The winter proved to be mild and open, so that Darrell's weekly visits
to The Pines were made with almost unbroken regularity, and to his
surprise he discovered as the months slipped away that, instead of a
mere obligation which he felt bound to perform, they were becoming a
source of pleasure. After a week of unremitting toil and study and
contact with the rough edges of human nature, there was something
unspeakably restful in the atmosphere of that quiet home; something
soothing in the silent, steadfast affection, the depth of which he was
only beginning to fathom.
One Saturday evening in the latter part of April Darrell was, as usual,
descending the canyon road on his way to The Pines. For weeks the winter
had lingered as though loath to leave, and Darrell, absorbed in work and
study, had gone his way, hiding his loneliness and suffering so deeply
as to be ofttimes forgotten even by himself, and at all times
unsuspected by those about him. Then, in one night had come the warm
breath of the west winds, and within a few hours the earth was
transformed as though by magic, and the restless longing within his
breast awoke with tenfold intensity.
As he rode along he was astounded at the changes wrought in one week.
From the southern slopes of the mountains the snow had almost
disappeared and the sunny exposures of the ranges were fast brightening
into vivid green. The mountain streams had burst their icy fetters and,
augmented by the melting snows, were roaring tumultuously down their
channels, tumbling and plunging over rocky ledges in sheets of
shimmering silver or foaming cascades; then, their mad frolic ended,
flowing peacefully through distant valleys onward to the rivers, ever
chanting the song which would one day blend in the great ocean
harmonies.
The frail flowers, clinging to the rocks and smiling fearlessly up into
the face of the sun, the silvery sheen of the willows along the distant
water-courses, the softened outlines and pale green of budding
cottonwoods in the valleys far below, all told of the newly released
life currents bounding through the veins of every living thing. From the
lower part of the canyon, the wild, ecstatic song of a robin came to him
on the evening breeze, and in the slanting sunbeams myriads of tiny
midges held high carnival. The whole earth seemed pulsating with new
life, and tree and flower, bird and insect were filled anew with the
unspeakable joy of living.
Amid this universal baptism of life, what wonder that he felt his own
pulse quicken and the warm life-blood leaping swiftly within his veins!
His heart but throbbed in unison with the great heart of Nature, but its
very beating stifled him as the sense of his own restrictions came back
upon him with crushing weight. For one moment he paused, his spirit
struggling wildly against the bars imprisoning it; then, with a look
towards the skies of dumb, appealing anguish, he rode onward, his head
bowed, his heart sick with unutterable longing.
Arriving at The Pines, he received the usual welcome, but neither its
undemonstrative affection nor the restful quiet of the old home could
soothe or satisfy him that night. But if his host and hostess noted the
gloom on his face or his restless manner they made no comments and asked
no questions.
On going upstairs at a late hour he went across the hall to the
libraries in search of a book with which to pass away the time, as he
was unable to sleep. He had no definite book in mind and wandered
aimlessly through both rooms, reading titles in an abstracted manner,
until he came at last face to face with the picture of Kate Underwood.
He had seen it many times without especially observing it, but in his
present mood it appealed to him as never before. The dark eyes seemed
fixed upon his face with a look of entreaty from which he could not
escape, and, drawing a chair in front of the easel, he sat down and
became absorbed in a study of the picture. Heretofore he had considered
it merely the portrait of a very young and somewhat plain girl. Now he
was surprised to find that the more it was studied in detail, the more
favorable was the impression produced. Though childish and immature,
there was not a weak line in the face. The nose and mouth were
especially fine, the former denoting distinct individuality, the latter
marked strength and sweetness of character; and while the upper part of
the face indicated keen perceptions and quick sympathies, the general
contour showed a nature strong either to do or to endure. The eyes were
large and beautiful, but it was not their beauty which riveted Darrell's
attention; it was their look of wistful appeal, of unsatisfied longing,
which led him at last to murmur, while his eyes moistened,--
"You dear child! How is it that in your short life, surrounded by all
that love can provide, you have come to know such heart hunger as that?"
Long after he had returned to his room those eyes still haunted him,
nor could he banish the conviction that some time, somewhere, in that
young life there had been an unfilled void which in some degree, however
slight, corresponded to the blank emptiness of his own.
The next morning Darrell attended church with Mrs. Dean. The latter was
a strict church-woman, and Darrell, by way of showing equal courtesy to
host and hostess, usually accompanied her in the morning, devoting the
afternoon to Mr. Underwood.
After lunch he and Mr. Underwood seated themselves in one of the sunny
bay-windows for their customary chat, Mrs. Dean having gone to her room
for the afternoon nap which was as much a part of her Sunday programme
as the morning sermon.
For a while they talked of the latest developments at the mines, but Mr.
Underwood seemed preoccupied, gazing out of the window and frowning
heavily. At last, after a long silence, he said, slowly,--
"I expect we're going to have trouble at the camp this season."
"How is that?" Darrell asked quickly, in a tone of surprise.
"Oh, it's some of this union business," the other answered, with a
gesture of impatience, "and about the most foolish proposition I ever
heard of, at that. But," he added, decidedly, "they know my position;
they know they'll get no quarter from me. I've steered clear of them so
far; they've let me alone and I've let them alone, but when it comes to
a parcel of union bosses undertaking to run my business or make terms to
me, I'll fight 'em to a finish, and they know it."
Darrell, watching the face of the speaker, saw the lines about his mouth
harden and his lips settle into a grim smile that boded no good to his
opponents.
"What do they want--higher wages or shorter hours?" he inquired.
