As the winter closed in--it was one of the open, keen, out-of-door
winters which have done their share to make the dwellers on the great
central plateau of Kentucky so sturdy a race of men--the Thorpe
automobile was seen less frequently on the road to Storm. Kate smilingly
accused Jemima of neglecting her for the furthering of her social
campaign.
"A social campaign in _Lexington_? How absurd!" shrugged Jemima; to her
mother's amusement.
It was difficult to keep pace with the development of Jemima.
"To tell the truth--I did not mean to speak of it until later--but we
are finishing a book!"
"'We'?" laughed Kate.
"Yes. James has been at work on it in a desultory way for a number of
years, and I am very busy looking up references, and verifying
quotations, and prodding. You know scholarly men are inclined to
be--procrastinating."
(The word "lazy" was to Jemima's thinking too great an insult to be
applied to any one for whom she cared.)
"Is it a novel, with you in it?" demanded Jacqueline, eagerly, with
unconscious wistfulness. Once she herself had hoped to be the heroine of
a novel; and she surreptitiously read all the book reviews she could lay
hands upon to see whether Channing had been able to finish it without
her.
"A novel--pooh! It is a treatise on the Psychology of the Feminist
Movement; and I think," added Jemima complacently, "that it will be more
salable than James' previous works."
"I have no doubt of it," murmured her mother. "But just what is this
Feminist Movement I read so much about nowadays, dear? Votes, and
strongmindedness in general?"
Jemima looked at her mother, thoughtfully. "If you but knew it, you
yourself are a leader in the Feminist Movement. It is seeing such women
as you denied the ballot that has made most of us suffragists."
"Good Heavens! Are you _that_?" gasped her mother.
"All thinking women are 'that' nowadays," replied Jemima, reprovingly.
"Besides, it's very smart."
Shortly after the book in question made its appearance, Jemima arrived
at Storm one day quite pale with excitement. "It's come," she cried,
"it's come at last! James has been offered the Presidency of ----" (she
named a well-known Eastern university) "and he's already found a
substitute for Lexington, and we're going on at once!"
"To live?" cried Jacqueline.
"Of course! Isn't it splendid? Oh, I've seen it coming ever since that
lecture tour, and the book clinched matters."
Jacqueline embraced her sister in unselfish delight. "Think of it--'Mrs.
President'! And all the young professors kowtowing, and the nice
undergraduates to dance with--and what a wonderful place to live! Dear
old Goddy! Oh, I _am_ glad. That famous college! Why, it's perfectly
amazing!"
"Nice, of course, but hardly amazing," corrected Jemima, herself once
more. "James is a very brilliant man, you know. I always expected
recognition for him. He should have had some such position long ago. But
he had no knowledge of how to--take advantage of opportunities."
Kate found her voice at last. "I congratulate you, dear," she said
quietly--a tribute which the other accepted with a simple nod, as
becomes true greatness.
And then, suddenly and quite unexpectedly to herself, the face of the
triumphant Mrs. Thorpe crumpled up into a queer little mask of distress,
and she flung herself into her mother's arms and wept aloud.
The others tried to console her, weeping too. Mag's baby, dozing in
front of the fire, sensed the general grief and lifted up her voice in
sympathy. Big Liza, attracted by the commotion, learned the cause of it
and added herself to the group with loud Ethiopian howls of dismay. The
housemaid came running; and soon it was known throughout the quarters
and at the stables that Miss Jemmy was going far away to live, and would
never come back any more. There had not been such excitement of gloom at
Storm since Basil Kildare was brought into the house dead.
It was, characteristically, Jemima herself who quelled the tides of
emotion she had started.
"We mustn't be f-foolish," she gulped, mopping her eyes impartially with
her mother's sleeve and Liza's apron. "It isn't as if I was af-afraid to
go and live among strangers--I'm used to it. B-but I can't help
wondering how you all will manage to get along without me!" The tears
flowed again.--"You're such a _helpless_ person, Mother!"
This to the Madam, the famous Mrs. Kildare of Storm! Jacqueline gasped
at the irreverence.
But for once Kate was not tempted to smile at the girl's egotism. She
was already foretasting the dreariness of life without the critical,
corrective, and withal stimulating presence of her elder child.
The Thorpes' going, after a last Christmas together at Storm, left Kate
and Jacqueline more than ever dependent upon each other. If Philip had
been more exacting as a husband, he might well have complained of his
wife's constant attendance on her mother in those days. But he was so
far from complaining that it was at his suggestion Jacqueline formed the
habit of taking her midday meal at Storm.
It was the first real breaking of ties in Kate's little family, and he
knew his lady well enough to realize that her cheerful, quiet exterior
concealed a very lonely heart just then. So lonely, indeed, that Kate
more than once considered the idea of asking Philip and Jacqueline to
come and live with her at Storm, for she missed her old-time
confidential talks with Philip almost as much as she missed Jemima.
