“She’ll be married on Christmas; she has hurried her arrangements because she wants us married together. Dear little Nannie! Good little Nan! She is happy, but she deserves to be. I hope she will be, always,” Cis murmured, her face wistful, sad, but a gentle smile in her eyes.
“Well, dear, happiness is a term of comparison, but it usually takes years to teach us this,” said Miss Braithwaite. “If your little bride-friend is good, with the sort of goodness you convey an impression of, she is likely to be happy. Enkindled people rise to rapture, but they sink into wretchedness; it’s safer to shine by refraction than to be enkindled, my dear.”
“How do you know the things you understand, Miss Braithwaite?” cried Cis. “I have hardly talked of Nan to you, yet you have her measure! I must write her, tell her. It will make her most unhappy! I don’t know how I can tell her I’m not to be married, after all. Nan will feel like a thief to be happy when I’m not. And she has taken the same day, so that we could be happy together, though apart. I won’t tell her anything except that my plan is all off, done with forever. I bought some lovely, perfectly beautiful damask, Miss Braithwaite; three table-cloths, napkins for each, and I’ve been doing hemstitched hems. They were for me, you know, for—Luckily they’re not marked yet. I’m not much good at embroidery, though I drew the threads and hemstitched quite decently. I was going to have them marked, embroidered letters, you know—‘C. A.’ I’d better have them marked A. M. D.—Anne Margaret Dowling—and send them to Nan, hadn’t I? Would that be nice? I almost feel as though anything of mine might bring her bad luck!”
“There’s no such thing as bad luck, Cis child!” cried Miss Braithwaite, trying not to let Cis see how much her quiet renunciation of her sweet hopes, stitched into her linen, moved her. “I am sure that your damask would bring Nan blessing; it is a cloth from an altar of sacrifice! It would be a beautiful gift, child, and Nan need not know, not now, at least, that it was at first intended for another home.”
“I’ll go around to Miss Wallace’s to-day and get it then,” said Cis with a grateful look for her hostess. “And, Miss Braithwaite, I’ve got to plan. I’ve a good position here, I like Beaconhite, and I’ve got to live somewhere, but—I’ll always be afraid to walk out; I can’t meet Rod. Don’t you think, perhaps, I’d better go away? Not home; somewhere? And, oh, do you think Rod will try to see me? Miss Braithwaite, I can’t see him! What shall I do?”
“I’ve been considering these points, Cis, my dear,” said Miss Braithwaite, evidently equipped with a decision upon them. “I am sure that Rodney Moore will try to see you once. I think that he will come here; he will hardly attempt to say to you what he will want to say in the street, meeting you on your way to and from the Lucas and Henderson offices. You need not see him here; I will see him for you. After that, I am hopeful that he will let you alone. I do not know him, but I know human nature, and I believe that after I have seen him for you, he will let you alone. As to keeping on with the office, that is as you please. But, Cicely, I have a proposition which I want you to consider; to be truthful, I do not want you to consider it, but to take it up at once. I am a solitary woman in this great house, with no one but servants around me. I want you to spend the winter here, with me. I hope for your help in my schemes; Father Morley’s girls’ club, my tatterdemalions, other things. You are young, attractive, bright; you can do all sorts of work for these objects. Then, for me, you can do more! Be a little fond of me, talk to me, companion me. And, last not least, for yourself; read my books—perhaps not every one on those shelves, but many of them; play a little, study a little, think a great deal; you went through school, now give yourself a little riper, deeper, higher education! And, Cis, dear, learn your faith! It seems a pity to miss its beauty, the joy it has for you, when you’ve bravely embraced unhappiness for it! As if you had risked your life for one almost a stranger, as you thought, and suddenly discovered it was your dearest, beloved friend! You’ll be delighted with the Church, my dear, when you get acquainted with her beauty! Dear, you’ve missed happiness and it’s hard, but happiness more profound and lasting is within your reach; I promise it to you! Now, Cis, will you stay with me?”
“Oh, Miss Braithwaite, I’d just dearly love to!” cried Cicely, springing up to throw herself on her knees beside Miss Braithwaite, her radiant head on her shoulder, sobbing a little, yet with the first ray of comforting hope penetrating her despair.
Cicely arose the next morning to resume life on its new basis, yet under its old routine. This is, perhaps, the hardest strain imposed upon anyone who is newly bereft, by death or by the crueller deprivations of life. To go once more amid the familiar surroundings, greet the accustomed faces with a surface smile, seeing with bewildered amazement that the eyes smiling back recognize one for the same person that they have always seen though one feels like a shade walking the earth in the semblance of life, this is to deepen that painful sense of remoteness from common experience, which is the lasting hallmark of profound suffering.
It was decided that Cis was to spend the winter with Miss Braithwaite. She was glad to accept the shelter of this house, yet more glad of the home open to her in the affections of this clever and spiritual gentlewoman than of the actual shelter of her dignified roof. For Cis, to her own bewilderment, found herself with little of her natural self-reliance. Beaten down by her recent struggle, though she had emerged victorious, she was scarred and torn by wounds still bleeding; she had accurately described herself to Miss Braithwaite as not knowing “how to walk.”
Miss Braithwaite’s hand guiding her was strong and warm; she sustained her stumbling feet, poured the wine of her wholesome, humorous point of view into her wounds, and, at the same time, taught her to see the Perfect Beauty which by its perfection made all else worthless.