Part 71 (1/2)

She lifted her head, suddenly trembling. ”Who--who is there?” she whispered.

A voice answered, very low--”Kate!--Kate!”

Without another word, without a glance to make sure, she rose and went blindly into the arms that were ready for her.

It was like coming home.

AFTERWORD

The Madam made one final appearance at Storm, no longer as Mrs. Kildare but as Mrs. Benoix, remaining only long enough to put affairs in order for resigning her stewards.h.i.+p of the estate.

She had been married in the mountains to Dr. Benoix, over-ruling all his protests with a quiet, ”Do you think I am going to run the risk of losing you again?”

And indeed his protests were not very heartfelt. He was unaware until too late of the clause in Basil Kildare's will by which Kate's re-marriage would lose Storm to herself and her children. His chief objection was on the score of his health, and to it Kate had replied simply, ”That in itself would be a reason for our marriage, if there were no other. Oh, Jacques, if you could know how I _love_ to be needed!”

He made his last weak protest. ”But I cannot bear to think of you wasting your loveliness, your charm, here among these uncouth people, you who should s.h.i.+ne in courts and palaces!”

She laughed softly. ”I never have shone in any courts or palaces, goose!

As for what you call my 'loveliness and charm'--they have been most valuable a.s.sets, I a.s.sure you, in dealing with my fellow-men.” Her eyes danced with the daring that had made Kate Leigh's bellehood remembered beyond its time. ”Why should beauty be wasted here more than elsewhere?

There's less of it, and your mountaineers have eyes--though not very sound ones, poor dears!”

She went down to Storm alone, partly because of that little sinister cough of her husband's, which she made light of but never forgot; partly because she wished to spare him the publicity of the nine days' wonder that their marriage was.

But it was a publicity she need not have dreaded. Slowly enough, there had come about a great change in the feeling of the community toward Basil Kildare's widow; and when it was learned that she was at last relinquis.h.i.+ng her great estate to marry the man for whom she had waited twenty years, the thing that had been scandal became suddenly romance.

Kate woke one day to find herself a heroine.

There was a constant pa.s.sage of vehicles Stormward in the fortnight she remained there, ranging from humble farm-wagons to luxurious limousines; for not only her neighbors shared in the ovation, but people from her girlhood's home recalled the old-time friends.h.i.+p, and made haste to renew it. Something of the Bishop's influence might be felt here, perhaps; something, too, of the influence of young Mrs. Thorpe, whose brief stay among them had been by no means forgotten.

Kate accepted it all with a pleased surprise; received her guests, when she had time, in all friendliness, but with a certain reserve which was partly shyness. She found very little to say to people, especially women, of her own cla.s.s, after all these years; and they went away to speak with some awe of one who seemed dedicated, set apart from life, like a nun who is about to take the veil. It was very different talk from that which had raged around the name of Kate Kildare twenty years before!

When at last she turned her back on Storm forever, her going was something in the nature of an Hegira. She took with her certain members of her household, notably Big Liza, who had grown too old in her service to adapt themselves to other ways; also a few favorite horses, and those of the dogs for whom she had not found suitable homes; to say nothing of cattle, hogs, and poultry, chosen for the purpose of showing Jacques'

mountaineers how livestock ought to look.

This cavalcade was joined in the village, somewhat to Kate's dismay, by the Ladies of the Evening Star, in a body, also the Civic League, with a bra.s.s band, which accompanied her to the train, playing all the way as l.u.s.tily as for a funeral. The final act of the performance was the presentation, rather fussily overseen by Philip's successor, of a mammoth bouquet of Spring blossoms, raised in the reclaimed dooryards of the Civic League.

Kate's last look, as the train pulled away, was for the old juniper-tree, her eyrie, lifting its h.o.a.ry head, green now with tender leaves, across the wide valley where she had been for so long a prisoner.

The time came, when, as the Bishop had prophesied, Philip and Jacqueline were called away from the mountains into a wider field; to a crowded, dingy district in a city larger than any of Kentucky, where Jacqueline's mothering arms have never an excuse to be empty, and where, as her husband proudly confesses, more people are attracted to his church by the quality of the music it provides than the quality of the sermons.

But it is something else than music or sermons which attracts to these two all people who are in trouble, or in need; all derelicts of life.

The hearts of Philip and his wife have not contracted about happiness of their own. They understand.

Mag's baby is with them, already learning, a docile, womanly little creature of six years, to pick up the st.i.tches dropped by busy, careless, eager Jacqueline. It is a household Jacques Benoix loves to hear about, and Kate to visit.