Chapter XVIII"On the "Divide"
Summer had merged into autumn. Crisp, exhilarating mornings ushered in glorious days flooded with sunshine, followed by sparkling, frosty nights.
The strike at the mining camp had been adjusted; the union boarding-house after two months was found a failure and abandoned, and the strikers gradually returned to their work. Mr. Underwood, during the shut-down, had improved the time to enlarge the mill and add considerable new machinery; this work was now nearly completed; in two weeks the mill would again be running, and he offered Darrell his old position as assayer in charge, which the latter, somewhat to Mr. Underwood's surprise, accepted.
Although his city business was now quite well established, Darrell felt that life at The Pines was becoming unendurable. Walcott's visits were now so frequent it was impossible longer to avoid him. The latter's air of easy self-assurance, the terms of endearment which fell so flippantly from his lips, and his bold, passionate glances which never failed to bring the rich, warm blood to Kate's cheeks and brow, all to one possessing Darrell's fine chivalric nature and his delicacy of feeling were intolerable. In addition, the growing indications of Kate's unhappiness, the silent appeal in her eyes, the pathetic curves forming about her mouth, and the touch of pathos in the voice whose every tone was music to his ear, seemed at times more than he could bear.
There were hours—silent, brooding hours of the night—when he was sorely tempted to defy past and future alike, and, despite the conditions surrounding himself, to rescue her from a life which could have in store for her nothing but bitterness and sorrow. But with the dawn his better judgment returned; conscience, inexorable as ever, still held sway; he kept his own counsel as in duty bound, going his way with a heart that grew heavier day by day, and was hence glad of an opportunity to return once more to the seclusion of the mountains.
Kate, realizing that all further appeal to her father was useless, as a last resort trusted to Walcott's sense of honor, that, when he should fully understand her feelings towards himself, he would discontinue his attentions. But in this she found herself mistaken. Taking advantage of the courtesy which she extended to him in accordance with the promise given her father, he pressed his suit more ardently than ever.
"Why do you persist in annoying me in this manner?" she demanded one day, indignantly withdrawing from his attempted caresses. "The fact that my father has given you his permission to pay attention to me does not warrant any such familiarity on your part."
"Perhaps not," Walcott replied, in his low, musical tones, "but stolen waters are often sweetest. If I have offended, pardon. I supposed my love for you would justify me in offering any expression of it, but since you say I have no right to do so, I beg of you, my dear Miss Underwood, to give me that right."
"That is impossible," Kate answered, firmly.
"Why impossible?" he asked.
"Because I will not accept any expressions of a love that I cannot reciprocate."
"Love begets love," he argued, softly; "so long as you keep me at arm's length you have no means of knowing whether or not you could reciprocate my affection. Mr. Underwood has done me the great honor to consent to bestow his daughter's hand upon me, and I have no doubt of yet winning the consent of the lady herself if she will but give me a fair chance."
"Mr. Walcott," said Kate, her eyes ablaze with indignation, "would you make a woman your wife who did not love you—who never could, under any circumstances, love you?"
Walcott suddenly seized her hands in his, looking down into her eyes with his steady, dominant gaze.
"If I loved her as I love you," he said, slowly, "I would make her my wife though she hated me,—and win her love afterwards! I can win it, and I will!"
"Never!" Kate exclaimed, passionately, but he had kissed her hands and was gone before she could recover herself.
In that look she had for the first time comprehended something of the man's real nature, of the powerful brute force concealed beneath the smooth, smiling exterior. Her heart seemed seized and held in a vise-like grip, while a cold, benumbing despair settled upon her like an incubus, which she was unable to throw off for days.
It lacked only two days of the time set for Darrell's return to the mining camp when he and Kate set out one afternoon accompanied by Duke for a ride up the familiar canyon road. At first their ponies cantered briskly, but as the road grew more rough and steep they were finally content to walk quietly side by side.
For a while neither Darrell nor Kate had much to say. Their hearts were too oppressed for words.Each realized that this little jaunt into the mountains was their last together; that it constituted a sort of farewell to their happy life of the past summer and to each other. Each was thinking of their first meeting under the pines on that evening gorgeous with the sunset rays and sweet with the breath of June roses.
At last they turned into a trail which soon grew so steep and narrow that they dismounted, and, fastening their ponies, proceeded up the trail on foot. Slowly they wended their way upward, pausing at length on a broad, projecting ledge a little below the summit, where they seated themselves on the rocks to rest a while. Kate's eyes wandered afar over the wonderful scene before them, wrapped in unbroken silence, yet palpitating in the mellow, golden sunlight with a mysterious life and beauty all its own.
