Katrine: A Novel

  IX

  THE TRUTH

  Frank did not leave Ravenel even for the few days which he had mentionedto Katrine as a possibility. Accompanied only by her maid, Mrs. Ravenelstarted to Bar Harbor without him. June drifted into July, and still helingered at the plantation.

  And all the summer days were spent with Katrine Dulany. At first hebelieved that he would probably tire of the whole affair quickly. He wassurprised to find that he did not. He found her always new. There was anelusive quality to her, days when she would barely permit him to touchher hand, when she dazzled him by the audacity of her thinking; herindifference to him, to him who was in no way accustomed to indifferencein women. And a few hours later, perchance, he would return to find agirl with wistful eyes and speech of tenderness, with no thought "thatis not for the king," she told him once.

  No word of marriage was spoken between them; if Katrine thought such anevent possible, she gave no sign, spoke no word concerning it. If hecame early, she welcomed him with shining eyes; if he were late, thisincomprehensible person bestowed upon him exactly the same smile andglance she would have given had he come two hours before.

  "I have kept you waiting for me, I am afraid," he said one day, when hehad kept an engagement he had made for ten o'clock at a quarter oftwelve.

  That morning she had been studying; not tones, but German Church music,and already she had realized, unformulatedly, the solace in the exerciseof a great gift; had found that she could forget trouble in the world ofinspired work; not for long, perhaps, but long enough to have peace ofmind restored to her and strength to go on for another day.

  "It didn't matter," she said. "I practised. One forgets one is waitingthen."

  Finally there arose in him an absurd jealousy of this gift of hers, ofthe thing which seemed to console her even for his absence.

  "I shall learn to hate your music," he said one night, when she haddrawn herself away from him to listen intently to the song of anightingale in the pines.

  "Don't do that!" she said. "Ah, don't do that! Don't you see that it isall I have for my own in life; all I shall ever have!"

  And with some hidden, mental connection between his words and the act,she began to sing in her great, lovely voice:

  "Ask nothing more of me, sweet, All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, More shall be laid at your feet. Love that should help thee to live, Song that should bid thee to soar. All I can give you I give; Ask nothing more, nothing more."

  She asked, neither by word nor look, for any expression concerning thesong; but as the last note died away seated herself beside him, chin inhand, looking far past him into the night.

  At two of the next morning he awakened with a start. He was alone in hisown rooms at Ravenel. Looking around in the half-light of the window, heput his head back on the pillow with the air of one awakened from afeverish dream. But sleep had vanished for the night. Conscience waswith him. The time had come for the reckoning; some settlement withhimself was required.

  Where was he going, and where was he taking Katrine Dulany? Marriage wasout of the question. A person of his importance did not make amesalliance. He owed a duty to all the Ravenels who had preceded him, tothose who would follow. To marry suitably was the first duty in life;perhaps it was the only one which he acknowledged. _Where was he going?_He lay with open eyes, staring at the ceiling in the faint light of thecoming dawn, with a sense of physical sickness at the thought of givingKatrine up, of letting her go out of his life forever. He had told herhe cared more for her than he had ever thought it possible for him tocare for any one. That was long since, back in the times before he hadknown the sweetness of her. Now, with all the heart he had to give, hehad learned to love her, to long for her presence; she had touched a newchord in his nature, one which he had never known before her coming.

  He would not give her up; he could not. Why should he? She would behappier with him, even though wrongfully his, than with a drunkenfather in the forests of North Carolina. They would go to Paristogether. It would be years before he would care to marry. But at thethought Katrine's eyes came back to him. _Francis the King!_ It was soshe spoke of him, and it was this complete trust that appealed to allthe best within him, as a tenderness born of her sweetness, her completeloyalty, raised him beyond his own selfishness, and he resolved to saveher, save her even from himself.

  With this fixed thought he rose early and, breakfastless, went out intothe dawn. He would go away and leave her. He would see her once more andtell her the truth about himself. He would make it clear to her,"damnably clear," he said to himself, with a set chin. She would be leftwith no illusions concerning him. It would help her to forget to knowhim as he really was. He felt it part of his expiation to tell her thetruth.

  As he rode up the pathway to the lodge he was white to the lips. Hiseyes were sunken. All the passion of which he was capable longed forthis woman whom he was about to surrender, perhaps to some other. Hewinced at the thought of it.

  She was sitting in the old arbor and turned suddenly at the sound ofhis steps, an unopened book dropping from her hands at sight of him.

  "What is the matter?" she asked, anxiously, at sight of his white face."Are you ill?"

