“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.