But Darrell was for once oblivious to the scene; his eyes were fastened on Kate's face, a look in them of insatiable hunger, as though he were storing up the memory of every line and lineament against the barren days to come. He wondered if the silent, calm-faced, self-contained woman beside him could be the laughing, joyous maiden whom he had seen flitting among the trees and fountains at their first meeting little more than three months past. He recalled how he had then thought her unlike either her father or her aunt, and believed her to be wholly without their self-restraint and self-repression. Now he saw that the same stoical blood was in her veins. Already the sensitive, mobile face, which had mirrored every emotion of the impulsive, sympathetic soul within, bore something of the impassive calm of the rocks surrounding them; it might have been chiselled in marble, so devoid was it at that moment of any trace of feeling.
A faint sigh seemed to break the spell, and she turned facing him with her old-time sunny smile.
"What a regal day!" she exclaimed.
"It is," he replied; "it was on such a day as this, about a year ago, that I first met Mr. Britton. He called it, I remember, one of the 'coronation days' of the year. I have been reminded of the phrase and of him all day."
"Dear Mr. Britton," said Kate, "I have not seen him for more than two years. He has always been like a second father to me; he used to have me call him 'papa' when I was little, and I've always loved him next to papa. You and he correspond, do you not?"
"Yes; he writes rather irregularly, but his letters are precious to me. He was the first to make me feel that this cramped fettered life of mine held any good or anything worth living for. He made me ashamed of my selfish sorrow, and every message from him, no matter how brief, seems like an inspiration to something higher and nobler."
"He makes us all conscious of our selfishness," Kate answered, "for if ever there was an unselfish life,—a life devoted to the alleviation of the sufferings and sorrows of others,—it is his. I wish he were here now," she added, with a sigh; "he has more influence with papa than all the rest of us combined, though perhaps nothing even he might say would be availing in this instance."
In all their friendly intercourse of the last few weeks there had been one subject tacitly avoided by each, to which, although present in the mind of each, no reference was ever made. From Kate's last words Darrell knew that subject must now be met; he must know from her own lips the worst. He turned sick with dread and remained silent.
A moment later Kate again faced him with a smile, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"Poor papa!" she said, softly, her lips quivering; "he thinks he is doing it all for my happiness, and no matter what wretchedness or misery I suffer, no knowledge of it shall ever pain his dear old heart!"
"Kathie, must it be?" Darrell exclaimed, each word vibrating with anguish; "is there no hope—no chance of escape for you from such a fate?"
"I cannot see the slightest reason to hope for escape," she replied, with the calmness born of despair. She clasped her small hands tightly and turned a pale, determined face towards Darrell.
"You know, you understand it all, and I know that you do," she said, "so there is no use in our avoiding this any longer. I want to talk it over with you and tell you all the truth, so you will not think, by and by, that I have been false or fickle or weak; but first there is something I want you to tell me."
She paused a moment, then, looking him full in the eyes, she asked, earnestly,—
"John Darrell, do you still love me?"
Startled out of his customary self-control, Darrell suddenly clasped her in his arms, exclaiming,—
"Kathie darling, how can you ask such a question? Do you think my love for you could ever grow less?"
For a moment her head nestled against his breast with a little movement of ineffable content, as she replied,—
"No; it was not that I doubted your love, but I wanted an assurance of it to carry with me through the coming days."
Then, gently withdrawing herself from his embrace, she continued, in the same calm, even tones:
"You ask if there is no chance of escape; I cansee absolutely none; but I want you to understand, if I am forced into this marriage which papa has planned for me, that it is not through any weakness or cowardice on my part; that if I yield, it will be simply because of the love and reverence I bear my father."
Though her face was slightly averted, Darrell could see the tear-drops falling, but after a slight pause she proceeded as calmly as before:
"In all these years he has tried to be both father and mother to me, and even in this he thinks he is acting for my good. I have never disobeyed him, and were I to do so now I believe it would break his heart. I am all that he has left, and after what he has suffered in his silent, Spartan way, I must bring joy—not sorrow—to his declining years. And this will be my only reason for yielding."
"But, Kathie, dear child," Darrell interposed, "have you considered what such a life means to you—what is involved in such a sacrifice?"
She met his troubled gaze with a smile. "Yes, I know," she replied; "there is not a phase of this affair which I have not considered. I am years older than when we met three months ago, and I have thought of everything that a woman can think of."
She watched him a moment, the smile on her lips deepening. "Have you considered this?" she asked. "Only those whom we love have the power to wound us deeply; one whom I do not love will have little power to hurt me; he can never reach my heart; that will be safe in your keeping."
Darrell bowed his head upon his hands with a low moan. Kate, laying her hand lightly upon his shoulder, continued:
"What I particularly wanted you to know beforeour parting and to remember is this: that come what may, I shall never be false to my love for you. No matter what the future may bring to you or to me, my heart will be yours."
Darrell raised his head, his face tense and rigid with emotion; she had risen and was standing beside him.
