A. Maynard Barbour

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 tÊte À tÊte 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 entrÉe 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 rÔle 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."