“No! I’ll go with you! Take me—I’ll follow you, Ellen; go ahead,” said Rodney, starting toward the door.
“Rodney Moore, you forget yourself! Stay where you are. Ellen, do as I have told you; this young man will wait here for your return.”
Miss Braithwaite drew herself up to her full five feet of height, but there was in her eyes and voice that which no one ever lightly disobeyed. Muttering something, Rodney fell back, and stood beside the library table, fumbling the magazines upon it with shaking hands.
There was perfect silence in the room for a strained quarter of an hour of waiting. A log on the fire broke and fell apart; Rodney jumped, his nerves quivering from sleepless nights and days of baffled will, together with fear as to Cicely’s fate. Then Ellen returned and handed back to Rodney the note which he had sent to Cis. Upon it she had written, almost illegibly, across the final page:
“Rod, dear, I can’t see you, truly I can’t. It would be harder for us both. I would give up anything on earth for you, but I will not give up God for you. Please, Rod, don’t try to see me, never, oh, never! And please, please, Rod dear, not so much forgive me as say to yourself: Poor Cis—Holly was right. It is right to serve God first. And be a good boy yourself, Rod, my beloved, and come back, too, so that after a few little years we’ll be together forever and ever. But till then, please let this be good-bye. Cis.”
Rodney crushed the poor little note in the palm of his hand, then he smoothed it out, laying it flat on his hand. Then he looked down on it, standing quite still. Then he bent down to it and kissed it. Miss Braithwaite knew that the long, silent waiting for it; the reaction from his harrowing fear, now that he knew Cis was safe; his proximity to her; his better self, perhaps the graces of his boyhood, had conquered. Rodney had struck his colors and accepted defeat.
“This settles it, Miss Braithwaite,” he said. “There’s nothing more to hang around for. You are right; Cis decides it herself. I beg your pardon for my impertinence, but—”
“I shall not remember it, Mr. Moore; you have been sorely tried. I do not wonder that your nerves snapped. Will you let me say to you that with all my heart I wish you well? Happy, too, though I know the word sounds mocking in your ears to-night?” Miss Braithwaite’s voice was exceedingly kind; her heart went out to Rodney, whose state was immeasurably more to be pitied than Cicely’s.
“Thanks,” said Rod miserably. “It does sound what you might call far-fetched. You might tell Cicely, if you will, that I’m going away; I won’t stay in Beaconhite. I haven’t the heart to stay; I’d be always looking along the streets for her. Tell her I’ll stick with the same concern, and, if she ever needed me for anything, to address me in care of Hammersley and Rhodes, Chicago. That’s the head office, and they’ll forward anything. Good night, Miss Braithwaite. Is Cis staying with you long?”
“I hope all winter,” said Miss Braithwaite. “It’s only fair to her to tell you that she has gone through utter agony; her victory over herself has been hard won, so don’t underrate it, and try to see the value of eternal things, if such a girl as our Cicely Adair can turn from joy and love for their sake. Cis could not go to you into the wrong; come to her into the right. And God bless you, poor lad.”