Читать книгу: «The Heart of Thunder Mountain», страница 19

“Want supper! Why, you scrawny, evil-eyed heathen! Want supper! I want everything you’ve got to eat, and everything you haven’t got, and don’t you tell me there’s ’vellee lil’ either, or I’ll break every bone in your body. And be quick about it too!”

Jim hurried into the kitchen with so much of a departure from his oriental poise that the first pan he picked up fell to the floor with a clatter. That was the most eloquent testimonial he could have given, unless it was the supper that was ready for Haig in an hour–and no “velle lil” supper at that–to his participation in the general rejoicing.

Haig, meanwhile, opened the inner door, stepped into the library-bedroom, and halted dead still on the threshold. At his entrance, a tall, thin young man, with a very pale face, rose like an automaton and stared at him. It was a question which of the two was the more amazed.

“Thursby!” cried Haig, recovering the more quickly.

“Haig!”

“Where did you come from?”

“From the other side of the world. And you?”

“From the very bowels of the earth, man!”

They walked slowly toward each other until they met, and clasped hands.

“You found him?” asked Haig, searching the other’s face.

“In Singapore.”

“And then?”

“He’s dead.”

“And she?”

“I’ve sent her back to her people in Devonshire.”

Haig gripped hard the hand that was still clasped in his own, and there was a moment of silence.

“Well,” said Haig, “we’ll have a nip of whisky, and then–You’ve come back to take your ranch, of course.”

“I came back for that, but I can’t figure out that it’s mine now.”

“How’s that?” asked Haig, pouring out the drinks.

“I left three hundred head of cattle, and now I learn there are thirteen hundred head, almost.”

“Don’t let that worry you. I’ve sold enough of the increase to bring back all the money they cost me. So we’re quits.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Be sensible, Haig. First thing, why did you do it?”

“For the fun of it, partly.”

“And after that?”

“Well, your fine ranch here wasn’t making much money, and I thought you’d need a good deal, perhaps, before you got through with your–affair.”

“And yet you say we’re quits!”

“I’m satisfied.”

“But I’m not. You’ll take a half interest, and we’ll go partners.”

“No.”

“I say yes,” persisted Thursby. “But I’m forgetting to ask questions. How the devil did you get back?”

“I will a tale unfold will harrow up thy bones–and the rest of it,” replied Haig, laughing. “But first: when did you arrive?”

“By the last stage in.”

“And what have you told them–my pleasant neighbors?”

“Nothing. But they have the impression that I came for the final payment on the ranch, and that I remained because you were lost in the mountains.”

“Good. Now, old man, I’ll tell you how you can repay me in full for anything you may think I’ve done for you.”

“Go on!”

“Are you ready to assume the responsibility for my acts? I mean in the matter of the land and cattle? The rest is still my affair.”

“Most certainly.”

“Well, then. I’ve very special reasons for needing peace with Huntington.”

Thursby looked at him curiously. This from Philip Haig!

“And you want me to–”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I’ve gone up there before, and I’m going again to-morrow. But I want to give Huntington a chance. So if you’ll go to his house to-morrow morning, and tell him that I’ve finished, that the ranch is not mine, and–”

“But the ranch is yours–or half yours.”

“Never mind about that now. We’ll talk it over later. Just tell Huntington that the ranch is not mine, and never has been, and–whatever else you like. Then say to him that if he still wants to fight me I’ll meet him anywhere, and we’ll settle it. In any event, you will tell him, I’m coming to his place to-morrow afternoon, and I’ll have no gun.”

“I see.”

“And you’ll do it?”

“Of course. With all my heart.”

And he made a thorough job of it. He told them–Huntington, Claire and Marion–that he had been in great trouble. What that trouble was concerned nobody but himself, but it was enough to send him around the world, reckless of everything but the immediate object of his pursuit. Philip Haig, an old friend, had volunteered to look after his ranch for him, and to provide him with money when he needed it. So, if Haig had seemed too aggressive and selfish in his methods, all that he had done had been done in a spirit of–he might say a spirit that was almost quixotic. And having done all this, increasing Thursby’s holdings of cattle four times, Haig refused to accept anything for his time and labor, and insisted that their account was closed.

