Katrine | Page 2

fork going to Carlisle and the left
following the rushing waters of the Way-Home River to the very
gate-posts of Ravenel Plantation, through which the noisy water runs.
Ravenel Mansion, which stands a good three miles from the north gate
of the plantation, is approached by a driveway of stately pines. The
main part is built of gray stone, like a fort, with mullioned windows,
the yellow glass of early colonial times still in the upper panes. But the
show-places of the plantation are the south wing (added by Francis
Ravenel the fourth), and the great south gateway, bearing the carved
inscription: "Guests are Welcome."
Long ago, when Charles II. was on his way to be crowned, a certain
English Ravenel--Foulke by name--had the good-luck to fall in with
that impulsive monarch, and for no further service than the making of a
rhyme, vile in meter and villainous as to truth-telling, to receive from
him 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 to
believe little in American ways, and marrying frequently with a far-off
cousin in England or in France.
They were gay lads these Ravenels, hard riders, hard drinkers, reckless
in living and love-making, and held to have their way where women
were concerned. Indeed, this tradition had ancient authority, for on the
stone 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 the
name, stood in the great doorway, dinner dressed, the night after his
return from the East, viewing this inscription with a humorous drawing
together of the brows.
He was handsome, as the Ravenel men had always been, with a bearing
which caused men and women, especially women, to follow him with
their eyes. Certain family characteristics were markedly his: the brown
hair and the wide gray eyes, which seemed to brood over a woman as
though she were the only one to be desired--these had belonged to the
Ravenel men for generations; but the shape of the head, with its broad
brow, the short upper lip and appealing smile, he had from his lady
mother, who had been a D'Hauteville, of New Orleans.
From the time of his majority, some five years before, the South had
been rife with tales of his wit, his love-making, and his lawlessness.
Whatever the cause, women were forever falling in love with him, and
the mention of his name from Newport News to New Orleans would
but call forth the history of another love-affair, in which, according to
the old inscription, he had taken a heart, had broken a heart, and then
had ridden away.
He awaited coffee and cigarettes in the great hail where the candles had
been lighted for the evening, although the sun was still above Loon
Mountain. Looking within he saw their gleams on vanished roses in the
old brocade; on dingy armor of those who had fought with Charlie
Stuart; on stately mahogany, old pewters, and on portraits of the
fighting Ravenels of days long gone. There was Malcom, who died
music-mad; Des Grieux, the one with ruff and falcon, said to be a
Romney; and that Francis, 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, the merriest,
gayest, most illogical little mother in all that mother-land of the South,

regarded Frank as he re-entered with a blush of pleasure on 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;
with black 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 heavenly
person," 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 her own 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
lawyer and a Wall Street man."
"It sounds imposing," Frank returned. "What does it mean?"
"I don't