Darrell scarcely heeded the import of her words, so struck was he by the change in her face, which had suddenly grown wonderfully like her father's,—stern, impassive, unrelenting. She smiled, and the look vanished, and for the time he thought no more of it, but as the passing cloud sometimes reveals features in a landscape unnoticed in the sunlight, so it had disclosed a phase of character latent, unguessed even by those who knew her best.
Two hours later the last carriage had gone; the guests from out of town who were to remain at The Pines for the night had retired, and darkness and silence had gradually settled over the house. A light still burned in Mr. Underwood's private room, where he paced back and forth, his brows knit in deep thought, but his stern face lighted with a smile of intense satisfaction. Darrell, who had remained below to assist Mrs. Dean in the performance of a few last duties, having accompanied her in a final tour of the deserted rooms to make sure that all was safe, bade her good-night and went upstairs. To his surprise, Kate's library was still lighted, and through the open door he could see her at her desk writing.
She looked up on hearing his step, and, as he approached, rose and came to the door.
She had exchanged her evening gown for a daintyrobe de chambre of white cashmere and lace, and, standing there against the background of mellow light, her hair coiled low on her neck, while numerous intractable locks curled about her ears and temples, it was small wonder that Darrell's eyes bespoke his admiration and love, even if his lips did not.
"Writing at this time of night!" he exclaimed; "we supposed you asleep long ago."
"Sh! don't speak so loud," she protested. "You'll have Aunt Marcia up here! I have nearly finished my writing, so you needn't scold."
Glancing at the large journal lying open on her desk, Darrell asked, with a quizzical smile,—
"Couldn't that have been postponed for a few hours?"
"Not to-night," she replied, with emphasis; "ordinarily, you know, it could and would have been postponed, perhaps indefinitely, but not to-night!"
She glanced shyly into his eyes, and her own fell, as she added, in a lower tone,—
"To-night has memories so golden I want to preserve them before they have been dimmed by even one hour's sleep!"
Darrell's face grew marvellously tender; he drew her head down upon his breast while he caressed the rippling hair with its waves of light and shade.
"This night will always have golden memories for me, Kathie," he said, "and neither days nor years can ever dim their lustre; of that I am sure."
Kate raised her head, drawing herself slightly away from his embrace so that she could look him in the face.
"'Kathie!'" she repeated, softly; "that is the second time you have called me by that name to-night. I never heard it before; where did you get it?"
"Oh, it came to me," he said, smiling; "and somehow it seemed just the name for you; but I'll not call you so unless you like it."
"I do like it immensely," she replied; "I am tired of 'Kate' and 'Kittie' and Aunt Marcia's terrible 'Katherine;' I am glad you are original enough to call me by something different, but it sounds so odd; I wondered if there might have been a 'Kathie' in the past. But," she added, quickly, "I must not stay here. I just came out to say good-night to you."
"We had better say good-morning," Darrell laughed, as the clock in the hall below chimed one of the "wee, sma' hours;" "promise me that you will go to rest at once, won't you?"
"Very soon," she answered, smiling; then, a sudden impulsiveness conquering her reserve, she exclaimed, "Do you know, this has been the happiest night of my whole life. I hardly dare go to sleep for fear I will wake up and find it all a dream."
For answer Darrell folded her close to his breast, kissing her hair and brow with passionate tenderness; then suddenly, neither knew just how, their lips met in long, lingering, rapturous kisses.
"Will that make it seem more real, sweetheart?" he asked, in a low voice vibrating with emotion.
"Yes, oh yes!" she panted, half frightened by his fervor; "but let me go; please do!"
He released her, only retaining her hands for an instant, which he bent and kissed; then bidding her good-night, he hastened down the hall to his room.
At the door, however, he looked back and saw her still standing where he had left her. She wafted him a kiss on her finger-tips and disappeared. Going to her desk, she read with shining eyes and smiling lips the last lines written in her journal, then dipped herpen as though to write further, hesitated, and, closing the book, whispered,—
"That is too sacred to intrust even to you, you dear, old journal! I shall keep it locked in my own breast."
Then, locking her desk and turning off the light, she stole noiselessly to her room.
Chapter XVIThe Aftermath
As Darrell entered his room its dim solitude seemed doubly grateful after the glare of the crowded rooms he had lately left. His brain whirled from the unusual excitement. He wanted to be alone with his own thoughts—alone with this new, overpowering joy, and assure himself of its reality. He seated himself by an open window till the air had cooled his brow, and his brain, under the mysterious, soothing influence of the night, grew less confused; then, partially disrobing, he threw himself upon his bed to rest, but not to sleep.
Again he lived over the last few weeks at The Pines, comprehending at last the gracious influence which, entering into his barren, meagre life, had rendered it so inexpressibly rich and sweet and complete. Ah, how blind! to have walked day after day hand in hand with Love, not knowing that he entertained an angel unawares!
And then had followed the revelation, when the scales had fallen from his eyes before the vision of lovely maiden-womanhood which had suddenly confronted him. He recalled her as she stood awaiting his tardy recognition—recalled her every word and look throughout the evening down to their parting, and again he seemed to hold her in his arms, to look into her eyes, to feel her head upon his breast, her kisses on his lips.
