Anne Lennox's residence in Paris was more closely connected with Frank
Ravenel than the world knew. In a letter which she had received from
Mrs. Ravenel, after her illness at Bar Harbor, that comfort-loving old
lady had written that she would like to go abroad for the winter if
there could be found some homelike place to stay.
Mrs. Lennox had grown tired of New York, and she quickly devised a plan
to take some of her servants with her, find a suitable establishment in
Paris, and ask Mrs. Ravenel to make her a prolonged visit. That Francis
would probably accompany his mother to Europe and visit her as
frequently as business made it possible was not overlooked in Anne
Lennox's calculations.
But Mrs. Ravenel, who was too fearful of her comfort to trust written
descriptions, asked her son to step over to Paris, as she jauntily put
it, and see Anne's home before she committed herself.
"She writes me," said Mrs. Ravenel, eyeing the invitation suspiciously,
"that she has taken a house like a palace. I lived in a palace once in
Venice. The walls were of marble, with moisture on them constantly, and
there was but four feet of rug on a tiled floor forty feet square. When
I asked for fire they brought me a china basket with three or four
semi-hot coals in it, and placed it in the exact centre of the room
where one was liable to trip over it. The experience cured me of
'dreaming to dwell in marble halls.' I want heat, electricity, and a
large bath of my own."
According to his mother's wishes, Frank had written to Anne that
business was bringing him to Paris, and that he would give himself the
pleasure of calling upon her some time within the following fortnight.
In the stately old house, which she had taken on the Boulevard
Haussmann, Anne awaited Frank's coming with more emotion than she
acknowledged to herself. She knew that he had arrived in Paris two days
before, had seen that he was at the Grand Club, and the day previous had
received from him a note asking permission to call at four. He had been
more than deliberate in his attentions, a deliberation to which she had
become accustomed. It was, in fact, part of his charm. Often, in past
years, he had hurt her so much by his coldness that his coming brought a
keener pleasure than the presence of a more ardent suitor might have
done, if he could with any exactness be termed a suitor at all.
Long before her ill-assorted marriage had been dissolved by the death of
her husband, Anne Lennox's name had been connected with that of Francis
Ravenel. But it was one of the few affairs of his life which had caused
no scandal, one which other women had slurred over with a laugh.
"Anne's all right, you know," they explained, "and really Frank and she
would have been very well suited to each other if they could have
married. At worst nothing but a flirtation; and who, knowing her
husband, can blame her?" These were the excuses framed for Mrs. Lennox
by her many friends. The death of her husband had brought the general
belief that a wedding between Frank and herself would naturally follow.
Nearly four years had elapsed, however, and marriage between them seemed
no nearer than it had ever done.
Frank's present visit to Paris, Anne Lennox knew, with some bitterness,
was a business one. He had made that disappointingly plain to her in his
letter. But as she awaited his coming in a white crêpe gown, which made
her seem so fair and young, she hoped the words might be spoken which
would bring to her the desired end.
With all the love of which her worldly heart was capable, she had loved
this man for years, for his wealth, his family, even for his reputed
successes with women, which would give added distinction to the charms
of the woman whom he finally selected for a wife.
After he had been announced she rose to greet him, and stood watching
him as he came slowly through the great hall, noticing the hangings as
he came. It was a slight thing, but a woman in love knows the value of
such signs.
"When did you come?" she asked.
"Three days ago." He offered no excuse for his tardy attention, adding
only, "You've a beautiful old place, Anne."
"You like it?" she asked. "I'm delighted. You are not easily pleased.
But you should see the De Nemours' place. Whenever I come back after
seeing it this place seems detestably new, as if it were just
varnished! It is with the Countess de Nemours that Miss Dulany lives."
She watched him with attentiveness.
"Yes!" he answered, in a tone which might either be asking or answering
a question, adding: "The New York papers are heralding many
complimentary things concerning her voice. Have you heard her sing?"
Anne shook her head. "She is hedged about like royalty. That dreadful
Josef prescribes every minute of her day. It must be a great bore to
live in the way she has done. I met her once, however. Do you know,
Frank, she had never heard of Nick van Rensselaer, and when I told her
he had wanted to send her abroad before her fortune came she seemed
amazed. Of course, your mother denied the fact that it was Mr. van
Rensselaer who enabled her to come; but I always believed it was he,
didn't you?"