Marion had known nothing of all this, save for the hints she had received from Smythe, following the conversation overheard by him. Philip had told her nothing of it in recounting his adventures. With glistening eyes she looked from Claire to Huntington, where they sat open-mouthed, and was thrilled with pride and triumph. Claire at length turned, and looked at her, and smiled. As for Huntington, he was simply (as he explained afterwards, seeking to justify his ready acquiescence) flabbergasted.

“This has been a very bitter business, Thursby,” he said. “It’s cost me a lot of cattle and money, and I’ll not take back a thing I’ve said about Haig’s grabbing everything in sight, and ruining his neighbors. But I will say, after what you’ve told me, that–damn it, Thursby! he is a man.”

“He’s ready to fight with you or talk with you, as you wish.”

Huntingdon eyed him suspiciously.

“Did Haig say that?” he demanded.

“He certainly did.”

“Then tell him, if he’s on the square, it’ll be talk.”

Claire, ignoring Thursby’s presence, ran and snuggled close to Seth, while he put his arm around her. But it was at Marion, to Marion, that Seth looked, seeking the approval that he had never before been able to get from her. Their eyes met, and she nodded, smiling.

“Very well!” said Thursby. “He’s coming to see you this afternoon.”

“What?” cried Huntington.

“He’s coming this afternoon. And he wished me to say explicitly that he will have no gun.”

To Huntington this seemed almost incredible. He was heartily sick of the warfare, and glad of any way out of it that would not be too humiliating to himself. But Haig was coming to him; and this meant, surely, that something had occurred to his enemy that would make the event easy for himself, if not quite free from embarrassment. He looked again at Marion; and at last, seeing her radiant countenance, he understood that this was her achievement, that it was for her Haig would be coming unarmed to the house of his bitter foe that afternoon.

“I’m ready,” he said to Thursby, with an elation he was only partly able to conceal.

Smythe was the next visitor, arriving in a state of such contrition that Marion pitied him. His jaunty air was gone. He was quite unable to respond to Marion’s gentle jesting, seeing that her cheeks were still sunken and pale, that the body whose graces he had so much admired was now palpably thin under her loose clothing. He had blamed himself bitterly for the disaster that had overtaken her, and his sufferings had been real and lasting.

“If I’d been half a man I’d never have let you go on alone that day,” he said after she had greeted him brightly, giving him both her hands.

“Oh, indeed!” retorted Marion. “And what would you have done?”

“Gone with you.”

“But I sent you back.”

“I was a fool!”

“A fool to do as I told you, Mr. Smythe?” she demanded archly.

“Yes. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“But I did know what I was doing.”

This come with such depth of feeling that he knew he would no longer be able to bring her news of Philip Haig.

“Then I’m glad,” he said simply.

Presently she told him her story; but much was omitted, especially the keenest of her sufferings, since remorse still haunted Smythe’s solemn eyes.

“And what have you been doing?” she asked.

“Trying to read and study, but it’s been no use.”

“And you’ve lost a year in your career!”

“That’s nothing. I can make it up, if you’ve forgiven me.” She gave him her hand again.

“There’s nothing to forgive!” she answered warmly. “You’ve been a good friend to me. I owe you–more than you know–more than I can tell you–now!”

On that she rose hurriedly, and went to her room for–a handkerchief. It was quite ten minutes before she returned to finish their talk, and to tell him that he must come to see her often through the long months of winter that remained.

CHAPTER XXX
THE LAMP RELIGHTED

Marion, at the window, was the first to see him; and what she saw caused her to clutch at her throat to stifle a cry. He was not on horseback, though the roads were quite passable, but in a sleigh; and there was a jingle of sleigh bells on the frosty air. He had come with the sorrels–for her–at last!

She opened the door for him, giving him her hand–was it possible?–a little shyly. Huntington, at Haig’s entrance, rose from his chair before the fire; and Claire too, clinging to the chimney, scarce able to believe that there would not be such another scene as that of one evening long ago.

