Frank did not leave Ravenel even for the few days which he had mentioned
to Katrine as a possibility. Accompanied only by her maid, Mrs. Ravenel
started to Bar Harbor without him. June drifted into July, and still he
lingered at the plantation.
And all the summer days were spent with Katrine Dulany. At first he
believed that he would probably tire of the whole affair quickly. He was
surprised to find that he did not. He found her always new. There was an
elusive quality to her, days when she would barely permit him to touch
her hand, when she dazzled him by the audacity of her thinking; her
indifference to him, to him who was in no way accustomed to indifference
in women. And a few hours later, perchance, he would return to find a
girl with wistful eyes and speech of tenderness, with no thought "that
is not for the king," she told him once.
No word of marriage was spoken between them; if Katrine thought such an
event possible, she gave no sign, spoke no word concerning it. If he
came early, she welcomed him with shining eyes; if he were late, this
incomprehensible person bestowed upon him exactly the same smile and
glance she would have given had he come two hours before.
"I have kept you waiting for me, I am afraid," he said one day, when he
had kept an engagement he had made for ten o'clock at a quarter of
twelve.
That morning she had been studying; not tones, but German Church music,
and already she had realized, unformulatedly, the solace in the exercise
of a great gift; had found that she could forget trouble in the world of
inspired work; not for long, perhaps, but long enough to have peace of
mind restored to her and strength to go on for another day.
"It didn't matter," she said. "I practised. One forgets one is waiting
then."
Finally there arose in him an absurd jealousy of this gift of hers, of
the thing which seemed to console her even for his absence.
"I shall learn to hate your music," he said one night, when she had
drawn herself away from him to listen intently to the song of a
nightingale in the pines.
"Don't do that!" she said. "Ah, don't do that! Don't you see that it is
all I have for my own in life; all I shall ever have!"
And with some hidden, mental connection between his words and the act,
she began to sing in her great, lovely voice:
"Ask nothing more of me, sweet,
All I can give you I give.
Heart of my heart, were it more,
More shall be laid at your feet.
Love that should help thee to live,
Song that should bid thee to soar.
All I can give you I give;
Ask nothing more, nothing more."
She asked, neither by word nor look, for any expression concerning the
song; but as the last note died away seated herself beside him, chin in
hand, looking far past him into the night.
At two of the next morning he awakened with a start. He was alone in his
own rooms at Ravenel. Looking around in the half-light of the window, he
put his head back on the pillow with the air of one awakened from a
feverish dream. But sleep had vanished for the night. Conscience was
with him. The time had come for the reckoning; some settlement with
himself was required.
Where was he going, and where was he taking Katrine Dulany? Marriage was
out of the question. A person of his importance did not make a
mesalliance. He owed a duty to all the Ravenels who had preceded him, to
those who would follow. To marry suitably was the first duty in life;
perhaps it was the only one which he acknowledged. _Where was he going?_
He lay with open eyes, staring at the ceiling in the faint light of the
coming dawn, with a sense of physical sickness at the thought of giving
Katrine up, of letting her go out of his life forever. He had told her
he cared more for her than he had ever thought it possible for him to
care for any one. That was long since, back in the times before he had
known the sweetness of her. Now, with all the heart he had to give, he
had learned to love her, to long for her presence; she had touched a new
chord in his nature, one which he had never known before her coming.
He would not give her up; he could not. Why should he? She would be
happier with him, even though wrongfully his, than with a drunken
father in the forests of North Carolina. They would go to Paris
together. It would be years before he would care to marry. But at the
thought Katrine's eyes came back to him. _Francis the King!_ It was so
she spoke of him, and it was this complete trust that appealed to all
the best within him, as a tenderness born of her sweetness, her complete
loyalty, raised him beyond his own selfishness, and he resolved to save
her, save her even from himself.
With this fixed thought he rose early and, breakfastless, went out into
the dawn. He would go away and leave her. He would see her once more and
tell her the truth about himself. He would make it clear to her,
"damnably clear," he said to himself, with a set chin. She would be left
with no illusions concerning him. It would help her to forget to know
him as he really was. He felt it part of his expiation to tell her the
truth.
As he rode up the pathway to the lodge he was white to the lips. His
eyes were sunken. All the passion of which he was capable longed for
this woman whom he was about to surrender, perhaps to some other. He
winced at the thought of it.
She was sitting in the old arbor and turned suddenly at the sound of
his steps, an unopened book dropping from her hands at sight of him.
"What is the matter?" she asked, anxiously, at sight of his white face.
"Are you ill?"
