Part 69 (1/2)

All about her sounded the murmur of bluebirds, which came each year to live in the old trees about Storm. She wondered why the bluebird should have been taken as a symbol of happiness. There is nothing more plaintive in nature than its nesting-song, a cadence of little dropping minor notes, which Kate, grown fanciful in her idleness, translated for herself:

Love and loss, loss and love. Take them together, while there is time. Better together than not at all. Quick--for the Spring is pa.s.sing by.--

Yet one who saw her sitting there, the breeze blowing tendrils of bright hair about her face, her strong, lithe hands clasped youthfully about her knees, her beautiful eyes darkling or brightening with the thoughts that pa.s.sed, could not have connected her with the mere pa.s.sivity of waiting, of remembering.

Sometimes the pale sunlight, growing daily in warmth, touched her cheek or her hand like a caress, and stirred her to a sudden restlessness.

”It can't be all over for me,” she thought, then. ”It can't!”

It seemed to her that she had been like the Lady of Shalott, doomed to see life only in a mirror, while her hands weaved eternally at a task of which she had grown weary; hoping always for one to pa.s.s, that she might turn and break the spell, and be done forever with the mirror....

At length a message came that put out of her mind both herself and the man she loved. It was a telegram from Philip, sent from the mountain town whence he and Jacqueline and Channing and Brother Bates had set forth on their missionary expedition.

The telegram read:

Jacqueline wants you. Will meet morning train. Please bring Mag's baby.

PHILIP.

CHAPTER LI

She was disappointed to find that Philip, despite his telegram, was not at the station to meet her, but had sent instead a wagon which, its driver explained, was to take her as far as wheels were feasible after the Spring rains, and then return.

”Reckon thar'll be a mule or somethin' to tote you the rest of the way,”

he added, indifferently.

He was unable to answer any of her questions, or to allay the fears which, despite the eager happiness in her heart, were beginning to make themselves felt. Jacqueline wanted her at last--but why?

Mile after mile they drove in utter silence, Kate's thoughts racing ahead of her; while small Kitty, on a pile of quilts in the bottom of the bouncing wagon, adapted herself to circ.u.mstances with the ease of a born traveler, and alternately dozed, or imbibed refreshment out of a bottle, or rehea.r.s.ed her vocabulary aloud for the pleasure of the world at large. She would have preferred a more attentive audience, but she could do without it.

Where the road degenerated into a mere trail along the mountain-side, Kate found a mule awaiting her, in charge, not of Philip, as she had hoped, but of a mountaineer even more taciturn than the driver. Her fears became more acute.

”Can you tell me whether my daughter--young Mrs. Benoix--is ill?” she asked her new conductor, anxiously.

The man took so long to answer that she thought he had not heard her, and repeated the question.

He spat exhaustively--he was chewing tobacco--and finally replied, ”The gal at Teacher's house? Dunno as I've heerd tell.”

”Aren't you a neighbor of hers?”

He gave a brief nod of a.s.sent.

”Then,” she persisted, ”you surely would have heard if she were ill, wouldn't you?”

Another long pause. ”Dunno as I would. We-all ain't much on talk.”

”You certainly are not!” exclaimed Kate with some asperity.