Chapter VII: Part 7

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 before our 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, each joining 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 was uncovered 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 be
God's own good time, for you and me.'"

_Chapter XIX_

THE 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 which had 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 DARRELL
A 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 know where 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 XX_

FORGING 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 tete a tete 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 entree 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, do you 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 always been 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 is tabooed 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, saw the 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 role 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."

_Chapter XXI_

TWO CRIMES BY THE SAME HAND

At Walcott's request the date of the wedding was set early in January, he having announced that business would call him to the South the first week in December for about a month, and that he wished the wedding to take place immediately upon his return.

The announcement of the engagement and speedily approaching marriage of the daughter of D. K. Underwood to his junior partner caused a ripple of excitement throughout the social circles of Ophir and Galena. Though little known, Walcott was quite popular. It was therefore generally conceded that the shrewd "mining king," as Mr. Underwood was denominated in that region, had selected a party in every way eligible as the future husband of the sole heiress of his fortune. Kate received the congratulations showered upon her with perfect equanimity, but with a shade of quiet reserve which effectually distanced all undue familiarity or curiosity.

Through the daily paper which found its way to the mining camp Darrell received his first news of Kate's engagement. It did not come as a surprise, however; he knew it was inevitable; he even drew a sigh of relief that the blow had fallen, for a burden is far more easily borne as an actual reality than by anticipation, and applied himself with an almost dogged persistency to his work.

The winter set in early and with unusual severity. The snowfall in the mountains was heavier than had been known in years. Much of the time the canyon road was impassable, making it impracticable for Darrell to visit The Pines with any frequency, even had he wished to do so.

The weeks passed, and ere he was aware the holidays were at hand. By special messenger came a little note from Kate informing him of Walcott's absence and begging him to spend Christmas at the old home. There had been a lull of two or three days in the storm, the messenger reported the road somewhat broken, and early on the morning preceding Christmas the trio, Darrell, Duke, and Trix, started forth, and, after a twelve hours' siege, arrived at The Pines wet, cold, and thoroughly exhausted, but all joyfully responsive to the welcome awaiting them.

Christmas dawned bright and clear; tokens of love and good will abounded on every side, but at an early hour news came over the wires which shocked and saddened all who heard, particularly the household at The Pines. There had been a hold-up on the west-bound express the preceding night, a few miles from Galena, in which the mail and express had been robbed, and the express clerk, a brave young fellow who stanchly refused to open the safe or give the combination, had been fatally stabbed. It was said to be without doubt the work of the same band that had conducted the hold-up in which Harry Whitcomb had lost his life, as it was characterized by the same boldness of plan and cleverness of execution.

The affair brought back so vividly to Mr. Underwood and the family the details of Harry's death that it cast a shadow over the Christmas festivities, which seemed to deepen as the day wore on. Outside, too, gathering clouds, harbingers of coming storm, added to the general gloom.

It was with a sense of relief that Darrell set out at an early hour the following morning for the camp. He realized as never before that the place teemed with painful memories whose very sweetness tortured his soul until he almost wished that the months since his coming to The Pines might be wrapped in the same oblivion which veiled his life up to that period. He was glad to escape from its depressing influence and to return to the camp with its routine of work and study.

This second winter of Darrell's life at camp was far more normal and healthful than the first. His love and sympathy for Kate had unconsciously drawn him out of himself, making him less mindful of his own sorrow and more susceptible to the sufferings of others. To the men at the camp he was far different, interesting himself in their welfare in numerous ways where before he had ignored them. The unusual severity of the winter had caused some sickness among them, and it was nothing uncommon for Darrell to go of an evening to the miners' quarters with medicines, newspapers, and magazines for the sick and convalescent.

