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 assayer 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-assurance, the terms of endearment which fell so flippantly
from his lips, and his bold, passionate 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."