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.