He was returning from one of these expeditions late one evening about ten days after Christmas, accompanied by the collie. It had been snowing lightly and steadily all day and the snow was still falling. Darrell was whistling softly to himself, and Duke, who showed a marvellous adaptation to Darrell's varying moods, catching the cue for his own conduct, began to plunge into the freshly fallen snow, wheeling and darting swiftly towards Darrell as though challenging him to a wrestling-match. Darrell gratified his evident wish and they tumbled promiscuously in the snow, emerging at length from a big drift near the office, their coats white, Duke barking with delight, and Darrell laughing like a school-boy.

Shaking themselves, they entered the office, but no sooner had they stepped within than the collie bounded to the door of the next room where he began a vigorous sniffing and scratching, accompanied by a series of short barks. As Darrell, somewhat puzzled by his actions, opened the door, he saw a figure seated by the fire, which rose and turned quickly, revealing to his astonished gaze the tall form and strong, sweet face of John Britton.

For a moment the two men stood with clasped hands, looking into each other's eyes with a satisfaction too deep for words.

After an affectionate scrutiny of his young friend Mr. Britton resumed his seat, remarking,--

"You are looking well--better than I have ever seen you; and I was glad to hear that laughter outside; it had the right ring to it."

"Duke was responsible for that," Darrell answered, with a smiling glance at the collie who had stationed himself by the fire and near Mr. Britton; "he challenged me to wrestle with him, and got rather the worst of it."

A moment later, having divested himself of his great coat, he drew a second seat before the fire, saying,--

"You evidently knew where to look for me?"

"Yes, your last letter, which, by the way, followed me for nearly six weeks before reaching me, apprised me of your return to the camp. I was somewhat surprised, too, after you had established yourself so well in town."

"It was best for me--and for others," Darrell answered; then, noting the inquiry in his friend's eyes, he added:

"It is a long story, but it will keep; there will be plenty of time for that later. Tell me of yourself first. For two months I have hungered for word from you, and now I simply want to listen to you a while."

Mr. Britton smiled. "I owe you an apology, but you know I am a poor correspondent at best, and of late business has called me here and there until I scarcely knew one day where I would be the next; consequently I have received my mail irregularly and have been irregular myself in writing."

Darrell's face grew tender, for he knew it was not business alone which drove his friend from place to place, but the old pain which found relief only in ceaseless activity and an equally unceasing beneficence. He well knew that many of his friend's journeys were purely of a philanthropic nature, and he remarked, with a peculiar smile,--

"Your travels always remind me very forcibly of the journey of the good Samaritan; when he met a case of suffering on the way he was not the one to 'pass by on the other side;' nor are you."

"Perhaps," said Mr. Britton, gravely, "he had found, as others have since, that pouring oil and wine into his neighbor's wounds was the surest method of assuaging the pain in some secret wound of his own."

Darrell watched his friend closely while he gave a brief account of his recent journeys along the western coast. Never before had he seen the lines of suffering so marked upon the face beside him as that night. Something evidently had reopened the old wound, causing it to throb anew.

"I need not ask what has brought you back into the mountains at this time of year and in this storm," Darrell remarked, as his friend concluded.

For answer Mr. Britton drew from his pocket an envelope which Darrell at once recognized as a counterpart of one which had come to him some weeks before, but which he had laid away unopened, knowing only too well its contents.

"I am particularly glad, for Miss Underwood's sake, that you are here," he said; "she feared you might not come, and it worried her."

"Which accounts for the importunate little note which accompanied the invitation," said Mr. Britton, with a half-smile; "but I would have made it a point to be present in any event; why did she doubt my coming?"

"Because of the season, I suppose, and the unusual storms; then, too," Darrell spoke with some hesitation, "she told me she believed you had a sort of aversion to weddings."

"She was partly right," Mr. Britton said, after a pause; "I have not been present at a wedding ceremony for more than twenty-five years--not since my own marriage," he added, slowly, in a low tone, as though making a confession.

Darrell's heart throbbed painfully; it was the first allusion he had ever heard the other make to his own past, and from his tone and manner Darrell knew that he himself had unwittingly touched the great, hidden sorrow in his friend's life.