But even with the remembrance of those moments, while yet he felt the pressure of her lips upon hisown, pure and cool like the dewy petals of a rose at sunrise, there came to him the first consciousness of pain mingled with the rapture, the first dash of bitter in the sweet, as he recalled the question in her eyes and the half-whispered, "I wondered if there might have been a 'Kathie' in the past."
The past! How could he for one moment have forgotten that awful shadow overhanging his life! As it suddenly loomed before him in its hideous blackness, Darrell started from his pillow in horror, a cold sweat bursting from every pore. Gradually the terrible significance of it all dawned upon him,—the realization of what he had done and of what he must, as best he might, undo. It meant the relinquishment of what was sweetest and holiest on earth just as it seemed within his grasp; the renunciation of all that had made life seem worth living! Darrell buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud. So it was only a mockery, a dream. He recalled Kate's words: "I hardly dare go to sleep for fear I will wake up and find it all a dream," and self-reproach and remorse added their bitterness to his agony. What right had he to bring that bright young life under the cloud overhanging his own, to wreck her happiness by contact with his own misfortune! What would it be for her when she came to know the truth, as she must know it; and how was he to tell her? In his anguish he groaned,—
"God pity us both and be merciful to her!"
For more than an hour he walked the room; then kneeling by the bed, just as a pale, silvery streak appeared along the eastern horizon, he cried,—
"O God, leave me not in darkness; give me some clew to the vanished past, that I may know whether or not I have the right to this most precious of all thine earthly gifts!"
And, burying his face, he strove as never before to pierce the darkness enveloping his brain. Long he knelt there, his hands clinching the bedclothes convulsively, even the muscles of his body tense and rigid under the terrible mental strain he was undergoing, while at times his powerful frame shook with agony.
The silvery radiance crept upward over the deep blue dome; the stars dwindled to glimmering points of light, then faded one by one; a roseate flush tinged the eastern sky, growing and deepening, and the first golden rays were shooting upward from a sea of crimson flame as Darrell rose from his knees. He walked to the window, but even the sunlight seemed to mock him—there was no light for him, no rift in the cloud darkening his path, and with a heavy sigh he turned away. The struggle was not yet over; this was to be a day of battle with himself, and he nerved himself for the coming ordeal.
After a cold bath he dressed and descended to the breakfast-room. It was still early, but Mr. Underwood was already at the table and Mrs. Dean entered a moment later from the kitchen, where she had been giving directions for breakfast for Kate and her guests. Both were shocked at Darrell's haggard face and heavy eyes, but by a forced cheerfulness he succeeded in diverting the scrutiny of the one and the anxious solicitude of the other. Mr. Underwood returned to his paper and his sister and Darrell had the conversation to themselves.
"Last night's dissipation proved too much for me," Darrell said, playfully, in reply to some protest of Mrs. Dean's regarding his light appetite.
"You don't look fit to go down town!" she exclaimed; "you had better stay at home and help Katherine entertain her guests. I noticed you seemed to be very popular with them last night."
"I'm afraid I would prove a sorry entertainer," Darrell answered, lightly, as he rose from the table, "so you will kindly excuse me to Miss Underwood and her friends."
"Aren't you going to wait and ride down?" Mr. Underwood inquired.
"Not this morning," Darrell replied; "a brisk walk will do me good." And a moment later they heard his firm step on the gravelled driveway.
Mr. Underwood having finished his reading of the morning paper passed it to his sister.
"Pretty good write-up of last night's affair," he commented, as he replaced his spectacles in their case.
"Is there? I'll look it up after breakfast; I haven't my glasses now," Mrs. Dean replied. "I thought myself that everything passed off pretty well. What did you think of Katherine last night, David?"
The lines about his mouth deepened as he answered, quietly,—
"She'll do, if she is my child. I didn't see any finer than she; and old Stockton's daughter, with all her father's millions, couldn't touch her!"
"I had no idea the child was so beautiful," Mrs. Dean continued; "she seemed to come out so unexpectedly some way, just like a flower unfolding. I never was so surprised in my life."
"I guess the little girl took a good many of 'em by surprise, judging by appearances," Mr. Underwood remarked, a shrewd smile lighting his stern features.
"Yes, she received a great deal of attention," rejoined his sister. "I suppose," she added thoughtfully, "she'll have lots of admirers 'round here now."
"No, she won't," Mr. Underwood retorted, with decision, at the sametime pushing back his chair and rising hastily; "I'll see to it that she doesn't. If the right man steps up and means business, all right; but I'll have no hangers-on or fortune-hunters dawdling about!"
His sister watched him curiously with a faint smile. "You had better advertise for the kind of man you want," she said, dryly, "and state that 'none others need apply,' as a warning to applicants whom you might consider undesirable."
Mr. Underwood turned quickly. "What are you driving at?" he demanded, impatiently. "I've no time for beating about the bush."
"And I've no time for explanations," she replied, with exasperating calmness; "you can think it over at your leisure."
