Part 43 (1/2)
No sooner would Jacqueline slip into his room in the morning, bearing a dainty breakfast tray upon which she lavished all of her growing domestic artistry, than the series of interruptions began. First it would be the Madam herself, off on her rounds of inspection, but stopping long enough for a few minutes' chat with her guest. She would be followed by the elderly, apologetic housewoman, to put his things in order, answering Jacqueline's imperious demand for haste with an humble ”Yais 'm, Miss Jacky, I's hurryin' fas' as a pusson kin go, but de Madam wouldn't like it a bit ef I skimped comp'ny's room.”
Then would come, perhaps, Big Liza the cook, to enquire for ”comp'ny's”
health with elephantine coquetries; then Lige, erstwhile stable-boy and butler, now promoted to the proud role of valet, requesting orders for the day, and lingering with an appreciative ear for the conversation of his betters.
When these were out of the way, a firm tap at the door revealed Jemima, book in hand or with a basket of sewing, announcing quietly that she now had an hour or so at Mr. Channing's disposal; whereupon Jacqueline would give up in despair and flounce away, or resign herself to listen, seated behind her sister's back where she could make faces at it unseen except by the invalid.
The afternoons were quite as bad, the family solicitude being augmented by the presence of visitors, the most frequent of whom was Farwell; and in the evenings all sat together about the great fireplace in the hall--for the nights were growing chill--playing games, or listening to Jacqueline's music, or telling stories like children, until nine o'clock; at which hour Mrs. Kildare a.s.sembled her household, white and black, read a few prayers in a firm but inattentive manner, and sent everybody to bed.
The life had a simple charm which Channing savored with due appreciation; but it gave him very little of Jacqueline, and both thought longingly of the Ruin, at present inaccessible. In one thing Jemima's inexperience played her false. To a man of Channing's temperament, occasional and tantalizing glimpses of the _inamorata_ had an allure that unrestricted intercourse might soon have lessened. But considering her youth, Jemima was doing very well indeed.
Mag Henderson was the lovers' only ally. Notes still pa.s.sed between them with a frequency which eluded Jemima's vigilance; and notes make very good fuel for a fire, if there is none better available.
One of these, extracted by Channing from his napkin under the very eye of the enemy, read:
Jemmy is certainly taking notice. Look out! We must put her off the track somehow. Couldn't you make love to her--a little? Not much, and, oh, please, _never_ before me, because I just couldn't bear it!--This is a kiss. O
Channing appreciated this Machiavellian policy, and endeavored to put it into practice; but without success.
Nothing doing! (He wrote in answer). There's a look in that cool, greenish eye that sheds Cupid's darts like chain armor. If I must make love to any one but you, darling, it will have to be your mother. She's human. I tell you no man living would have the courage to breathe airy nothings into your sister's ear more than once.--Here's two kisses. O O
”Poor Jemmy!” thought Jacqueline, gently, when she read this.
”Poor Jemmy,” indeed. Possibly she had made some such discovery for herself.
The time came when the author reluctantly admitted to himself that he had no further excuse to trespa.s.s upon Mrs. Kildare's hospitality. From the first he had been able to limp about the house, pale but courageous; now he found it difficult even to limp with any conviction. At last Farwell quite bluntly advised him that he would better be moving on.
”Your book is calling you, eh, what? If not, it ought to be. The old 'un is looking rather firm, if you ask me. Polite, of course, even cordial--it would not enter the creed of these people to be anything else, so long as one is under their roof. But firm, nevertheless.”
Channing started. ”You don't think she's on?”
Farwell shrugged--a gesture carefully done from the model of Philip Benoix. ”How did you explain your accident up there?”
”Told her we happened to be prowling about the hillside, and ran upon a moons.h.i.+ne still that didn't like us.”
”Did you mention the hour of your innocent ramble?”
Charming flushed. ”It _was_ an innocent ramble, you know.--I did not mention the hour, however.”
”What about Benoix? He and Mrs. Kildare are very thick.”
Channing flushed again. The memory of his last conversation with the clergyman rankled. ”Benoix's not the talking sort,” he muttered.
”Besides, he's still up in the mountains, arranging about a mission or something.”
Farwell looked at him thoughtfully. ”Not the talking sort--you're right, he's the acting sort. Typical Kentuckian and all that. His father's a convicted 'killer,' by the way.”
”Oh, shut up!” said the author, inelegantly. ”What if I have made love to Jacqueline? Does every girl who gets love made to her have to be led forthwith to the altar? The notorious Mrs. Kildare would hardly be a squeamish mama, I think. Why, she's got a common woman of the streets here in the house as a sort of maid-companion to her young daughters!
What can you expect?”
”Nevertheless,” demanded his friend, significantly, ”how much have you seen of the girl since you have been here? You know, and I know, that the most squeamish of mamas are ladies who happen to be acquainted with the ropes themselves. _Verb.u.m sap._--Besides, there is your uncle. Might he have--er--conversed too freely, perhaps?”