This was surely the unexpected, and he waited for her on the portico
with the feeling that there was some mistake, and that the maid might
reappear any minute to ask the missive back again.
But Katrine herself came around the corner from the greenhouses and
called to him from below. She wore a black walking-skirt, a black
leather jacket, and a three-cornered black hat, and Frank involuntarily
compared this very aristocratic-looking young person with the little
girl in the short-waisted frocks he had known, so many years ago, it
seemed, in North Carolina.
In silence they went down the driveway to the beach road, along the path
to the cliffs. There was a chill in the sea-wind, for the afternoon sun
gave only a rose-red glow, but little warmth, as they stood looking at
the crumpled reflections in the water. "It is almost sunset," Frank
began, abruptly, drawing nearer to her. "It might almost be a North
Carolina sunset, mightn't it? I don't know, Katrine, what you want of
me, but I want, for the sake of that summer full of sunsets which we
knew together, that you should let me tell my story and judge me--finest
woman--that--ever--lived--judge me after the telling as it may seem just
for you to do!"
There was a piteous quiver of her lips as her eyes looked bravely into
his as she nodded an acquiescence.
"When I left you, Katrine, like the coward I was, that dreadful morning,
so long ago, I wandered around like an Ishmaelite, more wretched than I
believed it possible for a human creature to be, longing for you,
always, day and night, waking with a convulsion of pain in the gray of
the morning, but still obstinately determined to marry none but some one
whom my forebears would have considered 'suitable.'" He smiled at the
word.
"When the news came of your father's death I was in the Canadian woods.
I started home immediately; I had no fixed plan, except to see you, to
help you in some way. In New York I had a telegram saying that my mother
was very ill at Bar Harbor. There was nothing to do but to go to her, of
course. It was before this that she had sent me Nick van Rensselaer's
letter, and the idea came to me from that, that I might be the one to do
something to make your life a bit happier. You may think it was
reparation for the suffering I had caused you, but it was not. I
_couldn't_ let you go out of my life. In this way, I reasoned, I could
keep in touch with you for years. When I stipulated that you were to
write once a fortnight, I had no idea the letters would be anything but
simple statements of your daily life. You see, I forgot," he smiled
again, the charming, whimsical smile that seemed so much a part of him,
"that you were Irish and could do nothing impersonally.
"Immediately after mother's illness came the matter of the railroad,
and"--he hesitated--"Dermott McDermott. You see, Katrine, you had
stirred something in my nature I never knew before-ambition! That was
part, but the desolation that followed your out-going made action
necessary. Well, the new railroad was to be constructed through the
plantation, and I worked with all the energy I could to forget. You see
what you did for me, Katrine! And at every turn, circumventing,
obstructing, legislating against me, urging me on by mental friction,
was Dermott McDermott. Am I tiring you?" he asked, tenderly.
"No," she answered. "I am glad to know how it all was. Over there in
Paris, when I was alone, I often wondered."
"The interest in my own railroad naturally led to interests in the two
adjoining ones, and always, always, Katrine, there were those letters of
yours urging me on by your divine belief in me. That you loved me,
thought of me, wished me well, prayed for me,--a man has to be worse
than I ever was to fail to be helped by that. And your loyalty, the very
selflessness of your love, your willingness to be hurt if it would help
me--Katrine," he interrupted himself, "there were other women in my
life, but, one by one, I measured them up to the standard of you, and
they became nothing. I remember once, at the club, they brought me two
letters, one from you and one from another woman. It was the one in
which you wrote, _'I have not forgotten, I do not wish to forget. I want
to make of myself so great a woman that some day he may say, with pride,
"Once that woman loved me."'_ I disliked to know that your white letter
had even touched the other one, and that night the man I hope to make of
myself was born. If there be any achievement in my life that is worth
while, if I ever count for anything in the world's work, it is you who
have done it, you and the letters which you blame me so much for
permitting you to write."
She turned toward him, her face flushed and divinely illumined, anger
forgotten. "You mean it?" she said.
"As God hears, it is the truth."
"Then," she paused, "I am happier than I thought it possible I should
ever be in this life!"
"And you forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive."