With a contemptuous "Humph!" Mr. Underwood left the house. After he had gone his sister sat for a while in deep thought, then, with a sigh, rose and went about her accustomed duties. She had been far more keen than her brother to observe the growing intimacy between her niece and Darrell, and she had seen some indications on the previous evening which troubled her, as much on Darrell's account as Kate's, for she had become deeply attached to the young man, and she well knew that her brother would not look upon him with favor as a suitor for his daughter.
Meanwhile, Darrell, on reaching the office, found work and study alike impossible. The room seemed narrow and stifling; the medley of sound from the adjoining offices and from the street was distracting. He recalled the companions of his earlier days of pain and conflict,—the mountains,—and his heart yearned for their restful silence, for the soothing and uplifting of their solemn presence.
Having left a brief note on Mr. Underwood's desk he closed his office, and, leaving the city behind him, started on foot up the familiar canyon road. After a walk of an hour or more he left the road, and, striking into a steep, narrow trail, began the ascent of one of the mountains of the main range. It still lacked a little of midday when he at last found himself on a narrow bench, near the summit, in a small growth of pines and firs. He stopped from sheer exhaustion and looked about him. Not a sign of human life was visible; not a sound broke the stillness save an occasional breath of air murmuring through the pines and the trickling of a tiny rivulet over the rocks just above where he stood. Going to the little stream he caught the crystal drops as they fell, quenching his thirst and bathing his heated brow; then, somewhat refreshed, he braced himself for the inevitable conflict.
Slowly he paced up and down the rocky ledge, giving no heed to the passage of time, all his faculties centred upon the struggle between the inexorable demands of conscience on the one hand and the insatiate cravings of a newly awakened passion on the other. Vainly he strove to find some middle ground. Gradually, as his brain grew calm, the various courses of action which had at first suggested themselves to his mind appeared weak and cowardly, and the only course open to him was that of renunciation and of self-immolation.
With a bitter cry he threw himself, face downward, upon the ground. A long time he lay there, till at last the peace from the great pitying heart of Nature touched his heart, and he slept on the warm bosom of Mother Earth as a child on its mother's breast.
The sun was sinking towards the western ranges and slowly lengthening shadows were creeping athwart the distant valleys when Darrell rose to his feet and,after silently drinking in the beauty of the scene about him, prepared to descend. His face bore traces of the recent struggle, but it was the face of one who had conquered, whose mastery of himself was beyond all doubt or question. He took the homeward trail with firm step, with head erect, with face set and determined, and there was in his bearing that which indicated that there would be no wavering, no swerving from his purpose. His own hand had closed and bolted the gates of the Eden whose sweets he had but just tasted, and his conscience held the flaming sword which was henceforth to guard those portals.
A little later, as Darrell in the early twilight passed up the driveway to The Pines, he was conscious only of a dull, leaden weight within his breast; his very senses seemed benumbed and he almost believed himself incapable of further suffering, till, as he approached the house, the sight of Kate seated in the veranda with her father and aunt and the thought of the suffering yet in store for her thrilled him anew with most poignant pain.
His face was in the shadow as he came up the steps, and only Kate, seated near him, saw its pallor. She started and would have uttered an exclamation, but something in its expression awed and restrained her. There was a grave tenderness in his eyes as they met hers, but the light and joy which had been there when last she looked into them had gone out and in their place were dark gloom and despair. She heard as in a dream his answers to the inquiries of her father and aunt; heard him pass into the house accompanied by her aunt, who had prepared a substantial lunch against his return, and, with a strange sinking at her heart, sat silently awaiting his coming out.
It had been a trying day for her. On waking, herhappiness had seemed complete, but Darrell's absence on that morning of all mornings had seemed to her inexplicable, and when her guests had taken their departure and the long day wore on without his return and with no message from him, an indefinable dread haunted her. She had watched eagerly for Darrell's return, believing that one look into his face would banish her forebodings, but, instead, she had read there only a confirmation of her fears. And now she waited in suspense, longing, yet dreading to hear his step.
At last he came, and, as he faced the light, Kate was shocked at the change which so few hours had wrought. He, too, was touched by the piteous appeal in her eyes, and there was a rare tenderness in voice and smile as he suggested a stroll through the grounds according to their custom, which somewhat reassured her.
Perhaps Mr. Underwood and his sister had observed the old shadow of gloom in Darrell's face, and surmised something of its cause, for their eyes followed the young people in their walk up and down under the pines and a softened look stole into their usually impassive faces. At last, as they passed out of sight on one of the mountain terraces, Mrs. Dean said, with slight hesitation,—
"Did it ever occur to you, David, that Katherine and Mr. Darrell are thrown in each other's society a great deal?"
Mr. Underwood shot a keen glance at his sister from under his heavy brows, as he replied,—
"Come to think of it, I suppose they are, though I can't say as I've ever given the matter much thought."
"Perhaps it's time you did think about it."
"Come, Marcia," said her brother, good-humoredly,"come to the point; are you, woman-like, scenting a love-affair in that direction?"
Mrs. Dean found herself unexpectedly cornered. "I don't say that there is, but I don't know what else you could expect of two young folks like them, thrown together constantly as they are."
"Well," said Mr. Underwood, with an air of comic perplexity, "do you want me to send Darrell adrift, or shall I pack Puss off to a convent?"
