"MY BEST FRIEND"
Father McGowan frowned.
"I love him," said Cecilia. "I don't care who knows it. Where's
your handkerchief? I--I guess I've lost mine."
Father McGowan supplied the handkerchief. Cecilia dabbed her eyes.
"You see she's so attractive," she went on, "and I'm--I'm not so
very. And then John, and everything. I'm ashamed of crying like
this." She gulped again. Father McGowan covered her small hand with
his. "Dear child!" he said gently. "Dear child!"
The fire leaped, spluttered and hissed with capricious change.
Outside the weather was grey, with a drab touch in the air. The sky
was a shivery colour. Cecilia and Father McGowan sat on a wide
davenport in the library.
"Where is he now?" asked Father McGowan.
"Playing tennis with Marjory," said Cecilia. She again dabbed Father
McGowan's handkerchief on her eyes.
"Oh, drat!" said Father McGowan fiercely. He put his other hand over
the small one which lay in his. Cecilia tightened her fingers about
his thumb.
"I've been so miserable," she said, "that I've even thought of being
a nun. I would if it weren't for papa, and John,--and my hair. (I
couldn't bear to have it cut.) And he shows so plainly that he likes
her, and then she tells me what he says,--oh, dear!"
"Darn fool!" said Father McGowan. "Is he _crazy_?" He glared at
Cecilia with his question, and she laughed unsteadily.
"I'm ashamed to bother you," she said, "but it helps, and I can't
tell papa. I think papa'd kill him. He's done nothing wrong, you
know. You can't help what your heart does." She avoided the fat
priest's eyes and looked down at her ringless left hand. "There have
been lots of men," she said, "but none I could even dream of
marrying. This is different, and--and I do! His eyes are so dear
and so is he, but I would love him anyway. I think he's the rest of
me."
"Drat!" said Father McGowan forcibly. "Drat him!"
"I wish I'd been left in the flat. Then I'd have grown up to marry
some teamster. It's only when you reach for things too high above
you that your arms begin to ache,--then papa and John, all the time
misunderstanding each other. Both of them being hurt by this
money,--and I--I _love_ him so!"
"Cecilia," said Father McGowan, "this world is full of hurts. You
have to take them as you do the weather, without a question. Some
one put them here to polish our little souls.... After you are fifty
you will accept them with thankfulness and cease questioning. The
faith of childhood will return in a bigger way, with a belief in the
absolutely unknown. Some one put them here to polish our little
souls. They are here, let them polish, not scratch."
"Yes," answered Cecilia meekly.
"Oh, drat!" said Father McGowan with an entire change of tone. "I
don't _want_ you polished. _Dear_ child! Drat him, is he _crazy_?"
Jeremiah wandered in. He was sullen. He had been talked to by a fat
priest, who told him that he should leave the discipline of a certain
doctor to God and the world, explaining that it was rarely necessary
for humans to add to any one's unhappiness by a mistaken sense of
dealing out justice.
Jeremiah had listened with his eyes on the top shelf of a gilt
cabinet which held a brick. After Father McGowan had finished,
Jeremiah had spoken of the weather, and Jeremiah was a good Catholic.
Father McGowan realised it was a bad case. He had abandoned it for
that time.
"And will yuh stay fer dinner?" asked the sullen Jeremiah.
"I _will_," answered the priest decidedly. Cecilia handed him a
handkerchief, which he folded carefully and put in his pocket. Then
she got up and played "The Shepherd Boy" for the King of Bricks.
Outside in the grey light a sullen-eyed man played tennis with
Marjory. He played with much energy and replied with scant courtesy
to Marjory's remarks.
"Cecilia said that she was tired of entertaining,--that I'd have to
do it for her," sang out the green-eyed. K. Stuyvesant's chin
squared.
"In," he called. "I'm a fool to stick around," was his mental
comment on himself. He was not surprised by the dead weight his
heart felt, although the sensation was new.
