The cable

PRECISELY because she wanted exceedingly to stay away from the girls and neglect the arrangement of their new rooms in the telephone building, Cis arose betimes the next morning and went out early. She could not rid herself of the conviction that the man whose chivalry had so impressed Tom the previous night was Anselm Lancaster, and she wanted to stay in the house, hoping that, if it were he, he would come to look her up. It had been long, and seemed longer to Cis, since she had heard from Miss Braithwaite. Mr. Lancaster had shown no remembrance of her existence for months; it was now close upon May day, and spring in the air increased Cis’s restless dissatisfaction, filling her with a homesickness which was farther reaching and deeper than homesickness for a definite place.

She told herself that it was absurd to identify Tom’s hero on so slender a ground, and quite unpardonable to mope around the house expecting Mr. Lancaster to call on her. “You never were silly when it was the time to be silly; don’t begin it now, Cis Adair,” she sternly told herself.

So she went down to look after her girls’ organization earlier than usual, in order to rebuke her own tendency to folly, but, like most of us, she compromised with her weakness.

“I’m not coming back to lunch, Nancy,” she casually told Nan. “I’ve looked up that bunch of little ragamuffin newsies I used to chum with before I went away. I could not find them all, but I found two or three, and they’ll find the rest—one, Tony, whom I liked a great deal, is dead, poor little chap; was run over by a motor truck, they tell me. I’ve been thinking I missed my chance to do more than amuse them and give them a little pleasure when I was here; I’m going to see if I can make amends. I told them I’d give them the price of their papers if they’d spend the afternoon with me, take a holiday. They didn’t seem to object! I’m going to take them out to the picnic glen on a hike, and give them a good time—I hope! I went out there yesterday and hid tin boxes, filled with candy, around in the rocks, and under the shrubbery, enough for each to have one; they’ll have to divide fairly if anybody finds more than one. And when they’ve worked down some of their spirits I’m going to tell them a story, and lead up to my point—missionary point, you know! Good plan?”

“It’s a dear plan, Cis!” cried Nan. “What a Cis you are! I’d like to be good your way!”

“Fiddlesticks! My way is to try to make up the least bit for not being half-way good, never once caring to give the little chaps a push in the right direction. You don’t have to pay up for lost chances, Nan,” cried Cis impatiently. “I could have done almost anything with those boys then. Well, that’s milk that is not only spilled, but soaked down into the ground; no use crying over it. If you need me, Nan, if the baby begins to talk, or has the croup, or anything like that, you’ll find me at the picnic glen.”

Cis laughed, a little shame-facedly as she made it clear to Nan where not only she, but anyone else who happened to want her might find her.

At half past one Cis, with a fringe on her garment’s edge, of small boys, and a few larger ones, went briskly swinging out toward the pretty country which surrounded the little city. They were bound on a four mile walk; they would end it, at the pace they were taking it, in something over an hour and a quarter. Cis ordered her troop to sing, herself leading the dubious chorus, sung in as many variations of key and tune as was possible to the number singing. The words held most of the time in place; even little flat-faced Jimmy Devlin, who sang on one note, situated in the depth of his diapraghm, kept valiantly to the time, so the tortured music held the feet to their task.

The glen was really pretty. It was damp and fragrant with the spring moisture and odors; with the delicious earth newly released from frost, the little shoots, the new growths of bark; somewhere out of sight were violets, and on the rocks saxifrage, clustering tiny white stars on an erect stem.

The boys’ delight was satisfying even to Cis, who passionately longed to put four hours and better of unadulterated joy into these meagre little lives. They went on a violent hunt for her hidden boxes of candy, unearthed them, every one, and willingly gave each boy who had been slower than the rest the share which he had failed to discover. They played games, yelling like mad, till, at last, they were ready to drop down on the platform put up for dancing, upon which Cis insisted as a seat because the high temperature of this summerlike April day had not had time to dry the wet ground. They subsided to munch candy and let her have her way with them.

Cis had carefully planned her story, and she told it well, the story of an imaginary little Roman boy, who might have lived, who dearly loved St. Sebastian. She told them how this brave young soldier and his little friend had died, for she made her fictitious little citizen of the City of the Catacombs share the fate of the older youth, whose story was true.

Then leaning toward the lads whose eyes were fixed upon her own, clasping her hands, her eager face flushed and earnest, her glorious red hair shining under a ray of sunshine until it seemed to illumine the shady glen, Cis begged her little adorers to hold fast to that for which Sebastian’s arrows had been faced, for which those little lads of old—and many since—had truly lived and gladly died.

Thus it was that Anselm Lancaster, coming down the glen from behind her, found Cis, and paused to wonder, with reverence added to the admiration he had already learned to feel for her.

One of the boys discovered him, and started up from his prone position, with a threatening gesture.

