KATRINE
I
UNDER THE SOUTHERN PINES
Ravenel Plantation occupies a singular rise of wooded land in NorthCarolina, between Way-Home River, Loon Mountain, and the Silver Fork.The road which leads from Charlotte toward the south branches by theHaunted Hollow, the right fork going to Carlisle and the left followingthe rushing waters of the Way-Home River to the very gate-posts ofRavenel Plantation, through which the noisy water runs.
Ravenel Mansion, which stands a good three miles from the north gate ofthe plantation, is approached by a driveway of stately pines. The mainpart is built of gray stone, like a fort, with mullioned windows, theyellow glass of early colonial times still in the upper panes. But theshow-places of the plantation are the south wing (added by FrancisRavenel the fourth), and the great south gateway, bearing the carvedinscription: "Guests are Welcome."
Long ago, when Charles II. was on his way to be crowned, a certainEnglish Ravenel--Foulke by name--had the good-luck to fall in with thatimpulsive monarch, and for no further service than the making of arhyme, vile in meter and villainous as to truth-telling, to receive fromhim an earldom and a grant of "certain lands beyond the seas."
Here, in these North Carolina lands, for nearly two hundred years,Ravenel child had grown to Ravenel man, educated abroad, taught tobelieve little in American ways, and marrying frequently with a far-offcousin in England or in France.
They were gay lads these Ravenels, hard riders, hard drinkers, recklessin living and love-making, and held to have their way where women wereconcerned. Indeed, this tradition had ancient authority, for on thestone mount of the sundial in the lilac-walk there had been chiselled,in the year 1771, by some disgruntled rival perhaps:
"The Ravenels ryde forth, Hyde alle ye ladyes gay; They take a heart, They break a heart, Then ryde away!"
The present owner of the plantation, Francis Ravenel, seventh of thename, stood in the great doorway, dinner dressed, the night after hisreturn from the East, viewing this inscription with a humorous drawingtogether of the brows.
He was handsome, as the Ravenel men had always been, with a bearingwhich caused men and women, especially women, to follow him with theireyes. Certain family characteristics were markedly his: the brown hairand the wide gray eyes, which seemed to brood over a woman as though shewere the only one to be desired--these had belonged to the Ravenel menfor generations; but the shape of the head, with its broad brow, theshort upper lip and appealing smile, he had from his lady mother, whohad been a D'Hauteville, of New Orleans.
From the time of his majority, some five years before, the South hadbeen rife with tales of his wit, his love-making, and his lawlessness.Whatever the cause, women were forever falling in love with him, and themention of his name from Newport News to New Orleans would but callforth the history of another love-affair, in which, according to the oldinscription, he had taken a heart, had broken a heart, and then hadridden away.
He awaited coffee and cigarettes in the great hail where the candleshad been lighted for the evening, although the sun was still above LoonMountain. Looking within he saw their gleams on vanished roses in theold brocade; on dingy armor of those who had fought with Charlie Stuart;on stately mahogany, old pewters, and on portraits of the fightingRavenels of days long gone. There was Malcom, who died music-mad; DesGrieux, the one with ruff and falcon, said to be a Romney; and thatFrancis, fourth of the name (whom the present Francis most resembled),who had lost his life, the story ran, for a queen too fair and fond.
Mrs. Ravenel, adoring and tender, in lavender and old lace, themerriest, gayest, most illogical little mother in all that mother-landof the South, regarded Frank as he re-entered with a blush of pleasureon her bright, fond face.
"Who has the Mainwaring place, mother?" he asked.
"A heavenly person," Mrs. Ravenel answered.
"Man, I suppose," Francis laughed.
Mrs. Ravenel nodded assent and repeated: "Heavenly! An Irishman; withblack hair, very black brows, pale like a Spaniard, about thirty--"
"Your own age," Frank interrupted, with a complimentary gesture.
--"who rides like a trooper, drinks half a glass of whiskey at a gulp,and is the greatest liar I can imagine."
"It's enlightening to discover an adored parent's idea of a heavenlyperson," Francis said, with an amused smile.
"He sends me flowers and writes me poetry. We exchange," she explained,and there came to her eyes a delightfully critical appreciation of herown doings.
"The heavenly person has--I suppose--a name?" Frank suggested.
"Dermott McDermott."
"Has the heavenly person also a profession?"
"He is"--Mrs. Ravenel hesitated a minute--"he is an international lawyerand a Wall Street man."
"It sounds imposing," Frank returned. "What does it mean?"
"I don't know," his mother answered. "_I_ have enough of the artist inme to be satisfied with the mere sound. His English--"
"His Irish," Frank interrupted.
