"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 a.s.sent.

"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 pa.s.s, 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 impa.s.sive 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_

ON THE "DIVIDE"

Summer had merged into autumn. Crisp, exhilarating mornings ushered in glorious days flooded with sunshine, followed by sparkling, frosty nights.

The strike at the mining camp had been adjusted; the union boarding-house after two months was found a failure and abandoned, and the strikers gradually returned to their work. Mr. Underwood, during the shut-down, had improved the time to enlarge the mill and add considerable new machinery; this work was now nearly completed; in two weeks the mill would again be running, and he offered Darrell his old position as a.s.sayer in charge, which the latter, somewhat to Mr.

Underwood's surprise, accepted.

Although his city business was now quite well established, Darrell felt that life at The Pines was becoming unendurable. Walcott's visits were now so frequent it was impossible longer to avoid him. The latter's air of easy self-a.s.surance, the terms of endearment which fell so flippantly from his lips, and his bold, pa.s.sionate glances which never failed to bring the rich, warm blood to Kate's cheeks and brow, all to one possessing Darrell's fine chivalric nature and his delicacy of feeling were intolerable. In addition, the growing indications of Kate's unhappiness, the silent appeal in her eyes, the pathetic curves forming about her mouth, and the touch of pathos in the voice whose every tone was music to his ear, seemed at times more than he could bear.

There were hours--silent, brooding hours of the night--when he was sorely tempted to defy past and future alike, and, despite the conditions surrounding himself, to rescue her from a life which could have in store for her nothing but bitterness and sorrow. But with the dawn his better judgment returned; conscience, inexorable as ever, still held sway; he kept his own counsel as in duty bound, going his way with a heart that grew heavier day by day, and was hence glad of an opportunity to return once more to the seclusion of the mountains.

Kate, realizing that all further appeal to her father was useless, as a last resort trusted to Walcott's sense of honor, that, when he should fully understand her feelings towards himself, he would discontinue his attentions. But in this she found herself mistaken. Taking advantage of the courtesy which she extended to him in accordance with the promise given her father, he pressed his suit more ardently than ever.

"Why do you persist in annoying me in this manner?" she demanded one day, indignantly withdrawing from his attempted caresses. "The fact that my father has given you his permission to pay attention to me does not warrant any such familiarity on your part."

"Perhaps not," Walcott replied, in his low, musical tones, "but stolen waters are often sweetest. If I have offended, pardon. I supposed my love for you would justify me in offering any expression of it, but since you say I have no right to do so, I beg of you, my dear Miss Underwood, to give me that right."

"That is impossible," Kate answered, firmly.

"Why impossible?" he asked.

"Because I will not accept any expressions of a love that I cannot reciprocate."

"Love begets love," he argued, softly; "so long as you keep me at arm's length you have no means of knowing whether or not you could reciprocate my affection. Mr. Underwood has done me the great honor to consent to bestow his daughter's hand upon me, and I have no doubt of yet winning the consent of the lady herself if she will but give me a fair chance."

"Mr. Walcott," said Kate, her eyes ablaze with indignation, "would you make a woman your wife who did not love you--who never could, under any circ.u.mstances, love you?"

Walcott suddenly seized her hands in his, looking down into her eyes with his steady, dominant gaze.

"If I loved her as I love you," he said, slowly, "I would make her my wife though she hated me,--and win her love afterwards! I can win it, and I will!"

"Never!" Kate exclaimed, pa.s.sionately, but he had kissed her hands and was gone before she could recover herself.

In that look she had for the first time comprehended something of the man's real nature, of the powerful brute force concealed beneath the smooth, smiling exterior. Her heart seemed seized and held in a vise-like grip, while a cold, benumbing despair settled upon her like an incubus, which she was unable to throw off for days.