Katrine: A Novel

by Elinor Macartney Lane

  II

  THE MEETING IN THE WOODS

  Instead of entering the drawing-room after Dermott's departure, Frankturned with some abruptness toward Mrs. Ravenel.

  "I am going for a walk, mother," he said, with no suggestion that sheaccompany him; and her intimate acquaintance with Francis, sixth of thename, made her understand with some accuracy the moods of his son,Francis seventh.

  "You are handsomer than ever, Frank!" she exclaimed, as if in answer tothe suggestion.

  "You spoil me, mother," he returned, with a smile.

  "Women have always done that--" she began.

  "And you more than any other," Frank broke in, kissing her, with adeference of manner singularly his own.

  "There may be truth in that," Mrs. Ravenel admitted, a fine sense ofhumor marked by the grudging tone in which she spoke. "I remember thatonly yesterday I was in a rage because the roses were not further opento welcome you home."

  "Nature _is_ unappreciative," he returned; and the gray eyes with thelevel lids looked into the blue ones with the level lids, and bothlaughed.

  For a space Mrs. Ravenel contemplated him, the ecstasy of motherhoodilluminating the glance.

  "You are quite the handsomest human being I ever saw, Frank--though Ithink I said something like that before."

  "You are, of course, unprejudiced, lady mother," he laughed back fromthe lowest step.

  "It's natural I should be--being only a mother," she explained, gayly.

  "Ah," she went on, "I am so happy to have you at home with me! _Not_happy at having asked those people down. They come on thetwenty-seventh."

  "Whom have you asked?"

  "The Prescotts."

  "Good."

  "The Porters and Sallie Maddox."

  "Better."

  "And Anne Lennox."

  There was a silence.

  "Did I hear you say 'best'?" Mrs. Ravenel inquired.

  "By some wanderment of mind, I forgot it," Frank returned, lightly.

  "I am always subtle in my methods," his mother continued. "Note theadroitness now. Why don't you marry her, Frank?"

  "Do you think she would marry me?"

  "Don't be foolish. Anne is devoted to you, and you must marry someone.You are an only son. There is the family name to be thought of, andthere must be a Francis eighth to inherit the good looks of Francisseventh, must there not? And how I shall hate it!" she added,truthfully.

  Again a silence fell between them before Frank turned the talk withintention in word and tone.

  "About this new overseer?" he asked. "Satisfactory?"

  "When not drunk--very."

  "Does it"--he smiled--"I mean the drunkenness, not thesatisfaction--occur frequently?"

  "I am afraid it does."

  "What did McDermott say his name is?"

  "Patrick Dulany."

  "French, I suppose?" he suggested.

  "By all the laws of inference," his mother returned, with an answeringgleam in her eye.

  "There seems to have been a Celtic invasion of the Carolinas during myabsence. Has he a family?"

  "Only a daughter." And as Frank turned to leave her Mrs. Ravenel asked,lightly: "How long do you intend to stay here, Frank?"

  "I have made no plans," he answered; but going down the carriageway hesaid to himself, with a smile: "Mother shows her hand too plainly. Thegirl is evidently young and pretty."

  The plantation had never seemed so beautiful to him. The wild roses werein bloom; the fringe-trees and dogwood hung white along the riverbanks;the golden azaleas, nodding wake-robins, and muskadine flowers looked upat them from below, while the cotton spread its green tufts miles andmiles away to a sunlit horizon.

  Swinging along the road outside the park, the half-formed plan to visitthe overseer left him, and purposeless he climbed the hill to ChestnutRidge. Something in the occasion of his home-coming after a two years'absence--his mother's reference to his marriage, his remembrances ofAnne Lennox--had brought back to his face its habitual expression ofsadness. And more than he would have acknowledged was a disquietudecaused by his instant resentment of the existence of Dermott McDermott.Never in his life had he felt more strongly the need for companionship.He had been loved by many women. He had never been believed in by any.

  Passionate, proud, intolerant, full of prejudice, conscious bytwenty-six years' experience of a most magnetic power with women, hecame to the edge of the far wood as lawless a man, in as lawless a mood,as the Carolinas had ever seen--a locality where lawless men have notbeen wanting.

  Suddenly, through the twilight, he heard a voice--a woman'svoice--singing, and by instinct he knew that the singer was alone andconscious of nothing save the song.

  At the top of the rise, under a group of beeches, with both armsstretched along a bar fence, a girl stood, the black of her hair insilhouette against the gold of the sky. He noted the slender grace ofher body as she leaned backward, and listened to her voice,Heaven-given, vibrant, caressing--_juste_, as the French haveit--singing an old song.

