THE AFTERMATH
As Darrell entered his room its dim
solitude seemed doubly grateful after the glare of
the crowded rooms he had lately left. His brain
whirled from the unusual excitement. He wanted
to be alone with his own thoughts alone
with this new, overpowering joy, and assure himself
of its reality. He seated himself by an open
window till the air had cooled his brow, and his brain,
under the mysterious, soothing influence of the night,
grew less confused; then, partially disrobing, he threw
himself upon his bed to rest, but not to sleep.
Again he lived over the last few weeks
at The Pines, comprehending at last the gracious influence
which, entering into his barren, meagre life, had
rendered it so inexpressibly rich and sweet and complete.
Ah, how blind! to have walked day after day hand in
hand with Love, not knowing that he entertained an
angel unawares!
And then had followed the revelation,
when the scales had fallen from his eyes before the
vision of lovely maiden-womanhood which had suddenly
confronted him. He recalled her as she stood awaiting
his tardy recognition recalled her every
word and look throughout the evening down to their
parting, and again he seemed to hold her in his arms,
to look into her eyes, to feel her head upon his breast,
her kisses on his lips.
But even with the remembrance of those
moments, while yet he felt the pressure of her lips
upon his own, pure and cool like the dewy petals of
a rose at sunrise, there came to him the first consciousness
of pain mingled with the rapture, the first dash of
bitter in the sweet, as he recalled the question in
her eyes and the half-whispered, “I wondered
if there might have been a ‘Kathie’ in
the past.”
The past! How could he for one
moment have forgotten that awful shadow overhanging
his life! As it suddenly loomed before him in
its hideous blackness, Darrell started from his pillow
in horror, a cold sweat bursting from every pore.
Gradually the terrible significance of it all dawned
upon him, the realization of what he had
done and of what he must, as best he might, undo.
It meant the relinquishment of what was sweetest and
holiest on earth just as it seemed within his grasp;
the renunciation of all that had made life seem worth
living! Darrell buried his face in his hands
and groaned aloud. So it was only a mockery, a
dream. He recalled Kate’s words: “I
hardly dare go to sleep for fear I will wake up and
find it all a dream,” and self-reproach and remorse
added their bitterness to his agony. What right
had he to bring that bright young life under the cloud
overhanging his own, to wreck her happiness by contact
with his own misfortune! What would it be for
her when she came to know the truth, as she must know
it; and how was he to tell her? In his anguish
he groaned,
“God pity us both and be merciful to her!”
For more than an hour he walked the
room; then kneeling by the bed, just as a pale, silvery
streak appeared along the eastern horizon, he cried,
“O God, leave me not in darkness;
give me some clew to the vanished past, that I may
know whether or not I have the right to this most
precious of all thine earthly gifts!”
And, burying his face, he strove as
never before to pierce the darkness enveloping his
brain. Long he knelt there, his hands clinching
the bedclothes convulsively, even the muscles of his
body tense and rigid under the terrible mental strain
he was undergoing, while at times his powerful frame
shook with agony.
The silvery radiance crept upward
over the deep blue dome; the stars dwindled to glimmering
points of light, then faded one by one; a roseate
flush tinged the eastern sky, growing and deepening,
and the first golden rays were shooting upward from
a sea of crimson flame as Darrell rose from his knees.
He walked to the window, but even the sunlight seemed
to mock him there was no light for him,
no rift in the cloud darkening his path, and with
a heavy sigh he turned away. The struggle was
not yet over; this was to be a day of battle with himself,
and he nerved himself for the coming ordeal.
After a cold bath he dressed and descended
to the breakfast-room. It was still early, but
Mr. Underwood was already at the table and Mrs. Dean
entered a moment later from the kitchen, where she
had been giving directions for breakfast for Kate
and her guests. Both were shocked at Darrell’s
haggard face and heavy eyes, but by a forced cheerfulness
he succeeded in diverting the scrutiny of the one
and the anxious solicitude of the other. Mr.
Underwood returned to his paper and his sister and
Darrell had the conversation to themselves.