“Who’s de guy? Here, this is a private show; no buttin’ in!” he cried.

Anselm Lancaster laughed, and came forward as Cis leaped up and faced him, knowing at the first syllable of her indignant little guest’s protest, whom she should see.

“It is a mean trick to butt in, I’m afraid,” Mr. Lancaster said. “Miss Adair, will you tolerate a larger boy here?”

He stood smiling, tall and handsome, as different from ordinary men as Tom had described him; as far beyond them, Cis thought, seeing him anew after so long a time.

“Mr. Lancaster!” she cried, as if she had not been expecting him all the afternoon; wondering in the back of her brain why he did not come; if it had not been he, after all, whom Tom had seen in the station. “Where did you come from? And how glad I am that you did come!”

“Then you don’t resent what your small friend here calls my butting in?” Mr. Lancaster suggested, looking no less happy than the smallest boy there.

“I went to see you, but your friend Mrs.?—Nan?—told me that you were away, and how to find you. She seemed to think I might come to the glen. You look well? Yes, I think you look well, but I’m not sure of it; you are not just as you were in Beaconhite, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” said Cis. “But I’m perfectly well. What of Miss Braithwaite?”

“She is at home again. She was going to write you, but when I suggested seeing you instead, she jumped at the idea. She said it was because she detests letter writing, but I think she wanted closer communication with you, to get my report of you. I came on with Paul, Paul Randolph. He is going to marry Miss Lucas—but she said that she had told you,” Mr. Lancaster checked himself.

“She did. I hoped—I mean I thought perhaps—Well, he is lucky, that’s certain. I’d be glad to have him marry Jeanette if I were his friend,” Cis stammered, confused.

Anselm Lancaster elevated his eyebrows with a quizzical look. He quite well knew what Cis would have said if she had gone on with the beginning of her sentence. But all that he said was:

“I suspect it is one of your secret employments to provide for your friends’ happiness! And aren’t you glad that these two are engaged, being a friend of Miss Lucas? Indeed you well may be; Paul Randolph is a fine fellow!”

“Oh, I know he is! I admired him last summer, but Jeanette is fit for the best, and I’m glad, surely! She’s perfectly happy. Mr. Lancaster, I’ve got to see to the boys! Do you mind? I’d far rather not, but see that pair over there? That tussle is getting too earnest.” Cis pointed to wrestling that was rapidly degenerating into a fight.

“I’ve done a meddlesome thing. I want to tell the lads about it before I tell you, because then you can’t betray how angry you are with me! But first may I show that pair—the others will not stand off long!—a trick or two of Japanese wrestling? Don’t be afraid; I’ll show them how to use it properly. They won’t come to harm, and boys have to scrap; kittens and puppies do, too, you know!” Anselm Lancaster began to take off his coat as he spoke, not waiting for Cicely’s assent to his proposal.

She looked at him wondering. Was this the man whom she had feared, even when she felt most at home with him and admired him? His nearly forty years had been thrown off as he was throwing off his coat; he was like one of the older boys among her guests, except that his body showed the fine lines of breeding and training as he faced the lads, the wind blowing his silken shirt and rumpling his brown hair.

“Come on, boys!” he said tightening his belt and settling the loose collar of his shirt. “I know a thing or two about the way the Japs wrestle. Stand up to me, you biggest boy over there, and I’ll give you some points which you’ll find good to know, if ever you’re in a tight place. I’ll teach the whole crowd, but you come on first. And in case the lady in whose charge we’re all here, she-that-must-be-obeyed, is afraid we’ll be too late getting home, I’ll tell you that we aren’t going to walk it. I ordered a truck to come after us at six; it will hold us all, and get us back to town in fifteen minutes; less! How does it strike you?”

It struck them into silence for the space of a breath, and then into a babel of noisy approval.

“Oh, Mr. Lancaster, how kind you are! And what a lark!” cried Cis, flushed with delight. “Boys, if you’re yelling, yell right! Three times three for Mr. Lancaster! Come on; I’ll lead!”

Cis bent over and waved her arms in the approved manner; she had led her school yells in days past. The nine cheers were given deafeningly, ending with: “Rah, rah, rah; Lancaster!” which the boys approved, though they missed its meaning.

Then Mr. Lancaster initiated the boys into the beginnings of Jiu-jitsu till the big truck came into the glen, and they all piled in warm, hungry, blissfully happy.

Mr. Lancaster stood on the running board and looked the boys over.

“Going to stick to Mass every Sunday, and stand by like good fellows, every one of you? Come now, that’s to be a promise! Don’t make it unless you mean to keep it, but make it and keep it; see the idea?” he said.

He put out his hand to each boy in turn, and each boy put his grimy hand into it, and gave the promise.

The truck made the four miles of homeward road in less than fifteen minutes. When the boys had all dispersed, Mr. Lancaster turned to Cis.

