The fact was that Philip, in his double capacity of priest and of
bodyguard to the household of his liege lady, had been for some time
aware of a thing that troubled him deeply. It was Philip who brought to
the Madam's notice much that required her attention in her domain, but
this he did not bring to her attention. His hands were tied.
Shortly after the episode of the Night Riders, he had happened to be
driving in an adjoining county, when to his amazement a large automobile
flashed by with Jacqueline at the wheel, speaking over her shoulder to a
man who sat beside her. In the glimpse he had of them, Philip thought he
recognized the man as Percival Channing. They were too absorbed in each
other to notice him, hidden as he was in the depths of his buggy.
Jacqueline's laugh floated back to him as they passed, a soft little
laugh that brought a sudden frown to Philip's face. Her expert handling
of the great car told its own story.
"That won't do at all!" muttered Philip aloud. Then he took himself up
sharply--"Why won't it do?" The man was James Thorpe's nephew, a
gentleman, a person of some distinction; certainly a fit companion for
Kate's children. Why should he feel uneasy? That Jacqueline had not
mentioned the further acquaintance with him might be merely an
oversight. After all, the girl must marry some day, though the thought
of losing his little playfellow gave Philip a pang.
"I see," he said casually at Storm that night, "that the author is still
in our midst. I suppose he has called here, hasn't he?"
He spoke to Kate, not glancing in the direction of Jacqueline.
"Oh, yes. We found his cards one afternoon, with Mr. Farwell's,"
answered Kate. "I am sorry not to have seen him."
"He will probably come again," said Jemima, rather importantly. "In fact
I asked him to, the other night at Professor Jim's party."
Jacqueline made a gleeful face at her sister's back, not unnoted by
Philip.
"So-o!" he said to himself gravely. "I shall have to make friends with
this gentleman...."
He was on his way to Holiday Hill the next afternoon, when at the very
gate he met Jacqueline coming out. She laughed; rather consciously for
Jacqueline. "I've been returning that call," she said.
"So I see. Has Mrs. Farwell come, then?"
"Mrs. Farwell? Oh, no. She never comes. Mr. Farwell isn't here either,
just now," she said innocently. "So I dropped in to--to keep Mr.
Channing company." She began to flush, realizing that she had betrayed
herself. "We were practising his songs together. We--we often do." She
stammered a little.
"I see," he said again, lightly. It was not his policy to discourage
confidences. "So Mr. Channing writes songs, as well as novels?"
"Oh, wonderful ones, Phil! You'd love them. I do wish you could hear
them."
"I'd like to. Why not bring me the next time you come to practise?"
She looked down; then her eyes met his frankly. "I'd rather not, Phil.
He wouldn't like it. Geniuses are peculiar. You see, we sing better when
we're not disturbed. You know how that is, don't you?"
His heart contracted with sudden sympathy. He knew only too well "how it
was." It seemed to him that lately his life was one long conspiracy
against Fate to find Kate Kildare alone. Abroad, the eyes of the world
seemed always turned upon them; at home she was surrounded by an
impregnable barrier of daughters. On the rare occasions when he did
manage to achieve the coveted _solitude à deux_, their talk was of
farming, of the parish, of business, and in the end always of his
father, his father. Her dependence upon him, her affection for him, was
evident, but there was a curiously impersonal, almost absent-minded
quality about it that sometimes chilled Philip and his budding hopes.
When she spoke out her inmost thoughts, even when she took his hand or
laid her arm across his shoulders with the impulsive, caressing gestures
that were as common to her as to Jacqueline, he had the feeling that she
was thinking of another man.
Philip was well fitted to understand Jacqueline just then. "My dear," he
said quietly, "are you in love with Mr. Channing?"
The question took her by surprise. She paled, and then the lovely rose
came over her face again in a hot flood. "Oh, yes, _yes_, Phil!" she
cried eagerly. "Do come and ride beside me, and let me tell you all
about it. I've been wanting dreadfully to tell somebody who would
understand. You're _such_ a comfortable sort of person."
Philip's greatest gift was the art of listening. He employed it now,
turning to her a glance steady and encouraging, concealing the anxiety
that gnawed at his mind, why he could not say. The natural priest is as
intuitive perhaps as the natural woman.
She took him into her confidence fully, concealing nothing. He learned
about their daily meetings, either at the Ruin, or if Farwell happened
to be absent, at Holiday Hill. She told him of their long automobile
rides together, while she was supposed to be off exercising some of the
horses; of the book he was beginning to write with her assistance; ("I
inspire it," she explained gravely); of his belief in her own future
career as a singer.
"He's going to help me, to introduce me to singers and teachers
and--impresarios, I think they're called. He's going to make mother send
me abroad to study, first. He says it's wicked to keep me shut up here
away from life. All artists have got to see a great deal of life, you
know, if they're to amount to anything. Oh, isn't it wonderful?" she
broke off, "that such a man as that should ever have noticed me at all?"
Philip, glancing at the radiant young face, did not find it altogether
wonderful.
"I suppose he makes love to you?" he asked.
She dimpled. "Of course! But in such a funny way, Phil. He doesn't seem
to mean to, or to want to, exactly. We read a good deal, and talk about
the world, and things like that, and sing--but all the time I know what
he's thinking about, and--and I'm thinking about it, too! We don't read
and sing and talk _all_ the time--" She clasped her hands ecstatically,
lines and all. "Oh, Phil darling, I wish you were in love, too! It's so
perfect.--But you will be some day, and then I hope," she added
quaintly, "that you'll have somebody as dear and comfortable as you are
to confide in. A spiritual pastor and master is so safe, too. You may
scold me, Reverend, and you may laugh at me--you're doing it now--but
you can never tell on me."
