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!”