Katrine | Page 3

know," his mother answered. "I have enough of the artist in me
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 want
some information concerning those disputed mines. Added to his other
attractions, he can talk in rhyme. Do you understand? Can talk in
rhyme," she repeated, with emphasis, "and carries a Tom Moore in his
waistcoat-pocket."
There came a sound of singing outside--a man's voice, musical, with an
indescribably 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 shadow
of the porch and stood in the doorway--a man tall and well set-up, in
black 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 be
something of a dandy.
Standing in the doorway, the lights from the candelabra on his face and
the sunset at his back, one noticed on the instant his great freedom of
movement 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 through
lashes so long they made a mistiness of shadow. He had the pallor of
the Spanish Creole found frequently in the south of Ireland folk. His
mouth was straight, the upper lip a bit fuller than the under one, as is
the case when intellect predominates, and his hair was of a singularly
dull and wavy black. But set these and many more things down, and the
charm of him has not been written at all, for the words give no hint of
his bearing, his impertinent and charming familiarity, the surety of
touch, 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 a
slight pause here as he regarded Mrs. Ravenel with open admiration.
"And thank you for the beautiful verses, asking that at some soon date
you send more of the flowers of your imagination to bind around the
gloomy brow of Dermott McDermott."

It was the McDermott way, this. A kiss on the hand and a compliment
to Madam Ravenel; a compliment and a kiss on the lips to Peggy of the
Poplars; but in his heart it was to the deil with all women--save
one--for he regarded them as emotional liars to be sported with and
forgotten.
As Mrs. Ravenel presented to each other these two men whose lives
were to be interwoven for so many years, they shook hands cordially
enough, but there was both criticism and appraisement in the first
glance each took of the other.
The contrast between them, as they stood with clasped hands, did not
pass unnoted by Mrs. Ravenel. The black hair, olive skin, the bluer than
blue eyes of Dermott, as he stood in the light of the doorway; his alert,
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 more
admirable as a foil to the warm brown of Frank's hair, to the poetic gray
of his eyes, his apparent self-depreciation, his easy acceptances, and his
elegant reluctance to obtrude on others either his views or his
personality.
Perhaps it was the prescience of coming trouble between them which
caused a noticeable pause after the introduction--a pause which
Dermott courteously 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 two
of you. And now"--putting his cap, gloves, and riding-whip on the
window-ledge--"I'll have coffee if you'll offer it. Let me"--taking some
sugar--"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 the
Irishman as one might have viewed a performer in a play, realizing to
the full what his mother had meant by the "charm of McDermott," for it
was a thing none could deny, for the subtle Celt complimented the ones
to whom he spoke by an approving and admiring attention, and

conveyed the impression that the roads of his life had but led him to
their feet.
"To tell the truth," McDermott continued, noting and by no means
displeased by Frank's scrutiny, "I had heard ye were