The cable

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.”