Part 27 (1/2)

She lapsed into contented silence, and they did not speak again until they reached the foot of Storm hill. There Channing stopped his car.

”Wake up, and run along home now, little girl,” he said, his voice more tender than he meant it to be.

She roused herself and smiled at him, a wonderful, wide smile. She was very grateful to this new friend of hers for his sympathy, his understanding, grateful for the glimpse he had given her of a world hitherto unguessed, grateful for the look in his eyes at that moment.

”I do wish,” she said, holding out both hands, ”that I knew how to--to thank you!”

Channing's admirable self-control slipped a cog. He took the hands. ”I can show you how to thank me,” he said, quite hoa.r.s.ely for a mere collector of impressions.

She jerked her hands away, dimpling, and jumped out of the car. The imminent prospect of being kissed had not shocked her--in fact, she was rather surprised that she had not been kissed before. But she had her instincts of the s.e.x that flees. So she turned and ran, neither very fast nor very far--

”Dear me!” she whispered presently against Channing's lips, ”what would old Philip say to this? He told me I couldn't be too careful with strange men. I'm not being _very_ careful, am I?”

”d.a.m.n Philip! Kiss me again,” said the author.

Breathless and radiant, she ran her blithe way up the dark hill road.

She had been hungry for other things than music and sympathy and friends.h.i.+p, this youngest of the wild Kildares of Storm.

Her mother was standing in the door, Philip Benoix beside her.

”There you are, Jacky girl! I was just about to send Philip out to find you, gadabout. Have you had any supper?”

”Oh, yes, Mummy darling, I took some with me.” It was the first lie of Jacqueline's life, and the ease with which it came surprised her. She ran into her mother's arms and hugged her close. ”Oh, Mummy, I am so happy, happy!”

”There, there,” murmured Kate, moved. ”Glad to have me home again, my precious? But you needn't crack my ribs in your belated ardor. Where have you been so late?”

”Oh, just roaming around,” she said vaguely. ”The twilight was so lovely.”

”Little dreamer!” Sighing, she knew not why, Kate drew the glowing face to her own.

But for once Jacqueline of the eager lips turned her cheek, so that her mother's kiss should not disturb the memory of certain others.

CHAPTER XIX

If Mrs. Kildare's eyes had been of their usual observant keenness in those days, she could not have failed to notice the change in Jacqueline; a new loveliness, a sudden bursting into bloom of the womanhood that had lain hidden in the bud. Her eyes took on a starry softness quite different from their usual glint of mischief, the rich blood in her cheeks came and went with her thoughts, her very hair had a sort of sheen upon it like the l.u.s.ter on the wings of pigeons in the spring. Blossom time, that comes once in life to every woman, with its perilous short gift of the power that moves the world, had come in turn to Jacqueline. It is a moment when a girl most needs her mother; but Kate's thoughts were elsewhere.

People were saying among themselves, ”The Madam's beginning to show her age.” But they could not have said in just what way she showed it. There was no diminution of her tireless energy; she rode her spirited horses with the same supple ease; no pallor showed in her warm cheeks; no lines in the broad s.p.a.ce between her brows; no gray in the glinting chestnut of her hair, as abundant and as splendidly vital as Jacqueline's own.

The change was as subtle as the change in Jacqueline; yet many people spoke of it.

Sometimes on the road she pa.s.sed acquaintances without seeing them; or in the midst of some important conversation, they became aware that she was listening only with her eyes. She spent much time under the juniper tree, sitting idle, her gaze fixed on the shadow over the distant penitentiary, which it had for years avoided. When that shadow hung over Jacques Benoix, her thoughts had at least known where to seek him, as the Moslem when he prays turns toward the east. Now her thoughts had no Mecca. They sought him homeless throughout the world.

Unused to introspection as she was, Kate had made a discovery about herself. Of the two types of strong-hearted women created, the mother-type and the lover-type, she would have said that she belonged indubitably to the former; that hers was a life led chiefly for and in her children. Now she knew that it was not so. Her work for them, her absorption in their welfare, their property and education and character--what were these but so much makes.h.i.+ft to fill the empty years until Jacques came to her?

She had been so sure, so pa.s.sionately sure, that he would come to her.

Vitality, beauty, youth, she had deliberately h.o.a.rded for him, like precious unguents to be poured out at his feet. What was she for but to atone to him for the bitterness that life had brought him, through her fault? Since he rejected her, of what use was she in the world?

A strange restlessness came over her, a feeling of waste, of unfulfilment. She was so intensely alive, so eager, so sentient--surely there must be some purpose for her yet in life; not as the mistress of Storm, not as the mother of Basil Kildare's daughters, but as herself, Kate, the woman. She tried to explain this restlessness to Philip, always her confidant, content for the present with any role that brought him in contact with her; faithfully, as his father had hidden him, biding his time.

”What am I for?” was her cry. ”What is the use of me, Philip?”