XXIII
AN INTERRUPTED CONFESSION
On the fourth day, because of a nasty twist at polo, the doctor orderedFrank to rest. Coaching and golf had left the house deserted as he layon the couch in the second hall, thinking of Katrine's masterly deftnessin avoiding him.
"I have never known another woman who could have done it so well," hethought. "She seems to have neither resentment nor remembrance. It is asthough the whole affair had never been. I wonder--"
The noise of a door opening at the far end of the corridor disturbed hisreflections, and as though walking into his thought, Katrine came downthe hall.
She wore a house-gown of pale blue, low in the neck, with long, flowingsleeves. Under her arm she carried a music-score in regular school-girlfashion, and she was humming to herself as she came.
Frank lay perfectly still; his eyes closed as she approached him.
"I am not going to bid you a good-morning, seeing that I am obliged bydoctor's orders to do it in this position. It doesn't seem respectful,"he explained.
The surprise, the dimples, the gay, low laugh seemed such a part of heras she paused beside his couch.
"You are ill?" she asked. "Or," with a twinkle of the wide eyes, "didn'tyou want to go on the coaching-party?"
"I took a fall at polo yesterday. I was not at dinner last night. I amflattered at the way you have dwelt upon my absence."
"I dined at the Crosbys' or I might have spent a sleepless nightconcerning it. There were a great many people there. Your friend,Dermott McDermott, for one. He is coming here to-day." Her face wasillumined by the spirit of teasing as she spoke. "Only," she went on,with a sweet and instant sympathy, "I am hoping you are not badly hurtor suffering."
"There is nothing, absolutely nothing, the matter, except the doctor. Heis all broken up over the accident, and says I must lie here orsomewhere for two or three days to cure a wrench in my back which Ididn't have."
Katrine laughed as she turned to go.
"I was intending to study some," she said, looking down at her music."Will it annoy you?"
A quick, amused smile came to his face at the question, and he looked upwith eyes full of laughter as he answered:
"Certainly, I am naturally unappreciative of music."
"I didn't mean that," Katrine explained, smiling back at him as she wentalong the corridor.
"Miss Dulany!" he called.
She turned toward him, her face waiting and expectant.
"As the German girl said in _Rudder Grange_, 'It is very loneful here.'"
"You mean," she asked, "that you would like to have me stay with you?"
"Nobody on earth could have stated my wish more accurately," heanswered, in a merry, impersonal tone, as though addressing someimaginary third person.
She came back to him, drawing a low wicker chair near the couch andputting her music on the floor beside her. "I shall be glad to stay ifyou want me to. Shall we talk?" And here she took up the books he hadput beside him for amusement. "Balzac, Daudet." She made a littledisapproving gesture.
"You do not care for them?" he asked.
"They are not for me, those horrible realist folk. I like books wherethings fall as they should rather than as they do; and the poetry wherebeautiful things happen. Things as they aren't are what I care for inliterature."
He laughed. "We won't read," he said, "and _I_ sha'n't talk. You must.All about yourself, the wonderful things that you have been living andachieving. You will tell it all in just your own way, full of quickpauses and sentences finished by funny little gestures."
This was dangerous walking, and he felt it on the instant.
But the Irish of the girl, the instinct to make a story, to entertain,came at his demanding, bringing the old gleam back to her eyes.
"Ah!" she said, deprecatingly. "The tale of me! It would bore you, wouldit not? It is just full of Josef and work and the Countess and FatherMenalis and a few great names, and then more work, with a little moreJosef," she added, with a smile. And then dropping into the warm,sweet, intimate tones he remembered so well, she said, simply, "It washard, but glorious in a way, too," she added, after a moment's thinking,"every morning to awaken with the thought of something most important todo; work which one loves, lessons with this great, great soul who knowswhy art is! The languages for one's art, the fencing for one's art, theeating, breathing, dancing, thinking, living for one's art! With Josef'seternal 'Think it over! Think it over!' and Paris with all of itsbeautiful past! And there were lonesome days, too, when I felt I couldnever do it, with sleepless nights of discouragements. Ah," she said,the scarlet coming to her cheeks, "I have lived! It's a great thing tosay that, isn't it? But I have lived! One day, I remember, Josef was allfussed up. It was a horror of a day, and he told me that maybe I wouldnever sing, that my temperament might not do, and I went home withthoughts of suicide and didn't go back to him for nearly a week. Then hesent for me. 'Where have you been?' he demanded, fiercely. 'I am goingto give it all up,' I answered. And he took me by the shoulders. 'MyGod!' he cried, 'with a genius like yours, _could_ you give it up?' 'Butyou said the last time I was here--' I began. 'Bah!' he interrupted,putting his hand on my shoulder, 'you can't believe a word I say. I am agreat liar.' And we both cried a little, although, even then, he kepttelling me how bad crying was for the voice, and we did some Pagliaccitogether, just as if nothing had happened."