"Now, David, I'm serious," his sister remonstrated, mildly. "Of course, I don't know that anything will come of it; but if you don't want that anything should, I think it's your duty, for Katherine's sake and Mr. Darrell's also, to prevent it. I think too much of them both to see any trouble come to either of them."
Mr. Underwood puffed at his pipe in silence, while the gleaming needles in his sister's fingers clicked with monotonous regularity. When he spoke his tones lacked their usual brusqueness and had an element almost of gentleness.
"Was this what was in your mind this morning, Marcia?"
"Well, maybe so," his sister assented.
"I don't think, Marcia, that I need any one to tell me my duty, especially regarding my child. I have my own plans for her future, and I will allow nothing to interfere with them. And as for John Darrell, he has the good, sterling sense to know that anything more than friendship between him and Kate is not to be thought of for a moment, and I can trust to his honor as a gentleman that he will not go beyond it. So I rather think your anxieties are groundless."
"Perhaps so," his sister answered, doubtfully, "but young folks are not generally governed much by common sense in things of this kind; and then you know,David, Katherine is different from us,—she grows more and more like her mother,—and if she once got her heart set on any one, I don't think anybody—even you—could make her change."
The muscles of Mr. Underwood's face suddenly contracted as though by acute pain.
"That will do, Marcia," he said, gravely, with a silencing wave of his hand; "there is no need to call up the past. I know Kate is like her mother, but she has my blood in her veins also,—enough that when the time comes she'll not let any childish sentimentality stand in the way of what I think is for her good."
Mrs. Dean silently folded her knitting and rose to go into the house. At the door, however, she paused, and, looking back at her brother, said, in her low, even tones,—
"I have said my last word of this affair, David, no matter what comes of it. You think you understand Katherine better than I, but you may find some day that it's better to prevent trouble than to try to cure it."
Meanwhile, Darrell and Kate had reached their favorite seat beneath the pines and, after one or two futile attempts at talking, had lapsed into a constrained silence. To Kate there came a sudden realization that the merely friendly relations heretofore existing between them had been swept away; that henceforth she must either give the man at her side the concentrated affection of her whole being or, should he prove unworthy,—she glanced at his haggard face and could not complete the supposition even to herself. He was troubled, and her tender heart longed to comfort him, but his strange appearance held her back. At one word, one sign of love from him, she would have thrown herself upon his breast and begged to share his burden in true woman fashion; but he was so cold,so distant; he did not even take her hand as in the careless, happy days before either of them thought of love.
Kate could endure the silence no longer, and ventured some timid word of loving sympathy.
Darrell turned, facing her, his dark eyes strangely hollow and sunken.
"Yes," he said, in a low voice, "God knows I have suffered since I saw you, but I deserve to suffer for having so far forgotten myself last night. That is not what is troubling me now; it is the thought of the sorrow and wretchedness I have brought into your pure, innocent life,—that you must suffer for my folly, my wrong-doing."
"But," interposed Kate, "I don't understand; what wrong have you done?"
"Kathie," he answered, brokenly, "it was all a mistake—a terrible mistake of mine! Can you forgive me? Can you forget? God grant you can!"
"Forgive! Forget!" she exclaimed, in bewildered tones; "a mistake?" her voice faltered and she paused, her face growing deathly pale.
"I cannot think," he continued, "how I came to so forget myself, the circumstances under which I am here, the kindness you and your people have shown me, and the trust they have reposed in me. I must have been beside myself. But I have no excuse to offer; I can only ask your forgiveness, and that I may, so far as possible, undo what has been done."
While he was speaking she had drawn away from him, and, sitting proudly erect, she scanned his face in the waning light as though to read there the full significance of his meaning. Her cheeks blanched at his last words, but there was no tremor in her tones as she replied,—
"I understand you to refer to what occurred last night; is that what you wish undone—what you would have me forget?"
"I would give worlds if only it might be undone," he answered, "but that is an impossibility. Oh Kathie, I know how monstrous, how cruel this must seem to you, but it is the only honorable course left me after my stupidity, my cursed folly; and, believe me, it is far more of a kindness even to you to stop this wretched business right here than to carry it farther."
"It is not necessary to consider my feelings in the matter, Mr. Darrell. If, as you say, you found yourself mistaken, to attempt after that to carry on what could only be a mere farce would be simply unpardonable. A mistake I could forgive; a deliberate deception, never!"
The tones, so unlike Kate's, caused Darrell to turn in pained surprise. The deepening shadows hid the white, drawn face and quivering lips; he saw only the motionless, slender figure held so rigidly erect.
"But, Kathie—Miss Underwood—you must have misunderstood me," he said, earnestly. "I have acted foolishly, but in no way falsely. You could not, under any circumstances, accuse me of deception——"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Darrell," she interposed, more gently; "I did not intend to accuse you of deception. I only meant that, regardless of any personal feeling, it was, as you said, better to stop this; that to carry it farther after you had found you did not care for me as you supposed—or as I was led to suppose——" She paused an instant, uncertain how to proceed.
"Kathie, Kathie! what are you saying?" Darrell exclaimed. "What have I said that you should so misunderstand me?"