"I can never forgive myself for having won your heart, Kathie," he said, gravely; "It is the most precious gift that I could ask or you could bestow, but one to which I have no right."
"Then hold it in trust," she said, softly, "until such time as I have the right to bestow it upon you and you have the right to accept it."
Startled not only by her words but by the gravity of her tone and manner, Darrell glanced swiftly towards Kate, but she had turned and was slowly climbing the mountain path. Springing to his feet he was quickly at her side. Drawing her arm within his own he assisted her up the rocky trail, scanning her face as he did so for some clew to the words she had just spoken. But, excepting a faint flush which deepened under his scrutiny, she gave no sign, and, the trail for the next half-hour being too difficult to admit of conversation, they made the ascent in silence.
On reaching the summit an involuntary exclamation burst from Darrell at the grandeur of the scene. North, west, and south, far as the eye could reach, stretched the vast mountain ranges, unbroken, with here and there gigantic peaks, snow-crowned, standing in bold relief against the sky; while far to the eastward lay the valleys, threaded with silver streams, and beyond them in the purple distance outlines of other ranges scarcely distinguishable from the clouds against which they seemed to rest.
Kate watched Darrell, silently enjoying his surprise."This is my favorite resort,—on the summit of the 'divide,'" she said; "I thought you would appreciate it. It involves hard climbing, but it is worth the effort."
"Worth the effort! Yes, a thousand times! What must it be to see the sunrise here!"
Lifted out of themselves, they wandered over the rocks, picking the late flowers which still lingered in the crevices, watching the shifting beauty of the scene from various points, for a time forgetful of their trouble, till, looking in each other's eyes, they read the final farewell underlying all, and the old pain returned with tenfold intensity.
Seating themselves on the highest point accessible, they talked of the future, ignoring so far as possible the one dreaded subject, speaking of Darrell's life in the mining camp, of his studies, and of what he hoped to accomplish, and of certain plans of her own.
Duke, after an extended tour among the rocks, came and lay at their feet, watching their faces with anxious solicitude, quick to read their unspoken sorrow though unable to divine its cause.
At last the little that could be said had been spoken; they paused, their hearts oppressed with the burden of what remained unsaid, which no words could express. Duke, perplexed by the long silence, rose and, coming to Kate's side, stood looking into her eyes with mute inquiry. As Kate caressed the noble head she turned suddenly to Darrell:
"John, would you like to have Duke with you? Will you take him as a parting gift from me?"
"I would like to have him above anything you could give me, Kathie," he replied; "but you must not think of giving him up to me."
"I will have to give him up," she said, simply;"Papa dislikes him already, he is so unfriendly to Mr. Walcott, and he himself absolutely hates Duke; I believe he would kill him if he dared; so you understand I could not keep him much longer. He will be happy with you, for he loves you, and I will be happy in remembering that you have him."
"In that case," said Darrell, "I shall be only too glad to take him, and you can rest assured I will never part with him."
The sinking sun warned them that it was time to return, and, after one farewell look about them, they prepared to descend. As they picked their way back to the trail they came upon two tiny streams flowing from some secret spring above them. Side by side, separated by only a few inches, they rippled over their rocky bed, murmuring to each other in tones so low that only an attentive ear could catch them, sparkling in the sunlight as though for very joy. Suddenly, near the edge of the narrow plateau over which they ran, they turned, and, with a tinkling plash of farewell, plunged in opposite directions,—the one eastward, hastening on its way to the Great Father of Waters, the other westward bound, towards the land of the setting sun.
Silently Kate and Darrell watched them; as their eyes met, his face had grown white, but Kate smiled, though the tears trembled on the golden lashes.
"A fit emblem of our loves, Kathie!" Darrell said, sadly.
"Yes," she replied, but her clear voice had a ring of triumph; "a fit emblem, dear, for though parted now, they will meet in the commingling of the oceans, just as by and by our loves will mingle in the great ocean of love. I can imagine how those two little streams will go on their way, as we must go, eachjoining in the labor and song of the rivers as they meet them, but each preserving its own individuality until they find one another in the ocean currents, as we shall find one another some day!"
"Kathie," said Darrell, earnestly, drawing nearer to her, "have you such a hope as that?"
"It is more than hope," she answered, "it is assurance; an assurance that came to me, I know not whence or how, out of the darkness of despair."
They had reached the trail, and here Kate paused for a moment. It was a picture for an artist, the pair standing on that solitary height! The young girl, fair and slender as the wild flowers clinging to the rocks at their feet, yet with a poise of conscious strength; the man at her side, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong-limbed; his face dark with despair, hers lighted with hope.
