Channing began to be aware, despite the hospitality and comfort which
were provided for him in overflowing measure, that he was seeing very
little of Jacqueline under her mother's roof. In the ten days he had
been there they had managed hardly more than as many minutes alone
together. It was as if the entire household were entered into a
coalition against them.
No sooner would Jacqueline slip into his room in the morning, bearing a
dainty breakfast tray upon which she lavished all of her growing
domestic artistry, than the series of interruptions began. First it
would be the Madam herself, off on her rounds of inspection, but
stopping long enough for a few minutes' chat with her guest. She would
be followed by the elderly, apologetic housewoman, to put his things in
order, answering Jacqueline's imperious demand for haste with an humble
"Yais 'm, Miss Jacky, I's hurryin' fas' as a pusson kin go, but de Madam
wouldn't like it a bit ef I skimped comp'ny's room."
Then would come, perhaps, Big Liza the cook, to enquire for "comp'ny's"
health with elephantine coquetries; then Lige, erstwhile stable-boy and
butler, now promoted to the proud role of valet, requesting orders for
the day, and lingering with an appreciative ear for the conversation of
his betters.
When these were out of the way, a firm tap at the door revealed Jemima,
book in hand or with a basket of sewing, announcing quietly that she now
had an hour or so at Mr. Channing's disposal; whereupon Jacqueline would
give up in despair and flounce away, or resign herself to listen, seated
behind her sister's back where she could make faces at it unseen except
by the invalid.
The afternoons were quite as bad, the family solicitude being augmented
by the presence of visitors, the most frequent of whom was Farwell; and
in the evenings all sat together about the great fireplace in the
hall--for the nights were growing chill--playing games, or listening to
Jacqueline's music, or telling stories like children, until nine
o'clock; at which hour Mrs. Kildare assembled her household, white and
black, read a few prayers in a firm but inattentive manner, and sent
everybody to bed.
The life had a simple charm which Channing savored with due
appreciation; but it gave him very little of Jacqueline, and both
thought longingly of the Ruin, at present inaccessible. In one thing
Jemima's inexperience played her false. To a man of Channing's
temperament, occasional and tantalizing glimpses of the _inamorata_ had
an allure that unrestricted intercourse might soon have lessened. But
considering her youth, Jemima was doing very well indeed.
Mag Henderson was the lovers' only ally. Notes still passed between them
with a frequency which eluded Jemima's vigilance; and notes make very
good fuel for a fire, if there is none better available.
One of these, extracted by Channing from his napkin under the very eye
of the enemy, read:
Jemmy is certainly taking notice. Look out! We must put her off the
track somehow. Couldn't you make love to her--a little? Not much,
and, oh, please, _never_ before me, because I just couldn't bear
it!--This is a kiss. O
Channing appreciated this Machiavellian policy, and endeavored to put it
into practice; but without success.
Nothing doing! (He wrote in answer). There's a look in that cool,
greenish eye that sheds Cupid's darts like chain armor. If I must
make love to any one but you, darling, it will have to be your
mother. She's human. I tell you no man living would have the
courage to breathe airy nothings into your sister's ear more than
once.--Here's two kisses. O O
"Poor Jemmy!" thought Jacqueline, gently, when she read this.
"Poor Jemmy," indeed. Possibly she had made some such discovery for
herself.
The time came when the author reluctantly admitted to himself that he
had no further excuse to trespass upon Mrs. Kildare's hospitality. From
the first he had been able to limp about the house, pale but courageous;
now he found it difficult even to limp with any conviction. At last
Farwell quite bluntly advised him that he would better be moving on.
"Your book is calling you, eh, what? If not, it ought to be. The old 'un
is looking rather firm, if you ask me. Polite, of course, even
cordial--it would not enter the creed of these people to be anything
else, so long as one is under their roof. But firm, nevertheless."
Channing started. "You don't think she's on?"
Farwell shrugged--a gesture carefully done from the model of Philip
Benoix. "How did you explain your accident up there?"
"Told her we happened to be prowling about the hillside, and ran upon a
moonshine still that didn't like us."
