“Yes, Cicely,” he said. “Truthfully I think that your place is there. I love Miss Miriam dearly; she is more to me than any of my kindred, more than any other friend. If it were only that you can be to her, now that she needs sustaining, what you can be would seem to me enough reason for your going, you who are entirely free to go and do as you will. She has been a real power for good, an instrument which has helped to carve out the way for others to follow her into the Catholic Church, and one whose charity has bridged many a poor wretch back into a possible manner of living when hope seemed over for him. What can you ask better than to repay some of the debt God’s children owe this woman? And you say that she has done much for you. I think that your place is in Beaconhite. If the decision rests with me, I say: Come! Thrice over: Come! And may all that lies ahead of you there, all that may come of it, be blessed and guided. How can I say aught else, save: Come?”
Cis looked up at him with a tiny smile, her under lip slightly drawn in, as a child who is half grieved, half glad smiles. She had many childish ways of face and hands; Anselm Lancaster and Miss Braithwaite found them her greatest charm.
“How beautiful to have what you want most to do also your duty!” she murmured.
“It always is when she who desires is innocent of wrong-doing, whose heart is God’s first of all,” said Anselm Lancaster, his words barely audible above the softly purring engine. “Don’t you know, Cicely of the red-gold locks, that desire is one of the marks of a vocation? It was the Puritans who put into our heads the notion that it was praiseworthy to hate the thing one chooses. Love Beaconhite and Miss Braithwaite and choose them! Amen.”
CHAPTER XXV
PORT
IT WAS settled that Cis was to return to Beaconhite. Mr. Lancaster had gone back, and immediately there came a brief, warm, characteristic letter from Miss Braithwaite to Cis.
“You are to come home on any terms you choose, my dear,” she wrote, “as long as you come; there are no terms to my wanting you. If you will establish yourself in this house for good and all it will be transformed. My library is large, but not large enough to fill the vacancy in my life. Summer is coming, and I shall not be able to keep a fire on the hearth much of the time; can’t you see how the library will need your hair in it? I need your radiance, my child; you are a most vivifying person, Cicely Adair! Other fires than that on my hearth are burning low; I grow chilled. Anselm tells me that you are coming, yet hesitate on the heels of the resolve lest you may not make good—isn’t that the way to put it? Let me judge. You know how fully I speak my mind; I suppose no one ever is doubtful of my meanings! Then, when I say that coming to live with me will fulfil several of the corporal works of mercy—feeding the hungry, comforting the sorrowful, visiting the sick—of mind, at least—it is strictly true. I am impatiently waiting for you; come as soon as you can, please. And be sure that I am not only lovingly, but gratefully, Your grumpy old friend, Miriam Braithwaite.”
“You are glad to leave me, Cis—and baby!” Nan reproached her.
“You are so completely married, Nannie! And I can’t claim my godson unless I do away with you and Joe,” Cis replied. “With Jeanette living in Beaconhite I’ll have one girl friend there. Father Morley will teach me what I ought to know; he’s truly a great man. You know what Miss Braithwaite is; I’ve told you as much as can be told about her. Life in that house is never far off from the greatest, the eternal things, but it is also overflowing with beauty of books, music, art—and Miss Braithwaite does so love to play like a child, but a witty, wonderful child! It’s a beautiful life; I can’t help being glad to live it. But you know I love you, Nannie!”
Cis took her small friend in her arms to kiss her hard.