Suddenly a small white hand swept the horizon with a swift, undulatory motion that reminded Darrell of the flight of some white-winged bird, and Kate cried,—
"Did we think of the roughness and steepness of the path below when we stood here two hours ago and looked on the glory of this scene? Did we stop to think of the bruises and scratches of the ascent, of how many times we had stumbled, or of the weariness of the way? No, it was all forgotten. And so, when we come to stand together, by and by, upon the heights of love,—such love as we have not even dreamed of yet,—will we then look back upon the tears, the pain, the heartache of to-day? Will we stop to recount the sorrows through which we climbed to the shining heights? No, they will be forgotten in the excess of joy!"
Darrell gazed at Kate in astonishment; her head wasuncovered and the rays of the sinking sun touched with gleams of gold the curling locks which the breeze had blown about her face, till they seemed like a golden halo; she had the look of one who sees within the veil which covers mortal faces; she seemed at that moment something apart from earth.
Taking her hand in his, he asked, brokenly, "Sweetheart, will that day ever come, and when?"
Her eyes, luminous with love and hope, rested tenderly upon his shadowed face as she replied,—
"At the time appointed,
"'And that will beGod's own good time, for you and me.'"
Chapter XIXThe Return to Camp Bird
The day preceding Darrell's departure found him busily engaged in "breaking camp," as he termed it. The assayer's outfit which he had brought from the mill was to be packed, as were also his books, and quantities of carefully written notes, the results of his explorations and experiments, to be embodied later in the work which he had in preparation, were to be sorted and filed.
Late in the afternoon Kate and her aunt, down town on a shopping tour, looked in upon him.
"Buried up to his ears!" Kate announced at the door, as she caught a glimpse of Darrell's head over a table piled high with books and manuscripts; "it's well we came when we did, auntie; a few minutes later and he would have been invisible!"
"Don't take the trouble to look for seats, Mr. Darrell," she added, her eyes dancing with mischief as he hastily emerged and began a futile search for vacant chairs, "we only dropped in for a minute, and 'standing room only' will be sufficient."
"Yes, don't let us hinder you, Mr. Darrell," said Mrs. Dean; "we just came in to see how you were getting on, and to tell you not to trouble yourself about the things from the house; we will send and get them whenever we want them."
"I was thinking of those a while ago," Darrell answered, glancing at the pictures and hangings whichhad not yet been removed; "I was wondering if I ought not to send them up to the house."
"No," said Mrs. Dean, "we do not need them there at present, and any time we should want them we can send Bennett down after them."
"We will not send for them at all, auntie," said Kate, in her impulsive way; "I shall keep the room looking as much as possible as when Mr. Darrell had it, and I shall use it as a waiting-room whenever I have to wait for papa; it will be much pleasanter than waiting in that dusty, musty old office of his."
"My room at the camp will look very bare and plain now," said Darrell, "after all the luxuries with which you have surrounded me; though I will, of course, get accustomed to it in a few days."
Kate and her aunt slyly exchanged smiles, which Darrell in his momentary abstraction failed to observe. They chatted pleasantly for a few moments, but underneath the light words and manner was a sadness that could not be disguised, and it was with a still heavier heart that Darrell returned to his work after Kate and her aunt had gone.
At last all was done, the last package was stowed away in the large wagon which was to carry the goods to camp, and the team moved up the street in the direction of The Pines, where it was to remain over night ready for an early start the next morning. Darrell, after a farewell survey of the little room, followed on foot, heartsick and weary, going directly to the stables to see the wagon safely stored for the night. He was surprised to see a second wagon, loaded with furniture, rugs, and pictures, all of which looked strangely familiar, and which on closer inspection he recognized as belonging to the room which he had always occupied at The Pines. He turned to Bennett, who was standing at a little distance, ostensibly cleaning some harness, but quietly enjoying the scene.
"Bennett, what does this mean?" he inquired. "Where are these goods going?"
"To the camp, sir."
"Surely not to the mining camp, Bennett; you must be mistaken."
"No mistake about it, sir; they goes to Camp Bird to-morrow morning; them's Mrs. Dean's orders."
Darrell was more touched than he cared to betray. He went at once to the house, and in the hall, dim with the early twilight, was met by Mrs. Dean herself.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Darrell," she began, "but you can't occupy your room to-night; you'll have to take the one adjoining on the south. Your room was torn up to-day, and we haven't got it put to rights yet."
"Mrs. Dean," Darrell answered, his voice slightly unsteady, "you are too kind; it breaks a fellow all up and makes this sort of thing the harder!"
Mrs. Dean turned on the light as though for a better understanding.
"I don't see any special kindness in turning you out of your room on your last night here," she remarked, quietly, "but we couldn't get it settled."
Darrell could not restrain a smile as he replied, "I'm afraid it will be some time before it is settled with the furniture packed out there in the stables."
"Have you been to the stables?" she exclaimed, in dismay.
A smile was sufficient answer.
"If that isn't too bad!" she continued; "I was going to have that wagon sent ahead in the morning before you were up and have it for a surprise when you got there, and now it's all spoiled. I declare, I'm too disappointed to say a word!"