Silence, a little awkward for all of them, followed Marion’s greeting, while the two men stood looking at each other. Then Haig walked direct to Huntington, frankly smiling.

“How are you, Huntington? And Mrs. Huntington?” he was saying quietly.

“All well,” replied Huntington, rather stiffly, meaning to be very reserved in this business.

Claire inclined her head without speaking. Her blue eyes were round, her lips parted, and something of the old terror showed in her face, though she knew very well why Haig was there.

“Thursby has told you?” asked Haig.

“Yes,” was Huntingdon’s answer, still putting everything up to his enemy.

“Well then, Huntington, since you’ll deal with Thursby now, I thought we might as well ask each other a few questions, and give straight answers.”

“I’m ready,” said Huntington gruffly.

“Thank you. First, did you drive that bunch of cattle off the cliff?”

“No. But did you scatter those twenty head of mine?”

“No. Both mere accidents undoubtedly. Second, did you advise setting an ambush for me?”

“No. That was–no matter who. I talked them out of it, and was sorry for it afterwards.”

“But you did say you’d drive me out of the Park.”

“Yes, and I’d have done it any way short of–”

“Sending me out in a coffin! But we all lost our tempers, of course.”

“And with good reason on our side,” retorted Huntington stoutly.

“Perhaps. But I’ll ask you to remember that everything I did was open and aboveboard. If any of your cattle strayed, if any of your fences were cut, I had nothing to do with it.”

“I believe you–now, after what Thursby’s told me.”

“Thank you. We make progress. But there are two things more. Who cut the fence of my winter pasture?”

For a moment Huntington was silent, his face reddening.

“I did that,” he replied at length, half defiantly, but in great confusion.

“But why? There was nothing to be gained by that. There were no cattle in the pasture or near it.”

Huntington hesitated, shifting his weight uneasily from his left foot to his right, and back again to the left. Then he looked at Marion, saw the appeal in her eyes, and plunged.

“I wanted to make you angry.”

“To make me angry?”

“To make you do something reckless.”

Haig studied him, and saw that he was dealing with a man who was in some respects, and for all his physical strength, a boy–a child. He felt his anger rising, but put it down resolutely.

“That was very foolish, Huntington!” he said, with some sharpness. “It certainly made me furious, as you saw later at the post-office.”

“But you were wrong to call me a liar and a thief. And that’s something you’ve got to–”

“Got to what?” demanded Haig quickly.

Huntington did not answer at once. Claire’s face, already as pale as it could well be, became drawn and ashen, while Marion, seeing the danger, unconsciously took a step forward, as if to throw herself between the two men. For some tense seconds Huntington and Haig faced each other belligerently.

“Got to what, Huntington?” repeated Haig. “There’s nothing I’ve got to do.”

Huntington had not meant the “got” in the sense in which it was taken by Haig. He had begun to say, “You’ve got to admit that was pretty hard.” But his unfortunate pause on the uncompleted sentence had justified Haig in putting the worst possible construction on the objectionable phrase. And now Huntington could not finish it as he had intended, without seeming to back down, or weaken. Nor could he afford to drop the mischievous word for another. In his desperation he took the boldest course, and made a more aggressive speech by far than any he had rehearsed for the occasion, and forgotten.

“You’ve got to take that back!” he blurted out.

It was Haig’s turn now to ponder deeply. His first impulse was to tell Huntington to go to the devil, and thereupon to walk out of the house. But he had come there to make peace; and he bethought himself in time that to give way to anger would only be to allow Huntington the first victory he had ever had over him. Besides–he turned toward Marion, and saw her face distorted with apprehension. That decided the issue.

“All in good time, Huntington,” he said, with a smile. “Your actions certainly justified everything I said. What have you to say about your scheme to take my horse?”

Huntington groped in vain for one of the crushing retorts that he had valiantly prepared for this meeting. Then he caught Marion’s eye again.

“That was a mistake,” he said. “But I’m no thief and no liar.”

“I grant you’re honest enough, Huntington, when you stop to think. As for Sunnysides, he’s settled that business for himself. And if you’ll give me a straightforward answer on one more point, I’ll acquit you of being a liar.”

