For a year and a half Darrell worked uninterruptedly at Ophir, his
constantly increasing commissions from eastern States testifying to his
marked ability as a mining expert.
Notwithstanding the incessant demands upon his time, he still adhered to
his old rule, reserving a few hours out of each twenty-four, which he
devoted to scientific or literary study, as his mood impelled. He soon
found himself again drawn irresistibly towards the story begun during
his stay at the Hermitage, but temporarily laid aside on his return
east. He carefully reviewed the synopsis, which he had written in
detail, and as he did, he felt himself entering into the spirit of the
story till it seemed once more part of his own existence. He revised the
work already done, eliminating, adding, making the outlines clearer,
more defined; then, with steady, unfaltering hand, carried the work
forward to completion.
Eighteen months after his re-establishment at Ophir he was commissioned
to go to Alaska to examine certain mining properties in a deal involving
over a million dollars, and, anxious to be on the ground as early as
possible, he took the first boat north that season. His story was
published on the eve of his departure. He received a few copies, which
he regarded with a half-fond, half-whimsical air. One he sent to Kate
Underwood, having first written his initials on the fly-leaf underneath
the brief petition, "Be merciful." He then went his way, his time and
attention wholly occupied by his work, with little thought as to whether
the newly launched craft was destined to ride the waves of popularity or
be engulfed beneath the waters of oblivion.
Months of constant travel, of hard work and rough fare, followed. His
report on the mines was satisfactory, the deal was consummated, and he
received a handsome percentage, but not content with this, determined to
familiarize himself with the general situation in that country and the
conditions obtaining, he pushed on into the interior, pursuing his
explorations till the return of the cold season. Touching at British
Columbia on his way home and finding tempting inducements there in the
way of mining properties, he stopped to investigate, and remained during
the winter and spring months.
It was therefore not until the following June that he found himself
really homeward bound and once more within the mountain ranges guarding
the approach to the busy little town of Ophir.
He had been gone considerably over a year; he had accumulated a vast
amount of information invaluable for future work along his line, and he
had succeeded financially beyond his anticipations. Occasionally during
his absence, in papers picked up here and there, he had seen favorable
mention of his story, from which he inferred that his first venture in
the realms of fiction had not been quite a failure, and in this opinion
he was confirmed by a letter just received from his publishers, which
had followed him for months. But all thought of these things was for the
time forgotten in an almost boyish delight that he was at last on his
way home.
As he came within sight of the familiar ranges his thoughts reverted
again and again to Kate Underwood. His whole soul seemed to cry out for
her with a sudden, insatiable longing. His mail had of necessity been
irregular and infrequent; their letters had somehow miscarried, and he
had not heard directly from her for months. Her last letter was from
Germany; she was then still engrossed in her music, but her father's
health was greatly improved and he was beginning to talk of home. His
father's latest letter had stated that the Underwoods would probably
return early in July. And this was June! Darrell felt a twinge of
disappointment. He was now able to remember many incidents in their
acquaintance. He recalled their first meeting at The Pines on that June
day five years ago. How beautiful the old place must look now! But
without Kate's presence the charm would be lost for him. He regretted he
had started homeward quite so soon; the time would not have seemed so
long among the mining camps of the great Northwest as here, where
everything reminded him of her.
The stopping of the train at a health resort far up among the mountains,
a few miles from Ophir, roused Darrell from his revery. With a sigh he
recalled his wandering thoughts and left the car for a walk up and down
the platform. The town, perched saucily on the slopes of a heavily
timbered mountain, looked very attractive in the gathering twilight.
Though early in the season, the hotel and sanitarium seemed well filled,
while numerous pleasure-seekers were promenading the walks leading to
and from the springs which gave the place its popularity.
Darrell felt a sudden, unaccountable desire to remain. Without waiting
to analyze the impulse, as inexplicable as it was irresistible, which
actuated him, he hastened into the sleeper and secured his grip and top
coat. As the train pulled out he stepped into the station and sent a
message to his father at Ophir, stating that he had decided to remain
over a day or two at the Springs and asking him to look after his
baggage on its arrival. He then took a carriage for the hotel. It was
not without some compunctions of conscience that Darrell wired his
father of his decision, and even as he rode swiftly along the winding
streets he wondered what strange fancy possessed him that he should stop
among strangers instead of continuing his journey home. To his father it
would certainly seem unaccountable, as it did now to himself.
Mr. Britton, however, on receiving his son's message, could not restrain
a smile, for only the preceding day he had received a telegram from Kate
Underwood, at the same place, in which she stated that they had started
home earlier than at first intended, and as her father was somewhat
fatigued by their long journey, they had decided to stop for two or
three days' rest at the Springs.
Darrell arrived at the hotel at a late hour for dinner; the dining-room
was therefore nearly deserted when he took his place at the table.
Dinner over, he went out for a stroll, and, glad to be alone with his
thoughts, walked up and down the entire length of the little town. His
mind was constantly on Kate. Again and again he seemed to see her, as he
loved best to recall her, standing on the summit of the "Divide," her
wind-tossed hair blown about her brow, her eyes shining, as she
predicted their reunion and perfect love. Over and over he seemed to
hear her words, and his heart burned with desire for their fulfilment.
He had waited patiently, he had shown what he could achieve, how he
could win, but all achievements, all victories, were worthless without
her love and presence.
The moon was just rising as he returned to the hotel, but it was still
early. His decision was taken; he would go to Ophir by the morning
train, learn Kate's whereabouts from his father, and go to meet her and
accompany her home. He had chosen a path leading through a secluded
portion of the grounds, and as he approached the hotel his attention was
arrested by some one singing. Glancing in the direction whence the song
came, he saw one of the private parlors brightly lighted, the long, low
window open upon the veranda. Something in the song held him entranced,
spell-bound. The voice was incomparably rich, possessing wonderful range
and power of expression, but this alone was not what especially appealed
to him. Through all and underlying all was a quality so strangely,
sweetly familiar, which thrilled his soul to its very depths, whether
with joy or pain he could not have told; it seemed akin to both.
Still held as by a spell, he drew nearer the window, until he heard the
closing words of the refrain,--words which had been ringing with strange
persistency in his mind for the last two or three hours,--
"Some time, some time, and that will be
God's own good time for you and me."
His heart leaped wildly. With a bound, swift and noiseless, he was on
the veranda, just as the singer, with tender, lingering emphasis,
repeated the words so low as to be barely audible to Darrell standing
before the open window. But even while he listened he gazed in
astonishment at the singer; could that magnificent woman be his
girl-love? She was superbly formed, splendidly proportioned; the rich,
warm blood glowed in her cheeks, and her hair gleamed in the light like
spun gold. He stood motionless; he would not retreat, he dared not
advance.
As the last words of the song died away, a slight sound caused the
singer to turn, facing him, and their eyes met. That was enough; in that
one glance the memory of his love returned to him like an overwhelming
flood. She was no longer his Dream-Love, but a splendid, living reality,
only more beautiful than his dreams or his imagination had portrayed
her.