In the three months which followed Katrine's great success, Frank heard
of her constantly, always with a curious self-belittling and a reviewing
of his own conduct, fine in its self-depreciation. He had betrayed the
great unspoken trust of the finest human being he had ever known, and
afterward dallied, for fear of rebuff to his vanity, from squaring the
account as well as he could by giving her a chance to refuse him openly.
He felt that he could never again be to her what he had been. Three
years of such work as she had done would change her ideals much.
He reflected, too, upon the changes in himself, one of the greatest
being his recognition of the sound virtues of Dermott McDermott. There
had been times when circumvention by this son of Erin had been so
masterly, so deft, so unexpected that Frank had felt like extending a
congratulating hand. Once he had actually laughed aloud, at a board
meeting, over an election which McDermott had dictated. But these things
assumed a new importance when he thought of Dermott's love for Katrine,
for the queer Celtic genius was singularly unattuned to failure in
anything, and never, in any matter save that of the railroad, could
Frank claim a complete victory. And those who believed the railroad
issue still unsettled were not wanting.
Soon after the Paris visit, Frank heard, through Anne Lennox, of the
death of Madame de Nemours. The letter reiterated, as well, that Katrine
had sung to England's good old Queen. Before this confirmation Frank had
doubted this statement as one of the outputs of Dermott's oriental
imagination.
In August, having had no letter from Katrine or his mother for over a
month, he accepted Nick van Rensselaer's invitation to Waring-on-the-Sea,
with no knowledge whatever as to the other members of the party. As he
was driven up the carriageway, under great New England pines, and saw
the shining sea and the far-off Magnolia hills, he thought, for the
first time, of other guests who would probably be there, and recalled
with annoyance how one meets the same people everywhere. After he had
dressed for dinner, he stood looking from the balcony of his room into
the twilight thinking of Katrine, and wondering why her monthly letter
had not arrived.
At the foot of the stairs he encountered Sally Porter, whom he had not
met since she had been his mother's guest at Ravenel, three years
before.
"Why, Frank Ravenel!" she cried, at sight of him. "I thought you were
in--where did we hear he was, mother?"
"Several places, my dear," her mother responded, placidly.
"Java, Japan, or Jupiter," Nick van Rensselaer broke in, coming forward
with outstretched hand. "How are you, old man!"
As Frank returned the grip he looked over Nick's shoulder to a merry
group which stood near the entrance to the music-room, and his amazed
eyes rested upon Katrine Dulany. A new Katrine, yet still the old. She
wore white lace. Her black hair was parted and rippled over the ears
into a low coil. There was even more the look of an August peach to her
than he remembered: dusky pink with decided yellow in the curve of her
chin, as he had once laughingly asserted. But the softness and uplifted
expression of the misty blue eyes were the same, and added to all was
the repose of manner which comes only from the consciousness of power or
of sorrows lived beyond.
For a moment he seemed unable to make any effort to go to her, and then
came to him an intense consciousness of himself, of her, and their
mutual past. As their eyes met, however, he discovered that whatever
embarrassment existed was his own, for Katrine saw him, seemed to make
sure that her eyes did not deceive her, and with a glad smile stretched
both hands toward him.
"Why, it's Mr. Ravenel!" she cried.
Her eyes rested in his as she spoke. "It has been three, oh, so many
years, since we have met," she began, with a smile.
"Don't," he answered, holding her hands. "It was only yesterday."
"Three yesterdays," she said, with the old "make-believe" look in her
eyes. "Half a week. Somehow it seems longer, doesn't it?"
"I was sorry to miss seeing you in Paris last May," Frank said. "I
wanted so much to congratulate you; but congratulations would have been
an old story even at that time."
"Everything was in such a ferment the night you called," she explained.
"Josef was quite beside himself, and I was rushing off somewhere, I
remember, and I didn't get the card until afterward," again the
perfectly frank, sweet look, "but I recall that it gave me pleasure to
know you came."
At dinner Francis found, with some annoyance, that he was placed between
Mrs. Dysart and Miss Porter, at the remote end of the table from
Katrine, whom he could see at Nick van Rensselaer's right, showing her
dimples and the flash of white teeth and scarlet lips as she told some
story of her own.
He noted how easily she was first, so sure of herself and her power, but
with a marked deference to the women as well as to the men who courted
her attention so openly. "Such considered conduct!" he commented to
himself, approvingly.
No chance came to him to talk to Katrine again that night, but,
analytical as he was of woman, he could discern no smallest sign that it
was by any design of hers, nor that she noted his presence more than
that of another. She neither avoided nor sought his glance, and it was
not until midnight that he had even a word alone with her.
"I am going to sing," she said, turning with a pretty smile toward a
group in which he was standing.
In a minute he came forward and led her to the piano. "The Serenade," he
said.
Her eyes gleamed through the long lashes as she looked away from him.
"Ah," she answered, "I seem to have outgrown it!"