“What’s that?”

“You killed my bull, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did! But it was a question of yours or mine. They were fighting, and mine was getting the worst of it.”

“And it never occurred to you to let the best one win?”

“No. I was angry. It was the day that–” He caught himself, and looked in fresh alarm at Marion.

“The day that–” Haig prompted.

“No matter. I was angry. I’ll pay you what the bull was worth.”

“No. Settle that with Thursby. Is there anything more?”

“Nothing except the cause of the whole trouble. You took more than your share.”

“We might talk all day and all night about that, and come to no understanding. But I’ll tell you what I’ve done. I’ve suggested to Thursby that he and you and the rest of them go into a pool. There’s enough pasture for all of you if–”

“That’s an idea!” cried Huntington. “What does Thursby say?”

“He’s willing. He doesn’t like trouble as I–did. He’ll even sell off some of his stock.”

Huntington was silent a moment, looking doubtfully at Haig. Then the best of him rose to the occasion.

“I told Thursby that–I hadn’t anything to take back, but that–you’re a man, for all of it And if you–Damn it! There’s my hand.”

“Done!” said Haig heartily.

“Oh!” cried Claire, breaking away from the mantel, to which she clung through all the interview, trembling between hope and fear. She stepped up to Haig, her eyes shining through tears.

“Mine too!” she said, offering her hand to him.

But when it was all finished there was another awkward interval of silence. For years of controversy and enmity are not so quickly resolved into perfect peace. It was Haig who brought back a certain ease to them.

“Would you mind, Mrs. Huntington, if I asked Miss Gaylord to go for a drive with me?”

“Indeed, no!”

“And if she took dinner with me? I’ll bring her back early.”

“If Marion thinks–”

But Marion, who had stood silent and anxious until then, did not reply to Claire’s glance of inquiry. She heard the last words as if in a dream. But dreams were coming true these days; miracle followed miracle. With a stifled cry she ran past them, and into her room. There she sank down on the edge of the bed, and crossed her hands over her breast, and stared at vacancy, her face burning, a mist before her eyes. Weakness overcame her for a moment. Then she leaped to her feet, dressed quickly for the drive, and went out befurred and radiant to put her arms around Claire and kiss her.

“You’ll be welcome, Haig, if you want to–to come in any time,” Huntington was saying awkwardly.

“I will!” replied Haig.

Then Philip and Marion were gone, and Seth and Claire stood staring at the door.

“Oh, I’m so happy, Seth!” cried Claire at last, holding up her arms to him.

“Umph!” said Huntington, submitting to her ecstatic endearments.

The Park glittered in its robe of white; the sun shone with cold brilliancy out of a steel-blue sky; the air was still and sparkling, stinging their cheeks into a glow as they sped down the valley. Under the runners of the sleigh the dry snow sang and crackled, and flew up in a fine shower like dust of diamonds beneath the swift feet of the sorrels.

Haig gave Marion no chance to say a word while the sleigh went swinging and bounding down the road, and the fields slipped past them in a dazzling succession. When he was not leaning forward to urge the sorrels to greater speed he was talking rapidly. He told her of the scenes at the stable and the cottage on his return, elaborating the description until Marion’s laughter rang above the sounds of their swift traveling. He was talking to keep up his courage, and to postpone the speech that was in his heart and that now, after all, when the time had come, filled him with doubts and fears, and seemed to him the boldest thing he had ever set himself to do. For the first time in ten years he was afraid, and doubtful of himself.

The door of the cottage was thrown open by Slim Jim, in his newest and brightest costume of blue silk. Marion smiled at him as she passed, for she could not trust herself to speak; and then she was in that room whence she had gone one day in utter dejection, praying for a miracle. She stood for a few seconds looking around her, recognizing all the familiar objects: the bed where Haig had undergone his agonies, the table where the medicines had stood, the window and a glimpse of the slope outside, now white instead of yellowing green. There was a roaring fire, and tea things stood on the table.