--"is that of Dublin University, the most beautiful speech in the world.He is here in the interest of the Mainwaring people, he says, who wantsome information concerning those disputed mines. Added to his otherattractions, he can talk in rhyme. Do you understand? _Can talk inrhyme_," she repeated, with emphasis, "and carries a Tom Moore in hiswaistcoat-pocket."
There came a sound of singing outside--a man's voice, musical, with anindescribably jaunty clip to the words:
"I was never addicted to work, 'Twas never the way o' the Gradys; But I'd make a most excellent Turk, For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies."
And with the song still in the air, the singer came through the shadowof the porch and stood in the doorway--a man tall and well set-up, inblack riding-clothes, cap in hand, who saluted the two with his crop,and as he did so a jewel gleamed in the handle, showing him to besomething of a dandy.
Standing in the doorway, the lights from the candelabra on his face andthe sunset at his back, one noticed on the instant his great freedom ofmovement as of one good with the foils. His hair was dark, and his eyes,deep-set and luminous as a child's, looked straight at the world throughlashes so long they made a mistiness of shadow. He had the pallor ofthe Spanish Creole found frequently in the south of Ireland folk. Hismouth was straight, the upper lip a bit fuller than the under one, as isthe case when intellect predominates, and his hair was of a singularlydull and wavy black. But set these and many more things down, and thecharm of him has not been written at all, for the words give no hint ofhis bearing, his impertinent and charming familiarity, the surety oftouch, the right word, and the ready concession.
"I thought the evening was beautiful till I saw you, madam," he said,with a sweeping salute. "I kiss your hand--with emotion." There was aslight pause here as he regarded Mrs. Ravenel with open admiration. "Andthank you for the beautiful verses, asking that at some soon date yousend more of the flowers of your imagination to bind around the gloomybrow of Dermott McDermott."
It was the McDermott way, this. A kiss on the hand and a compliment toMadam Ravenel; a compliment and a kiss on the lips to Peggy of thePoplars; but in his heart it was to the deil with all women--saveone--for he regarded them as emotional liars to be sported with andforgotten.
As Mrs. Ravenel presented to each other these two men whose lives wereto be interwoven for so many years, they shook hands cordially enough,but there was both criticism and appraisement in the first glance eachtook of the other.
The contrast between them, as they stood with clasped hands, did notpass unnoted by Mrs. Ravenel. The black hair, olive skin, the bluer thanblue eyes of Dermott, as he stood in the light of the doorway; hisalert, theatric, dominating personality; his superb self-consciousness;the decision of manner which comes only to those who have achieved,seemed to her prejudiced gaze admirable in themselves, but moreadmirable as a foil to the warm brown of Frank's hair, to the poeticgray of his eyes, his apparent self-depreciation, his easy acceptances,an
d his elegant reluctance to obtrude on others either his views or hispersonality.
Perhaps it was the prescience of coming trouble between them whichcaused a noticeable pause after the introduction--a pause which Dermottcourteously broke.
"So this is the son," he said. "Sure," he went on, comparing them,"ye've a right to be proud of each other! Ye make a fine couple, the twoof you. And now"--putting his cap, gloves, and riding-whip on thewindow-ledge--"I'll have coffee if you'll offer it. Let me"--taking somesugar--"eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow," he laughed--"why,to-morrow I may have talked myself to death!"
Frank rose from his chair and stood by the chimney, regarding theIrishman as one might have viewed a performer in a play, realizing tothe full what his mother had meant by the "charm of McDermott," for itwas a thing none could deny, for the subtle Celt complimented the onesto whom he spoke by an approving and admiring attention, and conveyedthe impression that the roads of his life had but led him to their feet.
"To tell the truth," McDermott continued, noting and by no meansdispleased by Frank's scrutiny, "I had heard ye were home, Mr. Ravenel,and came early to see you with a purpose--two purposes, I might say.First, I wanted to talk to you concerning Patrick Dulany, the overseerwhom I got for your mother last year. Ye've not see him yet?"
"I arrived only last night, Mr. McDermott," Francis answered.
"True, I'd forgotten. It's a strange life Patrick's had, and a sad one.He's of my own college in Dublin, but a good dozen years older than I.'Twas in India I knew him first. He's one of the Black Dulanys of theNorth, and we fought side by side at Ramazan. What a time! What a time!In the famous charge up the river, when we turned, I lost my horse, andin that backward plunge my life was not worth taking. While I was lyingthere half dead and helpless, this Dulany got from his old gray, flungme across his saddle, and carried me nine miles back to the camp. Judgeif I love him!"
