"Poor little girl!" said Darrell, pityingly. He understood now the
wistful, appealing look of the brown eyes. He intended to say something
expressive of sympathy, but the right words would not come. He could
think of nothing that did not sound stilted and formal. Almost
unconsciously he laid his hand with a tender caress on the slender
little white hand lying near him, much as he would have laid it on a
wounded bird; and just as unconsciously, the little hand nestled
contentedly, like a bird, within his clasp.
A few days later Darrell heard from Walcott the story of Harry
Whitcomb's love for his cousin. It had been reported, Walcott said, in
low tones, as though imparting a secret, that young Whitcomb was
hopelessly in love with Miss Underwood, but that she seemed rather
indifferent to his attentions. It was thought, however, that the old
gentleman had favored the match, as he had given his nephew an interest
in his mining business, and had the latter lived and proved himself a
good financier, it was believed that Mr. Underwood would in time have
bestowed his daughter upon him.
Darrell listened silently. Of young Whitcomb, of his death, and of his
own part in that sad affair he had often heard, but no mention of
anything of this nature. He sat lost in thought.
"Of course, you know how sadly the romance ended," Walcott continued,
wondering somewhat at Darrell's silence. "I have understood that you
were a witness of young Whitcomb's tragic death."
"I know from hearsay, that is all," Darrell replied, quietly; "I have
heard the story a number of times."
Walcott expressed great surprise. "Pardon me, Mr. Darrell, for referring
to the matter. I had heard something regarding the peculiar nature of
your malady, but I had no idea it was so marked as that. Is it possible
that you have no recollection of that affair?"
"None whatever," Darrell answered, briefly, as though he did not care to
discuss the matter.
"How strange! One would naturally have supposed that anything so
terrible, so shocking to the sensibilities, would have left an
impression on your mind never to have been effaced! But I fear the
subject is unpleasant to you, Mr. Darrell; pardon me for having alluded
to it."
The conversation turned, but Darrell could not banish the subject from
his thoughts. Kate had often spoken to him of her cousin, but never as a
lover. He recalled his portrait at The Pines; the frank, boyish face
with its winning smile--a bonnie lover surely! Had she, or had she not,
he wondered, learned to reciprocate his love before the tragic ending
came? And if not, did she now regret it?