Kate stood gazing down at the grandchild she had so longed for,
Jacqueline's baby; an old, wrinkled, strangely wise little face, as
befitted one who had solved with his first breath both the mysteries of
Life and of Death. His tiny fists were clenched, his brow puckered, as
if that momentary glimpse of knowledge had not been a happy one.
No woman who has not gazed so into the face of her own dead child can
understand the hopelessness, the sense of bafflement, of the futility of
all human endeavor, which surged through Kate Kildare at that moment.
The waste of it! The utter, insensate waste of so much passion and hope
and tenderness, of such desperate agony, of such courage to bear...!
There is no spendthrift so prodigal as Nature. For one perfected product
that pleases her, hundreds of preciously guarded lives, such as this,
thrown aside like so many pot-shards, useless, done for--and all to what
purpose?... For the moment Kate visualised Nature as some incredible,
insatiable goddess, a female Moloch, who must be propitiated always with
mother's tears....
Then she had a thought of her husband; of his tenderness with their
little suffering Katherine, his remorse-stricken grief over the child's
death. Was that the purpose? For the moment, she forgot the other Basil
whom she knew better, the one who had put aside his own flesh and blood
as ruthlessly as Nature herself had put aside this little son of
Jacqueline.
"Basil would be sorry for this," she whispered, half aloud. "Poor
Basil!"
She did not know that she was weeping, or that she was not alone, till
Jemima touched her hand; the girl's nearest approach to a caress.
"So this," said the latter, in a queer, small voice, "is the last of the
Kildares of Storm!... Why do you cry, Mother? Aren't you _glad_?" She
spoke fiercely. "Isn't it time we made way in the world for--better
people?"
Kate tried haltingly to explain the sorrow that was upon her. "He wasn't
all Kildare, this little fellow.... You never knew my father, or his
father. They were gallant gentlemen, Jemima. All my life I have wanted
sons like them, and like--the Benoix men. I have been proud of my
health, my strength. I have lived honorably, I have tried to keep myself
a--a--"
"A gallant gentleman," said Jemima, nodding.
"Yes. So that the spark should remain alive, for my grandsons. It seemed
to me--"
She broke off, finding it impossible to put into words what she felt;
that her own indomitable vitality, her energy, her courage, the thing
she had called "the spark," was something which had been put in her
hands to guard for the long future, and that, instead, here in her hands
it had gone out.
This meant death to Kate Kildare, far more than the separation of body
and spirit would mean death.
Each woman was busy with her own thoughts for a while; widely different
thoughts. Jemima murmured presently, "Philip said 'our son,' Mother! Oh,
do you suppose that was--true? Or was he--"
She did not finish her own question; nor did Kate attempt to answer it.
"That would be like Philip," muttered the girl at last. "Anyway, it's
his own affair."
She saw that her mother was sobbing.
"Don't!" she whispered in distress. "Don't! I--I never know what to do
when people cry. Please!" Her voice altered suddenly. "Mother, you wait
here a minute! You just wait here!"
Kate heard her leave the room, and then stooped to kiss her grandson
good-by.
As she knelt there, tears raining fast on the tiny, unresponsive face in
the coffin, she heard a step behind her. Thinking it was Jemima again,
she did not look around.
It was some moments later that a memory came to her, so clear as to be
almost a vision; the memory of her dream in Frankfort--a man standing
near, with bent shoulders and gray hair, but eyes as blue as a child's,
as tender as a woman's, gazing down at her, smiling down....
Behind her sounded a slight cough.
She lifted her head, suddenly trembling. "Who--who is there?" she
whispered.
A voice answered, very low--"Kate!--Kate!"
Without another word, without a glance to make sure, she rose and went
blindly into the arms that were ready for her.
It was like coming home.
AFTERWORD
The Madam made one final appearance at Storm, no longer as Mrs. Kildare
but as Mrs. Benoix, remaining only long enough to put affairs in order
for resigning her stewardship of the estate.
She had been married in the mountains to Dr. Benoix, over-ruling all his
protests with a quiet, "Do you think I am going to run the risk of
losing you again?"
And indeed his protests were not very heartfelt. He was unaware until
too late of the clause in Basil Kildare's will by which Kate's
re-marriage would lose Storm to herself and her children. His chief
objection was on the score of his health, and to it Kate had replied
simply, "That in itself would be a reason for our marriage, if there
were no other. Oh, Jacques, if you could know how I _love_ to be
needed!"