Silence enveloped them while Philip helped her with her wraps, and saw her seated in an armchair before the fire. Despite the color that the cold drive had brought into her cheeks, her features were still pinched and pale. Many weeks would be required, a summer perhaps, to restore her to what she had been before her terrible experience. And yet she seemed to him more beautiful than ever. Watching her furtively and anxiously, he endured a raging conflict of emotions, recalling with a poignant feeling of shame all that he had said to her in that room and elsewhere, in return for what she had done for him. An impulse seized him to rush to the door and lock it, to turn on her savagely, forbidding her to leave him as he had forbidden her to come to him. For all the proofs he had had of her love and devotion seemed inadequate to quiet the doubts he now confessed. He found speech strangely difficult; he went out of the room twice to give quite unnecessary instructions to Jim; and returned to busy himself arranging things in the room that obviously needed no arranging.

“Thursby was good enough to go somewhere to-day, and let us have the cottage,” he managed to say at length. “Do you mind if we are quite alone?”

“Philip!” she responded reproachfully. “How you talk!”

“Then we’ll have tea.”

He called the Chinaman, who brought in the steaming teapot, the hot milk, and the buttered toast. Marion poured the tea in silence. They drank, too, almost in silence, and nibbled at the toast, forgetful that two days before, and for three dreadful months, tea and toast and milk, served on a table laid with white linen, would have seemed like a heavenly dispensation. Their very experience in the cave, which had broken down so many barriers between them, seemed to have reared a new one that neither understood. It was Marion who made a beginning to scale that barrier.

“You have made Claire very happy, Philip,” she said.

“That was easy,” he answered.

“But it was grand!”

“And you too–a little?” he ventured.

“You know that, Philip!” And then, a little mischievously: “Remember I tried to make peace between you once.”

“And a fine job you made of it!” he retorted.

Then they both laughed, and lapsed again into silence. But presently Haig arose, went to a cabinet standing against the wall, and brought back a faded photograph, which he handed to her.

“My father,” he said.

She saw a face that seemed a little sad, but the kindest of eyes, with a half serious twinkle in them.

“The dear man!” she exclaimed softly.

“We were great friends,” he said. “We used to take long walks together of a Sunday afternoon. He was a silent man, rather, and we did not talk much, but–shall I tell you one thing he used to say to me, often?”

“Yes, Philip.”

“I believed it then. But things happened to make me think that father was mistaken. For ten years I didn’t believe it at all.”

“What was it, Philip?”

“He used to say: ‘My boy, there’s only one thing in the world that’s worth while. And that is love.’”

“Why, that’s what Daddy always said, almost his very words!” she cried, her eyes filling.

“If I only knew–” he began.

But she could endure no more. She rose swiftly to her feet, her eyes devouring him, her arms stretched out.

“Marion!” he cried, and leaped to catch her, and folded her close, as he had clasped her in the cave. But now the arms that stole up around his neck did not fall away weakly as before, but tightened, and held him.

A long time they remained thus, in a silence broken only by the crackling of the flames, which they did not hear, and the wind rising outside the cottage, for which they did not care. At length he put his fingers under her chin, and raised her head so that he could look into her eyes.

“I believe it now!” he said.

“It’s true!” she answered, so low that he scarcely heard it.

“I love you!”

“I’ve loved you always!”

Then even in her joy the recollection of all that she had come through to this moment brought back that quivering of her chin, which had become only too familiar to him in days past. His head sank toward her, and their lips met.

After a while he led her back to her chair, and knelt down to look up at her. For there were other difficulties. He had nothing to give her, he said; neither riches nor family nor honor nor any future of which he could be assured. She stopped him, with a hand laid gently on his lips. He held it there, kissing it. How it had toiled and hurt for him, that little hand, still rough and scarred!

“Can you ever forgive me?” he pleaded.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Philip. You did not understand.”

“There! You’re treating me like a child again!” he protested, smiling contentedly.

“And once you scolded me dreadfully for that!”

“But you were right. I’ve been a child; for ten years I’ve been a child that thought it was a man.”

She did not reply to that, fearing to wound him. So another golden silence fell between them, while he held her hands, stroking the hard, cracked skin of them. After a while he brought a chair, and sat close by her side, and told her all that had been left untold,–about his boyhood, his ambitions, his ignorance and innocence, his work in Paris and the future it seemed to hold for him; and then the girl on the Seine boat, and what he saw one night in her apartment, and his despair; his father’s death, and the wanderings that followed; and how the shy and introspective boy had become in one day a man of violence and desperation, his heart full of hatred and bitterness.

“And so I thought, Marion, that you were all alike; not alike in all things, but the virtuous more dangerous than the vicious, because more calculating and cold. You even–I thought you were the most dangerous of all. I knew you were good, but I said your goodness was only another form of selfishness, that you had been reared in luxury, and taught to expect as your right many things you had never earned and never could earn or deserve. I said–Wait, dear–I said that the man who should marry you would be nothing but a beast of burden, a slave. It was so difficult to believe you could be content with–”

“With love!” she whispered.

“But can you?” he demanded, a ghost of the old incredulity rising in spite of all.

“I haven’t told you about Robert,” she said softly. “He has wealth, and will have much more. He loves me. He offered me all, to do with it as I wished. I’ve known him all my life–almost. He’s good too, poor Robert! But that day, after you’d told me that I must go back to New York at once, I–”

“Marion!” Haig cried.

“No, listen! I told him that day that I could never marry him. He couldn’t understand–like you, Philip. He thought–dear Robert!–he thought that money–I know it’s what they want most–so many women. But, Philip, dear heart! Don’t you know that if a woman really loves there’s nothing she won’t do–on her hands and knees–to the end of the world? And if she has love, what else is there–that matters?”

“I didn’t know,” he answered, “and I couldn’t have believed it until–that day in the cave, when you fell ill.”

He told her then of the revelation that had come to him, and how he had taken her in his arms, in a fury of love and despair.

“But I thought it was a dream!” she murmured.

“No. I found you then–and myself–and thought it was too late!”

Later, across the table, when Slim Jim had brought in the after-dinner coffee, Haig looked at her gravely, and said:

“May I become very practical for a minute, Marion?”

“Yes, but not too practical.”

“Well, it’s like this: I’ve got–”

He paused to reach for her hand, to clasp it on the cloth.

“When, Marion?” he asked, leaning toward her.

“Oh, we must talk with Claire about that, mustn’t we?” she protested, blushing. Then softly: “She’s the only mother I’ve got, you see. And besides, there’s no–”

“No, not even a justice of the peace!” he said, laughing. “We might strap on our old snowshoes, and go to Tellurium.”

“The idea!”

“Well, listen. Do you know what I’ve been thinking?”

She shook her head.

“Paris.”

“Paris?” she repeated, a little startled, after all that he had revealed to her.

“Yes. I’ve got a little money in the bank in Tellurium, and I–”

“You needn’t be so proud of it!” she retorted. “So have I, in New York. So you needn’t think it’s your money I’m after, sir!”

They laughed, and then he had both her hands across the table.

“It isn’t much, I assure you,” he went on. “But it will do for a while in Paris. I mean–if you will go with me–to find my old master, or another. You know, Marion, he said to me many times: ‘You’re going to be a painter some day, mon petit; you’re going to do big things, if you’ll work, work, work.’ And so–”

“You’ll paint again!” she cried. “Oh, and I shall keep house for you! You may not believe it, but I’m a splendid cook. But I’ve got to have salt. You must earn enough to buy salt!”

“I’ll try.”

At that he rose, and went again to the cabinet from which he had brought the photograph, and returned with his hands behind his back.

“What do you suppose I’ve got for our mantelpiece–if we have such a thing in our attic?”

“What in the world, Philip?”

“Shut your eyes, please!”

She obeyed, and in the middle of the table he set down the tattered and grimy little boot that he had carried away from the cave.

“Now open!” he commanded.

“Oh!” she cried, staring at the eloquent memento.

Then she flung back her head, with a quick indrawing of her breath, and looked up at him through a bright mist that gathered in her eyes. And her face was radiant.

He went quickly to her, and leaned down to kiss her hair, her eyes, her lips; and her arms crept once more around his neck.