"But," she protested, piteously, struggling to control her voice, "did you not say that it was all a mistake on your part—that you wished it all undone? What else could I understand?"
"My poor child!" said Darrell, tenderly; then reaching over and possessing himself of one of her hands, he continued, gravely:
"The mistake was mine in that I ever allowed myself to think of loving you when love is not for me. I have no right, Kathie, to love you, or any other woman, as I am now. I did not know until last night that I did love you. Then it came upon me like a revelation,—a revelation so overwhelming that it swept all else before it. You, and you alone, filled my thoughts. Wherever I was, I saw you, heard you, and you only. Again and again in imagination I clasped you to my breast, I felt your kisses on my lips,—just as I afterwards felt them in reality."
He paused a moment and dropped the hand he had taken. Under cover of the shadows Kate's tears were falling unchecked; one, falling on Darrell's hand, had warned him that there must be no weakening, no softening.
His voice was almost stern as he resumed. "For those few hours I forgot that I was a being apart from the rest of the world, exiled to darkness and oblivion; forgot the obligations to myself and to others which my own condition imposes upon me. But the dream passed; I awoke to a realization of what I had done, and whatever I have suffered since is but the just penalty of my folly. The worst of all is that I have involved you in needless suffering; I have won your love only to have to put it aside—to renounce it. But even this is better—far better than to allow your young life to come one step farther within the cloudsthat envelop my own. Do you understand me now, Kathie?"
"Yes," she replied, calmly; "I understand it from your view, as it looks to you."
"But is not that the only view?"
She did not speak at once, and when she did it was with a peculiar deliberation.
"The clouds will lift one day; what then?"
Darrell's voice trembled with emotion as he replied, "We cannot trust to that, for neither you nor I know what the light will reveal."
She remained silent, and Darrell, after a pause, continued: "Don't make it harder for me, Kathie; there is but one course for us to follow in honor to ourselves or to each other."
They sat in silence for a few moments; then both rose simultaneously to return to the house, and as they did so Darrell was conscious of a new bearing in Kate's manner,—an added dignity and womanliness. As they faced one another Darrell took both her hands in his, saying,—
"What is it to be, Kathie? Can we return to the old friendship?"
She stood for a moment with averted face, watching the stars brightening one by one in the evening sky.
"No," she said, presently, "we can never return to that now; it would seem too bare, too meagre. There will always be something deeper and sweeter than mere friendship between us,—unless you fail me, and I know you will not."
"And do you forgive me?" he asked.
She turned then, looking him full in the eyes, and her own seemed to have caught the radiance of the stars themselves, as she answered, simply,—
"No, John Darrell, for there is nothing to forgive."
Chapter XVII"She knows her Father's Will is Law"
Though the succeeding days and weeks dragged wearily for Darrell, he applied himself anew to work and study, and only the lurking shadows within his eyes, the deepening lines on his face, the fast multiplying gleams of silver in his dark hair, gave evidence of his suffering.
And if to Kate the summer seemed suddenly to have lost its glory and music, if she found the round of social pleasures on which she had just entered grown strangely insipid, if it sometimes seemed to her that she had quaffed all the richness and sweetness of life on that wondrous first night till only the dregs remained, she gave no sign. With her sunny smile and lightsome ways she reigned supreme, both in society and in the home, and none but her aunt and Darrell missed the old-time rippling laughter or noted the deepening wistfulness and seriousness of the fair young face.
Her father watched her with growing pride, and with a visible satisfaction which told of carefully laid plans known only to himself, whose consummation he deemed not far distant.
Acting on the suggestion of his sister, he had been closely observant of both Kate and Darrell, but any conclusions which he formed he kept to himself and went his way apparently well satisfied.
At the close of an unusually busy day late in thesummer Darrell was seated alone in his office, reviewing his life in the West and vaguely wondering what would yet be the outcome of it all, when Mr. Underwood entered from the adjoining room. Exultation and elation were patent in his very step, but Darrell, lost in thought, was hardly conscious even of his presence.
"Well, my boy, what are you mooning over?" Mr. Underwood asked, good-naturedly, noting Darrell's abstraction.
"Only trying to find a solution for problems as yet insoluble," Darrell answered, with a smile that ended in a sigh.
"Stick to the practical side of life, boy, and let the problems solve themselves."
"A very good rule to follow, provided the problems would solve themselves," commented Darrell.
"Those things generally work themselves out after a while," said Mr. Underwood, walking up and down the room. "I say, don't meddle with what you can't understand; take what you can understand and make a practical application of it. That's always been my motto, and if people would stick to that principle in commercial life, in religion, and everything else, there'd be fewer failures in business, less wrangling in the churches, and more good accomplished generally."
"I guess you are about right there," Darrell admitted.
"Been pretty busy to-day, haven't you?" Mr. Underwood asked, abruptly, after a short pause.
"Yes, uncommonly so; work is increasing of late."
"That's good. Well, it has been a busy day with us; rather an eventful one, in fact; one which Walcott and I will remember with pleasure, I trust, for a good many years to come."
"How is that?" Darrell inquired, wondering at the pleasurable excitement in the elder man's tones.
"We made a little change in the partnership to-day: Walcott is now an equal partner with myself."
