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.