"Did you mention the hour of your innocent ramble?"
Charming flushed. "It _was_ an innocent ramble, you know.--I did not
mention the hour, however."
"What about Benoix? He and Mrs. Kildare are very thick."
Channing flushed again. The memory of his last conversation with the
clergyman rankled. "Benoix's not the talking sort," he muttered.
"Besides, he's still up in the mountains, arranging about a mission or
something."
Farwell looked at him thoughtfully. "Not the talking sort--you're right,
he's the acting sort. Typical Kentuckian and all that. His father's a
convicted 'killer,' by the way."
"Oh, shut up!" said the author, inelegantly. "What if I have made love
to Jacqueline? Does every girl who gets love made to her have to be led
forthwith to the altar? The notorious Mrs. Kildare would hardly be a
squeamish mama, I think. Why, she's got a common woman of the streets
here in the house as a sort of maid-companion to her young daughters!
What can you expect?"
"Nevertheless," demanded his friend, significantly, "how much have you
seen of the girl since you have been here? You know, and I know, that
the most squeamish of mamas are ladies who happen to be acquainted with
the ropes themselves. _Verbum sap._--Besides, there is your uncle. Might
he have--er--conversed too freely, perhaps?"
Channing stirred uneasily. "He regards the recent episode, to which I
suppose you refer, as somewhat of a blot upon the family escutcheon. It
isn't likely he would mention it. But you're right--perhaps it behooves
me to be moving before all is lost.--Damn it, Morty," he said savagely,
"what an ass I have made of myself!"
He put his face in his hands, and groaned.
The actor regarded him curiously.
"Hard hit, eh? But you've been hard hit before, and got over it. Cheer
up!"
"That's it," grunted Channing. "I will get over it, and--I don't want
to, Morty! Every fellow's got a best time in his life. This is mine, and
I know it. I want it to last. She's--she's sweet, I tell you! I could
marry a girl like that...."
The other whistled. "Well, why not? She'd wait."
"She might--but what about me?" Channing spoke with a sort of
desperation. "You know me! If I go away from her, I'm bound to get over
it. If I don't go away from her--" he broke off, and walked restlessly
around the room, limping occasionally from force of habit. "It's easy
enough for a cold-blooded chap like you to say 'wait.' But she doesn't
help me, she doesn't help me! You phlegmatic people don't know how
emotion, even the sight of emotion, goes to the head--or you'd never be
actors. You wouldn't dare.--I am mad about her now, absolutely mad about
her. Absurd, isn't it?" He gave a forlorn laugh. "In the words of the
classic, 'I want what I want--when I want it.'"
Farwell was quite unconsciously and methodically making mental notes of
his friend's gestures and expressions for future use. "The old boy's in
earnest for once," he thought; and congratulated himself anew that he
himself was no genius, merely a person with a knack for imitation, and a
habit of keeping his finger on the pulse of the public. It puzzled him
that a man who knew his own weaknesses so thoroughly should make no
effort to deny or conquer them. Channing seemed to observe his ego as
casually as if it belonged to a stranger; and with as little attempt to
interfere with it. That, thought Farwell, must be one of the earmarks of
genius. Mere men like himself, when they choose to fracture what rules
have been laid down for them, do it as blindly as possible, with an
ostrich-like hiding of their heads in the sand; but genius sees exactly
what it is about, and does it just the same.--So ran the cogitations of
Mr. Farwell.
"What would you do if you were I?" asked Channing, appealingly.
"Me? I'd go away from here while the going is good."
"Away from Storm, you mean?"
"Away from Kentucky."
Channing groaned. "Damn it all, I will, then! Though it's going to play
hob with my book.--No time like the present. I'll go back with you
to-day, Morty, and put my things together.--It 's been the best time of
my life!" he sighed, already beginning to dramatize himself as the
self-denying Spartan.
He sought out his hostess in her office an hour later, and confessed to
her that he had no longer any excuse for remaining under her roof.
"We authors are such slaves," he murmured. "I must get back to my native
habitat, like a bear to its cave." (he had almost said "wounded bear.")
