Part 50 (1/2)

”At least,” said he, ”they are the sort of mistakes that will get you into heaven.”

She laughed mirthlessly. ”You always talk, you clergymen, as if you had special advices from heaven in your vest-pockets!”

But she was comforted, nevertheless. She would have found it hard to do without Philip's steady adulation.

CHAPTER x.x.xV

The night after the wedding proved to be for Kate Kildare one of the _nuits blanches_ that were becoming common with her in the past few weeks. For many years the cultivated habit of serenity had carried her through whatever crises came into her life, following her days of unremitting labor with nights of blessed oblivion. But lately she found herself quite often waking just before daylight, with that feeling of oppression, that blank sense of apprehension, that is the peculiar property of ”the darkest hour.”

This night she occupied her brain as soothingly as possible with details of the wedding; smiling to remember the unaccustomed frivolity of the old hall, which the negroes had decorated with flowers and ribbons placed in all likely and unlikely places. Every antler sported its bow of white; the various guns which hung along the walls, as they had hung in the days of Basil's grandfather, each trailed a garland of blossoms; even the stuffed racehorse was not forgotten, so that he appeared to be running his final race with Death while incongruously munching roses.

Jacqueline as bridesmaid was, oddly enough, the only one of the wedding-party who seemed in the least upset. She was white as a sheet and trembling visibly, and when Philip greeted Jemima formally as ”Mrs.

Thorpe,” she suddenly burst into tears, and refused to be comforted.

”He's so _old_!” she sobbed on her mother's shoulder. ”Oh, poor Blossom!

He's so _old_!”

Yet the bridegroom had looked to Kate's eyes amazingly young; and as he stood gazing down at the exquisite little white-clad figure beside him, there was such an expression of pride in his face, of incredulous, reverent happiness, that it was all his new mother-in-law could do to keep from kissing him before the ceremony was over.

Jemima herself was as calm as might have been expected; perhaps calmer.

At the critical moment, when Philip's grave voice was beginning: ”Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of G.o.d”--the bride was heard to murmur to her attendant, ”Jacky, pull my train out straight.” Thereafter, she fixed her eye upon a certain flintlock rifle over the mantel-piece, which had won the first Kentucky Kildare his way into the virgin wilderness, and went through the ceremony with the aplomb of a general directing his forces into battle. The mother wondered what the girl was thinking of, staring so fixedly at the old rifle. Perhaps she was vowing to be worthy of it in the new wilderness she was about to tread.

Afterwards for an hour or so Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe had graciously received the uninvited guests of both colors who had come ”to see the bride off.”

Then the two sisters went upstairs together to change into the going-away dress; and Kate, presently following, found Jemima alone.

”I thought you would come, Mother. That's why I sent Jacky away.”

Kate, a little tremulous herself, had counted upon the bride's composure to carry the day; but behold! it was suddenly a thing of the past. She ducked her head and ran into her mother's arms as if she were trying to hide from something, breathless, panic-stricken; and Kate soothed her silently with tender hands.

Presently Jemima whispered in a queer little voice, ”Mother? Now that we are both married women, tell me--Was my father--was my father good to you?”

”My little girl! You need never worry about Jim's being good to you.”

”Oh, Jim--of course!--I'm not thinking of him, I'm thinking of you.

If--if my father was not good to you, I can understand--I see--”

Then Kate realized what she was trying to say. This cold, proud child of hers was willing to give up her pride in her father, if so be she might hold fast again to the old faith in her mother.

The temptation was great, but Kate put it from her. She could not rob dead Basil of his child's respect.

”You must never blame your father, dear, for any weakness of mine,” she said, steadily.

But the girl still clung to her, whispering another strange thing.

”Often, when I am half awake, I remember some one--Not you, Mother. Some one with a deep laugh, whose coat feels smooth on my cheek--who used to toss me up in the air, and play with me, and pet me if I was frightened.