“You Romanists are a difficult lot to adjust to,” said Mr. Lucas. “I strongly object to the principle which is fundamental with you, of laying down your liberty of thought, being subject to a man, taking your opinions from an elevated priest over in Rome and acting on them at the dictation of a lot of half-educated common priests over here. Yet when you don’t keep up with the practices of your Church, you are a worthless lot, not often trustworthy. I make an exception of you, Miss Adair; I am satisfied that you are trustworthy, though, apparently, you are what I’ve heard your co-religionists call ‘an indifferent Catholic.’ Perhaps you are on your way out of Romanism? It would be a consummation devoutly to be wished. As to the code and its secrecy, what I meant is this: Suppose a priest wanted to get hold of it—they are great people for dipping their oar into other people’s waters and muddying them! Suppose a matter concerning politics, or the like, were afoot, and a priest heard of our code, in which we should correspond on such affairs—they are great people for finding out things that no one could ever have imagined their knowing! Suppose this priest, as I was saying, heard of our code and bade you in the confessional reveal it to him, what would you do?”
Again Cis laughed, this time with such heartiness, such manifest enjoyment of an absurdity that Mr. Lucas was already answered by her mirth.
“Why, Mr. Lucas,” cried Cis, “you don’t know how funny that is, really you don’t! I go to confession at Easter, usually at Christmas; it’s my birthday, too. And there’s a regular mob; it’s all the priests can do to get them all heard. Imagine one of them holding up the line while he talked code to me! How would he know I was in your office, anyway? I wouldn’t have to confess that; you only have to confess sins, and it’s not a sin to be employed here, Mr. Lucas! Why the poor priests try to get in a word of advice to you, and tell you what your penance is, but they can’t always do much more than say about ten words to you! No fear of the code getting talked over! Honest, Mr. Lucas, that’s funny!”
Mr. Lucas looked as though he were not sure that this was not impertinence on Cis’s part, but he decided to accept it for what it actually was, bubbling amusement over a mistake that struck her as absurd.
“Well, I’ve certainly never confessed,” he admitted, “nor ever shall, but I still think, though my supposition is outside your experience so far, that the case is entirely possible. What I want to know is what you would do if such a demand arose?”
“Hold my tongue, of course; what else could I do?” replied Cis with convincing promptitude. “He’d have no right to try to get it out of me, and I’d have no right to tell him.”
The code was put into Cicely’s hands the next day, her duties so arranged that she should have time for its study. To her chagrin she found it difficult, although her difficulty was usually in learning too fast to be secure of retention, rather than in acquiring her tasks.
The third day of work on the code left her still uncertain of it when she quitted the office at four o’clock to go with Rodney Moore on a part aquatic, part walking expedition up the river in his boat, out through a lovely wooded country to a knowing little restaurant whither Beaconhite people loved to repair to dine. A letter from Nan had come to add to Cis’s depression; she set forth with a marked diminution of her usual blitheness, although this expedition with Rodney, in the height of the foliage season in October, had been anticipated by her for two weeks. When Rodney met her at Mrs. Wallace’s he instantly marked the shadow on Cis’s face; he was quick to note every change in that variable face which was rapidly becoming the goal of his feet, the image hourly before his memory.
“Anything wrong, Holly-Berry? You haven’t so much of your usual effect of Christmas-all-the-year-around! I thought of that last night, Cis, that you were a sort of perpetual Merry Christmas; your joyousness was probably a birthday gift to you,” Rodney said, pulling her hand through his arm with unmistakable satisfaction.
“That’s nice, Rod!” Cis cried. “I’d like to be a Merry Christmas sort of thing. No, there’s nothing wrong. I’ll tell you when we get to the place where you’re taking me, or while we’re rowing.”