"That gives me courage to go on," he said. "Do you remember," he put his
hand over hers as he spoke, and they both went back in thought to the
time he had laid his hand over hers on the fallen tree, the night of
their first meeting, "do you remember, Katrine, that when an alliance is
to be arranged for a great queen, it is she who must indicate her choice
and her willingness. You have become that, Katrine, a great queen! I'm
asking, with more humility in my heart than you can ever know, that you
choose--me!"
As she looked at him, her eyes were incredulous. "Don't let us talk of
such a thing," she said, abruptly, turning her small hand upward to meet
his in a friendly clasp.
"But, Katrine, it is the only thing in the world I care to talk about.
Oh," he said, "I know how hard it is for you, that you are going to make
it hard for me, that you are not going to believe me, nor in me. But,
whether you believe it or not, it is the white truth I tell you, that
ever since the first night I saw you I loved you, and wanted you for my
wife."
She sat on the brown rocks, her knees clasped in her slender arms,
looking through the sea-mist at the sun going down behind the Magnolia
Hills.
"Don't let us talk of it," she said, decisively; "the thing is utterly
impossible. Tell me about yourself instead: the new railroad; the work;
and Dermott McDermott." He turned, looking up at her curiously before
answering.
"The last four years of my life have contained something overmuch of
Dermott McDermott--" And then, the animosity gone from him, "Katrine,"
he cried, "in Heaven's name, what did I ever do to him? He seems to
spend his time trying to circumvent my plans. He hates me so that it
seems"--he waited for an appropriate word--"funny," he ended, with a
laugh. "I have sometimes thought he was in love with you. Is he in love
with you, Katrine?"
"Tell me about the railroad," she said, taking no note whatever of his
question. "I have heard many things of it."
"Well," he began, "there were many things to hear. One by one the men
who had pledged themselves 'went back on me,' as the Street phrase is,
which brought out all the obstinacy in me. I built it myself. It's a
success, and it's lucky," he ended, "for if it weren't I don't know
where I should have ended in a money way. I was desolate and, as you
told me cheerfully in one of the letters to the Great Unknown, 'full of
ignorances and narrow-mindedness.' There was never anything better came
to me, save one, than the work. I think it has made me better. I hope
so."
"It's queer, queer, queer, this little world, isn't it?" she demanded,
abruptly.
"It is, indeed."
"Here are we, together again, after many years, talking about ourselves,
just as we did in those other days."
The old Katrine was beside him, with the pleading, explaining, dependent
note in her voice, the same rapid, short sentences, the same shy look
which was ever hers when doing a kindness. "I must tell you the reason I
wrote the note. Last night I was very angry at you. I forgot Josef, who
showed me that anger is for fools only. Then Dermott came, and while we
were walking on the terrace I told him everything: that I owed you
money; that I wanted it paid at once. He is Madame de Nemours' executor.
She left me--not a great fortune, you know, but more than enough to
repay your loan to me. So much is simple. But there is more." She
hesitated before slipping her small, bare hand in his again. "Dermott
thinks he knows something which will cause you much sorrow and trouble.
He is not certain. He is waiting letters from France. And I wanted to
tell you that it will rest almost entirely with me to say what shall be
done about this bad news which may arrive. And I want you, when trouble
comes, to remember that once I said I would come from the end of the
earth to serve you--Well," she said, the look of unreckoning, honest,
_boyish_ loyalty in her eyes, "I will keep my word. You must not worry;
I will take care of you." It was like a mother's promise to protect a
child, and, save for the sweet confidence in her own powers, Frank, not
understanding, could have laughed aloud. "I want you to think of this
to-night, when Dermott talks to you--will you?--and to remember that the
matter is far from proven. Madame de Nemours herself did not believe
it."
"Katrine," he cried, impressed by her serious face and tone, "what is
this mysterious trouble that is coming to me? Can't _you_ tell me?"
"I have thought of that, but I believe that you would be happier in the
future to know that we had never discussed it together. I know _I_
should. It's all so foolish," she ended.
"You are really going to-morrow, Katrine?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It is better."
"For you?"
"For both of us."
"Ah, Katrine, why? You are a great enough woman to forgive. Can't you do
it? You have done so much already."
"I am afraid," she answered. "I suffered too much. It was too horrible.
Only," and she touched his shoulder gently, "you are not to think that I
don't care for you. It mayn't be in just the way that I used to do; but
nobody else could ever be to me what you have been. I don't believe a
woman, a real woman, ever loves twice in her life, do you?" She asked
the question with the manner distinctively her own, of comradeship, of
wanting to touch souls even on this question most vital to them both.
