“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: