Katrine | Page 7

Enilor Macartney Lane
him to pass. The indifference of it pleased
him.
"I was going to see your father at the lodge. The roads are unfamiliar,
and the path, after two years' absence, a bit lonely." The sadness which
accompanied the words was honest, but it seemed for some more
personal sorrow than it was.
"My father is not well," Katrine said, hastily. "I am afraid you cannot
see him, Mr. Ravenel. May I ask him to go to you to-morrow instead?"
There was entreaty in her voice, and Frank knew the truth on an instant.
"I cannot have you carrying messages for me."
"Seeing that I offered myself"--she suggested, with a smile.
"--is no reason that I should trespass on your kindness, so I shall carry

my message myself." This quite firmly.
"I will sing again if you stay." She looked at him through her long
lashes without turning her head. "You see," she added, "I have made up
my mind."
"It's a premium on discourtesy," he answered, "but I yield."
Near the place where she stood there was a fallen log, and he seated
himself upon it, placing his hat on the ground as though for a continued
stay, regarding her curiously.
She was the daughter of his drunken overseer, a child in years, yet she
showed neither embarrassment nor eagerness; indeed, she conveyed to
him the impression that it was profoundly equal to her whether he went
or stayed.
"Tell me," he said, "before you sing, where have you studied?"
"I?" she laughed, but the laugh was not all mirthful. "In Paris, in
London, in Rome, in New York." There was bitterness in her tone. "I
am a gamin of the world, monsieur."
"Tell me," he repeated, insistently.
She made no response, but stood, with her profile toward him, looking
into the sunset.
"Won't you tell me?" he asked again, his tone more intimate than
before.
"Ah, why should I?" And then, with a sudden veering: "After all, there
is little to tell. I was born in Paris of poor--but Irish--parents." She
smiled as she spoke. "My mother was a great singer, whose name I will
not call. She married my father; left him and me. I do not remember her.
Since her death my father has been a spent man. We have wandered
from place to place. When he found work I was sent to some convent
near by. The Sisters have taught me. For three months I studied with

Barili. I have sung in the churches. Finally, Mr. McDermott, on the
next plantation, met us in New York, recommended my father for this
work, and we came here."
She turned from him as she ended the telling. "What shall I sing?" she
asked.
"'The Serenade.'"
"Schubert's?"
"There is but one."
"It is difficult without the accompaniments but I will try:
"'All the stars keep watch in heaven While I sing to thee, And the night
for love was given-- Darling, come to me-- Darling, come to me!'"
She ended, her hands clasped before her, her lithe figure, by God-given
instinct for song, leaned forward, and Francis Ravenel was conscious
that the passion in the voice had nothing to do with his presence; that it
was the music alone of which she thought, and for the first time in his
life he touched the edge of the knowledge that a great gift sets its
owner as a thing apart.
"Sometime," he said, "when you have become famous, and all the
world is singing your praises, I shall say, 'Once she sang for me alone,
at twilight, under the beeches, in a far land,' and the people will take off
their hats to me, as to one who has had much honor."
He smiled as he spoke. It was the smile or the praise of the song, or a
cause too subtle to name, that changed her. She had already seemed an
indifferent woman, a great artist, a careless Bohémienne in her speech;
but for the next change he was unprepared: it was a pleading child with
wistful eyes who seated herself beside him, not remotely through any
self-consciousness, but near to him, where speech could be
conveniently exchanged.

"Mr. Ravenel," she began, "I had thought to keep it from you, but you
are different--the most different person I ever saw." A dimple came in
her cheek as she smiled. "And so I am going to tell you everything."
She made a little outward gesture of the hands, as though casting
discretion to the wind. "My father drinks. It began with his great sorrow.
It is not all the time, but frequently. I had hoped that down here he
would be better. He is not, and you will have to get another overseer. It
is not just to you to have my father
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