  He had heard it hundreds of times cheapened by lack of temperament, lackof voice, lack of taste; but as he listened, though little versed inmusic, he knew that it was a great voice that sang it and a greatpersonality which interpreted it. With the song still trembling throughthe silence the singer turned toward him, and, man of the world andmany loves as he had been, an unknown feeling came at sight of her.

  A flower of a girl--"of fire and dew," delicate features, nosetip-tilted, a chin firmly modelled under the rounded flesh, and eyesbright with the wonder and pride of life. She wore a short-waisted blackfrock, scant of skirt and cut away at the neck. It was in this samefrock that the Sargent picture of her was painted--but that was yearsafterward; and although she was motionless, one knew from her slenderfigure and arched feet that she moved with fire and spirit. Her hair wasvery dark, though red showed through it in a strong light, and hercheeks had the dusky pink of an October peach. But it was the eyes thatheld and allowed no forgetting; Ravenel always held they were violet,and Josef, who saw her every day for years, spoke them gray; but DermottMcDermott was firm as to their being blue until the day she visited himabout the railroad business, when he afterward described them "as blackas chaos," adding a word or two about her deil's temper as well. Thetruth was that the color of them changed with her emotions, but thewistfulness of them remained ever the same. Dermott, in some lines hewrote of her in Paris, described them as "corn-flowers in a mist filledwith the poetry and passion of a great and misunderstood people," andthough "over-poetic," as he himself said afterward, "the thought wasnone so bad."

  Suddenly the languor seemed to leave her, and she stood alert, chindrawn in, hands clasped before her, and began the recitative to the"_Ah! Fors e lui_." Twice she stopped abruptly, taking a tone a secondtime, listening as she did so, her head, birdlike, on one side with aconcentrated attention. After the last low note, which was round and lowlike an organ tone, she resumed her old position with arms outstretchedupon the fence.

  As Frank came up the path their eyes met, and he removed his hat,holding it at his side, as one who did not intend to resume it. Standingthus, he bore himself, if one might use the word of a man, with acertain sweetness, an entire seeming self-forgetfulness, as though theone to whom he spoke occupied his entire thought.

  "It is Miss Dulany?" he inquired, with a smile which seemed to askpardon for his temerity.

  "I am Katrine Dulany," the girl answered, gravely, for the readjustmentfrom the music and the silence was not easily made.

  "I was fortunate enough to hear you sing. It almost made me forget tosay that I am Mr. Ravenel."

  "I know," Katrine answered. "The plantation has expected your coming."

  A silence followed, during which, with no embarrassment, she retainedher position, waiting for him to pass. The indifference of it pleasedhim.

  "I was going to see your father at the lodge. The roads are unfamiliar,and the path, after two years' absence, a bit lonely." The sadness whichaccom
panied the words was honest, but it seemed for some more personalsorrow than it was.

  "My father is not well," Katrine said, hastily. "I am afraid you cannotsee him, Mr. Ravenel. May I ask him to go to you to-morrow instead?"There was entreaty in her voice, and Frank knew the truth on an instant.

  "I cannot have you carrying messages for me."

  "Seeing that I offered myself"--she suggested, with a smile.

  "--is no reason that I should trespass on your kindness, so I shallcarry my message myself." This quite firmly.

  "I will sing again if you stay." She looked at him through her longlashes without turning her head. "You see," she added, "I have made upmy mind."

  "It's a premium on discourtesy," he answered, "but I yield."

  Near the place where she stood there was a fallen log, and he seatedhimself upon it, placing his hat on the ground as though for a continuedstay, regarding her curiously.

  She was the daughter of his drunken overseer, a child in years, yet sheshowed neither embarrassment nor eagerness; indeed, she conveyed to himthe impression that it was profoundly equal to her whether he went orstayed.

  "Tell me," he said, "before you sing, where have you studied?"

  "I?" she laughed, but the laugh was not all mirthful. "In Paris, inLondon, in Rome, in New York." There was bitterness in her tone. "I am a_gamin_ of the world, monsieur."

  "Tell me," he repeated, insistently.

  She made no response, but stood, with her profile toward him, lookinginto the sunset.

  "Won't you tell me?" he asked again, his tone more intimate than before.