  "Katrine!" he cried, "it is shame--shame at what I have been doing;shame at the way I have been treating you!"

  She grew suddenly pale, and her lips parted as she stood with eyesfastened upon him, waiting for him to go on.

  "I wanted you to love me," he went on. "I wanted it from the first. Astime passed I learned to care so much that I thought of nothing else,wanted nothing else, but to be near you. But never, never for oneinstant, and, Katrine, it is of this you must think always, _never forone instant did I intend to marry you!_"

  She placed one hand against the bench for support, her face exquisitelypale, her eyes darkened, her mouth drawn; but she regarded him steadilyand bravely as he continued.

  "I might make excuses for my conduct; might even lie about there beingsome obstacles, my mother's objections, the rest of the family, but Idon't want to do that. I want you to know the truth just as it stands,to know me exactly as I am. My mother would object to my marrying you,but if I did it she would in time become reconciled. I have my way withher. The only thing that stands between us is my pride, family pride. Itis sending me away from you. I am going to-day, going to-day, because Ido not dare to stay."

  Still she spoke no word, but sat looking away from him into the ocean ofroses.

  "For God's sake, say something to me, Katrine!" he cried, at length."Tell me even that I am the contemptible cad you think me to be; onlysay something. I cannot endure this. With every fibre of me I am longingto take you in my arms, to kiss your eyes that have the ache in them.God knows how I want you and how I am suffering!"

  Her lips quivered for an instant before she controlled herself to speak.

  "There seems nothing to say except 'Good-bye.'"

  Her voice was infinitely sad and tender. There was neither anger norresentment in it, and she rose as though to leave him, but he held herback. The great womanliness of her, the ability to suffer in silence,and the dignity of such a silence touched him strangely. There was a sobin his throat as he spoke.

  "Forgive me!" he said. "Oh, say you forgive me, Katrine!"

  "Dear," she answered--and as she spoke she put her hand on his brownhair, as a mother might have done, "I don't want you to suffer likethis. I might have known, had I thought about it at all, that you wouldnever marry me. But it seemed so perfect as it was, I never thought atall, I just," it seemed as though she were saying her worst to him, "Ijust trusted you."

  He flung out one arm as though to protect himself from a physical blow,and a moan escaped him.

  "Let me tell you about myself," she continued; "it will be best, for wemay never meet again. Oh, please God," she cried, suddenly, "we maynever meet again in this world!"

  The tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she sobbed aloud as shespoke. He
reached his arms toward her, but she moved away, sittingsilent until she regained such composure as would permit her to go on.

  "The first thing I remember in my life, I must have been about three,was my father's beating his head against the wall of the room in which Iwas sleeping because my mother had left him. After that I became used toanything--to sudden moves in the dark; to being alone with him throughthe long nights when he had been drinking; to poverty, to black povertythat means not enough to eat nor enough clothes to keep one warm; toyears and years of want and despair and misery. As I grew older and wentto the convent schools, some of the girls invited me home with them. Itwas because of my looks and my voice, you know." There was sweethumility in the statement, as though apologizing for the fact that shehad been desired. "And they were quite kind. Their parents liked me, andone of them, I remember, said: 'She has a beautiful manner, which iswonderful considering she is little better than a child of the streets.'I could not feel even then how I was to blame for my birth, seeing thatit was a thing arranged for me by the good God. But I learned what toexpect.

  "As father grew worse and less able to care for himself, it wasnecessary to have money. Mr. Ravenel, I have been a beggar in thestreets! I have sung in the streets, I! in the court-yards of thehotels, for money to keep from starving! So you will see sorrow is nonew thing to me. I do not question it. I have had in my life threeperfectly happy months, perfectly happy. It is as much as a woman canexpect, perhaps, and though it kill me, though it kill me, I shall neverregret having known and loved you." She paused a minute. "When one hasto die it is best to go quickly, is it not? When there is some terriblething in life to do, it were best done quickly as well. Good-bye," shesaid, putting out her hand.

  He shook his head. "If I touch you I shall not go. Oh, Katrine, Katrine,Katrine! Do you know what I am doing? I am going when I could stay,stay, or take you with me! Will you remember it in the years to come,when you are older and will understand what it means? Will you, oh, forGod's sake, Katrine, remember that there was still some little good inme, that although I did not do the best I could have done for you, atleast I kept myself from doing the worst?"

  A scarlet flush suffused her face at his words.

  "Ah, don't!" she cried, putting out her hand, as though to ward off ablow. "Don't! Don't say it! Don't even think it! Believe me, it couldnever have been like that! I should have died first!"