them. Mr. Lucas thinks what isn’t
true. Truth is the only basis for dealing with anyone. I’ve got to tell
him exactly what I did; I can’t breathe in his office while I know that
when he looks at me he sees what isn’t there. I don’t care to own up,
Rod dear, but when there isn’t solid rock-bottom of truth under my
dealings, my relations with a person, I feel like that Irishman who
didn’t like aeroplanes because ‘when they stopped there wasn’t any
place to stand to crank the thing!’ When someone is deceived in you, if
you don’t make it straight, it’s worse than playing with ghosts--they
touch you and you touch them, yet neither of you is there at all!”
Rodney looked at Cicely for a long time, an inscrutable expression
upon his face. She made a little grimace at him, twisting her lips and
showing her dimple, but he did not respond with a smile. She thought
that he was displeased with her, and again coaxed him with pursed-up
lips, but Rodney’s eyes were steady, clouded; he looked bothered,
plainly was deep in thought.
“I’ll put off telling, Rory O’Moore,” Cis said, misunderstanding him.
“If you hate to have me tell, I won’t tell right away, but I’ve got to
tell sometime, please, Rod!”
It was a week later that Rod said to Cis: “Will you come with me to the
apartment to-morrow, Holly? I’ve had sent in a few odd chairs, and a
table that hit me exactly where I live, and I’d like your opinion of
them, Mistress-of-the-Mansion-elect!” They had agreed to pick out the
furnishings of their home together, but Cis looked delighted at this
departure from the bargain on Rodney’s part, and gladly said that she
would go with him to see his selections.
They had changed rôles for the week that had just passed; Cis, relieved
by her definitely announced plan to confess her wrong-doing to Mr.
Lucas, felt better about it, and had been bubbling over with fun
and high spirits. Rodney, on the contrary, had been cast-down; Cis
repeatedly caught him looking at her with such a sober and apprehensive
look, that she had once been moved to expostulate with him.
“For pity’s sake, Rory O’Moore,” she cried, “stop looking at me as
if you were saying: ‘Doesn’t she look natural! Poor thing, she was
so young, and with all her faults I love her still! Not so still as
this, though!’ I’m not nearly as dead as I might be; in fact I’m quite
lively, I think. What’s wrong with me--or you--old chap?”
“I’m deciding something, Holly-berry,” Rodney answered, not smiling
at her nonsense. “I’m wondering what you’d want me to do about a
certain thing, on which I can’t consult you without giving the thing
away, so you never would have a chance to decide it, after all. Sounds
mysterious, but it’s the best I can do by way of answering you. I’m
wondering how you’d react under something I’ve a mind to do. You’re the
frankest human being I ever knew, Cis; you never have hidden meanings,
nor lay a plot; you act outright and talk right out! Yet I’m not one
bit sure of what you’d do under untried conditions; you’re capable of
doing one of two completely opposite things.”
“Well,” said Cis lightly, in too contented a frame of mind to pay
close attention to what Rodney might be implying, “I’m glad you can’t
tell which way I’d jump. Sounds quite impressive, but probably it’s
something like whether I’d go back on my bronzey little library and go
in for red, after I’d sworn no red should come into my happy home! I’m
more interesting if I’m uncertain; that’s why you like women, you men,
my Rory; they keep you guessing! I’m dreadfully afraid you do know all
I think, and what I’d do, but it’s dear of you to pretend I’m a nice
sphinxy-sphynx!”
Rodney laughed; he had instantly regretted speaking as he had spoken,
and he was glad that Cis’s incorrigible light-heartedness prevented her
from taking him seriously, gave him longer to decide whether he should
pursue his original plan, and tell Cis the secret which he meant to
tell her after their marriage, or put himself at her mercy by telling
her at once. He knew that this was the only honorable course; he knew
that, if their places were reversed, Cis would deal thus with him.
It was the last Sunday in November, the first Sunday in Advent, and
Cis and Rodney were happily on their way to look at the three chairs
of unusual design, and the beautiful mahogany table which, so Rodney
delighted to put it to Cis, he “had sent home.”
The day enveloped them with the caresses of Saint Martin’s Summer;
warm sunshine; gentle air that brushed over them as they walked, like
wings that bore blessings; a cloudless sky, veiled with hazy warmth
that softened, yet did not conceal the bright blue that stretched from
horizon to horizon.
“The winter of our discontent is turned glorious summer by our sunny
walk,” said Rodney, making an attempt to retain the sound and not the
sense of the quotation which was lost on Cis. “Almost December first,
only two days distant, and even this light-weight overcoat a burden!
It’s what my grandmother used to call a weather-breeder.”
“I don’t see why people want to take the polish off of a day like
this!” cried Cis. “A day like this is a present from heaven, and I
don’t like to look a gift horse in the mouth. Rory O’Moore, don’t you
think it came just to rejoice with us and strew our path to our new
little home?”
“Like a wedding flower girl? Oh, Cicely, you bride of brides! I’d think
any day would smile and look pleasant when it came up at dawn to find
us together,” Rodney spoke with a little laugh in his voice, but it
trembled too.
The apartment did not include many rooms, but they were--for apartment
rooms--spacious. There were two excellent bedrooms, a small room for
the maid, and its accompanying bath at the rear, a small kitchen, a
pretty dining room, and a really fine living room, besides a tiled
bathroom which was so white, so modern and perfect in its appointments
that Cis found herself unexpectedly housewifely every time that she saw
it. Mentally she screwed bright nickle fixtures upon the slabs built in
for them, and hung heavily initialled towels upon glass rods, as she
stood in the doorway, taking in the details of this room devoted to the
practice of the virtue which is next to godliness.
“I’m going to turn out well, Rory O’Moore!” Cis announced, swinging
around to face Rodney, who had come up behind her and placed his
hands upon her shoulders. “You always knew I’d be agreeable to have
around, but you never dreamed I’d be a real, dyed-in-the-wool domestic
character! Neither did I, but I shall be; I feel it coming on! I yearn
to scrub this white floor and polish the faucets! The kitchen, with
that white sink and draining board, and the cunning cupboard, goes to
my head till it fairly spins with rapture! Oh, Rod, it’s the sweetness
of doing for you! I’ve been half scared to be married, even to you, but
this apartment takes it all out of me! It’s home and home-making; it’s
living for, and with, and in each other! Oh, my Rod, I’m not afraid,
I’m _not_! I’m glad, _glad_ I’m coming here to be with you, and scrub
_your_ rooms, and wash _your_ dishes!”
“Holly, my blessed Holly!” Rodney breathed the words almost inaudibly
into Cicely’s ear, all that was fine in him moved and awed before her
sweetness.
Voluntarily Cis threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, and
caresses were rare with her, yielded only to his implorations. Rodney
understood that she was betrothing herself anew, and he met her spirit
in tune with it. Why did he fear to tell her his secret? This rare,
deep-hearted Cicely would not fail him for a chimera!
The new table awakened little less than rapture in Cis; it was exactly
to her mind. The three chairs no less; deep-seated, low, at once
“impressive and home chairs,” Cis pronounced them.
“Suppose we use them for awhile, Cicely dear,” Rodney proposed. “I’d
like to talk to you.”
“All right; I’m ready to talk, or to listen,” agreed Cis, dropping into
the chair which she had at once pronounced “made for the lady of the
house.” “Sounds queer to hear you call me Cicely, Rodney!” she added,
laughing at him.
“I’ll have to learn to call you that in case we ever have company,”
returned Rodney. “See, here, Cis, I sort of dread to say what I’m going
to say; please help me to it. I thought I’d tell you after we were
married, but you’re so keen to have things clear between you and Mr.
Lucas, you’re so straight, I thought--Cis, if you were anyone else,
anything else but what you are, I’d follow my own judgment, but you’re
so crystal-clear--Cis, try to understand, and for pity’s sake don’t be
prejudiced--There’s no sense in building up false theories of life--”
Cicely was sitting erect and still, her lips parted, her very muscles
eloquent of tensity of mind.
“What are you stumbling over, Rod? What are you going to tell me?” she
demanded.
“When I talked to you about my life, told you about it, you did not
notice that I said nothing about three years of it, when I was in
Chicago,” said Rodney.
Cis shook her head, groping backward in her memory to recall what he
had said.
“Only that you were there for three years; that’s all I remember,” she
said.
“How do you feel about second marriages, Cis?” asked Rodney. “Would
you hate to be a second wife?”
“Oh!” Cis gasped, and sank back in her chair.
“It’s not--not so nice,” she said hesitatingly. “To think you were
married, actually married, fixed up a home before this one, brought a
girl into it, loved her--Oh, Rod, were you? Were you--married--before?”
Rodney nodded. “Yes, Cis, I was. I had to tell you; please, please,
don’t mind, Cis!”
For a few minutes Cicely was silent, shading her face with her hand;
Rodney waited breathlessly for her to speak.
At last she pushed back her hair with the hand that had rested against
her forehead, smiled bravely, with a visible effort, and put out that
hand to Rodney.
“Poor dear!” she said softly. “I’m sorry! It rather knocked me up at
first, but I won’t let it bother me long. All girls like to be the
first, you know, but it’s really all right, as long as you love me
dearly now. You told me that you’d fancied others before me, so I did
half-way know, but marriage is different. I didn’t know you’d loved one
well enough for that. I wish you’d told me sooner--But it was awfully
hard to tell me at all, I see that, so I’m grateful to you for making
yourself speak of it now. It is right to have told me before we were
married; I don’t know just how I should have felt if I’d found it out
later; I’m so keen on honesty.”
Rodney winced. “I know, Cis; that’s why I had to tell you. But that
time was nothing like this; don’t you imagine I ever felt for any other
girl what I feel for you!”
“Ah, poor Other Girl!” murmured Cis. “I don’t like to have you say what
she would have hated! Better let me be a little bit sore, because I’ll
fight it down, and I’m alive, and it’s like taking an advantage of a
dead girl to say what you did. Do you mind talking of her, Rodney dear?
Would you tell me about her? Does it hurt to speak of her? What did she
look like? Dark hair and eyes, because mine are not. Was she little and
sweet, or tall and splendid? Rod, oh, my poor Rod, you suffered, you
must have suffered when she--died! And I could not be there to help
you! I’d have helped you, dear. Will you tell me all these things? Can
you bear it? Does it still hurt, Rod? If it does, oh, if it does, then
this is not altogether my home! It is part hers, and so are you!”
“I don’t care any more for her, Cicely Adair, than I care for your
friend Nan’s cat--if she has one! Don’t you get notions! It was a mad
infatuation; I might have known how she’d have turned out, but I was
young, and--well, Cis, I got all snarled up with her. That’s not much
like my love for you!” Rodney cried.
“Oh me, oh dear!” Cis half sobbed. “I don’t know whether that makes it
better; I’ve got to get used to this, and go off to think it out by
myself. When did she die? Where did you bury her?”
“In the Chicago divorce court,” said Rodney savagely.
“In--the--” Cis stopped short, her eyes dilated, staring at Rodney, her
hands clasping the arms of “the lady of the house’s chair.” “Rodney
Moore, she is not dead? She is alive? You--you!--have a living wife?”
“No, no, no! Not yet, not yet, Holly! At Christmas I’ll have,” cried
Rodney springing to his feet. “I am free, free as you are, _free_! I’m
not married! I divorced her; she was as bad as they come, and I’m freed
by my decree to marry. I’m no more married than you are.” He took a
step toward her, but Cis held out both hands, warding him off.
“She is alive. Don’t touch me!” she cried. “She is alive. No decree
kills her; your wife is alive,” she gasped.
“Cis, listen to me!” Rodney began, dropping on his knees beside
Cicely, compelling her horror-stricken eyes to meet his eyes. “That
girl was not fit to be any man’s wife. Do you understand? My marriage
was a mockery from the first, and soon I hated her as much as I had
been fascinated by her. From sly, hidden beginnings, she soon passed
into open evil. She disgraced me while I was her husband, and since I
have been free of her she has gone into utter degradation. There was
not an instant’s question of my getting rid of her; court and common
humanity would grant me my decree of divorce. Are you going to tell
me that I have a living wife? I have no wife. Would you make all my
life desolate because she was what she was? Only the Catholic Church
forbids marriage under my conditions. Do you see now why I want you
to shake off her laws, which do violence to every natural instinct
of justice? Am I to suffer, live alone, denied wife and children? _I_
suffer, who was not the offender? Is that sense? Plain common sense
forbids such foolishness. Throw off your prejudices; come out into
freedom and happiness, my darling! Only your ridiculous Roman Catholic
tyrants forbid it; God is on our side, not they! The reverend mayor,
or a reverend alderman can marry us as tight and as sacredly as that
thin Jesuit can whom we met coming back from Pioneer Falls that Sunday.
You’re not actually a Catholic. Cis, I’ve suffered enough. Make it up
to me! With you my wife there won’t be a scar left of these wicked
wounds! Cis, don’t you love me? Stop staring at me so, as if you’d
never seen me before! Cis, don’t you know I’m Rory O’Moore, unchanged?
That this is our home, and you my Holly-bride?”
Cis did not move. She stared at Rodney stonily, trying to force her
mind to grasp this thing that had fallen upon her when her happiness
was at its height, made sweeter and holier than before by her new sense
of the meaning of home-making.
“Was this woman--your wife--was she a Catholic?” Cis managed to ask.
“Well, I’ve no love for the Catholic Church, but I wouldn’t wish her on
any Church,” Rodney laughed bitterly. “Religion wasn’t in her line, but
her people were Catholic; she’d had baptism.”
“You knew that, because you were married by a priest,” Cicely groped
in her mind for what she wanted to say. “They ask--about baptism. You
were married by a priest?”
“Yes. But, good heavens, Cis--” Rodney cried out. “What of that?
These things have no power over us unless we give them the right to
it. Priest or no priest, the laws of our country freed me; isn’t that
enough?”
“You have a living wife.” Cis repeated the words, changing her formula,
but clinging to the sole idea that took shape in her stunned brain.
“Cicely, Cis, my Holly, don’t, don’t, for the love of justice, for the
love of me, benumb yourself with such idiocy! I have no wife! Cis,
listen! _I--have--no--wife!_ Will you leave me?” Rodney cried, leaping
to his feet, for Cis had risen. “You can’t! Throw over the Church! Come
to me! You love me; I worship you. I need you. Cis, are you utterly
heartless? Church or me, and you hesitate! Me, your husband! Oh, Cis,
look at this home of ours; stay in it!”
Cis lifted both arms toward heaven with a great, tragic gesture, and
turned in silence toward the door. Rodney leaped to reach it before
her, but she raised her hand and looked at him. Her blanched face,
surmounted by her glowing hair was deathlike and awful; it made Rodney
fall back to let her pass, afraid to check her.
“I will go away to think. I can’t think now. I will send you word when
I know. I may come back. I cannot think. You have killed my brain. I
don’t know--but you have a living wife! I will go away to think. Let me
go, alone. I must go--alone. There is not even Cis Adair left to go
with me. How strange to come alive and go out dead! Your wife is alive.
Good-bye. Let me pass.”
Cis spoke slowly, with great difficulty, yet clearly, and Rodney, awed
and conscience-stricken to see her thus, fell back and let her go.
Afterward he marvelled that he had done so, and cursed his folly, but
under the spell of Cicely’s eyes he could not do otherwise.
CHAPTER XIII
DARKNESS
Cicely came out into the golden weather of that belated St. Martin’s
Summer day which she had said had been sent to bless her path to
her new home. The sunshine was as warm, the air as soft, the sky as
beautifully blue as when she had crossed the threshold of her paradise,
from which horror and her stumbling conscience were driving her, but
she saw nothing of the beauty around her.
Shut into her own mind, she walked unseeing, unaware, the interior
darkness not lifting even so much as to reveal to her what and why she
suffered. Or did she suffer? Something had happened to her; everything
was obliterated; pain was not conscious to her, nor loss, but in a
vacuum that forbade breath, in a pit without ray or exit, she walked
the Beaconhite streets, not knowing where she went, nor whom she
passed. Something repeated ceaselessly: “A wife. A wife, alive; he has
a wife. He is married.” She did not know why she so insisted upon this;
it tired her, and many men had a wife. Who was it that had one whose
having one so mattered to her?
She could not think; she must think. That was it; she must think. Never
before had she felt the need of thinking, but there was something that
she must think out. What it was, or why she must think about it, she
could not tell, but the immediate, pressing necessity was to think;
she must find a place to think in. Not her own room at Mrs. Wallace’s;
she would not go there. The park? That might do, though she would like
to go where no one could come near her, and the park would be full of
strollers on such a Sunday as this. Solitude, a place to think, to
gather up vague horrors which were lurking at the back of her brain,
waiting to be assembled into definite agony. Cis dimly felt that agony
was upon her, beginning, yet almost it would be better than this
strange bewilderment which held for her but two cogent impressions.
They rose up out of her chaos like spars of a shipwreck: Someone,
Rodney Moore--but she could not quite grasp who Rodney Moore was, why
his affairs affected her--had a living wife. And she must find solitude
and think; there was something that she must clearly see, upon which
she must decide.
She turned the corner of a street, going on aimlessly. The church
had not occurred to her as a quiet place in which she could think,
still less did it occur to poor Cicely, who had few of the habits of
devotion, to seek the church for enlightenment, guidance, strength. She
had never formed the custom of making visits to the church, so now,
bewildered, benumbed, there was no deep-seated instinct to lead her
thither when her brain was not directing her steps. Yet before her, as
she came down this street into which she had turned, stood the church
of St. Francis Xavier, the church to which she repaired nearly every
week for her compulsory Mass of Sunday.
“That ought to be a quiet place,” Cis told herself, and ascended the
church steps. It was a large church, fine in architecture, not tasteful
in decoration. It was much too strong-colored, too bizarre in the
designs of its interior, yet it contrived to get an effect of splendor,
in spite of its offenses against the canons of art, and it needed no
contriving to give an instant sense of cheerfulness, of homelikeness,
of kindness, and, withal, of devotion to those who entered it.
There were but few people in it at this hour, when dinner and the
companionship of the weekly holiday occupied most of its frequenters.
Those who were there were kneeling at the farther end of the deep
building, before the shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes, or the Sacred Heart
altar, or before the Pietà that stood near the sanctuary rail, just
within it. A half dozen, or less, knelt before the candelabrum which
held the votive candles; they had each lighted one, and were praying
raptly that the boon which they implored by whispered prayer and
representative little candle might be granted.
Cis went into a pew close to the door, and from habit, but without
consciousness of her action, knelt and made the sign of the cross
because she had just come into church. She had long ago fallen into the
way of thus kneeling on entering, and, first of all prayers, repeating
the Act of Contrition.
Now she began slowly, without knowing what she said, to whisper: “In
the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. O my
God, I am heartily sorry that--” Her lips ceased moving; she could go
no farther. Heartily sorry--for what?
Rodney Moore had a living wife; he was unhappy about it. So was she.
She was sorry that this was so. There was that nice apartment which
he had shown her, and those chairs; one was the chair for the lady of
the house. What hurt her so? Was it her head? It did not seem to her
that she had brought it with her, yet she felt a terrible pain; it
seemed to be in her head. What was it she had to think about? Rodney
was not dead. Why did she feel as though he were dead? Or was it that
there was no Rodney? He had a wife, alive. He had none, so he had
said, but if she were alive? He must have forgotten, poor Rodney, that
when one’s wife is alive--there she is: alive! Still the wife. She was
not thinking, and she had come here to think; it was quiet, deeply,
peacefully quiet, and somehow quieting, as well. She would be able to
think here.
Cis knelt staring at the altar, her face so white that an old woman,
entering, turned as if to speak to her, then changed her mind and
went on, shaking her head pityingly, saying to herself: “God pity and
help her, the poor young creature!” as she ducked her edition of a
genuflection toward the altar and knelt in a pew, rattling big brown
rosary beads, supplemented by several large medals, on the back of the
pew against which she rested her gnarled hands.
Was it that the benison was effective? It was not long before the
strange submergence of her conscious self which had overwhelmed Cicely
on hearing Rodney’s knell of her joy, broke and rolled back, leaving
her soul bare to an agony that saw only too clearly, grasped only too
acutely exactly what had befallen her.
She was promised to marry within four weeks a man whose wife was still
alive!
Under the law of the country Rodney was entirely free. It was the
woman, not he, who had broken the marriage vow, who had desecrated
the marriage, sinned against herself, against Rodney, against God. No
one would ask a man to condone her sin, unrepented, persisted in. The
state issued licenses to marry; it protected the legality of marriage;
under its laws children were made legitimate, their rights protected;
marriage was a civil institution, the foundation of decent living, of
homes which were the unit of the state; it was essentially the bulwark
of civilization. When it ceased to be the foundation of decent living,
when the sin of a parent endangered the legitimacy of children, when
the home was corrupted, the yoke become a galling chain, even disgrace,
then the state, which had approved the union and licensed it under its
laws, revoked it, dissolved it, allowing the innocent partner of the
union to go free, to make another marriage if he, or she, so desired;
be perfectly free to enjoy the rights of every citizen, “life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness.”
If there were states which went so far as to allow equal privileges to
the guilty spouse; which gave to one who had debased one marriage,
freedom to contract another, or even others, that was all wrong, of
course, but that consideration was uncalled for in this case. Rodney
was wronged; he had been made free of the person who had wrecked his
happiness, and that was just.
Ah, but what was this, this other side to the divorce question? The
teaching of Christ Himself, of His Church, continuing His teaching,
practising it, though it bore ever so heavily upon a case peculiarly
putting forth pleas for its exception; holding it irrefrangible though
it cost a kingdom, and plunged a whole noble and religious nation into
heresy?
Cicely’s mind was as keenly awake now as it had been benumbed at first.
Teaching that she had heard without realization of hearing it, came to
life, stored up within that memory which is one of the soul’s component
parts.
The Church’s laws were not flexible on fundamental questions; they
were made for all, and whether they were brought to bear upon a case
which seemed to deserve the severity of their full application, or
whether--as now--they seemed too cruel, they admitted no indulgence.
Rodney Moore had married a girl who was baptized in the Catholic
Church, as was he. He had married unwisely, from unworthy motives,
but that did not lessen the guilt of the wife who had betrayed him.
The Church would not insist that the union of marriage be maintained
in such a case as this, but Rodney and his wife had spoken the vow
which precludes the taking of another man or woman in espousal till
death has ended the duration of that vow. The state could annul the
civil marriage which it had made, but far beyond its province lay the
sacramental marriage, so far beyond it that not even the Church, with
its divinely delegated authority to bind and to loose could annul
a marriage to which there was no impediment according to her laws;
performed by her authority under God; vowed to God directly; sealed by
her sacramental seal which cannot be broken till death has broken it.
This knowledge of the Church’s position as to marriage came clearly
before Cicely’s mind as she knelt, her eyes fixed upon the altar, which
she did not see. With such vivid remembrance of what she had been
taught by sermons, by reading, by acquaintance with Catholics like the
Dowling family, whose talk on divorce she had heard and shared, for it
is a subject that no modern American can escape, Cis marshalled the
facts of the Catholic Church’s attitude toward divorce. She had heard
words which returned to her, and she knew who it was that had uttered
them. “For this cause shall a man leave father and mother and shall
cleave to his wife; and they two shall be as one flesh. And he that
shall marry her that is put away committeth adultery.”
Strange that she should remember this! Cis wondered at it; she could
not ordinarily repeat texts. There was no divorce, not within the
Church. Cicely knew now why she had repeated wearily those horrible
words: “He has a living wife.”
Rodney had a living wife, and while she lived Cicely Adair could not
be his wife, however wicked his wife had been--not in the eyes of the
Catholic Church!
There was the crux of the matter. In the eyes of the state, of the
average American society, Cicely Adair, and still another after her,
might be Rodney Moore’s wife for all his first misadventure!
Rodney implored her to come out of the Church into freedom. Ah, yes,
and more, far, far more--into his arms, into his home, into that
lovable, cheery, blessed little apartment waiting for them!
She had but to go to him, tell him that she was ready, that she would
leave all to follow him--She checked herself; even in her thoughts she
could not travesty the divine words which related to marriage, but
to the sacrament of marriage. Not to leave Him did Our Lord bid His
followers leave all to cling to a wife, but rather to come after Him
and, thus coming, derive strength to cleave to one spouse in a union
transcending the weakness of nature.
Back upon its track Cicely’s mind travelled, leaving the thought of
Our Lord’s teaching. Rodney bade her prove her love for him. He had
reminded her of how indifferent a Catholic she was. It was true. She
rarely thought about her faith; it did not form an integral, vital part
of her days. She kept to it, but she did not enjoy it, nor did she
often draw near to its heart, nor know much about its devotions, live
in its calendar year. She dimly knew that some people did these things;
Nan came nearer to it than Cis realized, she imagined, but as a rule
these things seemed to be fit for nuns.
She need never take a definite step, like renouncing her faith overtly.
All that she had to do was to marry Rodney. She would have to be
married by a civil officer, or a minister; no priest could marry her,
of course, and that would put her outside the Church. After that she
would go into her own home, and live her life of complete devotion to
Rodney. If she had children she would widen out to embrace them in her
heart, but Rodney first! Always, always Rodney first! She--they--could
teach their children to be upright, kind, good citizens, good moral
men and women. Rodney said it was ridiculous to delude yourself into
thinking that more than this was needed, or that anyone really knew
anything more about life and death than that a man must live in the
world decently, and then when he died, if there was anything more for
him, he’d be sure to get the good coming to him, because he had not
made the world a worse place for anyone else. And if there were nothing
beyond but a long, dreamless sleep, and pretty flowers springing out of
your ashes--well! Then that’s all there was of it, and you would have
played your part creditably and gone out leaving an honored name.
Cecily saw Rod’s handsome, laughing face in her memory as it had looked
when he had said this, and she heard his jolly, infectious laugh! Oh,
how she wanted him, _wanted_ him! The longing for him swept over her
like physical sickness, and she shuddered, turning cold. She had left
him miserable; she had deserted him. Deserted him in the home he was
making for her; she was wrecking his home a second time as that other
woman had wrecked his first home. She, Cis, was respectable in the eyes
of the world, and that other was not, but was she any better than the
outcast?
Cicely raised her ring to her lips and kissed over and over again its
glowing ruby. “The color of her love, of the warm blood of her great
heart,” Rod had told her the ruby was. And she had been cold-hearted
toward him, had failed him when he trusted her. He might have deceived
her, have married her and not told her till afterward. How splendid he
was to be truthful, honorable toward her! Should she punish him for his
virtues? Even a child is told that if it tells the truth it shall not
be punished, but how cruelly, how wickedly she was punishing Rod, Rory
O’Moore!
She would go to him and beg his forgiveness; he would forgive her,
remembering that she, too, had suffered, that his secret had shocked
her beyond the power to think at first; Rod was always big, and kind.
She would marry him. Even though a magistrate married her and by
so doing expelled her from Catholic communion she would marry him.
Excommunicated! It did sound fearful! But words did not matter! She
would not strike Rodney in the face, drive him from her with a blow
upon his heart!
Cicely’s eyes, fixed upon the altar, unseeing, their gaze turned
inward, suddenly saw. Her gaze turned outward, and she saw the small
golden door upon which her set eyes had been resting, saw it, and saw
the crucifix above it, a tall, vivid crucifix over the tabernacle
door, under the tabernacle dome. And suddenly Cicely began to tremble
violently and her icy hands clutched at the back of the pew before her.
Who, then, would she strike in the Face? Upon Whose Sacred Heart would
she deal the blow which drove Him from her?
Never again should she see that golden door open and her Lord come
forth to her. Never again would a priest turn to her and bid her
“Behold the Lamb of God.” Seldom, ah, seldom did she let the words be
addressed to her now, but--never again? Excommunicated?
She was a poor Catholic, cold, indifferent, ignorant, but she was a
Catholic. She had held to her Faith, after a fashion, and she had known
that she could never substitute another faith for it. For Rodney’s sake
she would leave it, go to him, go from God! She would heal Rodney’s
wounds, but she would join the rabble in the Garden, and betray her
Lord! She would not kiss Him, as Judas had kissed Him, but she would
kiss in bridal kiss the man whose acceptance meant her Lord’s rejection.
Rodney, or her Lord? One or the other; never both. She had not thought
just what it meant, this decision which she had reached upon a flood
of human longing and love. She wanted Rodney. She craved for him as
the body craves for food, the parched throat for water; she agonized
remembering his present pain, that she had inflicted it in return for
his honorable dealing with her.
But now--she saw the Tabernacle. With her soul she saw it, and she felt
by prescience the desolation of the closing of its door, sealed by her
own action. To be an outcast, excommunicated!
Her mind, her torture could go no farther. In that throe her soul was
born, but she could endure no more.
How long she had knelt in the church she had no idea; she took no
cognizance of her body, of its strained position upon the knees on the
narrow kneeling-rest. It was growing dusk in the church; she must have
been there long. There were more people moving up and down the aisles,
and before the shrines; several were making the stations, some coming
down the middle aisle, others going toward the high altar. Cicely saw
none of these.
She swayed on her tired knees, her aching spine no longer supporting
her, and she crumpled up sidewise, falling over the back of the pew
upon which her arms had rested, her head upon them in such wise that no
one noticed that she had fainted. Father Morley had come out through
the sanctuary, into the church, summoned by the little electric bell,
its button placed under the rail, near the votive-lights candelabrum.
It called a priest of that Community to hear a confession when a priest
was needed at another time than the regular days and hours upon which
confessions were heard.
A man had gone into the confessional when Father Morley took his place
in the centre, and had kissed and assumed the narrow stole which had
hung across the door. The penitent took long, so long that some of the
pious women kneeling at the side altars were interested in his case,
and watched to see him emerge, speculating on the nature of his story;
some of them said a little prayer for him that he would “come out all
right,” for good women are always intensely interested in the reform of
a possibly bad man.
At last the absolution had been given, the penitent lingered for a
final question or two and Father Morley’s answers, then he departed to
say his penance and pray his prayers before the great Pietà--which the
interested pious women thought symptomatic.
Father Morley folded his narrow stole, hung it again on the
confessional door, and came out, closing the low door carefully and
noiselessly behind him. He came down the fast darkening church, walking
with his long, easy stride, peering into the pews as he passed with his
near-sighted gaze, looking vainly for a small book which he had lent to
someone, and which that someone had telephoned him to say that she had
left in a pew in the main aisle of the church, instead of returning it
to the lay-brother at the house door, as she had set out to do.
Thus Father Morley came up to Cicely as she lay, fallen over the pew
back, held up from a complete fall by her arms across the back of the
pew in front of her, and her back wedged against the pew in which she
had knelt.
“My daughter, are you ill?” asked the priest, pausing at Cicely’s side.
As she did not answer, nor move, he bent down and touched her. Then he
looked startled and turned her face toward him, lifting her slightly as
he did so. “Cicely Adair!” he exclaimed aloud, instantly recognizing
her, and remembering the name which she had given him. “My child, can
you hear me? Are you ill?”
The easing of her position, her raised head, brought Cicely to part
consciousness. With the help of Father Morley’s hands, supporting her
beneath her arms, she got upon her feet, looking at him dazed, white,
staring.
“Come out into the air, my dear,” said the Jesuit gently. “You are
suffering. It is not bodily sickness, my poor girl! Let me help you
out. Here, my hand under your elbow, so! That’s better. Now slowly;
courage! Come into the pure, good air, Cicely Adair!”
He led Cicely slowly and carefully out of the church, down the steps,
through a small gate beside them, into a grassy yard.
“This is not cloister,” Father Morley said. “Our parochial school
children’s playground. Sit here, my child, on this bench. There is a
bell; I’ll ring for Brother Feely to bring you a cup of coffee and a
few biscuits. Don’t try to speak; you can tell me what you will later.”
A lay-brother with a pale, patient face, and hair as red as Cicely’s
own, came in response to Father Morley’s call, and quickly returned
with a cup of the steaming beverage, and a few thin sweet biscuits on
a plain white plate.
“Sip this, my daughter,” said the Jesuit, with his benignant smile;
“you are exhausted.”
Cicely gratefully drank of the coffee, and revived as it coursed
through her chilled body. She sat up after she had eaten and drank, and
tried to smile at the priest. “You are very kind, Father Morley,” she
said. “I must go. Thank you.”
“Without giving me something in return?” hinted Father Morley. “Aren’t
you going to give me a wee bit of your confidence? What has gone wrong
with you, my child?”
Cicely looked long into the steady, keen, sad, kindly eyes looking down
into hers. She did not want to speak, but, characteristically, spoke
the truth when she felt compelled to speak.
“I’m shocked by what I’ve found out to-day,” she said. “I’ve got to
decide something. I may leave the Church; I don’t know. It’s that, or
hurt someone dearer to me than my life.”
She waited for an explosion of protest from the Jesuit, but none came.
Instead he said quietly: “Not much comparison, is there, between
hurting a human being, and losing Almighty God, betraying your Master
and damning your soul! But no one should decide a great matter hastily;
you’ve felt this is the greatest of great matters, I see. That’s
something. You couldn’t marry a man who had a living wife; all your
decent Catholic womanhood, as well as your religion, is against it.”
Cicely sprang to her feet.
“Father Morley, how could you know?” she gasped.
“Not hard to guess. I’ve been a priest, hearing confessions these
twenty-five years, my child. Only an insuperable obstacle to your
marriage could present to you the alternative you described. You never
will call yourself any man’s wife, when you know you are not a wife,”
replied Father Morley. “But this is no time to talk; you’re tired,
and I dine in a short time. Think of it over night; ‘the night brings
counsel,’ and pray to the Holy Spirit. You’ll not go home to your
lonely struggle, of course; that would never do. I’m going to send you
to Miss Miriam Braithwaite for to-night. She is an elderly woman; the
cleverest, most entertaining person imaginable, but, what is far more
important, she comes near to being a saint underneath her disguise of
it! She is my great friend and reliance. Once more I summon Brother
Feely, and he will telephone Miss Braithwaite, and she will drive over
for you. You’ll enjoy your visit.”
