QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
Hillyer was waiting for her at the barn when she came at last, with a
smile that eased his anxiety, if only in an inconsiderable degree. But
he saw, as he took her handbag and bundle, and placed them in the
automobile, that she had been crying. This gladdened while it angered
him, and he was lost among the many interpretations that might be put
upon those signs of distress. Had she come to the end of her
infatuation? Had she been subjected to insults as the reward of her
service? He dared not ask her such questions--not yet; but he was
resolved (and there were material reasons, too, for that decision) to
have his own case settled, one way or another, at once.
Neither of them spoke more than a conventional word or two until
Hillyer, after full speed down Haig's road to the junction, slowed up
on the main highway along the Brightwater. It was the serenest of
summer evenings, very still and fragrant, with a touch of autumn in
the air. The eastern sky was filled with pale golds and pinks, and the
foothills were warm with purples. Marion's face was averted from
Hillyer, and her eyes were fixed, not on the soft alternations of
color in the sky, but on Thunder Mountain, where the only clouds to be
seen in all the expanse of blue lay low upon its uncompromising head.
"Marion!" said Hillyer, at length.
She did not miss the note in his voice that exposed his intention, but
long preparation for this moment enabled her to face him calmly.
"Yes, I know, Robert," she said. "You have much to say to me."
"I'm going to-morrow," he began abruptly. "Will you go with me?"
"To-morrow? Go with you?" she repeated, with a little start of
surprise.
"Yes. Will you go with me?"
"But I don't understand, Robert."
"I must be in Denver the day after to-morrow."
"I--I didn't know your time was so short. I'm afraid--I've spoiled
your visit."
"That doesn't matter, Marion, if you'll go back with me."
"But I can't--just yet."
"Why not?"
"I'm not ready. I haven't half finished my visit with Claire."
She was, after all, somewhat confused, for she had not expected him to
approach the subject in just this way.
"But the summer is almost gone. It's near the end of August,"
persisted Hillyer.
"There's another month of good weather. And September, Claire says, is
the most beautiful of all."
"That may be, unless Huntington's right. He told me only yesterday
that it's going to be an early winter. There's come a chill in the air
even since I've been here."
"Nonsense!" she replied, recovering her composure. "I'll go out with
the last stage."
"And get caught in an avalanche or something!"
"I suppose Seth does want to get rid of me!" she said, with a faint
laugh.
"That's not it at all."
"Well, I'm not afraid."
"But suppose you stay too late, and get caught. You'd have to remain
here all winter. The Park, Huntington says, is as tight as a jail
after the snows come."
"Claire stays here through the winter sometimes."
He felt a fresh alarm, and showed it. It would be just like her! he
thought.
"See here, Marion!" he said, plunging at last. "I've obeyed your order
not to say anything about--the future. I meant not to say anything
until the time was up. But you must see I can't keep silent now,
after--what's happened. You must know I can't go away and leave you
without knowing what--it all means. You said you'd tell me as soon as
you'd finished nursing--him. No, wait, please! Let me say it at once.
You know I love you. I want you to marry me. I need you, Marion.
There's never been an hour, a minute that I haven't thought of you. I
can't work--I can't do anything without you. I love you more than--"
"Stop, Robert!" she cried. "You're making it harder for both of us."
"Harder--for--both of us?" he repeated slowly.
"Yes."
There was a moment's silence. Hillyer, while he spoke, had
half-consciously stopped the automobile, which stood now, humming
softly, in the middle of the road that stretched white and empty ahead
of them and behind them. The night breeze had risen, blowing cold from
the snows, and the shadows were creeping down into the valley, as if
they came from dark caverns in the hills.
"Robert," she said sadly. "It's no use. I must tell you. I--I can't
marry you."
"Why?"
"You make me say it!" she cried. "Well, Robert, I--I don't love you."
"I'm not asking you to love me!" he rejoined, almost savagely. "I only
ask you--"
"Listen!" she interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. "That's not
all."