Darrell remained silent from sheer astonishment. Mr. Underwood evidently considered his silence an indication of disapproval, for he continued:
"I know you don't like the man, Darrell, so there's no use of arguing that side of the question, but I tell you he has proved himself invaluable to me. You might not think it, but it's a fact that the business in this office has increased fifty per cent. since he came into it. He is thoroughly capable, responsible, honest,—just the sort of man that I can intrust the business to as I grow older and know that it will be carried on as well as though I was at the helm myself."
"Still, a half-interest seems pretty large for a man with no more capital in the business than he has," said Darrell, determined to make no personal reference to Walcott.
"He has put in fifty thousand additional since he came in," Mr. Underwood replied.
Darrell whistled softly.
"Oh, he has money all right; I'm satisfied of that. I'm satisfied that he could have furnished the money to begin with, only he was lying low."
"Well, he certainly has nothing to complain of; you've done more than well by him."
"No better proportionately than I would have done by you, my boy, if you had come in with me last spring when I asked you to. I had this thing in view then, and had made up my mind you'd make the right man for the place, but you wouldn't hear to it."
"That's all right, Mr. Underwood," said Darrell; "I appreciate your kind intentions just the same, butI am more than ever satisfied that I wouldn't have been the right man for the place."
Both men were silent for some little time, but neither showed any inclination to terminate the interview. Mr. Underwood was still pacing back and forth, while Darrell had risen and was standing by the window, looking out absently into the street.
"That isn't all of it, and I may as well tell you the rest," said Mr. Underwood, suddenly pausing near Darrell, his manner much like a school-boy who has a confession to make and hardly knows how to begin. "Mr. Walcott to-day asked me—asked my permission to pay his addresses to my daughter—my little girl," he added, under his breath, and there was a strange note of tenderness in the usually brusque voice.
If ever Darrell was thankful, it was that he could at that moment look the father squarely in the face. He turned, facing Mr. Underwood, his dark eyes fairly blazing.
"And you gave your permission?" he asked, slowly, with terrible emphasis on each word.
"Most assuredly," Mr. Underwood retorted, quickly, stung to self-defence by Darrell's look and tone. "I may add that I have had this thing in mind for some time—have felt that it was coming; in fact, this new partnership arrangement was made with a view to facilitate matters, and he was enough of a gentleman to come forward at once with his proposition."
Darrell gazed out of the window again with unseeing eyes. "Mr. Underwood," he said, in a low tone, "I would never have believed it possible that your infatuation for that man would have led to this."
"There is no infatuation about it," the elder man replied, hotly; "it is a matter of good, sound judgmentand business calculation. I know of no man among our townspeople, or even in the State, to whom I would give my daughter as soon as I would to Walcott. There are others who may have larger means now, but they haven't got his business ability. With what I can give Puss, what he has now, and what he will make within the next few years, she will have a home and position equal to the best."
"Is that all you think of, Mr. Underwood?"
"Not all, by any means; but it's a mighty important consideration, just the same. But the man is all right morally; you, with all your prejudice against him, can't lay your finger on one flaw in his character."
"Mr. Underwood," said Darrell, slowly, "I have studied that man, I have heard him talk. He has no conception of life beyond the sensual, the animal; he is a brute, a beast, in thought and act. He is no more fit to marry your daughter, or even to associate with her, than——"
"Young man," interrupted Mr. Underwood, laughing good-humoredly, "I have only one thing against you: you are not exactly practical. You are, like my friend Britton, inclined to rather high ideals. We don't generally find men built according to those ideals, and we have to take 'em as we find 'em."
"But you will, of course, allow your daughter to act according to her own judgment? You surely would not force her into any marriage distasteful to her?" Darrell asked, remembering Kate's aversion for Walcott.
"A young girl's judgment in those matters is not often to be relied upon. Kate knows that I consider only her best interests, and I think her judgment could be brought to coincide with my own. At any rate, she knows her father's will is law."
As Darrell, convinced that argument would be useless, made no reply, Mr. Underwood added, after a pause,—
"I know I can trust to your honor that you will not influence her against Walcott?"
"I shall not, of course, attempt to influence her one way or the other. I have no right; but if I had the right,—if she were my sister,—that man should never so much as touch the hem of her garment!"
"My boy," said Mr. Underwood, rather brusquely, extending one hand and laying the other on Darrell's shoulder, "I understand, and you're all right. We all consider you one of ourselves, and," he added, somewhat awkwardly, "you understand, if conditions were not just as they are——"
"But conditions are just as they are," Darrell interposed, quickly, "so there is no use discussing what might be were they different."
The bitterness in his tones struck a chord of sympathy within the heart of the man beside him, but he knew not how to express it, and it is doubtful whether he would have voiced it had he known how. The two clasped hands silently; then, without a word, the elder man left the room.
Not until now had Darrell realized how strong had been the hope within his breast that some crisis in his condition might yet reveal enough to make possible the fulfilment of his love. The pleasant relations between himself and Kate in many respects still remained practically unchanged. True, his sense of honor forbade any return to the tender familiarities of the past, but there yet existed between them a tacit, unspoken comradeship, beneath which flowed, deeply and silently, the undercurrent of love, not to be easily diverted or turned aside. But this he now felt would soon be changed, while all hope for the future must be abandoned.