"You are complimenting mother's veracity," Frank answered, laughing. "If
she said it was not Mr. van Rensselaer, as a dutiful son I am bound to
believe it, am I not?"
"Doubtless," Anne answered, smiling. "By-the-way, Madame de Nemours has
left with me an invitation for you to dine with her on Friday."
"Shall we hear Miss Dulany sing, do you suppose?" Frank asked, quietly,
unimportantly.
"I don't know. She has never dined with us when I have been there. I
believe she is allowed frivolities but once a fortnight. Perhaps--" But
before she finished a maid entered with Madame de Nemours' card. "You
can ask for yourself," Anne explained, glancing at the card. "Here is
the Countess in person."
It had grown dark in the room, and Frank stood in the shadow as he was
presented to the Countess, who had come with the hope of meeting him,
for Katrine's sudden resolve to go to Fontainebleau had not deceived her
at all. By that process of seemingly illogical reasoning by which women
arrive accurately at facts, she had come to the conclusion that Katrine
had gone away to avoid meeting either Anne Lennox or this Mr. Ravenel,
and a far less brilliant woman than Madame de Nemours would have
suspected Frank of being the man who had caused Katrine such pain in the
past. That she had lived on his plantation, and that there must have
been many opportunities for them to have been constantly together,
unnoted in a place twenty miles from any dwelling, made the thing doubly
sure. And so Madame de Nemours, by reason of her intuitions, met
Francis Ravenel upon the defensive for this girl whom she had learned to
love so deeply.
"I am in despair," the Countess said, after the greetings had been
exchanged. "Here am I giving a dinner to distinguished Americans," this
with a little complimentary gesture toward both of them, "on Friday, and
Katrine Dulany ordered off to Fontainebleau by that terrible Josef. 'You
are not well!' said he. 'Go on such a day, on such a train, to such a
place! Say this! Think this! Imagine this!' And the poor child went off
yesterday for a month to Fontainebleau, afraid to disobey. Do you know,
I am thinking," she went on, "of adopting this strange child, Katrine,
legally, just to circumvent Josef? For that, and other reasons," she
explained, laughing, "I am so sorry you are not to meet her, Mr.
Ravenel."
"I have met Miss Dulany frequently," Frank answered. "In Carolina, three
years ago. Every one there was interested in her voice."
"Yes," the Countess answered, "it will be like that always with her. If
I tell you something," she said, the light dancing in her eyes as she
spoke, "will you be very discreet about it? I am thinking of marrying
Katrine to my nephew, the Duc de Launay. He doesn't know it, being in
Africa, but I am determined to be firm with both. Think of those
splendid, great ways of hers! She should have been a duchess in the
Middle Ages, when she could have dressed in long, brocaded stuffs and
led armies or killed a king. You can see," she said, drawing her wraps
about her, "I am not quite sane on the subject of this Irish child, and
go before I become a regular bore. Good-bye, Mrs. Lennox; good-bye, Mr.
Ravenel. I am so glad to have you both for Friday night."
She rose, and as she did so Frank came forward to assist her with her
wraps. At sight of him, in the full light of the doorway, she drew back
for an instant, clutched at a curtain, gave another quick look, and
fell, with a white face, unconscious into Anne's supporting arms.
It was not long, however, before she recovered enough to be helped to
her carriage; but this fainting was followed by a protracted illness,
the Friday dinner was postponed indefinitely, and Katrine summoned
hurriedly home from Fontainebleau.
Naturally, Anne Lennox called and brought Frank with her to make
inquiries and to leave regrets. It was in this visit, as Frank stood
well in the sunshine admiring the old house, that Quantrelle, peering
from his box, saw him, and with an oath fell back into the shadow as
though hiding from an enemy. Peering from a crack in the door, he waited
Frank's departure, and after the carriage had driven away, seized a hat
and ran at a mad pace down the narrow street, upsetting children and
dogs as he ran.
* * * * *
Josef protested impatiently that it was a badly chosen time for the
Countess to be ill, speaking as though Madame de Nemours had personally
selected it with criminal thoughtlessness of Katrine, whose début was
close at hand; for despite his protests, the girl took the position of
nurse, sitting up till all hours of the night, and neglecting her
lessons if the Countess needed or desired her services.
The great lady herself, after the danger seemed passed, lay in silence
day by day, neither questioning nor explaining. To Katrine, however,
explanations were unnecessary, for she understood that to Madame de
Nemours the sight of Frank had brought back, with terrible distinctness
that other Ravenel who had been summoned to his accounting years before.