But Philip was spared at least that test of devotion.
"Young birds to their own nest," she reminded herself, sighing.
Occasionally she sent for Philip as in the old days, for the purpose of
discussing business or parish matters. He always came, schooling himself
to the manner that might be expected of an affectionate son-in-law, but
usually managing to bring Jacqueline with him. She was puzzled and a
little hurt by his new intangible reserve. She could not quite
understand the change in him, and decided with some bitterness that he
had lost interest in her now that she had given him what he wanted of
her--namely, Jacqueline. That, she reminded herself, was the way of the
world. She who knew men should not have been surprised.
And Jacqueline made up to her as best she could for Philip's defection.
She had gone back lately to the ways of her little girlhood, loved to
sit at Kate's feet in front of the grate fire, or even in her lap--no
small accomplishment, for she was almost as tall a woman as her
mother--listening while Kate read aloud, interrupting her frequently
with caresses, making love to her as only Jacqueline could. Kate laughed
at her for what she called her "mommerish" ways; but she found them very
sweet, nevertheless. It was as if the girl were trying to be two
daughters in one, and a faithless Philip to boot.
Kate, too, had gone back to old ways that winter, and occupied her hands
with much sewing for Mag's baby. She had been, in the days before larger
affairs took up so much of her time, a tireless needlewoman, and knew
well the mental relaxation that comes to those who occasionally "sit on
a cushion and sew a fine seam." She explained smilingly that she was
preparing for old age, when nothing would be expected of her but to make
clothes for her grandchildren; and meanwhile Mag's baby reaped the
benefit.
Small Kitty had grown apace, a placid, dimpled little creature, who
stayed with great docility wherever she was put, content to amuse
herself with her ten fingers, or the new accomplishment of blowing
bubbles out of her mouth. In all characteristics she was so different
from what her own two strenuous, exacting babies had been that Kate
marveled anew at the power of heredity.
"I _wish_ you'd let me have her!" said Jacqueline one day, renewing an
old complaint. "You don't love her half so much as I do, and anyway
you've had three of your own."
Kate smiled to herself, and did not make the obvious answer. Instead she
said, "It was to me Mag gave her, dear, to be made a 'lady' of."
"Poor Mag! Do you think you can ever do it?"
"I don't know," admitted Kate, rather helplessly. A year ago she would
have said "Yes" with confidence; but the year had done much to shake her
faith in her own ability. "At least I shall make a useful woman of her,
which is more to the point."
Only once any sign had come out of the oblivion which had engulfed Mag
Henderson. It was a little cheap string of gilt beads, addressed to Mrs.
Kildare and accompanied by a scrap of paper which read:
For little Kitty, so she kin have somethin' purty to remember her
mama by.
Kate had put the poor little gift away sadly, dreading to think how the
girl must have earned even the trifling outlay it had cost. It seemed a
pitifully suitable memento of that mother--a string of cheap gilt beads,
already tarnished....
Jacqueline's handiwork on these occasions was a rather ambitious
venture, a peppermint-striped silk shirt, reminiscent of Professor
Thorpe's courting finery, which she was making as a surprise for
Philip's birthday. Kate eyed this surprise with some misgivings, and
hoped that she would not be asked for an opinion upon it. The sleeves of
the thing looked rather odd, as if they were facing the wrong direction;
also, the buttonholes might have been spaced more evenly.
In its beginning she ventured one remonstrance. "Isn't striped silk just
a little giddy for the Cloth, dear?"
"Phil needs to be giddy, Mother. I mean that my husband shall be just as
stylish as Jemmy's. Besides, it won't show under his clerical vest."
"But if it won't show, what's the use of all this grandeur?"
"Why, Mummy, what a vulgar thought! It will feel, of course!--You know
how it is when there are ribbons and lace on our underthings--we feel
sort of superior and extra lady-like."
"Do we?" laughed Kate. "I must try it and see."
"And then men admire silk tremendously," Jacqueline informed her,
seriously. "Whenever I ask Phil what to put on, he chooses something
silk, and I don't believe he's ever owned anything silk in all his life;
unless perhaps a handkerchief. Oh, he's going to love this shirt, you'll
see!"
"I am sure he is," said Kate tenderly, and thereafter held her peace.
Jacqueline was right, Philip's delight in his "surprise" was almost
touching. It was perhaps the first thing that any woman had made for him
with her own hands since the days when his mother prepared for his
arrival in the world. He bragged about his shirt to all of his
acquaintance, loyally concealing its weaknesses; and would have worn it
with equal pride had it been as uncomfortable as the shirt of Nessus.
Jacqueline, highly elated, embarked upon a series of silken adventures.
If firm intention could have done it, she would have become in those
days as accomplished a needlewoman as her mother and sister.