“You have made heights real to us. Don’t make it hard for Dick because he can’t live on them. Live on the plains where most of the work of the world is done, live with the people who do it—and watch the heights from your window.
“I am sending you my love and I am proud as I do it.”
Cecily read his letter on a windy day in early March. She put it into the pocket of her coat and went out for a walk. As she passed the convent the open gates seemed to beckon to her. She went in and stealing down the corridor to the chapel door, sat as she had sat years ago on the ledge of the window opposite the statue of the Virgin. She remembered how frightened and allured she had been by the talk about marriage. “An institution for the establishment of a home and the bringing up of children.” That, her heart cried out; yes, that, but so much more, so infinitely much more. A shrine for the love of man and woman—a shrine which she had somehow desecrated!
Her thoughts tormented her. Hither and thither they tossed her. She turned towards the door of the convent and asked for Mother Fénelon. Mother Fénelon took her hands from under her black robe and placed them on Cecily’s shoulders.
“Still in trouble, Cecily?”
Cecily nodded.
“Are you living with your husband?”
She shook her head.
“Go to him, my dear——”
“Don’t,” cried Cecily. “Don’t, please.”