“Last night’s dissipation
proved too much for me,” Darrell said, playfully,
in reply to some protest of Mrs. Dean’s regarding
his light appetite.
“You don’t look fit to
go down town!” she exclaimed; “you had
better stay at home and help Katherine entertain her
guests. I noticed you seemed to be very popular
with them last night.”
“I’m afraid I would prove
a sorry entertainer,” Darrell answered, lightly,
as he rose from the table, “so you will kindly
excuse me to Miss Underwood and her friends.”
“Aren’t you going to wait
and ride down?” Mr. Underwood inquired.
“Not this morning,” Darrell
replied; “a brisk walk will do me good.”
And a moment later they heard his firm step on the
gravelled driveway.
Mr. Underwood having finished his
reading of the morning paper passed it to his sister.
“Pretty good write-up of last
night’s affair,” he commented, as he replaced
his spectacles in their case.
“Is there? I’ll look
it up after breakfast; I haven’t my glasses now,”
Mrs. Dean replied. “I thought myself that
everything passed off pretty well. What did you
think of Katherine last night, David?”
The lines about his mouth deepened
as he answered, quietly,
“She’ll do, if she is
my child. I didn’t see any finer than she;
and old Stockton’s daughter, with all her father’s
millions, couldn’t touch her!”
“I had no idea the child was
so beautiful,” Mrs. Dean continued; “she
seemed to come out so unexpectedly some way, just like
a flower unfolding. I never was so surprised
in my life.”
“I guess the little girl took
a good many of ’em by surprise, judging by appearances,”
Mr. Underwood remarked, a shrewd smile lighting his
stern features.
“Yes, she received a great deal
of attention,” rejoined his sister. “I
suppose,” she added thoughtfully, “she’ll
have lots of admirers ’round here now.”
“No, she won’t,”
Mr. Underwood retorted, with decision, at the same
time pushing back his chair and rising hastily; “I’ll
see to it that she doesn’t. If the right
man steps up and means business, all right; but I’ll
have no hangers-on or fortune-hunters dawdling about!”
His sister watched him curiously with
a faint smile. “You had better advertise
for the kind of man you want,” she said, dryly,
“and state that ‘none others need apply,’
as a warning to applicants whom you might consider
undesirable.”
Mr. Underwood turned quickly.
“What are you driving at?” he demanded,
impatiently. “I’ve no time for beating
about the bush.”
“And I’ve no time for
explanations,” she replied, with exasperating
calmness; “you can think it over at your leisure.”
With a contemptuous “Humph!”
Mr. Underwood left the house. After he had gone
his sister sat for a while in deep thought, then, with
a sigh, rose and went about her accustomed duties.
She had been far more keen than her brother to observe
the growing intimacy between her niece and Darrell,
and she had seen some indications on the previous evening
which troubled her, as much on Darrell’s account
as Kate’s, for she had become deeply attached
to the young man, and she well knew that her brother
would not look upon him with favor as a suitor for
his daughter.
Meanwhile, Darrell, on reaching the
office, found work and study alike impossible.
The room seemed narrow and stifling; the medley of
sound from the adjoining offices and from the street
was distracting. He recalled the companions of
his earlier days of pain and conflict, the
mountains, and his heart yearned for their
restful silence, for the soothing and uplifting of
their solemn presence.
Having left a brief note on Mr. Underwood’s
desk he closed his office, and, leaving the city behind
him, started on foot up the familiar canyon road.
After a walk of an hour or more he left the road, and,
striking into a steep, narrow trail, began the ascent
of one of the mountains of the main range. It
still lacked a little of midday when he at last found
himself on a narrow bench, near the summit, in a small
growth of pines and firs. He stopped from sheer
exhaustion and looked about him. Not a sign of
human life was visible; not a sound broke the stillness
save an occasional breath of air murmuring through
the pines and the trickling of a tiny rivulet over
the rocks just above where he stood. Going to
the little stream he caught the crystal drops as they
fell, quenching his thirst and bathing his heated
brow; then, somewhat refreshed, he braced himself
for the inevitable conflict.