Father Morley made no opening for demur on Cicely’s part, but she tried
to make one.
“Father, I don’t know her! Oh, no! I can’t go! I’m going home,” she
cried.
“You’ll meet Miss Braithwaite within fifteen minutes, and know her
within twenty minutes,” declared Father Morley, with a slight wave of
the hand that dissipated Cicely’s attempt to resist him.
He called Brother Feely, and bade him telephone Miss Braithwaite.
“Tell her I want to send Miss Cicely Adair to her for the night. She
is worn out, tell her; a thoroughly good girl, whom she will like. Ask
her to come over after her as soon as she can, please; Miss Adair is
needing rest.”
Cis sank back, unable to object; indeed she found this arrangement
something of a relief. She dreaded a night alone in her room, and
dreaded what she knew would lie before her, an interview with Rodney
which would be beyond her strength. It was only much later that she
realized that Father Morley had foreseen the same thing, and prevented
it. He had the priest’s intuition which enabled him to know a great
deal that he had not been told.
CHAPTER XIV
INDECISION
Cicely waited the coming of her yet unknown hostess without much
interest in the arrangement which Father Morley had not only made for
her, but, so to speak, had carried by assault. She was so utterly tired
in body and mind, so prostrated by the intensity with which she had
been feeling for the past hours that the ability to feel was, for the
time, burned out of her.
She sat back against the garden bench, resting sidewise so that her arm
lay across its back; her head drooped forward on her shoulder, waiting
quiescent for Miss Braithwaite to come to fetch her away.
Father Morley waited with her, but he did not speak to her. He paced
the grass slowly, his open breviary in his hand, his lips moving as
he read each syllable of the sonorous Latin, not slighting it, but
dwelling on its beauties, now that he had time to read it leisurely.
Cicely lightly dozed as she waited, falling into the half-submerged,
half-conscious sleep of a sick person; she was spent with excess of
emotion.
She did not have long to wait, however. Miss Braithwaite evidently was
accustomed to sudden summons from Father Morley, and to responding
to them without demur, nor question as to what he asked of her. She
told Cis later that “when it came to a call from Father Morley she was
always prepared for the worst.”
Now she stopped her coupé at the gate beyond the schoolyard’s high wall
which shut the road from view. Cis did not arouse to hear her, but
Father Morley heard the soft purr of her engine; its cessation and the
slight jar of her brake; shifted a ribbon in his breviary to mark the
place at which he stopped reading, closed his book and went toward the
gate to welcome his adjutant.
“Lost, strayed or stolen?” Miss Braithwaite thus asked of the Jesuit a
statement of the present case upon which he had called her.
“Neither--yet. Liable to stray, and finally to be lost. Badly strained
by a contest in which she is neither victor nor vanquished, so far.
You’re to take her home and arm her anew, as well as to treat her
wounds; hospital case. Interesting and valuable material,” murmured the
priest, turning back toward Cicely.
She aroused at the sound of their voices. Miss Braithwaite had nodded
comprehendingly to Father Morley’s summing up, and had said aloud:
“I nearly ran over a child coming here! Little sinner ran directly
before my wheels after he had almost reached the curbstone, and I had
made sure that I might safely go ahead! I do wish, even if people don’t
highly value their children, that they would keep them out of the road.
It’s most unpleasant to run one down! This bold buccaneer was about
three years old, I fancy.”
Cicely sat up and dropped her hands into her lap, staring at Miss
Braithwaite. She saw a small person who, at first glimpse, gave the
impression of being topped by a head out of proportion to her height,
but this was due to the remarkable cast of her countenance, not to
the fact. She had a broad, noble brow; keen, dark eyes, deep-set and
not large, but so alive, so flashing and penetrating that they held
anyone’s attention who saw them for the first time. Her nose was
well-cut, somewhat large, thin, with a high arch, and her lips were
strongly defined, the upper one meeting the lower one in a central
point. It was the mouth of a person not unsweet, but not given to
what might be called professional sweetness; her chin was square-cut,
and it lifted in a decided way as she talked. Her voice penetrated
Cicely’s consciousness before she fully saw her, a voice of the highest
cultivation, used without the least taint of affectation; neither low
nor high, with pleasant, throaty notes, yet with a resonance that made
it insistent, even at a distance. She spoke every syllable clearly;
beautiful English pronunciation, with inflections suggestive of
Italian, speech so delightful that, though Cis was in no condition to
get pleasure from it, it did enter her tired brain soothingly, and it
drew her to the woman who was coming toward her with a friendly smile
and a penetrating look.
“Miss Braithwaite, this is Miss Cicely Adair. Cicely, my child, this is
Miss Miriam Braithwaite. The most that I shall tell you of her is that
she is the best prescription in my pharmacopœia; you’ll have plenty of
occupation in finding out just how the prescription acts. Cicely Adair
is not happy, Miss Braithwaite; not fit to go to her boarding place
alone to-night; she needs mothering. I’ve told her that you would take
her home with you and put her to sleep in one of your spacious rooms,”
said Father Morley.
Cicely arose, not quite steadily, and put her cold hand into Miss
Braithwaite’s hand, which took it into a warm clasp.
“My dear, Father Morley has great confidence in the most single
of single ladies to impute to her mothering qualities, now hasn’t
he? But I’ll be delighted to have you with me to-night; my maid is
away, and I’m scandalously dependent upon her; not for service; for
companionship! So if you’ll let me have your youth near me to-night
it will be most opportune and welcome,” said the little lady, whose
whole effect made absurd the idea of her being dependent upon anything
created.
“Thank you, Miss Braithwaite,” said Cis. “I’m not sure I ought to go; I
ought not to bother a perfect stranger, but Father--”
“Perfect stranger! When we have the same Father? God, to be sure, but
also Father Morley!” cried Miss Braithwaite. “Why, we’re sisters;
you’re my little sister! Let me whisper to you, my dear; Father Morley
must not hear, though he’s not at all deaf. Father Morley looks
mild; perhaps not too strong, but he’s an out-and-out tyrant! I do
everything he tells me to, nervously, on the bidding, lest he fall
upon me and flay me! Of course you let him arrange everything for you;
so did I when he had me called to fetch you! But it’s an all-around
good arrangement, we have to acknowledge that. He’s a beneficent
tyrant; likely would behead you if you disobeyed him, but puts into
your head things to do that make you better enjoy having a head.”
Cicely smiled faintly, and turned to the priest with the suggestion
of dawning ease and affection which this sort of talk was admirably
adapted to awaken. She also felt singularly at home with this brilliant
little woman, with the eyes that saw through one, the nose of a
general, the lips and voice and hand of a generous soul.
“Father Morley is very good to me; so are you,” she said simply.
“Then shall we go home immediately and begin to rest you, my dear?”
asked Miss Braithwaite, taking Cicely’s hand with a strong, yet gently
persuasive grasp and turning toward the gate again.
Father Morley walked beside Cis, bending his head toward her, not
speaking, but as if he were communing with her without words.
“Good night, my child,” he said when they had reached the gate. “I will
not see you before eleven to-morrow; you will need to sleep late. After
your first sleep you may waken for awhile, and then you will sleep into
the morning. Miss Braithwaite will be within call; if you find yourself
waking, summon her.”
The wise priest well knew the greater likelihood of complete confidence
in the night, rather than the day.
“I will see you at eleven. If Cicely Adair is able to come here, bring
her to me, please, Miss Braithwaite. If not, call me up and I will go
to see her at your house.”
“Do you want to see me, Father Morley? But there is the office; I must
be at the office by half past nine anyway,” said Cis.
“Call Mr. Lucas, and tell him, what is strictly true, that you are
not able to report for duty to-morrow. I would tell him for you, but
that an explanation from me would bias him against your absence so
powerfully that he’d rather send an officer to hale you to his office
than permit your staying away.” Father Morley laughed, a quietly
amused, inward laugh of enjoyment.
“Lucas? Wilmer Lucas? Oh, I’ll attend to that!” cried Miss Braithwaite.
“He and I clasp hands, in spite of the Roman shackles on mine. He
knows that my grandfather was intensely Protestant, and he allows me
a slight latitude for the sake of his honored memory. We often meet
in Beaconhite affairs, and he regards me as a good citizen, which
also helps to fumigate me! He owes me several small debts for favors
received. I’ll call him up and tell him that I have his bright-haired
secretary--are you his secretary? I didn’t know--in my keeping and will
return her when she is better. Then Miss Adair will come to you at
eleven, Father, unless I call you up. Good night, Father Morley. Thank
you for giving me a companion for to-night.”
Father Morley opened the gate for them, and took Cicely’s hand in his,
holding the gate open with his left hand.
“Good night, my child,” he said gently. “May God have you in His
keeping, and do you hold Him tight, keeping to Him. Only say in your
heart: ‘God help me!’ and it is done! No fear of failure, wrapped
around in His light and His might!”
Cis bowed her head instinctively to receive the blessing which this
wonderful man gave to her, his face tender and pitiful, grave yet
triumphant, as he feared for her, yet confidently hoped that she would
let God have His way with her at last.
Miss Braithwaite put Cicely into her car and followed her, placing
herself behind the wheel, liberating the brake and setting the engine
running.
“Good-bye, Father,” she said. “Send St. Michael around to my house to
watch over us through the night after you’ve said your night prayers,
please. Thank you for letting me have this Cicely Adair.”
Miss Braithwaite drove steadily, swinging into a fifteen miles an hour
speed, and varying it but slightly as she turned from street to street,
and struck out to a side of the city which Cis did not know well.
There were dignified houses along the way, their grounds increasing
in extent, their trees getting more abundant and taller as the coupé
carried them farther from the street of the Jesuit church. Miss
Braithwaite did not attempt to talk as she drove, and Cis lay back
restfully against the grey corduroy upholstery, finding it grateful
to be in motion, borne, she did not know whither, without effort or
responsibility on her part. Miss Braithwaite turned into the broad
gateway of one of the finest houses which Cis had seen, and drew up
before the entrance to the house, having traversed a long, shaded
driveway.
“Here we are, Miss Adair, at home quite safe and sound. I’m vain of
driving, because they say it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks and
I learned only last year. I don’t do the idiot things men attribute to
women drivers. Jump out, my dear, and tell yourself you’re coming home.
You haven’t forgotten how to play house, have you? My man will come to
take the car around to the garage. Come into the library; there’ll be
a log fire on the hearth there. Here we are! Ah, I love to come home!”
Miss Braithwaite, talking cheerfully, led the way across and half-way
down a great entrance hall. She threw open one of a pair of doors,
letting Cis precede her into a high-ceiled, wainscoted room, with high
book shelves built around it, bronzes and beautiful marbles on their
tops, shadowy pictures above them, a glorious fire of three-foot logs
glowing lazily on the hearth, its light playing over the bindings of
the three thousand or more books which ranged every side of the room,
except the space occupied by the fireplace.
“Oh!” exclaimed Cis. “How beautiful!”
“That’s right! You must love this room or there’s no saying how
violently we may quarrel before the night is over,” said Miss
Braithwaite, pulling up a deeply upholstered semicircular chair before
the fire, and gently pushing Cicely into it. “I’m so fond of this room
that I’m debating how to get a bill before the legislature to give me
more hours in the day to sit in it. I’m a busy woman, my dear, and
sometimes I think I’m that old person in Mother Goose who ‘scarce ever
was quiet.’ I hope one of these days to make myself a visit, spend a
week quietly browsing beside this fire! My grandfather built the house,
and began the library; my father added to them both. I’ve added only to
the library, but isn’t it nice? Throw your hat and coat over on that
straight inglenook chair, and lie back and watch the flames. Would you
like to poke up the fire? It’s a harmless passion, but it takes strong
hold of one! Take this poker and let air get between the logs; it’s
great fun! We will have supper in here, beside the fire, and play we’re
in a mountain camp. Do you make believe? It keeps one going, I assure
you. I wouldn’t dare let sensible people know what silly things I do!
I’m supposed to be a dignified, executive, getting-elderly lady! But
you look much too nice to be sensible! I think I like you, my dear.
Hair like yours is enough to warm up the first liking! It is glorious,
child! Then your name--Cicely Adair! Might be one of the seven sweet
symphonic names in ‘The Blessed Damosel’!”
Miss Braithwaite had chatted on, precluding the awkwardness of Cicely’s
entrance into a strange house, the guest of an entire stranger.
Miss Braithwaite was supremely indifferent to the effect of her charm,
but she could not help knowing that she had the gift of winning to her
anyone toward whom she elected to put forth her powers to please. She
had travelled far and lived long in Europe; had read all her life; was
a gracious, vivacious hostess; had moved in the best society, the truly
fine society of her own land and England, and, though not beautiful as
a young woman, had been one whom all men honored, admired, and whom
many had sought to wed. Her mind was brilliant and--a rarer quality in
a woman’s--was logical, with a true sense of justice and proportion.
She was one whom only infinity could satisfy, and, becoming a convert
to the Catholic Church before her thirtieth year, she had given over
her great gifts to its service, was a factor in its work, showing it
to many another, making her house, her wealth, her gifted self its
consecrated tools. The priests used her for work which the women garbed
in religious habits could do less well, which they themselves could
not always compass. Her house had become a sort of perpetual salon;
to it repaired people from distant cities; in it were organized many
movements for good, and in Miriam Braithwaite the Church had a daughter
whose mere existence sufficiently refuted slander against the Church,
since she could neither be deluded, nor tolerate anything less than the
noblest.
Now Cis, worn and terror-stricken, unable to feel with the keenness of
some hours earlier, yet below her congealed surfaces reaching out after
Rodney, turning to him, pitying him, hungering for him, discerned in
Miss Braithwaite the qualities which were hers so supremely, and began
to lean out to her with a blind desire to get from her what was hers to
give.
“Please call me ‘Cis’--that’s what I’m called--‘Cicely,’ if you like it
better,” Cis said. “I think I ought to tell you all about myself.”
“Surely!” Miss Braithwaite agreed cordially. “Do you know anything so
fine as to have someone trust you enough to confide in you? But supper
first, my dear! I’ll ring for it, and we’ll eat here, as warm and cozy
as two ladybugs. I hope you’re not too young to care about tea?”
“Twenty-two,” said Cis, with a tiny smile.
“Well, that’s true, what you imply!” cried Miss Braithwaite, rising
to touch a bell. “It’s not the years, but the palate. Tea is the most
refreshingly restorative thing I know. Ah, Ellen,” she added as a maid
entered. “Will you serve us supper here? Miss Adair is staying with
me. Let us have the cold chicken, lettuce, small biscuits; the cream
cheese, tea--without cream? Now that’s a sensible girl, Cicely!--fruit
punch, with considerable grape fruit in it, and a dash of the claret;
cake, the white cake, not the solid one. Perhaps that’s all; perhaps
not. It will do to begin with. Place the table there, Ellen, please;
push away the couch. And will you please bring the roses from the
dining room?”
Cis was amazed to find herself enjoying this supper, served beautifully
by the quiet-footed, deft Ellen, before the deep red glow of the
smouldering logs. She ate heartily, and lay back in her low, cozy chair
afterward, feeling better able to cope with life. But with the return
of strength, came the revival of her longing for Rodney, the conviction
that, cost what it would, she must return to him. “Now I must tell you,
please,” Cis said to Miss Braithwaite, and she replied: “Now you may.
It is better to tell me before you try to sleep.”
She sat without looking at Cis, shading her face with her hand,
which was one of strong individuality, rather than actual beauty;
not speaking, but giving the impression of absorbed attention to the
history which Cicely was giving her. She briefly passed over her early
phases, amply telling Miss Braithwaite her pitiful love story. “And now
I must decide,” she ended. “Rodney or the Church. It’s not fair, aside
from anything else, to leave him when he was so truthful to me. But I
want him! I must go to him! I left him in our home, alone! When I was
in the church I thought, perhaps, I’d stick to the Catholic Church, but
no, no, no! Telling you about him has made me see. It must be Rodney;
I’m his wife. See, that’s his ring, made for me, Miss Braithwaite.”
“Yes, dear,” said Miss Braithwaite quietly. “A ruby. The Church wears
red on the festivals of her martyrs. How good God is to you, how He
loves you! In choosing Him you will save the poor fellow whom you
love, but whom God loves more, my Cicely! Your sacrifice will bring
Rodney back at last. Don’t you know that is the way these miracles
are wrought? How fine that it was such as you whom Rodney loved when
he was an outcast from God! It might so easily have been a weak girl
who did not love Rodney truly, tremendously, as you can, as you do, and
so who would have renounced her Faith; sealed Rodney’s doom; gone with
him into sin, degradation, the awful hatred of each other which waits
upon those who debase love. With a living wife Rodney cannot marry.
Cis, dear, you are not really hesitating! You are not going into that
horrible abyss. It is only your torn heart crying out, but your will is
God’s. Little Cicely, be glad that you can suffer for Our Lord. It is
He Who stands between you and the breaking of His unmistakable law. He
is going to bring Rodney back because you will ask it, who have offered
Him the sacrifice of a broken heart. Don’t let yourself imagine that
you are hesitating in your loyalty to Our Lord! Fancy, turning Our
Lord out of your life for the sake of anyone, or everyone whom He has
made! Wouldn’t it be a lonely world, dear, if we drove out of it that
great white Figure which towers above us, just before us at every step?
Cicely Adair to say: ‘Go away from me, Lord Jesus, with Your wounds
and beauty! With Your love, beyond anything that I can mean by love!’
Unthinkable, child! Come now, dear one; come to bed. Sleep and rest,
for never, never will you be a traitor, betray your Lord. We won’t talk
longer to-night. You’re nearly exhausted again. I’ll put you to bed,
child, and thank you for letting me shelter someone who wears a ring of
the martyr color, and is going to suffer to the end for loyalty to Our
Lord Who died for her--and me!”
Miss Braithwaite had gone on at length, for Cicely was sitting erect,
wide-eyed, her face changing as she listened, and Miss Braithwaite knew
that she was winning her to great heroism. It was not the first time
that Miriam Braithwaite had fought and won a like battle for the right.
“Ah, don’t, don’t! I can’t!” Cicely cried, but she arose and threw
herself on her knees before Miss Braithwaite, clasping her tight,
shaking with sobs which brought no tears; broken, weak, yet with a
dawning strength.
Miss Braithwaite helped Cicely to her bed, brushed and plaited her
abundant hair; it fell around the girl in red masses of glory. Then she
put Cicely between fragrant sheets, switched off the strong lights,
switched on a low reading lamp, its hooded screen turned toward
herself, dark toward the bed, and began to read the story of the
Passion from St. Matthew’s Gospel. “She cannot deny her Lord in the
morning if she sleeps with this in her ears,” Miss Braithwaite thought,
reading in her beautifully modulated voice the infinite pathos of those
selfless hours.
Cicely slept deeply, wakening but once, and then not to lie awake as
Father Morley had foreseen her doing, but falling off again into the
profound sleep of complete exhaustion.
She arose in the morning steadier in nerves; the first poignancy of her
agony laid for the moment, but sure to leap up again to tear at her.
After a delicious breakfast in Miss Braithwaite’s pretty morning room,
her hostess arose.
“It will soon be eleven, Cicely dear. You are quite fit to go to Father
Morley? I need not ask him to come here?” she said.
“I could go there, but why does he want me?” asked Cicely.
“I never ask why Father Morley wants me; I’m too grateful to be
allowed to see him,” said Miss Braithwaite smiling. “He is the most
saintly person I have ever known, and his father, a convert, once an
Episcopalian clergyman, was a confessor of the Faith, who suffered for
it. This saintly son was his reward, one of his rewards! I’ll write
three tiny notes, Cicely, then we’ll go in my coupé to ask Father
Morley himself, what he wants of brave Cis!”
At half past ten Miss Braithwaite and Cis set forth, “not to risk
keeping Father Morley waiting,” Miss Braithwaite said.
“I’ll leave you here, and return for you,” she told Cis, stopping her
car before the Jesuit house and school. “I have two people whom I ought
to see this morning, if it is at all possible. I’ll be back here not
later than noon, I hope. But wait for me; I won’t fail you. One never
is able to make a positive engagement to the minute, when a car is
involved in its keeping.”
CHAPTER XV
DECISION
The lay-brother who responded to Cicely’s summons on the bell was old,
slow moving, kindly, but remote from daily affairs. He was probably
inured to the coming of harassed people in hot haste to see one of the
priests, and had learned to feel that haste was unnecessary, trouble
but fleeting.
“Father Morley is expecting someone; he told me to say that he could
not see anyone but her till after dinner. Would you be her? Cicely
Adair was the name,” the old brother said.
“Yes. Father Morley told me to come at eleven,” replied Cicely.
“It’s prompt you are,” commented the brother, raising his hand for Cis
to listen to the slow striking of a clock. “Go into that parlor yonder,
the third one down; the first two are occupied.”
Cis obeyed, and found herself in a narrow room, longer than was in good
proportion to its width, furnished in a strictly utilitarian manner.
A table stood in the centre, its top inset with green leather, a
drawer running its length. Three cane-seated straight chairs, and one
cane-seated armchair constituted the furniture of the room; on one side
of the wall was a copy of a Murillo Madonna with a pretty, blank face
and too little chin; opposite to it an engraving of the then-reigning
Pope.
Father Morley did not keep Cis waiting five minutes; he had been
awaiting her. He entered with a smile, gave her one sharp look, and
held out his hand.
“Good morning, my dear. You look better; I hope you are somewhat
rested?” he said.
“Yes, Father. I slept hard. Miss Braithwaite was very kind,” Cis said.
“When was Miriam Braithwaite otherwise, I wonder!” Father Morley said.
“Tell me exactly what you think of her house and of her.”
“Oh, the house!” Cis regained something of her animation as she
repeated the words. “It is the most beautiful, and at the same time the
dearest house in the world! That library! Full of books!”
“It surely is. Have you found out that ‘the library’ in many houses has
no books in it?” Father Morley smiled at Cis as if he were sharing a
pleasant bit of humor with her. “The Braithwaites have been book-lovers
for generations. Well, and your hostess?”
“She is wonderful,” cried Cis heartily. “She is the finest lady I
ever saw, but she doesn’t bother about it one bit. She makes you feel
as though she’d do anything, and not be afraid; she’s daring, as if
she was riding a spirited horse, yet she is pious--well, I don’t know
exactly how she is pious! As if she rode that horse of hers right up to
heaven and nothing could stop her!”
Father Morley flashed upon Cis a look which she could not understand;
it was surprised and delighted.
“My dear child, that is an inspired characterization!” he cried. “You
have precisely hit off Miriam Braithwaite. If you can see that, we
shall have you riding after her, her squire, upon her knightly errantry
to eternity. Admirable, my child! I think you, too, are one who would
greatly dare. You are to be a force for God in a world that needs that.
And now, are you ready to tell me all about it, and let me give you a
hand into the saddle for your own brave riding heavenward?”
“Yes, Father. I’d rather not tell you, but if I hadn’t made up my mind
to it I wouldn’t have come to see you,” said Cis. “Do you remember that
I met you one Sunday coming away from the fire in those tenements in
Harvest Street? And that I was with a young man?”
“Who was good looking and ready-tongued, whose name was Moore, but who
told me that he had left the Church? Naturally I remember finding one
of my girls under those influences,” the Jesuit said.
“I am engaged to him,” said Cis. “We were to be married on Christmas
eve; my birthday is Christmas, and we have a lovely little apartment
partly furnished. But--” Cis stopped.
“Yes? But, my child? You _were_ to have been married? Past tense? You
have learned that you cannot marry?” suggested Father Morley.
“Rodney has been true and honorable; he could not bring himself to
marry me without telling me,” Cis cried with a piteous look of appeal
to the priest to acknowledge this fineness. “He had been married
before; he is divorced. But his wife is dreadful; he couldn’t stay
married to her. He has an absolute divorce; he can marry again.”
“Of course you know that he cannot,” the Jesuit quietly corrected her.
“He has the legal right to marry, I’ve no doubt, and we all have the
tragic power to cast off our allegiance to God, but he cannot marry
as you and I understand marriage. The Church does not demand the
continuance of married life when it is outrageously degraded by one of
the spouses, but you know that it is not within her power to annul the
relation which lasts till death. Rodney Moore must endure his lot under
the law which no pope nor council promulgated; God Incarnate declared
it solemnly. Laws are for the general good, my child; they often bear
hard on the individual, but that does not abrogate them. Moore was
married to a nominal Catholic? Both baptized? Married by a priest?”
Then, as Cis bowed her head to each interrogation, Father Morley shook
his head. “I am profoundly sorry for you, my daughter, but let us
rejoice that the young man had left alive in him the decency not to
deceive you. You are saved from a position which you would have assumed
innocently, not knowing that the man was married, yet which would have
been unfathomable wretchedness when you discovered the truth, that you
were unmarried; only sheltered by the feeble arm of the state, which
has no jurisdiction over the sacraments. My child, I hardly know
whether to be more sorry for your present suffering, or more glad that
you are saved from far, immeasurably far, worse torture.”
“Father Morley, you don’t understand,” Cis protested. “You talk as
if it were all off; it isn’t! I left Rodney after he told me, and
I promised him to think it out, and tell him what I decided. I was
shocked, horrified; I don’t mind owning that, but he is perfectly
splendid. I love him, oh, I love him! He says we build up all these
ideas; that it is ridiculous to torment ourselves with these laws of
the Church. He says God is not so unjust; he says that we should be
truly--and, oh, how happily!--married. He wants me to come out bravely
and marry him in the mayor’s office, or somewhere, and be with him
forever.”
“You mean for years, when you say forever,” Father Morley reminded her,
allowing no note of disturbance to creep into his voice. “‘Forever’ is
precisely the wrong word there. In point of fact it would be strictly
a temporal union; I doubt its outlasting to old age, but it would most
certainly not be forever, eternal! You know, Miss Adair, that people
easily drift into the habit of divorce. This man would not be bound
to you by stronger bonds than his inclination. The marriage made in
the mayor’s office can easily be set aside in one of the lower courts.
The Church, you see, alone safeguards the woman. Wicked though this
young man’s wife may be, probably is, still her marriage is safeguarded
for her to repent within its walls. Her husband can repudiate her
degradation, but he cannot replace her. You, if you went to live with
him, pronounced his wife by a city official, would not be safeguarded
at all, although you might not be the scorned woman that his wife is.
Look you, Cicely Adair, you would not be better than she! With full
knowledge you would reject your God and profane your own soul by the
breaking of His law.”
“Father Morley, do you mean that I--that I would be--would be--like
her?” gasped Cis.
“Perhaps far worse,” said the priest. “You do not know her temptations,
her enlightenment, her instruction; she may have been weak and
wretched, rather than deliberately wicked; you don’t know. But you,
clear-eyed, instructed, independent, able to look after yourself,
you are dallying deliberately with good and evil, weighing both. If
you denied your God what excuse would you give Him when you saw Him
at last? That man tells you to come out from the Church _bravely_!
Bravely! Faugh! That is not courage; it is cowardice, the coward who
will not face pain for the sake of the Lord Who bore so much for her!
A coward, I tell you! And do you realize that this country of ours is
honeycombed with the divorce evil? That homes are wrecked, children
made destitute, men and women sunk into vileness because they will not
be denied their successive fancies, and that they profane marriage
because they will not bear the brand of their true label? Will you
tolerate the idea of joining their ranks, of helping to spread the
poison which eats away the very foundation of civilization? And then
call that _brave_? Benedict Arnold tried to betray Washington and the
gate to the north. What would your treason betray? You are disloyal,
even to your land, when you do not set your face against that which
is undermining her. Don’t let yourself call your temptation by pretty
names. It is not courage, but cowardice. It is not being married by a
magistrate, for they cannot marry; it is being licensed to be called
Mrs. Rodney Moore, but remaining the shamed Cicely Adair.”
“Father Morley,” poor Cicely’s voice shook with dry sobs, “don’t you
see? Rod is great; he is not bad. Didn’t God Himself give him to me to
love?”
“Possibly; I don’t say no,” said the priest gently. “There are many
strange ways by which souls are led home. But decidedly God did not
give Rodney to you to marry, for he is not free to marry, and God does
not want you to help Rodney to go lower. Perhaps he is given you to
love and to save by sacrificing for him your happiness; it looks to
me probable. Evidently Rodney has good in him, or he would not have
told you that he was married, until he had you in his power. I can see
how you love him when you can entertain an idea so repugnant to you
as denying your Faith for him. This is your way of salvation, and in
taking the right turn you can offer to God your pain; it will plead for
grace for Rodney, cut off from it by his own act.”
“I thought of that, Father,” whispered Cis. “But, oh--never to see him?
Never, never? This is my engagement ring; Rodney made the design; I am
a Christmas child.”
The priest bent forward better to see it; his vision was short.
“A beautiful ring, my child; a beautiful design, beautifully wrought,
but I see in it far more than the Christmas thought of your nativity
which Rodney Moore meant to embody. It is the ring of prophecy. Red,
the color of the martyrs; the heart’s blood upheld by thorns, but
therein glowing and burning celestially. Yes, my child, it is indeed
your betrothal ring!”
Cis lifted her hand closer to her own eyes, dimmed with tears, and
studied the ring as if it were new to her. Her hand shook so that
the beautiful ruby emitted gleams of light, emphasizing the priest’s
interpretation of it. Its wearer’s grief made it more beautiful.
For some time there was silence in the bare little parlor. Father
Morley spoke no word; he left Cicely to absorb the words which he had
spoken to her, spoken in his low, thrilling voice, straight to her
soul. He ran through his fingers the beads of the rosary which hung
from the black braid girdle that strapped his cassock, not speaking,
praying for the soul before him fighting, tossing on black waters into
which he could not enter. As each soul must struggle alone in mortal
danger, seizing or rejecting aid, so this priest could only stand on
the shore ready with powerful help, but he could not force the issue.
At last Father Morley arose and crossed the narrow room. He took from
the wall a crucifix which Cicely had not noticed in taking account of
its furnishings; it hung back of where she was sitting. It was a rare,
a wonderful crucifix; the livid Figure upon it was marvellously carved
with an expression of utter agony, dominated by a supreme love. This
crucifix the Jesuit took from its nail, and, coming back, he bent over
Cicely, holding out to her the cross.
She dropped her shaking hands into her lap, and lifted her eyes, first
to the crucifix, then, piteously, to the kind, insistent face above it
which looked down on her with pity yet with the assurance of awaiting
good in the deep-set eyes.
“See, Cicely Adair, what was done for you. Can you count what you bear
for Him? Can you refuse Him, especially that He promises surely that
He will fill your soul with such joy as you have never known, if you
hold to Him? Look, child, at the wounds; are you going to clinch your
hands, like a niggard of the gift He asks? See the Side, riven that you
may know what His Heart is! Will you go out from Him into shame, be an
outcast from His altar, excommunicated? Cicely Adair, these lips are
still athirst for the draft you hesitate to give them. Are you going to
hold up to them vinegar and gall--again? You must give up Rodney; you
must not betray your Lord; you must put that blood-red ruby at the foot
of the cross. You must not delay. What is your answer, my child?”
Cicely remained silent, trembling so that her whole body shook, but
tearless, and all the time Father Morley waited, holding before her
eyes the eloquent crucifix to plead with her.
Suddenly Cicely cried out with a long, low, heart-wrung cry, and sprang
up, falling on her knees, her face bowed in her hands.
“I can’t--I can’t--leave Him!” she said.
Father Morley misunderstood.
“Child, you must!” he said. “You must leave him.”
Cicely looked up, and a queer, dazed smile passed over her miserable
face. “Oh, you don’t mean that! You mean Rodney! I mean God. I can’t,
I can’t leave God,” she cried, and caught her breath in a strange
little laugh, wholly like the Cis who could not help recognizing humor,
however unmerry her tragic mood.
Father Morley smiled. His relief was unspeakable; he had won. He knew
that if this girl chose she would abide by her choice; he knew that
Cicely Adair was safe. And he felt a new, moving pity for her that she
could smile at his urging her to forsake God, misunderstanding her
pronoun, though the lips which twisted into the attempt to smile had
just spoken the doom of her longing love for her lover.
“God bless you, my daughter, my brave, true girl!” the priest said.
“Come, rise up. How really you have arisen! Shall we go into the
church? I think we both should thank God, thank the Holy Spirit that
has guarded you and inspired you. Will you not go to confession,
Cicely? To-morrow morning you must receive the Lord to Whom you have
remained faithful. And then come to Him as nearly every day as you can,
for He will carry you over the dark patch of roadway before you, into
that bright light just beyond. Come, my dear, into the church. Shall I
ask one of our Fathers to hear your confession? There are two or three
in the house, I’m sure.”
Cis let Father Morley help her to her feet, as she said:
“Don’t you hear confessions, Father? I don’t have to go twice, do I?”
“No, my dear; only once to-day!” Father Morley smiled at Cis, who, this
time, did not know why he looked amused. “I thought you might prefer
someone else to me. Come, then.”
“Miss Braithwaite said she would come after me here,” said Cis.
“Perhaps I ought to wait for her.”
“To be sure; she would come after you!” Father Morley cried admiringly.
“She never half does anything! I’ll tell the brother where you are;
she’ll look for you in the church, though I’m quite sure she would look
for you there anyway, even though no word were left for her.”