"It must have been a wonderful life," Francis said, a great appreciationin his voice.
"It was; I miss it here--some, although people are so kind. And you?"she demanded. "Tell me about yourself."
"There is nothing to tell. Things are just the same with me. I supposethey will never be much different."
"Mrs. Lennox told me last winter that you were doing quite wonderfulthings in business."
He smiled, but made no explanation. "Are your engagements arranged asyet, Katrine?" he asked.
"It is probable that I shall sing in St. Petersburg first. It is what Iwant most if I sing in public next winter at all."
There was a pause.
"You have not changed so much as I had thought," he said, at length.
"More than I show, I am afraid," she answered.
"Oh," he returned, "even I can discern some changes. You are more, if Iwanted to be subtly flattering, I should say, you are more beautiful,more of the world in appearance, and I know what the Countess meant whenshe said you were becoming 'epic, grand, and homicidal,' or somethinglike that."
"How horrible!" she laughed.
"Not at all, only not as I remembered you." He spoke the words slowly,against his will and his judgment, and in defiance of taste or conduct,looking up as he did so into eyes which from their first glance, overthree years before in the woods in North Carolina, had been able to stirhim as no other eyes had ever done. And it seemed to him as though inthat look all conventions were dropped between them. "You were kind tome then, Katrine."
She looked at him steadily, as a child might have done, with noshrinking in her glance, with neither anger nor shame. "And you?" sheasked, wistfully. "Were you very kind to me?"
"I was not. God!" he said, "if you could only know how I have sufferedfor the way I acted! To feel such shame as I have felt! Oh," he cried,"nobody on earth could make me talk this way but you! There was alwaysbetween us a curious understanding, wasn't there, Katrine, even apartfrom the other?" He finished vaguely.
"I knew you would suffer. I was sorry for that," she answered, gravely.
"Were you, truly? Were you big enough for that?"
"Well," and the sad smile with which the Irish so often speak ofpersonal grief came to her lips, "you see, I loved you. And when oneloves one wishes for happiness for the one beloved, does one not? Yes,"she said, "I was honestly sorry to think that you would have even aregret. I would have taken all the sorrow if I could."
"You loved me then?" His head was gone. He remembered only the sweetnessof her presence and the nearness of her. "You did love me then,Katrine?"
"Don't go," he said, reaching his hand toward her with pleading in histone.
She reseated herself, her face exquisitely pale. "Ah," she said, "youknow I loved you! I was so young, and it was all so terrible to me!Please God, you may never suffer as I did! I have lain awake night afternight praying to die, or waking with dread at the knowledge that as soonas consciousness came the horrible pain would return with it, and therecame the resentment to the great God for my birth, as though that couldmake any real difference. But it was good for me. The very best thing inall the world. Nothing else could ever have taught me as it did."
"Katrine!" he cried, and, the doctor's orders forgotten, he sat up andleaned toward her "believe me, I have waited all these years to see you,to talk with you! But unless two people are entirely honest, I knew thething would be impossible. I thought you would forgive me, wouldunderstand as you grew older!"
"I understood then," she interrupted. "My whole life had trained me tounderstand. I was not in the least critical of you. I am not now. Youfollowed your birth and your training. You had been taught noself-control. Women had spoiled you. You had never had to considerothers. I want to be perfectly frank with you about it all. I neverdeceived you in word, tone, or look. I shall not begin now. You were myideal man in everything. You know," she paused, an amused smile upon herlips and her lids lowered, "you know I thought Henry of Agincourt, WolfeTone, and Robert Bruce must have been like you, and I was grateful tothe good God for letting me live in your time and country."
She ceased speaking, and her eyes rested upon the far-away sea with theremembering tenderness a woman might give to an old plaything ofchildhood before she continued:
"It was from Josef, of course, that I had most help, always belittlingthis affair, always trying to make me forget in work. I was too tired atnight to grieve; I had to sleep. 'Women,' he said, 'coddle their griefs!They revel in hopeless passion! They nurse it! Remember,' he said,'there are two ways to forget: weeping and making swings.' Well," shefinished, "he taught me to make swings."
"And you have forgotten?" Francis asked, standing beside her, magnetic,compelling, taken out of himself.
Memories were drawing them together. Remembered kisses, words, spokenlips to lips, and that elemental sweet attraction of man for woman,which should be ranked with the other great elemental things like fire,water, earth, and air. Katrine rose also, and they stood looking intoeach other's eyes.
