You Never Know Your Luck | Page 5

fair proportion of the time. It used to perplex her the thrilling
buoyancy and the creepy melancholy which alternately mastered her
father; but as a child she had become so inured to it that she was not
surprised at the alternate pensive gaiety and the blazing exhilaration of
the particular man whose coat she now dusted long after there remained
a speck of dust upon it. This was the song she sang:
"Whereaway, whereaway goes the lad that once was mine? Hereaway I
waited him, hereaway and oft; When I sang my song to him, bright his
eyes began to shine-- Hereaway I loved him well, for my heart was
soft.
"Hereaway my heart was soft; when he kissed my happy eyes, Held my
hand, and pressed his cheek warm against my brow, Home I saw upon
the earth, heaven stood there in the skies-- 'Whereaway, whereaway
goes my lover now?'"

"Whereaway goes my lad--tell me, has he gone alone? Never harsh
word did I speak, never hurt I gave; Strong he was and beautiful; like a
heron he has flown-- Hereaway, hereaway will I make my grave.
"When once more the lad I loved hereaway, hereaway, Comes to lay
his hand in mine, kiss me on the brow, I will whisper down the wind,
he will weep to hear me say-- 'Whereaway, whereaway goes my lover
now?'"
There was a plaintive quality in the voice of this russet maiden in
perfect keeping with the music and the words; and though her lips
smiled, there was a deep, wistful look in her eyes more in harmony
with the coming autumn than with this gorgeous harvest-time.
For a moment after she had finished singing she stood motionless,
absorbed by the far horizon; then suddenly she gave a little shake of the
body and said in a brisk, playfully chiding way:
"Kitty Tynan, Kitty Tynan, what a girl you are!" There was no one near,
so far as eye could see, so it was clear that the words were addressed to
herself. She was expressing that wonder which so many people feel at
discovering in themselves long-concealed characteristics, or find
themselves doing things out of their natural orbit, as they think. If any
one had told Kitty Tynan that she had rare imagination, she would have
wondered what was meant. If anyone had said to her, "What are you
dreaming about, Kitty?" she would have understood, however, for she
had had fits of dreaming ever since she was a child, and they had
increased during the past few years--since the man came to live with
them whose coat she was brushing. Perhaps this was only imitation,
because the man had a habit of standing or sitting still and looking into
space for minutes--and on Sundays for hours--at a time; and often she
had watched him as he lay on his back in the long grass, head on a
hillock, hat down over his eyes, while the smoke from his pipe came
curling up from beneath the rim. Also she had seen him more than once
sitting with a letter before him and gazing at it for many minutes
together. She had also noted that it was the same letter on each
occasion; that it was a closed letter, and also that it was unstamped. She
knew that, because she had seen it in his desk--the desk once belonging

to her father, a sloping thing with a green-baize top. Sometimes he kept
it locked, but very often he did not; and more than once, when he had
asked her to get him something from the desk, not out of meanness, but
chiefly because her moral standard had not a multitude of delicate
punctilios, she had examined the envelope curiously. The envelope
bore a woman's handwriting, and the name on it was not that of the
man who owned the coat--and the letter. The name on the envelope was
Shiel Crozier, but the name of the man who owned the coat was J. G.
Kerry--James Gathorne Kerry, so he said.
Kitty Tynan had certainly enough imagination to make her cherish a
mystery. She wondered greatly what it all meant. Never in anything
else had she been inquisitive or prying where the man was concerned;
but she felt that this letter had the heart of a story, and she had made up
fifty stories which she thought would fit the case of J. G. Kerry, who
for over four years had lived in her mother's house. He had become part
of her life, perhaps just because he was a man,--and what home is a real
home without a man?--perhaps because he always had a kind, quiet,
confidential word for her, or a word of stimulating cheerfulness; indeed,
he showed in his manner occasionally almost a boisterous hilarity.