Three quarters of an hour later Miss Braithwaite turned her car around
before the church. Cicely sat in the corner, her elbow on the top
of the upholstered box which was behind the driver’s seat, her head
supported by her hand. She was quiet, but Miss Braithwaite hardly
needed the reassuring smile which Father Morley gave her from the
church step where he was seeing them off to tell her that Cicely was
at peace. Her face was worn and profoundly sad, but there was a new
quality in its sadness, the serenity of a right decision.
On the way to her house Miss Braithwaite hardly spoke. Cis had feebly
protested against returning there, but Miss Braithwaite had decisively
told her that there was no question of her going elsewhere, at least
till after New Year’s. For one thing, her maid would be away for the
rest of that week and Miss Braithwaite wanted someone to talk to; after
that she expected to have grown so accustomed to talking to Cicely that
she must keep her on.
Cis smiled, seeing the kindness that wanted to avoid thanks; too
weary to discuss it; at heart relieved that she might stay in this
peaceful and noble house, under the spell of its noble, though somewhat
eccentric mistress.
At lunch Miss Braithwaite told Cis about the two cases which had
occupied her that morning, and she succeeded in interesting the girl in
spite of her preoccupation with her own thoughts. Miss Braithwaite’s
incisive English, clear-cut, finished, like a collection of cameos and
intaglios in words, fascinated Cicely’s ear, drawing her mind on to
interest in the matter behind the speech.
“Would you rather go to your room, or will you keep me company before
the fire in the library, Cicely?” asked Miss Braithwaite as they arose
from the table.
“May I talk to you awhile?” asked Cis.
“All the afternoon; I’ve nothing on, and hoped you’d linger with me,”
replied Miss Braithwaite, putting her arm around the girl.
Thus she led her into that dusky, glowing room which had so charmed Cis
on the preceding evening, and again put her into the deep chair of that
first acquaintance.
“Miss Braithwaite, I’ve been to confession,” Cis said abruptly.
“That accounts for the new quiet, an atmosphere of peace about you,
Cicely dear,” said Miss Braithwaite, leaning over and putting her hand
on the girl’s bright hair. “You have enlisted! Thank God for that.
Don’t imagine the victory is won, but your side can’t lose, you know;
it’s only a matter of days and weeks! Then your banner on the tower!”
“Yes, Miss Braithwaite,” said poor Cis somewhat forlornly. “I am
thankful, you know. Only--What must be done I’d better do as quickly,
as fast as I can. I promised to let him--let Rod hear from me. He has
no idea where I am. He will have looked for me everywhere that I might
have been, but he’ll never guess I’m here. He is half mad by now. I
must write him and send him this ring. I must tell him it is good-bye.
Miss Braithwaite, I can’t see him! I couldn’t bear what he would say to
me. I’m afraid to see him, that’s the truth, but it would kill me to
say good-bye, see him go away--I can’t stand it!” Cis’s voice rose on a
hard, sharp note, and Miss Braithwaite laid her own hand over Cicely’s.
“I know, I understand. I’ll keep him off you. Write him here, now,
dear Cis, and inclose the ring. Don’t harass yourself by writing a
long letter; the whole matter can be condensed into a few words. You
have chosen God; you are true to your first promises; that is all.
But be sure to tell him how fully you appreciate his truth in dealing
with you, albeit he spoke tardily, for we do not forget that we want
to bring Rodney right, and it will infuriate him if he thinks that you
do not attribute to him the good that was in him when he gave you the
chance you are taking to free yourself from a wrong position,” said
this good woman, patting Cicely’s hand as mothers pat their babies to
sleep.
“Yes, Miss Braithwaite; I’d thought that would be what I must do,” said
Cis. “I have nothing with me, you know. Have you a pen that won’t be
spoiled by another person’s using it? It ruins pens to lend them; I
know that.”
“Plenty of pens, besides the one that I guard like a seven-headed
monster!” declared Miss Braithwaite rising with an alacrity that
forbade Cis’s considering the coming note in its proper light. “Come to
my desk over here, and take any pen you like, save that one.”
Cis followed her, and took the straight chair which stood before the
desk.
She wrote slowly, pausing often, passing her hand over her eyes
frequently, as if she could not see, but there was no moisture on the
fingers afterward.
She laid before Miss Braithwaite the completed note, saying only:
“Please tell me if it is wrong in any way. I hope he’ll know that it is
hard to write him this. December 1st, isn’t it? Christmas eve is very
near.”
Miss Braithwaite read; she had never seen Cicely’s writing before,
but she knew that this irregular, wavering hand could not be the usual
writing of this extremely definite girl with the strong, vivid face,
the bright, radiant red hair.
“Dear Rodney:” the note ran. “I cannot marry you because you cannot
marry me. It cannot be a marriage so I must go away, never come to the
dear apartment again. I will not disobey God. If He helps me, I will
die first, and, Rod, oh, Rod, this is like dying! You will be angry,
and say that I do not love you, but if you try to remember me as I was,
you will know that I love you. Perhaps if I loved you less I might not
care so much to do right. I am sending you the ring. It was not a holly
berry, but the heart’s blood of your Christmas Cis that the ruby meant.
Dear Rod, I bless you for your truthful dealing with me, that you would
not trick me into the marriage which would never be a true one in the
eyes of either of us, for we were both Catholics. I will try to be a
better one so that God will hear me beg Him to bless you and bring you
back. Will you please not try to see me, dear? Nothing that you could
say would make me believe that it was right to marry you when you have
a living wife, but the struggle to keep right is too hard on me, and I
could not see you go away forever and live through it. I’ve borne all
I can. So don’t see me, my dearest, but don’t forget me. Good-bye--it
means God be with you, you know. Cis.”
“It is quite right, dear girl,” said Miss Braithwaite gently, touching
the piteous little letter softly, as if it were a dead child.
Cis drew off her ring and kissed it many times. Then she dropped it
into Miss Braithwaite’s lap.
“Will you wrap it up in the letter and send it for me?” Cis said. “You
are good to me, Miss Braithwaite. Will you teach me how to be this new
Cis? The world used to be full of sounds; it seems to be quite still
and empty. I suppose when you’re dead it’s like that. I don’t know
which way to walk.”
CHAPTER XVI
WITNESSING
Miss Braithwaite had to waken Cis in the morning to get her up in time
to drive with her to St. Francis Xavier’s for Mass.
It was a Mass of renunciation and espousal, a communion that pledged
Cicely to turn from her forbidden love for Rodney to allegiance to
God, yet she felt this but dimly. She went through the Mass dutifully,
but humbly; she realized that she was vowing herself and that her vow
was then accepted. Her will acquiesced, but at least one of the other
powers of her soul was atrophied. Below her surfaces pain waited her
awakening; she willed her martyrdom unfalteringly, but there was for
her none of the martyrs’ triumphant joy. Yet she received the Lord Who
had once raised a maiden from the dead, and, groping for Him, found
Him, how truly she did not then know.
“I must go to the office,” Cis said suddenly to Miss Braithwaite at
breakfast. “I wonder why I’ve only just thought of it? How could I
forget! It is half past nine already. Miss Braithwaite, what shall I
do? Ought I telephone Mr. Lucas first, ask him if he still wants me to
come? You had me excused for only one day.”
“No, my dear, I didn’t,” said Miss Braithwaite promptly. “I didn’t
specify the length of your absence. I told Mr. Lucas that Cicely Adair
was not at all well, could not possibly take up her duties, but that if
she weren’t able to resume them in less than a week he should hear from
me again. He was entirely amiable, bade me let him know, also, if you
needed anything that he could procure for you. So you are perfectly all
right to be absent again to-day. If you feel like going down to-morrow
I’ll drive you down myself; we shall see!”
“How good you are to me, Miss Braithwaite!” cried Cis. “And I never
shall be able to do the least thing for you!”
“Don’t be too sure of it!” cried Miss Braithwaite. “I have designs on
you! A girl of your sort can do no end of things for me, a proxy me,
who is far more important than the me direct. There are several things
near and dear to my heart which are more interesting and important than
a fusty, aging maiden lady, Cicely Adair. For instance, I can imagine
you giving my ragged hoodlum lads a royal good time when you’re ready
for it; my little scalawag boys whose qualities are a plaid; black and
white, good and bad, fairly evenly mixed, though I do believe that the
black has white hair lines in its blocks!”
“Orphan asylum?” asked Cis listlessly, yet her eyes had brightened
slightly.
“Industrial school, orphans or half-orphans, little boys whom we
Catholics must hold tight; if we relax in the least the devil will slip
a claw in underneath our loosened fingers!” replied Miss Braithwaite
turning toward her maid, then bringing in the mail of the first
delivery of that day.
“I was great pals with a funny bunch of newsies at home,” said Cis,
biting her lip and glancing anxiously at the small clock behind her as
the sight of the letters reminded her of the note which Rodney might
then be reading. Or had not Miss Braithwaite sent it out the previous
night? She had not asked, she did not ask now, but the letters which
Miss Braithwaite was assorting gave her the sickened feeling with which
one hears the first clods fall upon a casket which the guy ropes have
just let down forever.
“I knew you’d be great pals with that sort of youngster, Cicely,”
returned Miss Braithwaite, cheerfully adopting Cis’s terms. “Letter for
you, my dear; I had your mail sent here, from Miss Wallace’s.”
“Oh, it’s Nan!” cried Cis. “Thank you, Miss Braithwaite.”
She read her letter with a moved face and laid it down softly, stroking
the pages.
“She’ll be married on Christmas; she has hurried her arrangements
because she wants us married together. Dear little Nannie! Good little
Nan! She is happy, but she deserves to be. I hope she will be, always,”
Cis murmured, her face wistful, sad, but a gentle smile in her eyes.
“Well, dear, happiness is a term of comparison, but it usually
takes years to teach us this,” said Miss Braithwaite. “If your
little bride-friend is good, with the sort of goodness you convey
an impression of, she is likely to be happy. Enkindled people rise
to rapture, but they sink into wretchedness; it’s safer to shine by
refraction than to be enkindled, my dear.”
“How do you know the things you understand, Miss Braithwaite?” cried
Cis. “I have hardly talked of Nan to you, yet you have her measure! I
must write her, tell her. It will make her most unhappy! I don’t know
how I can tell her I’m not to be married, after all. Nan will feel
like a thief to be happy when I’m not. And she has taken the same day,
so that we could be happy together, though apart. I won’t tell her
anything except that my plan is all off, done with forever. I bought
some lovely, perfectly beautiful damask, Miss Braithwaite; three
table-cloths, napkins for each, and I’ve been doing hemstitched hems.
They were for me, you know, for--Luckily they’re not marked yet. I’m
not much good at embroidery, though I drew the threads and hemstitched
quite decently. I was going to have them marked, embroidered letters,
you know--‘_C. A._’ I’d better have them marked A. M. D.--Anne Margaret
Dowling--and send them to Nan, hadn’t I? Would that be nice? I almost
feel as though anything of mine might bring her bad luck!”
“There’s no such thing as bad luck, Cis child!” cried Miss Braithwaite,
trying not to let Cis see how much her quiet renunciation of her sweet
hopes, stitched into her linen, moved her. “I am sure that your damask
would bring Nan blessing; it is a cloth from an altar of sacrifice! It
would be a beautiful gift, child, and Nan need not know, not now, at
least, that it was at first intended for another home.”
“I’ll go around to Miss Wallace’s to-day and get it then,” said Cis
with a grateful look for her hostess. “And, Miss Braithwaite, I’ve got
to plan. I’ve a good position here, I like Beaconhite, and I’ve got to
live somewhere, but--I’ll always be afraid to walk out; I can’t meet
Rod. Don’t you think, perhaps, I’d better go away? Not home; somewhere?
And, oh, do you think Rod will try to see me? Miss Braithwaite, I can’t
see him! What shall I do?”
“I’ve been considering these points, Cis, my dear,” said Miss
Braithwaite, evidently equipped with a decision upon them. “I am sure
that Rodney Moore will try to see you once. I think that he will
come here; he will hardly attempt to say to you what he will want to
say in the street, meeting you on your way to and from the Lucas and
Henderson offices. You need not see him here; I will see him for you.
After that, I am hopeful that he will let you alone. I do not know
him, but I know human nature, and I believe that after I have seen him
for you, he will let you alone. As to keeping on with the office, that
is as you please. But, Cicely, I have a proposition which I want you
to consider; to be truthful, I do not want you to consider it, but to
take it up at once. I am a solitary woman in this great house, with no
one but servants around me. I want you to spend the winter here, with
me. I hope for your help in my schemes; Father Morley’s girls’ club,
my tatterdemalions, other things. You are young, attractive, bright;
you can do all sorts of work for these objects. Then, for me, you can
do more! Be a little fond of me, talk to me, companion me. And, last
not least, for yourself; read my books--perhaps not every one on those
shelves, but many of them; play a little, study a little, think a
great deal; you went through school, now give yourself a little riper,
deeper, higher education! And, Cis, dear, learn your faith! It seems a
pity to miss its beauty, the joy it has for you, when you’ve bravely
embraced unhappiness for it! As if you had risked your life for one
almost a stranger, as you thought, and suddenly discovered it was your
dearest, beloved friend! You’ll be delighted with the Church, my dear,
when you get acquainted with her beauty! Dear, you’ve missed happiness
and it’s hard, but happiness more profound and lasting is within your
reach; I promise it to you! Now, Cis, will you stay with me?”
“Oh, Miss Braithwaite, I’d just dearly love to!” cried Cicely,
springing up to throw herself on her knees beside Miss Braithwaite, her
radiant head on her shoulder, sobbing a little, yet with the first ray
of comforting hope penetrating her despair.
Cicely arose the next morning to resume life on its new basis,
yet under its old routine. This is, perhaps, the hardest strain
imposed upon anyone who is newly bereft, by death or by the crueller
deprivations of life. To go once more amid the familiar surroundings,
greet the accustomed faces with a surface smile, seeing with bewildered
amazement that the eyes smiling back recognize one for the same person
that they have always seen though one feels like a shade walking the
earth in the semblance of life, this is to deepen that painful sense
of remoteness from common experience, which is the lasting hallmark of
profound suffering.
It was decided that Cis was to spend the winter with Miss Braithwaite.
She was glad to accept the shelter of this house, yet more glad of
the home open to her in the affections of this clever and spiritual
gentlewoman than of the actual shelter of her dignified roof. For Cis,
to her own bewilderment, found herself with little of her natural
self-reliance. Beaten down by her recent struggle, though she had
emerged victorious, she was scarred and torn by wounds still bleeding;
she had accurately described herself to Miss Braithwaite as not knowing
“how to walk.”
Miss Braithwaite’s hand guiding her was strong and warm; she sustained
her stumbling feet, poured the wine of her wholesome, humorous point
of view into her wounds, and, at the same time, taught her to see the
Perfect Beauty which by its perfection made all else worthless.
Beyond her winter with Miss Braithwaite, Cis laid no plans; she was
not sure whether or not she should continue in Mr. Lucas’ office; for
that matter, she was not sure that she might do so. She had determined
to confess to Mr. Lucas her fault in giving to Rodney Moore the hint
he had asked for as to the final outcome of the franchise which was
agitating the public mind. She would not stay on with him unless Mr.
Lucas knew the worst of her; after he knew it the decision about her
staying was in his hands. She had notified Mr. Lucas that she would
leave him before Christmas to be married; he probably had supplied her
place from that time on. Well, all this was as it might be. Dressing
slowly, with long intervals of absent-minded gazing out of the window,
Cis was sure only that she was going to the office, confess to Mr.
Lucas, do the one thing left her honorably to do; after that--nothing
mattered greatly, anyway. She did not know, nor much care what came
after that.
Cis would not acknowledge to herself that she feared, with positively
curdling fear, meeting Rodney. She felt sure that he would try to
waylay her when she resumed her daily trips to and from the office.
It seemed to her that if she withstood him, his reproaches, but much
more his appeals--and she was sure that she could withstand them--that
afterward the feeble ray of courage within her would be extinguished;
that she had borne to her capacity.
Therefore it was an unspeakable relief to find that Miss Braithwaite
was taking her down that morning in her coupé and planning to bring her
home at night.
“You’re not quite at par, my dear, though you intend to take dictation
in regard to soaring investments,” she said. “I’m going in all sorts of
directions this morning; the Lucas and Henderson offices one of them,
so you’re to be deposited at their door with no exertion on your part.”
“Oh, Miss Braithwaite, I’ll never be able to thank you!” cried Cis.
“How you do see through people! But I don’t mind your knowing I’m a
coward.”
“A certain sort of cowardice is the highest courage, child; the courage
to acknowledge danger and flee from it. Come along, Cicely Adair! Did
you ever see that ridiculous Dollinger ballad? All about the dangerous
voyage of a canal boat of which one Dollinger was captain? The refrain
of each stanza is: ‘Fear not, but trust in Dollinger and he will fetch
you through.’ It doesn’t matter; only old fogies know it, I suppose.
Regard me as Dollinger, for I mean to fetch you through! Come, then!”
Miss Braithwaite slipped her hand into Cis’s arm and took her out
to the waiting car. Then she started off and drove Cicely to her
destination, where she left her with a heartening pat on her shoulder
and the promise to return for her at five.
Mr. Lucas looked up with a smile of greeting when he heard Cis’s light
touch on the handle of the office door, but the smile died on his lips,
replaced by a look of concern, as he started to his feet at the sight
of her.
“Why, Miss Adair, I had no idea that you had been seriously ill; I did
not get that impression from Miriam Braithwaite. Pray take my chair
till you are rested. I am profoundly sorry to see you so white and
weakened,” he cried, kindly coming forward to take Cicely’s hand and
gently force her into his own armchair.
“No. Mr. Lucas, thank you,” said Cis, resisting his kindness. “I have
not been ill. Something happened--I had a shock--I’ll be all right
soon. Mr. Lucas, before I begin to work, before you say another word to
me, there is something that I must tell you.”
“Ah!” murmured Mr. Lucas, experienced in human nature, and instantly
guessing something of what he was to be told. “I am ready to listen,
Miss Adair.”
“I was engaged to be married; I told you that I was to have been
married at Christmas; I resigned for that date for that reason,” said
Cis, plunging, without letting herself delay her confession. “Rod--Mr.
Moore, the one I was to marry--begged me to give him a hint about
the franchise. He had some money; he wanted to buy that stock if the
franchise was going through. He swore he would not let a hint of it get
beyond him; I’m sure he wouldn’t--”
“Why is everyone sure that everyone else will be more honorable in
keeping a secret than he--or she--is?” asked Mr. Lucas dryly. “I see
that you parted with mine.”
“Yes, Mr. Lucas, but indeed, indeed I held out long against it; I
didn’t want to do it; I’ve always been quite straight,” cried Cis. “But
Rod begged so hard; he told me that I was standing between him and
success. I didn’t mind scolding, but when he was hurt--Well, at last
I gave the hint he begged for, and I’ve been eating my heart out ever
since. Now that you know, I’ll feel better, and of course I’ll go right
away now; not wait till Christmas.”
“Just a moment, Miss Adair. I do not think we should be weak, any of
us; it is the ideal to be granite shafts of principle, but the sweeter
and truer the woman, the harder for her to resist the sort of plea made
you. I can see that it was hard; if it had not cost you pain to yield
you would not be confessing your misstep to me now. I must forgive it,
Miss Adair; it was a hard pull, and I’ll credit you with resistance.
It has not harmed me, you’ll be glad to know. I wondered, rather, why
there were noticeable sales of that stock on a recent date; your lover
must have had considerable to invest in it. That chapter is closed; put
it out of your mind. Now, my child, you were sent me by my brother,
as a friend, in a sense, of my niece Jeanette’s, and I have a greater
interest in you than that of a mere employer. Will you let me express
it in a question? You have spoken of your engagement, your marriage,
in the past tense. Are you not still engaged, still to be married at
Christmas?” Mr. Lucas asked his question gently, pity in his eyes.
“No, sir; it’s all over,” said Cis.
“Not because of this franchise matter? You’re not a morbid girl to do
penance, and punish a man for a thing of that sort?” cried Mr. Lucas.
“No, Mr. Lucas,” said Cis. “Rod was married; I could not marry him. He
was splendid; he told me about it. He was not going to tell me, but I
love everything straight so much that after all he told me. And then we
could not be married, you see. It was splendid; Rod was good, but still
I could not go on with it.”
“Go on with it? Rod was splendid, you say? To tell you, to _tell_
you he was married, after he had entrapped you into an engagement,
into loving him as I see you loved him? Well, hardly splendid! He did
stop short of crime, but to stop on the edge of bigamy, and to make a
girl like you suffer! I’d hardly call that splendid!” cried Mr. Lucas
fiercely.
“Bigamy?” repeated Cis. “Well, I don’t believe they call it that, but
of course it is, if you stop to think. I hadn’t thought about it just
that way. Rod was divorced; his wife was worse than dead, but she
wasn’t dead. I suppose it is bigamy.”
The word seemed to hold a horrid fascination for Cis.
Mr. Lucas fell back in his chair and stared at Cis, trying to get his
bearings.
“Divorced?” he echoed. “Oh, but, my girl, that’s another matter! Of
course remarriage is not bigamy when the state has freed a man. Then he
has no wife, so his marriage to a second one is not bigamy; it is as if
the first one were dead.”
Cis shook her head. “No, Mr. Lucas,” she said, “it really isn’t; how
could it be? Suppose I were walking with Rod, had married him, and we
met his first wife. It wouldn’t be the same as if she were dead, would
it? There’d be two of us, both alive. How do you suppose I’d feel; how
would any decent girl feel? Besides, Mr. Lucas, Rod was married by a
priest, and no one can break those marriages. I’d have had to give up
God to marry Rod, and how could I?”
Mr. Lucas frowned angrily.
“It’s that abominable Roman tyranny again,” he cried. “How in the name
of all that’s sane do those priests get hold of minds the way they do?
You poor little victim of man-made laws, posing for Divine ones, have
you wrecked your life and a man’s life for this nonsense?”
“No, Mr. Lucas,” said Cis with a weary little gasp for breath, but not
in the least shaken. “You are ever so much wiser than I, but I know
that is not true. Our Lord Himself said that a divorced person could
not be married, and what can you do when He tells you anything? I think
I can see why it has to be, because outside the Catholic Church people
keep going in and out of marriages till you’d think they’d be dizzy.
And then there are the children. No, Mr. Lucas, it’s all right, even
though it hurts. And, anyway, how could I turn my back on the Church?
God’s there.”
“You told me once that you were--what’s their term for it?--an
indifferent Catholic. That you weren’t devout like some friend of
yours, or was it Jeanette Lucas? Yet you make the choice of your Church
instead of your happiness! I see what it has cost you; your face
betrays your suffering. You, who could not stand firm against your
lover’s pleading to you to put him in the way of making money, only of
making money; who did violence to your hatred of not ‘being square,’
as you put it, you leave him, throw him over, infuriate him, wound his
pride, as well as his love of you--for no man would do less than curse
a woman for thus failing him after he had let her have the chance to
choose--all for an idea; for allegiance to a system; to keep within
a Church which was not especially dear to you! And this when the laws
of your country would justify your choosing the man, would place their
seal upon your position in society as his wife! My heavens, Cicely
Adair, what is it, what can it be that can so mold you into a Christian
martyr, singing as the wild beasts rend her?”
Mr. Lucas sat erect, frowning heavily, his eyes flashing, for
the problem before him stirred him to his depths. He had already
encountered it in his brother’s conduct; he resisted the one
explanation of it which his reason presented to him.
Cis smiled her pitiful, funny little shadow of her normal bright,
amused smile, and looked up at Mr. Lucas, saying:
“I’m not singing, Mr. Lucas, not so you’d notice it! But I wouldn’t
want the wild beasts to go off and lie down, not if it would turn me
back. You see, it’s quite easy. I mean to understand. I’ve got to stand
by, if I want God to stand by me, and what should I do if He didn’t?
And that’s not all of it. I love Rod, but God is different; you can’t
get on without Him. I think He’ll teach me to get on without Rod,
somehow. I suppose I had more faith than I knew I had. It’s all faith,
isn’t it, Mr. Lucas?”
“Yes! It is all faith, Cicely Adair!” cried Mr. Lucas, springing to
his feet. “You’ve testified to yours! I don’t mind telling you that I
think it is a great thing that you have done. I suppose I’m intelligent
enough to recognize what the loose marriage laws are doing in this
country. As a lawyer I know their effect on morals, the stability of
home, the legitimacy of children. But that a slip of a girl should
willingly throw over her strong love, her dearest hopes; a poor,
pitiful little bead of clay set herself against the mighty torrent
of evil, all because a Church tells her to, promises her heaven if
she does--good Lord! We Episcopalians discountenance divorce, but our
ministers may or may not marry divorced people, according as they are
minded. The opposition of bishops and clergy to their doing so is
straw, because there is nothing to enforce it, but you, who were not
devout, you embrace your hard lot at the bidding of your priests! As
there is a God above us, Cicely Adair, what is the power of Rome that
still can make confessors and martyrs of soft virgins?”
“The God above us, isn’t it, Mr. Lucas?” said Cicely.
Mr. Lucas stared at her a moment, then he said:
“And now it turns you into an apologist! Your answer covers all
sides of the question, admitting a premise! And the premise almost
annihilates the necessity of admission! I will look into it--” He
checked himself quickly, and said with a change of voice: “You will
stay on in my employ, Miss Adair? You will not now leave me at
Christmas? Do you feel fit to resume your desk to-day?”
“I came to work, Mr. Lucas, if you don’t mind having me after I told
the secret--”
“A closed book!” Mr. Lucas interrupted her, raising his hand
prohibitively. “I’m not afraid of the honor that would not let you
rest till you had acknowledged your weakness. I hardly think that what
I know of you would justify my doubting your fidelity.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lucas. You are as good as you can be to me! I’ll go to
work then, now. May I have till New Year’s to decide how long I’ll be
here?” asked Cis, going over to put her hat and coat away, and then
dropping into her desk chair.
“New Year’s will be time enough to decide,” said Mr. Lucas, also
resuming his desk chair. To himself he said, with an inward smile:
“I wonder if that glowing hair was given her for a nimbus? There are
easier martyrdoms than hers!”
CHAPTER XVII
GOOD-BYE
It was pleasant to come out from the great office building at half past
four to find waiting a motor coupé of the most correct and up-to-date
type. It was still pleasanter to find the car door held open by a
small hand in a grey glove that managed, in spite of its smallness and
other occupation, to give a welcoming pat with two fingers on Cicely’s
shoulder as she entered the car; to meet a warm smile in a pair of
appraising eyes, and hear a beautiful voice say heartily:
“Well, child, the morning and the evening were the first day! Was this
first one hard, or was it rather agreeable to pick up the threads
again?”
For the first time in her life Cis had a sense of belonging, and it
warmed her with a thrill of actual pleasure, the perception that in
spite of all and after all, it might be good to be alive.
What a beautiful thing this elderly gentlewoman was doing, Cis thought,
thus to feed the hungry! There were many who limited that corporal
work of mercy strictly to its proper bounds; few who fed the hungry
of heart, mind, and soul in Miss Braithwaite’s way, and yet it was
more like feeding than it was like a ministration to the soul. To take
Cis into her home, to warm her into renewed life, to open up to her
hitherto unknown resources for the maintenance of life’s true values,
this was Miss Braithwaite’s divinely inspired dealing with Cis. The
girl knew that Miss Braithwaite was an aristocrat to her finger tips,
exclusive in her friendships, withdrawn by instinct; that she wisely
and justly chose those whom she would admit into her home. How fine it
was then to fly at once to the rescue of Cicely Adair at the summons of
Father Morley, mothering her as he had asked her to! Plainly, Cicely
Adair must repay this goodness by its success with her; she must be
good and happy; put away grief; grow in the directions which Miss
Braithwaite indicated. Now that, for all the rest of the winter, Cis
was to be an inmate of this ideal home--well, after all and in spite of
all, Cis ought not to find her share of the days hard to fulfill.
Miss Braithwaite would not let Cis tell her anything of the events of
her day during dinner.
“Dinner should be eaten to the accompaniment of chat, but not of long,
nor of too absorbing tales, my dear,” she declared in her crisp little
dogmatic way, half-amused with herself, yet entirely in earnest as to
her dictum. “You will not eat properly if you recount to me the history
of Mr. Wilmer Lucas and his reception of his secretary’s confession of
crime! I know perfectly well that your wishbone will not be scraped
clean if you are too absorbed in talk--it is chicken to-night! Beside
the hearth, Cis; that’s the place for a long narrative! The table
for brief comments and flashes of wit. At the table I disapprove of
discussions, monologues, anything that too greatly distracts from the
business in hand!”
Later, “beside the hearth,” Miss Braithwaite handed Cis the tongs, and
lay back in her deep chair with a breath of content. She looked like
some sort of bird, tiny, alert, her quick, keen eyes flashing behind
the eyeglasses resting on her thin arched nose; her hands making sudden
small movements characteristic of them, not unlike the uplifting of a
wing, its outspread and infolding.
“There are times that I doubt my own nobility of soul, Cicely Adair,”
she said, her mobile lips twisting with a tiny mocking smile. “But
when I’m before the hearth fire, and hand someone else the tools to
stir and mend it, then I know that I am fit to rank with the noblest
Roman matron! Perhaps I mean Roman ladies living in the catacombs; I’ve
no doubt that they were more self-sacrificing than the Mother of the
Gracchi and the rest of ’em! Do lift that log end, Cis! It’s wasting
there, smoldering out; make it blaze.”
Cis obediently lifted the charred end of a log into the heart of
the fire, and then, at: “Now tell me!” from Miss Braithwaite, told
her story of Mr. Lucas’ reception of her confession to him, and his
comments on her obedience to her conscience.
Miss Braithwaite sat erect as she listened, her face expressing her
interest.
“My dear child, you never can tell!” she cried as Cis ended. “Robert
Lucas became a Catholic about ten years after I did; he is fifteen
years younger than I. Wilmer Lucas was no less disgusted than he was
angry. He said that Robert had made a fool of himself, that with his
mind continually hovering over kisses upon the pope’s toe he never
could get anywhere, amount to anything! Wilmer always enjoyed vigorous
symbolical language! In point of fact Robert Lucas has gone far, has
amounted to a great deal. He is not involved in national politics,
as our lawyer Wilmer is, but he is a successful man, and no one ever
speaks of him without paying tribute in the highest terms to his lofty
character. Wilmer Lucas is honorable and honored, but it is Robert,
not he, whose goodness seems to impress people over and above his
other qualities. Wilmer Lucas has been most intolerant of the Church
all these years; he is protestant, not only against her directly,
but against her intrusion into his family. He is exceedingly fond of
Robert’s daughter Jeanette, by the way. I have always seen that in the
case of Father Morley, whom he avoids; my own case; his unwillingness
to allow his brother ever to speak on the subject, Wilmer Lucas betrays
his perception of the impregnable position of the Old Church, that
he pays her tribute, though it is in a form not unlike the tribute
to her Founder recorded in the Gospel. He is a man of logical mind,
highly trained to sift evidence; he cannot fail to perceive the immense
difference between her consistent logic and the shifting sands of
mere opinion outside of her, nor can he account for her hold on men’s
souls down through the ages by natural means. Now, to-day, you have
startled him by a new instance of the power of conscience. I am glad
that you look pale, Cis dear, that you show suffering! And how it
must have impressed him that, though you could not withstand Rodney’s
pleading with you to do what you held wrong in a lesser matter, you
have held your Faith against all pressure from without and within!
Evidently Mr. Lucas is impressed, the more so that he had not thought
you particularly devout. Perhaps it will set him thinking, farther and
hard! As I set out by saying, you never can tell!”
“Oh, Miss Braithwaite, it isn’t likely that Mr. Lucas would pay
attention long to no-consequence me!” cried Cis.
“You--never--can--tell!” repeated Miss Braithwaite emphatically.
“Usually a train of circumstances, some of them trivial and
hardly noted, lead men to the Truth; it is like a sort of Divine
hare-and-hounds; tiny scraps of paper flutter along the trail,
unconsciously seen by the players, till at last! The goal and the game
won!”
“That’s great, Miss Braithwaite!” cried Cis with quick appreciation of
the figure. “I wish I were that sort of a scrap of paper, but it’s not
likely.”
“Never can tell!” Miss Braithwaite harped on her premise. “I’ve always
noticed that when God breaks us, my dear, it’s to use the pieces in new
combinations, and for good. It is as if we were picture puzzles, with
reverse sides. We’re something quite pretty at first; then the pieces
are tossed and displaced by a great experience, and, if we submit
and wait, behold God’s Hand puts us all together again, the reverse
side up, and the picture is no longer merely a pretty thing, but a
beautiful, shining illumination, of which all who run may read its
meaning which is at once a magnet and a map of the way.”
“Miss Braithwaite, you tell me wonderful things!” cried Cis softly.
“If I’m here all winter with you I ought to amount to something; I’ll
try to. It’s strange that I don’t hear--from Rodney. Do you suppose he
isn’t going to say one word to me? I was sure he’d try to see me. Do
you think he’s given right up like this?”
“From my experience of men I’d say decidedly not,” said Miss
Braithwaite. “However, it is strange that he makes no sign. Perhaps
he’s the exception; that his anger will prevent him from claiming to
hear his verdict from your lips, but very few men would submit to
banishment on the strength of a brief note from you.”
“I will not see him; he can’t hear the verdict from my lips!” cried
Cis. “What would be the use? Only miserable pain; parting all over
again. I’m so afraid of meeting him! You can’t drive me everywhere I
go. I truly think I ought to leave Beaconhite; I think perhaps I must.”
“Well, well, we’ll see! Not to-night, at least! To-morrow is also a
day. I like those wise old sayings. I hope that you may stay on; you
need Father Morley for a while. Yes, Ellen; someone to see me?” Miss
Braithwaite turned toward her maid, entering with a card on a small
salver.
