"Our family has always been rich,--I cannot remember when the
Huntingtons were not supposed to have everything they wanted. I myself
have not let the great estates of my ancestors slip through my fingers
as the people about here imagine. Instead,--it may surprise you--I am
richer far than any Huntington has ever been before."
Peggy gave a delighted little gasp.
"Yes, because the values of my holdings have gone right on increasing
and I have used practically nothing for myself, you see. People outside
think that no man would appear to be poor as I do, with none of the
luxuries of life, and really be rich, for the common rule is the other
way, isn't it? Even at the cost of mortgaging house and home most people
buy the outward shows of wealth in order to seem to be rich even though
they are poor.
"My daughter was the most beautiful girl in the state when she was
young. Her mother died when she was eighteen and so just as she began to
want parties and entertainments I was obliged to do all the planning and
looking after her myself. Lovely as she was, and rich beyond the dreams
of neighborhood avarice, I naturally thought she would marry some kingly
young fellow with a position equal to her own. But she didn't--she
married--"
He looked for a long time into the fire, and Peggy ventured to break the
silence, "but that wasn't a very democratic way of looking at things,
was it? Don't you believe a rich girl might like a very poor man, and
the other way round, too?"
"She married, with my reluctant consent, a young fellow who immediately
tried to get me to sell off great portions of my property and turn the
money over to him for investment in some crazy oil well he had out west.
He tried in every way to get control of this or that piece, using
fraudulent means, it seemed to me. Finally he--borrowed a vast sum of
money from a man down state--it was easy for anyone so safely connected
with the Huntington family to borrow whatever he wanted--and this he
sank in the well, which never amounted to anything and gave him no means
of paying even the interest on his debt. With the interest greatly
overdue, and no prospects, howsoever dim, of getting back his money, the
rash investor from down state came to me and demanded that I reimburse
him for my son-in-law's rascality--though perhaps that is too strong a
word to use."
"And you did--_didn't_ you?" begged Peggy, anxiously.
"Of course," agreed her friend. "He knew I would, though he never
mentioned the transaction to me himself, but left the news for his
creditor to break.
"They lived with me here five years and when my little grandson was two
years old, I planned how I could do the most for him, arranging his
education and travels in my mind so that all the bright future I had
hoped for my daughter might be realized in him. But when incidents like
the one I just told you of began to happen frequently and any
considerable sum of money I gave my daughter went also into the stupid
oil proposition that never yielded any profits or, indeed, paid back a
cent of the money that it ate, I determined to go on with the thing no
longer and talked to my daughter and my son-in-law so plainly that they
agreed to go away and not involve me in such transactions again."
Katherine timidly interrupted, "I suppose they--didn't write much after
they'd gone?" She was still puzzling to account for the complete
loneliness the old man had endured for so many years--even the conduct
of his disappointing son-in-law did not, to her mind, wholly explain why
a man would be content to forego all manner of acquaintance and
friendship ever afterward.
The fire crackled loudly and protestingly, as if it, too, shared her
thought and would like an explanation. Peggy never stirred nor moved her
eyes from the thoughtful and sympathetic contemplation of Mr.
Huntington's face.
"No," the old man hesitatingly answered Katherine. "No--You see--, well,
I am afraid I spoke very harshly to the man and my daughter heard. He
made no kind of defense whatever and--even then I--I was ashamed, but I
knew right to be on my side and I felt very long-suffering as it was. My
daughter caught up my grandson and faced me. I shall never forget the
proud expression in her poor, hurt eyes."
"'You shall be paid back every penny, father,' she said, 'if you have to
wait until this baby grows up and earns enough to cancel his father's
debts. It is not likely we could meet so great an obligation by our own
unaided efforts--and Jo is not a moneymaker, but my son shall be trained
to think of nothing but making money until the whole amount is ready to
return to you. We shan't send you little dribbles,--not one cent until
the entire amount is gotten together--oh, I know how much it is, I have
kept track. We shall scrimp and save and earn and plan until you are
paid. Nor will you ever hear of us again if I can help it until my son
stands some day in your doorway with his check in his hand to pay you
back.' And with that they went away--"
"And they haven't ever paid you back? And that is why you were poor for
so long?" questioned Katherine, believing that at last she had the
solution.
