"I WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU"
After a brief exchange of incivilities with Dermott, Frank went to his
own room with a flushed cheek, a kindling eye, and something like a song
of victory singing low and strong in his heart. It was a strange mood to
follow such an interview, for there was scarcely a sentence of his
during the talk with Katrine of which he was not ashamed. The lack of
taste, of delicacy, the rawness of his conduct came back to him,
producing a singular sense of elation; for by them he realized that his
love was a thing stronger than himself; a thing which carried him along
with it; buffeted him, did with him as it would, while considered
conduct and the well-turned phrase stood pushed aside to watch the
torrent as it passed.
There had been times when he feared that his ancestry of inherited
self-indulgence had left him without the ability to desire anything
continuously or over-masteringly, feared that he was over-raced, with
no grasp nor feeling for the jugular vein of events. These had been
unworded doubts of his concerning himself in the three years past. But
after the talk with Katrine he knew himself capable of great love, of
love which was stronger than himself, and the new manhood in him gloried
in the surrender.
He dressed early, hoping to have a word with Katrine before the other
guests came down, but she was the last to enter the drawing-room before
dinner was announced. Standing by the doorway, he saw her coming along
the wide hall alone. She wore black, unqualified black, low and
sleeveless. Her hair, which seemed blacker than the gown, was worn high,
not in the loose curls he knew so well, but in some statelier manner,
with an old jewelled comb placed like a coronet, and she held herself
more aloof from him than ever before, her eyes avoiding his glance and
her cheeks exquisitely flushed.
But at sight of Dermott her bearing changed, and Frank saw with jealousy
that she went quickly toward the Irishman, holding out both hands and
saying, "Dermott," in a voice which seemed to have a sob in it as well
as a claim for protection.
During dinner Ireland was easily triumphant, for while Katrine sat at
Nicholas van Rensselaer's right, Dermott had been placed on her other
side, and Frank, sitting by deaf old Mrs. van Rensselaer, had abundant
time to mark McDermott's gift for society. "One might think him the
host," Ravenel thought, critically, noting that the laugh, the jokes,
the gallantries were ever in the Irishman's vicinity, and the head of
the table was easily where the McDermott sat.
When the ladies were leaving, Dermott took the situation in both hands,
as it were, by rising with them and turning a laughing face to the men,
who were calling his name.
"I'm going to join the ladies now, if they will have me!" he cried. "I
have less of their society than I like, belonging, as I do, to the
working-classes. And besides," he waved a hand, white and beautifully
slender, toward them, "I know you all, unfortunately well, as it is!"
A chorus of friendly insults were thrown after him, but he dropped the
curtain with no further word, and an hour later Frank encountered him
walking slowly up and down the terrace in the moonlight with Katrine.
They were talking earnestly, McDermott urging something which Francis
was glad to see Katrine was far from yielding. Twice he saw her shake
her head with great firmness, and once, as they came near him, he heard
her say, "I will not, Dermott," and, knowing the girl as he did, Frank
felt that, whatever the matter, it was settled with finality.
Try as he surely did, he found it impossible to have a word alone with
her that evening, and the next morning he learned from the servants that
her luggage was to be taken to the station the following day at an early
hour.
She was not at luncheon, and Frank was meditating on the possibility of
leaving with her on the early train, when a note was brought to him by
her maid.
Would you care to walk with me now? [it read] I should like to tell
you something before I leave.