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.”