Slowly he paced up and down the rocky
ledge, giving no heed to the passage of time, all
his faculties centred upon the struggle between the
inexorable demands of conscience on the one hand and
the insatiate cravings of a newly awakened passion
on the other. Vainly he strove to find some middle
ground. Gradually, as his brain grew calm, the
various courses of action which had at first suggested
themselves to his mind appeared weak and cowardly,
and the only course open to him was that of renunciation
and of self-immolation.
With a bitter cry he threw himself,
face downward, upon the ground. A long time he
lay there, till at last the peace from the great pitying
heart of Nature touched his heart, and he slept on
the warm bosom of Mother Earth as a child on its mother’s
breast.
The sun was sinking towards the western
ranges and slowly lengthening shadows were creeping
athwart the distant valleys when Darrell rose to his
feet and, after silently drinking in the beauty of
the scene about him, prepared to descend. His
face bore traces of the recent struggle, but it was
the face of one who had conquered, whose mastery of
himself was beyond all doubt or question. He
took the homeward trail with firm step, with head
erect, with face set and determined, and there was
in his bearing that which indicated that there would
be no wavering, no swerving from his purpose.
His own hand had closed and bolted the gates of the
Eden whose sweets he had but just tasted, and his conscience
held the flaming sword which was henceforth to guard
those portals.
A little later, as Darrell in the
early twilight passed up the driveway to The Pines,
he was conscious only of a dull, leaden weight within
his breast; his very senses seemed benumbed and he
almost believed himself incapable of further suffering,
till, as he approached the house, the sight of Kate
seated in the veranda with her father and aunt and
the thought of the suffering yet in store for her
thrilled him anew with most poignant pain.
His face was in the shadow as he came
up the steps, and only Kate, seated near him, saw
its pallor. She started and would have uttered
an exclamation, but something in its expression awed
and restrained her. There was a grave tenderness
in his eyes as they met hers, but the light and joy
which had been there when last she looked into them
had gone out and in their place were dark gloom and
despair. She heard as in a dream his answers
to the inquiries of her father and aunt; heard him
pass into the house accompanied by her aunt, who had
prepared a substantial lunch against his return, and,
with a strange sinking at her heart, sat silently
awaiting his coming out.
It had been a trying day for her.
On waking, her happiness had seemed complete, but
Darrell’s absence on that morning of all mornings
had seemed to her inexplicable, and when her guests
had taken their departure and the long day wore on
without his return and with no message from him, an
indefinable dread haunted her. She had watched
eagerly for Darrell’s return, believing that
one look into his face would banish her forebodings,
but, instead, she had read there only a confirmation
of her fears. And now she waited in suspense,
longing, yet dreading to hear his step.
At last he came, and, as he faced
the light, Kate was shocked at the change which so
few hours had wrought. He, too, was touched by
the piteous appeal in her eyes, and there was a rare
tenderness in voice and smile as he suggested a stroll
through the grounds according to their custom, which
somewhat reassured her.
Perhaps Mr. Underwood and his sister
had observed the old shadow of gloom in Darrell’s
face, and surmised something of its cause, for their
eyes followed the young people in their walk up and
down under the pines and a softened look stole into
their usually impassive faces. At last, as they
passed out of sight on one of the mountain terraces,
Mrs. Dean said, with slight hesitation,
“Did it ever occur to you, David,
that Katherine and Mr. Darrell are thrown in each
other’s society a great deal?”
Mr. Underwood shot a keen glance at
his sister from under his heavy brows, as he replied,
“Come to think of it, I suppose
they are, though I can’t say as I’ve ever
given the matter much thought.”
“Perhaps it’s time you did think about
it.”
“Come, Marcia,” said her
brother, good-humoredly, “come to the point;
are you, woman-like, scenting a love-affair in that
direction?”
Mrs. Dean found herself unexpectedly
cornered. “I don’t say that there
is, but I don’t know what else you could expect
of two young folks like them, thrown together constantly
as they are.”
“Well,” said Mr. Underwood,
with an air of comic perplexity, “do you want
me to send Darrell adrift, or shall I pack Puss off
to a convent?”