With a heavy heart Darrell awaited developments. He soon noted a marked increase in the frequency of Walcott's calls at The Pines, and, not caring to embarrass Kate by his presence, he absented himself from the house as often as possible on those occasions.
Walcott himself must have been very soon aware that in his courtship Mr. Underwood was his sole partisan, but he bore himself with a confidence and assurance which would brook no thought of defeat. Mrs. Dean, knowing her brother as she did, was quick to understand the situation, and silently showed her disapproval; but Walcott politely ignored her disfavor as not worth his consideration.
At first, Kate, considering him her father's guest, received him with the same frank, winning courtesy which she extended to others, and he, quick to make the most of every opportunity, exerted himself to the utmost in his efforts to entertain his young hostess and her friends. To a certain extent he succeeded, in that Kate was compelled to admit to herself that he could be far more agreeable than she had ever supposed. He had travelled extensively and was possessed of good descriptive powers; his voice was low and musical, and his eyes, limpid and tender whenever he fixed them upon her face, held her glance by some irresistible, magnetic force, and invariably brought the deepening color to her cheeks.
With the first inkling, however, of the nature of his visits, all her old abhorrence of him returned with increased intensity, but her ill-concealed aversion only furnished him with a new incentive and spurred him to redouble his attentions.
The only opposition encountered by him that appeared in the least to disturb his equanimity, was that of Duke, which was on all occasions most forcibly expressed, the latter never failing to greet him with a low growl, meeting all overtures of friendship with an ominous gleam in his intelligent eyes and a display of ivory that made Mr. Walcott only too willing to desist.
"Really, Miss Underwood," Walcott remarked one evening when Duke had been more than usually demonstrative, "your pet's attentions to me are sometimes a trifle distracting. Could you not occasionally bestow the pleasure of his society upon some one else—Mr. Darrell, for instance? I imagine the two might prove quite congenial to each other."
"Please remember, Mr. Walcott, you are speaking of a friend of mine," Kate replied, coldly.
"Mr. Darrell? I beg pardon, I meant no offence; but since he and Duke seem to share the same unaccountable antipathy towards myself, I naturally thought there would be a bond of sympathy between them."
Kate had been playing, and was still seated at the piano, idly waiting for Walcott, who was turning the pages of a new music-book, to make another selection. She now rose rather wearily, and, leaving the piano, joined her father and aunt upon the veranda outside.
Walcott pushed the music from him, and, taking Kate's mandolin from off the piano, followed. Throwing himself down upon the steps at Kate's feet in an attitude of genuine Spanish abandon and grace, he said, lightly,—
"Since you will not favor us further, I will see what I can do."
He possessed little technical knowledge of music, but had quite a repertoire of songs picked up in his travelsin various countries, to which he could accompany himself upon the guitar or mandolin.
He strummed the strings carelessly for a moment, then, in a low voice, began a Spanish love-song. There was no need of an interpreter to make known to Kate the meaning of the song. The low, sweet cadences were full of tender pleading, every note was tremulous with passion, while the dark eyes holding her own seemed burning into her very soul.
But the spell of the music worked far differently from Walcott's hopes or anticipations. Even while angry at herself for listening, Kate could scarcely restrain the tears, for the tender love-strains brought back so vividly the memory of those hours—so brief and fleeting—in which she had known the pure, unalloyed joy of love, that her heart seemed near bursting. As the last lingering notes died away, the pain was more than she could endure, and, pleading a slight headache, she excused herself and went to her room. Throwing herself upon the bed, she gave way to her feelings, sobbing bitterly as she recalled the sudden, hopeless ending of the most perfect happiness her young life had ever known. Gradually the violence of her grief subsided and she grew more calm, but a dull pain was at her heart, for though unwilling to admit it even to herself, she was hurt at Darrell's absence on the occasions of Walcott's visits.
"Why does he leave me when he knows I can't endure the sight of that man?" she soliloquized, sorrowfully. "If he would stay by me the creature would not dare make love to me. Oh, if we could only just be lovers until all this dreadful uncertainty is past! I'm sure it would come out all right, and I would gladly wait years for him, if only he would let me!"
As she sat alone in her misery she heard Walcotttake his departure. A little later Darrell returned and went to his room, and soon after she heard her aunt's step in the hall, followed by a quiet knock at her door.
"Come in, auntie," she called, wondering what her errand might be.
"Have you gone to bed, Katherine, or are you up?" Mrs. Dean inquired, for the room was dark.
"I'm up; why, auntie?"
"Your father said to tell you he wanted to see you, if you had not retired."
Mrs. Dean stopped a moment to inquire for Kate's headache, and as she left the room Kate heard her sigh heavily.
A happy thought occurred to Kate as she ran downstairs,—she would have her father put a stop to Walcott's attentions; if he knew how they annoyed her he would certainly do it. She entered the room where he waited with her sunniest smile, for the stern, gruff-voiced man was the idol of her heart and she believed implicitly in his love for her, even though it seldom found expression in words.