“Fine party, Miss Cis,” he said. “Some day, after they’ve broken that promise, some of those lads will remember it again and that you were a good sport, yet loved God.”

“They’ll remember much more that the fine gentleman who could wrestle and jump was not a deserter,” retorted Cis warmly. “I can’t thank you for making my party so splendid, the ride back and everything, but you don’t want my thanks! Will you come with me to supper at Nan’s? She’ll be delighted if you will come. Or—where shall I hear about Miss Braithwaite?”

“When I come for you to-night. We are to spend the evening with Miss Lucas—Paul being understood!” replied Anselm Lancaster promptly. “Will you be ready at shortly after eight? We have important matters to settle; I’m an ambassador.”

“From Miss Braithwaite?” cried Cis. “Oh, Mr. Lancaster, I want to see her! I miss it all so much!”

“Good to hear that!” He smiled at her. “I won’t tell you my errand now, but you will walk slowly and let me present my credentials from the Lady Miriam to-night?”

“Oh, yes!” Cis laughed from sheer pleasure. “I’ve been getting homesick. Nan is as dear as ever, good, and sweet and dear, but she is so much married!”

Anselm Lancaster laughed. “She met me with a handsome baby on her hip; I thought she seemed to like him! But she assured me that you were almost as fond of him as she is; this was when I commented on his charms,” he said.

“Like him! Well, yes, Nan does like him!” Cis laughed also. “And I am nearly as mad over him as she is, but—” Cis hesitated.

“But the finest baby is not a career for any other woman save his mother! Then to-night? It is good to see you again, Miss Cicely,” Mr. Lancaster said.

That night Mr. Lancaster came to Nan’s door a little before the appointed hour. “I seem to be arranging things to suit myself to-day,” he announced to Cis when she appeared. “I called up Miss Lucas and said that I had to see you to-night on behalf of Miss Braithwaite, and that we would not spend the evening there. Instead, I have found a car like my own at the garage and have taken it for the evening. It is a beautiful night, soft little breeze, pleasant-tempered little moon! I’m going to drive you about and talk to you. Do you mind?”

“Not a bit!” Cis hoped that she did not betray how little she minded. “I must get a heavier wrap, though. Just a minute, and I’ll be ready.”

“Whither away?” asked Mr. Lancaster, when Cis was disposed on the seat beside him, a light-weight rug over her knees.

“Anywhere! I don’t care where; I don’t know many roads beyond here, though I was born and brought up here. I don’t think it matters much which direction you take.”

“We’ll recklessly drive and turn corners, and after a while have to ask the way back! That sounds alluring. I always wanted to be lost!” cried Anselm Lancaster.

“Oh, did you? So did I!” cried Cis. “I used to try to lose myself when I was a little girl, but I have an Indian’s sense of direction, and I always went right!”

“Great thing to have a true sense of direction, and go right when roads are obscure,” said Anselm.

Cis did not answer; she heard a sub-meaning in his voice, and wondered if he were thinking of her bewilderment nearly two years ago.

“Now, about Miss Braithwaite,” said Anselm, getting away from her silence and her thoughts, which he divined, and from his own meaning which he knew that she had caught. “Miss Miriam’s friend has died, after agony that must have directly opened heaven to her. Miss Miriam stayed by her to the end; it was not easy to see. But there’s no use dwelling on that, beyond resolving to make her return home as cheerful as possible. You know what Miss Braithwaite is; she does not repine, and she has met this torture in the spirit that is hers. It’s almost harder to see agony that can’t be relieved, except by anaesthetics daily losing their efficacy, than it is to bear it. Miss Miriam is sixty-five years old, dear Miss Cis. That isn’t old; we know how unfailing her strength is, her strength of character, of mind, of efficiency, but old age may be seen coming along at sixty-five, much as if she were standing on the corner waiting for a trolley transfer, and the other trolley which she was to take were bounding down its track toward her.”

“I don’t want Miss Braithwaite to be old! I can’t bear to think of it. She’s one of those persons who should never be old; so clever, so brilliant, so highly good!” protested Cis.

“And so vital,” added Anselm. “I can’t imagine her old. But it would be hard to deny her the reward of the qualities which make us want to hold her fast; I imagine that, while she willingly lives and works, she will be glad to lay down this life when she is permitted to. No one whose appraisals are as accurate as hers can value life in itself. However, that’s beyond our authority. She is lonely, dear Miss Cis, and she had grown fond of you, dependent on your youth, your sense of humor, your mind, which in all its workings responds to hers.”