“No, Miss Braithwaite, for Miss Adair. He--the caller--was determined
to walk right in, but I made him go into the reception room,” said
Ellen, who, like most good and faithful servants, was perfectly
conversant with household affairs; took care that whatever happened
under the roof should, in some way, transpire to her.
“Miss Braithwaite, see him! Hide me! I can’t, I can’t!” gasped Cis,
snatching at the card, instantly dropping it and looking wildly around.
“G. Rodney Moore,” Miss Braithwaite read. “Go out that door, Cis; I’ll
see him. Ellen, take Miss Adair through the little passage to the back
stairs. Then go down and show Mr. Moore up here. Be quiet, Cicely; this
is your last trial, my dear. Go up and say your beads and fear not, my
child.”
Cis escaped, hurrying away, yet everything in her called upon her to
stay. An instant, and she could see Rodney; a word, and they would
never part.
Rodney Moore came half stumbling into Miss Braithwaite’s library. He
found that little lady standing to receive him beside her hearth; the
position of the chairs told him that she had not been long alone.
Although Miss Braithwaite had never seen Rodney Moore before, she
recognized upon his face, in his disordered clothes, the marks of
unhappy disturbance of mind. He stopped short seeing her, and said:
“I want Cicely Adair.”
“I know you do,” said Miss Braithwaite, and there was pity in her
voice. “Sit down, Mr. Moore. Miss Adair has asked me to see you for
her. She will not be able to endure anything more than she has borne.”
“The devil she won’t!” burst out Rodney. “What about me? I don’t count,
eh? She can write me a cool note and expect that to satisfy the man
who saw her last in the place he was fitting up for her to live in
with him? Not much! I’d have been here before, but I didn’t know where
she was. She left me; walked off like an oyster, with no heart nor
tongue in it, and, when I tried to connect with her, she was gone. They
couldn’t tell me anything about her at her boarding house. I found out
that was the truth, too, and then I went off to see her old friend, Nan
Dowling; I was sure she had run off to her, but no one had seen her
there. I read all the papers--you know what I was afraid I’d see in one
of ’em! I came back here, half crazy with fear, and I found that damned
cool, calm note waiting for me, my ring in it! That Holly ring! So here
I am. Bring Cis here. I’ve a right to see her. Don’t you try to keep
her off!”
“Miss Adair was in this room when your card was brought up, Mr. Moore.
She ran away, praying me to keep you from her; she will not see you. It
is she, not I, who decides,” said Miss Braithwaite.
“You lie!” cried Rodney hoarsely. “Do you suppose I don’t know Cis?
Nothing cold-hearted about her! I’ll go through this house till I find
her, and when I find her--” He stopped, unable to go on; he had risen,
and stood holding to the back of a chair, as if he might flay Miss
Braithwaite with it.
“You will remain precisely where you are until you leave my house,”
said the tiny woman quietly. “You will not step your foot beyond the
boundary to which I admit you. You do well to threaten me, and to
threaten a suffering girl whom you love! Be seated, Mr. Moore, and
listen to me. I am truly sorry for you; it is hard, harder for you
than for Cicely, for she suffers for a righteous cause, and you suffer
because you are a traitor to that cause.”
“None of your sermons!” cried Rodney. “If I hated the Roman Catholic
Church before, and was glad I was shunt of it, how do you suppose I
like it now that it is stealing my wife? Cis is a girl; girls are easy
fooled; they’re all alike when it comes to priests and stuff. I could
have held my tongue and married Cis; this is what I get for being
straight with her. Is that fair?”
“You could not have married Cis; you might have succeeded in ruining
her life. Be thankful that you had the grace to stop at the crime you
contemplated toward her,” Miss Braithwaite said. “But I truly believe,
Mr. Moore, that this is not all that you get for being straight. I
believe that good is coming to you, unforeseen good, because you
conquered the temptation to trick her into a legal marriage that never
in her eyes--nor at the last issue in yours, either--would have been
a marriage. For so mighty is truth, so strong its hold upon us, that
we can never free our souls from its blessed bondage. Our lips and our
actions may deny it; what we have been taught persists in our souls,
often saving us, at last. Now do one last, fine, atoning act: go away
and leave Cis to find her way back into peace. You say she wrote you
calmly, coldly. I saw the note written, there, at that desk. She wrote
it in agony. Surely you could read agony there if you were not blinded
with your own pain! Pain, but also anger, Mr. Moore! Remember your pang
is partly the wrath of defeat.”
“See here, I’m not calling on you. You may be a duchess, which you act
like, but I’m not your serf!” cried Rodney. “I won’t take this from
you. Cis has to refuse to see me. Send her here. How do I know you
haven’t got her locked up somewhere, you and a priest?”
“Because you are not a fool,” said Miss Braithwaite contemptuously.
“Take a sheet of paper from that desk, at which Cicely sat to write to
you, and write upon it any message you please. My maid shall take it to
her. After that, if she will not see you, you will leave my house and I
trust be man enough to torment the girl no more.”
“You’re a high-handed little labor leader, if you are a fine lady,
aren’t you?” cried Rodney, almost admiringly, in spite of his rage.
He crossed the room, took up a piece of paper from the desk, shook down
the ink in his own fountain pen, and wrote several lines. Then he took
an envelope, laid his note inside and sealed it.
“Servants are curious,” he said. “Are you going to call yours?”
Miss Braithwaite rang, and Ellen appeared.
“Please take Mr. Moore’s note to Miss Adair, Ellen,” said Miss
Braithwaite. “Wait till she has read it, and bring back her reply,
please.”
“No! I’ll go with you! Take me--I’ll follow you, Ellen; go ahead,” said
Rodney, starting toward the door.
“Rodney Moore, you forget yourself! Stay where you are. Ellen, do as I
have told you; this young man will wait here for your return.”
Miss Braithwaite drew herself up to her full five feet of height,
but there was in her eyes and voice that which no one ever lightly
disobeyed. Muttering something, Rodney fell back, and stood beside the
library table, fumbling the magazines upon it with shaking hands.
There was perfect silence in the room for a strained quarter of an hour
of waiting. A log on the fire broke and fell apart; Rodney jumped,
his nerves quivering from sleepless nights and days of baffled will,
together with fear as to Cicely’s fate. Then Ellen returned and handed
back to Rodney the note which he had sent to Cis. Upon it she had
written, almost illegibly, across the final page:
“Rod, dear, I can’t see you, truly I can’t. It would be harder for us
both. I would give up anything on earth for you, but I will not give up
God for you. Please, Rod, don’t try to see me, never, oh, never! And
please, please, Rod dear, not so much forgive me as say to yourself:
Poor Cis--Holly was right. It is right to serve God first. And be a
good boy yourself, Rod, my beloved, and come back, too, so that after
a few little years we’ll be together forever and ever. But till then,
please let this be good-bye. Cis.”
Rodney crushed the poor little note in the palm of his hand, then he
smoothed it out, laying it flat on his hand. Then he looked down on
it, standing quite still. Then he bent down to it and kissed it. Miss
Braithwaite knew that the long, silent waiting for it; the reaction
from his harrowing fear, now that he knew Cis was safe; his proximity
to her; his better self, perhaps the graces of his boyhood, had
conquered. Rodney had struck his colors and accepted defeat.
“This settles it, Miss Braithwaite,” he said. “There’s nothing more
to hang around for. You are right; Cis decides it herself. I beg your
pardon for my impertinence, but--”
“I shall not remember it, Mr. Moore; you have been sorely tried. I
do not wonder that your nerves snapped. Will you let me say to you
that with all my heart I wish you well? Happy, too, though I know the
word sounds mocking in your ears to-night?” Miss Braithwaite’s voice
was exceedingly kind; her heart went out to Rodney, whose state was
immeasurably more to be pitied than Cicely’s.
“Thanks,” said Rod miserably. “It does sound what you might call
far-fetched. You might tell Cicely, if you will, that I’m going away;
I won’t stay in Beaconhite. I haven’t the heart to stay; I’d be always
looking along the streets for her. Tell her I’ll stick with the same
concern, and, if she ever needed me for anything, to address me in care
of Hammersley and Rhodes, Chicago. That’s the head office, and they’ll
forward anything. Good night, Miss Braithwaite. Is Cis staying with you
long?”
“I hope all winter,” said Miss Braithwaite. “It’s only fair to her
to tell you that she has gone through utter agony; her victory over
herself has been hard won, so don’t underrate it, and try to see the
value of eternal things, if such a girl as our Cicely Adair can turn
from joy and love for their sake. Cis could not go to you into the
wrong; come to her into the right. And God bless you, poor lad.”
“Thanks,” said Rodney again. “I’m done with Church, but I’m much
obliged; you mean it well. I hope Cis will stay on; you’ll look after
her. I don’t understand how she came to be here; I suppose you’re one
of these befriending women. Good-bye. Tell Cis--No! What’s the use? You
can’t send messages that do any good. I wish I could kiss her good-bye.
She’s--she’s a wonder! Oh, good God, what’s the use? Good-bye, Miss
Braithwaite.”
Rodney turned and dashed toward the door. He collided with the end
of the bookcase nearest it, fell back, begged its pardon, and with a
second dash was gone. Miss Braithwaite drew a long breath, and turned
toward the fire, picking up the tongs to mend it, under the necessity
of action; she was considerably disturbed.
“It’s most wearing to have love affairs, even by proxy,” she told
herself. “He’s not without attraction, and I can see that he’s
remarkably handsome when he has slept, and eaten, and shaved. Dear me,
what a singular thing it is that with all the millions of people there
are in the world one can become so vitally necessary to another that
the loss of him--or her--is cataclysmic in effect! I wonder how the
saints endure all the human disturbances unloaded upon them for their
help! I find it exhausting. But then I have not died, and thus gained
the larger point of view! And, furthermore, it’s barely possible that
I’m not a saint! Now for my poor Cis! I can imagine her state with
Rod downstairs and her polarized will holding her upstairs, forever
separated, yet with but twenty-five feet between them!”
Miss Braithwaite went upstairs. She found Cis on her knees at the
balustrade, her face pressed to the spindles, which her fingers tightly
clasped.
It was a wet face that she raised to Miss Braithwaite, but she was glad
to see it so; tears were healing.
“I heard his voice; I saw him go out, Miss Braithwaite! He will never
come to me again! Oh, Miss Braithwaite, Miss Braithwaite!” Cis sobbed.
“Well, as to that,” began Miss Braithwaite in a customary formula
of hers, as she lifted Cis gently to her feet and led her into her
chamber, “I’m not so sure. You see, even though we live only about
seventy years, it’s amazing the things that can happen in that time,
things which we declared impossible! I have a notion that you may not
be through with Rodney Moore, and his affairs, but I doubt that they
will always mean to you as much as they do now. He behaved well, my
dear--at the last! I’m bound to say that he seemed ready for personal
violence upon me at first. He accepted your decision completely,
quietly, and nicely. He told me to say to you that he was leaving
Beaconhite, but may be reached through the main office of his firm in
Chicago if ever he could serve you. And that is behaving prettily, my
dear, and it is a real relief to us not to dread your meeting him. So
now, my Cicely, will you go to bed and to sleep, resting peacefully on
your knowledge that your fight is fought, your victory won, and that
God is tenderly blessing your true heart with the love of His Heart?”
Miss Braithwaite left Cis on her pillow in her pretty room, ready to
sleep from weariness, relaxed, as Miss Braithwaite had suggested to
her, by the knowledge that this chapter in her life was closed.
At the foot of the stairs Miss Braithwaite met Mr. Anselm Lancaster,
just coming to call upon her; they were great friends.
“You look tired, dear Miss Miriam,” he said at once as they shook
hands. “Anything wrong?”
“No; on the contrary, something wholly right,” she replied, leading the
way into the library. “I’ve been watching the Great Cable strain, but,
thank God, it has held, and I know a little bark that has all sails set
for the Beautiful Land.”
CHAPTER XVIII
ORIENTATION
“Now, my dear, you must turn toward the east when you say your
prayers,” Miss Braithwaite briskly said to Cis the next morning at
breakfast.
Cis smiled inquiringly, missing her meaning; it was one of Miss
Braithwaite’s highest assets that her meanings were not always obvious;
they stimulated curiosity and held attention.
“I don’t suppose you really mean that I’m to turn to the east?” Cis
said.
“You are to face the coming day, keep your eyes on the rising sun, your
back resolutely turned on the setting day,” explained Miss Braithwaite.
“That is called orientation, and it is your best attitude now. Indeed
I don’t know anyone who can afford to take any other--eyes toward the
orient ‘whence comes the light.’” Cis was considering this hint from
Miss Braithwaite all day.
“Anyone else would tell me to brace up, or let bygones be bygones, or
something of that sort, but Miss Braithwaite gives everything she says
a turn that makes you begin to do what she advises, even while you’re
listening to her,” she thought. “I’ll look eastward! I’ll wear blinders
so I can’t see, except straight ahead! But I’ll be glad when Christmas
is over.”
Miss Braithwaite involved Cis in preparations for a Christmas totally
unlike any that she had hitherto known. There was to be a tree for her
“scalawags,” and it was not hard to interest Cis in this. She went with
Miss Braithwaite to see her little ragged boys, and capitulated to
them at once, as they did to her. It refreshed Cis to play with them,
to talk to them, falling back on the vernacular which she had learned
from her newsboys in those old days, hourly becoming more and more
unreal to her. There was a small, peaked lame little creature of nine
who won and wrung Cis’s heart. She immediately began a glorious warm
crimson sweater for him, on which she knit frantically every evening
when she was not oversewing tarlatan candy bags with bright worsteds,
or assembling and gluing into place the figures for the little, but
perfect “Cribs” which each child within Miss Braithwaite’s orbit was to
receive to take home at Christmas. She would set up a “Bethlehem” in
wretched places, far enough removed in squalor and vicious ignorance
from the light of the Star, the chant of the angels.
Every one of Father Morley’s girls in his club was to receive a book
and some of the useless, pretty things which girls covet.
“It’s downright brutal to give only utilitarian things at Christmas!”
declared Miss Braithwaite. “It’s a joyous time, and who can be joyous
over black stockings and initialed handkerchiefs? The girls must have
nonsensical things; dangling, silly vanity-feeders along with their
substantial gifts from Father Morley, else Merry Christmas would be
mockery said to them.”
She put Cis at assorting these gifts, and, being a girl herself who was
to be but twenty-two on this same Christmas, she enjoyed her task.
Mr. Lancaster often dropped in after dinner, and not infrequently
to dine. They all three drew up before the vast hearth, with
its jolly fire lighting up Cicely’s red hair, turning it to
gold-with-copper-alloy on its surface coils; making a dark warmth below
its surfaces, like a low fire on a forge.
Cis did not talk much, but she listened, and, listening, found new
worlds opening out before her. Both Miss Braithwaite and Mr. Lancaster
had been much about Europe; they knew unfrequented corners of it as one
knows the places beloved in childhood.
“Do you remember, Anselm?” Miss Braithwaite would begin, and then would
follow eager reminiscences of dear, queer, crooked streets; a shrine in
a cathedral; a room in an ancient palace, or, more delightful still, a
sleeping village and the sweet ways of its peasants all informed with
faith, the realization of God, and utter trust in Him.
Or Mr. Lancaster would exclaim: “Oh, Miss Miriam, do you recall that
little wounded kid which we saw the summer you and I met in the Tyrol,
and how its sad-eyed little owner carried it--at such an effort!--out
to the Calvary on the hillside, and laid it at the foot of the
crucifix? There was faith that the God Who suffered to save souls
would also pity His small four-footed creatures!”
“Indeed I could not easily forget it, Anselm! It was so sweet, and
so piteous,” Miss Braithwaite had answered. “I’ve always been most
thankful that you came along just then! I am sure that there is
one young creature in Switzerland who will carry to the grave the
conviction that, together with the guardian angels, Americans are the
instruments of God’s mercy in answer to prayer! What a happy child that
was when you bound up the kid and set its leg!”
Cicely, sitting silent on her side of the fireplace, raised her eyes
and met Mr. Lancaster’s look, like a boy’s who has been found out in
gentleness, always more mortifying to an American lad than detection in
naughtiness--together with her impressions of life amid venerable, yet
vividly existent faith, she was getting the revelation of two beautiful
souls, the elderly woman’s, the twenty-seven years younger man’s, who
knew and loved these things because they were part of them.
Sometimes something came up in these desultory, aimless talks which
made Mr. Lancaster spring up, take a book from the shelves--Miss
Braithwaite seemed to know exactly where to send him for any volume
of the three thousand or so in this room--turn to a passage or a poem
bearing on what had just been said, and read it aloud.
This was almost the best of all. Anselm Lancaster had a beautiful,
flexible voice; he had been an Oxford man and had brought home with
him the perfect modulations and pronunciation of English which Oxford
gives her sons, and he read with the feeling that an artist and lover
of literature brings to a book. Cis, listening, felt that her education
was just beginning; she realized what Miss Braithwaite had meant when
she suggested to her that she should spend this winter in this way.
Heretofore she had learned facts; now she was learning what the facts
stood for, what had called them into being, and no array of facts can
compare with this knowledge. It is the clothing of the dry bones which
are meaningless until the spirit prophesies to them and makes them
alive.
Best of all, though, were those times when Anselm Lancaster went over
to Miss Braithwaite’s piano, standing with its narrow end toward a
book-filled corner, its keyboard toward the room, and, there in the
shadow, played such exquisite music that it obliterated conscious
thought, leaving no room for anything but the delight of harmonies. It
was hard to go on working at these times. Miss Braithwaite’s work would
fall into her lap, her face rest upon her hand while she gazed into
the fire with eyes that seemed to look beyond the bounds of flesh, her
expression unutterably wistful. Cis, who did not understand what she
heard as Miss Braithwaite did, yet was engulfed by it. Never in her
short life had anything so seized her as did this music, yet, while in
the elder woman it woke the longing that nothing on earth can satisfy,
in the girl it called out new resolution to live and to do.
Cis talked little during these pleasant evenings, yet she never felt,
nor was excluded. Miss Braithwaite’s smile was always ready for her;
Mr. Lancaster included her with small services rendered her as she
worked, and his eyes rested upon her as he talked, leaving her free to
reply or not as she chose, and thus she, though silently for the most
part, made a third in the conversation.
On the eve of Christmas Eve Mr. Lancaster came rather later than usual;
Cis had decided that he was not coming and was a little disappointed.
She was restless; it was hard to keep her fingers steadily employed,
her mind off the thought that the morrow would have been her wedding
day. Somewhere Rod was remembering this. She sent a prayer out toward
him wherever he might be, that he might be blessed.
When Mr. Lancaster came in Miss Braithwaite was more than usually glad
to see him.
“Welcome indeed, Anselm!” she cried. “I am glad to see you, I heartily
detest telephoning, but I must arrange the details of our Christmas
with you. You know that the Jesuits have High Mass at midnight? Father
Morley needed persuading to it, but he yielded to our clamor for it. My
ragamuffins have their tree to-morrow, at five in the afternoon--though
I don’t suppose you’d have suspected me of the morning five o’clock! As
you’re to be my Santa Claus, you’ll meet me at the hall, I suppose? The
tree should be all over by seven. Then you’ll come home with us; we’ll
have a cozy dinner--_maigre_, for the vigil!--and quietly wait for the
time to start for Mass. I’ll drive you and Cis; the maids are to be
sent in another car. Then, after Mass, we’ll wish one another a blessed
Noël, and Cicely a birthday of the best gifts, and go our ways to our
well-merited slumber. Do you like my programme?”
“Only an ingrate could say no, Miss Miriam,” cried Anselm Lancaster.
“I’ll do my best to fulfil my part of it. I’ve an idea! Do you mind if
I costume as St. Nicholas, instead of Santa Claus, and tell the boys in
a few simple words who I am, what I’ve always done for children, and,
in a word, what a fine thing it is to have a saint for their friend,
instead of a fake? I think I can get it over to them, and it’s rather a
chance to steer them toward realities. What says the great little lady?
And her lieutenant?”
“The great little lady highly approves, Anselm; it takes you to see
chances to bolster up faith and morals incidentally to a frolic!” cried
Miss Braithwaite.
“And--?” hinted Mr. Lancaster, waiting for Cis. “The lieutenant?”
“If I’m the great little lady’s lieutenant, she thinks it’s fine,” Cis
said. “It will be good for me, too, because I don’t know much about
St. Nicholas, except that somehow he stood for Santa Claus’ portrait,
and it didn’t come near the original. Queer, but I never liked Santa
Claus as well as other children did; he’s too fa-stout! I hated that
line that told about his shaking when he trotted around! Maybe I’d
have liked him better if I’d been one of a family, and a lot of us had
got acquainted with him together, waiting for him to come down the
chimney.”
Anselm Lancaster looked pleased at this unusually long speech from Cis.
Sometimes Cis wondered if he knew her story and were sorry for her.
She did not mind if he knew, nor resent his possible pity. He was so
simply and truly a fine gentleman that no knowledge that he possessed
of another could ever seem like an intrusion.
“Good! Then St. Nicholas appears, _permissu superiorum_!” he cried.
“Miss Braithwaite tells me that you are to sing, Miss Adair; out of
sight, impersonating an angel, probably. I didn’t know you sang.”
“I don’t; I’m just going to do it,” Cis laughed. “If I impersonated an
angel I’d be out of sight, that’s sure!”
“In a slang sense?” suggested Mr. Lancaster. “Will you sing now what
you’ll sing then to the children, please, Miss Cis!”
“Oh, goodness!” sighed Cis, but she promptly arose. “All right; I
will. It’s the quickest way to prove I can’t! But I can’t play; Miss
Braithwaite plays it.”
“Not when Anselm is here,” said Miss Braithwaite. “Play ‘The Snow Lay
on the Ground’; play it in F, and harmonize it beautifully, because I
intend you to play it for Cis to-morrow night.”
Anselm Lancaster sat down before the dark instrument that reflected the
fire and electric light in its shining case. He struck a few chords
meditatively, then he went on to play the simple, lovely air over and
over, surrounding it with new harmonies, varying it, not as a fantasia,
but by holding to its simplicity, its lyric pathos, enriching it with
all the possibilities of a choral.
Cis stood listening, entranced.
“Isn’t that wonderful?” she sighed. “It’s all there, and yet nothing is
there till you bring it out! I love that hymn!”
“There’s a pretty allegory tucked away in what you just said, Miss
Adair, if you look for it. Now will you sing it for me?” said Mr.
Lancaster, softly touching the keys.
Cis sang, and Anselm Lancaster for the unnumbered time in his knowledge
of her, applauded Miss Braithwaite’s wisdom. Cis had a fresh, true
young voice, round and sweet, with the quality in it of a boy’s; she
had no method whatever, but sang as it had been given to her to sing,
yet no artist could better have conveyed the effect of an unearthly
narrator, telling the story of the First Christmas. It was a song
like the flow of a mountain spring, or the shape of a northern pine,
translated into sound.
“My dear Miss Adair, that was most beautiful!” Anselm cried sincerely.
“It is exactly what it should be. You sound like one of the shepherd
boys who sing that hymn on the mountains beyond Rome, or even like one
of their pipes! And you speak every word so that the dullest boy will
get it.”
“I want them to know what it tells them,” said Cis, and Mr. Lancaster
noted that she made no disclaimer of his praise, as she made no pose as
a singer. She did what she was asked to do as best she could; there it
began, there it ended.
“Of course they can’t understand the Latin, _Venite adoremus Dominum_,
but they are all baptized, and I think we catch a little Latin then,
don’t you? It seems to stick to us. I know Latin never seems like
something I don’t understand, even when I’m not understanding it, and
at high school it never bothered me a bit.”
“Do you know the Missal?” asked Anselm Lancaster, interested in this
Cis, suddenly friendly toward him and at ease with him.
“Miss Braithwaite has been showing it to me, and all about the colors,
and the vestments’ meaning; I’m so glad that she has!” cried Cis
eagerly. “It’s so splendid, so beautiful, so big and so old! It’s as
if I’d been a miserable little scrap of a beggar girl and someone had
taken me into a palace with rooms and rooms, and told me it was all
mine! Do you know, Mr. Lancaster, it’s scandalous to confess it, but
I always thought there was just one Mass; every day the same, three
hundred and sixty-five times a year. And here all these collects and
prefaces--mercy!”
Cis waved her hands as she ended; her delight in recovering her
inheritance was unmistakable.
“Now I know what Santa--I mean St. Nicholas!--must bring you!” cried
Anselm Lancaster, exchanging a glance of pleasure with Miss Braithwaite.
Weary, but triumphant, having brought “her ragamuffins’ Christmas tree”
to a successful conclusion, Miss Braithwaite took her guests home in
her coupé to dine on Christmas Eve. It was another Cis from the one of
the night before who sat, pale, with drooping eyes, in her golden gown
with its slender line of brown fur, opposite to Mr. Lancaster, talking
little, eating indifferently, her face grave, rather than sad, her
smile sweet and ready, with a kind of friendly patience new to Cis.
Miss Braithwaite saw that Anselm watched her, and she, also, watched
her covertly. The girl was changing fast; she was growing, deepening,
expanding. At this rate she would soon be a gracious, attractive and
valuable woman.
A thought new to her mind occurred to Miss Braithwaite, but she
instantly dismissed it. Anselm Lancaster had seen many lovely and
lovable women, in many lands; Cicely Adair could not attract him beyond
his sympathetic interest in a girl who had done what she had done, had
been faithful to the cause nearest his heart.
And if Cicely had been capable of attracting such a man as the
scholarly and accomplished Anselm Lancaster, he was so far from her
thoughts in this regard that she would never put forth the innocent
wiles which are every girl’s for the man whom she feels may love
her, by which she awakens and feeds his attraction, according to the
plan of the Creator Who made them male and female. Cis withdrew from
Mr. Lancaster as a rule, as from one outside her orbit, and when she
approached him it was with that admiration and trust that frankly
announced her sense of remoteness. Yet it was a sweet, a womanly Cis,
with new depths in her eyes, and strength and goodness being graven
upon her pale face, who sat so quietly across from Anselm Lancaster in
her golden, brown-furred gown that Christmas eve at dinner.
After dinner, as usual, Miss Braithwaite repaired to her library fire.
The night was cold; a sleet rain was falling, turning to ice as it
fell; the fire was welcome, its warmth and its cheer needed.
“Anselm, before you begin to smoke, will you call the garage? I detest
telephoning. Tell Leo to put the chains on my car, and not to fail to
have it here by half past eleven; I will not drive faster than ten
miles an hour to-night. Then you may light your cigar, and draw up to
be agreeable to us,” Miss Braithwaite commanded her guest. “Cicely,
dear, is it to be for you an order that keeps perpetual silence?”
“I’m afraid no order, of any sort,” said Cis arousing herself. “Fancy
me not talking! But we went to confession, you see, and after that
I can’t say much for awhile. I’m thinking about Nannie, married
to-morrow, and wondering what my birthday resolutions ought to be.”
She spoke softly, sitting close beside Miss Braithwaite, but Anselm
Lancaster heard her low, yet resonant voice.
He hung up the telephone receiver, and came back to the hearth. As he
slipped into his waiting chair he laid on Cicely’s knee a package;
evidently a book.
She untied the cord and disclosed a translation of the Missal, bound
in tooled red leather, three ribbons hanging from its pages.
“Oh!” cried Cis rapturously. “Oh, Mr. Lancaster, how fine, how
beautiful! Is it--” She checked herself, but, fluttering the leaves,
her arrested question was answered. On the fly page was written in the
close, small hand of one who wrote and thought much: “Cicely Adair. Her
Lord’s birthday and her own. Christmas 1922.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” cried Cis. “You can’t know how much I
wanted it! Nor how I thank you! Truly, Mr. Lancaster, I’m so grateful I
can’t say it. To think of your bothering with me.”
“Oh, but, my dear Miss Adair! I protest! _Bothering_ with you! How
dreadful! And not _grateful_, you know! Aren’t we friends? You must
not be grateful to a friend! But I hope you’ll like your Missal; of
course you will! Now I’m talking nonsense, too! I wanted you to have
it for the Midnight Mass. You told me you’d never been to a midnight
Mass! It’s supremely beautiful; the _Adeste_, and that fourth stanza at
midnight: ‘_Ergo qui natus die hodierna_.’ Will you say one tiny prayer
for the Missal-giver?” cried Anselm Lancaster, so boyishly that Cis,
as well as Miss Braithwaite looked surprised, and Cis said with the
greatest friendliness, out of her own boyish side:
“I’ll say a big one! I’ll put you in with Miss Braithwaite and Nan. I’m
going to receive for Nan; to-morrow is her wedding day. And someone who
needs it most of all. I’ll put you into my intention, and if I mayn’t
be grateful, Mr. Lancaster, I’ll be entirely ungrateful, but I’ll think
you’re so good to me that I would be grateful if it weren’t terribly
wrong to be anything but ungrateful!”
Anselm Lancaster threw back his head and laughed aloud, and Miss
Braithwaite joined him. Cicely’s nonsense delighted her watchful
friend; it was a symptom of health. Anselm Lancaster had never seen her
mischievous; he found it delightful.
The church of St. Francis Xavier was crowded, but pews were held till
ten minutes after midnight, and Miss Braithwaite had brought her two
guests thither ten minutes before midnight tolled out from the clock on
the adjoining house and school building.
The Mass was beyond words solemn and beautiful: the vestments of cloth
of gold; the myriad lights; the scent of forest and incense; the great
organ, the hundred choristers, the sublime music, the _Adeste Fideles_,
sung with such fervor that all over the church people were sobbing with
love for this inexpressibly dear hymn. With this the Mass marched on
to its supreme moment, the greatest, the most inconceivable, the one
infinite action of finite man, which encircles all creation, from Adam
to the last born at the consummation of the world, performed in time,
going on eternally.
Cicely was wrapt into something like ecstasy. The Christmas eve which
she had dreaded had become the highest hour of joy which she had ever
known. She was swept beyond herself into the rapture of the angels who
first sang this Gloria to which she listened.
God had tested her; she had not failed Him. Now He was rewarding her
with a reward beyond her comprehension. She received this communion
with her face wet with tears of joy. At last, at last she knew in Whom
she had believed, blindly, yet faithfully believed.
The rain had ceased when Mass was over; the congregation came out into
starlight and an ice-clad world, shining under the light.
“Oh, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, dear, dear Miss Braithwaite,
Mr. Lancaster!” cried Cis turning back on the lower step of the church
with radiant face. “Merry, merry, merry! For it’s blessedly merry to be
a Catholic on Christmas and to be at Mass when the little Lord comes
down!”
CHAPTER XIX
THE NEW YEAR
As there are fifteen minutes between tides when the ocean lies quiet at
neither ebb nor flow, so the world seems to rest between Christmas and
the New Year; preparations for holidays over, active work not resumed.
Cis had decided to continue as Mr. Lucas’ secretary, at least until
spring. Affairs in which he was interested had taken on sudden activity
in ways and directions which would have made it hard for him to begin a
new secretary at that time; entire fidelity to him and complete silence
as to what had to transpire to his secretary were especially required
now in her who filled that office. Cis knew, in spite of her lapse
for Rod’s sake, that her successor might easily bungle things, as she
never would, or intentionally talk, to her employer’s detriment. In
view of Mr. Lucas’ proved interest in her, Cis felt in honor bound to
stand by for the present, if she could do so. Yet there was upon her a
restlessness of mind that impelled her to change, any change. “It was
growing pains,” Miss Braithwaite told her, and Cis knew that she was
right. She was growing, and the expansion of her powers called to her
to give them scope.
Yet Cis was growing steadily happier in Miss Braithwaite’s home, and
she knew that Miss Braithwaite thoroughly enjoyed having her there. Her
sense of humor, which never could long be downed, was coming to the
surface again; she made her hostess laugh with chuckling delight over
her nonsense. Once more she was growing to be the frank, boyish Cis,
who was excellent company and attractive to all sorts of people. With
this revival of her old charm, Cis was acquiring the charm of one who
lives intimately in the best companionship. She read eagerly, with Miss
Braithwaite to guide her choice of books; she listened no less eagerly,
and began to share talk as valuable as her reading. She met interesting
people, and heard discussed measures of great import, helpful to
individuals and to her country. She began to drift up to the edges of
these things and to help in them, ever so little, but learning to do,
to plan; being, unknown to herself, inducted into the great things now
waiting on every hand for lay men and women to perform.
Father Morley came often to see Miss Braithwaite; he relied on her
acumen, her remarkable powers for help in his undertakings. He, a tired
man, not particularly strong, delighted in the refreshment he received
in her restful library, from her own wit and gracious talk; from her
brain which understood at a half word much that he could not say. She
put at his disposal all her resources of talent and wealth and social
position.
Father Morley was himself a person of rare cultivation of mind; he had
been an omnivorous reader from his childhood; his remarkable education
began long before his seminary days, exceeded textbooks.
He found Cis interesting; he recognized in her that capacity to soar
which so far surpasses the sufficient goodness of excellent souls, and
he made it his affair to help Miss Braithwaite to hold up Cicely’s
opening wings. She grew deeply attached to this tenderly kind, austere
Jesuit, and yielded herself gratefully to his molding.
Thus the winter swung into its steady pace after the New Year, and Cis
was amazed to find that her days were not only peaceful, but full to
overflowing, and that they were happy. There was an ache in her heart
for Rodney; she did not forget, yet being an honest Cis, she realized
that if he were to return to her he would not satisfy her as he had
done; that in severing herself from Rodney Moore she had leaped over
on to a height beyond him, and that from that hour she had gone on
ascending.