But her smile faded before the displeasure in her father's face. He scrutinized her keenly from under his heavy brows, but if he noted the traces of tears upon her face, he made no comment.
"I did not suppose, Kate," he said, slowly, for he could not bring himself to speak harshly to her,—"I did not suppose that a child of mine would treat any guest of this house as rudely as you treated Mr. Walcott to-night. I sent for you for an explanation."
"I did not mean to be rude, papa," Kate replied, seating herself on her father's knee and laying one arm caressingly about his neck, "but he did annoy me so to-night,—he has annoyed me so often of late,—I just couldn't endure it any longer."
"Has Mr. Walcott ever conducted himself other than as a gentleman?"
"Why, no, papa, he is gentlemanly enough, so far as that is concerned."
"I thought so," her father interposed; "I should say that he had laid himself out to entertain you and your friends and to make it pleasant for all of us whenever he has been here. It strikes me that his manners are very far from annoying; that he is a gentleman in every sense of the word; he certainly carried himself like one to-night in the face of the treatment you gave him."
"Well, I'm sorry if I was rude. I have no objection to him as a gentleman or as an acquaintance, if he would not go beyond that; but I detest his attentions and his love-making, and he will not stop even when he sees that it annoys me."
"No one has a better right to pay his attentions to you, for he has asked and received my permission to do so."
Kate drew herself upright and gazed at her father with eyes full of horror.
"You gave him permission to pay attention to me!" she exclaimed, slowly, as though scarcely comprehending his meaning; then, springing to her feet and drawing herself to her full height, she demanded,—
"Do you mean, papa, that you intend me to marry him?"
For an instant Mr. Underwood felt ill at ease; Kate's face was white and her eyes had the look of a creature brought to bay, that sees no escape from the death confronting it, for even in that brief time Kate, knowing her father's indomitable will, realized with a sense of despair the hopelessness of her situation.
"I suppose your marriage will be the outcome,—atleast, I hope so," her father replied, quickly recovering his composure, "for I certainly know of no one to whom I would so willingly intrust your future happiness. Listen to me, Kate: have I not always planned and worked for your best interests?"
"You always have, papa."
"Have I not always chosen what was for your good and for your happiness?"
Kate gave a silent assent.
"Very well; then I think you can trust to my judgment in this case."
"But, papa," she protested, "this is different. I never can love that man; I abhor him—loathe him! Do you think there can be any happiness or good in a marriage without love? Would you and mamma have been happy together if you had not loved each other?"
No sooner had she spoken the words than she regretted them as she noted the look of pain that crossed her father's face. In his silent, undemonstrative way he had idolized his wife, and it was seldom that he would allow any allusion to her in his presence.
"I don't know why you should call up the past," he said, after a pause, "but since you have I will tell you that your mother when a girl like yourself objected to our marriage; she thought that we were unsuited to each other and that we could never live happily together. She listened, however, to the advice of those older and wiser than she, and you know the result." The strong man's voice trembled slightly. "I think our married life was a happy one. It was for me, I know; I hope it was for her."
A long silence followed. To Kate there came the memory of the frail, young mother lying, day after day, upon her couch in the solitude of her sick-room, often weeping silently, while she, a mere child, kneltsadly and wistfully beside her, as silently wiping the tear-drops as they fell and wondering at their cause. She understood now, but not for worlds would she have spoken one word to pain her father's heart.
At last Mr. Underwood said, rising as though to end the interview, "I think I can depend upon you now, Kate, to carry out my wishes in this matter."
Kate rose proudly. "I have never disobeyed you, papa; I will treat Mr. Walcott courteously; but even though you force me to marry him I will never, never love him, and I shall tell him so."
Her father smiled. "Mr. Walcott, I think, has too much good sense to attach much weight to any girlish whims; that will pass, you will think differently by and by."
As she stopped for her usual good-night kiss she threw her arms about her father's neck, and, looking appealingly into his face, said,—
"Papa, it need not be very soon, need it? You are not in a hurry to be rid of your little girl?"
"Don't talk foolishly, child," he answered, hastily; "you know I've no wish to be rid of you, but I do want to see you settled in a home of your own—equal to the best, and, as I said a while ago, and told Mr. Darrell in talking the matter over with him, I know of no one in whose hands I would so willingly place you and your happiness as Mr. Walcott's. As for the date and other matters of that sort," he added, playfully pinching her cheeks, "I suppose those will all be mutually arranged between the gentleman and yourself."
Kate had started back slightly. "You have talked this over with Mr. Darrell?" she exclaimed.
"Yes, why not?"
"What did he think of it?"
"Well," said her father, slowly, "naturally he didnot quite fall in with my views, for I think he is not just what you could call a disinterested party. I more than half suspect that Mr. Darrell would like to step into Mr. Walcott's place himself, if he were only eligible, but knowing that he is not, he is too much of a gentleman to commit himself in any way."
Mr. Underwood scanned his daughter's face keenly as he spoke, but it was as impassive as his own. To Kate, Darrell's absences of late were now explained; he understood it all. She kissed her father silently.
"You know, Puss, I am looking out for your best interests in all of this," said her father, a little troubled by her silence.
"I know that is your intention, papa," she replied, with gentle gravity, and left the room.