CHAPTER XII

PAIN

"If it is any satisfaction," said Father McGowan dryly, "I will assure you that he loves you. Anybody could see that. I suppose it is your father, Cecilia."

She nodded. "Marjory----" she started, then stopped.

"Well?" said Father McGowan.

"Marjory told me he said it was--papa," said Cecilia. All the tragedy possible to feel at twenty-one was in her young eyes. "She did it kindly," added Cecilia. Then she went on unsteadily: "I don't know why I am not brave. I am so ashamed. He--he isn't worth it."

"No," answered Father McGowan, "he isn't." Cecilia slipped her hand in his. The warm contact had brought her peace at many times. It did now, in a way. "Cecilia," said Father McGowan, "sometimes love means pain. You know Father Tabb's poem about it?"

"No," said Cecilia.

"Once only did he pass my way 'When wilt Thou come again? All, leave some token of Thy stay!' He wrote (and vanished) 'Pain.'"

Cecilia tightened her fingers about Father McGowan's thumb. "You have always been so good to me," she whispered. "You have always understood and helped me!"

"Well, well!" said Father McGowan. "What else am I here for?"

"Marjory said if I kept papa,--kept papa----" Cecilia stopped.

"Kept him in the backyard or in the cellar, it would be better?" ended Father McGowan.

"Oh, _don't_!" said Cecilia. "Please don't; for two or three times I've felt like John,--I'm _so_ ashamed."

"Dear child!" Father McGowan said. "Dear child!"

"I love papa," said Cecilia. "It's only this new feeling that unsettles me. Sometimes I think I'd pay any price. Sometimes, like John, I'm ashamed, and then how I _hate_ myself!"

A gilded moon had slid from behind a line of poplars. It had shown Father McGowan eyes that reflected an aching soul, tragic young eyes, almost bitter in their hurt.

Suddenly Cecilia held his fat hand against her cheek. Then she smiled at him bravely. "I'm going to be good!" she said with a little catch in her voice. "I'm going to be good!"

"Cecilia Evangeline," said Father McGowan, "dear child!"

Marjory entered the room with a slam and a swish. "I telephoned Stuyvesant and asked him to come out to dinner," she said. "You don't mind?"

"No," answered Cecilia, "certainly not."

"He seemed anxious to come," said Marjory consciously. Cecilia didn't reply.

"What's in that box?" asked Marjory.

"A present," answered Cecilia. She took it from the box and held it up for inspection.

"Oh, Lord!" said Marjory. "Your father?"

Cecilia again did not reply. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled.

"If I were you," advised Marjory, "I wouldn't wear it to-night. You know how conservative the Twomblys are----"

"What he thinks is not vital to me," said Cecilia. "I shall wear it. I _love_ it. I think it's beautiful!"

"You dear child!" said Marjory. She looked on the small liar with respect. Suddenly she was shocked into speechlessness. The small liar was sobbing wildly.

"Oh, Marjory! Oh, Marjory!" she gasped.

Much later Cecilia stood at the foot of the broad stair.

"Where's your necklace?" asked Jeremiah.

"Oh," said Cecilia, "I forgot it, but I want to wear it. I do! I'm going to get it now." She turned from him and ran up the steps.

"Here he is!" she heard John call from the porch. Then came Marjory's loud laugh. Cecilia's breath came fast, and her fingers trembled as they clasped the new necklace about her throat. She stood before the mirror a minute before she started down. "It _is_ beautiful," she said, "and I am proud to wear it!"

That night Cecilia lay long wakeful. She had not slept much or well lately. She heard the different clocks follow each other with minutes' difference in their chimes. Hour after hour.... Cruel hours.... Control left her and she turned from side to side, restlessly moving into what seemed, each time, a more restless position.

She hoped K. Stuyvesant had believed her when she said she thought her new necklace beautiful. She remembered John's sneer and his question: "Been shopping at the 'Five and Ten'?"

Best, she remembered Jeremiah's proud pleasure in his gift. The remembrance hurt, and made her feel little.

There was a tap on her door which made her strained nerves leap. She sat up in bed and turned on the lights, blinking in their glare.

"What is it?" she called.

"It is I," answered Marjory. "I've been wakeful. I want to talk with you for a moment."

"Come in," said Cecilia. Marjory opened the door and came across the room to sit on the edge of Cecilia's bed.

"I'm sorry you haven't slept," said Cecilia.

"That doesn't matter," answered Marjory. Cecilia saw that she was very tired, so tired that she looked old. She was the Marjory of gay evening, with a grey veil shrouding her.

"I'm going away," said Marjory abruptly. Her fingers played with the coverlet and her eyes avoided Cecilia's. "I'm going back to mamma," she continued. "I think she needs me, and--and I _hate_ the States!"

"Marjory, _dear_!" said Cecilia, "I'm sorry--so sorry."

"No one wants me," said the new Marjory. "I only make trouble wherever I go. No one wants me----"

"I always want you," said Cecilia. "I do, Marjory,--I really do."

"I believe you really mean that," said Marjory slowly. "I'm almost too little to understand you, but I know you never lie."

"I lied about the necklace," said Cecilia; "I don't think it beautiful, except for the love it shows."

"Cecilia," said Marjory, "I can't be truthful. I can't, Cecilia----"

"Don't!" answered Cecilia. "You are! I know you better than any one. You have been my best friend always, and I say you are!"

Marjory's fingers plucked at the coverlet restlessly. She breathed in quick gasps. Cecilia laid her hand on Marjory's. "Perhaps to-morrow you'll feel differently?" she suggested. "You know dark makes things so much darker. I'll do anything to make you happier. I'll ask Mr. Twombly to come out and play with you often, Marjory dear."

"Don't, oh, don't!" whimpered Marjory. Her shoulders shook. Cecilia closed her eyes a moment, and then spoke quite loudly and steadily. "Dear," she said, "I'm sure he loves you. I'm sure he does."

"Don't!" implored Marjory. "Don't!" She threw back her head and spoke in a different tone. "I hate America!" she said viciously. "I hate everything! Life, my place in it. I hate you for being so good! I hate,--oh, God! Oh, God!" Her tirade ended in a paroxysm of dry sobs. Small Cecilia reached out her arms and drew Marjory's head against her soft bosom.

"Oh, dear Marjory!" she whispered, "you have been so good to me! I would do anything to make you happier! _Anything!_ Marjory, dear Marjory!"

Marjory sobbed on.

"I wasn't worthy of my dreams," Cecilia heard her say between gasps. "I--they were too big for me. I knew it, but----" she stopped. Cecilia, all uncomprehending, baffled, said only, "Dear!" and again, "Dear!"

Some strange trouble this was to bring tears to the dry-eyed Marjory, but Marjory needed comfort, not questions. "Dear!" she said once again. Marjory drew away. "Oh, heavens!" she said, laughing, "what an emotional actress I could have been. Forget this and sleep; I shall." She stood up, stretching. Suddenly she was again the new Marjory. She looked on Cecilia. "I _did_ try," she said, "and some people can't be decent even when they try. They can only get halfway."

"What?" began Cecilia.

"Nothing," said Marjory. "Good-night." She started for the door, and then turned back. She leaned above the bed and kissed Cecilia rather fiercely, quite as if she thought of some one else whom she loved in another way while she did it. After she'd gone Cecilia hid her eyes. Without reason the kisses of Tommy Dixon were recalled. Those of the life-half, without a touch of soul. Then Cecilia forgot them in her wonder about Marjory.

"I would do anything for her happiness," thought Cecilia, "even that." And then she closed her eyes and asked to be strong.

When she opened them she saw a golden streak across the floor. The sun was up.