Part 48 (1/2)
The girl went to the window and stood looking out, over the garden that merged into a pasture, and so down gradually into the ravine where the ruined slave-house stood.
”Suppose,” she asked in a m.u.f.fled voice, ”suppose I couldn't marry? What then?”
Kate believed she understood. The affair with Channing had left more of a hurt than she had realized. Jacqueline, at seventeen, doubtless considered herself a blighted being.--She controlled the smile that twitched at her lips, and said cheerfully, ”Then you will just have to be a prop for my declining years. You won't begrudge me a prop, dear?
Surely _you_ don't want to go away from me?”
The unconscious emphasis on the p.r.o.noun went to Jacqueline's heart. She remembered the day Jemima had shut them out into the world of people who were not Kildares, she and her mother together....
She came back at a run, and plumped herself down on Kate's knees, great girl that she was, hiding her face in that sheltering breast, holding her mother tight, tight, as if she could never let her go.
Kate returned the embrace with interest. She, too, remembered.
”It will be something bigger than a career that takes you away from your mother!” she whispered.
”Something bigger than a career,” echoed Jacqueline, clinging closer.
CHAPTER x.x.xIV
Kate broached the subject of the New York trip at supper that night, but met with no encouragement whatever from her elder daughter, somewhat to her surprise.
”What is the use of buying an expensive trousseau? Mag sews quite well enough, and anyway I have more clothes now than I know what to do with,”
she argued practically. ”If you think I haven't enough lingerie and all that, I can take some of Jacky's. It seems rather mean to desert a man just as soon as you get engaged to him. Besides, James and I shall be going to New York next month, on our wedding-trip.”
”Next month?” cried Kate.
”Why, yes, Mother. There's no use putting it off, I think. James has been alone so many years; and he certainly needs some one to look after him. If you could see the pile of perfectly good socks in his closet that only need a little darning!” She spoke unsentimentally as ever; but there was a tone in her voice that made her mother give her hand a little squeeze.
”Very well, dear. You shall be married to-morrow, if you like.”
”To-morrow is a little soon. Suppose we say three weeks from to-day?”
Kate gasped, but consented.
Preparations for the wedding went on apace at Storm, though it was to be a very quiet affair, not the fas.h.i.+onable ceremony, with bridesmaids and champagne, for which Jemima's heart privately yearned.
”I don't know any girls well enough to ask them to be bridesmaids,” she explained wistfully to her fiance, who made a mental note to supply her with young women friends hereafter, if he had to hire them.
Nevertheless, it was something of a ceremony. The Madam did not have a daughter married every day. For days beforehand the negroes were busy indoors and out, cleaning, painting and whitewas.h.i.+ng, exhibiting a tendency to burst into syncopated strains of Lohengrin whenever Jemima or the Professor came into view. The kitchen chimney belched forth smoke like a factory; for though no invitations were sent out, it was inevitable that the countryside, white and black, would arrive to pay its respects to the newly wedded, and Big Liza, with an able corps of a.s.sistants, was preparing to welcome them in truly feudal fas.h.i.+on.
Gifts began to arrive, silver and gla.s.s and china from friends of the Professor and business connections of Mrs. Kildare. A magnificent service of plate came from Jemima's great-aunt, for whom she was named.
(”We must make friends with Aunt Jemima, James,” was the bride's thoughtful comment on the arrival of this present.) Philip could not afford to buy a handsome enough gift, and so parted with the bronze candelabra which Farwell had so covetously admired; a sacrifice which did much to break down the hauteur of the bride's recent manner with him. She knew how well he loved his few Lares and Penates.
There were other presentations of less conventional nature. These Professor Thorpe, whom the panting Ark conveyed nightly from the university to Storm and back again, eyed with a mixture of interest and dismay.
”This suckling pig, now,” he murmured. ”How are we to accommodate him in a city apartment, Jemima? And that highly decorative rooster--I fear we shall have some difficulty in persuading my janitor to accept him as an inmate. Do you suppose _all_ your mother's tenants will feel called upon to supply us with livestock?”
”Oh, no, G.o.ddy! Look at this crazy quilt,” chuckled Jacqueline, busily unwrapping parcels, ”It is made of the Sunday dresses of all Mrs. Sykes'