It was not long after this that Kate woke to a realization of the
sacrifices her daughter was making to remain at Storm, and sent her back
post-haste to her patient, neglected husband, and to the new worlds that
remained to conquer.
"Of course I shall be lonely," she admitted in answer to Jemima's
protest. "But I must get used to that. And I shall have my work, now
that I am quite strong again."
Nor would she listen to Jemima's plea, seconded heartily by James
Thorpe, that she leave Storm for a while and make them a visit.
"Suppose Jacqueline should come home, and not find me here?"
Jemima knew that it was not only Jacqueline of whom she thought.
But when Kate said that she had her work to return to, she had reckoned
without her henchman Jenkins, a new broom that was sweeping very clean
indeed. It is an axiom that while it requires creative genius to start
an enterprise, once the momentum is gained any mediocre intelligence may
keep it going. Kate learned this for herself.
During her illness, things had gone on much as usual. Her affairs were
in excellent order. The spring planting had been arranged for; at the
appointed season foals and calves and tottering new lambs made their
appearance in their usual numbers among her pastures; the books showed
no falling off in credits nor increase in debits; fences and roads were
in excellent repair. Jenkins was manifestly eager and able to spare her
all responsibility and trouble. She understood his ambition. There
seemed no reason for her to resume the reins of authority from such
capable hands.
She turned to her immediate household; but there, too, the efficiency
which had been her fetish made interference unnecessary. Her
well-trained servants chuckled among themselves at the Madam's sudden
interest in housecleaning, in linen-closet and pantry, in cookery.
"Laws, Miss Kate, honey! Huccom you dirtyin' up yo' hands with niggers'
work?" demanded Big Liza, reproachfully.
The village, too, seemed to be getting on surprisingly well without her.
The Housewives' League she had organized had made amazing strides during
her absence. It had elected a president and a secretary and was
governing itself according to Roberts' Rules of Order quite as capably
as it had been governed in the past by the Madam. It was even, thanks to
Jemima's recent activities in the neighborhood, beginning to discuss in
a shy and tentative manner the question of Votes for Women. Kate felt
that she had created a Frankenstein.
Nor was the problem of the negro element any longer hers to struggle
with alone. She had tried to meet it by starting among the colored
people of the village a Civic League, quiescent during the winter, but
coming to life each spring with garden-time, and progressing
enthusiastically through the summer to the culmination of prize-giving,
and a procession, with the prize-winners riding proudly at the front in
decorated carriages. Now she found that Philip's successor, a city-bred
young fellow trained in social service, had already taken the Civic
League in hand and had converted the colored school into a Neighborhood
House of the most approved pattern, where innocent entertainment might
be had on two nights out of the week, winter and summer. The effect upon
a gregarious, pleasure-loving race which, as John Wise has said, never
outgrows mentally the age of seventeen, was already apparent. Kate
wished humbly that she herself had thought of a Neighborhood House.
Gradually she came to the conclusion that she had outlived the
community's need of her. She, Kate Kildare, not yet forty, with energy
flowing back into her veins even as the sap was coming back into the
trees after their winter's rest, could find no outlet for it.
There was nothing to fill the endless days. She tried to resume her
long-neglected musical studies, but the piano was haunted for her now by
the silent voice of Jacqueline, and she turned from it at last in
despair. In this time of need, even books failed her. With her returning
vigor full upon her, she could not find the patience to sit for hours
poring over the thoughts of professional thinkers, or the imaginary
deeds of people who had never lived--she who had lived so hard, and
whose own thoughts came up aching out of her heart.
Mag's baby was her one occupation. Storm would have been indeed a dreary
place just then without Mag's parting legacy to it. The small Kitty was
somewhat young to begin her education, but begin it she did,
nevertheless. She was as docile and anxious to please as her mother
before her, and after days of patient training, managed to master the
intricate syllables of what the doggie says and what the pussy says. She
also learned to navigate alone the distance from a chair-leg to Kate's
knee; a fearful adventure, this, accomplished with much wild waving of
arms and not a few tears, for Kitty was not of the intrepid, determined
stuff to which Kate was accustomed in the way of infants.
However, she made a cuddlesome, drowsy armful to hold during the long
Spring twilights; and often sitting so, alone in her great hall, Kate
forgot what child it was she held, and went back to the days of her
first motherhood, dreaming that the door would presently open and admit
Jacques Benoix, come to sit for a while with his friend.
Few visitors troubled the monotony of Storm. During her illness the
neighborhood had been assiduous with broths and jellies, but now that
she was well again the old awe of the Madam returned, and it did not
occur to the modest country folk that she would have been glad of their
company. Holiday Hill was in charge of caretakers. Farwell, after months
of the rôle of the Southern country gentleman, had suddenly yielded to
the irresistible lure of the footlights, and was once more making his
final appearance upon any stage. Philip's substitute occasionally paid a
conscientious call, which Kate recognized, with some amusement, as a
parochial visit. He was an earnest young man, with views, and it was
evident that he regarded Mrs. Kildare's frank indifference to matters of
dogma as a serious defect in her character.
Somewhat to her surprise, one day the Bishop of the diocese came out
from Lexington to see her. She had met him before, as Philip's friend,
and even entertained him at Storm on occasion; but their acquaintance
was very slight, and she was at a loss to account for this visit.
