Kate broached the subject of the New York trip at supper that night, but
met with no encouragement whatever from her elder daughter, somewhat to
her surprise.
"What is the use of buying an expensive trousseau? Mag sews quite well
enough, and anyway I have more clothes now than I know what to do with,"
she argued practically. "If you think I haven't enough lingerie and all
that, I can take some of Jacky's. It seems rather mean to desert a man
just as soon as you get engaged to him. Besides, James and I shall be
going to New York next month, on our wedding-trip."
"Next month?" cried Kate.
"Why, yes, Mother. There's no use putting it off, I think. James has
been alone so many years; and he certainly needs some one to look after
him. If you could see the pile of perfectly good socks in his closet
that only need a little darning!" She spoke unsentimentally as ever; but
there was a tone in her voice that made her mother give her hand a
little squeeze.
"Very well, dear. You shall be married to-morrow, if you like."
"To-morrow is a little soon. Suppose we say three weeks from to-day?"
Kate gasped, but consented.
Preparations for the wedding went on apace at Storm, though it was to be
a very quiet affair, not the fashionable ceremony, with bridesmaids and
champagne, for which Jemima's heart privately yearned.
"I don't know any girls well enough to ask them to be bridesmaids," she
explained wistfully to her fiance, who made a mental note to supply her
with young women friends hereafter, if he had to hire them.
Nevertheless, it was something of a ceremony. The Madam did not have a
daughter married every day. For days beforehand the negroes were busy
indoors and out, cleaning, painting and whitewashing, exhibiting a
tendency to burst into syncopated strains of Lohengrin whenever Jemima
or the Professor came into view. The kitchen chimney belched forth smoke
like a factory; for though no invitations were sent out, it was
inevitable that the countryside, white and black, would arrive to pay
its respects to the newly wedded, and Big Liza, with an able corps of
assistants, was preparing to welcome them in truly feudal fashion.
Gifts began to arrive, silver and glass and china from friends of the
Professor and business connections of Mrs. Kildare. A magnificent
service of plate came from Jemima's great-aunt, for whom she was named.
("We must make friends with Aunt Jemima, James," was the bride's
thoughtful comment on the arrival of this present.) Philip could not
afford to buy a handsome enough gift, and so parted with the bronze
candelabra which Farwell had so covetously admired; a sacrifice which
did much to break down the hauteur of the bride's recent manner with
him. She knew how well he loved his few Lares and Penates.
There were other presentations of less conventional nature. These
Professor Thorpe, whom the panting Ark conveyed nightly from the
university to Storm and back again, eyed with a mixture of interest and
dismay.
"This suckling pig, now," he murmured. "How are we to accommodate him in
a city apartment, Jemima? And that highly decorative rooster--I fear we
shall have some difficulty in persuading my janitor to accept him as an
inmate. Do you suppose _all_ your mother's tenants will feel called upon
to supply us with livestock?"
"Oh, no, Goddy! Look at this crazy quilt," chuckled Jacqueline, busily
unwrapping parcels, "It is made of the Sunday dresses of all Mrs. Sykes'
friends and relations. She thought it might remind Jemmy of home. It
will. Oh, it will! You've only to look at it and you'll see the entire
congregation nodding over one of Phil's sermons!" She made a little face
at the cleric, who responded by rumpling her hair. "Then the Housewives'
League mother organized has crocheted enough perfectly hideous lace for
all the sheets and things. Your bed-linen is going to bristle with it
like a porcupine."
"It's very good of them," said Jemima, reprovingly. "As for the
livestock, James, we can eat it.--Look at this barrel of potatoes, and
these home-cured hams, and all the pickle. Stop laughing at my friends!"
Thorpe murmured meek apologies.
The evening before the wedding, Big Liza came striding into the hall
where the family sat assembled, bearing aloft a large round object
wrapped in newspaper.
"Huh! Look at what dat 'ooman Mahaly had the owdaciosity to bring fo' a
bridal gif'!" she snorted, swelling with indignation. "Reck'n she 'lows
dey ain't nary a cook at Sto'm good enough to make no bride-cake. Allus
was a biggity, uppity piece, dat Mahaly!"
She placed it on a table, and waddled scornfully out again.
The professor undid the wrappings in a somewhat gingerly manner. There
was an element of the unexpected about his wedding-gifts which intrigued
curiosity. This time he gave a rather startled exclamation, blushed and
backed away.
It was a mammoth white cake, which bore, besides certain garlands and
other decorations of a distinctly Cubist tendency, the legend done in
silver candies: FOR THE BABY.
"D-dear me!" murmured the professor, hastily shrouding it once more in
its wrappings.
"That means Jemima," smiled Kate. "To Mahaly, Jemmy has always been 'The
Baby.' She nursed her, you know."
"Nursed me--that mulatto woman who lives in the white people's
neighborhood? I never knew that," said the girl. "How strange! She never
comes here with the other old servants, even at Christmas time, and I've
never gone to see her. Why was I not told?"
Kate did not answer.
"Did you have to dismiss her, Mother--was it that? Was she dishonest, or
something of the sort?"