"Neither," said Mr. Underwood, shortly, as he re-lighted his pipe. After
a few puffs he continued:
"As I said before, it's the most foolish proposition I ever heard of.
You see, there's five or six camps, all told, in the neighborhood of our
camp up there. One or two of the lot, like the Buckeye group, for
instance, are run by men that haven't much capital, and I suppose are
working as economically as they can. Anyhow, there's been some kicking
over there among the miners about the grub, and the upshot of the whole
thing is that the union has taken the matter in hand and is going to
open a union boarding-house and take in the men from all the camps at
six bits a day for each man, instead of the regular rate of a dollar a
day charged by the mining companies."
"The scale of wages to remain the same, I suppose," said Darrell; "so
that means a gain to each man of twenty-five cents a day?"
"Exactly," said Mr. Underwood. "It means a gain of two bits a day to
each man; it means loss and inconvenience to the companies, and it means
a big pile of money in the pockets of the bosses who are running the
thing."
"There are not many of the owners up there that can stand that sort of
thing," said Darrell, reflectively.
"Of course they can't stand it, and they won't stand it if they've got
any backbone! Take Dwight and Huntley; they've been to heavy expense in
enlarging their mill and have just put up a new boarding-house, and
they're in debt; they can't afford to have all that work and expenditure
for nothing. Now, with us the loss wouldn't be so great as with the
others, for we don't make so much out of our boarding-house. My motto
has always been 'Live and let live,' and I give my men a good
table,--just what I'd want for myself if I were in their places. It
isn't the financial part that troubles me. What I object to is this: I
won't have my men tramping three-quarters of a mile for meals that won't
be as good as they can get right on their own grounds; more than that,
I've got a good, likely set of men, and I won't have them demoralized by
herding them in with the tough gangs from those other camps; and above
all and once for all,"--here Mr. Underwood's tones became excited as he
exclaimed, with an oath,--"I've always been capable of running my own
business, and I'll run it yet, and no damned union boss will ever run it
for me!"
"How do the men feel about it? Have you talked with them?" Darrell
inquired.
"There isn't one of them that's dissatisfied or would leave of his own
free will," Mr. Underwood replied, "but I don't suppose they would dare
to stand out against the bosses. Why, man, if the workingmen only knew
it, they are ten times worse slaves to the union bosses than ever they
were to corporations. They have to pay over their wages to let those
fellows live like nabobs; they have to come and go at their beck and
call, and throw up good positions and live in enforced idleness because
of some other fellows' grievances; they don't dare express an opinion or
say their souls are their own. Humph!"
"Mr. Underwood," said Darrell, who had been smilingly listening to the
other's tirade, "what will you do if this comes to a strike?"
"Strike!" he exclaimed in tones of scathing contempt. "Strike? I'll
strike too, and they'll find I can strike just as hard as they can, and
a little harder!"
"Will you close down?"
The shrewd face grew a bit shrewder. "If it's necessary to close down,"
he remarked, evasively, "I'll close down. I guess I can stand it as long
as they can. Those mines have lain there in those rocks idle for
centuries, for aught that I know; 'twon't hurt 'em to lie idle a few
weeks or months now; nobody'll run off with 'em, I guess."
Darrell laughed aloud. "Well, one thing is certain, Mr. Underwood; I,
for one, wouldn't want to quarrel with you!"
Mr. Underwood slowly shook his head. "You'd better not try it, my boy;
you'd better not!"
"When do you expect this trouble to come to a head?" Darrell asked at
length.
"Some time in the early part of July, probably; they expect to get their
arrangements completed by that time."
A long silence followed; Mrs. Dean came softly into the room and took
her accustomed seat, and, as Mr. Underwood made it a point never to talk
of business matters in his sister's presence, nothing more was said
regarding the prospective disturbance at the mines.
After dinner the beauty of the sunset brought them out upon the veranda.
The air was warm and fragrant with the breath of spring. The buds were
swelling on the lilacs near the house, and out on the lawn, beyond the
driveway, millions of tiny spears of living green trembled in the light
breeze.
"David," said Mrs. Dean, presently, "have you shown Mr. Darrell that
picture of Katherine that came yesterday?"
"I declare! No; I had forgotten it!" Mr. Underwood exclaimed.
"It's well for you she isn't here to hear you say that!" Mrs. Dean
remarked, smiling.
"Puss knows her old father well enough to know he wouldn't forget her
very long. Bring the picture out, Marcia."
Darrell heard Mrs. Dean approaching, and turned, with the glory of the
sunset in his eyes.
"Don't you want to see Katherine's new picture?" she inquired.
Her words instantly recalled the portrait he had studied the preceding
night, and with that in his mind he took the picture she handed him and
silently compared the two.
Ah, the beauty of the spring, everywhere confronting him, was in that
face also; the joy of a life as yet pure, untainted, and untrammelled.
It was like looking into the faces of the spring flowers which reflect
only the sunshine, the purity and the sweetness of earth. There was a
touch of womanly dignity, too, in the poise of the head, but the
beautiful eyes, though lighted with the faint dawn of coming womanhood,
were the same as those that had appealed to him the night before with
their wistful longing.
"It is a fine portrait, but as I do not remember her, I cannot judge
whether it is like herself or not," he said, handing the picture to Mr.
Underwood, who seemed almost to devour it with his eyes, though he spoke
no word and not a muscle moved in his stern, immobile face.
"She is getting to be such a young lady," remarked Mrs. Dean, "that I
expect when she comes home we will feel as though she had grown away
from us all."
"She will never do that, Marcia, never!" said Mr. Underwood, brusquely,
as he abruptly left the group and went into the house.