"No," he admitted, "I never can. But why not tell on yourself, dear? Why
so much mystery? Are you ashamed of being in love?"
He looked at her keenly. But though she hesitated, she met his eyes
without embarrassment. "I think I am, a little. Not ashamed, exactly,
but--shy. It's such a queer feeling, being in love. I never had it
before. It makes you want not to eat, or sleep, or play with the baby,
or do anything but just think of him; how he looked the last time you
saw him, what he said, and--did. If people knew, they'd tease me, and
watch me, and I couldn't bear that. I just couldn't bear it! Then
there's Jemmy. She's so odd. She doesn't like to see me kissing the
baby, even, or loving it. She thinks it isn't quite nice. If she knew
about Mr. Channing--! Besides, she's so much cleverer than I am, so much
more his sort, really. If he'd known her first he would probably have
liked her best. I'd rather--just for a while, I'd rather--"
"Keep him out of Jemima's reach?" murmured Philip, amused.
She nodded. "You _do_ understand things, don't you? Jemmy's so much
cleverer than I am. Just until I'm sure of him, Philip--"
He asked quietly, "You're not sure of him, then?"
She gave him a demure glance under her infantile lashes. "Oh, yes, I am!
But he's not quite sure of himself." She chuckled. "Mr. Channing
_thinks_ he doesn't want to marry any one, you see!"
It was what Philip had been waiting for from the first. His voice
changed a little, and became the voice of the priest. "You need not tell
your sister, Jacqueline; but your mother ought to know of this."
"I don't want her to know."
"Why not?"
"Oh, because," was the purely feminine answer. She added, troubled by
his grave silence, "Mummy might not want me to see so much of him, if
she knew. She can't realize that I'm grown up now. Old people forget how
they felt when they were young." She was vaguely trying to express
love's dread of being brought to earth, of being hampered by the fetters
of a fixed relation.
"'Old people!' Your mother?" Philip spoke rather sharply.
"Oh, well, not _old_, of course. Still, she's too old to fall in
love.--Anyway, there are some things a girl can't talk about with her
mother; you ought to know there are." The glance she gave him was both
embarrassed and appealing.
Alas for Kate's carefully fostered intimacy with her children, vanished
at the first touch of a warmer breath!
Philip put his hand over hers on the bridle-rein. "My dear," he said
earnestly, "there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you cannot talk about
with your mother. She's that sort. Always remember it."
She jerked her hand away with a pettish gesture. "For goodness' sake,
stop being so ancient and fatherly! And what right have you to tell me
anything about mother? I don't mind your explaining about God to me, and
Christian duty, and things like that. It's your business, and I suppose
it bores you as much as anybody. But when you talk as if you had a
special vested right in my own mother,--that's _too_ much! As if you
could possibly know her as well as I do!"
She spurred her horse and galloped ahead furiously. But at the next turn
of the road she was waiting, remorseful.
"Forgive me for being a crosspatch, Flippy dear?" Her voice would have
coaxed forgiveness from a stone. "I always am sort of--sort of foolish
about mummy, you know."
"I have no fault to find with you for being foolish about your mother,"
said Philip.
"Then, that's all right!" She blew him a kiss, and prepared to leave
him. "And of course I will tell her everything, soon. When she knows,
she's going to be glad, gladder than anybody. I remember once,"--the
girl's face grew very tender--"we were just little things, Jemmy and I,
but she was talking to us, like she does. She said, 'When the right man
comes along, my girlies, be sure he is the right man, and then _don't be
afraid_. Love him with all your might and main, and be sure he knows it.
There's nothing in the world so mean as a niggardly lover!' I--I am not
a niggardly lover, Philip," she added shyly.
His throat contracted. Jacqueline's naïveté was singularly touching to
him.
"Wait a moment," he said, detaining her. "Since I must keep the great
secret, I want you to promise me one thing. Do not go to Mr. Farwell's
house alone any more. You see," he explained to her widened eyes, "there
aren't any women there. Girls do not call on men."
"I go to your house whenever I like!"
He smiled. "As you yourself said once, I'm 'not men.' But it isn't done,
little girl. Take my word for that, please."
"Very well!" she chuckled. "You sound like Jemmy!--But I promise. I like
the Ruin better anyway. More private."
She waved back at him, put her horse lightly over a fence, and was off
across the fields at a full gallop.
He went his way thoughtfully. Philip was beginning to find his duties as
guardian of Kate Kildare and her children somewhat onerous. He tried to
reassure himself with the thought of Jacqueline's youth. Mature as she
had become in body, in mind she was still a child. At that age, love
could not be lasting.
But while it lasted, could it not devastate?
Often in this Kentucky valley he had known languorous Februaries when
orchard and garden, deceived by a fierce-wooing sun, trustingly put
forth their treasures, only to find them blackened and withered when the
true spring came. Dear little Jacqueline, glowing, tremulous, instinct
with the joy and passion of giving--for to Kate Kildare's child love
meant always giving--was she to know so soon the blight of
disillusionment?
"Not if I can help it," muttered Philip, squaring his jaws, and set his
horse once more in the direction of Holiday Hill.
He intended to discover just how far and for what reason Percival
Channing was averse to the state of matrimony.