Just how much Madame de Nemours knew of Frank's attitude to Katrine at
this time was never made clear, but she clung to her adopted child with
love and a new comprehension.
But no word passed between them at the time on the subject of either
Ravenel, nor did these two great ladies again speak to each other on the
subject of Francis Ravenel until the night of the Countess' death. But
it was doubtless the bond in suffering, no less than her great love,
which made the Countess write to Dermott, the first day of her
convalescence, the letter which is set below:
"I am nearing the end, my dear Irish cousin, and would set the
house in order before I go. What little I have (it is almost
nothing, for the house goes back to the estate at my death and my
income has never been large) I want to give to Katrine Dulany. I
want her to have, in the old phrase, everything of which I die
possessed. And of course I desire you to be the executor. Will you
arrange the necessary papers and bring them with you when you come
to hear her sing? And I'm hoping I may be still here to greet you
and thank you once more for a lifetime of loyalty and devotion."
Sitting in his New York office, Dermott read the lines with a face
saddened and gray. But the smile, so peculiarly his own, filled with
cynicism and humor, came to his lips at its close.
"Talk of justice!" he said. "Why, poetry can't touch this! Things always
square themselves in the long run, though we may not live to see them do
it, but this is one of the times when poetic justice itself got on the
job."
Dermott answered this letter of Madame de Nemours in person as soon as
business made it possible. Katrine, who understood from the Countess the
significance of his coming, awaited him in the reception-room on the
second floor. The curtains were drawn; a fitful fire made the figures in
the tapestry advance and retreat; the candles in silver sconces lit up a
misty Greuze over the mantel-shelf. A great bowl of white roses filled
the room with fragrance, and Dermott thought, as he bent over Katrine's
hand, that it was all but an exquisite setting for the girl herself.
Nearly a year had passed since their last meeting, and naturally Dermott
expected some change in her. But Katrine was entirely unprepared for the
change in Dermott. She had known but the one side of him in Carolina. On
his previous visits to Paris, while grateful for his kindness, she was
preoccupied and sad. And so, of the serious-eyed man with the beautiful
pallor and grave courtesy, she had scant remembrance.
On the instant of his coming, however, she recollected memories of the
old days; recalled that underneath his bright and stagelike behavior
there had ever been a certain constant attention, a sweeping glance, a
quiet scrutiny of persons unaware of his observance, a memory of details
and words and dates in some degree inhuman, and in the first hand-clasp
she recognized the power she had not had the vision to see in the years
before.
With both hands in his and her breath caught in her throat with
gratitude, she said:
"If you think I'm going to try to thank you for all you've done for me
here in Paris, you're mistaken, Dermott. I'm not." And then, with a
quick catching of the breath: "I couldn't do it adequately, no matter
how I tried. I know it was you who arranged for me to live here with
Madame de Nemours; I know how you've been writing to Josef concerning my
studies; I know how your kindness has followed me everywhere. That's why
I can't thank you," she said, with dewy lashes and the deep note in her
voice which made her speech ever seem like a caress.
"I've done little," Dermott answered. "I hope, however, to do more."
There was significance in his words, and Katrine looked at him quickly,
to find him, however, gazing intently into the fire. "Tell me of
yourself," he said; "all of it: the work, the ambitions, and the
achievements. I have hungered at times for direct news of you. Already
your fame is newspaper talk. You are happy?" he asked, abruptly.
"Happier than I thought I ever could be again," she answered, with an
evasion.
"Once," he began, in a remote tone, "I was in Arabia with a native
serving-man whom I tried to persuade to follow me on a shooting-trip in
the desert. He said he couldn't go because he had a wife who wouldn't
leave him. 'I made the mistake of beating her once,' he explained to me,
'and after a man has struck a woman once she'll stick to him forever.'"
If he expected angry speech of hurt remonstrance because of the too
evident implication of the story, he was disappointed, for Katrine
raised her eyes to his with sad frankness. "I think it speaks a truth,
Dermott," she said. "Sometimes I wonder if there ever was a woman who
loved the man who was kindest to her." "It's unrecorded if it ever
occurred," he answered, moodily, taking another road in the
conversation on the instant. "Madame de Nemours wrote me that you are to
sing at Josef's recital next month."
"Yes, it is arranged."
"That will mean an opera engagement somewhere, will it not?"