Mr. Huntington smiled at the absurdity of this.
"They haven't paid me back, but the sum they owe me scarcely leaves a
perceptible hole in my fortune. No, but the year after they left I
happened to read the notice in a New York paper of my son-in-law's
death. No address was given, nothing but just the notice and that was
all. Knowing my daughter as I did, I was sure that, at whatever cost,
she would persevere in her determination to pay me back and would keep
to the letter of her declaration even to the point of going out into the
world and earning her own living. The thought of that beautiful,
carefully brought-up girl, with so harrowing a responsibility on her
shoulders was more than I could bear and I employed detective agents in
a vain endeavor to find her and her boy. I myself searched everywhere in
the east, but, will you believe me--never from the day she left my house
to this--have I found one trace of her or been encouraged, in any way to
hope that I should ever see her face again. Now do you begin to
understand? Now can you think it natural, perhaps, that I should want to
live as poorly as possible, and deny myself as I knew that poor girl was
doing? Could I continue in luxury when she was in want? Only by making
myself suffer under the most rigid economy, with the idea that every
penny I could save and add to my fortune I would bequeath to her boy, in
case he could ever be found, has made my life possible to endure. I have
felt bitterly toward almost everyone--I don't know why. And I never
expected to have in my life again the sunshine that you and the rest of
my sixty little friends, have brought to me to-day."
Peggy drew a long breath. "Well, it's been a real Thanksgiving, then,
hasn't it? And I'm so glad, Mr. Huntington, I'm so glad you liked the
party--and I--I--I'm sorry about--"
"Do you know," Katherine broke in, "I think it's all coming out right. I
never had such a funny feeling. But someway I seem to be sure that Mr.
Huntington will find his grandson right soon--I don't know why I should
feel this way, but I do."
"Cassandra," murmured Peggy. "We're just having the Fall of Troy in
Greek class now, Mr. Huntington, and Katherine is carried away by the
idea of being a prophetess. It _would_ be nice if we could see the
future," she added wistfully, "but I always feel as if I had more
happiness in the present than I could really take care of,--and if I was
always looking ahead to more--"
"You," said Mr. Huntington, "yes, _you_ would feel that way. Most people
would say that the gift of prophecy was withheld from us in order that
we might not see so much grief and hardship ahead of us that we would
lose the incentive to go on."
But Peggy was so far out of sympathy with that point of view that she
laughed.
The early darkness of the winter afternoon began to deepen in the room
and blur all the shadows together. The dancing firelight did its best to
fight off the dusk, leaping up with spurting little flames and glowing
fiercely red at its heart. But the purple and gray twilight deepened
steadily into black everywhere except in the one bright corner of the
room where the flames still kept guard.
"Well," said Peggy, sighing, and untangling herself from the comfortable
chair in which she had been curled, "time for us to go home, I
suppose--oo--oo--out into all that cold after all this warmth! My
hundred dollars, Mr. Huntington--I don't know what I'll do with it--"
she puckered her brow thoughtfully, "I don't know anyone else to give a
party to so--"
"Buy a big fur coat with it, like some of the other girls wore," advised
the old man, "then you'll never think about going out into the cold as
anything but a pleasure."
"Oh,--a fur coat!" cried Peggy, "why, mine--mine has just the mangiest
bit of a fur collar, and I've been proud enough of that--wait, just
_wait_ till I get a wonderful young caracal!"
With their hands linked closely together in Peggy's muff the two girls
made their way down the walk, and at the street they turned back and
waved cheerily to the silhouetted figure that still watched them against
the glowing doorway of what had once been Gloomy House.