How strange it was that in doing right she had gained in time the good
that had been promised her only for eternity! There was that ache in
her heart for Rodney--what woman would not mourn a lost love, perhaps
the more that she began to see the loss in its true light--but the Cis
who had been for a quarter of a year the inmate of Miss Braithwaite’s
house, associated with her and her friends, had grown beyond the girl
who had been satisfied with Rodney Moore.
As the winter evenings grew cold and drear, Anselm Lancaster sought no
less frequently the cheerful fireside, the laden shelves, the grand
piano of Miss Braithwaite’s library; still more the delightful fireside
talk of its mistress, whom he admired with all his might.
And Cis herself? Did he find her an attraction? Sometimes Miss
Braithwaite thought so, but Cis surely did not. However, she had grown
friendly and at ease with Anselm Lancaster, chatted with him, showed
him her natural gifts, as well as the supernatural ones developing in
her; was her frank, sunny self, and of course Anselm was not so stupid
as not to find her likable, admirable. But there was no ground for
seeing more in it than that, Miss Braithwaite decided, perhaps with
relief.
He talked to Cis of the things which interested him; of his work, his
plans. Of his home, which he made a temporary home for those who had
left home and relatives for conscience’ sake, who needed a foothold
upon which to stand to catch the breath of the new atmosphere when the
old had become too vitiated for them to continue to breathe it. Of his
Italian classes, his organized effort to hold the immigrant against
assault in the new land; of all the ramifications of his lay army to
fight against Lucifer, the once-beautiful, the forever subtle and
attractive.
Cis listened enkindled.
“It is splendid, glorious!” she cried. “If I stay in Beaconhite will
you teach me how to do, and put me at something? I’ve got to pay back,
a little, somehow!”
“You could do anything with the Italians, Miss Adair. Will you study
the language? It isn’t hard to learn it. And you could do much else;
you’re a dynamic creature. But ‘_if_ you stay in Beaconhite’? Aren’t
you sure of staying?” cried Mr. Lancaster.
“Not a bit,” declared Cis. “I don’t know what I may do, but this isn’t
quite my own life. I love Miss Braithwaite a little more each day; I’d
be thankful to go on here forever, if she needed me. She is greater
than any other woman; there’s just one of her! But I don’t mean much
here. I think there must be a place for me somewhere that will be my
very own, something that I was meant to do. Sometimes I think I’ll go
home where I came from, but that isn’t sensible, either. Oh, I don’t
know! I’ll know, I suppose, when the time comes.”
“That’s good sense and good theology--which is tantamount, though lots
of people don’t know it,” said Mr. Lancaster. “It seems to me that you
have a decidedly real place here, as you put it. Miss Braithwaite is
strong and active, but at sixty-five the goal is in sight. It seems
to me that to stay on here, companion her, look after her, work in
with her in her numerous ways of usefulness till you can carry them on
alone as she drops out, is an opportunity anyone might welcome. Miss
Braithwaite is a power for good; there is no one whom I admire more,
and everyone, from the bishop of the diocese to that small lame boy in
whom you are interested, turns to her for help. To prolong such a life
and make it happier--of course there is no better way to prolong life
than by making it a happy life--it seems to me I’d think several times
before I decided that was not a worth while chance for a young thing
like you!”
Cis returned the smile that Mr. Lancaster bent upon her, but she said:
“That all sounds beautiful, and it is more than worth while; the only
trouble is that I can’t imagine my doing it! I wonder where Miss
Braithwaite is? Don’t I hear Ellen bringing someone in here?”
Ellen pushed open the heavy doors of the library.
“Miss Lucas and Mr. Lucas, Miss Braithwaite,” she announced, and Cis
looked up to see Mr. Wilmer Lucas coming forward, and behind him
Jeanette Lucas.
“Oh, Miss Lucas!” Cis cried, and ran forward to greet Miss Lucas on a
sort of track of red wool, trailing her crimson knitting by a needle
caught in the fold of her gown, the little lame lad’s sweater which she
was just finishing.
“Oh, Miss Lucas, I am so glad to see you! Ellen, please find Miss
Braithwaite; she may be in her room. How kind of you to bring your
niece here, Mr. Lucas! You know Mr. Lancaster? Miss Lucas, this is Miss
Braithwaite’s friend, Mr. Lancaster.”
“I’m truly glad to see you, Miss Adair,” said Miss Lucas in that
unforgettable sweet voice of hers. “And to see you so happy here. Uncle
Wilmer has been telling me that he is grateful to father and me for
sending you to him.”
The two girls stood, their hands still clasped, looking at each other,
both remembering where and how they had parted, the singular bond that
united them, all that had come to pass since they had met.
Jeanette Lucas looked years older; her face had lost its sweetness;
it was as beautiful as ever--Cis thought that she had forgotten how
lovely it was--but older lines, which barely escaped being bitter ones,
had been graven on each side of her delicate lips, and her eyes were
introspective, no longer meeting other eyes with ready sympathy. Her
wound had gone deep, the cruel wound of finding unworthy someone whom
one has utterly trusted, and of learning to unlove. She had withdrawn
into herself to hide her hurt.
Jeanette Lucas saw the girl who had been merry, frank and free, grown
older, too, but in every way bettered by it. Never precisely pretty,
Cis’s face had sweetened and softened; its whole effect was of a face
that had been clarified and ennobled. Dressed in soft dull gold and
brown, her wonderful hair topped the harmony of color like an aureole;
in undefined motions, intonations, Cis had refined, become one of the
world in which Jeanette Lucas had been born and always lived.
Miss Braithwaite, hurrying in, interrupted this unconscious scrutiny
of each other which absorbed the girls in oblivion to all else. She
welcomed Jeanette cordially, even affectionately, putting her at once
into Cicely’s chair close to hers before the fire.
Anselm Lancaster dropped into his usual place; Mr. Lucas, in a
capacious chair in the middle. For a moment Cis hesitated, then she
took a low stool and put herself close on the other side of Jeanette.
It seemed to her that Anselm Lancaster found Miss Lucas interesting,
and instantly Cis’s busy brain began to weave a plot to which the happy
ending was intrinsic.
“Father is perfectly well, thank you, Miss Braithwaite,” Jeanette was
replying to Miss Lucas. “We went abroad on my account, but he profited
from it more than I--except as it added to my knowledge. Father already
had enough knowledge of pictures and architecture. We had a delightful
trip, yes, thanks; England, France, Italy; Spain, to a limited extent.
I’d like to go back. Why not go with me, Miss Adair?”
“I am going; I’m saving up to go,” said Cis unexpectedly; Jeannette
had not been in earnest. “I’m getting ready for it in other ways; Miss
Braithwaite and Mr. Lancaster talk about Europe so much that I almost
know which corner to turn to buy shoe-strings, or to see the best
pictures in the gallery! I’ll show you the way around Europe, Miss
Lucas, if you will let me go with you.”
“Miss Adair can show you many other things besides the way around
Europe, Jeanette!” Mr. Lucas corroborated Cis. “If ever the day dawns
that I’m not involved in crises of several corporations and public
affairs, simultaneously, I’ll take you both abroad; Miss Braithwaite
shall go as duenna and Mr. Lancaster as cicerone.”
“A contract, before witnesses!” cried Mr. Lancaster. “I want to show
you a picture in Florence for which you might have sat as model, Miss
Lucas.”
“How delightful! I’ll keep the appointment, Mr. Lancaster,” said
Jeanette. “Miss Braithwaite, do you know why I’m here to-day?”
“Because you knew how glad I’d be to see my little Jeanette again?”
suggested Miss Braithwaite.
“Dear Miss Braithwaite, I hope you are!” said Jeanette, touching Miss
Braithwaite’s hand. “That’s dear of you, but that’s not why. We are
in desperate straits for a housekeeper. She must not be an ordinary
person, but someone quite extraordinary. Father is going away, to be
gone a year; possibly more. Mother is in wretchedly bad health; father
will not leave to me the responsibility for that great house of ours,
the children and the servants; rightly or wrongly, he doesn’t consider
me competent to it. He wants a woman higher above suspicion than
Cæsar’s wife; competent to take charge; good, and she should not be
a common person, or the servants will not obey her, and I doubt that
the children would; they’re keen-eyed little animals! I suggested to
father that he had these qualities compounded in a laboratory, and the
form containing them somehow galvanized into the semblance of a living
human being, but he said: ‘Before we resort to such extreme measures to
get the unlikely person we want, you run over to visit your uncle at
Beaconhite, and see Miss Miriam Braithwaite. She is a such a good Roman
that she has acquired some of St. Peter’s quality of fisher of men; she
has all sorts of ramifications out, and no end of all kinds of people
on her lines. Quite possibly she may know precisely the person we
need, and one who equally needs us.’ So here I am, Miss Braithwaite,
at your mercy.”
“Dear me, that’s a hard order to fill! Can you suggest anyone, Anselm?”
began Miss Braithwaite, when Cis interrupted with an exclamation.
“Miss Gallatin!” she cried. “Nice, queer, splendid Miss Hannah
Gallatin!”
“The very person! But why do you think she’d go, Cicely?” said Miss
Braithwaite. “She takes boarders, and is going on well, I think?”
“I’m sure she perfectly detests taking boarders,” insisted Cis. “I
believe she’d love to be with people like the Lucases, with children
to help bring up, and someone she’d love, like Miss Jeanette! I’m sure
she’s horribly lonely; she was dear and good to me; she would adore
Miss Jeanette. Wouldn’t it be all right to ask her?”
“I am sure that Miss Adair has hit it!” cried Mr. Lancaster, rising.
“I know Miss Gallatin well, and she is lonely, and she does loathe her
present surroundings. I’m going home; I pass near her house. Would you
like me to sound her for you, Miss Lucas?”
“I’d be most grateful,” returned Jeanette. “Though it makes my head
whirl to find the impossible right around the corner, turning possible
under my eyes! I had no idea of getting so much as a clue to a person!”
“This is the House of the Thaumaturgi; you see your friend, Miss Adair,
is getting their powers; this suggestion was hers,” said Mr. Lancaster,
and said good night.
“Now you two children take each other off somewhere, and compare notes
on these past months since you met,” ordered Miss Braithwaite. “I
suspect you want to see each other, and I know that I want to talk to
Mr. Lucas, now that he has delivered himself into my hands!”
“She doesn’t realize how little I really know you,” Cis said
apologetically, as she led Jeanette to her own room.
“Neither do I!” retorted Jeanette. “I think we agreed that
circumstances had made us friends beyond common measures of time and
opportunity. May I speak like an old friend? May I call you Cis; will
you call me Jeanette? That’s right! You have changed a great deal, Cis;
you are wonderfully changed. So am I, but not for the better, like you.
My uncle has told me what you have done. My dear, my dear, I am proud
of you, and ashamed of me! You have been brave, faithful, and you are
not whining! I’ve been bitter, awfully, horribly bitter, Cis! I hope
it’s better now. I’ve been feeling that it wasn’t fair, what happened
to me. I suspect it hurt my pride. I felt insulted, dragged down, as if
God had dealt unfairly with me.”
“Oh, my, no!” cried Cis. “God doesn’t deal unfairly; why would He? You
wouldn’t. But any girl would feel insulted in your place; it’s a shame!
I thought so then, and I’ve been thinking so ever since. But it wasn’t
God’s fault, you know. Don’t you suppose God saved you from worse
sorrow?”
“Yes, I do! He sent you, true-hearted and courageous, to interfere for
me!” cried Jeanette. “Cis, I’ve blessed you before every shrine I
visited in Europe and here!”
“Then it’s likely that you saved me in your turn, Jeanette. I might
easily have slipped my cable; likely you helped me hold,” said Cis
simply.
“Do you know what _you_ have done, Cicely of the burnished hair? You
have impressed my uncle Wilmer by your action, coming as it did on
top of my great father’s choice of the Old Church, Miss Braithwaite,
and other people and things. He is looking into the Church; he never
would before! He told me he was going to satisfy himself just what this
strange power rested upon that made ordinary people martyrs and saints!
He is a prejudiced, strong-willed man, Cis, but he is an honest one,
and you know what happens when honest people begin this study. Your
hand set this in motion, Cicely Adair!” cried Jeanette.
Cis looked up, then she looked down, for tears stood in her eyes.
“Would you really call it my hand?” she asked.
“Ah, well, the nails which hold the wall together do not drive
themselves,” said Jeanette. “Cis, do you remember Mr. Singer, of the
telephone office at home? I saw him lately; he asked about you. He told
me that, although he was forced to dismiss you from the office for
what you did, because it was a flagrant break of their rules, still he
admired you exceedingly for it, as well as for your qualities as he
knew them. He said that they were making a department of welfare work
for their employees, and that he knew no one whom he would so well
like to have over it as you. He said that if I came in contact with
you he should be grateful if I would tell you this, and ask you to
communicate with him. He said that he wanted a girl of high character,
integrity, kindness, and someone able to entertain and attract the
girls whom she looked after; he added that you were the one above all
others whom he had in mind. So I’m handing on the message, in spite
of disloyalty to Uncle Wilmer! You can think it over. At least your
dismissal, Cicely, is thus squared off! Mr. Singer did not betray that
he knew it was I who was involved in your violation of the rule of the
company, but I’m sure that he did. Do you want to come home again, Cis?
It’s good for you to be here, but I’m selfish enough to wish you were
at home again.”
“That was nice of Mr. Singer; thank you for telling me, Jeanette. I
don’t know what I want to do; I’m all at loose ends in my mind, but I
think, after I’ve boiled for awhile, I’ll settle down; not boil over,”
said Cis.
“It takes a long time to get one’s bearings after an earthquake,”
agreed Jeanette. “I’ve been wretched, unhappy, bitter, bewildered; I’m
better. But, Cis, you don’t look like any of these things; you look
good, sweet and good, and--well, _clear_ is the word! It isn’t going to
be a vocation, is it?”
“For a convent? Oh, no; I’m afraid not. I’m not that sort; I’m active.
Do you suppose there ever was a red-haired contemplative? Even though
the hair was cut off when she was professed? I doubt it! You were
always so good!” cried Cis.
“I don’t know, I don’t know! I wish I might go,” cried Jeanette. “It
seems mean to offer yourself to God because a man failed you.”
“It wouldn’t be that; it would be that a man showed you that only God
was worth loving,” Cis corrected her with the insight that was new to
her. “If God wanted you, why would you care how He got you? I can see
that there are all sorts of ways.”
“My dear, my dear, you have travelled far in a short while!” said
Jeanette; then sighed and smiled. “We have come to the end of our talk;
there is no more after that. Come back to Miss Braithwaite and my
uncle.”
“Anselm Lancaster called up, Jeanette and Cis,” Miss Braithwaite said
as the girls came back into the library. “He says that Miss Gallatin
was overjoyed at the suggestion of getting away from her detested
business and looking after Lucases of assorted sizes. She is coming to
see you, here, in the morning, Jeanette. You are to stay the night;
I’ve arranged with your uncle, and I only hope that you may carry off
with you that pearl of great price, Hannah Gallatin.”
Miss Gallatin and Jeanette Lucas saw each other with perceiving eyes in
the morning, and Jeanette went with Miss Gallatin in Miss Braithwaite’s
coupé to find Mr. Lucas in his office to arrange for the speediest
winding up of Miss Gallatin’s affairs.
“You had an inspiration, Cis,” declared Miss Braithwaite when Jeanette
Lucas had gone home again from Beaconhite, with all arrangements made
for Miss Gallatin to follow her. “A lonely woman, and a home that
needs her. Jeanette Lucas will gain much from Miss Gallatin, and Hannah
Gallatin will be lonely no more.”
“I wonder--” Cis began, and stopped.
“Yes?” Miss Braithwaite waited.
“If I had another inspiration?” Cis went on. “May I say it? I wondered
if Mr. Lancaster would not fall in love with Jeanette Lucas, and
whether it would not be beautiful if he did?”
Miss Braithwaite stared, then she laughed.
“She’s a lovely creature, and I’d not blame anyone for falling in love
with her--you have fallen a wee bit in love with her yourself! But,
Cis, my dear, are you getting to be a matchmaker? That’s a sign of old
age, poor Cis! Why, I’m not nearly old enough to try to pair people
off--or am I old enough to know it’s a risky business, besides being
hard to work? That would be a pretty pair, I admit, and suitable. Well,
well; possibly! Then you think my beloved Anselm is good enough even
for Jeanette Lucas?”
“For anyone; too good for almost anyone else,” said Cis promptly.
“Miss Braithwaite, Jeanette said that she told you about the telephone
welfare department at home, and Mr. Singer’s selecting me to run it.
What ought I do?”
“Come to dinner,” said Miss Braithwaite instantly, winding her arm
around Cis to take her to the dining room. “And stay where you are till
you get marching orders which can’t be forged. Dear me, are young girls
the only ones that have a claim? How about an old girl who needs you?
Stay with me, Cicely Adair, at least till you can endure me no longer!
You’re a bright spot of comfort, my child, and I like to see your red
hair beside my red fire on the hearth!”
CHAPTER XX
THE OLD BOTTLE FOR NEW WINE
The winter slipped away, melting into spring, and Cis had not left
Beaconhite. Increasingly interested in her completely transformed life,
growing daily fonder of Miss Braithwaite, Cicely continued to serve
Mr. Lucas happily in his office, finding the great matters constantly
beneath her fingers more and more intriguing, going at night back into
that peacefully beautiful house, into its books, its charming talk, its
lofty ideals.
“I’m getting nicer and nicer!” Cis mocked herself one night in her own
room, before her mirror. It was perfectly true; she was “getting nicer”
and was becoming something far more than her adjective conveyed.
When June came Miss Braithwaite announced to Cis that she was to take a
vacation of three months and go with her touring the New England coast
and the White Mountains.
“I don’t know whether we shall go on up to Montreal or not; it shall
be as we feel when the time comes. We will stop where we please, for
as long as we please, and we will not measure our trip by miles but by
satisfactions,” Miss Braithwaite said. Cis caught her breath in delight.
“Gracious!” she exclaimed. “What a suggestion! It is rather flooring!
But how can I go? I’ll lose my job! Mr. Lucas can’t hold on to a
secretary who is flying all over New England!”
“Easily,” replied Miss Braithwaite. “If you can broadcast a song by
radio, you can broadcast a secretary by automobile! I’m not one bit
afraid of your losing your job; besides, I’ve sounded Mr. Lucas!”
Cis laughed. “Trust you to secure yourself--and me!” she cried. “Miss
Braithwaite, I’ll probably die of joy on the way; simply blow right up
in the car.”
“Let us hope that the car will not blow up with you and me both in it!”
retorted Miss Braithwaite, well pleased with Cis’s pleasure. “It is
quite settled that we are to spend the summer on wheels. I want you to
see the ocean breaking over the rocks of that coast, you who have seen
the ocean only as it comes up on New Jersey sands. I want you to hear
it cannonade into those rock-caves, and retreat from them in foam and
spray. You’re too enthusiastic to miss a note of that vast harmony.
Anselm Lancaster says if we go he will drive after us and join us
somewhere for July and August.”
“How fine!” cried Cis, frankly delighted. “That will keep us from
missing the hearth, if we are inclined to. Mr. Lancaster will make it
homelike, and how nice it will be for you to have him there to talk to!”
Miss Braithwaite was regarding Cis sharply; she said:
“Nice for you, too, will it not be? In case I’m in a lazy mood, he can
drive you to any point that you should see.”
“I’d hate to bother him,” said Cis. “But of course it will be great
for me to have him with us. He’s no end good to me, takes me right in,
because you do. Will he go alone?”
“He didn’t speak of anyone else; I don’t know. He’s extremely fond
of that recent convert who was an Episcopalian minister, Paul Ralph
Randolph. Paul is having a hard time; perhaps Anselm will ask him to
go with him. Then it’s settled, Cicely. I’ve spoken to Mr. Lucas, but
you’d better speak of it to him in the morning.”
Miss Braithwaite turned away as she spoke, and met Father Morley just
coming in.
After a few words with him, Cis ran away to write to Nan, and Miss
Braithwaite laid before the Jesuit her summer plan.
When she told him that Anselm Lancaster was likely to be added to the
party, Father Morley lifted his eyebrows inquiringly, without a word.
“Yes, of course,” Miss Braithwaite agreed with him. “I see, but I don’t
know, truly. I do know that the idea never crosses Cicely’s mind, and
so, though I understand how and why the approaches to her mind are
guarded against the entrance of the idea, still, it does seem to me
that there can’t be ground for our entertaining it. It’s hard for me to
believe in the novel heroine who has no suspicion that she is sought
until the hero plumps himself down on his knees at her feet! I think,
as a rule, a woman feels even the dawn of interest in her, the power
of her attraction, before any onlooker can sense it.”
“If she doesn’t subtly suggest to him that he admires her?” suggested
Father Morley, with his quizzical half-smile.
“You’ve been reading George Bernard Shaw!” cried Miss Braithwaite.
“Nonsense! I’m ashamed of you! Thackeray said it before he did, but
in point of fact one needs to read neither of them to know that law
of natural history,” said Father Morley. “Well, and if Cicely’s
preoccupation were wrong, and our half-formed suspicion were right, how
about it? Would it do?”
“At first I thought not, when it occurred to me,” said Miss
Braithwaite. “I do not believe that two people can be happy together if
the door to the deepest tastes and feelings of one will not yield to
the hand of the other. To my mind it is madness to expect life to be
anything but galling when it is lived in close proximity to a person to
whom one may not speak of the things nearest to the heart whether for
lack of sympathy in tastes or, still more, in principles. But I have
come to think that, in this case, there would not be that lack; Cicely
has an excellent mind, and rare perception; her big heart and loyal
truth are rare. I am coming to think that it would do exceedingly well,
and to fear that it may never happen. Would you approve it, Father?”
“Oh, yes; yes, indeed! I make it a rule to approve everything of that
sort to which there is no actual objection. I’ve found that is the
easiest way to an end that is sure to be reached, whatever I say,”
replied Father Morley with his quiet smile, his eyes laughing at Miss
Braithwaite’s chagrin at his provoking lack of enthusiasm.
“Well, I assure you it would be a lucky man who married Cis. She is a
splendid girl,” Miss Braithwaite declared, as Cis came back in time to
catch the last five words.
“I hope you’re talking of Cis Adair?” she cried.
“As it happens, I was,” said Miss Braithwaite.
“At least I’m a fortunate girl,” said Cis quietly.
Father Morley smiled at her with genuine admiration.
“It is always a lucky person who may truthfully be called splendid;
assuming that it is luck that carves character, which is at least open
to debate.”
“My funny little character lay down and let two skillful pairs of hands
carve it,” said Cis with a grateful smile for these two people who had
such a large part in her recent molding.
The summer passed in the way Miss Braithwaite had planned, a summer
of such delight to Cis that each night when she lay down to sleep she
wondered if it were really she, Cicely Adair, who was passing through
scenes of natural beauty, such as she had never seen, in a luxurious
car, with a companion who enhanced every beauty by her talk, linking it
with other beauty, playing upon it with her wit and wisdom. When the
mood was upon them they halted in a fine hotel, where Cis came into
contact with a world that she had not known; where at night she danced
in her pretty, thin frocks, her glorious hair the observed of every
eye, moving to orchestras that played perfect dance music perfectly.
The girl drank deep of youthful joy and blossomed under it. She moved
with a new grace added to her natural lissom, free carriage, and her
face, alive with the interests filling her quick brain, transformed by
suffering largely outlived, a temptation conquered, a soul at peace and
knowing its way, was so attractive that no one ever stopped to consider
whether or not she was beautiful.
Anselm Lancaster had fulfilled his promise and had joined Miss
Braithwaite on the north shore, beyond Boston, in July. His roadster
sometimes followed, sometimes preceded Miss Braithwaite’s large car,
driven by her man, and Paul Ralph Randolph, the convert whom older
Catholics were honoring for his sacrifices for conscience, with the
ready admiration those born in the Church are quick to accord a
convert, was Anselm Lancaster’s companion on the trip. Sometimes Miss
Braithwaite rode with Anselm, Cis and Mr. Randolph in the big car;
sometimes Cis went with Anselm in the roadster, while Miss Braithwaite
welcomed Mr. Randolph to a place beside her and to the profound
satisfaction which her wise talk gave the young man, hard beset on the
new-old road, from which he had no temptation to turn back.
Thus they went through the loveliness of the Massachusetts, New
Hampshire and Maine coasts, turned off into the White Mountain region,
but omitted for this time the Canadian possibility. Thus they made
their way leisurely down again, through the Berkshires, back to
Beaconhite, just as the children were trooping to school, and the hint
of summer’s passing, autumn’s approach, was in the air.
Miss Braithwaite was no wiser as to the future event which she had
discussed with Father Morley than she had been in setting forth. Of Cis
she was entirely sure; she had no thought in her mind of that which her
friend considered for her. Of Anselm she was less sure, yet he gave her
no actual ground for supposing that he perceived Cis in any different
light from that in which Miss Braithwaite saw her as a dear, lovely,
lovable and noble girl. Miss Braithwaite knew quite well that it is a
totally other matter to want to marry a girl, than to see in her all
sorts of desirable traits.
They had not been back in Beaconhite quite two weeks when two things
happened to change the direction of Miss Braithwaite’s plans, and
Cicely’s, no less.
An old friend of Miss Braithwaite’s, living in California, was
desperately ill and begged her friend to come to her. Miss Braithwaite
was going; she could not, nor would not refuse.
Then Cis had a letter from Nan imploring her to come back to her old
home in October. There would be a little boy, or a little girl, there
then whose godmother Cis, and no one else, must be. Nan implored Cis
to come to see her before her baby was born, and to stay on to sponsor
it at the font. Miss Braithwaite had intended leaving Cis her house
and servants to look after while she was gone, but this news from Nan
focused Cicely’s vague intention to return to her old home, and she
decided to go back when Miss Braithwaite went away.
“You will come back to me, Miss Adair?” Mr. Lucas had said when she
told him that for a while, at least, she would not return to her desk.
“I hope so, Mr. Lucas; I suppose so,” Cis said. “Miss Braithwaite
wants me to come back when she gets home. If her friend dies, as seems
likely, she will be saddened, and may need me a little bit when she
comes home. I’m pretty sure to come back.”
“Whoever may be in your place, I will gladly exchange for you when you
come,” said Mr. Lucas. “Promise me not to tell Jeanette a secret when
you see her! I am not ready for them to know it, but you have a right
to be told before you go. Your extraordinary choice of your Church when
everything called you from her, impressed me to such an extent that I
made up my mind to find out what was in her thus to raise people above
themselves. I have been investigating it. I want to tell you, Cicely
Adair, that I have found out.”
“Oh, Mr. Lucas!” cried Cis jumping up with a radiant face. “I’m so
glad, so glad! And I must tell you that you’ve no idea how much
you’ll like the Church when you can stop investigating her, when you
begin just to live with her! I’d no sort of idea how splendid she
was! I’m so glad I have her, that now I think I didn’t sacrifice a
thing then--though it did hurt at the time, and I came horribly near
slipping off.”
Mr. Lucas laughed. “That’s not a bad tribute to your Mother, my dear,”
he said, “though it’s a bit funny. I’m quite sure that I shall find her
precisely what you say ‘when I begin to live with her’!”
Miss Braithwaite went to California. Anselm Lancaster took Cis to the
train to see Miss Braithwaite off, and then, an hour later, put Cis on
her train to return to her home.
“‘Always the best of friends,’ Miss Cis, like Joe Gargery and little
Pip, aren’t we?” he asked, holding Cis’s hand for a dallying moment of
farewell.
“Yes, indeed, if you’ll keep up your half of it, though I don’t know
Joe Gargery, nor little Pip,” Cis said.
“That doesn’t matter; they were the best of friends; that’s the salient
point,” Anselm said. “And I don’t want you to forget that so are we.
You’ll come back this winter, when Miss Braithwaite comes?”
“I don’t know; I think so, if she wants me. I’ll miss her--and you--and
the dear library; the whole wonderful house and my life in it, and all
the kindness I’ve had, and the untellable things I’ve learned. Oh, I
shall miss it all!” Cis choked.
“Only for a visit; you’re going only for a visit! Beaconhite holds you
on the other end of a tether! Good-bye, Miss Cicely. I’m afraid the
sunshine goes out with your hair.” Anselm pressed Cicely’s hand hard,
put into her lap a book and a box of candy, together with a long box
with a protruding ribbon over one side, all of which Cis had pretended
not to see, though she knew quite well what their purpose was, and she
felt a girlish satisfaction in being thus freighted and sped.
The train rolled out of the station, and Cis was on her way home.
It was a long, tiresome journey, but it gave Cis time to consider her
history since she had made the same journey in the reverse direction. A
lifetime lay between the journeys, it seemed to her. Basically she was
the same Cicely Adair who had come to Beaconhite to try her fortune; in
her on that day had lain the potential qualities and attitudes of mind
which these months had brought out, but so tremendous had been all that
had happened to her, so far-reaching in its effect--reaching as far as
all eternity--that it was by no means the same Cis who was going back
to Nan.
At the station, when Cis arrived in the growing dusk, a young man came
forward to greet her. He was attired in such perfection that his effort
to appear at his best positively screamed aloud to all passers-by. Cis
did not know him, and, though he was bearing down on her, it was with
a hesitation, in spite of his advance toward her, that spoke a like
uncertainty in him. Only when he came quite up to her did Cis cry:
“Well, Tom! Tom Dowling! To think of my not knowing you! Nice of you to
come!”
“I wasn’t sure of you, Cis,” said Tom uneasily. “You’re--you’re awfully
different!”
“That’s true, I am,” said Cis. “But you’ve grown up since I saw you.
You’re not bigger; I don’t mean that, but you’re grown up!”
“Right you are!” declared Tom with a slight swagger. “But I’m hardly
any younger than you; don’t try to talk like a grandmother! Girls get
old quicker. You’ve what is it? Side?”
“Goodness, is it?” laughed Cis. “Aren’t we going somewhere, Tom? We
aren’t going to stay here all night, are we? It was good of Nan to send
you to meet me.”
“_Good_! Of _Nan_! To _send_ me!” Tom cried in a series of small
explosions. “Gosh! As though a man had no mind of his own! As though
Nan sent me, like a kid! I tell you, Cis, I’ve hardly been able to
sleep since I heard you were coming, for fear I’d miss meeting your
train! I tell you, Cis, it’s been hard sledding with you gone, and if
I’ve grown old it’s from missing you, if you want to know!”
“Well, Tom! That’s a dear boy to remember Cis so hard,” said Cis,
falling back into her old boyish way of speaking, association with the
place and with the lad to whom she had returned, calling it out. But
she found this earnestness of Tom’s wearisome, and devoutly wished that
he had not been so loyal to her memory.
“Come over to the taxi stand,” said Tom. “Here, give over that
suitcase. Checks?”
“One check, one small trunk,” said Cis yielding up her case and check
to this protector.
Tom handed her check to an expressman, and gave him the address of
Nan’s house. Then he resumed his way toward the taxi stand, holding
Cis by one elbow.
As he put her into the cab, and entered it himself he said:
“Say, Nan has a son; three days old, he is. She wouldn’t let them
telegraph you for fear you’d hold off coming a little. But she told me
to tell you that she was so crazy to see you that it would do her more
good to have you walk in than even to see the baby! And heaven knows,
she’s wild over him, though, honest; he’s not such a much! I never saw
one so young, and I think age improves ’em more’n it does wine.”
“Oh, Tom, of course she’s wild over her baby son!” cried Cis. “I’m
going to be wild over him myself! He’s to be one third mine; Nan said
so. He’s my godson, or will be, as soon as we can get him made so.
What’s his name?”
“Matt, Matthew, for Joe’s father; I’m not keen for it,” said Tom. “Joe
wanted it, and Nan always likes to please him, so it’s Matt. Nan wanted
him called Cyril.”
“I like Matt better; Cyril is too dressy for Nan’s boy; she’s such a
simple, dear little mouse!” said Cis decidedly. “Oh, Tom, here we are!”
“Well, Cis, dear, didn’t you think if the taxi went on running we’d get
here?” asked Tom, intending to be humorous, and helping Cis out.
Nan held out her arms when Cis came up the stairs, running to her
headlong.
“Oh, Cis; oh, Cis! I’m so glad!” Nan cried, and Cis kissed her with
tears, repeatedly.
Nan a wife and now a mother! Not only for Cis had these months been
full of changes. Nan had a son to praise God for, but Cis--what had
she? Less? No; more! A son was another soul to rejoice over, but Cis
felt that the creation of her soul was a wonder greater than ordinary
birth.
Nan looked at her with appraising eyes, as Cis arose from her knees
beside her, covered over the face of tiny Matt, held in the hollow of
his mother’s arm, and fell back a step or two, looking down on Nan.
“Cis, you have changed! But it is all for the better!” cried Nan.
“You don’t look one bit unhappy; your eyes are lovely, dear! and you
are--what is it? Like a very fine, fine lady, Cis! You’ve written me of
your lovely friend, that wonderful Miss Braithwaite, and her house, and
her friends, but--what has happened to you?”
“Everything, Nan! I am happy, but I’m still more thankful. It has been
a miracle-time for me, more so, even, than for you. I’ll tell you when
I may; you must not be tired. I’m quite all right, Nannie; be sure of
that,” said Cis.
“You look it,” said Nan slowly. “It will not tire me to hear it all
to-night. Mother is here. Go down and find her, and have your tea. Joe
will be home in a few minutes.”
Cis went down. Mrs. Dowling greeted her with her old manner of
uncertainty as to what Cis might be about to do next, but it rapidly
gave way to wonder, and then to constraint. Cis did not intend to
produce any such effect, nor was she conscious that she did so, but
about her was the fine atmosphere of Miss Braithwaite’s house, and
her recent associations with minds and souls informed with knowledge,
divine and human. Mrs. Dowling began half to fear Cis, and then to
entertain a hope that Tom, whose infatuation for Cis had always
distressed her, might find favor in the eyes of this charming girl,
whose pretty clothes were worn with an air, whose pretty manners were
wholly unconscious.