"Forgive me!" he said, with the humility and simplicity of a child.

"I have nothing to forgive," Mr. Britton replied, gently, fixing his eyes with a look of peculiar affection upon Darrell's face. "You know more now, my son, than the whole world knows or has known in all these years; and some day in the near future you shall know all, because, for some inexplicable reason, you, out of the whole world, seem nearest to me."

A few moments later he resumed, with more of his usual manner, "I am not quite myself to-night. The events of the last few days have rather upset me, and," with one of his rare smiles, "I have come to you to get righted."

"To me?" Darrell exclaimed.

"Yes; why not?"

"I am but your pupil,--one who is just beginning to look above his own selfish sorrows only through the lessons you have taught him."

"You over-estimate the little I have tried to do for you; but were it even as you say, I would come to you and to no one else. To whom did the Divine Master himself turn for human sympathy in his last hours of grief and suffering but to his little band of pupils--his disciples? And in proportion as they had learned of Him and imbibed His spirit, in just that proportion could they enter into his feelings and minister to his soul."

Mr. Britton had withdrawn the cards from the envelope and was regarding them thoughtfully.

"The receipt of those bits of pasteboard," he said, slowly, "unmanned me more than anything that has occurred in nearly a score of years. They called up long-forgotten scenes,--little pathetic, heart-rending memories which I thought buried long ago. I don't mind confessing to you, my boy, that for a while I was unnerved. It did not seem as though I could ever bring myself to hear again the music of wedding-bells and wedding-marches, to listen to the old words of the marriage service. But for the sake of one who has seemed almost as my own child I throttled those feelings and started for the mountains, resolved that no selfishness of mine should cloud her happiness on her wedding day. I came, to find, what I would never have believed possible, that my old friend would sacrifice his child's happiness, all that is sweetest and holiest in her life, to gratify his own ambition. I cannot tell you the shock it was to me. D. K. Underwood and I have been friends for many years, but that did not prevent my talking plainly with him--so plainly that perhaps our friendship may never be the same again. But it was of no avail, and the worst is, he has persuaded himself that he is acting for her good, when it is simply for the gratification of his own pride. I could not stay there; the very atmosphere seemed oppressive; so I came up here for a day or two, as I told you, to get righted."

"And you came to me to be righted," Darrell said, musingly; "'Can the blind lead the blind?'"

Mr. Britton was quick to catch the significance of he other's query.

"Yes, John," he answered, covering Darrell's hand with his own; "I came to you for the very reason that your hurt is far deeper than mine."

Under the magnetism of that tone and touch Darrell calmly and in few words told his story and Kate's,--the story of their love and brief happiness, and of the wretchedness which followed.

"For a while I constantly reproached myself for having spoken to her of love," he said, in conclusion; "for having awakened her love, as I thought, by my own; but gradually I came to see that she had loved me, as I had her, unconsciously, almost from our first meeting, and that the awakening must in any event have come sooner or later to each of us. Then it seemed as though my suffering all converged in sorrow for her, that her life, instead of being gladdened by love, should be saddened and marred, perhaps wrecked, by it."

"Love works strange havoc with human lives sometimes," Mr. Britton remarked, reflectively, as Darrell paused.

"I was tempted at times," Darrell continued, "as I thought of what was in store for her, to rescue her at any cost; tempted to take her and go with her to the ends of the earth, if necessary; anywhere, to save her from the life she dreads."

"Thank God that you did not, my son!" Mr. Britton exclaimed, strangely agitated by Darrell's words; "you do not know what the cost might have been in the end; what bitter remorse, what agony of ceaseless regret!"

He stopped abruptly, and again Darrell felt that he had looked for an instant into those depths so sacredly guarded from the eyes of the world.

"You did well to leave as you did," Mr. Britton said, after a moment's silence, in which he had regained his composure.

"I had to; I should have done something desperate if I had remained there much longer."

Darrell spoke quietly, but it was the quiet of suppressed passion.