“Not long,” said Rodney. “But I know her well; she’s that frank sort that hasn’t a thing to hide; fearless, straight, boyish, but not tom-boyish—get the idea? I’m perfectly sure you’ll like her beyond anything. I’ll bring her around this evening; she’s at the Head. You can let her see the room, arrange terms, give her a look over with your eagle eye—and the thing’s done! I’d like her in the house, of course; she’s the kind of girl that is like a nice sister, chummy, helpful, if you get me? But for her own sake I want her here, where you’ll give her just what she needs in every way. I’ll bring her around; I told her I’d see her after dinner to-night.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” declared Miss Gallatin. “You told me you had tickets for the theatricals. Isn’t Gertrude Davenport in ’em? Forgotten all about it? Met this new girl for the first time to-day, I’ll wager! She must be something of a cyclone! You needn’t bring her around, Mr. G. Rodney Moore; I’m not going to let my vacant room to her, whether all you say of her is true, or whether it isn’t!”
“You’re not willing so much as to show it to her? To meet her? Strange way to act, Miss Gallatin! I am justified in resenting it,” said Rodney with dignity.
“Nothing of the sort!” cried Miss Gallatin briskly. “Don’t have theatricals here; better go to them. She may be a nice girl, but the nicer she is the more reason for keeping her out of the same house where the young man boards whom she got acquainted with, dear knows how! I wouldn’t consider taking her, not if every room but yours was vacant! So that’s settled.”
“She is a fine girl, I tell you! She’s not exactly pretty, but she has the sort of face you like to watch, and her hair is a wonder; loads of bright coppery red hair, and she is full of jolly, kiddish fun, straight and good. I respect her like everything. Good gracious, Miss Gallatin, I’m over thirty; do you suppose I don’t know a nice girl when I see one and talk to her unreservedly? I respect Miss Adair as much as I admire her!” cried Rodney, surprised later on to find how much he cared about the defence of Cicely.
“Right! Keep on respecting her,” said Miss Gallatin. “Send her to Mrs. Wallace’s; she keeps a good house, sets a good table, good’s mine. I won’t have her here. Hold on a minute, Mr. Moore! Send her around to talk with me to-morrow, sometime. I won’t let her board here, but I’ll take her to see Mrs. Wallace. If she can’t come to-morrow, send her Sunday. Don’t you take her to Mrs. Wallace’s; I will. She’s a stranger here, going to work for Mr. Lucas where she’ll be noticed. Don’t start her wrong by escorting her to look up her boarding place. People are queer things; they’re more than likely to hope for the worst. Send the girl to me. I won’t take her in here, but I’ll do by her as I’d want done by me, if I was a young Hannah Gallatin, setting out to earn my living in a strange place. From what you say of her, she’s a conspicuous sort of girl that people with keen palates for gossip will be likely to lick to get a flavor of delicious suspicion! That’s the best I can do and say, so take yourself off, Mr. Moore, if you please; I’ve got my weekly accounts to make up, and it’s always a trial to my eyes, and my nerves, also my temper—of course, after the other two!”
There was nothing for Rodney to do but to accept defeat with as much grace as he could summon. There was consolation in the thought that Miss Gallatin was willing to see Cicely, though only to conduct her to a rival house. He hoped that seeing her, Miss Gallatin might yield her position; he felt entire confidence in Cicely’s ability to win anyone’s complete trust and liking. There was no denying that Miss Gallatin was a wise and kind dragon in her guardianship of this girl whom she had never seen.
Sunday morning Cicely betook herself to Mass at eight o’clock, keeping up her old hour, reflecting with a sense of bewilderment that only the previous Sunday she had heard Mass in the only church which, up to this time, she had ever known, and that Nan was with her, and that she had returned with her into the familiar Dowling household, where young Tom gloomed over their near parting and Mrs. Dowling lectured her on probable dangers which clearly implied her own deficiencies. And now she was beginning life in Beaconhite, uprooted, yet already replanted, on a larger salary, in promising conditions. She had a new friend with whom she was to do something new and pleasant that afternoon. She was a lucky Cis, she thought, kneeling, without much concentration upon it, before the altar, well in the front of the church of St. Francis Xavier at the eight o’clock Mass.
The priest who said this Mass was not young; he was remarkably tall, his shoulders contracted from the reading habit; his hair grey; his eyes deep-set and glowing with singular light; his nose large and handsome; his mouth finely cut, somewhat sad, yet ready to smile, as Cis found out when he turned to his people and began to speak after the reading of the Gospel. A remarkable man, whom Cis began to watch intently, feeling at once attracted and repulsed by him, as if she sensed in him the implanted power of the Holy Ghost which all who knew Father Morley said was his gift, the power that reads souls and irresistibly draws them.
Once Cis was sure that the priest’s eyes met her own, full and steadily; that he knew her for a stranger, and measured her. She liked him, yet she feared him; coming out of the church slowly, borne by the pressure of the immense throng into the outer air, she was conscious of relief, and was glad that it “was not her way to know the priest; that one was——”