"But, Mrs. Dean," Darrell interposed, hastily, as she turned to leave, "you need not feel like that; the surprise was just as genuine and as pleasant as though it had been as you intended; besides, I can thank you now, whereas I couldn't then."
"That's just what I didn't want, and don't want now," she answered, quickly; "if there is anything I can do for you, God knows I'll do it the same as though you were my own son, and I want no thanks for it, either." And with these words she left the room before Darrell could reply.
Everything that could be done to make the rooms look cheerful and homelike as possible had been done for that night. The dining-room was decorated with flowers, and when, after dinner, the family adjourned to the sitting-room, a fire was burning in the grate, and around it had been drawn the most comfortable seats in the room.
But to Darrell the extra touches of brightness and beauty seemed only to emphasize the fact that this was the last night of anything like home life that he would know for some time to come.
It had been agreed that he and Kate were to have some music that evening, and on the piano he saw the violin which he had not used since the summer's happy days. He lifted it with the tender, caressing manner with which he always handled it, as though it were something living and human. Turning it lovingly in his hands, he caught the gleam of something in the fire-light, and, bending over it, saw a richly engraved gold plate, on which he read the words:
TO JOHN DARRELLA SOUVENIR OF "THE PINES"FROM "KATHIE"
A mist rose before his eyes—he could not see, he could not trust himself to speak, but, raising the violin, his pent-up feelings burst forth in a flood of liquid music of such commingled sweetness and sadness as to hold his listeners entranced. Mr. Underwood, for once forgetful of his pipe, looked into the fire with a troubled gaze; he understood little of the power of expression, but even he comprehended dimly the sorrow that surged and ebbed in those wild harmonies. Mrs. Dean, her hands folded idly above her work, sat with eyes closed, a solitary tear occasionally rolling down her cheek, while in the shadows Kate, her face buried on Duke's head and neck, was sobbing quietly.
Gradually the wild strains subsided, as the summer tempest dies away till nothing is heard but the patter of the rain-drops, and, after a few bars from a love-song, a favorite of Kate's, the music glided into the simple strains of "Home, Sweet Home." And as the oppressed and overheated atmosphere is cleared by the brief storm, so the overwrought feelings of those present were relieved by this little outburst of emotion.
A pleasant evening followed, and, except that the "good-nights" exchanged on parting were tenderer, more heartfelt than usual, there were no indications that this was their last night together as a family circle.
Darrell had been in his room but a short time, however, when he heard a light tap at his door, and, opening it, Mrs. Dean entered.
"You seem like a son to me, Mr. Darrell," she said, with quiet dignity, "so I have taken the liberty to come to your room for a few minutes the same as I would to a son's."
"That is right, Mrs. Dean," Darrell replied, escorting her to a large arm-chair; "my own mother could not be more welcome."
"You know us pretty well by this time, Mr. Darrell," she said, as she seated herself, "and you know that we're not given to expressing our feelings very much, but I felt that I couldn't let you go away without a few words with you first. I sometimes think that those who can't express themselves are the ones that feel the deepest, though I guess we often get the credit of not having any feelings at all."
"If I ever had such an impression of you or your brother, I found out my error long ago," Darrell remarked, gravely, as she paused.
"Yes, I think you understand us; I think you will understand me, Mr. Darrell, when I say to you that I haven't felt anything so deeply in years as I do your leaving us now—not so much the mere fact of your going away as the real reason of your going. I felt bad when you left for camp a year ago, but this is altogether different; then you felt, and we felt, that you were one of us, that your home was with us, and I hoped that as long as you remained in the West your home would be with us. Now, although there is no change in our love for you, or yours for us, I know that the place is no longer a home to you, that you do not care to stay; and about the hardest part of it all is, that, knowing the circumstances as I do, I myself would not ask you to stay."
"You seem to understand the situation, Mrs. Dean; how did you learn the circumstances?" Darrell asked, wonderingly.
She regarded him a moment with a motherly smile. "Did you think I was blind? I could see for myself. Katherine has told me nothing," she added, in answer to the unspoken inquiry which she read in his eyes;"she has told me no more than you, but I saw what was coming long before either you or she realized it."
"Oh, Mrs. Dean, why didn't you warn me in time?" Darrell exclaimed.
"The time for warning was when you two first met," Mrs. Dean replied; "for two as congenial to be thrown together so constantly would naturally result just as it has; it is no more than was to be expected, and neither of you can be blamed. And," she added, slowly, "that is not the phase of the affair which I most regret. I think such love as you two bear each other would work little harm or sorrow to either of you in the end, if matters could only be left to take their own course. I may as well tell you that I think no good will come of this scheme of David's. Mr. Walcott is not a suitable man for Katherine, even if she were heart free, and loving you as she does—as she always will, for I understand the child—it would have been much better to have waited a year or two; I have no doubt that everything would come out all right. Of course, as I'm not her mother, I have no say in the matter and no right to interfere; but mark my words: David will regret this, and at no very distant day, either."