  "Ah, why should I?" And then, with a sudden veering: "After all, thereis little to tell. I was born in Paris of poor--but Irish--parents." Shesmiled as she spoke. "My mother was a great singer, whose name I willnot call. She married my father; left him and me. I do not remember her.Since her death my father has been a spent man. We have wandered fromplace to place. When he found work I was sent to some convent near by.The Sisters have taught me. For three months I studied with Barili. Ihave sung in the churches. Finally, Mr. McDermott, on the nextplantation, met us in New York, recommended my father for this work, andwe came here."

  She turned from him as she ended the telling. "What shall I sing?" sheasked.

  "'The Serenade.'"

  "Schubert's?"

  "There is but one."

  "It is difficult without the accompaniments but I will try:

  "'All the stars keep watch in heaven While I sing to thee, And the night for love was given-- Darling, come to me-- Darling, come to me!'"

  She ended, her hands clasped before her, her lithe figure, by God-giveninstinct for song, leaned forward, and Francis Ravenel was consciousthat the passion in the voice had nothing to do with his presence; thatit was the music alone of which she thought, and for the first time inhis life he touched the edge of the knowledge that _a great gift setsits owner as a thing apart_.

  "Sometime," he said, "when you have become famous, and all the world issinging your praises, I shall say, 'Once she sang for me alone, attwilight, under the beeches, in a far land,' and the people will takeoff their hats to me, as to one who has had much honor."

  He smiled as he spoke. It was the smile or the praise of the song, or acause too subtle to name, that changed her. She had already seemed anindifferent woman, a great artist, a careless _Bohemienne_ in herspeech; but for the next change he was unprepared: it was a pleadingchild with wistful eyes who seated herself beside him, not remotelythrough any self-consciousness, but near to him, where speech could beconveniently exchanged.

  "Mr. Ravenel," she began, "I had thought to keep it from you, but youare different--the _most_ different person I ever saw." A dimple came inher cheek as she smiled. "And so I am going to tell you everything." Shemade a little outward gesture of the hands, as though castingdiscretion to the wind. "My father drinks. It began with his greatsorrow. It is not all the time, but frequently. I had hoped that downhere he would be better. He is not, and you will have to get anotheroverseer. It is not just to you to have my father in charge. Only Ithink that perhaps such times as he is himself some work might be foundfor him. It is so peaceful here; I do not want to go away."

  "You shall not go away."

  The words were spoken quietly, but for the first time in her lifeKatrine Dulany felt there was some one of great power to whom she couldturn for help, and her woman heart thrilled at the words.

  "You mustn't feel about it as you do, either," Frank continued. "Thetime has gone by for thinking of your father's trouble as anythingexcept a disease--a disease which very frequently can be cured."

  "Ah!" she cried, "do you think it would be possible?"

  "I have known many cases. Is your father good to you?" he asked,abruptly.

  "Sick or well, with money or without, he is the kindest father in theworld. Save in one way, it is always _for_ me he thinks."

  Her hand lay on the log. It was small and white, and she was verybeautiful. Frank had seldom resisted temptation. This one he did noteven try to resist, and he placed his hand over hers.

  "Katrine," he said, "I am not a particularly good man, but the gods havewilled that we meet--meet in strange moods and a strange way. I am abetter man to-night than I have ever been in my life. It's the music,maybe, or the fringed gentian, or the whippoorwills." There waslove-making in every tone of his voice. "Whatever it is, it makes mewant to help you. May I? Will you trust me?"

  She turned her hand upward, as a child might have done, to clasp his,looking him full in the eyes as she did so.

  "Utterly," she said.

  "I have not always been considered trustworthy," he explained, lightly.

  "People may not have understood you." There was a sweet explaining inher voice.

  "Which may have been, on the whole, fortunate for me," he answered, witha curious smile.

  "Don't," she said--"don't talk of yourself like that. I know you aregood, good, _good!_"

  "Thank you," and again there came to him the throb in the throat he hadfelt when their eyes first met. "Believe me," he said, "I shall alwaystry to be--to you," and as he spoke he raised her hand to his lips andkissed it.

  A noise startled him. Some one was approaching with uncertain footstepsand a shuffling gait, and at the sound the girl's face turned crimson.

  "Katrine, little Katrine, where are you?" a voice cried, thickly anduncertainly, as a man came from under the gloom of the trees. There wasnot a moment's hesitation. The child rose and put her arms around thefigure with a divine, womanly gesture, as though to shield him and hisinfirmities from the whole world. It was the action of one ashamed to beashamed.

  "Daddy," she said, laying her head against his shoulder, "this is Mr.Ravenel!"