He seemed to have come chiefly to talk about Philip. "I have been
watching young Benoix since he first left the Seminary. We have many
promising men in our clergy," he said, "many indefatigable workers, many
beautiful spirits, many fine intellects. But a combination of all these
qualities is rare in any profession. And besides these," he added
quietly, "Benoix has the right sort of wife."
Kate's steady eyes met his without flinching. Though nothing was said
about Jacqueline's letter to the Bishop, the thought of it had not for a
moment been absent from their minds. "You think that?" she asked in a
low voice.
"I know it! The right sort of wife is important to any man, but more to
a clergyman than to others. Charm, tact, the kindliness that comes from
the heart itself, above all, understanding--these are the things your
little Jacqueline has brought to help her husband, and he will go far.
Mark my words!--Presently I shall have to take those two young people
away from you, into a wider field."
He watched her compressed, tremulous lips shrewdly and sympathetically.
Jacqueline's confession and her voluntary atonement had touched his
broad nature to the quick; and he had come to Storm of his own volition
for the purpose of reconciling her with a presumably unforgiving mother.
But his first glimpse of the mother's face showed him the needlessness
of such an errand so far as she was concerned, and his sympathies turned
into another channel.
He said lightly, "I suppose you hear often from the honeymooners?"
Kate shook her head.
"No? Young people are sometimes thoughtless in their happiness,
forgetful of the rights of mothers.--My dear," he said suddenly,
abandoning his pretense of ignorance, "why don't you go to them, take
her by surprise? Things are so much better said face to face, and before
any hurt has had time to rankle. Why don't you go to them?"
"I do not know where they are."
The Bishop looked thoughtful. "I can tell you," he said at last. "And I
think I shall."
But Kate stopped him. The temptation had been great. She was weary of
waiting for the word that never came, for the chance to hold her child
in her arms again, and kiss away all the grief and pain and remorse that
lay between them.
But she knew it was best for Jacqueline and Philip to come to their
readjustment without her. Long meditation had taught her at last to
understand that it was she herself who, unwittingly and unwillingly, had
stood between them.
When the Bishop rose to go, he held her hand between his own for some
moments. "When will you come to Lexington, my dear? I am an old and busy
man, but I cannot afford to lose touch with such a woman as you. Will
you come to see me occasionally?"
Kate replied quietly that she never went to Lexington. He understood.
Though it had happened before his time, he had not failed to hear of the
occasion when young Kate Leigh had brought her children home to be
christened, and had been cut by an entire congregation.
He said gently, "The world's memory is short--shorter than you think. If
you were to come to Lexington now, you would find that you have many
friends there."
She gave no promise. The world's memory might be short, but she was not
of the world, and hers was long.
"Then I must even come to you," said the Bishop; and was as good as his
word thereafter....
As the long days lengthened into weeks, Kate gave up all pretense of
activity, and resigned herself to waiting; waiting for she knew not
what.
At first it had been Jacqueline; some word of her, or message from her.
But, gradually, thoughts of her child merged somehow into thoughts of
Jacques Benoix. She found herself dreaming of him as she had not allowed
herself to dream since she first heard that he was coming out of the
penitentiary, when their meeting seemed close, imminent, something to be
prepared for constantly lest the shock of joy should be too great. She
tried now to stop these dreams, in fear of the awakening; but could not.
Perhaps it was April in her blood, bringing to life the old habit of
wanting her mate in the mating-season. Perhaps it was her talk with
Jemima, and the girl's promise that Jacques Benoix should be found.
Jemima rarely broke a promise.--Whatever the cause, the sense of his
approach, his nearness, was sometimes so vivid that Kate felt she had
but to turn her head to see him standing there behind her.
But if she turned it, there were only the dogs, eagerly waiting her
pleasure, their tails astir; or perhaps a servant coming from the house
with a wrap for her, because the breeze was damp.
She rarely rode abroad now. Pasture and field and meadow, Nature itself,
had lost charm for her since she seemed to have no longer a share in
bringing about their miracles. She was content to sit day after day in
her eyrie, gazing out over the greening valley, watching the great
flocks of martins, grackle, and robins that passed noisily overhead,
going to meet the Spring farther north.
All about her sounded the murmur of bluebirds, which came each year to
live in the old trees about Storm. She wondered why the bluebird should
have been taken as a symbol of happiness. There is nothing more
plaintive in nature than its nesting-song, a cadence of little dropping
minor notes, which Kate, grown fanciful in her idleness, translated for
herself:
Love and loss, loss and love. Take them together, while there is
time. Better together than not at all. Quick--for the Spring is
passing by.--
Yet one who saw her sitting there, the breeze blowing tendrils of bright
hair about her face, her strong, lithe hands clasped youthfully about
her knees, her beautiful eyes darkling or brightening with the thoughts
that passed, could not have connected her with the mere passivity of
waiting, of remembering.
Sometimes the pale sunlight, growing daily in warmth, touched her cheek
or her hand like a caress, and stirred her to a sudden restlessness.
"It can't be all over for me," she thought, then. "It can't!"
It seemed to her that she had been like the Lady of Shalott, doomed to
see life only in a mirror, while her hands weaved eternally at a task of
which she had grown weary; hoping always for one to pass, that she might
turn and break the spell, and be done forever with the mirror....
At length a message came that put out of her mind both herself and the
man she loved. It was a telegram from Philip, sent from the mountain
town whence he and Jacqueline and Channing and Brother Bates had set
forth on their missionary expedition.
The telegram read:
Jacqueline wants you. Will meet morning train. Please bring Mag's
baby.
PHILIP.