"I know that nothing but unhappiness can come of it for Kate, and that is what troubles me far more than any sorrow of my own," said Darrell, in a low voice.
"It will bring unhappiness and evil all around, but to no one so much as David Underwood himself," said Mrs. Dean, impressively, as she rose.
"Mrs. Dean," said Darrell, springing quickly to his feet, "you don't know the good this little interview has done me! I thank you for it and for your sympathy from the bottom of my heart."
"I wish I could give you something more practical than sympathy," said Mrs. Dean, with a smile, "and I will if I ever have the opportunity. And one thing in particular I want to say to you, Mr. Darrell: so long as you are in the West, whether your home is with us or not, I want you to feel that you have a mother in me, and should you ever be sick or in trouble and need a mother's care and love, no matter where you are, I will come to you as I would to my own son."
They had reached the door; Darrell, too deeply moved for speech and knowing her aversion to many words, bent over her and kissed her on the forehead.
"Thank you, mother; good-night!" he said.
She turned and looked at him with glistening eyes, as she replied, calmly,—
"Good-night, my son!"
The household was astir at an early hour the next morning. There were forced smiles and some desultory conversation at the breakfast-table, but it was a silent group which gathered outside in the early morning sunlight as Darrell was about taking his departure. He dreaded the parting, and, as he glanced at the faces of the waiting group, he determined to make it as brief as possible for their sakes as well as his own.
The heavy teams came slowly around from the stables, and behind them came Trix, daintily picking her steps along the driveway. With a word or two of instructions to the drivers Darrell sent the teams ahead; then, having adjusted saddle and bridle to his satisfaction, he turned to Mr. Underwood, who stood nearest.
"My boy," said the latter, extending his hand, "we hate to spare you from the old home, but I don't knowwhere I would have got a man to take your place; with you up there I feel just as safe as though I were there myself."
"Much obliged, Mr. Underwood," Darrell replied, looking straight into the elder man's eyes; "I think you'll find me worthy of any trust you may repose in me—at the camp or elsewhere."
"Every time, my boy, every time!" exclaimed the old gentleman, wringing his hand.
Mrs. Dean's usually placid face was stern from her effort to repress her feelings, but there was a glance of mother-love in her eyes and a slight quivering of her lips as she bade him a quiet good-by.
But it was Kate's pale, sweet face that nearly broke his own composure as he turned to her, last of all. Their hands clasped and they looked silently into each other's eyes for an instant.
"Good-by, John; God bless you!" she said, in tones audible only to his ear.
"God bless and help you, Kathie!" he replied, and turned quickly to Trix waiting at his side.
"Look at Duke," said Kate, a moment later, as Darrell sprang into the saddle; "he doesn't know what to make of it that you haven't bade him good-by."
Duke, who had shown considerable excitement over the unusual proceedings, had bounded to Kate's side as Darrell approached her, expecting his usual recognition; not having received it, he sat regarding Darrell with an evident sense of personal injury quite pathetic.
Darrell looked at the drooping head and smiled. "Come, Duke," he said, slowly starting down the driveway.
Kate bent quickly for a final caress. "Go on, Duke!" she whispered.
Nothing loath to follow Darrell, he bounded forward, but after a few leaps, on discovering that his beloved mistress was not accompanying them, he stopped, looking back in great perplexity. At a signal from her and a word from Darrell he again started onward, but his backward glances were more than Kate could bear, and she turned to go into the house.
"What are you sending the dog after him for, anyway?" inquired her father, himself somewhat puzzled.
"I have given Duke to Mr. Darrell, papa," she replied.
Something in the unnatural calmness of her tone startled him; he turned to question her. She had gone, but in the glimpse which he had of her face he read a little of the anguish which at that moment wrung her young heart, and happening at the same time to catch his sister's eye, he walked away, silent and uncomfortable.
Chapter XXForging the Fetters
During the weeks immediately following Darrell's departure the daily routine of life at The Pines continued in the accustomed channels, but there was not a member of the family, including Mr. Underwood himself, to whom it did not seem strangely empty, as though some essential element were missing.
To Kate her present life, compared with the first months of her return home, was like the narrow current creeping sluggishly beneath the icy fetters of winter as compared with the same stream laughing and singing on its way under summer skies. But she was learning the lesson that all must learn; that the world sweeps relentlessly onward with no pause for individual woe, and each must keep step in its ceaseless march, no matter how weary the brain or how heavy the heart.
