“I don’t want Miss Braithwaite to be old! I can’t bear to think of it. She’s one of those persons who should never be old; so clever, so brilliant, so highly good!” protested Cis.
“And so vital,” added Anselm. “I can’t imagine her old. But it would be hard to deny her the reward of the qualities which make us want to hold her fast; I imagine that, while she willingly lives and works, she will be glad to lay down this life when she is permitted to. No one whose appraisals are as accurate as hers can value life in itself. However, that’s beyond our authority. She is lonely, dear Miss Cis, and she had grown fond of you, dependent on your youth, your sense of humor, your mind, which in all its workings responds to hers.”
“Oh, me!” cried Cis. “Why, I’m only twenty-three, for one thing, and I’m not clever, nor travelled, nor well-read, so—”
“It isn’t nice to set up tenpins for me to bowl over,” Anselm teased her. “No one can safely drive and bowl at the same time. You know quite well that Miss Braithwaite was happy with you. You were a bright spot in her charming, but silent house. The proof of this is that she wants you back. She was going to write to you, but I’m her ambassador, as I told you this afternoon. She bids me beg of you to come back, back to stay, to make your home with her permanently, unless you find something else that calls to your true vocation as we both think you will. She bade me say that if it made you happier to resume your secretaryship, she was entirely willing, or for you to take up any other work, if you like to be occupied, feel independent. She says that this is not necessary; there would be no question of obligation to her, ‘she needs you too badly’—that is what she said—but she will not oppose you. ‘All that she asks is that she may see your bright head beside her hearth, know that you are coming home to her, as her daughter would come, at the close of every day.’ That is literally her message, Miss Cicely. I do not think that you can find it in your heart to say her no.”
Cis did not speak for a few minutes. Anselm went on silently guiding the smooth motion of the car, guessing that she was as deeply moved as she actually was. At last Cis spoke, saying:
“You must know how this makes me feel, Mr. Lancaster. She has been so good to me; she is so wonderful, and now this! And I am alone. I don’t suppose anybody, no matter how young and strong and jolly she may be, can help feeling alone when she is alone! It’s strange that Miss Braithwaite wants me now. I have been growing restless, unsatisfied; I don’t know what is wrong. I don’t enjoy being here. I love the baby and Nan, but—I’m ashamed, but Miss Braithwaite, and Father Morley and you, and even the big things in Mr. Lucas’ office, have all spoiled me for nice, steady, dull little days! I’m not better than Nan in brains; not nearly as good in the other sense, but, I’ve been fed on stronger food. Even her marriage—Joe is really a good boy; I do like him, but—Well, it isn’t what you’d think it would be; what I’d think it would be, anyway! It’s just like bread and butter three times a day, every day in the year!”
Anselm Lancaster laughed, but he shook his head.
“Don’t you get to craving things too far beyond common human experience,” he warned her. “The fact that it is called common experience means that it is the best lot for the majority. I’ll warrant that to your Nan her husband is an oracle of wisdom, and a fount of charm! She’s safe, too; remember that’s no small asset in marriage. The sort of marriage that you describe goes peacefully into old age, undiminished in satisfaction, while hundreds are shipwrecked around it which started out to a glorious fanfare of the trumpets of romance and unfounded idealization. However, I grant you that sort of life is not for you. You have outgrown your childhood comrades, the malnutritive food of little minds. You’ve been living at high speed for three years, Cicely Adair; you’ve left behind you the things of your childhood. Just how does all this apply to Miss Braithwaite’s appeal to you to come to her? I’d say that it made it most opportune.”
“It does, oh, it does!” cried Cis. “It takes my breath away. To go back feeling that I’m wanted, maybe needed; that I’m to go to make a home there; that all that beautiful, helpful life for others will be my life; that I’ll read, think, learn, have Father Morley to guide me—Mr. Lancaster, I’ve spoken to you frankly, just as I always did. I’ve always felt that you would understand. You won’t think I was criticizing dear little Nannie? I’d give my head to be as good as she is; dear little soul, always putting me up, and herself down! But—I want Beaconhite, and what I had there. Tell me truthfully, is it right for me to go? Ought I go?”
Anselm Lancaster let the car drop down to a low speed, and turned to look at Cis, with an expression on his face which, though she saw it clearly in the brilliant light of the interior of the car, she could not construe.