That evening Cis was allowed to spend an hour with Nan; she drew a low
chair beside her, laid her godson, a roll of soft white wool, across
her knees, and made ready to talk.
“Cis, dear, am I to know what happened?” asked Nan timidly. “I saw Mr.
Moore when he was here, looking for you. I could not understand, but
evidently he could not, either. What was wrong? Or do you mind telling
me?”
“No. I expected to tell you, Nannie. I did mind writing about it. It
is all right now; I am thankful to say that I’m happy, as I told you I
was, and I can talk about it.”
Then Cis told, simply, but completely, the story of her engagement
and its breaking, giving more expression to her own fight against
temptation than she had ever done to Miss Braithwaite.
Nan listened with wide eyes, breathless, not interrupting. When Cis
ended, with a long breath of relief that the story was told, Nan put
out her hand and softly touched Cis, her eyes full of tears, but fuller
of adoring love.
“To think that I used to be afraid you were not a good Catholic!” she
said. “To think that I imagined that I was a better one than you were,
I, who never in all my life suffered one little pang for my faith! Why,
Cis; why, Cis, dearest! I’m so glad I know you! And I’m so glad that
little Matthew will have you for a godmother! I am almost sure that he
will be a priest, and may be a saint!”
“You little ninny-Nanny!” cried Cis, jumping up, almost forgetting the
baby, but saving him from a fall by a clutch on the outer layer of his
many envelopes. “You must be getting tired; a little light-headed! I’m
going off. If ever you say anything so silly to me as that again I’ll
cut your acquaintance, and ungodmother your son! So there!”
She kissed Nan good night, gave her little son to her, and ran off to
her own room.
“They’re nice, good people, and Nan is a darling, always was,
but--Beaconhite seems like home, not here, and no one here seems to me
like anyone I ever knew well,” thought Cis; she looked sadly at herself
in the mirror as she braided her glowing hair.
There is no exile so remote, no loneliness so profound as the return to
old associations which have been completely outgrown.
CHAPTER XXI
THE WEAVING
Cis stayed on, living on the surface of her little native city. Miss
Braithwaite was still in California; she wrote that she could not tell
how long she might be detained; it seemed probable that it would be for
all of the winter, or its greater part. Her friend was dying slowly in
the lingering agonies of the most agonizing of all diseases; she clung
to Miss Braithwaite, praying her not to leave her, and Miss Braithwaite
had promised to stay to help her to die. Cis suspected it was also to
teach her how to die; that she was less versed than Miss Braithwaite in
the science of the saints.
With Miss Braithwaite gone, Cis had no desire to return to Beaconhite;
it was not the place, it was that home and its mistress for which Cis
longed, for the lack of which she felt lost.
Mr. Singer had found out that Cicely Adair had returned, and he hunted
her up, imploring her to take up his work with his telephone girls,
help to organize the measures which he was trying to put on foot
for their welfare. Cis agreed to undertake this work, but only with
the understanding that she was free to lay it down at any time. Her
experience under Miss Braithwaite, in Father Morley’s Girls’ Club,
in the many good works which occupied her Beaconhite friends, stood
Cis in good stead now; she did well with Mr. Singer’s girls, and was
interested in them. It was strange and amusing to have gone away,
dismissed by the Telephone Company for a breach of law, and return to
be placed over their employees’ pretty rooms for recreation and rest,
installed as the hostess, friend and guide of these girls.
Cis visited Jeanette Lucas often; the two girls were strongly drawn to
each other; their friendship deepened and grew. Jeanette had come out
of her trial with a darkened outlook upon life. Cis had come out of
her struggle and loss undismayed, strengthened, in a sense refreshed,
reaping the reward of her choice. Although there were moments when
a simple tune whistled by a boy in the street, a phrase, a half
resemblance stabbed her with pain, yet Cis was able truthfully to tell
Nan that she was happy. By temperament and will she was framed to look
forward, not back. Her optimistic courage was inspiring to Jeanette;
she grew fond of Cis and turned to her as to a tonic, a summons to do
her best also.
Nan was submerged in her house, in its master and little Matt. She paid
Cis her old loving worship, raised to an incalculable degree by her
reverence for Cis as for one who had given her proofs, but there was
no time in any day to spare for anyone but Joe and Matt. Nan and Cis
met in the baby more intimately, more frequently than in each other,
outside this powerful little downy link.
To her amazement, Cis discovered herself a baby worshiper; she had
not known that she was a member of that order, in one of its highest
degrees.
Her godson was to her hardly less adorable than to his mother. She hung
over him, absorbing his violet-scented, milky sweetness as the odor
of a flower; brooding over the miracle of his tiny features, their
curious twistings, the crooked smile of his sucked-in lips; the funny
thrusts of his absurdities of hands, doubled into fists and taking her
in the eye, or letting her mumble them with kisses that inclosed the
wrinkles of his wrists, the blue-blue veins traced below the whiteness
of the backs of those belligerent little hands. When he looked into her
eyes and laughed aloud, clutching her wealth of hair, Cis was elated,
humbled, flattered. In baby Matt she found a new joy that revealed her
to herself; she knew now what she had renounced when she had gone out
of that pretty apartment, leaving Rodney there amid the ruins of his
hopes and hers. Not for an instant did she regret, turn back in thought
upon her right course, but she understood the void which ached in her,
and often the baby’s fine white tiny yoke was damp when his godmother
raised her face from it, while he was gurgling with laughter because
she had burrowed into his neck, tickling him.
Cis boarded with Nan. “Of course you couldn’t so much as think of
living anywhere else, as long as I have room for you and want you so
dreadfully! Besides, there’s baby!” Nan had said, and there was nothing
to bring against her brief, convincing arguments.
“It isn’t as though I were going to be here permanently,” Cis said. “I
think no one ought permanently to live with a married friend, but just
till I go back to Beaconhite--or whatever I do next--I suppose it won’t
be too hard on you, Mrs. Nan!”
Tom Dowling was a model of fraternal devotion after Cis was installed
under Nan’s roof; he made opportunities to visit his sister to an
incredible degree.
“Good old Tommy is a dear boy, but I wonder if he really thinks I don’t
see through him!” Nan cried.
“Paraffine paper is thick beside his transparency; you’d be more than
blind to miss seeing through him,” Joe answered.
Tom brought extraordinary things to the baby, toys which would require
two more years of life for him to handle--a whipping top is not adapted
to a boy two months old, nor is a tin locomotive run by sand that flows
upon its wheels from a revolving sieve, hidden in its smokestack.
“Oh, Tommy, why, _why_!” Nan sighed one day when Tom produced a large
cow, with a realistic moo when its head was moved, from a large package
beneath his arm.
“He’ll grow to it; something to cut his ambition on, same’s you give
him that bone thing to chew on for his teeth,” explained Tom, unabashed.
“Tom’s really a dear, Cis,” Nan said that night after Tom had gone
home. “Mother is perfectly delighted that he has stuck to you so; she
used to hope he’d see Louise Müller, a neighbor’s daughter, but he
never did. Now mother is worrying for fear you won’t care about him. Do
you think that you ever could, Cis darling? Of course all these cows,
and tops and engines are not for baby; they’re for you, same as the
candy is.”
“I don’t seem to enjoy the cow any more than Matt does; must I play
with it, Nan? Tom didn’t offer it to me,” Cis sighed.
“Not directly. I mean they’re all intended to make you notice him. I’d
almost die of joy, Cis, if you were my sister!” cried Nan.
“Adopt me, Nannie. We can make it as effectual, and I’m afraid it’s
the only way,” Cis suggested. “Don’t look cast-down; Tom will be all
right, and it’s better to have him imagine he cares about me than to be
growing up without an object. He’ll find the right girl later, and in
the mean time it keeps him safe for her.”
“Growing up! He’s as old as you are, or so nearly it comes to the
same thing!” cried Nan. “You don’t take Tom seriously, but he takes
himself--and you--seriously enough.”
“Boys do,” said Cis. “Don’t fuss, little grandmother; it’s enough to be
a mother and bring up Matt. He’s learning to love me, too, by the way!”
As the days passed, however, Cis began to take Tom more seriously; he
began to be a burden on her mind. He dogged her footsteps; wherever she
went Tom turned up. He watched for chances to do her small services,
carried out her least suggestions, modelled himself upon the advice
which she had given him when she had first come back, before she
realized that she must not let him conform himself to her ideas, before
she began to look upon him as anything more than Tommy Dowling, Nan’s
honest and likable boy-brother.
“If only Miss Braithwaite would come back!” thought Cis. “I’d go away
and he’d do something sensible with himself! All I can do now is to
hold him down, and hold him off, but I’m really beginning to be afraid
it’s bad for him.”
One bright, frosty afternoon, when the earth was white and the sky
brilliantly blue, Cis went off alone to walk in the park. A homesick
spell was upon her; she was homesick for Miss Braithwaite, for the
shadowy library and its glowing hearth; for Mr. Lucas’ office and
its interests, the clever, keen men who came there talking of great
matters; her sense of being part of a world moved by levers hidden
in that office. And she wondered why it was that for some time she
had heard no word of Anselm Lancaster. He had written her several
pleasant letters, had sent her a book at Christmas that was a delight
to brain and eye. He had wished her a Happy New Year with a graceful
note and a lovely little Florentine print in colors, framed in dull,
dark, carved wood; a Botticelli Madonna surrounded by square-chinned,
deep-eyed angels in tunics, upon which their square-trimmed locks fell
at shoulder length, while their long fingers clasped tall candles that
revealed to the world a Babe upon His Mother’s knee.
There was growing in Cicely a discontent that she could not down; she
grappled with it, hating it, for no mood had ever mastered her, nor
greatly annoyed her heretofore, and this restlessness was annoying;
it got between her and her daily life; her prayers; between her and
herself, her true self, brave and blithe and courageous. She wanted to
walk briskly in the pretty park and think out what was wrong with her,
take herself to task, and scotch the head of this miserable little asp
gnawing at her. But hardly had she gone half the width of the park, its
longest way, than there was Tom Dowling, coming rapidly toward her, his
face illumined, his right arm saluting her.
“Oh, me!” sighed Cis inwardly. “Who wants a human being omnipresent?
Hello, Tom!” she said aloud. “How do you happen to be here at a time
when all honest folk are at work?”
“Nothing dishonest about me, Cis,” said Tom, joining her and turning to
walk beside her as a matter of course. “Why, I got the afternoon, and I
went to the house. Nan said you’d gone to the park. I went around the
other way; thought you’d take the north gate. Anyhow, I’ve found you!”
The satisfaction in Tom’s voice was complete.
“Yes, Tom, but--” Cis hesitated.
“You’d rather be by yourself?” cried poor Tom. “Oh, Cis, you’ve played
fair with me! You’re nice to me, but you’re nothing more. I won’t be
able to blame you, but if you won’t love me, what under the heavens
shall I do? Say, Cis, love me, can’t you? I’m not such a much, but I
ain’t so bad, honest! I don’t care how far you hunt, you won’t find
anything I’ve done to be ashamed of. I ain’t fit for you lots of ways;
you’ve got kind of fine ladified, though I don’t mean you put on.
You’re it, that’s all! But I’m not a bad chap, that’s straight, and
if I was I’d tell you; I wouldn’t fool you for a kingdom. I’m getting
on; I make thirty now, and two people could live on fifteen hundred,
easy--and the sixty dollars would buy us each some clothes, and theatre
tickets, or something! And I’ll have more soon. My boss makes a point
of boosting married men--oh, gosh! A married man! Married to _you_,
Cis! Say, Cis, don’t you think you could see it, if you looked hard
enough? Love me, I mean?”
“Tom, dear,” said Cis a little wistfully, for the honest boy’s voice
shook, and his eyes were as imploring as a dog’s eyes. “I like you
heaps, better than before I went away. I didn’t know you so well then,
and besides you’ve come out a great deal. But I couldn’t love you,
Tommy; not that way. I’m sorry, dear. You are a fine boy, and the girl
who does marry you will be lucky. It never will be me, and it wouldn’t
be right to let you think it ever might be. Sorry, Tom! I wish you
didn’t think you wanted me. You’d be better off with someone else, and
you’ll find her--”
“Cut it out!” cried Tom hoarsely. “Cut out that line of talk, Cicely
Adair! You’re the greatest girl in the world. There’s no one can hold a
candle to you, so cut it out! If you won’t, you won’t, but cut out all
that talk. I want you, and I’ll keep on wanting you. If you don’t want
me, and don’t want me so much that you know you’ll never want me, that
settles it, but I want you. Oh, Cis, why can’t you want me? What is
wrong with me? How can you be so infernally sure you’ll never think of
it? Am I such a mess? Would you tell me why, Cis?”
Cis looked pityingly at Tom’s flushed, stormy face, listened with
tender, pitying amusement to his incoherent implorations. She tried to
explain.
“It’s not that there’s one thing wrong with you, Tom,” she said. “It’s
I. I’m not thinking of marrying. I’ve grown years older than you are,
Tom, and I’ve grown ever so far off from the old Cis whom you first
knew and liked. I suppose you knew I was going to be married? I’m glad,
thankfully glad that all that is over; I wouldn’t be happy now in the
way I thought I’d be happy then, not with the same people, interests.
But I shall never again feel as I felt then, so glad to see someone
coming, so--I’m afraid it is much the way you feel to me now, Tom
dear! Truly you will get over it. It leaves you changed, older, not so
light-hearted, but it leaves you; it has left me. I shall never so much
as think of marrying you, my nice Nan’s nice brother; yet I am fond of
you, and think you’re fine.”
“I don’t want to get over it,” groaned Tom. “If I can’t marry you I can
keep on loving you and that way you do sort of get a person.”
“I think we ought to try to get over it, Tom, because we’ve got to play
up, not go moping along,” said Cis. “Let’s forget you love me; in that
way, at least, and let’s be glad you love me, or will love me, more as
you do Nan, just as I love you. It makes the world a fine place to
live in when we know splendid people who are fond of us. Beaconhite,
living in Miss Braithwaite’s house, rather spoiled me for other places,
Tom. You’ve no idea what a library that is, and what wonderful things I
heard talked of before the fire!”
“Yes, so I’ve heard you say,” growled Tom. “The old lady herself was a
wonder, but how about that man, that Lancaster who was such a highbrow?”
There was no missing the implication in Tom’s wrathful voice. Cis felt
her blood rush to her hair in a burning blush that rivalled the hair
in brilliance, and which angered her, knowing the conclusion which Tom
would draw from it. Characteristically, she grappled with the situation.
“If you mean to hint, Tom Dowling, that Mr. Lancaster was interested
in me, any more than in a girl living under his old friend’s roof, or
I in him, more than in the most splendid man I ever saw--except Father
Morley, but priests don’t count--you’re ’way, ’way off the mark! I
never once thought of such a thing as his really liking me, and you’ve
got to take my word for it!”
“All right, Cis. I’d take your word for anything, and I’m fearfully
glad to take it on this,” said Tom. “I’ve been jealous of that chap,
but that settles it, and him. If you won’t hold out a chance to me it’s
some comfort not to think someone else has a chance. I guess you’re
right that Beaconhite has ruined you. If only you’d never gone! You ran
into the whole thing there.”
Cis knew that Tom meant that there she had met and loved Rodney, and
there had been separated from her earlier friends by the higher things
to which she had grown up. It came over her with sudden force that in
Beaconhite she had indeed found her fate.
She looked across the park with eyes that saw Beaconhite, the dignified
street on which Miss Braithwaite lived in its most dignified house;
the street where St. Francis Xavier’s church stood; the garden of
its adjoining school; Father Morley’s thin figure with its drooping
shoulders; the altar within the church, its lamp, her soul’s home.
Beaconhite was her true home. Some day, she thought, please God, she
would go back.
And then her eyes became cognizant of her present surroundings. She
saw at a little distance from her, a tawdry, shabby woman sitting upon
a park bench, although it was cold, and her silken clothes were thin.
There was no mistaking her, even afar, for anything but one of those
derelicts which sin, having floated them prosperously for a time,
throws up against the barriers of civilized society to be dashed to
pieces, or caught up by a pitying lifeguard, as the case may be.
As Cicely noted her, bringing her thoughts back to what was before her,
the woman covertly drew something out from the sleeve of her coat, and
picked at it.
A bottle! And she was pulling the cork!
Cis sprang forward and ran, not delaying for a word to Tom, flying
toward the wretched being on the bench. As she reached her the woman,
who had seen her fleeting toward her, raised the bottle to her lips.
Cis sprang; leaped the last lap of her race against suicide; threw
herself, as a ball player throws himself against the base, and struck
the woman’s elbow. The bottle fell in myriad pieces on the walk,
scenting the air with the odor of peach stones. The woman crumbled up
and slid to the ground. For one instant she and her rescuer were beside
each other upon the walk. Then Cis regained her feet and stood looking
down upon the degraded figure before her, horror, loathing, yet divine
pity in her flushed face. This was the tableau which Tom, hastening
after Cis, saw as he came up.
“For heaven’s sake, Cis?” he questioned her without formulating his
question.
“Oh, yes, Tom, for heaven’s sake!” cried Cis. “I just made it. If the
police come up and catch us, she’ll be taken in for attempted suicide.
We must get her somewhere, quick.”
“Well, what if she is taken in?” Tom disgustedly asked, hating to see
Cis in proximity to this woman. “She’ll be looked after by the matron.”
“Oh, no! She must be saved, if she can be. Arrest won’t save her. Can
you hear me? Answer me. Were you a Catholic?” Cis asked, bending over
the collapsed figure.
“Once I was,” the woman muttered.
Cis straightened herself triumphantly. “The Good Shepherd!” she cried.
“Tom, help me to get her up. You poor thing, get up! We are going to
take care of you. Get up.”
Tom reluctantly, yet admiring Cis, lifted the castaway, and,
staggering, she made out to stand.
“Let me alone; I’m sick,” she moaned.
“Yes, we know. Try to come with us. I’m afraid a policeman will come
along,” Cis urged her.
The word acted as a stimulant. “They’d run me in, vagrant, suicide,”
she muttered. “What did you stop me for? I’ll get it yet.”
Slowly, Tom supporting the woman with his hands under her arms, disgust
and anger on his face, while Cis walked behind, occasionally steadying
the wavering figure by a hand upon her spine, they reached the confines
of the small park. Cis hailed a cab; they bundled the woman into it,
and Cis gave the driver his order.
“To the House of the Good Shepherd,” she said.
Then she added herself to the strange party, and the cab started.
“The Sisters won’t thank us, perhaps,” muttered Tom.
“Surely they will! There’s no bound to their charity, and no bound to
hope, except death,” cried Cis. “She is desperately ill.”
“Dissipation, dope, exposure, why wouldn’t she be ill?” growled Tom.
“It’s a great combination for you to hitch up to, Cis.”
“I don’t know. My guardian angel hitches up to me, and there’s more
difference between me and an angel, than between this woman and me. Are
you comfortable? Do you hear me speaking to you?” Cis asked.
“I hear. I heard. I don’t want to go to the Sisters; I want to die,
die, die! I’ve had enough,” the woman aroused herself to say.
“Poor soul, I’m sorry!” Cis’s voice was as sweet as Nan’s when she
comforted her baby. “I think you’ll be glad that we found you. Why,
you’re quite young, and you were pretty!”
“Pretty! Yes, that’s so. I’m twenty-eight or nine; I don’t know--” the
quavering voice trailed into silence.
“Do you remember your name? Will you tell it to me, so I can call you
by it?” said Cis.
“Lots of names, lots of names; plenty names. Here I’m Pearl Molineaux.
Out in ’Frisco I was Carmin Casanova. Giddy Gay--that was somewhere
else; I forget. Home in Chicago I was Myrtle Moore; that’s while I was
married,” the woman said, speaking slowly.
“Chicago!” “Myrtle Moore?” Cicely’s heart gave a great leap, then stood
still. Could it be? She was sure that it was! She was sure that it had
been given her to save from suicide Rodney’s wife.
She bent down over the woman who had sagged low in the seat of the
taxicab.
“You are the wife of George Rodney Moore?” she asked.
“No. Divorced. Rod and I were divorced,” she said.
“Oh, God help me!” Cis murmured, and Tom was frightened by the pallor
of her face.
“Oh, God, I’ll try! Please, help me! Help her; help me to help her!”
The cab stopped at the door of that beneficent house wherein stainless
women welcome within their consecrated walls the outcasts whose stains
of soul their pure hands labor to remove; wherein the virgin servants
of the Good Shepherd carry back to Him His lost black sheep.
Myrtle Moore was reluctant to enter that portal, but her strength was
spent, her will too enfeebled by illness to resist anyone who decided
for her and forcibly executed their decisions.
Tom helped Myrtle up the steps; the Sister Portress responded to their
summons on the bell, and they were shown into a small parlor, from
which Cis was conducted to another reception room, where a tall nun, in
the beautiful white habit of her order, came to hear from her the story
of this latest rescue and petitioner for her charity.
There was no question of Myrtle’s rejection. Another nun came to take
her away to the infirmary, and Cis left the convent with the promise to
come regularly to inquire after Myrtle, whose condition the infirmarian
at once pronounced grave. Tom took Cis’s hand and slipped it into his
arm; she was trembling.
“Great old adventure, splendid Cis?” he said.
“Oh, Tom, don’t talk about it; I can’t!” Cis almost sobbed. “You don’t
know how wonderful it is!”
CHAPTER XXII
ENTANGLED THREADS
When Tom put the key of Nan’s front door into the keyhole and swung the
door open for Cis to precede him into the house, she darted forward and
began swiftly to mount the stairs.
“Oh, say, Cis, hold on!” Tom remonstrated. “What am I to tell Nan?”
“Anything you like, but beg her to give me a little time to myself to
straighten out my thoughts. I’m--I suppose I’m tired, Tom,” Cis paused
to say, then continued upstairs, not answering as Nan called from the
dining room:
“Cis, oh, Cis! Come in here a minute! I’ve just finished the baby’s new
coat and pressed it. Come, see it!”
Tom joined Nan, flushed and happy over the ironing board, with baby
Matt kicking and cooing in the clothes basket, liking the flavor of its
edge, over which he had fallen and was chewing it.
“Say, Nan, what do you think?” asked Tom mysteriously. “Talk about
melodramas and adventure stories! Life can give the best author cards
and spades and beat him out on plots! Rodney Moore’s wife was sitting
on a park bench, committing suicide, all by herself, when along came
Cis and your brother. Cis saw the bottle, ran like a Marathon victor,
jumped at her, knocked the bottle to smithereens, and then we took the
lady to the Good Shepherd! She’s a wreck in every way a woman can wreck
herself. How’s that? Rodney Moore’s ex-wife!”
Nan had dropped into a chair, her iron in her lap, and was staring at
Tom with a horrified face.
“Tom, it can’t be!” she gasped. “That woman doesn’t live here.”
“Don’t know as to that, but she was certainly going to die here,”
insisted Tom.
“What do you suppose it means? If she had taken the stuff that chap
would have been free; not divorced, _free_. And Cis could have married
him, if she pleased. Yet it was Cis hit the woman’s arm and saved her!
What about it? What does it mean?”
“It must mean that the poor wretch is going to have a chance to repent
and die decently some day,” said pious little Nan. “But Rodney Moore’s
wife! And Cis saved her! What a story! Why, Tom, it makes me shake! Oh,
I must go to Cis! I’ll take the baby up to her. He’ll comfort her.”
“No, no! Cis told me to ask you to let her alone awhile, till she pulls
herself together,” Tom said. “Nan, the woman looked about all in. If
she dies will Cis--?”
“I don’t know, I can’t tell,” cried Nan. “I hope not. Yet I see it
would do everything for that man. It may be the way he’ll come right.
We never can see ahead of the day. But, Tommy dear, don’t mind too
much. I’m quite sure, whether it is Rodney Moore again or not, that it
will never be you. I’m sorry, buddy, but that is true.”
“No need of your saying so,” growled Tom. “Cis said it herself, so
plain that it doesn’t need footnotes for me to get it. All the same--”
Tom stopped, turning away.
“Yes, I say so, too! All the same I’d hate it to be Rodney Moore. But
maybe it is Cis’s work to save his soul,” said Nan, picking up her son,
finding him an effectual restorative.
“Oh, his soul!” exclaimed Tom, and his tone sounded like an anathema.
“I call it going pretty far to make a nice girl marry a man to save his
soul!”
“We ought to be willing to die to save a soul,” Nan reminded him.
“I’m perfectly willing that lots of people should die to save a soul,
but I ain’t willing one girl should marry to save one, not when the
girl is Cis,” said Tom stalking off in disgust the stronger that he had
been badly shaken in nerves.
Up in her room Cis knelt before the window, staring out into the
top of a spruce tree outside Nan’s little house. It was a long time
before she could think coherently. The horror of the suicide so nearly
accomplished; the almost equal horror of the woman’s degradation; the
unmistakable stamp upon her of vice, upon her who was Rodney’s wife,
yet who was not in any true sense his wife, nor could be the wife of
any honest man, filled Cicely with shuddering confusion. It was as if
she had a vision of what it meant when one said: “A lost soul.” Pity
for Rodney overwhelmed her, yet, unjustly or justly, Cis felt as though
he were stained by the vileness of this bone of his bone, flesh of his
flesh. “And they two shall be as one flesh.” The words echoed within
her mind, empty of connected thoughts, tense with fragments of thoughts
which at once confused and tortured her poignantly.
After a time Cis began to realize fully what had befallen her. She had
parted from Rod because this woman lived. She had chanced upon her at
barely the right time to secure her continuing to live; she had saved
her from suicide, kept her alive to shackle Rodney, according to the
law which had bound them together, but had given her another chance for
Eternal Life. Now she lay within the spotless physical and spiritual
purity of the House of the Good Shepherd. It was Cicely Adair, who had
been so sore beset with temptation to marry this woman’s husband, who
had been allowed to lead her inside the Good Shepherd’s field where she
might, if she would, become that sheep which He bore upon His shoulders
into safety.
Cicely’s bright head bowed on the window sill; her breath came short;
her cheeks grew wet with tears such as she had never before shed, as
the realization came to her that this was her superabounding reward.
Because she had renounced Rodney for God’s sake, He was making her as
the little crook which He laid around the neck of Rodney’s errant wife,
compelling her to turn and return.
Cis rose up at last when Nan, unable to leave her to herself longer,
came softly knocking at her door, and, with a loving kiss, laid the
baby in Cicely’s arms, offering her thus the best clue that she knew to
the mysteries of life, the sweetest panacea for its ills. And as she
did so, Nan, with a sudden sinking of heart, was sure that Cis would
marry Rodney; that his wife would die and she would marry him, because
she had known what it was to worship at the shrine of this baby.
Cis had little to say to Nan of the tremendous experience of that day;
what was there to say? It was far too great for comment, and of the
possible import of it, its strange connection with her recent past, Cis
had no desire to talk to Nan. She did go with it to Jeanette Lucas,
whose understanding was perfect, but to her Cis found herself unequal
to say much. She wrote to Father Morley, and received from him a long
letter that formulated and expressed for Cis all that she had been
trying to correlate in herself. However, it was in her daily visits
to the House of the Good Shepherd that Cis received the best fruit of
these experiences.
Every day Cis made time to go to see Myrtle Moore, and every day she
sat for a while with the white robed nun whom they called Sister
Bonaventure, properly so called her, Cis thought, for her coming was
always good for her.
She was wise with a wisdom that must have been the direct reception of
that gift from the Holy Ghost, for she “had entered religion,” she told
Cis, at twenty-two.
She had spent but one year at home after her graduation from a convent
school, so that she had encountered nothing of the world’s wickedness
and weakness, yet she seemed to have plumbed the depths of the science
of souls; her talk was illuminative and tonic to Cis.
“Will she die, Sister?” Cis asked, speaking of their patient.
“Surely; we all shall,” smiled the nun. “But yes; I think Myrtle will
not live long. You see, she has used up all her capital of strength,
burned it like a fuel that yields cold, not heat. I think she will not
last long.”
“And will she die well--sorry, you know?” Cis hesitated; she found it
hard to talk of Rodney’s wife’s state, even to Sister Bonaventure.
“My dear,” said Sister Bonaventure with her smile, which Cis found at
once illuminative and baffling, “as to that we can only pray and hope;
pray that she may have the grace she so sorely needs; hope that when
she receives the sacraments they may have the soil to work on in which
they always are fruitful. The poor things who die in our infirmary
rarely refuse the last offices, and we try to make them fit to receive
them; after that--” Sister Bonaventure waved her hands expressing the
Infinite Mercy, and the incomprehensibility of human minds. “I think
they are probably sorry, and God is anxious to go half-way to meet
a parting soul. Habit dulls us all; perhaps God has to come farther
toward all of us than we think He does, even to the best of us.”
“What a miracle to be where Myrtle Moore was, yet to die with you
Sisters praying around her!” cried Cis, tears in her eyes.
“What a miracle it is to die anywhere, yet with immortality and
infinity around us!” cried Sister Bonaventure. “Cicely, we are so
surrounded with miracles, so accustomed to handling them, that we are
obtuse! Now, my dear, this woman’s former husband, who is still her
husband, for they were married by a priest, and their divorce does not
touch the fact--what about him? He should be sent for, if she grows
as much worse within a week as our doctor and our Sister Infirmarian
expects her to. She does not know where he is, and we are completely at
sea as to how to look for him. Could you make a suggestion?”
“Did you know, Sister, that I was going to marry him, not knowing that
he had ever been married? And that he would not deceive me, so, at the
last minute--our home was preparing--he told me that he was divorced?”
cried Cis.
“Was that the way of it?” asked Sister Bonaventure serenely. “No, I did
not know anything whatever, but I surmised that there was something to
know, that your interest in the patient was not fully explained by your
rescue of her. Have you his address, my dear?”
“He can always be reached through his firm, the main house, in
Chicago,” replied Cis. “I have that address; yes, Sister. Shall I give
it to you?”
She wondered at the matter-of-course way in which the nun received her
brief statement that she had almost, though innocently, married a man
already married. She had not dealt enough with the Religious of her
faith to know that they rarely seem to be surprised by human vagaries,
and still more rarely betray a shock.
“No, on the whole, I think it were better that you should write,” said
Sister Bonaventure. “Mr. Moore might not come if we wrote him. He has
divorced the woman, and it is not likely that he feels tolerant of her
sins against him. If you write to him, telling him how you saved her
from death by her own hand, and that he must come at once to see her,
bid her farewell, and forgive her, that she may die in peace, hoping
for a higher forgiveness, I think that he may come on. Especially that
you have a claim upon him for the wrong that he so nearly did you.”
“Oh, Sister, you don’t, you can’t ask me to write to him!” cried Cis.
“How can I write him? And what may he not think? That I want to see
him, even that I may--”
“You will write to him as a disembodied spirit would write; you can
easily show him your motive. You really cannot refuse to write. The
poor woman wants to see him, to receive his pardon; she cannot die
in peace without it. I must tell you that we did write to him, to
Beaconhite. We know that the letter was forwarded, for otherwise it was
to have been returned in three days. He has not replied in any way.
You must write, Cicely; you must still further help Myrtle to die. As
to the man’s misinterpreting you, that will not outlast his coming,
and cannot harm you. If I did not know that you were wholly free
from personal desire in the matter, I would not let you write. I have
watched you, talking with you, and I understand you. As it is, I ask
you to write--at once.”
“I will!” cried Cis, swayed to Sister Bonaventure’s will by something
in her eyes.
“Oh, Sister Bonaventure, if you know me--and you do!--could I be one
of you here? Or a nun anywhere? Am I fit to be? It is so lofty, so
peaceful, so blessed!”
“You are entirely fit, my child, but not in the least fitted,” said the
nun, with the smile that drew hearts to her. “It is not that the best
come here, but the called come. The life is all that you say it is, but
peace is denied to no one who follows after it. You do not belong with
us, dear Cicely; not in any Community, but in a home whence you will
overflow to bring happiness and help into other lives.”
“As though you nuns didn’t!” sighed Cis, rising to go.
“Ah, yes, I know. Little mirrors reflect wherever they are hung!
Good-bye, my dear. Write that letter to-night and dispatch it,” said
Sister Bonaventure.
Cis wrote when she got back to her room at Nan’s. She did not let
herself pause for an instant to remember that she was writing to
Rodney--again!
“Dear Rodney;” she wrote. “Myrtle Moore, your wife, is here, in this
city. I came upon her in the park just as she was putting to her lips
the deadly poison which was to kill her. I knocked the bottle from her
hand. I took her to the House of the Good Shepherd. She is seriously
ill there; dying. She cannot die without begging your forgiveness.
Come on at once and give it to her. We shall all need mercy one day,
as we have all done wrong. Come at once. Remember that Myrtle is
still your wife. Think of her as she was when you first knew her; she
is now a wreck, suffering, wretched, dying. Do not lose a day. You
must see in this the Hand of God: that she had wandered here; that I
came back here; that it was I who saved her from suicide to die with
the sacraments, hope and sorrow in her miserable heart. If there is
anything that I could add to urge you to come, I would add it, but what
more is there? A woman whom you once loved, an outcast, broken-down,
dying, begging your forgiveness! It is miserably sad, but still more
pitiable; you are kind, Rodney; you will not say no. And God let me
save her from a dreadful end, _me_, Cicely Adair.”
Cis read her letter several times, then she took it to Jeanette Lucas
to read.
“I can’t tell whether it is right or wrong,” Cis said imploringly.
