Part 62 (1/2)
Presently, however, the food had its effect. Weakness pa.s.sed; and Kate found that her anger had dissipated, leaving only a great, aching sorrow, not only for her daughter, but with her. Philip receded to the back of her mind. Channing was there only as one is aware of the presence of some crawling, hidden thing in the gra.s.s, whom one intends presently to crush with a heel. All her thoughts rested now upon Jacqueline.
She saw her as she had cowered away from that torrent of wrath, her tearless, strained eyes fixed incredulously upon the mother who was hurting her. She remembered all her little tender, clinging ways, her piteous loyalty to the man who had deserted her, her gallant effort to bear gaily the load of fear that must for so long have been upon her heart. She remembered farther back than that--her fierce rage with the accusing Jemima, her arms wound tight about the mother whose weakness she had learned, her cry, ”If she is bad, then I'll be bad, too! I'd rather be bad like her than good as--as G.o.d!”
Kate began to s.h.i.+ver. She, the defender of Mag Henderson, of all weak and helpless creatures, she had failed her own daughter!...
Her mind went still further back into the past, and recalled the scene between herself and Jacques Benoix, when she had offered herself to him, when only the fact that her lover was stronger than herself had kept her from far worse sinning than Jacqueline's--worse, because less ignorant.
What right had she, Kate Leigh, reckless, headstrong, hot-hearted, to expect of her child either the sort of strength that resists temptation, or the sort that declines to s.h.i.+eld itself at the expense of another?
Gradually she came to absolve Jacqueline from blame even in the matter of Philip. She had not sought Philip's help, she had only accepted what had been offered her--what her mother had prompted him to offer. Poor little victim, pa.s.sive in the hands of stronger natures, in the hands of circ.u.mstance, heredity, character--that Fate which the ancient G.o.ds surely meant by their cryptic saying: ”The fate of all men we have hung about their necks....”
If it had not been so late she would have gone to her daughter then, and begged for forgiveness. Instead she sat on before the dying fire, s.h.i.+vering without knowing it, sometimes unconsciously beating her breast with her hand, as Catholics beat their b.r.e.a.s.t.s during the ma.s.s, when they murmur, ”_Mea culpa, mea culpa_.”
It was almost dawn when she realized that the fire was out, and went stiffly up to bed, careful not to wake Mag's baby, who slept beside her in the crib that had held in turn each of her own children.
CHAPTER XLV
It was so rarely that the Madam overslept herself that her servants had no precedent to follow in the matter. The housewoman, who finally entered on tiptoe to remove the placidly protesting Kitty, reported the Madam sleeping ”like a daid pusson, and mighty peaked-lookin' in the face.” So it was decided not to disturb her; and the morning was well advanced before Kate reached the Rectory, where her thoughts had been hovering since her first waking moment.
The counsels of the night had taught her a new humility. She came to Jacqueline as a suppliant, begging to be forgiven not only for her moment of cruel anger but for her stupid and bungling interference in her child's life. Nothing was very clear in her mind except that Philip must be told the truth, and that, whatever happened, she and her child would bear it together.
She was disappointed to find that both Jacqueline and Philip were out, Jacqueline having driven away soon after Philip left the house.
”Driven? She was not riding?” asked Kate in some surprise. Jacqueline, like her mother, rarely used a vehicle if a saddle-horse was at hand.
”She tooken de buggy, an' she tooken Lige, too,” explained Ella. ”No'm, I dunno whar she went at, kase I wa'n't here when dey lef', but I reckon she'll be gone a right smart while, 'cause she lef' me word jes what I was to feed dat puppy. As ef a pusson raised at Sto'm wouldn't know how to take keer of puppy-dawgs!” She exchanged with her former mistress a smile of indulgent amus.e.m.e.nt. ”I 'lows she's goin' to tek her dinner with you-all like she ginally does, ain't she?”
Kate doubted it, after what had pa.s.sed; but she went back to her house and waited, hopefully.
At about the dinner-hour she was called to the telephone, and for a moment failed to recognize Philip's voice over the wire. It sounded unnatural.
”Is Jacqueline there?”
”Why, no. Not yet. Is she coming?”
”I--I don't know. Look here!--don't worry, but she's been gone for some hours, and she 's taken a trunk with her.”
”A trunk?” cried Kate.
”Yes. Do you know anything about it? Has she spoken to you of making a visit, or anything?” He repeated his question, patiently; but Kate could not find her voice to answer. A premonition of disaster struck her dumb.
”You're not to worry,” said Philip again. ”Lige drove her over to the trolley-line, and he should be back soon. I'll telephone you what he has to say.”
But Kate could not wait. She ran out to the stables and saddled a horse with her own hands, impatiently pus.h.i.+ng aside the slower negroes.
Halfway to the rectory she met Philip, in the Ark. He held out to her an open letter.
”Lige brought it back to me. It's from Jacqueline. Read it,” he said, dully.