“Now, David, I’m serious,”
his sister remonstrated, mildly. “Of course,
I don’t know that anything will come of it; but
if you don’t want that anything should, I think
it’s your duty, for Katherine’s sake and
Mr. Darrell’s also, to prevent it. I think
too much of them both to see any trouble come to either
of them.”
Mr. Underwood puffed at his pipe in
silence, while the gleaming needles in his sister’s
fingers clicked with monotonous regularity. When
he spoke his tones lacked their usual brusqueness
and had an element almost of gentleness.
“Was this what was in your mind this morning,
Marcia?”
“Well, maybe so,” his sister assented.
“I don’t think, Marcia,
that I need any one to tell me my duty, especially
regarding my child. I have my own plans for her
future, and I will allow nothing to interfere with
them. And as for John Darrell, he has the good,
sterling sense to know that anything more than friendship
between him and Kate is not to be thought of for a
moment, and I can trust to his honor as a gentleman
that he will not go beyond it. So I rather think
your anxieties are groundless.”
“Perhaps so,” his sister
answered, doubtfully, “but young folks are not
generally governed much by common sense in things of
this kind; and then you know, David, Katherine is
different from us, she grows more and more
like her mother, and if she once got her
heart set on any one, I don’t think anybody even
you could make her change.”
The muscles of Mr. Underwood’s
face suddenly contracted as though by acute pain.
“That will do, Marcia,”
he said, gravely, with a silencing wave of his hand;
“there is no need to call up the past. I
know Kate is like her mother, but she has my blood
in her veins also, enough that when the
time comes she’ll not let any childish sentimentality
stand in the way of what I think is for her good.”
Mrs. Dean silently folded her knitting
and rose to go into the house. At the door, however,
she paused, and, looking back at her brother, said,
in her low, even tones,
“I have said my last word of
this affair, David, no matter what comes of it.
You think you understand Katherine better than I, but
you may find some day that it’s better to prevent
trouble than to try to cure it.”
Meanwhile, Darrell and Kate had reached
their favorite seat beneath the pines and, after one
or two futile attempts at talking, had lapsed into
a constrained silence. To Kate there came a sudden
realization that the merely friendly relations heretofore
existing between them had been swept away; that henceforth
she must either give the man at her side the concentrated
affection of her whole being or, should he prove unworthy, she
glanced at his haggard face and could not complete
the supposition even to herself. He was troubled,
and her tender heart longed to comfort him, but his
strange appearance held her back. At one word,
one sign of love from him, she would have thrown herself
upon his breast and begged to share his burden in
true woman fashion; but he was so cold, so distant;
he did not even take her hand as in the careless,
happy days before either of them thought of love.
Kate could endure the silence no longer,
and ventured some timid word of loving sympathy.
Darrell turned, facing her, his dark
eyes strangely hollow and sunken.
“Yes,” he said, in a low
voice, “God knows I have suffered since I saw
you, but I deserve to suffer for having so far forgotten
myself last night. That is not what is troubling
me now; it is the thought of the sorrow and wretchedness
I have brought into your pure, innocent life, that
you must suffer for my folly, my wrong-doing.”
“But,” interposed Kate,
“I don’t understand; what wrong have you
done?”
“Kathie,” he answered,
brokenly, “it was all a mistake a
terrible mistake of mine! Can you forgive me?
Can you forget? God grant you can!”
“Forgive! Forget!”
she exclaimed, in bewildered tones; “a mistake?”
her voice faltered and she paused, her face growing
deathly pale.
“I cannot think,” he continued,
“how I came to so forget myself, the circumstances
under which I am here, the kindness you and your people
have shown me, and the trust they have reposed in me.
I must have been beside myself. But I have no
excuse to offer; I can only ask your forgiveness,
and that I may, so far as possible, undo what has been
done.”
While he was speaking she had drawn
away from him, and, sitting proudly erect, she scanned
his face in the waning light as though to read there
the full significance of his meaning. Her cheeks
blanched at his last words, but there was no tremor
in her tones as she replied,
“I understand you to refer to
what occurred last night; is that what you wish undone what
you would have me forget?”