Walcott's visits continued with the same frequency, but he was less annoying in his attentions than formerly. It had gradually dawned upon him that Kate was no longer a child, but a woman; and a woman with a will as indomitable as her father's once it was aroused. He was not displeased at the discovery; on the contrary, he looked forward with all the keener anticipation to the pleasure of what he mentally termed the "taming" process, once she was fairly within his power. Meantime, he was content to make a study of her, sitting evening after evening either in conversation with her father or listening while she played and sang,but always watching her every movement, scanning every play of her features.
"A loose rein for the present," he would say to himself, with a smile; "but by and by, my lady, you will find whether or no I am master!"
He seldom attempted now to draw her into a tête à tête conversation, but finding her one evening sitting upon a low divan in one of the bay-windows looking out into the moonlight, he seated himself beside her and began one of his entertaining tales of travel. An hour or more passed pleasantly, and Walcott inquired, casually,—
"By the way, Miss Underwood, what has become of my four-footed friend? I have not seen him for three weeks or more, and his attentions to me were so marked I naturally miss them."
"Duke is at the mining camp," Kate answered, with a faint smile.
Walcott raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Possible! With my other admirer, Mr. Darrell?"
"He is with Mr. Darrell."
"Accept my gratitude, Miss Underwood, for having made my entrée to your home much pleasanter, not to say safer."
"I neither claim nor accept your gratitude, Mr. Walcott," Kate replied, with cool dignity, "since I did it simply out of regard for Duke's welfare and not out of any consideration whatever for your wishes in the matter."
"I might have known as much," said Walcott, with a mock sigh of resignation, settling back comfortably among the pillows on the divan and fixing his eyes on Kate's face; "I might have known that consideration for any wish of mine could never by any chance be assigned as the motive for an act of yours."
Kate made no reply, but the lines about her mouth deepened. For a moment he watched her silently; then he continued slowly, in low, nonchalant tones:
"I am positive that when I at last gain your consent to marry me,"—he paused an instant to note the effect of his words, but there was not the quiver of an eyelash on her part,—"even then, you will have the audacity to tell me that you gave it for any other reason under heaven than consideration for me or my wishes."
"Mr. Walcott," said Kate, facing him with sudden hauteur of tone and manner, "you are correct. If ever I consent to marry you I can tell you now as well as then my reason for doing so: it will be simply and solely for my dear father's sake, for the love I bear him, out of consideration for his wishes, and with no more thought of you than if you did not exist."
Conflicting emotions filled Walcott's breast at these words, but he preserved a calm, smiling exterior. He could not but admire Kate's spirit; at the same time the thought flashed through his mind that this apparent slip of a girl might prove rather difficult to "tame;" but he reflected that the more difficult, the keener would be his enjoyment of the final victory.
"A novel situation, surely!" he commented, with a low, musical laugh; "decidedly unique!"
"But, my dear Miss Underwood," he continued, a moment later, "if your love for your father and regard for his wishes are to constitute your sole reasons for consenting to become my wife, why need you withhold that consent longer? I am sure his wishes in the matter will remain unchanged, as will also your love for him; why then should our marriage be further delayed?"
"After what I have just told you, Mr. Walcott, doyou still ask me to be your wife?" Kate demanded, indignantly.
"I do, Miss Underwood; and, pardon me, I feel that you have trifled with me long enough; I must have your answer."
She rose, drawing herself proudly to her full height.
"Take me to my father," she said, imperiously.
Walcott offered his arm, which she refused with a gesture of scorn, and they proceeded to the adjoining room, where Mr. Underwood and his sister were seated together before the fire. As Kate advanced towards her father both looked up simultaneously, and each read in her white face and proud bearing that a crisis was at hand. Mrs. Dean at once arose and noiselessly withdrew from the room.
Walcott paused at a little distance from Mr. Underwood, assuming a graceful attitude as he leaned languidly over the large chair just vacated by Mrs. Dean, but Kate did not stop till she reached her father's side, where she bowed coldly to Walcott to proceed with what he had to say.
"Some time ago, Mr. Underwood," he began, smoothly and easily, "I asked you for your daughter's hand in marriage, and you honored me with your consent. Since that time I have paid my addresses to Miss Underwood in so marked a manner as to leave her no room for doubt or misunderstanding regarding my intentions, although, finding that she was not inclined to look upon me with favor, I have hitherto refrained from pressing my suit. Feeling now that I have given her abundance of time I have this evening asked her to become my wife, and insisted that I was entitled to a decision. Instead, however, of giving me a direct answer, she has suggested that we refer the matter to yourself."
"How is this, Kate?" her father asked, not unkindly; "I supposed you and I had settled this matter long ago."
Her voice was clear, her tones unfaltering, as she replied: "Before giving my answer I wanted to ask you, papa, for the last time, whether, knowing the circumstances as you do and how I regard Mr. Walcott, it is still your wish that I marry him?"
"It is; and I expect my child to be governed by my wishes in this matter rather than by her own feelings."
"Have I ever gone contrary to your wishes, papa, or disobeyed you?"