"I hope it's true of you, Katrine."
The gray sea broke in white lines on the shore beneath them; the gulls
uttered shrill, clattering cries above their heads, before Katrine rose.
"We must be going--on!" she said, looking seaward, her hands clasped in
front of her, her face saddened and white.
"But, Katrine," he cried, "look at me, Katrine! Nothing has been settled
between us. I have asked you to marry me. You say you will not. You
tell me you still care some little for me. It's a foolish situation. I
was a cad, an ignorant and colossally selfish cad, but I am humbled and
oh, I want you so!"
There was nothing but kindness and affection in her face as she stood
with appealing eyes looking up at him.
"Do you want me to tell you what I believe to be the truth?"
"Yes; but, Katrine, don't make it hurt too much," he said.
"I think," she spoke the words softly, "if I had gone out of your life,
had had no voice, had not succeeded, if the world had not spoken my name
to you, you would have forgotten me in a year. I believe it is not
Katrine Dulany, the daughter of your Irish overseer, whom you love, but
La Dulany, who happens to have a gift, the adopted daughter of the
Countess de Nemours, the woman whom you have heard the Duc de Launay
wishes to marry!"
"Oh, Katrine!"
"I don't want to hurt you! indeed, _indeed_ I don't," she repeated. "I
wanted you to know exactly what I think. Ah," she cried, "be fair! Do
you blame me?"
"No," he answered. "I blame you for nothing; but it is not true! I love
the soul of you, Katrine. And there has been between us love, love
stronger than ourselves or our foolish prejudices. I believe that
neither of us can forget, that something stronger than your will or mine
draws us together. I will not accept your refusal. And you will not
forget me! I mean to see to it that you shall not."
They returned to the house, through the incoming sea fog, in silence. At
the foot of the side-stair they shook hands and said "good-bye" softly.
He had not expected to see her again in the evening. But here he failed
to understand that the excitement under which she was laboring made
either solitude or inaction unendurable. She was among the first to come
down to dinner, and never, he reviewed the entire past before he came to
the conclusion, had he seen her more beautiful. She wore pink, modish in
the extreme, with many jewels--he recalled that he had never before seen
her wear jewels--and she seemed in sky-scraping spirits, her eyes alight
with fire and vivacity; and at the table he could hear the droll tones
of her voice before the laughter came; and altogether she went far
toward driving him daft by an apparent gayety at parting with him
forever.
Immediately after the ladies left the table Dermott touched Frank
lightly on the arm. "Could I have a few words with you in the gun-room?"
he asked. "It's the place where we shall be the least likely to be
interrupted."
Ravenel followed him, after a nod of acquiescence, and stood on one side
of a great chimney, which was filled with glowing logs, waiting for the
Irishman to speak. He was entirely unprepared, however, for the
consideration, even the impersonal kindness in Dermott's voice as he
said, "I'm afraid I'm letting you in for a pretty bad time, Ravenel."
Frank bowed. Even McDermott was forced to admire his serene manner.
"Miss Dulany told me last night of her obligation to you."
Frank waited with no change of expression for Dermott to proceed.
"She said she desired her money obligation to be paid immediately."
"It is an affair of small moment," Frank answered.
"You know, perhaps, that my cousin, Madame de Nemours, left her property
to Miss Dulany?"
"I heard of it at the time," Frank returned.
"And named me as executor," Dermott explained.
"A fact which escaped me," Ravenel answered, suavely.
"It has taken some time to settle the estate," Dermott continued,
"because of a certain claim which, if proven, makes the estate a very
valuable one. This claim nearly concerns you."
"Go on," Frank said, briefly, discourteously as well.
"I do not know," Dermott continued, "whether you are aware or not that
your father made an earlier marriage than the one with your mother."
An ominous chill passed over Frank, though he answered, bravely, "I was
not."
"When he was living at Tours he married a girl, an Irish girl, who ran
away from a convent to become his wife. She was but sixteen at the time.
Her name was Patricia McDermott, my cousin, afterward the Countess de
Nemours."
Frank continued to listen, but, although his eyes held keen apprehension
and his face was white, he showed a fine courage.
"My uncle, her father, was an ardent Roman Catholic," Dermott explained,
"a gloomy, overfed, and melancholy man who never forgave his daughter.
