"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 same
time 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, her happiness 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 clouds
that 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 the summer 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, but I 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 judgment and 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 travels in 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 Walcott take 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,--at least, 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, knelt sadly
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 did not 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.
_Chapter XVIII_