Huntington did not move, or answer her.
“Do you want her to leave by the next stage––and have this all over the Park too––like Haig’s visit? Come!”
He groaned, but followed her. At the door of the living room he caught sight of Marion seated before the fireplace, where only embers glowed dull red.
“I’ll get some wood,” he said quickly, glad of even a few minutes’ grace.
Fortune tossed him a small favor: the wood bin near the kitchen door was empty––almost. Another time that would have brought a storm down on the head of the unlucky stable hand whose duty it was to keep the bin filled. But now Seth rejoiced at having to go to the wood yard, and found it much too near.
He re-entered the house with an armload of sticks, and placed them carefully on the embers; stirred up the glowing mass with a poker; readjusted the fresh wood; provoked the red coals once more; and at last, having exhausted the dilatory possibilities of the fire, stood up clumsily to face the ordeal.
“Well, Marion,” he began awkwardly, “I’m in for it, I reckon.”
She did not reply; she only looked at him. There were dark shadows around her eyes that heightened the pallor of her cheeks; but the eyes themselves were clear and piercing, and as cold now as they had been fiery before. For once in his life Huntington was conscious of his bulk; he felt conspicuous; and the wound in his shoulder, almost healed, began to itch and ache.––There were worse things than being shot.––If she would only turn those eyes away from him! And then it dawned upon him that she was waiting.
“I beg your pardon, Marion!” he stammered. “I was ugly. I didn’t really mean––I hope you’ll forgive me.”