"Katrine!" he cried, "it is shame--shame at what I have been doing;
shame at the way I have been treating you!"
She grew suddenly pale, and her lips parted as she stood with eyes
fastened upon him, waiting for him to go on.
"I wanted you to love me," he went on. "I wanted it from the first. As
time passed I learned to care so much that I thought of nothing else,
wanted nothing else, but to be near you. But never, never for one
instant, and, Katrine, it is of this you must think always, _never for
one instant did I intend to marry you!_"
She placed one hand against the bench for support, her face exquisitely
pale, her eyes darkened, her mouth drawn; but she regarded him steadily
and bravely as he continued.
"I might make excuses for my conduct; might even lie about there being
some obstacles, my mother's objections, the rest of the family, but I
don't want to do that. I want you to know the truth just as it stands,
to know me exactly as I am. My mother would object to my marrying you,
but if I did it she would in time become reconciled. I have my way with
her. The only thing that stands between us is my pride, family pride. It
is sending me away from you. I am going to-day, going to-day, because I
do not dare to stay."
Still she spoke no word, but sat looking away from him into the ocean of
roses.
"For God's sake, say something to me, Katrine!" he cried, at length.
"Tell me even that I am the contemptible cad you think me to be; only
say something. I cannot endure this. With every fibre of me I am longing
to take you in my arms, to kiss your eyes that have the ache in them.
God knows how I want you and how I am suffering!"
Her lips quivered for an instant before she controlled herself to speak.
"There seems nothing to say except 'Good-bye.'"
Her voice was infinitely sad and tender. There was neither anger nor
resentment in it, and she rose as though to leave him, but he held her
back. The great womanliness of her, the ability to suffer in silence,
and the dignity of such a silence touched him strangely. There was a sob
in his throat as he spoke.
"Forgive me!" he said. "Oh, say you forgive me, Katrine!"
"Dear," she answered--and as she spoke she put her hand on his brown
hair, as a mother might have done, "I don't want you to suffer like
this. I might have known, had I thought about it at all, that you would
never marry me. But it seemed so perfect as it was, I never thought at
all, I just," it seemed as though she were saying her worst to him, "I
just trusted you."
He flung out one arm as though to protect himself from a physical blow,
and a moan escaped him.
"Let me tell you about myself," she continued; "it will be best, for we
may never meet again. Oh, please God," she cried, suddenly, "we may
never meet again in this world!"
The tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she sobbed aloud as she
spoke. He reached his arms toward her, but she moved away, sitting
silent until she regained such composure as would permit her to go on.
"The first thing I remember in my life, I must have been about three,
was my father's beating his head against the wall of the room in which I
was sleeping because my mother had left him. After that I became used to
anything--to sudden moves in the dark; to being alone with him through
the long nights when he had been drinking; to poverty, to black poverty
that means not enough to eat nor enough clothes to keep one warm; to
years and years of want and despair and misery. As I grew older and went
to the convent schools, some of the girls invited me home with them. It
was because of my looks and my voice, you know." There was sweet
humility in the statement, as though apologizing for the fact that she
had been desired. "And they were quite kind. Their parents liked me, and
one of them, I remember, said: 'She has a beautiful manner, which is
wonderful considering she is little better than a child of the streets.'
I could not feel even then how I was to blame for my birth, seeing that
it was a thing arranged for me by the good God. But I learned what to
expect.
"As father grew worse and less able to care for himself, it was
necessary to have money. Mr. Ravenel, I have been a beggar in the
streets! I have sung in the streets, I! in the court-yards of the
hotels, for money to keep from starving! So you will see sorrow is no
new thing to me. I do not question it. I have had in my life three
perfectly happy months, perfectly happy. It is as much as a woman can
expect, perhaps, and though it kill me, though it kill me, I shall never
regret having known and loved you." She paused a minute. "When one has
to die it is best to go quickly, is it not? When there is some terrible
thing in life to do, it were best done quickly as well. Good-bye," she
said, putting out her hand.
He shook his head. "If I touch you I shall not go. Oh, Katrine, Katrine,
Katrine! Do you know what I am doing? I am going when I could stay,
stay, or take you with me! Will you remember it in the years to come,
when you are older and will understand what it means? Will you, oh, for
God's sake, Katrine, remember that there was still some little good in
me, that although I did not do the best I could have done for you, at
least I kept myself from doing the worst?"
A scarlet flush suffused her face at his words.
"Ah, don't!" she cried, putting out her hand, as though to ward off a
blow. "Don't! Don't say it! Don't even think it! Believe me, it could
never have been like that! I should have died first!"
X