"You mean--"
She stopped him with a pressure on his arm.
"Once, not knowing, I almost consented," she went on. "But something
checked me--held me back. You remember how restless I was--how
troubled. You would have laughed at me if I had told you. But
something seemed to be calling me--a voice from a long distance. I
laughed at myself for a foolish girl--at first. I said it was nerves,
and I fought against it. And it was then that I came nearest to saying
yes to you, thinking that I was indeed foolish in holding back. I
liked you. I've always liked you, Robert. You'd been such a splendid
friend, and I was grateful. I wanted to repay you--"
She stopped suddenly, and a flush mounted swiftly into her pale
cheeks. Repay! The word recalled sharply to her, acutely and
painfully, all that Haig had said about paying her. Were they, then,
in the same dreadful situation, she and Haig, with debts they could
never pay? For the first time some sense of the terrible finality of
his decision struck in upon her secret hopes.
"Don't talk of that!" Robert was saying, seizing the moment of
silence. "I never--"
"But always, when I was about to yield--I couldn't. I didn't know why
then. But now I do."
"You mean--Haig?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yes."
"You don't--" He could not bring himself to speak the word.
"Yes, Robert. I love him."
It took all the courage she possessed. But she owed it to him and to
herself.
"I don't believe it!" he blurted out. "I won't believe it! You are not
yourself, Marion. You are worn out. You have been fascinated. He's
strange--different--new to you. It's your imagination, not your heart,
that's been--won. He's led you on by--"
"No!" she broke in. "You're quite wrong. It's not his fault at all. He
doesn't love me."
"Of course not. I know that kind of fellow. You didn't need to leave
New York to find plenty like him. He only wants to--"
"Robert!" she cried warningly.
"Then what--"
"He hates me, I think," she replied sadly.
"Then why in the world do you--" He was floundering. "What do you know
about him, anyhow? Who is he? Where did he come from?"
That sounded so much like Seth Huntington that she smiled, thinking of
the picture that he must have drawn for Hillyer.
"I know very little about him," she replied quietly. "But I know that
Cousin Seth is mistaken."
"But how do you know he hates you?"
"He made that clear in the beginning--not me alone, but all women. He
shunned me. He told me twice that I must not speak to him again. And
this afternoon, while you waited for me--" Her voice broke, with a
laugh that was half a sob. "He--finished it."
"He was rude to you!" he cried. "I'll make him--"
She put her hand quickly on his arm.
"No. He was very gentle--and kind."
"What did he say?" Hillyer demanded, almost imperatively.
"He said that--he couldn't leave the ranch just now, so I'd better go
back to New York--at once."
"He did, did he?" cried Hillyer angrily, his chivalry for the moment
dominant. But then he saw suddenly another meaning, for him, in the
brutal ultimatum; and his face brightened. "That settles it, doesn't
it?" he exclaimed eagerly.
"Settles what?"
"Why, you'll go with me!"
"No."
"What do you mean?"
"I told you I'm not ready yet."
There was a silence while Hillyer, buoyed up with new hope, made some
hurried calculations.
"Then listen, Marion!" he said. "I'll go to Denver, and come back in a
week or ten days. I'll arrange things so that I can stay here
until--"
"Oh, Robert! You won't understand."
He stared at her blankly.
"You're making it so hard for me!" she cried pathetically. "I've told
you already that I cannot marry you."
"But why! Why!" he persisted.
"Because I haven't myself--I've nothing to give."
"But how can you love him after he has--"
"Told me he does not love me?" she said, taking the words from him.
"Then how can you love me when I have said the same thing to you?"
He struggled desperately, in deep water.
"It's different, Marion. You don't hate me--I think. You say you like
me. That's enough now--to start with. It's all I ask. I'll try to make
you happy, and I'll wait for love. You shall have all the things in
the world you want. I'm making scads of money. Everything I touch just
rolls up into bank notes. I want you to come and spend all that money
for me. Remember, Marion, your father wished it. If he were here
now--"
"Yes!" she put in with sudden fire. "If he were here now do you know
what he would say to me?"