"No, my child, no!"
"Then I shall not attempt it at this late day. I only wanted to be sure that this was still your wish."
"I desire it above all things," said Mr. Underwood, delighted to find Kate so ready to accede to his wishes, rising and taking her hand in his; "and the day that I see my little girl settled in the home which she will receive as a wedding-gift from her old father will be the proudest and happiest day of my life."
Kate smiled sadly. "No home can ever seem to me like The Pines, papa, but I appreciate your kindness, and I want you to know that I am taking this step solely for your happiness."
She then turned, facing Walcott, who advanced slightly, while Mr. Underwood made a movement as though to place her hand in his.
"Not yet, papa," she said, gently; then, addressing Walcott, she continued:
"Mr. Walcott, this must be my answer, since you insist upon having one: Out of love for him who has been both father and mother to me, out of reverence for his gray hairs frosted by the sorrows of earlier years, out of regard for his wishes, which have alwaysbeen my law,—for his sake only,—I consent to become your wife upon one condition."
"Name it," Walcott replied.
"There can be no love between us, either in our engagement or our marriage, for, as I have told you, I can never love you, and you yourself are incapable of love in its best sense; you have not even the slightest knowledge of what it is. For this reason any token of love between us would be only a mockery, a farce, and true wedded love is something too holy, too sacred, to be travestied in any such manner. I consent to our marriage, therefore, only upon this condition: that we henceforth treat each other simply with kindness and courtesy; that no expressions of affection or endearment are to be used by either of us to the other, and that no word or sign of love ever pass between us."
"Kate," interposed her father, sternly, "this is preposterous! I cannot allow such absurdity;" but Walcott silenced him with a deprecatory wave of his hand, and, taking Kate's hand in his, replied, with smiling indifference,—
"I accept the condition imposed by Miss Underwood, since it is no more unique than the entire situation, and I congratulate her upon her decided originality. I suppose," he added, addressing Kate, at the same time producing a superb diamond ring, "you will not object to wearing this?"
"I yield that much to conventionality," she replied, allowing him to place it on her finger; "there is no need to advertise the situation publicly; besides, it is a fitting symbol of my future fetters."
"Conventionality, I believe, would require that it be placed on your hand with a kiss and some appropriate bit of sentiment, but since that sort of thing istabooed between us, we will have to dispense with that part of the ceremony."
Then turning to Mr. Underwood, who stood looking on frowningly, somewhat troubled by the turn matters had taken, Walcott added, playfully,—
"According to the usual custom, I believe the next thing on the programme is for you to embrace us and give us a father's blessing, but my lady might not approve of anything so commonplace."
Before her father could reply Kate spoke for him, glancing at him with an affectionate smile:
"Papa is not one of the demonstrative sort, and he and I need no demonstration of our love for each other; do we, dear?"
"No, child, we understand each other," said her father, reseating himself, with Kate in her accustomed place on the arm of his chair, while Walcott took the large chair on the other side of the fire; "and you neither of you need any assurance of my good wishes or good intentions towards you; but," he continued, doubtfully, shaking his head, "I don't quite like the way you've gone about this business, Puss."
"It was the only way for me, papa," Kate answered, gravely and decidedly.
"I admit," said Walcott, "it will be quite a departure from the mode of procedure ordinarily laid down for newly engaged and newly wedded couples; but really, come to think it over, I am inclined to think that Miss Underwood's proposition will save us an immense amount of boredom which is the usual concomitant of engagements and honeymoons. That sort of thing, you know," he added, his lip curling just perceptibly, "is apt to get a little monotonous after a while."
Kate, watching him from under level brows, sawthe slight sneer and inwardly rejoiced at the stand she had taken.
"Well," said Mr. Underwood, resignedly, "fix it up between you any way to suit yourselves; but for heaven's sake, don't do anything to cause comment or remarks!"
"Papa, you can depend on me not to make myself conspicuous in any way," Kate replied, with dignity. "What I have said to-night was said simply to let you and Mr. Walcott know just where I stand, and just what you may, and may not, expect of me; but this is only between us three, and you can rest assured that I shall never wear my heart upon my sleeve or take the public into my confidence regarding my home life."
"I think myself you need have no fear on that score, Mr. Underwood," Walcott remarked, with a smile of amusement; "I believe Miss Underwood is entirely capable of carrying out to perfection any rôle she may assume, and if she chooses to take the part of leading lady in the little comedy of 'The Model Husband and Wife, I shall be only too delighted to render her any assistance within my power."
As Walcott bade Kate good-night at a late hour he inquired, "What do you think of the little comedy I suggested to-night for our future line of action? Does it meet with your approval?"
She was quick to catch the significance of the question, and, looking him straight in the eyes, she replied, calmly,—
"It will answer as well as any, I suppose; but it has in it more of the elements of tragedy than of comedy."