The cable

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.”