“I don’t think you could better it, dear. What can you do except lay
before him the facts? He cannot refuse such a request as this, and from
you! How strange it all is! Cis, when he comes--what?” Jeanette waited
for Cis’s answer.
It came at last.
“Yes, what?” Cis echoed. “I don’t want to see him. Will you hide me,
Jeanette?”
“But you know when this poor Myrtle is dead--” Jeanette stopped.
“No, no, no!” cried Cis. “What a curiously tangled web! I wonder why?”
“It is not tangled,” Jeanette reminded her. “It looks so to us; I’m
sure the tangle is part of the pattern.”
Three days must pass before Rodney could reply to Cicely’s letter, and
that would be making the best time possible for a letter to travel in
each direction. It would be longer, if he were coming; time must be
allowed, in either case, for Cicely’s letter to be forwarded to him.
They were hard days to live through; dread, expectation, perhaps fear
is not too strong a word, were in the air that Cis breathed; she spent
the hours in feverish nervousness. And Myrtle was rapidly growing worse.
On the fourth day Rodney came. It was evening, and Cis was sitting with
Nan under the light of her reading lamp, in her sitting room, when they
heard Joe open the front door and tell someone to “walk right in.”
Before they had time to be startled by the realization that the step
was not Tom’s, whom they had expected to see, Rodney Moore stood in the
doorway.
Nan had seen him but once; however, she instantly recognized him and
sprang up with an inarticulate sound that was almost a shocked cry.
Cis sat still, staring up at him, her work fallen into her lap.
Rodney had changed; he looked older, worn, hard. Cis instantly felt
great pity for him, but it was mingled with amazement that she had
so lately found him all that was attractive in man. Something stood
between them that was not the dying Myrtle. Cis had learned, had
absorbed other standards of excellence than Rodney’s since she had
parted from him; they asserted themselves without her volition, her
consciousness of their presence.
“Cis!” said Rodney hoarsely, and Cis became aware that she had not
spoken.
“Yes, Rodney. I am thankful that you have come,” Cis said.
She arose, went forward and gave Rodney an icy hand.
“I will telephone the Sisters and ask when you are to go to see Myrtle.
She has sunk fast for two days; I found her quite low when I went there
this afternoon, but they think that she is fighting to hold herself
alive till you get here. Perhaps you must go there to-night.” Cis
turned toward the telephone in the corner.
“For heaven’s sake, Cis, is this all that you have to say to me
after--” Rodney’s angry grief stopped his utterance.
“That I am thankful that you have come? That I will help you at once to
accomplish what you came for? What else is there to say, Rodney?” Cis
asked quietly, and took down the telephone receiver.
“Have I no claim? Am I no more than an undertaker, called in to lay out
that miserable woman?” Rodney almost shouted.
Cis turned toward him and raised her hand.
“I am waiting for my connection; please be quiet,” she said. “You have
a claim upon my pity and help; I am giving you both.”
Rodney stared at her as she turned back to the instrument and talked
for a short time to someone on the other end of the wire. Cis hung up,
and came back to the middle of the room, leaning her hand on the table
as if she were tired.
“You are to go to the Good Shepherd to-night,” she said. “The Sister
Infirmarian says that you have not come too soon. If Nan will give you
supper we will start immediately after you have eaten. I will take you
there, unless you prefer to go alone.”
“I can’t go alone; I’m afraid,” Rodney groaned.
Gentle Nan went over to him as she heard his boyish cry. She began to
hope that Cicely would comfort him, as she alone could do, and lead him
back to God, which seemed to her preëminently Cicely’s grace.
“I don’t want any supper, but have you coffee?” Rodney asked, and Nan
hurried away to make it, followed by Cis, who had no mind to linger
with Rodney alone.
Joe called a taxi; the coffee was quickly made on the gas range, and
drunk. Cis found herself whirling as in a dream through the streets,
beside Rodney.
He groped for her hand, but Cis withheld it.
“There is no you nor I, Rodney,” she said sternly. “Myrtle is dying.
Pray that you may be able to help her out of the world which she has
tragically spoiled for herself, for you, and for who can say how many
others? Pray hard that you and she, both, may be allowed to atone.”
“Do you think that I am partly responsible for her wickedness?” Rodney
demanded fiercely.
“I don’t know, oh, I don’t know; I hope not,” said Cis wearily. “I’m
beginning to see that we are almost always sharer in a wrong that is
within our own radius. We are so slow to see, so indifferent to save.”
The taxi stopped at the door of the House of the Good Shepherd, which
opened at once to admit Cis and Rodney.
“Yes, very low,” the Sister answered Cicely’s question. “They say she
will die to-night. She has made her confession, and received the last
rites; she is conscious and lies watching the door for her husband to
come.”
Rodney felt the word like a cord around him. None of these Catholics,
whom he had tried to leave behind him, but who were again interwoven
into his life, heeded the decree of divorce which annulled for him his
title of husband. How unbending, everlasting, certain, were the ways of
Rome even in all her least, most distant avenues!
“Oh, Rod!” Myrtle breathed his name as he entered. “Now I’ll die.
Maybe it’s true God will forgive me, if you can. You’re harder than
God. I’m sorry, honest. Forgive me, Roddie?”
Rodney looked down on her; at the fluttering hand feebly extended
toward him; at the face which he had known young and pretty, now
wasted, consumed by Myrtle’s life, the life now panting toward its
final breath.
A great pity came upon him. There, on the other side of the bed, knelt
Cis, the stainless girl whom he loved, her face white and tear-wet,
sweet and grave with pity, and pain, and fear.
Who was he to condemn, to refuse mercy? Did he not need it, too? Had
his life been so far beyond reproach? Cis, kneeling there, thought
that he was worse than Myrtle, for she had sinned, but was absolved.
She had broken God’s laws, but he had turned his back on God coldly,
deliberately. And he had not confessed himself a sinner. He was not a
hard-hearted man, and the awfulness of what lay there before him, what
awaited Myrtle, now hoping for Rodney’s pardon, so soon to stand before
God for His sentence, melted him, broke down his anger against his wife.
Rodney knelt beside the bed, and took the fluttering hand, folding its
feeble fingers within his own.
“It’s all right, Myrtie; don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll forgive
everything, and I’m sorry if I ever drove you an inch on your road.
It’s all right, poor girl. Go to sleep and take your rest.”
“Well, God bless you, Rod!” sighed Myrtle. “I’m going to sleep; pray
I’ll rest.” Beside that bed for three hours Cis, Myrtle’s divorced
husband, who at last realized that there was no divorce but the one
Myrtle, slipping away, was giving him, and a Sister recited the prayers
for a parting soul. At the first hour of the morning the soul quietly,
with a few deep drawn breaths, parted.
Rodney went back to Nan’s in the taxi with Cis. They did not speak
during the drive. But as Rodney opened the door for Cis with her pass
key, he put out his hand and Cis laid hers in it without a word.
“I’m going to the hotel. To-morrow I’ll attend to things, then--May I
see you, Cis?” Rodney asked.
“Yes. I’ll see you, Rodney--to say good-bye,” Cis answered.
“I’ve no right to complain of that,” Rodney said humbly. “You’re a good
girl, Cis. Whatever had been, you would have been too good for me. I’m
thankful to you, Cis, for to-night.”
“I’m thankful to God. Good night, Rodney,” said Cis.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE NEXT STEP
During the remnant of that night left for sleep Cis slept deeply, too
tired in mind and body to be wakeful.
Her hours at the telephone exchange were elastic; she had undertaken
the organization work only on a provisory basis, unwillingly, with the
understanding that it might continue in her hands but a short time. She
called up her own department in the morning and said that she would not
go down until after lunch. She knew that Rodney would come to see her,
probably in the forenoon. She knew that she must not refuse to see him.
He had done right because she had asked it of him; the least that she
could do was to repay that debt by bidding him good-bye, this time, she
was sure, for all the rest of her life. She dreaded the interview, yet
dreaded it less than she had expected to. Her experience with Rodney
had been marked by extremes of emotion, even up to the previous night
when, by a strange combination of circumstances, she and he had watched
his wife die while they responded to the prayers for mercy upon her.
Now Cis stood upon the plane of quiet. There remained but to drop the
curtain upon this drama in her life, with a Godspeed for poor Rodney.
Little Nan went about with an awe-struck, frightened face as the
morning hours passed and Cis awaited Rodney. Nothing dramatic had ever
come within the sweet little woman’s orbit; she did not know how to
bear herself as a sort of fringe upon Cicely’s tragic cloak.
“I’ll stay in the room, or keep away, just as you say, Cis--I mean when
he comes,” Nan said. “I don’t know what is done in these cases.”
Cis laughed; being Cis she would always laugh at anything funny.
“I don’t believe they set down rules for ‘these cases’ in books of
etiquette, Nan! But I wouldn’t like to give Rodney an audience; you and
I are another matter,” she said.
“Thank goodness!” cried Nan fervently. “I’d be so scared I’d probably
crawl under the sofa!”
“Which would do no one else any good, and muss up your hair
dreadfully,” Cis suggested.
When the bell rang it was nearly noon. Nan fled to open the door, and
then to escape. Cis had been holding the sleepy baby, and when Rodney
entered she had risen to meet him, little Matt held in her arm, which
could not quite support his white kid-shod feet. His rosy face was
pressed against Cis’s breast; his half-open eyes regarded the stranger
with a languid interest that suggested a verdict on him, rendered after
a nap had been completed.
The doorway framed this sweet picture of poignant suggestions; Rodney
halted and stood gazing at it motionless, silent, his face working with
pain. He came forward and put out his hand. Cicely laid hers in it,
then withdrew it and turned to resume her chair, wondering if Nan would
fetch away the baby.
“Take that more comfortable seat, Rodney,” she said. “This is my
godson; we are on the best of terms.”
“I am going away on the train that leaves here for Chicago at eight
minutes to two,” Rodney said, ignoring all extrinsic subjects.
“Myrtle’s people replied to a telegram from me that she might be buried
in their family lot; they live about fifteen miles outside Chicago. The
Sisters sent them word that Myrtle was in their hands, dying; they did
not reply. Neither did I reply to a letter from the Sisters. You made
me come on. Queer, isn’t it, that I, who am no relation to her, and you
who never knew her, are the only ones to see Myrtle out off the earth,
and decently put into it?” Rodney spoke with a visible effort.
“You are related to her; you two were made one flesh,” said Cis.
“Well, Cis, I’m going to own up! The Church is right. I’ve been feeling
that. Myrtle separated herself from me by a chasm that no honorable man
would cross; that’s all so. But the state did not divorce me from her;
it couldn’t. If marriage asserts itself, in spite of that impassable
chasm of disgrace and infamy, as it surely does, then it’s beyond the
reach of the state. You were right; I was wrong. If we had been married
last night, kneeling beside Myrtle, neither of us could have borne it.
Curious, isn’t it? But you were right. Is it any satisfaction to you to
have me acknowledge it? I hope it is. I was furiously, bitterly angry
with you, Cis, but you were right. I’m able to see now that it cost you
high to choose as you did.”
“It hurt, Rodney,” said Cis simply. “I don’t suppose I should say now
that it cost me high; I realize that I made a tremendous purchase at a
low rate. I’ve been thinking how strange it is: You are taking Myrtle’s
body to Chicago, then to her own people!”
“On that eight minutes to two,” Rodney corroborated her.
“Yes. How strange it is that you have come to say good-bye to me, and
are going away with Myrtle, after all,” Cis completed her thought.
“But, Cis, it is not reunited to her,” Rodney protested. “It is
recognition that the divorce did not set me free to marry you, but
there was far more than any decree separating me from Myrtle. And
therefore there is no reason for conventionality, no reason for
assuming that my wife has just died, and that I am on my way to bury
her. I am not; I am seeing her looked after and I grant you I could
not marry again on my divorce, yet there’s no wife of mine newly dead,
either. Cis, now I am free. Now the Church puts no barrier between us.
You can be as Catholic as you will, and yet marry me. There’s nothing
to wait for; we’ve spent a long probation. When, Cis?”
“Never, Rodney,” said Cis quietly. “I hoped you understood that.”
“I understood that you wanted me to understand it when you told me
you’d see me to say good-bye. You couldn’t have expected me to go off
on a hint! Why won’t you marry me, Cis? You have changed enormously,
but I know you’re not fickle, not easily moved, either way. You still
love me?” Rodney pleaded.
“No, Rodney, I don’t,” Cis said. “It amazes me to find that you stir
memories of feeling, but no feeling. Don’t you think, perhaps, there is
a reaction from intense pain that produces in the mind something like
the immunity that a violent sickness produces in the physical system? I
was dashed to pieces, and the reassembled person has lost the vibration
to your personality.”
“Merciful powers! Cis!” cried Rodney, honestly disgusted. “You talking
philosophy, or psychology, or some other rotten, cold-blooded analysis!
You, glowing, red-haired, my Holly? That high-browed crowd you’ve gone
in with at Beaconhite have cold packed you!”
Cis smiled faintly. “I’m no colder than I ever was--”
“Except to me!” Rodney interrupted her. “Don’t tell me that I don’t
remember--”
“Except to you,” Cis interrupted in her turn, her color heightened. “I
have grown up, and we are no longer possible chums. It happens often
enough that people grow apart, even when they’re married. When it has
happened to two people who are free, there can be, there should be, no
talk of marriage between them. We must say good-bye, Rodney, as you
came to say it.”
“As you told me to come to say it; I didn’t mean to say it,” Rodney
pulled on a chain from inside his breast, and held up to Cis her ruby
holly ring. “I wear it, but take it back, Cis!” he begged.
“Oh, the poor, lovely ring!” Cis cried. “I will never take it back. Oh,
Rodney, we had not planned for the true Christmas when I wore that!
Give the ruby to be set in a chalice, or sell it, and send the money to
take care of some helpless baby who may never know that Our Lord was a
baby! Let it make a trifling reparation for us both.”
Rodney stared, but this suggestion seemed to convince him that between
him and Cis stretched unbridgeable distances.
“Well, you have got it bad!” he said slowly, not so much irreverently
as in a puzzled way, expressing himself in the vernacular of his custom.
“Don’t you think it’s natural to want to pay back?” Cis suggested. “If
the Church were not true, she could not be so beautiful, and you do
‘have it bad,’ as you say, when you love anything that is wholly true
and profoundly beautiful. Rodney, truly you don’t begin to know! I wish
you would--at least begin to know! Did you ever read about those poor
animals which have been shut down in mines, how they act when they
come up into the sunshine, into green fields again? Quite mad with the
warmth, and brightness, and pasturage? I’m like that. I went along,
didn’t know what I was missing, but now I know what I have! Will you
promise me, Rodney, solemnly promise me, now, to-day when we part, that
you will do your best to learn what your birthright is which you threw
away?”
Rodney Moore looked long and mutely at Cis, frowning, biting his lip;
she had silenced his pleas for his personal desires. She waited for his
answer.
At last it came.
“Yes,” Rodney said. “I will look into it thoroughly. It must be a big
thing to do what it did last night. And to you--though that’s another
story. It hit me when you would not marry me, stuck to the Church,
though you didn’t seem to care much about her. I know a chap who is a
Dominican in Chicago; he and I were confirmed together. I’ll hunt him
up. It’s a promise.”
“Then God bless you, Rodney, and I’ll pray for you hard. It’s good-bye,
now, isn’t it? I heard the Angelus from our church faintly ever so long
ago,” said Cis, rising.
Rodney pulled out his watch.
“I’ll say it was long ago!” he cried. “I’ll have to eat on the train.
But it won’t take me long to connect with my bag at the hotel.
Everything else is done. Cis, good-bye. Oh, Cis, good-bye! Not for
always? Let me come again!”
“Better not, Rodney. I’m not going to stay here, though; not long. I
think this time it is for always, yet we may meet again; there should
be many days before we are old. Truly God bless you, Rodney,” said Cis,
holding out her hand.
Their hands met over the sleeping baby; he seemed like a figure of
their complete separation, filling the place of the child who would
never be.
“Kiss me, Holly,” Rodney whispered.
“Our hands hold all that we give,” Cicely answered, and once more he
bowed to her will.
“I shall remember you looking like a madonna. Good-bye, good-bye, ah,
Cis, good-bye!” Rodney lifted to his cheek the hand he held, then laid
it upon the child’s breast, beside its mate.
Cis stood motionless after the front door closed, till Nan came
creeping into the room and little Matt stirred with a complaining cry.
Rodney had gone, gone with Myrtle, dead, to bury her; deeper still to
bury his hope and love of Cicely. Nothing was left of Rodney Moore
except his promise to her. But that promise filled Cis with exaltation.
* * * * *
The next morning Cis made it on her way to her office to go to see
Jeanette Lucas, though it was a détour that took her in the opposite
direction for several blocks.
“Cis, I wanted to see you; did you sense it?” Jeanette cried as she
came in. “I’ve something wonderful, marvellous to tell you. You
remember Paul Ralph Randolph?”
“Why, of course I do,” said Cis. “Didn’t he tour New England with Mr.
Lancaster last summer, keeping with Miss Braithwaite’s car? I rode with
him lots of times, and had fine talks. He’s the convert minister who
has been so fine about it; I mean sacrifices and all that.”
“Surely! Cis, he’s a confessor of the faith! He’s almost a martyr for
it! He’s perfectly glorious!” cried Jeanette.
“You’ve heard all that; everybody has, of course. You don’t know him,
do you?” Cis asked.
“Oh, Cicely Adair! He told me that he had talked to you of me!”
Jeanette looked aggrieved. “I met him in England; he crossed with
us coming home. He was received in England, because it was easier.
His father and mother behaved violently about his coming over to the
Church, when he announced that he intended to come, so he went across,
and he was received by the Benedictines over there. Don’t you remember?
I must have spoken of it, and he himself told you that he knew me! What
a girl! Did you remember everything he told you of Mr. Lancaster? Paul
says--”
“Hallo! _Who_ says?” cried Cis.
“Yes, that’s my news!” Jeanette triumphed over her. “_Paul_ says,
_Paul_, whom I’m going to marry! Paul Ralph Randolph, the confessor,
and almost martyr!”
“Martyr nothing!” Cis relapsed under the shock into her earlier habits
of speech.
“He’s no martyr if he marries you, Jeanette Lucas! You’re too lovely to
marry any mere man. I always did think you were superfinely fine! But
this is great news, my dearest, and nobody is gladder than red-haired
Cis!”
“Nobody is nicer than red-haired Cis!” retorted Jeanette. “I was
afraid you’d be a little shocked, because you knew I was engaged
before. But, Cis, though it hurt me dreadfully when you let me discover
Herbert Dale’s character, and I was wretched after it, it was the
sickness of disenchantment; the shock cured me of all love for him. I
half hoped I might be a nun; I spoke of it to you once, but it isn’t my
place. When Paul asked me to marry him--three days ago; he wrote me--I
knew how I loved him; I hadn’t realized it before. Oh, my dear, I’m so
happy and so humbled!”
“I don’t mind how happy you are, but not humbled,” Cis protested,
kissing her over and over again.
“And I want you happy, splendid Cicely,” Jeanette murmured.
“Oh, as to that, I’m sure to be; it’s the temperament of my hair,” said
Cis, turning away slightly. “But I’d like to be useful, fill a place,
find the right place to fill. Sister Bonaventure says no habit for poor
Cicely! I wonder what I’m meant for; nothing in particular, probably.
Reliable secretary, run a typewriter accurately, get under the skins of
youngsters when they need entertaining! Well, it’s at least a harmless
life.”
There was a note in Cicely’s voice new to it. Jeanette instantly
pounced upon her. “Lonely, Cis? Not perfectly happy? These past days
made things harder? They’ve been cruelly hard in themselves, I’m sure
of that!”
Cis swung around to face her.
“It’s not that I still want Rod; don’t think that!” she cried. “I knew
I didn’t, but I know it better now. These days were hard, but they were
a comfort, too. I’m not lonely, not exactly; perhaps, a little. I don’t
know what I want. I miss Miss Braithwaite, my life with her. Perfectly
happy? I’m twenty-three; the ‘first fine careless rapture’ is over
then, I suppose. I want a place to fill; I want a work to do that will
take every bit of me to do it.”
Cis quoting Browning? Cis half pensive, unsatisfied? Jeanette wondered.
“Poor Cicely! I suspect if we put a dynamo to grinding coffee it would
find the grains small and the dust they made too trivial!” Jeanette
said. “But you take my engagement coolly! Aren’t you amazed?”
“I’m wholly amazed and surprised, and I take it less coolly than you
think,” declared Cis. “It has rather bowled me over. I suppose I dread
to have you married. Where shall you live, Jeanette, dear?”
“In Beaconhite. Paul is going into literary work there; he says I shall
help him. And he is going to teach Greek and Latin in that big boys’
school on the outskirts of the city--Graycliff Hall--and he’ll probably
lecture. It will be Beaconhite,” Jeanette answered.
Cis’s face had brightened as she listened.
“I know I’m going back there, somehow,” she declared. “That’s good news
that you’ll be within reach. I’m hungry for Beaconhite.”
“Uncle Wilmer is ready for you at any moment, whoever he has as his
secretary,” Jeanette assured her. “He told me that he would pension his
secretary, if he must, and would have you back any day you’d come. He
will be received into the Church at Pentecost, Cis; Father Morley will
receive him, as he did father, and father will make a point of being
here in time for the ceremony.”
“Was there a secret about your father’s going away; ought I ask?”
hinted Cis.
“He was seriously ill. We told no one, lest mother hear of it; things
have such a way of leaking, unexplainably! He was supposed to be
travelling on matters connected with important affairs of business. He
has been in a sanitarium. He is cured, thank God! Even now don’t speak
of this, Cis. Miss Gallatin knows, hardly anyone else. Hannah Gallatin
is a great woman!” Jeanette ended with tears of gratitude and relief in
her eyes.
“I never see her, lately; I wish I might,” said Cis. “I believe she
could set me up again with my old sensible way of taking things!”
“She’s not here now. I’ll tell her you need her for a--what do they
call it?--a pick-me-up?” Jeanette laughed.
That evening Tom came into Nan’s house as was his custom. Though Cis
had bade him cease to hope for her love, and Nan had confirmed the
hopelessness, yet as long as Cis was free, it was hard for Tom to give
her up, and wholly impossible to stay away from her.
“Well,” the boy began as he came in, “I saw something pretty decent
to-night. A man came in on the 7:56 train; I was at the station. He
was great, the kind everybody turns to look at; tall, well-dressed,
about forty, maybe, and--I don’t know! Great; that’s about the word.
You wanted to speak to him, and shake hands with him. He talked
something like an Englishman, not quite--”
“What did he look like?” cried Cis.
“Why, I’ve been telling you, haven’t I?” Tom spoke in an aggrieved
tone. “I don’t know the color of his eyes, or anything of that sort.
Handsome, I’d say, but more sort of splendid. He had another man with
him, nice chap, too. Well, sir, there was a raggedy old woman hanging
around, trying to find out something about trains, or farming, for all
I know; nobody could make her out. She had a bag as big as a Noë’s ark,
and a regular eruption of bundles! A fresh boy thought it was funny to
hustle her, hit up against her, and she dropped the bundles, bag, whole
shooting match, all over everything! The bag bulged queer clothes--it
burst open--and the bundles opened up, or two did, and out of one there
sort of flowed a lot of carrots, and out of the other a white kitten
got away! Don’t ask me how she had it done up, for I’ll never tell you!
Everybody howled laughing, but what do you think that man did?”
“Helped her!” cried Cis, and she looked triumphant and excited.
“Rather! Caught the kitten and stroked it quiet; the little thing
took to him as if he’d been the mother cat! Gathered up carrots with
the other hand, and, in the mean time, talked to the old dame in her
own tongue--Italian--and put her wise to whatever she was trying to
find out! I got in on bundling the clothes back into the bag, and the
carrots into the bundle, and the kitten into a basket, which my knight
of distressed dames bought at the fruit stand; he tied it down so
strong that the kitten is sure to arrive wherever it’s going! And I’m
betting that most of the people around there felt good and ashamed of
themselves! It isn’t much to tell, but somehow it was a lot to see.
There wasn’t a person in that waiting room that didn’t think that man
was the greatest ever; you could feel the way the thing grabbed ’em. I
tell you the truth! Of course I was sorry for the old person, and sorry
I’d laughed at her, and I did want to make good by helping her out, but
I wanted more to be working with that man so that he’d speak to me! He
did speak, too! And I leave it to you if a fellow like me often feels
that way to a man, a perfect stranger, just happening to come off the
train in the station?”
“Magnetism,” murmured Joe.
“There’s only one man in all the world like that!” cried Cis.
Tom turned on her sharply.
“Know him?” he demanded.
“Of course I can’t be sure, but it is exactly like Mr. Anselm
Lancaster, and it is like no one else in all the world!” Cis said, her
eyes bright, her face flushed, her breath a little quickened.
“He is the one whom everybody looks at; when he comes into a room
you feel him as much as you see him. He can make anything trust him,
kittens, carrots, old women, anything! He speaks Italian as well as
English, and he speaks English like an Oxford Englishman. He would do
precisely what you describe, be a knight errant as soon for a poor
old immigrant as for a princess! It sounds like no one but Mr. Anselm
Lancaster!”
CHAPTER XXIV
THE BEACON
Precisely because she wanted exceedingly to stay away from the girls
and neglect the arrangement of their new rooms in the telephone
building, Cis arose betimes the next morning and went out early. She
could not rid herself of the conviction that the man whose chivalry
had so impressed Tom the previous night was Anselm Lancaster, and she
wanted to stay in the house, hoping that, if it were he, he would come
to look her up. It had been long, and seemed longer to Cis, since she
had heard from Miss Braithwaite. Mr. Lancaster had shown no remembrance
of her existence for months; it was now close upon May day, and spring
in the air increased Cis’s restless dissatisfaction, filling her with
a homesickness which was farther reaching and deeper than homesickness
for a definite place.
She told herself that it was absurd to identify Tom’s hero on so
slender a ground, and quite unpardonable to mope around the house
expecting Mr. Lancaster to call on her. “You never were silly when it
was the time to be silly; don’t begin it now, Cis Adair,” she sternly
told herself.
So she went down to look after her girls’ organization earlier than
usual, in order to rebuke her own tendency to folly, but, like most of
us, she compromised with her weakness.
“I’m not coming back to lunch, Nancy,” she casually told Nan. “I’ve
looked up that bunch of little ragamuffin newsies I used to chum with
before I went away. I could not find them all, but I found two or
three, and they’ll find the rest--one, Tony, whom I liked a great deal,
is dead, poor little chap; was run over by a motor truck, they tell me.
I’ve been thinking I missed my chance to do more than amuse them and
give them a little pleasure when I was here; I’m going to see if I can
make amends. I told them I’d give them the price of their papers if
they’d spend the afternoon with me, take a holiday. They didn’t seem to
object! I’m going to take them out to the picnic glen on a hike, and
give them a good time--I hope! I went out there yesterday and hid tin
boxes, filled with candy, around in the rocks, and under the shrubbery,
enough for each to have one; they’ll have to divide fairly if anybody
finds more than one. And when they’ve worked down some of their spirits
I’m going to tell them a story, and lead up to my point--missionary
point, you know! Good plan?”
“It’s a dear plan, Cis!” cried Nan. “What a Cis you are! I’d like to be
good your way!”
“Fiddlesticks! My way is to try to make up the least bit for not being
half-way good, never once caring to give the little chaps a push in the
right direction. You don’t have to pay up for lost chances, Nan,” cried
Cis impatiently. “I could have done almost anything with those boys
then. Well, that’s milk that is not only spilled, but soaked down into
the ground; no use crying over it. If you need me, Nan, if the baby
begins to talk, or has the croup, or anything like that, you’ll find me
at the picnic glen.”
Cis laughed, a little shame-facedly as she made it clear to Nan where
not only she, but anyone else who happened to want her might find her.
At half past one Cis, with a fringe on her garment’s edge, of small
boys, and a few larger ones, went briskly swinging out toward the
pretty country which surrounded the little city. They were bound on a
four mile walk; they would end it, at the pace they were taking it, in
something over an hour and a quarter. Cis ordered her troop to sing,
herself leading the dubious chorus, sung in as many variations of key
and tune as was possible to the number singing. The words held most of
the time in place; even little flat-faced Jimmy Devlin, who sang on one
note, situated in the depth of his diapraghm, kept valiantly to the
time, so the tortured music held the feet to their task.
The glen was really pretty. It was damp and fragrant with the spring
moisture and odors; with the delicious earth newly released from frost,
the little shoots, the new growths of bark; somewhere out of sight were
violets, and on the rocks saxifrage, clustering tiny white stars on an
erect stem.
The boys’ delight was satisfying even to Cis, who passionately longed
to put four hours and better of unadulterated joy into these meagre
little lives. They went on a violent hunt for her hidden boxes of
candy, unearthed them, every one, and willingly gave each boy who had
been slower than the rest the share which he had failed to discover.
They played games, yelling like mad, till, at last, they were ready to
drop down on the platform put up for dancing, upon which Cis insisted
as a seat because the high temperature of this summerlike April day had
not had time to dry the wet ground. They subsided to munch candy and
let her have her way with them.
Cis had carefully planned her story, and she told it well, the story
of an imaginary little Roman boy, who might have lived, who dearly
loved St. Sebastian. She told them how this brave young soldier and
his little friend had died, for she made her fictitious little citizen
of the City of the Catacombs share the fate of the older youth, whose
story was true.
Then leaning toward the lads whose eyes were fixed upon her own,
clasping her hands, her eager face flushed and earnest, her glorious
red hair shining under a ray of sunshine until it seemed to illumine
the shady glen, Cis begged her little adorers to hold fast to that for
which Sebastian’s arrows had been faced, for which those little lads of
old--and many since--had truly lived and gladly died.
Thus it was that Anselm Lancaster, coming down the glen from behind
her, found Cis, and paused to wonder, with reverence added to the
admiration he had already learned to feel for her.
One of the boys discovered him, and started up from his prone position,
with a threatening gesture.
“Who’s de guy? Here, this is a private show; no buttin’ in!” he cried.
Anselm Lancaster laughed, and came forward as Cis leaped up and faced
him, knowing at the first syllable of her indignant little guest’s
protest, whom she should see.
“It is a mean trick to butt in, I’m afraid,” Mr. Lancaster said. “Miss
Adair, will you tolerate a larger boy here?”
He stood smiling, tall and handsome, as different from ordinary men as
Tom had described him; as far beyond them, Cis thought, seeing him anew
after so long a time.
“Mr. Lancaster!” she cried, as if she had not been expecting him all
the afternoon; wondering in the back of her brain why he did not come;
if it had not been he, after all, whom Tom had seen in the station.
“Where did you come from? And how glad I am that you did come!”
“Then you don’t resent what your small friend here calls my butting
in?” Mr. Lancaster suggested, looking no less happy than the smallest
boy there.
“I went to see you, but your friend Mrs.?--Nan?--told me that you were
away, and how to find you. She seemed to think I might come to the
glen. You look well? Yes, I think you look well, but I’m not sure of
it; you are not just as you were in Beaconhite, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” said Cis. “But I’m perfectly well. What of Miss
Braithwaite?”
“She is at home again. She was going to write you, but when I suggested
seeing you instead, she jumped at the idea. She said it was because
she detests letter writing, but I think she wanted closer communication
with you, to get my report of you. I came on with Paul, Paul Randolph.
He is going to marry Miss Lucas--but she said that she had told you,”
Mr. Lancaster checked himself.
“She did. I hoped--I mean I thought perhaps--Well, he is lucky, that’s
certain. I’d be glad to have him marry Jeanette if I were his friend,”
Cis stammered, confused.
Anselm Lancaster elevated his eyebrows with a quizzical look. He
quite well knew what Cis would have said if she had gone on with the
beginning of her sentence. But all that he said was:
“I suspect it is one of your secret employments to provide for your
friends’ happiness! And aren’t you glad that these two are engaged,
being a friend of Miss Lucas? Indeed you well may be; Paul Randolph is
a fine fellow!”
“Oh, I know he is! I admired him last summer, but Jeanette is fit for
the best, and I’m glad, surely! She’s perfectly happy. Mr. Lancaster,
I’ve got to see to the boys! Do you mind? I’d far rather not, but see
that pair over there? That tussle is getting too earnest.” Cis pointed
to wrestling that was rapidly degenerating into a fight.
“I’ve done a meddlesome thing. I want to tell the lads about it before
I tell you, because then you can’t betray how angry you are with me!
But first may I show that pair--the others will not stand off long!--a
trick or two of Japanese wrestling? Don’t be afraid; I’ll show them how
to use it properly. They won’t come to harm, and boys have to scrap;
kittens and puppies do, too, you know!” Anselm Lancaster began to
take off his coat as he spoke, not waiting for Cicely’s assent to his
proposal.
She looked at him wondering. Was this the man whom she had feared, even
when she felt most at home with him and admired him? His nearly forty
years had been thrown off as he was throwing off his coat; he was like
one of the older boys among her guests, except that his body showed
the fine lines of breeding and training as he faced the lads, the wind
blowing his silken shirt and rumpling his brown hair.
“Come on, boys!” he said tightening his belt and settling the loose
collar of his shirt. “I know a thing or two about the way the Japs
wrestle. Stand up to me, you biggest boy over there, and I’ll give you
some points which you’ll find good to know, if ever you’re in a tight
place. I’ll teach the whole crowd, but you come on first. And in case
the lady in whose charge we’re all here, she-that-must-be-obeyed, is
afraid we’ll be too late getting home, I’ll tell you that we aren’t
going to walk it. I ordered a truck to come after us at six; it will
hold us all, and get us back to town in fifteen minutes; less! How does
it strike you?”