He felt that he had blundered, and made no reply.
"He would say to me--Oh, I can hear him now! He would say: 'Follow
your heart, daughter. Love's the only thing in the world that really
counts.'"
She smiled triumphantly, but wistfully. And Hillyer was still silent.
"Daddy wasn't very good at quoting Scripture," she went on musingly,
"but he used to say: 'Better a dinner of herbs where love is than a
stalled ox and hatred therewith.'"
"But there isn't any hatred therewith!" cried Hillyer desperately. "I
love you, Marion, and if you don't love me--you don't hate me. So
there's more than half of it, and--can't we trust the future a little
bit?"
"No."
"But what are you going to do?" he asked, shifting his line of
attack.
"I don't know," she replied, with a helpless gesture.
"You can't go back to New York without money enough to take your
proper place in the world. Of course, if you'll let me, I'll--"
"Robert!" she interrupted sharply.
"Well, I mean it just the same!" he replied stoutly. "I've got to
take care of you, and if you won't--See here, Marion! I simply
refuse to be turned down this way. I'll not take your stubborn, whimsy
little 'no' for my answer. You're on my hands, thank God! whether you
like it or not. Maybe you won't love me. Maybe you won't marry me.
We'll see about that! But I'm going to look after you--I'm going to
take care of you, just the same--and you can just stop tightening
those lips--they're not as red as they ought to be--and you can make
up your mind that you can boss me so far and no farther."
Marion smiled at him indulgently, but gratefully, and even a little
proudly; for she had been very proud of him in the days when only
friendship was spoken of. She did not in the least resent his speech;
but neither did she answer him.
"It's getting late, Robert," she said, shivering a little.
"So it is," he replied. "And you've no warm wrap for the night air."
He drew the lap-robe around her, and started the automobile. Through
the gathering night they drove, almost without speaking, to
Huntington's, where the best supper that Claire could contrive from
the limited stores at her disposal awaited the prodigal. There was
naturally some constraint at table. Huntington had made his peace with
Hillyer, having apologized humbly, and expatiated on the cause of his
wrath. But he did not know how he stood with Marion, who had been a
long time in the camp of the enemy, and who doubtless knew too of his
speech about her trunks. He had not dared to ask Hillyer whether he
had related that incident to her, and he felt the need of extreme
discretion until he should discover what kind of a rod she had in
pickle for him, or, at any rate, until the time should be propitious
to tell her that he was sorry for his conduct. Marion was tired, and
disinclined to talk, while Hillyer, on his side, had his mind fully
occupied, between his deal in mines and his deal in love, in both of
which he had encountered unexpected difficulties. Only Claire was gay
and untroubled, and she accepted eagerly the task of saving the party
from awkward silences. For once in many moons she was allowed to talk
unchecked, and she made the most of her opportunity.
After supper, Marion announced her purpose to go to bed at once. She
was sure, she declared, that she could sleep "around the clock."
"I'll be off before you're up, then," said Hillyer.
"You must go to-morrow?" asked Claire.
"Absolutely. It means thousands."
"Then we'll sit on the veranda a few minutes," said Marion. "Not long,
though. I'm dreadfully sleepy."
It was not long. They found they had little to say to each other,
since the one subject of which both were thinking, each from a
different point of view, was tacitly barred. And Hillyer soon saw that
Marion was sorely in need of rest.
"Go to bed now, dear girl!" he said presently. "And please take good
care of yourself. I want to see the color back in your cheeks when I
return."
"I will, Robert," she answered. "I'll be quite all right in a day or
two."
"And you--don't really think of staying here all winter?" he ventured
to ask diffidently.
"No," she replied. "That's hardly possible."
"Then good-by--until you hear my horn in the road down yonder."
"Good-by, Robert, and good luck!"
She gave him both her hands, for a moment, with a tenderness that
lingered with him far on his way.