In a short time your father seemed to have"--Dermott coughed--"tired of
the affair," he explained, lightly, "and, his studies being finished, he
left his wife and child and returned to America. I do not desire to
dwell on the misery of my cousin and her child. She was cared for by
some poor folks; my uncle gave her a death-bed forgiveness; the child
died, and in process of time she married the Count de Nemours. After the
death of her second husband, she gave me full charge of her affairs, and
among her papers I found documents relating to this early marriage. The
year before your father's death I met him, quite by accident, in New
York. The name was familiar to me. I asked questions, found he was
married and had a son, yourself.
"Mr. Ravenel," Dermott changed his tone of recital to a more intimate
one, "to speak truth, the matter is inexplicable to me. Your father was
a brilliant man; a man of the world who, if he had no religious scruples
on the subject of bigamy, must have had respect for law. Why," Dermott
rose from the table by which he had been sitting, and stood directly
facing Frank--"why he should have made a second marriage, with a wife
and child living in France, is beyond explanation."
Frank drew back, his face colorless, his lips drawn, and, as the horrid
import of the news became clear, "Ah, God!" he whispered; and then, with
memory of his father uppermost, "It's a damned lie!" he cried.
"It may be," Dermott returned, calmly. "Most things are open to that
interpretation. I'm afraid, however, you will have difficulty in proving
it so. I have had the certificates of the marriage and of the birth of
the child for a long time, but international law requires much. I have
living witnesses. In Carolina, in looking up the matter," he spoke the
word vaguely, "I failed to find anything which would disprove the points
I have just placed before you. I was awaiting some letters from France
before explaining the case to you, when Katrine demanded that her debt
to you be paid immediately. There are many reasons why I do not wish to
pay that debt now, reasons which we, as men, can understand. She might
not comprehend them, and she certainly would not give the idea a straw's
weight if she did, having once made up her mind. Now I'm going to tell
her that I've paid her debt, Mr. Ravenel. It will comfort her. But with
the matter which I have revealed to you still a little unsettled, and
the markets in the state they are in, I cannot do my duty as executor
and fulfil her desires immediately. After all, it is a small amount, and
if my personal check--" He waited, and Ravenel spoke.
"Mr. McDermott, Miss Dulany's indebtedness to me is too slight to
consider. About this other terrible business, I shall search my father's
papers! It is necessary that I do everything I can to protect my
mother's name as well as my own."
"That's reason," Dermott agreed.
"As to Miss Dulany--"
Both men turned, for at the far end of the room Katrine stood, under the
swinging light of a Japanese lamp, regarding them.
She came rapidly toward them, her head a little forward, her cheeks
scarlet, and a gleam of temper in her eyes, which Frank had never seen,
but with which Dermott was not unfamiliar, and took a place between
them.
"See!" she cried, smiling, and there was never another woman in all the
world who had the appealing smile of Katrine Dulany. "Don't let us make
this all so dreadful. There is just some mistake," she said, with a
gesture of impatience; and from here she went on with a certain
terrifying ability, peculiarly her own, to come directly to a point.
"Oh," she said, with a gesture including them both, "you've done what I
asked you not to do, Dermott!" she said. "You've claimed a yet unproven
thing. I'm tired of the whole of it. It is better that we three should
understand one another altogether and not go talking by twos," and she
faced Dermott as she turned. "You may prove everything, and I'll never
believe a word of it! Give me Ravenel, and I'll return it to those to
whom it belongs. It's his," indicating Frank, "and his mother's, and
they shall keep it, no matter what you prove! As for me!" she laughed,
giving herself a shake as a bird does. "Hark!" she cried, raising one
finger. Softly, as a bird calls to the purpling east at dawn, she took a
note, listening intently, going up, up, up, till the tone, a mere thread
of gladness, reached high E, where it swelled, rounder and fuller, until
it seemed to fill all space, descending in a sparkling shower of
chromatics to lower G.
"Did you mark that?" she cried, in a defiant bit of appreciation of
herself. "What do I need with money? I can go out on the streets and
come back with hands full." And before they could answer she had
disappeared through one of the long windows of the piazza.
"And what do you think of that, now?" demanded Dermott of Frank, with a
touch of the brogue, as they stood together in some bewilderment,
looking after her.