It struck them into silence for the space of a breath, and then into a
babel of noisy approval.
“Oh, Mr. Lancaster, how kind you are! And what a lark!” cried Cis,
flushed with delight. “Boys, if you’re yelling, yell right! Three times
three for Mr. Lancaster! Come on; I’ll lead!”
Cis bent over and waved her arms in the approved manner; she had led
her school yells in days past. The nine cheers were given deafeningly,
ending with: “Rah, rah, rah; Lancaster!” which the boys approved,
though they missed its meaning.
Then Mr. Lancaster initiated the boys into the beginnings of Jiu-jitsu
till the big truck came into the glen, and they all piled in warm,
hungry, blissfully happy.
Mr. Lancaster stood on the running board and looked the boys over.
“Going to stick to Mass every Sunday, and stand by like good fellows,
every one of you? Come now, that’s to be a promise! Don’t make it
unless you mean to keep it, but make it and keep it; see the idea?” he
said.
He put out his hand to each boy in turn, and each boy put his grimy
hand into it, and gave the promise.
The truck made the four miles of homeward road in less than fifteen
minutes. When the boys had all dispersed, Mr. Lancaster turned to Cis.
“Fine party, Miss Cis,” he said. “Some day, after they’ve broken that
promise, some of those lads will remember it again and that you were a
good sport, yet loved God.”
“They’ll remember much more that the fine gentleman who could wrestle
and jump was not a deserter,” retorted Cis warmly. “I can’t thank you
for making my party so splendid, the ride back and everything, but you
don’t want my thanks! Will you come with me to supper at Nan’s? She’ll
be delighted if you will come. Or--where shall I hear about Miss
Braithwaite?”
“When I come for you to-night. We are to spend the evening with Miss
Lucas--Paul being understood!” replied Anselm Lancaster promptly. “Will
you be ready at shortly after eight? We have important matters to
settle; I’m an ambassador.”
“From Miss Braithwaite?” cried Cis. “Oh, Mr. Lancaster, I want to see
her! I miss it all so much!”
“Good to hear that!” He smiled at her. “I won’t tell you my errand now,
but you will walk slowly and let me present my credentials from the
Lady Miriam to-night?”
“Oh, yes!” Cis laughed from sheer pleasure. “I’ve been getting
homesick. Nan is as dear as ever, good, and sweet and dear, but she is
so much married!”
Anselm Lancaster laughed. “She met me with a handsome baby on her hip;
I thought she seemed to like him! But she assured me that you were
almost as fond of him as she is; this was when I commented on his
charms,” he said.
“Like him! Well, yes, Nan does like him!” Cis laughed also. “And I am
nearly as mad over him as she is, but--” Cis hesitated.
“But the finest baby is not a career for any other woman save his
mother! Then to-night? It is good to see you again, Miss Cicely,” Mr.
Lancaster said.
That night Mr. Lancaster came to Nan’s door a little before the
appointed hour. “I seem to be arranging things to suit myself to-day,”
he announced to Cis when she appeared. “I called up Miss Lucas and
said that I had to see you to-night on behalf of Miss Braithwaite, and
that we would not spend the evening there. Instead, I have found a car
like my own at the garage and have taken it for the evening. It is a
beautiful night, soft little breeze, pleasant-tempered little moon! I’m
going to drive you about and talk to you. Do you mind?”
“Not a bit!” Cis hoped that she did not betray how little she minded.
“I must get a heavier wrap, though. Just a minute, and I’ll be ready.”
“Whither away?” asked Mr. Lancaster, when Cis was disposed on the seat
beside him, a light-weight rug over her knees.
“Anywhere! I don’t care where; I don’t know many roads beyond here,
though I was born and brought up here. I don’t think it matters much
which direction you take.”
“We’ll recklessly drive and turn corners, and after a while have to ask
the way back! That sounds alluring. I always wanted to be lost!” cried
Anselm Lancaster.
“Oh, did you? So did I!” cried Cis. “I used to try to lose myself when
I was a little girl, but I have an Indian’s sense of direction, and I
always went right!”
“Great thing to have a true sense of direction, and go right when roads
are obscure,” said Anselm.
Cis did not answer; she heard a sub-meaning in his voice, and wondered
if he were thinking of her bewilderment nearly two years ago.
“Now, about Miss Braithwaite,” said Anselm, getting away from her
silence and her thoughts, which he divined, and from his own meaning
which he knew that she had caught. “Miss Miriam’s friend has died,
after agony that must have directly opened heaven to her. Miss Miriam
stayed by her to the end; it was not easy to see. But there’s no use
dwelling on that, beyond resolving to make her return home as cheerful
as possible. You know what Miss Braithwaite is; she does not repine,
and she has met this torture in the spirit that is hers. It’s almost
harder to see agony that can’t be relieved, except by anaesthetics
daily losing their efficacy, than it is to bear it. Miss Miriam is
sixty-five years old, dear Miss Cis. That isn’t old; we know how
unfailing her strength is, her strength of character, of mind, of
efficiency, but old age may be seen coming along at sixty-five, much as
if she were standing on the corner waiting for a trolley transfer, and
the other trolley which she was to take were bounding down its track
toward her.”
“I don’t want Miss Braithwaite to be old! I can’t bear to think of
it. She’s one of those persons who should never be old; so clever, so
brilliant, so highly good!” protested Cis.
“And so vital,” added Anselm. “I can’t imagine her old. But it would be
hard to deny her the reward of the qualities which make us want to hold
her fast; I imagine that, while she willingly lives and works, she will
be glad to lay down this life when she is permitted to. No one whose
appraisals are as accurate as hers can value life in itself. However,
that’s beyond our authority. She is lonely, dear Miss Cis, and she had
grown fond of you, dependent on your youth, your sense of humor, your
mind, which in all its workings responds to hers.”
“Oh, me!” cried Cis. “Why, I’m only twenty-three, for one thing, and
I’m not clever, nor travelled, nor well-read, so--”
“It isn’t nice to set up tenpins for me to bowl over,” Anselm teased
her. “No one can safely drive and bowl at the same time. You know quite
well that Miss Braithwaite was happy with you. You were a bright spot
in her charming, but silent house. The proof of this is that she wants
you back. She was going to write to you, but I’m her ambassador, as I
told you this afternoon. She bids me beg of you to come back, back to
stay, to make your home with her permanently, unless you find something
else that calls to your true vocation as we both think you will. She
bade me say that if it made you happier to resume your secretaryship,
she was entirely willing, or for you to take up any other work, if
you like to be occupied, feel independent. She says that this is not
necessary; there would be no question of obligation to her, ‘she needs
you too badly’--that is what she said--but she will not oppose you.
‘All that she asks is that she may see your bright head beside her
hearth, know that you are coming home to her, as her daughter would
come, at the close of every day.’ That is literally her message, Miss
Cicely. I do not think that you can find it in your heart to say her
no.”
Cis did not speak for a few minutes. Anselm went on silently guiding
the smooth motion of the car, guessing that she was as deeply moved as
she actually was. At last Cis spoke, saying:
“You must know how this makes me feel, Mr. Lancaster. She has been so
good to me; she is so wonderful, and now this! And I am alone. I don’t
suppose anybody, no matter how young and strong and jolly she may
be, can help feeling alone when she is alone! It’s strange that Miss
Braithwaite wants me now. I have been growing restless, unsatisfied; I
don’t know what is wrong. I don’t enjoy being here. I love the baby and
Nan, but--I’m ashamed, but Miss Braithwaite, and Father Morley and you,
and even the big things in Mr. Lucas’ office, have all spoiled me for
nice, steady, dull little days! I’m not better than Nan in brains; not
nearly as good in the other sense, but, I’ve been fed on stronger food.
Even her marriage--Joe is really a good boy; I do like him, but--Well,
it isn’t what you’d think it would be; what _I’d_ think it would be,
anyway! It’s just like bread and butter three times a day, every day in
the year!”
Anselm Lancaster laughed, but he shook his head.
“Don’t you get to craving things too far beyond common human
experience,” he warned her. “The fact that it is called _common_
experience means that it is the best lot for the majority. I’ll warrant
that to your Nan her husband is an oracle of wisdom, and a fount of
charm! She’s safe, too; remember that’s no small asset in marriage.
The sort of marriage that you describe goes peacefully into old age,
undiminished in satisfaction, while hundreds are shipwrecked around it
which started out to a glorious fanfare of the trumpets of romance and
unfounded idealization. However, I grant you that sort of life is not
for you. You have outgrown your childhood comrades, the malnutritive
food of little minds. You’ve been living at high speed for three years,
Cicely Adair; you’ve left behind you the things of your childhood. Just
how does all this apply to Miss Braithwaite’s appeal to you to come to
her? I’d say that it made it most opportune.”
“It does, oh, it does!” cried Cis. “It takes my breath away. To go
back feeling that I’m wanted, maybe needed; that I’m to go to make a
home there; that all that beautiful, helpful life for others will be
my life; that I’ll read, think, learn, have Father Morley to guide
me--Mr. Lancaster, I’ve spoken to you frankly, just as I always did.
I’ve always felt that you would understand. You won’t think I was
criticizing dear little Nannie? I’d give my head to be as good as she
is; dear little soul, always putting me up, and herself down! But--I
want Beaconhite, and what I had there. Tell me truthfully, is it right
for me to go? Ought I go?”
Anselm Lancaster let the car drop down to a low speed, and turned to
look at Cis, with an expression on his face which, though she saw it
clearly in the brilliant light of the interior of the car, she could
not construe.
“Yes, Cicely,” he said. “Truthfully I think that your place is there.
I love Miss Miriam dearly; she is more to me than any of my kindred,
more than any other friend. If it were only that you can be to her,
now that she needs sustaining, what you can be would seem to me enough
reason for your going, you who are entirely free to go and do as you
will. She has been a real power for good, an instrument which has
helped to carve out the way for others to follow her into the Catholic
Church, and one whose charity has bridged many a poor wretch back into
a possible manner of living when hope seemed over for him. What can
you ask better than to repay some of the debt God’s children owe this
woman? And you say that she has done much for you. I think that your
place is in Beaconhite. If the decision rests with me, I say: Come!
Thrice over: Come! And may all that lies ahead of you there, all that
may come of it, be blessed and guided. How can I say aught else, save:
Come?”
Cis looked up at him with a tiny smile, her under lip slightly drawn
in, as a child who is half grieved, half glad smiles. She had many
childish ways of face and hands; Anselm Lancaster and Miss Braithwaite
found them her greatest charm.
“How beautiful to have what you want most to do also your duty!” she
murmured.
“It always is when she who desires is innocent of wrong-doing, whose
heart is God’s first of all,” said Anselm Lancaster, his words barely
audible above the softly purring engine. “Don’t you know, Cicely of the
red-gold locks, that desire is one of the marks of a vocation? It was
the Puritans who put into our heads the notion that it was praiseworthy
to hate the thing one chooses. Love Beaconhite and Miss Braithwaite and
choose them! Amen.”
CHAPTER XXV
PORT
It was settled that Cis was to return to Beaconhite. Mr. Lancaster had
gone back, and immediately there came a brief, warm, characteristic
letter from Miss Braithwaite to Cis.
“You are to come home on any terms you choose, my dear,” she wrote,
“as long as you come; there are no terms to my wanting you. If you
will establish yourself in this house for good and all it will be
transformed. My library is large, but not large enough to fill the
vacancy in my life. Summer is coming, and I shall not be able to keep a
fire on the hearth much of the time; can’t you see how the library will
need your hair in it? I need your radiance, my child; you are a most
vivifying person, Cicely Adair! Other fires than that on my hearth are
burning low; I grow chilled. Anselm tells me that you are coming, yet
hesitate on the heels of the resolve lest you may not make good--isn’t
that the way to put it? Let me judge. You know how fully I speak my
mind; I suppose no one ever is doubtful of my meanings! Then, when I
say that coming to live with me will fulfil several of the corporal
works of mercy--feeding the hungry, comforting the sorrowful, visiting
the sick--of mind, at least--it is strictly true. I am impatiently
waiting for you; come as soon as you can, please. And be sure that I
am not only lovingly, but gratefully, Your grumpy old friend, Miriam
Braithwaite.”
“You are glad to leave me, Cis--and baby!” Nan reproached her.
“You are so completely married, Nannie! And I can’t claim my godson
unless I do away with you and Joe,” Cis replied. “With Jeanette living
in Beaconhite I’ll have one girl friend there. Father Morley will teach
me what I ought to know; he’s truly a great man. You know what Miss
Braithwaite is; I’ve told you as much as can be told about her. Life
in that house is never far off from the greatest, the eternal things,
but it is also overflowing with beauty of books, music, art--and Miss
Braithwaite does so love to play like a child, but a witty, wonderful
child! It’s a beautiful life; I can’t help being glad to live it. But
you know I love you, Nannie!”
Cis took her small friend in her arms to kiss her hard.
“There’s no chance for Tom, Cis?” hinted Nan. “I thought, possibly,
when you sent Rodney Moore away--I know you did send him!--that
maybe--? Mother is so anxious for it; she’s going to talk to you before
you go.”
“Oh, Nan, don’t let her!” protested Cis. “That’s awful; second-hand
wooing! If a girl were beginning to think about a man I’d suppose that
it would turn her off to have his mother come to offer him to her!
Don’t let your mother try that! And help me to dodge nice young Tommy!
Because I’ll never in all this world marry the boy, so why bother
about it?”
“Why, indeed,” sighed Nan. “I’ll try to head off my family. I think Tom
is convinced that he stands no chance.”
“He knows I’m truthful and sure of what I want,” Cis said lightly. “Now
I’m going to talk to Mr. Singer. We’ve everything running in fine shape
down there; it won’t be hard to fit someone into my shoes.”
“I wish Miss Gallatin would take it,” said Nan.
“I wish she could,” Cis said thoughtfully. “But it ought to be someone
younger, more ornamental. Girls forget that sort of woman made
herself what she is by being the right sort of girl; they think they
were always elderly and were born with serious, decorous clothes on,
common-sense shoes, and carrying an umbrella to be ready for storms--a
figurative umbrella against figurative storms, too! Miss Gallatin
is going to stay on in the Lucas household when Jeanette leaves it.
After all, she has a big field there; all those children and an
invalid mother! I wish I could get a Catholic woman into the club of
Bells--that’s what I call it, but Mr. Singer won’t let me use that
nice name. Lots of the girls are the kind of Catholics I was, need the
Catholic woman, and she wouldn’t harm the others! Girls aren’t a bad
lot, but it’s marvellous how crookedly they see and think! I’d like to
furnish them all with folding pocket rules to measure up by!”
Nan laughed, then sighed. “You’d do for a pocket rule for all of them,
if you’d stay here,” she said. “A girl like you can do wonders. I’m
sorry, _sorry_ you’re going!”
“Let’s hope I’ll shine as a light to girls in Beaconhite; there are
girls there, silly Nancy!” laughed Cis. “Nan, I think they named that
city expressly for my coming to it! Hasn’t it been a beacon on the
height to me?”
“It’s your post graduate college; it’s made you grow up. Oh dear, Cis,
I’ve grown up, too, in the same time, but you have grown away from me!”
“Fast friends forever!” Cis corrected her, and pretended to mop tears
out of Nan’s eyes with her handkerchief.
Yet when it came to the actual parting it was Cis, not Nan, who cried
tempestuously. She realized that this was a farewell that was final,
however true it might be that they were, as she had said herself,
“fast friends forever.” Complete divergence of paths and interest
ends, not the will to friendship, but its actuality. At their age Nan,
married and settled, Cis going on to meet life, would pass out of
knowledge of their common beginning. She and Nan would contrive to meet
occasionally, and, thus meeting, find it difficult to talk together
after the first exchange of news items was over. Cis recognized this,
and felt it sad, but she attributed her crying to little Matt.
“He will grow every day, and do something new and darling every day,
and I shall not see him, and he won’t know me when I do see him! If
only babies wouldn’t grow up and begin to go to school so soon!” she
sobbed, mumbling her godson’s soft cheeks.
“Mercy!” cried Nan, shocked by the suggestion that her son would soon
take his place in the ranks of those in the second age of man’s career.
Miss Braithwaite’s coupé was waiting at the Beaconhite station to take
Cis home when she arrived. She jumped into it with a thrill of joy and
received Miss Braithwaite’s quiet, warm welcome shyly, yet with high
delight. It seemed to her that at last “she belonged,” as she told
herself; that this was a true home-coming.
Miss Braithwaite looked tired; Cis saw it after they had reached the
house and were settled down to tea-serving by Ellen in the splendid
library. At Miss Braithwaite’s age the effects of hard experience take
the appearance of physical ills, and often their form; it was less
that Miss Braithwaite looked as if she had borne grief since Cis had
last seen her, than that she looked as if she had seriously overtaxed
herself, her nervous strength.
“Oh, how good this is! How happy and how good!” Cis sighed dropping her
hat on the chair nearest to her, leaning back in the low chair which
she occupied and rumpling her heavy coils of hair into a looseness
adjusted to the upholstery.
“I’ve been bad, Miss Braithwaite, restless, unsatisfied, not knowing
what was wrong, but suspecting a whole lot of things! And the suspicion
that it was this house and Beaconhite was right! I wanted to be here.”
“We are going to talk later; now it is tea, then rest, and this
evening talk,” declared Miss Braithwaite. “Anselm wanted to come here
to-night, but I forbade it; cloister observance for us this first
night! Jeanette Lucas is to marry Paul Randolph, and be near by. Are
you glad?”
“Indeed I am, only--Well, of course she wants to marry Mr. Randolph,”
Cis hesitated.
“Nothing wrong with him; I’d find him a bit dull,” declared Miss
Braithwaite. “He’s intelligent, has a nice mind; can’t turn it into
currency to pay his way. I like a talker, as you know. But he is truly
fine, and that he is nobly good he has given proof. There won’t be
lacking those who will say that he recognized his opportunity; that
marrying Jeanette Lucas was wise, and that his sacrifice of an income
will be made up to him without much loss of time.”
“How contemptible!” cried Cis. “As though there were need of looking
beyond Jeanette herself for a reason for wanting to marry her! If Mr.
Randolph had that sort of worldly prudence he need not have come into
the Church at all! Why are human beings so mean?”
“Because they are human, my dear. People must belittle fine actions
when they are small people; big deeds are most annoying to small
minds; they take them as personal affronts,” returned Miss Braithwaite
placidly. “It really does not matter about the chatter of parrakeets.
If you are so partizan of Paul Randolph why did you seem to hesitate
just now in approving the marriage?”
“I always hoped Jeanette would marry Mr. Lancaster, you know,” said
Cis promptly. “But neither of them ever showed symptoms, so I don’t
suppose it’s Mr. Randolph’s fault.”
“Not in the least!” Miss Braithwaite laughed. “I sometimes think it may
be another girl’s fault, though. I suspect Anselm of other wishes.”
“How exciting!” cried Cis. “Aren’t you going to tell me? He seems so
splendid, so interested in affairs, it’s hard to imagine him thinking
of marrying.”
Miss Braithwaite laughed again, but she held up her hands in horror.
“Now heaven forfend!” she cried. “Cis, are you transforming poor Anselm
into the hero of the early Victorian novel? Solitary, superior, remote,
a demi-god, with the human, half wishy-washy, artificial? Because it’s
distinctly unfair of you, if you are! He is thoroughly a human being,
but he has made his humanity what God meant a man to be. To my mind
he’s forceful, strong and quick in feeling; a vital man. He’s precisely
the man to think of marriage, and not to think of it coolly, but to
bring to it a great love, such as would honor any woman and make her
happy.”
Cis stirred uneasily; she could not have said why she felt
uncomfortable, ill-at-ease.
“I don’t think anything of him that you would not want me to think,
Miss Braithwaite,” she said. “I don’t know him as you do, of course,
but I admire him almost as much. If only you could have seen him with
those boys! And Tom said in the station everybody stared at him.”
“Boys? Station?” echoed Miss Braithwaite. “Tell me.”
And Cis told her the story, to which she listened without comment.
The next day Cis spent happily picking up the dropped threads of her
Beaconhite existence. She went to Mr. Lucas’ office and received a
welcome beyond her expectation.
“Ah, my dear!” Mr. Lucas cried. “Now I shall have you back as soon as
I can open the way for you! You were a good secretary; I miss you. But
you were also a good confessor of the Faith! Amazing, but it was you
who first brought home to me unescapably what I’d been suspecting all
along; that there really was something unaccountable on natural grounds
in the Old Church. I’m going to be a Catholic at Pentecost, my dear
Cicely!”
“Yes, I know; Jeanette told me. I’m so thankful! And I could cry when
you say I was the one who set you on!” Cis exclaimed.
“Nothing to cry over! We don’t cry Te Deums, and that’s your theme,”
Mr. Lucas smiled at her. “When will you return to the office? As soon
as I provide the space?”
“I think so, Mr. Lucas. Miss Braithwaite would rather I’d stay at home
all the time, but I’m afraid that’s a risk for a red-haired girl;
they’re not crickets on hearths! Miss Braithwaite promises me all that
I can do, though. We’ll see. May I have a few days in which to adjust?”
Cis asked. “Now I’m going on to find Father Morley.”
The Jesuit was at home; he received Cis with his cordial, yet
appraising look that took an inventory of her days since he had last
seen her. He seemed satisfied with what he saw; his eyes softened and
smiled approvingly. He recognized in Cicely’s face a new expression of
self-reliance, purpose; peace that was not incompatible with the eager,
wistful, unsatisfied look which her face also wore.
“Ready for the next thing,” he told himself, “and it’s not far ahead of
her.”
But aloud he said: “I am glad, exceedingly glad that you have come back
to us, Cicely. Miss Braithwaite is thankful; she is deeply attached to
you. You wrote me of that remarkable sequel to your fidelity to God’s
law. Do you care to tell me more about it?”
“I want to tell you all about it, Father,” Cis answered. “I might have
married Rodney without wrong-doing, but--Father, I couldn’t! Isn’t that
strange? I didn’t want to. I’m not a fickle person, but I didn’t want
to. He told me that I had been right as to his still being married. He
felt that there was no divorce when he knelt by his dying wife. It’s
all strange, isn’t it?”
“That isn’t,” said Father Morley. “It is strange, that you were the one
who saved that poor creature from suicide to die like a Christian, but
it is not strange that her husband recognized the indissoluble link
between them. You will find it always true that the supernatural law
does no violence to the natural law, but, on the contrary, confirms
it, while elevating it beyond nature. To my mind that is one of the
proofs of the Church. Heretics have gone contrary to natural laws
in all sorts of ways. The Church repeatedly proves that the hand of
the Creator is also the hand that founded her. She has sanctified,
ennobled, supernaturalized, not contradicted man’s natural instincts
and desires. Well, well! You’re not demanding her proofs! Why do I set
poor little you up as an heretical tenpin to be bowled over? What is
your next step, or do you not know it yet, Cicely Adair?”
“No, Father,” replied Cis wistfully. “I don’t know a step; not the next
one, nor any beyond that. Do you think I might be a nun? A Sister of
Charity would be more in my line; active, you know. Is that what I’m
made for?”
Father Morley looked at her gravely, yet with a quizzical twinkle in
his eye, as if he were enjoying with himself a pleasant secret.
“No, my child, I do not think that is your vocation,” he said. “I
think that you are meant to be a real helpmeet to a fine man; to do
good in the world, bear witness to the value of Catholic Faith and
standards, and train up your sons and daughters to carry on that noble
inheritance, while they rise up and call you blessed. Perhaps one day
to see your son raise his hands before the altar, holding in them the
Host, and to kneel, thanking God with tears, that you upheld those
hands for that miracle.”
“Father!” cried Cicely, and was silent, tears on her cheeks. “If I
might! I’d like that most of all,” she murmured after an instant.
Anselm Lancaster came that evening to see Cis; he announced that
his call was wholly for her. Cis saw him come into the library with
amazement that his presence so changed it. There was about him a
buoyant happiness; charm went out from him, and purposeful assertion,
which was far from conceit, sat on his every movement.
“Miss Miriam, Cicely Adair has never seen my house. I was offended
last year that you never showed it to her, as much as you drove about,
but I hid my wrath. Now I’m out for revenge! I’m going to show it to
her myself, and not invite you! Cicely, I’ll be here at half past
two to-morrow afternoon. Please be ready to drive with me, out to my
house--it’s a shame you’ve not been shown it!--and also wherever the
fancy takes us to go. This selfish and unfriendly Miss Miriam shall sit
here and languish, eating her heart out till we return!”
“Is it a matter so serious as a heart-consuming?” asked Miss
Braithwaite.
She caught and returned the flash of a look which Anselm darted at her.
“I’ll not pretend a virtue I lack; I hope so!” he said.
Cis was ready when he came for her; he helped her into his car, and she
cried out, almost reproachfully:
“A new car! Why are men always changing cars? What did you do with that
nice one, the roadster?”
“Turned it in; I don’t need two. I thought when Paul and Jeanette were
married, and you were here, we’d need the five passenger; we can take
Miss Braithwaite, too. But please don’t speak of _that_ nice one; as
if it weren’t _this_ nice one! Let me tell you I’m proud of this car!”
Anselm said as he shoved out the brake and started.
“Of course you are! They always are! Boys of new knives; men of new
cars! They are much alike, aren’t they?” said Cis.
“Knives and cars? Oh, I don’t know; I could always distinguish the
differences,” Anselm remarked.
“Boys and men! I never thought you would be stupid!” Cis said severely.
“I’ll prove to you I’m not, if you’ll wait a bit!” Anselm’s remark
sounded like a continuation of the nonsense they were happily talking,
but his look silenced Cis, and set her nervously wondering why it made
her nervous.
The Lancaster house was far finer than Cis had expected to find it.
She had known all along that Anselm Lancaster had wealth; he used it
generously, and it must have been considerable for him to accomplish
with it all that he did. But ocular proof is another thing from
hearsay. Here was a house of great dignity, standing in the midst of
considerable land, approached by an avenue of old trees. Its solid
doors, opening, revealed a stately hall; in the rooms opening from the
hall Cis found old furniture, beautiful and stately. Pictures which
even her untrained eye instantly knew for good ones, hung on the walls;
bronzes, a tall clock, all sorts of beauty which was evidently the slow
accumulation by many people with taste and means to gratify it, filled
the house.
“How beautiful!” cried Cis. “Why, Mr. Lancaster, it’s what the novels
call a mansion! It’s as fine as Miss Braithwaite’s house!”
“They are contemporaries. Her great-grandfather and mine, and each
generation since, have been friends. This house was built when hers
was. My people were not Catholics, till my grandmother married a
Lancaster and brought this house to him; she became a Catholic after
she had married him. My father married a saintly woman; it is two
generations--I the third--since the Lancaster house became a Catholic
home. Now I try to make it a home for converts who are put to too hard
a test at first; a temporary home, of course. I’m more than glad that
you like my house, Cicely!”
Anselm spoke in a curious muffled voice, and Cis smiled up at him,
disturbed, at a loss to account for it, and for the disturbance which
she recognized in him. “How could I not like it?” she said.
“Will you come to see my dear mother’s sitting room?” Anselm asked,
going toward the stairs. “It is up one flight. It is like a chapel to
me; I’ve often wanted to make it into one, but there are necessary
sleeping rooms over it; I can’t use it for a chapel. It is the room in
which I was happiest as a child, though I was always happy. It is the
room where I learned to love books and all beauty, and where my soul
was born through the soul of that lovely creature who gave me physical
life.”
Cis followed him, wondering, deeply moved. This was not the Anselm
Lancaster she knew, yet it was not the contradiction of him; rather
it was his efflorescence. He led her into a small, light room, facing
toward the sunset, which was not yet, nor for hours, due. Evidently the
room had not been changed since it had been used by the mother whom he
had so dearly loved. Books, a work-basket, were on the table; a low
armchair, considerably worn, stood beside the table. Anselm gently put
Cis into it, and stood before her.
“My mother’s chair, dear Cicely,” he said. “I like to see you there.
How you would have loved each other! Cis, dear, lovely, glowing Cicely,
don’t you know what I’ve brought you here to tell you? Don’t you know?
Haven’t you guessed?”
Slowly Cis shook her head, looking at him intently, as if she were
groping her way, her mind rejecting the one explanation of his words
that it could present to her.
“Why, I love you, Cis! That’s what it is. That’s easy to guess, easier
to understand!” cried Anselm.
“No, no, no! It’s impossible to understand!” cried Cis.
“You’re going to marry me, dearest; you’re going to be here in my
mother’s place, always. Can’t you love me? I love you so much!” Anselm
pleaded.
“I never once thought of it; never once!” Cis cried.
“You don’t have to think of it; just do it!” Anselm said boyishly.
“I think you are the best, the finest--” began Cis, but he interrupted
her with an impatient exclamation.
“Good heavens, Cis, stop! That’s nothing to tell me, nor to feel! Love
me; don’t admire me!”
“Isn’t it? I think I couldn’t love anyone I didn’t admire,” said Cis,
trying to find her puzzled way. “I loved someone; you know that. I was
crazy to see him; it made my breath short when he came; I--One doesn’t
love again, does she? But I know now that I couldn’t love him last
winter because I didn’t admire him.”
“Cis, dear,” began Anselm, sitting on the edge of the table as if
he meant to argue it out, “I think we don’t love again in that same
first way; it’s the dream of youth. I had it, too, but I was only a
lad of seventeen when I fell madly in love. You were older than I when
it happened to you but you were not much older, and you were no more
experienced, and experience is what counts in these things. There
is a glamor over everything that is part of that time of life, and
we have our first love hard. But, dear, it’s not in the same class
with our later, mature love. Do you imagine I felt for that little
fluffy girl of twenty whom I loved when I was seventeen, anything
like what I feel for you? Nor was that first love of yours, which you
so bravely conquered for God’s sake, the love you’ll feel for your
husband, who will be one with you in all things of soul and body. Cis,
honestly--though it may sound conceited--I am sure you love me. Will
you be sure of it? Father Morley, Miss Braithwaite, Jeanette, hope for
it.”
“Oh! Do they all know?” gasped Cis.
“That I love you? Surely. Blind little Cis not to have known it
yourself! But now that you do know it--”
“I couldn’t so much as think of marrying you!” Cis hastily interrupted
him. “Why, I’d be--what would I be? One of the people brought into a
country to serve it, then deserting its flag--a traitor! That’s it!
Miss Braithwaite imported me to live with her, be almost a daughter to
her. Much good I’d do her if I--”
“Now, Cicely, can’t you trust Miss Miriam to me?” Anselm interrupted
in his turn. “Do you suppose we haven’t discussed my hopes? Haven’t I
just told you that she wanted them fulfilled? Good mothers do not want
to mortgage their daughters’ lives; they want them to find their own
places and happily fill them. Miss Braithwaite shall not lose you if
I win you, dear one! She is most anxious for this marriage, Cis. ‘Cis
must come to me, Anselm; then you shall woo her at your best. She shall
be in her home, the home that holds you part of it, and I hope that
will incline her to harken to you. But if not, then at least she is
still in her own home; the dear child will be made secure however she
decides.’ That is what she said to me, Cicely beloved, before I went
away to try to bring you back. Marry me, then there will be another
besides ourselves happy; Miss Miriam the third rejoicing.”
“I don’t see how you can possibly mean that you want to marry me!” said
Cis slowly abandoning Miss Braithwaite’s cause. “Don’t you think you
mean someone else?”
“I distinctly think that I mean no one else!” cried Anselm. “Do I
strike you as positively feeble-minded? There’s no difficulty in
telling you from all others. I can tell you apart literally, quite
apart from all others created! And I’m not grave and settled down; I’m
only thirty-eight, darling! Are you thinking of me as solemn, serious,
almost elderly? No, no; I’m not! I’m your lover, Cis, and he loves
you more than he can tell you. Will you come here, Cis, desire of my
heart? Will you help me in the beautiful schemes we’ve discussed? Take
my mother’s place, but fill only your own place, my wife’s place, my
helpmeet’s place--and more; a thousand times more!”
“You are meant to be a real helpmeet to a fine man.” Cis heard Father
Morley’s voice again saying these words to her. He had known when
he said it that Anselm meant to ask her to marry him; he wanted her
to marry Anselm, though Anselm was a great man, while she was only
red-haired Cicely Adair!
It came upon her with an irresistible rush of conviction that she did
love Anselm, that she had been loving him and had not known it. For how
could she ever have thought of his loving her? Yet this was why all
other things, Nan, her old home, Rodney Moore seemed insufficient to
her; this was why she had been restless, longing, unsatisfied. What a
life it was that opened out before her in this house, the wife of this
man, his helpmeet, his beloved!
Distrust of herself, the magnitude of the joy stretching out before
her drove her into the true woman’s dalliance with yielding to this
unforeseen bliss.
She must hold off for a little while the glorious submergence of
herself out of which she knew would arise the truer, greater self which
would forevermore be Cicely.
“Take me home,” Cis said rising. “I cannot answer yet.”
Obediently Anselm followed her toward the door, but he looked bitterly
disappointed. Cis halted, wavering, on the threshold, as her heart
smote her for this look. This was Anselm’s mother’s room, the sanctuary
of his childhood, the shrine of a tender love. It would be sweet to
make him happy here; he had brought her hither for this.
She was a generous Cicely, albeit a frightened one. She turned fully
and faced Anselm.
“I think I do. Love you, I mean. I’ll come,” she said.
He caught her, reverently, gratefully, yet most lovingly in his arms
and kissed her flaming hair, her white brow, her closed eyes, and at
last, with the bridegroom’s kiss, he kissed her sweet lips.
The great cable which had held her fast, had also drawn Cis safe into
port.
THE END
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