In three days Frank reached New York, where he found mail at the club:
from the South; from the Western mines; from women inviting him; as well
as five or six messages by wire or mail from one Philip de Peyster,
soliciting an immediate interview. Even in his perturbed and planless
state these repeated demands made an impression on Frank, and in the
morning he telephoned that he was at the Trevoy for the day, and would
be pleased to see Mr. de Peyster at his convenience, suggesting the
luncheon-hour as a time when both might be free.
Having received no response to his message, at two o'clock he entered
the dining-room of the Trevoy alone. After ordering, he sat looking
indifferently from one group to another, and noted, with surprise, that
Dermott McDermott, with his back toward him, was at the next table
lunching with a number of men, who seemed, to Frank's quick eye, bent
on conciliation.
There was nothing in the Irishman's appearance to suggest the man of
fashion whom Frank had known in Carolina. His clothes were of rough
tweed, he wore an unpicturesque derby hat, and he had the
unconsciousness of self which comes from intense occupation with great
affairs.
Francis listened to the jolly laugh, the quick evasion, the masterful
voice, leading, cajoling; he knew the men were wanting something from
McDermott, and realized, as they did not, that it was something the
Irishman had determined not to give.
It was of Frank's own home they were speaking, disconnectedly, and in a
strange jargon: of Loon Mountain, Way-Home River, road-beds, cost of
production, capitalization, bridges.
As he sat wondering at them, their concentration, their unity of
thought, their enthusiasm, by one of those throws of fate, which go far
toward the making of our lives, Dermott's voice came to him clear and
scornful.
"I have heard much, I might say overmuch, recently, of family and
ancestors, and have sometimes wondered what those boasted ancestors
might think were they permitted to see the ineffective descendants who
bear their names with neither achievement nor distinction. Now take my
own case. My family was well and bitterly known in Ireland as far back
as the ninth century. And at the end it availed only enough money to get
me through college and over to America. But I've done some things, and
with the conceit of the self-made man I'm fond of mentioning them.
Directly or indirectly, five thousand people depend on me for daily
bread. It's helped the world that I've lived. It's not what a man is
born to, I ask. Family? To hell with family! The question is: What have
you done?"
If the words had been spoken directly to him, they could not have stung
Frank more than they did. What had he done? It was Katrine's question,
and he recalled the lovable, vibrant little figure on the lodge steps
demanding of him if he had no desire to work, no wish to take part in
the great constructive affairs of men.
The group at the next table rose with an approval of Dermott's final
words, and, cigars lighted, were going their several ways, when the
Irishman turned and, apparently seeing Frank for the first time, came
toward him with a smile, hand outstretched.
"It's good to see you again, Ravenel!" he cried. "If you're alone I'll
smoke at your table for a minute or two." He waved a farewell to the men
who awaited him. It was a farewell as well as a dismissal. "You've heard
the news of Dulany, I suppose?"
"Only a few days ago. I have been fishing in the Canadian woods. I can
scarcely say how sorry I am."
"Ah, well! Ah, well! Ye did all ye could for him," said McDermott,
genially, "and it's probably for the best. Everything is, you know," he
added. "But I thought you might be interested to hear something of the
little girl. She has just sailed for France. I saw her off.
_Transatlantique_--yesterday. She has gone to Paris to study with
Josef."
Both men scrutinized each other steadily for a short time, but at the
game they were now playing Francis was by far the keener.
"Mother wrote me nearly six weeks ago about somebody's suggesting such a
plan for Miss Dulany. Wait a minute," he continued, feeling in his
pockets, "here's her letter now."
He gave his mother's screed to McDermott, determined that the Irishman
should not suspect the part which he had taken in Katrine's affairs,
and was rewarded by seeing McDermott return the letter apparently
convinced.
"Nick van Rensselaer! So that's the way of it," he remarked. "Josef
simply wrote her to come, that everything had been arranged by some
great lady. There were no conditions save that she should write to her
unknown benefactor once a month. The money is to be repaid when Katrine
becomes a great singer.
"It's just as well--just as well!" Dermott said, after a silence,
peering into the cloud of smoke he had blown ceilingward, as though to
foretell the future. "Ye see, Mr. Ravenel, if she will so far honor me,
I'm intending some day to marry Katrine Dulany."
There was again the challenge of the eyes, but Frank's training stood
him well as he raised his brows with genuine surprise. "So?" he said. "I
think no one suspected in Carolina." "I hope not," McDermott returned.
"You see, she's but a child; eighteen years! And a man protects that age
from mistakes, as you, of course, know."
The lids came down over his inscrutable gray-blue eyes as McDermott
spoke.
"And, besides, I have had so little to offer her." There was real
humility in the tone now. "When the Almighty gives special attention to
the making of such a person as Katrine Dulany, it behooves the rest of
us mortals to respect His handiwork, doesn't it? I've some poor gifts,
some money, a nine-century-old name. There's a title, too, been lying
loose in the family since sixteen hundred and I forget what year. But I
want her to be sure of herself. As for the study with Josef, it will be
good for her, but the idea of Katrine on the stage is an absurdity. I've
a cousin in Paris--the Countess de Nemours, a very great lady, though I
say it as shouldn't," he said, with a laugh, "whom I am hoping to
interest in the little girl. She's no longer young. By-the-way, perhaps
you've met her! Her miniature hangs in the hail of Ravenel House."
"In the hall at Ravenel?" Francis repeated, in genuine surprise.