"Distressingly so, monsieur!"
"And if I give you money you would use it for--" McDermott paused.
"Charity, monsieur," the Red One answered, his eyes drooped religiously.
He took the gold coin which Dermott gave him, tossed it into the
sunshine, and slipped it into his pocket with a bow. "You will notice, I
honor your integrity by not biting it to see if it be counterfeit."
"Knowing your character, it is indeed a compliment," McDermott said. "Au
revoir, my Quantrelle!"
"Au revoir, Monsieur l'Irlandais!"
And Dermott passed.
Inside he found the Countess waiting in the drawing-room, and she
greeted him with hands outstretched, kissing him on both cheeks in the
French fashion. Afterward she stood regarding him with a slow, sweet
smile, which came from one of the kindest hearts in the world.
"And this," she said, in a beautiful, quiet, warm voice, "is the Irish
cousin who has not been to see me for so very long!"
Although past fifty, she was tall and slight, with the grace of a girl.
Her hair, white and soft and wavy, was worn high in a style quite her
own; her skin was pink and white as a child's; her blue eyes shone with
tenderness, and they had a merry, dancing light in them continually. Her
face was of a delicate oval, with a nose slender, beautifully modelled,
and exceptionally high between the eyes. She wore a green-white dress of
cloth individual in its cut and very plain, with an old silver belt and
brooch to match. Her hands, fragile and beautiful as shells, were
ringless.
"It seems so perfectly flat to say that I am glad to see you, doesn't
it?" she asked, as Dermott smiled down at her.
"I like it just the same," he answered.
"When did you get in?" she inquired.
"I came over from Havre yesterday. I was busy with some English folk
about a mine, or I would have tried to see you last evening."
"And you will stay--" She paused.
"Ten days at most."
"Ah!" she said. "That's horrid! You will miss so many pleasant things! A
Bernhardt first night for one."
"I'm a horny-handed son of toil, beautiful cousin," he answered, "and I
have come on business only."
There was a pause, which Dermott felt the Countess was waiting for him
to break.
"Patricia," he said, a beautiful consideration for her in his voice, "I
want to spare you in every way I can in reviewing the bitter business of
your early marriage. I have written you only what was absolutely
necessary for you to know. I discovered by accident that your first
husband left quite an estate. If you were his wife and had a living
child at the time of his death, and if these facts can be established,
this property belongs to you. You have not as much money as you should
have. I shall get his estate for you--if I can."
"About the records?" she inquired.
"If you have them ready I shall go over to Tours to-morrow to make a
search for the sister of the priest."
"Dermott, dear," the Countess said, putting her hand on his shoulder
affectionately, "you are not going to make trouble for any one, are
you?"
"Am I not?" he answered, with a short laugh. "Am I not?"
She took a bundle of papers, which she had evidently prepared for him,
from a desk which stood between the windows, but made no motion to give
them to him.
"It's all so far in the past," she said, "no one can ever know what I
suffered. But I want no one else to suffer in order that I may have what
you term my rights."
"Patricia," Dermott answered, gravely, "the thing is all a bit in the
air as yet. Your first marriage will be difficult to establish. The
French law requires such absolute proof that I may not be able to obtain
it. Now, don't let us discuss the matter further, nor worry that kind
heart of yours." He patted her head affectionately as he spoke.
In the years past she had known him well enough to remember his moods,
and she gave him the papers in silence.
"About Mademoiselle Dulany," she continued. "Since your letter, I have
made inquiries concerning her. I shall be glad to know her, for her own
sake as well as yours."
"I'm going to ask a great favor of you for her, Patricia," he answered.
"You live in this great house alone. It would be better to have more
people about you. I want you to see much of her, for I am hoping that
some day she may be my wife."
He spoke the last word tenderly, a bit wistfully.
"Ah, Dermott," she cried, "I had no idea! I shall be so glad to do
anything I can! Why couldn't she come and stay with me?"
"That is like you," he answered, gratefully; "but such things can never
be arranged happily. They must grow. Wait until you meet her. I am to
see her to-night. I will bring her to you to-morrow, if I may."
"It is arranged, this marriage?" she asked, delighted at a bit of
romance.
"Not in the least," he answered, concisely.
"But she loves you?"
"On the contrary," he said, quietly, "she loves another."
"And you are hoping--" The Countess hesitated.
"Not hoping," Dermott answered, "determined."
"How old is she?"
"Nearly nineteen, and Irish."
"Irish girls are hard to change."
"But you loved your second husband, did you not?" Dermott inquired.
"I hope I was a good wife," the Countess answered, evasively, adding,
"But you remember our own Tom Moore!"
"'The wild freshness of morning--'?"
Dermott stood looking into the fire, his eyes drooped, his face
saddened.
"But there is something else to remember as well," Madame de Nemours
said, touching him on the shoulder and looking up at him admiringly.
"The half-gods go when the gods arrive. And you have everything in your
favor. You are so great a man and such a charming fellow, Dermott!"
* * * * *
On the following day Katrine came alone to see Madame de Nemours,
Dermott having concluded wisely that his presence would be but a
drawback to any quick acquaintance between the two.
"I am Katrine," the girl answered, in response to the Countess' query.
"Mr. McDermott has been so kind as to send me to you."
"It came about in this way," the Countess explained, drawing Katrine to
a couch and still keeping her hand. "There was a time when I knew
Dermott, my cousin, very well. That was in Ireland, before he became the
great man he now is. Since that time we have written to each other
always, for he has been kind enough to give me his friendship. He came
yesterday. I was sad, and told him of my lonesomeness. It is best, is it
not, to be quite frank when two people are meeting as you and I are
doing? In spite of all this," and here she made a slight gesture to
include her luxurious surroundings, "I am quite a poor woman. And so
when I told Dermott that I was lonesome in this great house, with none
but servants, no companions, he spoke to me of you. He was quite
practical. He said that you spent much money as you were living. He told
me of your great beauty and your greater voice. I became very much
interested in you, and we arranged for this talk. Now that I have seen
you, I want you to come and live with me very much, _very_ much." She
was so charming in her kindness, this great lady! "But you may not
desire it. The situation is awkward for me." She smiled here, and a
humorous light danced in her eyes, for with all her graciousness she was
quite certain of her charm. "And so we will leave you to think it over
and tell Mr. McDermott, who will in turn tell the decision to me. That
will save my vanity from being hurt openly in case you do not come."
Impulsively, Katrine clasped both the Countess' hands in hers.
"I want to come very much," she said. "There was never any one with whom
I would rather be. I know now that you are the lady of whom Monsieur
Josef spoke to me once. 'Ach!' he said, you know his way, 'she is the
greatest lady in the world! It is not what she _does_, but what she _is_
so beautifully.'"
As Katrine spoke with the earnestness of voice and manner always her
own, the Countess leaned forward suddenly with a startled look.
"Who is it that you remind me of?" she cried, drawing her, black brows
together. "If I could only think! Who is it that you remind me of?"