During the time of the house-party at Ravenel, Katrine gave vent to the
natural rebellion against her position but once. Dermott was away on
some business in New York; the daily letter from Dr. Johnston concerning
her father's condition had not arrived; and she had seen the gay people
from Ravenel coach past her as she sat alone on the Chestnut Ridge.
For nearly a week she had been sleeping badly, awakening every hour or
two through the night with something--something that could not be put
aside--pressing upon her soul.
Huddled in a sad little heap, in her white gown by the side of the bed,
one unbearable night she stretched her arms along the coverlet, sobbing
out to the everlasting silence the questionings as to what she had done
to be so neglected and set apart.
"What has been in my life but shame--shame which was not mine?" she
cried, as the horror of life with her drunken father came back to her.
"Why are some given everything," she demanded, "and I nothing? Where is
God's justice? What have I done; oh, what have I done?"
Out in the wooded silence a bird began to sing a mournful melody. Of the
greatness of night he sang, and dead morns, and dropping stars; of dear
forgotten things and loves that might have been, that may not be; of
passion and unfulfilled desires, and through the pines the song entered
her heart like a response. She listened, not as a girl listening to a
bird, but as one artist listens to another with a rapture of
appreciation. And the music comforted her. And later, in the midst of
great sorrow, she saw intended significance in the occurrence.
"It was an answer," she said, "to remind me that there will always be
that solace. Give me, oh God," she prayed, "power to make of all my
sorrow music for the world!"
The day following her midnight protest she heard from Nora and old Cæsar
that the guests at Ravenel had gone; heard as well that "old Miss and
Marse Frank were goin' shortly"; heard it with a stirring at her heart
of physical pain to which she had grown used.
On the evening of this day, a warm June evening, she expected him to
come, and dressed as though there were an engagement between them to
spend the evening together. In a thin white gown, low in the neck, with
a kerchief of filmy lace knotted in front, sleeves that fell away at the
elbow, with faint, pink roses at her breast, her black hair turned high
in a curly knot, she stood in the old rose-garden when he came.
He wore a light overcoat over his evening dress, and stood hatless by
the boxwood arch looking across at her.
"Katrine," he said, "little Katrine, I have come back to you."
His face was illumined as he spoke her name. The peculiar ability to
express more than he felt was always his, but at the instant he felt
more than he was able to express.
"I am glad," she answered, not moving toward him nor offering to shake
hands. It seemed enough that he was there.
"They have gone at last," he said; adding, piously: "Thank God!"
"You did not have a good time?" she asked.
"I did not."
"I am sorry," she said, baffling him by the serenity of her tone.
"There were two or three occasions which stand out with a peculiarly
horrible distinctness. One was the time we had an all-day picnic at
Bears' Den. Porter Brawley suggested it, and I hope he will suffer for
it in eternity. It rained."
Katrine laughed.
"And there was an evening when we had charades, for which nobody had the
least gift or training. It was the evening you were to come to us. Why
didn't you, Katrine?"
"I was not well," she answered. "But I shouldn't have come if I'd been
well, Mr. Ravenel."
She seemed to him so perfect, such an utterly desirable being, as she
sat with roses in her hand and the moonlight shining on her flower-like
face.
Neither noted the silence which fell between them, a silence which spoke
more than language could have done, for language had become, between
them, an unnecessary thing.
There was still no spoken word as they walked side by side along the
path which led to the house. At the turn into the wider way there was a
tall pine-tree, the boughs beginning high from the ground, the turf
beneath them covered with brown pine-needles. There was a bench here,
upon which they had often sat together. In the moonlight this place
under the tree was in a soft, warm glow. As they drew near it Frank
spoke in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "Sit here, just for a
minute?"
It seemed as though they were alone together in the world. In the
moonlit gloom under the pine they stood, near, nearer, and at length he
put his arm around her gently, not drawing her toward him, only letting
it lie around her waist, as though they had a right to be there, heart
to heart, in the stillness of the night. Standing thus, he felt her
tremble, noted her quickened breath, and the rise and fall of her breast
and shoulders because of his caress.
Although they could not see each other in the gloom, she knew his lips
sought hers. By an indefinable instinct she turned from him twice before
their lips met in a long kiss of passion and content. They kissed each
other again before he drew her down beside him on the garden bench in
the flower-scented dusk.
"You care?" she asked, in a whisper, her breath on his cheek.
"More than I thought I could care for anything in life," he answered.
* * * * *
It was after ten when Nora's shrill voice recalled them to themselves.
Standing together, she asked, as she bade him good-night:
"You--are--going--away?"
For answer he clasped her slim white hands behind his throat and drew
her toward him.
"What do you think?" he said, his lips kissing hers in the speaking of
the words.
"I hope you will not go."
"I shall not." And then: "Oh, for a few days, perhaps, to take mother to
Bar Harbor; but I shall come back. And we'll have the whole long summer
together, you and I; you and I," he repeated. "Good-night. Kiss me,
Katrine!"
"Good-night," she said, raising her lips to his; and then, almost as
though it were a benediction, she added: "God keep you always just as
you are, beloved." And as he had done many times before, Francis Ravenel
felt powerless before this girl who gave all, asking nothing in return.