He made his last weak protest. "But I cannot bear to think of you
wasting your loveliness, your charm, here among these uncouth people,
you who should shine in courts and palaces!"
She laughed softly. "I never have shone in any courts or palaces, goose!
As for what you call my 'loveliness and charm'--they have been most
valuable assets, I assure you, in dealing with my fellow-men." Her eyes
danced with the daring that had made Kate Leigh's bellehood remembered
beyond its time. "Why should beauty be wasted here more than elsewhere?
There's less of it, and your mountaineers have eyes--though not very
sound ones, poor dears!"
She went down to Storm alone, partly because of that little sinister
cough of her husband's, which she made light of but never forgot; partly
because she wished to spare him the publicity of the nine days' wonder
that their marriage was.
But it was a publicity she need not have dreaded. Slowly enough, there
had come about a great change in the feeling of the community toward
Basil Kildare's widow; and when it was learned that she was at last
relinquishing her great estate to marry the man for whom she had waited
twenty years, the thing that had been scandal became suddenly romance.
Kate woke one day to find herself a heroine.
There was a constant passage of vehicles Stormward in the fortnight she
remained there, ranging from humble farm-wagons to luxurious limousines;
for not only her neighbors shared in the ovation, but people from her
girlhood's home recalled the old-time friendship, and made haste to
renew it. Something of the Bishop's influence might be felt here,
perhaps; something, too, of the influence of young Mrs. Thorpe, whose
brief stay among them had been by no means forgotten.
Kate accepted it all with a pleased surprise; received her guests, when
she had time, in all friendliness, but with a certain reserve which was
partly shyness. She found very little to say to people, especially
women, of her own class, after all these years; and they went away to
speak with some awe of one who seemed dedicated, set apart from life,
like a nun who is about to take the veil. It was very different talk
from that which had raged around the name of Kate Kildare twenty years
before!
When at last she turned her back on Storm forever, her going was
something in the nature of an Hegira. She took with her certain members
of her household, notably Big Liza, who had grown too old in her service
to adapt themselves to other ways; also a few favorite horses, and those
of the dogs for whom she had not found suitable homes; to say nothing of
cattle, hogs, and poultry, chosen for the purpose of showing Jacques'
mountaineers how livestock ought to look.
This cavalcade was joined in the village, somewhat to Kate's dismay, by
the Ladies of the Evening Star, in a body, also the Civic League, with a
brass band, which accompanied her to the train, playing all the way as
lustily as for a funeral. The final act of the performance was the
presentation, rather fussily overseen by Philip's successor, of a
mammoth bouquet of Spring blossoms, raised in the reclaimed dooryards of
the Civic League.
Kate's last look, as the train pulled away, was for the old
juniper-tree, her eyrie, lifting its hoary head, green now with tender
leaves, across the wide valley where she had been for so long a
prisoner.
* * * * *
The time came, when, as the Bishop had prophesied, Philip and Jacqueline
were called away from the mountains into a wider field; to a crowded,
dingy district in a city larger than any of Kentucky, where Jacqueline's
mothering arms have never an excuse to be empty, and where, as her
husband proudly confesses, more people are attracted to his church by
the quality of the music it provides than the quality of the sermons.
But it is something else than music or sermons which attracts to these
two all people who are in trouble, or in need; all derelicts of life.
The hearts of Philip and his wife have not contracted about happiness of
their own. They understand.
Mag's baby is with them, already learning, a docile, womanly little
creature of six years, to pick up the stitches dropped by busy,
careless, eager Jacqueline. It is a household Jacques Benoix loves to
hear about, and Kate to visit.
But she never stays long. Cities bewilder her with their crowded
indifference--men hurrying hither and thither like ants in an ant-hill,
heedless of the wide sky above, heedless of each other, heedless of
everything except each the small burden he carries on his back. Always
she turns home to Jacques and the mountains with a sigh of relief.
Often, for she is not the woman to neglect a duty because it is painful,
Kate goes down to Storm, a home now for crippled children, both white
and black. It seems to her that the old house has grown less grim and
forbidding under the influence of the little people who are happy there
because of Basil Kildare's memory of his crippled daughter;--and also,
perhaps, of another crippled child, his son.
* * * * *
Often, too, she makes one of her flying visits to James and Jemima
Thorpe.