"No," said Kate, with an odd reluctance. "She was a very good servant in
every way, and perfectly devoted to you and to little Katharine."
Jemima looked at her in surprise. It was very unlike the Madam to lose
touch with any creature, human or otherwise, who had once faithfully
served her. She waited for an explanation.
"Mahaly has never come to Storm," said Kate in a low voice, "since your
father's death. She was his servant for many years before I came here."
"Oh!" said Jemima. The negress had evidently been one of her father's
loyal supporters, resenting what she must have seen at Storm. "I see! In
that case, Mother, I should like to do something for her. People who are
faithful to my father--"
There was an uncomfortable stir in the room.
"Mahaly has been given the cottage in which she lives, as a present from
you and little Katharine," interrupted Kate.
"I am glad of that," said the girl with a certain stateliness. "I was
going to say that people who are faithful to my father must never be
forgotten by his children."
"Nor by his wife," said Kate, with quiet dignity....
Despite the preoccupation of the wedding, Kate did not make the mistake
of neglecting Jacqueline's affairs. She had had her warning. Moreover,
though she would have denied it even to herself, the younger girl had
come to occupy a far larger share of her heart than had even been given
to the self-reliant Jemima. She had felt, lately (and the thought
frightened her) that in watching Jacqueline she was watching her own
youth over again. What possibilities lay in the girl's nature for
strength and weakness, for hot-headed folly, for sacrifice and passion
and unselfish service, she knew as do those who have been the victims of
such natures themselves. Jacqueline, if it were in human possibility to
compass it, should profit by her mother's bitter mistakes.
She redoubled her vigilance on learning that Channing had after all not
left the vicinity. Philip had passed him one day in one of Farwell's
machines, and hastened to report the encounter at Storm.
"Perhaps he has come back for your wedding," she said thoughtfully to
Thorpe.
The Professor's lips closed grimly. "He is not invited to my wedding. J.
Percival and I have, so to speak, severed diplomatic relations. Look out
for him, Kate!"
Philip, too, was not so certain as she that Channing was keeping to his
promise with regard to Jacqueline.
But the girl was under her mother's eye all day long, excited as Jemima
herself over the preparations, stitching with unwonted diligence on the
bridal finery, running errands, seeing visitors, happy and busy and
asking nothing better than to be with Kate or her sister whatever they
were about. It was a little touching to both, as if the madcap girl had
suddenly realized that the old companionship of home was about to be
broken up, and wanted to have as much of it as possible.
There was no hour in the full days when she might have seen Channing,
even had she wished. And Jemima continued to watch her mail with a
hawk's eye.
Channing's word of honor not to communicate with the girl would have
seemed, in itself, an insufficient safeguard to Kate, had not her
knowledge of men reassured her. She believed that her daughter was not
the type to arouse more than a passing interest in such a man as
Channing. Her beauty, her flattered response to his attentions, her
fresh, unsophisticated charm of gaiety, might well appeal to him for a
time, adding the fillip of the unaccustomed to a jaded palate. But it
was an appeal that must be constantly renewed, that would not outlast
any continued absence. She believed that Channing, while he would accept
with eagerness whatever good thing came to his hand, was too indolent
and too self-centered to overcome many obstacles in the pursuit of a
fancy.
Jacqueline herself was reassuring, too. Her manner of receiving the news
of Channing's perfidy had showed her no stranger to the Kildare pride.
She seemed to regard the affair as a closed incident.
"Do you think," said Kate proudly to Philip, "that my daughter would
care to have anything to do with the man, now that she knows his utter
unworthiness?"
"It is just possible that she was attracted to Channing by other
qualities than worthiness," commented Philip. "Weakness, for instance.
Women have been attracted by weakness before this."
"Phil, Phil," Kate laughed, "you are an 'elderly young man,' as Jacky
says! Almost as elderly and wise as our Jemima. Stop croaking and come
and see the new wedding garments Mag is putting on my old chairs."
She flung an affectionate arm about him, and led him indoors, his heart
beating too hard and suddenly to make further speech possible just
then.--Yet there was much he wished to say, and not about Jacqueline.
These wedding preparations stirred certain yearnings in his breast,
certain eager hopes. It seemed to him that his lady was warmer lately,
more approachable, more present, somehow. Was she, too, stirred by all
this thought and talk of marriage? It was hard to wait patiently. Yet he
was too good a horseman to rush his fences.
Mag on her knees, her mouth full of pins, was cleverly fitting slips of
gay-flowered cretonne over the masculine chairs and sofas, assisted, or
at least not hindered, by Jacqueline.
"The old hall won't know itself, will it?" cried the latter, waving them
a welcome. "All got up in ruffles and things, looking as frivolous as
the lion in the circus with a bow on his tail!"
She ran after her disappearing mother with some question, and Philip,
finding himself alone with Mag, was reminded of a certain duty he had to
perform.