"No," she answered, quite steadily, "I have not forgotten. I never shallforget. I would give my life to feel that you are the man I oncebelieved you to be, the man I believe you could have been."
"Will you be frank with me, Katrine?" he demanded.
"Have I ever been anything else?" she questioned, in return.
"You have avoided me since you came."
"Yes, only I hope not noticeably."
"No, it was well done, but why?"
"Can you ask?"
"I do ask."
"I did not want ever to see you again nor to talk to you as we aretalking now."
"Answer me, Katrine!" he cried, bending toward her. "Answer me! Why didyou never want to see me again?"
There still was the look in her eyes of sweetest frankness as sheanswered: "There were many reasons before I saw you that first night whyI should never wish to see you again. But after that there was onlyone--one--one that filled my mind. I am afraid."
"Afraid!" he repeated, with the man's look of the chase in his eye,"afraid of what, Katrine?"
She had moved by the fireplace, and with a hand on the chimney-shelfturned her eyes to meet his own, with the clear, unafraid look in themof the olden times.
"When I first saw you here, the night I sang, I became afraid you were aman whom I had simply overestimated in the past because of my youth. Ihave avoided you ever since for fear I should find it to be true. I amafraid you are a man who is simply 'not worth while.'" The words werespoken softly, even with a certain odd tenderness, but they struckFrancis Ravenel like a blow in the face, and he set his lips, as a mandoes in physical suffering.
"I think it is just," he said, at length. "I think that describes me asI am: a man who is not worth while. Only, you see, Katrine, I was notprepared to hear the truth from you." He grew white as he spoke. "In allof your letters you spoke so divinely of that old-time love."
For an instant she regarded him with startled attention, her eyebrowsdrawn together, both hands brought suddenly to her throat.
"My letters," she repeated, "my letters!" And then, her quick intuitionhaving told her all, "How could you do it? Oh, how could you do it?" shecried, the tears in her eyes and the quick sobs choking her speech. "Itwas you who sent me abroad to study! It is you to whom I am indebtedfor all: Josef, the Countess, my voice! Ah, you let a girl write herheart out to you, to flatter your--Oh, forgive me!" choking with thesobs which had become continuous, "forgive me!" she cried, as she laidher head on her arms by the corner of the chimney. "Forgive me!" sherepeated. "I said once (you will remember, I wrote it, too) that I wouldtry never to criticise you by word or thought. I want to be true tothat, even _now_. Only," she said, pressing her hand over her heart, "Ihurt so! The pain makes me say things I would rather not say. Oh, Iwonder if another man in all the world ever hurt a woman's pride as youhave hurt mine!"
"Katrine," Frank said, "God knows I never intended to tell you! Therewas always the thought in my mind that you should never know, but youhurt me so, I forgot. Oh, Katrine, forgive me!"
"I _am_ grateful," she interrupted, in her hurried, generous way,"grateful for the kind thought for me; but I am angry, too, so angrythat I don't dare trust myself," she smiled through her tears, thefunny, heart-breaking smile. She gathered up her music. "Good-bye," shesaid, "I shall try to go away in the morning." And with no offer ofhandshaking she passed him, and he heard her softly close and lock thedoor of her sitting-room.
He knew she would keep her word, knew that the morning would take herfrom him, and the pain of hurt pride and wounded love goading him on, hecovered the distance to the bolted door.
"Katrine!" he called.
Within he heard the noise of sobbing, of quick breaths choked with pain.
"Katrine Dulany!" he repeated, with tenderness.
"Yes!" she answered from within.
"I want to speak to you."
There was no response.
"I must speak to you, Katrine."
He waited, fearing her new contempt, until the silence becameunendurable.
"Katrine," he said, "you will either come out or I will come in."
There was another silence before there came, at the end of the lowercorridor, a great commotion of quick orders given and executed, ofluggage being placed, and through it all a low singing as of one much athome. It would be an awkward situation, he thought, for the servants tofind him clamoring at Miss Dulany's door, and as he moved toward thewindow the singing grew nearer, breaking into a loud voice at the top ofthe steps,
"War dogs tattered and gray, Gnawing a naked bone, Fighting in every clime Every cause but our own,"
and Dermott the jaunty, the extremely elegant, in black riding-clothes,with the jewelled crop of North Carolina days, stood in the afternoonsunlight at the head of the great stairs.
"Ah, Ravenel," he cried, "I have been staying at the Crosbys', and heardbut last night from Miss Dulany that you were here! I accepted theinvitation Van Rensselaer hadn't yet given me to ride over and stayawhile. I am," and here he had the superb impudence to adjust aneyeglass for a complete survey of Frank, "I am interested in your doingsjust now, Ravenel, very much interested," he repeated, with a smile.
Katrine: A Novel Page 24