Once, some years since, she was called in haste to nurse Jemima through
what her husband's telegram indicated as a "slight indisposition"; and
upon hurrying to the sickroom was astounded to find Mrs. Thorpe propped
up in bed, ministering very deftly to the needs of an infant son, so
like his father that it was rather a shock to see him without
eye-glasses.
It took Kate several days to recover her breath.
At last, happening one day to discover Jemima gazing down at her
gourmand child with something more than tolerance in her expression,
Kate blurted out:
"But I thought you did not believe in babies, Blossom!"
"Believe in them? Why, of course, Mother! Babies are quite indispensable
to the scheme of things--but not to me."
"Then--why--?"
"Oh," said Jemima, practically, "it seemed rather a pity that there
should be no one to inherit Aunt Jemima's money. And then--well,
intelligences such as James' and mine really ought to be perpetuated, I
suppose. As you once said--my baby isn't all Kildare!"
She gave her husband a quick, shy smile that was rather demonstrative
for Jemima.
He leaned over and took her hand. "Why not tell your mother the truth,
my dear?"
She flushed. "That is the truth, of course! Or--well, not perhaps _all_
the truth.... You see, Mother, you were so upset about poor Jacky's
baby.... Of course it's not quite the same, she is more like you than I
am. But still ... And what you said about the 'spark.' ... So, you
see--"
In her dread of sentiment, she was bungling the explanation so badly
that James Thorpe took it out of her hands.
"Kate, you may regard the young person in question" (he grinned down at
it fatuously) "as _our_ child in only the technical sense of the word.
It is, in fact, Jemima's gift to you. She came to the conclusion that
she could offer you nothing you would prefer to a grandson."
"But," choked Kate, between laughter and tears, "suppose it had been a
granddaughter?"
"Evidently you don't yet know our Jemima," remarked the husband.
* * * * *
Even Kate's grandson, however, does not keep her long away from the
mountains and Jacques.
She knows that their time together, hers and her husband's, must be
short. Neither misunderstands the significance of the little cough with
which he has fought, for years, a losing battle. But they know, too,
that it is given to few to taste the splendor of life as they have
tasted it together; the joy of dreams realized, of service shared.
Kate was right in her belief that Jacques could take no advantage of the
disclosure made by Mahaly. "The stone I threw was meant for Basil," he
said. "Nevertheless--I am glad it failed to strike him. And I think that
Basil, wherever he is, must be glad, too."
"_Wherever he is?_" repeated Kate, quickly. The subject of the hereafter
was become of poignant interest to her, facing as she must what lay
before them. "Oh, Jacques! Are you beginning to believe--to believe--?"
He interrupted her sadly. "I can believe only what I can understand. You
must forgive me, my Kate. Only, sometimes there are dreams a man has,
echoes perhaps out of his childhood--" he broke off with a shrug, "And
one is envious when one sees a faith such as Philip's in his God, so
strong, so sure.--Like his little-boy faith that his father was the best
and greatest of men, all-wise, infallible."
Kate said, with her hand on his, "Sometimes a little boy is right,
dear."
* * * * *
There have been great changes on Misty Ridge since Kate went to live in
the mountains. The work Dr. Benoix started alone has grown beyond
belief, and the influence of it extends now far beyond his immediate
locality.
He has many other assistants than his wife, though none more able--a
young oculist who specializes in trachoma, and makes no complaint of
lack of practice; two trained teachers to help in the classrooms; even a
clergyman fresh from his seminary to take the place left vacant by
Philip, greatly to the satisfaction of Bates the peddler, and somewhat
to the satisfaction of Dr. Benoix himself.
As he once explained to the visiting Bishop: "I will undertake to treat
as best I can any ill of the human body or the human mind; but when it
comes to the human soul--that calls for a bolder man than I am!"
The State is beginning to take notice of Misty Ridge, and offers of
assistance come more rapidly than Kate can decline them. She does
decline them; for the work there is Jacques Benoix' work, and she guards
it for him jealously, to be his monument in the eyes of men when the
great spirit that created it shall have passed into some other sphere of
usefulness.
She herself, for all her share in the life of Jacques' people, their
birth, their death, and the hard interval between, is nothing more to
the dwellers on Misty Ridge than "Mrs. Teacher"--sometimes "Ole Mrs.
Teacher," now that the glow of her hair is touched with gray, and
beautiful lines are growing about her beautiful eyes.
But it is a name she loves above all other names--"Ole Mrs. Teacher."
She wears it far more proudly than she ever wore her former title of
"the Madam."