"You are leaving Kentucky, then?"
"Yes, after a few days at Holiday Hill to get my things together."
"You are sure you are quite well and strong again?" she asked slowly.
"I fear I am. Better than I've ever been in my life, and fatter, alas!
thanks to your excellent cook."
She did not give him an answering smile. "I am glad of that, because I
should not like any guest, above all Jim Thorpe's nephew, to leave my
house until he was quite ready to do so.--And I have been waiting," she
added, very quietly, "until you were quite well and strong to speak to
you about a certain matter."
His tongue went dry in his mouth; a sensation that reminded him of
episodes in his schooldays, when circumstances led him not infrequently
into the office of the headmaster.
Mrs. Kildare said quite suddenly, "I understand that you are courting my
daughter Jacqueline, Mr. Channing."
For the moment a reply failed him. He had not expected quite such a lack
of delicacy.
She went on. "Something my daughter Jemima noticed led us to that
conclusion. Perhaps she was mistaken? You will understand, Mr. Channing,
that I must be father as well as mother to my children."
She paused again; and still the usually fluent Channing had not found
his voice.
"I thought it best," she went on, "to write to my friend Professor
Thorpe, who introduced you to our house. Be kind enough to read his
reply."
Channing took the letter, and made pretense of reading it, though he was
only too well aware of its contents.
MY DEAR KATE:
Your letter overwhelms me. I had no idea that my nephew was on
terms of any intimacy in your household. Jemima, in fact, assured
me that the contrary was the case, and Jemima is not often
mistaken.
I blame myself deeply for having introduced Percival at Storm
without explanation. It is painful for me to have to inform you
that my sisters son is at present under somewhat of a cloud. To be
frank, he recently made a journey to Canada in company with a
certain young person whom he had the hardihood to introduce at
various hotels, clubs, etc., as his wife. When he wished to
terminate the arrangement, he found himself unable to do so because
the woman entered claims upon him as what is termed a common-law
wife.
The matter has with some difficulty been kept out of the public
prints, and is now in the hands of lawyers for adjustment. My
sister meanwhile claimed my hospitality for her son until such time
as the scandal shall have blown over. I need not say that I regret
having acceded to her request.
My nephew, being in no position to marry, was of course culpably
wrong in offering attentions to any young girl. I can only hope
that the peculiarities of his temperament prevented him from
realizing what he was doing, and that he possibly regards
Jacqueline merely as an extremely charming child, which she is.
Surely the affair cannot go deeply with one so immature as
Jacqueline.
On my return to Kentucky, I shall hasten to make apologies to you
in person for myself and for my nephew. I do not trust myself to
communicate with Percival at present, lest I forget what is due the
undeniable ties of blood.
Your devoted servant,
THORPE.
Postscriptum: Percival is an egregious young ass.
J. T.
Channing finished the letter, adding to it a heartfelt if unspoken
"Amen!"
"Well?" asked Mrs. Kildare. "What have you to say, please? Do you regard
Jacqueline as merely a charming child?"
"No," he was impelled to answer. "Not--not now."
"Ah! Not now." Kate's lips set grimly, but she continued in a very quiet
voice, "Have you anything to say, perhaps? I do not wish to be unfair."
Channing had a great deal to say, but he found some difficulty in saying
it. He found some difficulty in meeting Mrs. Kildare's eyes. He felt
more and more like a schoolboy who is about to receive a well-deserved
whipping.--And then, quite suddenly, he recalled the past career of this
outraged mother, with her righteous indignation; and fluency returned to
him.
"My dear lady, it's all such a tempest in a tea-pot! My uncle's an old
fogy. But you're a woman of the world--you will understand.--I made a
fool of myself in that affair, of course. Still, who would have supposed
the woman wouldn't play the game? She's an old hand, an ex-chorus girl,
and all that--Fay Lanham--any one can tell you about her. I don't know
what got into her, except that I'm making a good deal of money nowadays,
and I suppose she's ready to settle down. It was all quite understood, I
assure you--"
Mrs. Kildare suddenly rose, and he saw for the first time how tall she
was. "I am not and have never been a woman of the world, but I know men,
if that is what you mean. And I know"--her voice cut like a whip--"that
when these things occur among men of honor, at least the names of their
victims are not mentioned."
