THE MEETING IN THE WOODS

Instead of entering the drawing-room after Dermott's departure, Frank turned with some abruptness toward Mrs. Ravenel.

"I am going for a walk, mother," he said, with no suggestion that she accompany him; and her intimate acquaintance with Francis, sixth of the name, made her understand with some accuracy the moods of his son, Francis seventh.

"You are handsomer than ever, Frank!" she exclaimed, as if in answer to the suggestion.

"You spoil me, mother," he returned, with a smile.

"Women have always done that--" she began.

"And you more than any other," Frank broke in, kissing her, with a deference of manner singularly his own.

"There may be truth in that," Mrs. Ravenel admitted, a fine sense of humor marked by the grudging tone in which she spoke. "I remember that only yesterday I was in a rage because the roses were not further open to welcome you home."

"Nature _is_ unappreciative," he returned; and the gray eyes with the level lids looked into the blue ones with the level lids, and both laughed.

For a s.p.a.ce Mrs. Ravenel contemplated him, the ecstasy of motherhood illuminating the glance.

"You are quite the handsomest human being I ever saw, Frank--though I think I said something like that before."

"You are, of course, unprejudiced, lady mother," he laughed back from the lowest step.

"It's natural I should be--being only a mother," she explained, gayly.

"Ah," she went on, "I am so happy to have you at home with me! _Not_ happy at having asked those people down. They come on the twenty-seventh."

"Whom have you asked?"

"The Prescotts."

"Good."

"The Porters and Sallie Maddox."

"Better."

"And Anne Lennox."

There was a silence.

"Did I hear you say 'best'?" Mrs. Ravenel inquired.

"By some wanderment of mind, I forgot it," Frank returned, lightly.

"I am always subtle in my methods," his mother continued. "Note the adroitness now. Why don't you marry her, Frank?"

"Do you think she would marry me?"

"Don't be foolish. Anne is devoted to you, and you must marry someone.

You are an only son. There is the family name to be thought of, and there must be a Francis eighth to inherit the good looks of Francis seventh, must there not? And how I shall hate it!" she added, truthfully.

Again a silence fell between them before Frank turned the talk with intention in word and tone.

"About this new overseer?" he asked. "Satisfactory?"

"When not drunk--very."

"Does it"--he smiled--"I mean the drunkenness, not the satisfaction--occur frequently?"

"I am afraid it does."

"What did McDermott say his name is?"

"Patrick Dulany."

"French, I suppose?" he suggested.

"By all the laws of inference," his mother returned, with an answering gleam in her eye.

"There seems to have been a Celtic invasion of the Carolinas during my absence. Has he a family?"

"Only a daughter." And as Frank turned to leave her Mrs. Ravenel asked, lightly: "How long do you intend to stay here, Frank?"

"I have made no plans," he answered; but going down the carriageway he said to himself, with a smile: "Mother shows her hand too plainly. The girl is evidently young and pretty."

The plantation had never seemed so beautiful to him. The wild roses were in bloom; the fringe-trees and dogwood hung white along the riverbanks; the golden azaleas, nodding wake-robins, and muskadine flowers looked up at them from below, while the cotton spread its green tufts miles and miles away to a sunlit horizon.

Swinging along the road outside the park, the half-formed plan to visit the overseer left him, and purposeless he climbed the hill to Chestnut Ridge. Something in the occasion of his home-coming after a two years'

absence--his mother's reference to his marriage, his remembrances of Anne Lennox--had brought back to his face its habitual expression of sadness. And more than he would have acknowledged was a disquietude caused by his instant resentment of the existence of Dermott McDermott.

Never in his life had he felt more strongly the need for companionship.

He had been loved by many women. He had never been believed in by any.

Pa.s.sionate, proud, intolerant, full of prejudice, conscious by twenty-six years' experience of a most magnetic power with women, he came to the edge of the far wood as lawless a man, in as lawless a mood, as the Carolinas had ever seen--a locality where lawless men have not been wanting.

Suddenly, through the twilight, he heard a voice--a woman's voice--singing, and by instinct he knew that the singer was alone and conscious of nothing save the song.

At the top of the rise, under a group of beeches, with both arms stretched along a bar fence, a girl stood, the black of her hair in silhouette against the gold of the sky. He noted the slender grace of her body as she leaned backward, and listened to her voice, Heaven-given, vibrant, caressing--_juste_, as the French have it--singing an old song.

He had heard it hundreds of times cheapened by lack of temperament, lack of voice, lack of taste; but as he listened, though little versed in music, he knew that it was a great voice that sang it and a great personality which interpreted it. With the song still trembling through the silence the singer turned toward him, and, man of the world and many loves as he had been, an unknown feeling came at sight of her.

A flower of a girl--"of fire and dew," delicate features, nose tip-tilted, a chin firmly modelled under the rounded flesh, and eyes bright with the wonder and pride of life. She wore a short-waisted black frock, scant of skirt and cut away at the neck. It was in this same frock that the Sargent picture of her was painted--but that was years afterward; and although she was motionless, one knew from her slender figure and arched feet that she moved with fire and spirit. Her hair was very dark, though red showed through it in a strong light, and her cheeks had the dusky pink of an October peach. But it was the eyes that held and allowed no forgetting; Ravenel always held they were violet, and Josef, who saw her every day for years, spoke them gray; but Dermott McDermott was firm as to their being blue until the day she visited him about the railroad business, when he afterward described them "as black as chaos," adding a word or two about her deil's temper as well. The truth was that the color of them changed with her emotions, but the wistfulness of them remained ever the same. Dermott, in some lines he wrote of her in Paris, described them as "corn-flowers in a mist filled with the poetry and pa.s.sion of a great and misunderstood people," and though "over-poetic," as he himself said afterward, "the thought was none so bad."

Suddenly the languor seemed to leave her, and she stood alert, chin drawn in, hands clasped before her, and began the recitative to the "_Ah! Fors e lui_." Twice she stopped abruptly, taking a tone a second time, listening as she did so, her head, birdlike, on one side with a concentrated attention. After the last low note, which was round and low like an organ tone, she resumed her old position with arms outstretched upon the fence.

As Frank came up the path their eyes met, and he removed his hat, holding it at his side, as one who did not intend to resume it. Standing thus, he bore himself, if one might use the word of a man, with a certain sweetness, an entire seeming self-forgetfulness, as though the one to whom he spoke occupied his entire thought.