“I would give worlds if only
it might be undone,” he answered, “but
that is an impossibility. Oh Kathie, I know how
monstrous, how cruel this must seem to you, but it
is the only honorable course left me after my stupidity,
my cursed folly; and, believe me, it is far more of
a kindness even to you to stop this wretched business
right here than to carry it farther.”
“It is not necessary to consider
my feelings in the matter, Mr. Darrell. If, as
you say, you found yourself mistaken, to attempt after
that to carry on what could only be a mere farce would
be simply unpardonable. A mistake I could forgive;
a deliberate deception, never!”
The tones, so unlike Kate’s,
caused Darrell to turn in pained surprise. The
deepening shadows hid the white, drawn face and quivering
lips; he saw only the motionless, slender figure held
so rigidly erect.
“But, Kathie Miss
Underwood you must have misunderstood me,”
he said, earnestly. “I have acted foolishly,
but in no way falsely. You could not, under any
circumstances, accuse me of deception ”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Darrell,”
she interposed, more gently; “I did not intend
to accuse you of deception. I only meant that,
regardless of any personal feeling, it was, as you
said, better to stop this; that to carry it farther
after you had found you did not care for me as you
supposed or as I was led to suppose ”
She paused an instant, uncertain how to proceed.
“Kathie, Kathie! what are you
saying?” Darrell exclaimed. “What
have I said that you should so misunderstand me?”
“But,” she protested,
piteously, struggling to control her voice, “did
you not say that it was all a mistake on your part that
you wished it all undone? What else could I understand?”
“My poor child!” said
Darrell, tenderly; then reaching over and possessing
himself of one of her hands, he continued, gravely:
“The mistake was mine in that
I ever allowed myself to think of loving you when
love is not for me. I have no right, Kathie, to
love you, or any other woman, as I am now. I
did not know until last night that I did love you.
Then it came upon me like a revelation, a
revelation so overwhelming that it swept all else
before it. You, and you alone, filled my thoughts.
Wherever I was, I saw you, heard you, and you only.
Again and again in imagination I clasped you to my
breast, I felt your kisses on my lips, just
as I afterwards felt them in reality.”
He paused a moment and dropped the
hand he had taken. Under cover of the shadows
Kate’s tears were falling unchecked; one, falling
on Darrell’s hand, had warned him that there
must be no weakening, no softening.
His voice was almost stern as he resumed.
“For those few hours I forgot that I was a being
apart from the rest of the world, exiled to darkness
and oblivion; forgot the obligations to myself and
to others which my own condition imposes upon me.
But the dream passed; I awoke to a realization of
what I had done, and whatever I have suffered since
is but the just penalty of my folly. The worst
of all is that I have involved you in needless suffering;
I have won your love only to have to put it aside to
renounce it. But even this is better far
better than to allow your young life to come one step
farther within the clouds that envelop my own.
Do you understand me now, Kathie?”
“Yes,” she replied, calmly;
“I understand it from your view, as it looks
to you.”
“But is not that the only view?”
She did not speak at once, and when
she did it was with a peculiar deliberation.
“The clouds will lift one day; what then?”
Darrell’s voice trembled with
emotion as he replied, “We cannot trust to that,
for neither you nor I know what the light will reveal.”
She remained silent, and Darrell,
after a pause, continued: “Don’t make
it harder for me, Kathie; there is but one course for
us to follow in honor to ourselves or to each other.”
They sat in silence for a few moments;
then both rose simultaneously to return to the house,
and as they did so Darrell was conscious of a new
bearing in Kate’s manner, an added
dignity and womanliness. As they faced one another
Darrell took both her hands in his, saying,
“What is it to be, Kathie?
Can we return to the old friendship?”
She stood for a moment with averted
face, watching the stars brightening one by one in
the evening sky.
“No,” she said, presently,
“we can never return to that now; it would seem
too bare, too meagre. There will always be something
deeper and sweeter than mere friendship between us, unless
you fail me, and I know you will not.”
“And do you forgive me?” he asked.
She turned then, looking him full
in the eyes, and her own seemed to have caught the
radiance of the stars themselves, as she answered,
simply,
“No, John Darrell, for there is nothing to forgive.”