“Oh, me!” cried Cis. “Why, I’m only twenty-three, for one thing, and I’m not clever, nor travelled, nor well-read, so—”

“It isn’t nice to set up tenpins for me to bowl over,” Anselm teased her. “No one can safely drive and bowl at the same time. You know quite well that Miss Braithwaite was happy with you. You were a bright spot in her charming, but silent house. The proof of this is that she wants you back. She was going to write to you, but I’m her ambassador, as I told you this afternoon. She bids me beg of you to come back, back to stay, to make your home with her permanently, unless you find something else that calls to your true vocation as we both think you will. She bade me say that if it made you happier to resume your secretaryship, she was entirely willing, or for you to take up any other work, if you like to be occupied, feel independent. She says that this is not necessary; there would be no question of obligation to her, ‘she needs you too badly’—that is what she said—but she will not oppose you. ‘All that she asks is that she may see your bright head beside her hearth, know that you are coming home to her, as her daughter would come, at the close of every day.’ That is literally her message, Miss Cicely. I do not think that you can find it in your heart to say her no.”

Cis did not speak for a few minutes. Anselm went on silently guiding the smooth motion of the car, guessing that she was as deeply moved as she actually was. At last Cis spoke, saying:

“You must know how this makes me feel, Mr. Lancaster. She has been so good to me; she is so wonderful, and now this! And I am alone. I don’t suppose anybody, no matter how young and strong and jolly she may be, can help feeling alone when she is alone! It’s strange that Miss Braithwaite wants me now. I have been growing restless, unsatisfied; I don’t know what is wrong. I don’t enjoy being here. I love the baby and Nan, but—I’m ashamed, but Miss Braithwaite, and Father Morley and you, and even the big things in Mr. Lucas’ office, have all spoiled me for nice, steady, dull little days! I’m not better than Nan in brains; not nearly as good in the other sense, but, I’ve been fed on stronger food. Even her marriage—Joe is really a good boy; I do like him, but—Well, it isn’t what you’d think it would be; what I’d think it would be, anyway! It’s just like bread and butter three times a day, every day in the year!”

Anselm Lancaster laughed, but he shook his head.

“Don’t you get to craving things too far beyond common human experience,” he warned her. “The fact that it is called common experience means that it is the best lot for the majority. I’ll warrant that to your Nan her husband is an oracle of wisdom, and a fount of charm! She’s safe, too; remember that’s no small asset in marriage. The sort of marriage that you describe goes peacefully into old age, undiminished in satisfaction, while hundreds are shipwrecked around it which started out to a glorious fanfare of the trumpets of romance and unfounded idealization. However, I grant you that sort of life is not for you. You have outgrown your childhood comrades, the malnutritive food of little minds. You’ve been living at high speed for three years, Cicely Adair; you’ve left behind you the things of your childhood. Just how does all this apply to Miss Braithwaite’s appeal to you to come to her? I’d say that it made it most opportune.”

“It does, oh, it does!” cried Cis. “It takes my breath away. To go back feeling that I’m wanted, maybe needed; that I’m to go to make a home there; that all that beautiful, helpful life for others will be my life; that I’ll read, think, learn, have Father Morley to guide me—Mr. Lancaster, I’ve spoken to you frankly, just as I always did. I’ve always felt that you would understand. You won’t think I was criticizing dear little Nannie? I’d give my head to be as good as she is; dear little soul, always putting me up, and herself down! But—I want Beaconhite, and what I had there. Tell me truthfully, is it right for me to go? Ought I go?”

Anselm Lancaster let the car drop down to a low speed, and turned to look at Cis, with an expression on his face which, though she saw it clearly in the brilliant light of the interior of the car, she could not construe.

“Yes, Cicely,” he said. “Truthfully I think that your place is there. I love Miss Miriam dearly; she is more to me than any of my kindred, more than any other friend. If it were only that you can be to her, now that she needs sustaining, what you can be would seem to me enough reason for your going, you who are entirely free to go and do as you will. She has been a real power for good, an instrument which has helped to carve out the way for others to follow her into the Catholic Church, and one whose charity has bridged many a poor wretch back into a possible manner of living when hope seemed over for him. What can you ask better than to repay some of the debt God’s children owe this woman? And you say that she has done much for you. I think that your place is in Beaconhite. If the decision rests with me, I say: Come! Thrice over: Come! And may all that lies ahead of you there, all that may come of it, be blessed and guided. How can I say aught else, save: Come?”

Cis looked up at him with a tiny smile, her under lip slightly drawn in, as a child who is half grieved, half glad smiles. She had many childish ways of face and hands; Anselm Lancaster and Miss Braithwaite found them her greatest charm.

“How beautiful to have what you want most to do also your duty!” she murmured.

“It always is when she who desires is innocent of wrong-doing, whose heart is God’s first of all,” said Anselm Lancaster, his words barely audible above the softly purring engine. “Don’t you know, Cicely of the red-gold locks, that desire is one of the marks of a vocation? It was the Puritans who put into our heads the notion that it was praiseworthy to hate the thing one chooses. Love Beaconhite and Miss Braithwaite and choose them! Amen.”