Mr. McDermott looked from the window with the fixed gaze of onestruggling with unshed tears.
"The next month he was ordered home, and soon after fell the bitterbusiness of the marriage in Italy. I stood up with him. She was the mostbeautiful creature I have ever seen--save one; and a voice--God! I heardher sing in Milan once. The king was there; the opera 'La Favorita.' Shewas sent for to the royal box. We had the horses out of her carriage anddragged it home ourselves. What a night it was! What a night it was!"
McDermott paused as in an ecstasy of remembrance.
"What was her name?" Francis asked.
"Ah, that"--he threw out his hand with a dramatic gesture--"'tis athing I swore never to mention. 'Tis a fancy of Dulany's to let it diein silence."
"And she left him?" Mrs. Ravenel's voice was full of sympathy as shespoke.
"For another!" Dermott made a dramatic pause, relishing his climaxes."And then she died."
"So, for his daughter's sake"--there was a curious hesitancy in hisspeech just here, but he carried it off jauntily--"his daughter, aprimrose girl and the love of my life, I've come to ask that you be abit lenient with him, Mr. Ravenel, at the times he has taken a drop toomuch, as your lady mother has been in the year past. I think you'll findhim able to manage, for, in spite of his infirmity, black and white fallunder his spell alike."
"If Frank has a fault, Mr. McDermott, which I do not think he has, it'sover-generosity. You need have no fear for your friend," Mrs. Ravenelsaid, proudly, putting her hand on Frank's shoulder.
As her son turned to kiss the slender fingers, Dermott McDermottregarded the two curiously.
"You're fortunate in having a son of twenty--" He hesitated.
"Of twenty-five," Francis finished for him.
"--so devoted to you, madam. Ye're twenty-five--coming or going?" heinquired, with a laugh.
"On my last birthday--April."
An odd light shone in McDermott's eyes for a second before he said, witha bow:
"Neither of ye look it; I can assure you of that. Well," he continued,reaching for his cap and whip, "I must be going. Ye've found already,haven't ye, Ravenel, that the sound of my own voice is the music ofheaven to my ears?" And then, as though trying to recollect: "I think Isaid it was at Ramazan Dulany and I fought together?"
Francis nodded.
"God," McDermott cried, his face illumined, his eyes glowing, "I wish ithad been Waterloo! I've always carried a bruised spirit that I didn'tfight at Waterloo."
"Your loss is our gain, Mr. McDermott," Francis answered, with a smile."You'd scarce be here to tell it if you had."
"And that's maybe true," Dermott said, pausing by the doorway to put onhis gloves. "But I'd rather have fought at Waterloo, even if I were deadnow, so that I could tell you exactly how it felt--There"--he broke hisspeech with a laugh--"I caught myself on the way to an Irish bull.
"Oh! Mr. Ravenel," he called back suddenly, as though the thought hadjust come to him, "I've been waiting your coming to have a talk withyou--a business talk--but not to-night." He waved the matter aside witha gay, outward movement of the hands. "Sometime at your pleasure." Againthe eyes of the two met, and this time each measured the other moreopenly than before.
"I shall be glad to see you at any time, Mr. McDermott," Frank answered,his words courteous enough, but his eyes lacking warmth; and theintuitive Celt realized that in Frank he had met one whom he had failedeither to bewilder or to charm.
"Madam!" he cried, saluting. "Mr. Francis Ravenel, delightful son of adelightful mother! The top of the evening to both of ye." And with aconsidered manner he made a stage exit, and Frank and Madam Ravenelheard the gay voice--
"... most excellent Turk, For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies--"
coming back with the clatter of a horse's hoofs through the fadingsunlight over the dew of the daisies.
"Well," said Mrs. Ravenel, her eyes dancing with merry light, "isn't hedelightful?"
"Delightful!" Frank repeated. "Is he? I wonder. Shrewd, cool-headed,cruel, I think--subtle as well."
"Nonsense," Mrs. Ravenel interrupted, with a smile which might not havebeen so mirthful had she seen at that moment the man of whom she spoke.
Near the north gate McDermott had brought his horse suddenly to a walk.There was no longer gayety in his manner or his face. The merry lighthad left his eyes, and in its place shone a gleam, steady and cold, asonly the eye of the intellectual Irish can be.
"And so that is the son! An unco man for the lassies, like his fatherbefore him." His eyelids drew together as he spoke. "Handsome, too--witha knowledge of life. It's a pity!" he said. "It's a pity! But he may notinterfere. If he does, well--even if he does, the gods are with theIrish!"
Katrine: A Novel Page 2