He stood a moment gazing down at her, she so intent upon her labors that
she did not notice he was there. As always, the pathos of the girl moved
him strongly; so young she was to be already one of life's failures, so
helplessly a victim of early environment. Believed from care and
hardship, well-fed and well-clothed and sheltered, she had grown sleek
and soft and pretty as a petted kitten, and there should have been a
look of content about her which he missed. Her mouth drooped a little,
and now and then a visible shadow crossed her face.
He sighed. Rumor was once again busy with the name of Mag Henderson.
Sometimes Philip wearied of his job as the neighborhood's spiritual
policeman.
He asked gently: "Mag, you're not happy here at Storm?"
She looked up with a start. "Why--I didn't know no one was there! Why,
yes, sir. They're real good to me and baby here."
"And you like your work, don't you?"
Again he noticed the shadow on her face. "I reckon so--as well as I'd
like any work." People were always frank with Philip. "A gal gits kind
o' tired of workin' all the time, though. I make dresses and trim hats
for most of the ladies round about, now, and they pay me good, too.
But...."
"But it's all work and no play, eh?"
"That's it," she said, grateful for his understanding. "I don't never
have no fun. I ain't got no gen'leman friends, nor nothing. What's the
use of havin' good clothes, and lookin' pretty and all, ef you don't get
to go somewhere so that folks kin see you? I'm _tired_ of bein' looked
down on," she complained fretfully. "I ain't got a friend on this place
'cep'n Miss Jacky, and now she--"
Mag stopped short. Philip wondered what she had been about to say, but
he was too good a confessor to force confidences.
"You've always got the Madam," he said.
"Yes, but she don't care nothing about _me_. She's kind enough, but so's
she kind to any cur dog that comes along. What am I to her?"
"You've got your baby, Mag."
But the childish, fretful face did not soften. "Babies are more trouble
than company to a person. Besides, she likes Miss Jacky now bettern't
her own mammy. She cries to go to her from me.--It's fun I want, like
other gals. Everybody, it seems like, has fun but me, even the niggers.
Parties, and picnics, and weddin's and all--Oh, my, but don't I _wisht_
I was Miss Jemmy!"
Evidently the wedding preparations had stirred longings in more hearts
than Philip's.
"Even if she is marryin' an old man an' a cast-off beau of her ma's,
look at the ring he give her! A di'mon' big as my thumb-nail. She let me
put it on my finger once, and it looked grand. Oh, my, I'd do 'most
anything for a ring like that!"
"Would you, really, Mag?" he asked curiously, wondering at the
fascination shining bits of stone possess for women far more civilized
than this little savage. "Do you think a diamond ring would make you any
happier?"
"In co'se it would," she said, impatiently.
"Why?"
"Oh, I dunno--it would make me look prettier, I expect."
He said, kindly: "You do not need to look any prettier. You are quite
pretty enough, as it is."
Her whole expression changed. She gave him a conscious upward glance.
"Am I? Why, Mr. Philip, I never thought a preacher'd notice how a gal
looked!"
It told him all and more than he wanted to know. He continued to meet
her gaze with grave eyes, and after a moment her own dropped.
"'T ain't much use bein' pretty round here," she muttered. "The city's
the place for pretty gals."
"Who told you that? The drummer I saw you talking with behind the
village store a few days ago?"
She tossed her head. "Well, what if it was? I got the right to pass the
time o' day with a fellow, ain't I? You'd suppose I was in prison!"
Philip sought out his lady again with a troubled heart. "Sorry to croak
any more at this busy time, but Mag will bear watching. She's been seen
about with men once or twice lately."
Kate sighed with exasperation. "'Give a dog a bad name.' I shall have to
acquire the hundred eyes of Argus to keep up with my household nowadays,
it seems!"
It was not the first warning that had come to her about her protégée.
Big Liza, for years her confidential friend and ally, had said to her
one day: "Dat white gal ain't keerin' so much about de chile no mo',
Miss Kate. She's allus a-leavin' her with me, ef Miss Jacky ain't got
her. Gawd He knows I ain't complainin' about havin' a chile aroun',
seein' as how I done raise nine of my own, right heah under ma kitchen
stove, like so many little puppy-dawgs. But dey wuz cullud chillun, an'
dat's diffunt. Is dishyer hot kitchen any place to raise up a w'ite
chile in? Now I ax you! 'Pears to me like dat gal don' keer for nothin'
no mo' but traipsin' down to de sto' an' gallivantin' roun' de roads wid
her fine clo'es on. She ain't no better'n a yaller nigger gal!"
Kate asked reluctantly (she did not take kindly to spying), "Have you
ever seen her with men, Liza?"
The black woman compressed her lips. "No'm, Miss Kate, I ain't nebber
prezackly _seed_ 'em--but laws, honey, dat kin' ob goin's-on don't aim
to be seed!"
Now that she had a more definite rumor to go by, Kate said sorrowfully
to Philip, "You told me it was a mistake to bring her here in the first
place. It seems to me I make a great many mistakes!" She sighed again.
"At least," said he, "they are the sort of mistakes that will get you
into heaven."
She laughed mirthlessly. "You always talk, you clergymen, as if you had
special advices from heaven in your vest-pockets!"
But she was comforted, nevertheless. She would have found it hard to do
without Philip's steady adulation.