Rachel experienced one of her rare smiles. "And before you came to know Kenneth Gwynne," she said. "No, my dear, the time is not far off when you will not need a mother. Moll Hawk needs one now. I shall try to be a mother to that hapless girl."
Viola looked at her, the little line of perplexity deepening between her eyes.
"Somehow it seems to me that I am just beginning to know my own mother," she said.
A bluejay, sweeping gracefully out over the tree-tops, came to rest upon a lofty bough in the grove across the road. They sat for a long time without speaking, these two women, watching him preen and prink, a bit of lively blue against the newborn green. Then he flew away. He "moved on,"—a passing symbol.
How simple, how easy it was for this bright, gay vagabond to return to the silence from which he had come.
CHAPTER XXV — MINDA CARTER
Viola was alone on the porch when Kenneth came into view at the bend in the road. He had chuckled more than once after parting from the gambler; a mental vision of the inwardly agitated though outwardly bland Mr. Trentman making tracks as fast as his legs would carry him to warn Lapelle of his peril afforded him no small amount of satisfaction. If he knew his man,—and he thought he did,—Barry would lose no time in shaking the dust of Lafayette from his feet. The thought of that had sent his spirits up. He went even farther in his reflections and found himself hoping that Barry's flight might be so precipitous that he would not have the opportunity to disclose his newfound information concerning Rachel Carter.
He was nearing his own gate before he saw Viola, seated on the porch. Involuntarily he slackened his pace. A sort of panic seized him. Was she waiting there to question him? He experienced a sudden overwhelming dismay. What was he to say to her? How was he to face the unhappy, stricken,—but even as he contemplated a cowardly retreat, she arose and came swiftly down the path. He groaned inwardly. There was no escape.