Part 24 (1/2)
”Humph! Rather a high-handed proceeding, that.”
”Oh, no--I don't think Mag really wants a baby much, not like I do.
She's fond of it in a way, just as cats are fond of their kittens; but they soon outgrow it, you know. Why, once we had a cat who ate her kittens!”
”Shocking of her,” said Channing.
”I suppose it was because she didn't want to have them--any more than Mag did. She never had a husband, you see, and that makes it so awkward.”
”Meaning the cat?” murmured Channing.
The author of erotic novels was rather pink about the gills. He wondered how much of the girl's navete was natural and how much pose. On the whole, judging from her antecedents and environment, he decided that it was largely pose, but thought none the less of her for that. The artificial always interested him more than the natural.
He looked at the baby again with a certain distaste. He had heard from Farwell the story of Mag's adoption into the Storm household, and it had rather shocked him. What was the woman thinking of to surround her young daughters with such influences? Naturally one would not expect prudery, conventionality, from the mistress of Storm, but in his experience quite _declasee_ women guarded more carefully than this the morals of their young.
”I can't think why you want to keep the infant,” he said.
Jacqueline looked at him in surprise. ”Why, she's perfectly sweet! Look at her precious little curls, and her chubby feet, and all!” She gathered the small Kitty up in her arms protectively. ”Didn't the bad old man admire her, then? Bless its heart! Just shows what a stupid he is--Why, Mr. Channing, everybody wants a baby!”
He murmured, ”Yes? But in the natural course of events, surely--”
”I might have some of my own, you mean? I hope so--oh, I do hope so!
Lots and lots of them. But I might not, you know. The natural course of events doesn't always happen. I might be an old maid. Or I might be wedded to my Art. 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' Have you ever thought how perfectly _awful_ it would be to go through life without any children at all?”
Mr. Channing admitted that he had not, and changed the subject. ”What particular Art are you thinking of being wedded to?”
Jacqueline looked at him reproachfully, hurt. ”I should think you'd know. Didn't you hear me practising?”
The author did not smile. Crude and untrained as it was, he had recognized in that young contralto a quality that made him start. He was always very quick to recognize talent.
”I was going to speak to you about that,” he said seriously. ”Do you know that you have quite a remarkable voice, Miss Jacqueline?”
”Of course I know it! But what's the use if n.o.body else does? A voice with n.o.body to listen to it is--is like being pretty with n.o.body to tell you so.”
”Does n.o.body tell you _that_?” he murmured.
She dimpled again, flus.h.i.+ng under his frank gaze. ”They think I'm too young for compliments! As for my voice, it's getting so strong that Mummy and the Blossom are always saying to me, 'Not so loud.' If I let it out in the house, they put their fingers in their ears. If I let it out in church, Jemmy says I'm drowning the soprano--and so I am. What can I do?”
”Learn to use it,” said Channing. ”You must have lessons, of course.”
”Oh, I've had them. The best singing-teacher in Lexington came here once a week all last winter.”
”Lexington!” Channing smiled.
”You think I ought to have one from Louisville or Cincinnati?” she asked anxiously. ”I didn't really seem to learn very much from the Lexington one.”
Channing smiled again. ”I'm afraid you won't get the sort of training you need this side of Europe. Your mother must send you to Germany, or at least to New York.”
She made a gesture of despair. ”Then there's no use talking about it.
I'll never leave mother, never! I'll just have to go on practising out here as best I can, with n.o.body to listen to me.”