Part 53 (1/2)
”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 embarra.s.sment. 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.