He stared at her in genuine surprise. Chivalry in connection with Fay
Lanham!--the combination was fantastic. "Oh, but--professionals!" he
murmured. "I assure you she was no 'victim'--not as much a victim,
perhaps, as myself."
"That does not interest me. What I wish to know is whether you are free
to marry or not."
"Frankly, I don't know, Mrs. Kildare. The lawyers are to settle that."
"And not knowing, you have dared to court my daughter Jacqueline?"
The repetition of the old-fashioned phrase jarred his over-strung
nerves. "My dear lady, if you mean by 'courting,' Have I proposed
marriage to your daughter? I have not. If you mean, Have I made love to
her? Yes. Naturally. Why not? I assure you, she has met me more than
half way."
The instant the words were out, he would have given much to recall them.
Why could he not have been simple and natural, told her that he loved
Jacqueline, and that he was most heartily ashamed of himself?
Kate reached for the bell-rope and jerked it. When Lige came
running--the service at Storm was not elegant, but it was prompt--she
said, "Pack Mr. Channing's bag, and bring it down at once."
Then she spoke to Channing without looking at him. "My little girl is
only seventeen. You are the nephew of my oldest and most trusted friend.
It has never occurred to me to warn my daughters against gentlemen. I
had forgotten it was necessary. I blame myself very deeply.--Now you
will give me your word to make no effort to communicate with Jacqueline
again in any way."
He protested. "Surely you will let me see her once, Mrs. Kildare! To
explain?--to--to say good-by?"
"Certainly, in my presence. Your word of honor, please."
He gave it with as much dignity as he could muster.
She immediately opened the door and led him out into the hall, where
Farwell and the two girls were amusing themselves with the graphophone.
"I know you will be sorry," she said from the threshold, "to hear that
Mr. Channing is leaving us at once."
At the tone of her voice, Farwell gave a startled glance toward his
friend, and Jemima suddenly put an arm around her sister, further rising
to the occasion with polite murmurings of regret. But Jacqueline with
one gesture brushed aside tact and subterfuge. She ran to Channing and
caught his hand.
"Why, what's the matter?" she cried. "What has happened? Why is mother
sending you away?"
"Jacqueline! Am I in the habit of sending guests away from my house?"
"You're doing it now, and I know why!" She threw back her head and
laughed. "It's too late, Mummy dear! I suppose the fat's in the
fire--but it was fun while it lasted! You didn't suspect your little
girl was big enough to have a real sweetheart, did you?" A lovely blush
spread over her face. She tugged at Channing's hand. "Come, why don't
you tell her everything? Time to 'speak for yourself, John!'"
The silence puzzled her. She looked from one to the other. "Mummy,
you're not really angry because we kept it a secret? Remember!--didn't
you keep it a secret from your mother, too, just at first? It's a thing
girls _have_ to keep to themselves, just at first, till they're used to
it--Jemmy," she cried, suddenly turning on her sister, "_why_ are you
looking so sympathetic at me?"
Channing lifted the little hand that was clutching his to his lips.
"This is good-by," he said hoarsely. "I'm sorry--Your mother will
explain.--I must go away."
"But you're coming back soon?"
He shook his head.
"Why, but--I'll see you again before you go, won't I?" Her voice was
piteous.
"Mr. Channing has given me his word," said her mother, "to make no
further attempt to communicate with you."
The girl took a long breath. Her chin lifted. "Oh! So you are still
going to treat me as a little girl?" she said. "That's a mistake,
Mother!"
Without any further effort to detain Channing, she walked to the stairs
and up them, her chin still high.
Channing looked back once from the door. Mrs. Kildare, standing in the
center of the hall, bowed to him gravely, as a queen might in dismissing
an audience. Jemima, on guard at the foot of the staircase, also bowed
in stately fashion.
But halfway up, Jacqueline paused and turned; and as his miserable gaze
met hers, she distinctly winked at him.