They finished their game and went toward the house. "You're doing
lots for John," said Marjory. "He adores you! Imitates your every
move! You'll try to get him through this smartness?"
In truth she did not consider it smartness, for to her it was the
natural attitude of young men. However she was clever enough to see
the way this big, silent man felt about it, and to agree outwardly.
"I'd do anything to help one girl," he said loudly. He wanted
Marjory to know how he felt about Cecilia. Perhaps she'd help him.
They reached the broad steps.
"After dinner I want to see you," whispered Marjory. "In the
garden,--alone. Something about Cecilia. By the white wall?"
"Not there," he answered quickly, "but by the Italian dial, if you
like."
In the hall he met a fat priest. The man was heartily uncordial, but
he didn't much care. After a few words he went up to his room.
There he stood by his window and looked on the grey Sound. A fog was
creeping over it. Everything was dismal and dull.
"I'm not much good," he muttered, "but no one could love her more. I
would be--so good to her. So good. Little Saint--I----" He covered
his eyes with his hands. His hands shook.
There was a tap on the door. John came in. "Hello, old chap!" he
said energetically, the languid indifference all gone from his tone.
"Can I stay and talk?" He settled, while K. Stuyyesant took a grip
on himself, and tried to bring himself to an agreeable acceptance of
his task.
In another wing of the house Cecilia was dressing. Marjory, gorgeous
in a flame-coloured negligee, lounged in a comfortable chair and
talked during the operation.
"You may go, Josephine," said Cecilia, "and thank you."
"If I treated my maid as you do yours," said Marjory, "she'd have no
respect for me."
"If I weren't decently kind," answered Cecilia, "I'd have no respect
for myself, and Josephine likes me."
"Oh, my _dear_," said Marjory, "she _adores_ you." Marjory
scrutinised her nails. "I told Stuyvesant to-day," she said, "how
much he'd done for John. You don't mind?"
"No," answered Cecilia. "He has. I'm grateful."
"He said he was glad I wanted him to, that he'd do anything for a
certain girl. He has the dearest eyes, when he looks at you--oh, you
know how----"
"Yes," answered Cecilia, "I know." There was a pause while the only
sound heard was the brush on Cecilia's hair--the soft snap and swish.
"Cecilia," said Marjory, "_were_ you engaged to Tommy Dixon?"
"Yes," answered Cecilia, "but, Marjory, I can't bear to remember it.
It--it was while I was much younger and hurt because of something
Annette Twombly had said. I thought I'd have to marry some one like
that to help papa. You know how foolish duty may be at nineteen? He
was of a splendid family. I thought papa would like it, when now I
know that all he wants is my happiness. After all, decayed flowers
from a good plant are not worth anything."
"When did you break it off?" asked Marjory.
"When he kissed me," answered Cecilia. "It taught me how intolerable
love is unless it is very true. I will always remember those kisses.
I can't forget them. What are you going to wear to-night?" Cecilia
changed the subject with suddenness, for it made her sick.
"Black," answered Marjory. Cecilia's heart sank. Marjory was so
very pretty in black! Marjory got up. "Bye, childy," she called, "I
must go." And she waved her hand airily as she went out.
On the way down the hall she repeated Cecilia's words: "I will always
remember those kisses. I can't forget them." That would do very
nicely for the little talk by the Italian dial.... She would play
sympathy, understanding. She would not lie, but if he cared to
misunderstand how could she, Marjory, help that? A sudden spark of
her honest father flew across her soul.
"I don't care!" she said in answer to it, "I love him, I really do!"
Then the love and trust of the small Cecilia twanged on a heart
chord. Marjory shut her eyes. In her mind came those of K.
Stuyvesant Twombly, as he looked when he gazed on the daughter of a
"Brick King." Marjory hardened. "She doesn't love him as I do," she
whispered; "she can't!"
She was only the echo of a single purpose: cruel in its selfishness,
animal in its origin, and savage in intensity.