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The Bachelors: A Novel

by William Dana Orcutt · English · Gutenberg #33565 · 611,564 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Bachelors: A Novel

Author: William Dana Orcutt


        
Release date: August 28, 2010 [eBook #33565]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33565

Credits: Produced by Annie McGuire


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BACHELORS: A NOVEL ***




Produced by Annie McGuire








[Illustration: "LAUGH IF YOU LIKE; I SHAN'T MIND. THE MORE RIDICULOUS
YOU MAKE IT THE SHORTER WORK IT WILL BE."--_See page 244_]




THE BACHELORS
A NOVEL


BY
WILLIAM DANA ORCUTT

AUTHOR OF
"THE MOTH," "THE LEVER," "THE SPELL," ETC.


[Illustration]


HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCMXV


COPYRIGHT, 1915
BY HARPER & BROTHERS




       *       *       *       *       *

THE BACHELORS

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *

I

       *       *       *       *       *


They were discussing Huntington and Cosden when the two men entered the
living-room of the Club and strolled toward the little group indulging
itself in relaxation after a more or less strenuous afternoon at golf.
It was natural, perhaps, that no one quite understood the basis upon
which their intimacy rested, for entirely aside from the difference in
their ages they seemed far separated in disposition and natural tastes.
Cosden's dynamic energy had made more than an average golf-player of
Huntington, and in other ways forced him out of the easy path of least
resistance; the older man's dignity and quiet philosophy tempered the
cyclonic tendencies of his friend. The one met the world as an
antagonist, and forced from it tribute and recognition; the other, never
having felt the necessity of competition, had formed the habit of taking
the world into his confidence and treating it as a friend.

These differences could not fail to attract the attention of their
companions at the Club as day after day they played their round
together, but this was the first time the subject had become a topic of
general conversation. The speaker sat with his back to the door and
continued his remarks after the newcomers came within hearing, in spite
of the efforts made by those around to suppress him. The sudden hush and
the conscious manner of those in the group would have conveyed the
information even if the words had not.

"So you're giving us the once over, are you?" Cosden demanded, dropping
into a chair. "You don't mean to say that the golf autobiographies have
become exhausted?"

"I never heard myself publicly discussed," added Huntington as he, too,
joined the party. "I am already experiencing a thrill of pleasurable
excitement. Don't stop. Connie and I are really keen to learn more of
ourselves."

"Well," the speaker replied, with some hesitation, "there's no use
trying to make you believe we were listening to Baker's explanation of
how the bunkers have been located exactly where the golf committee knows
his ball is going to strike--"

"Heaven forbid!" Huntington exclaimed; "but don't apologize. I
congratulate the Club that the members are at last turning their
attention to serious things. 'Tell the truth and shame the
devil'--provided it is Connie, and not me, you are going to shame."

"Don't mind me in the least," Cosden added. "My hide is tough, and I
rather like to be put through the acid test once in a while."

"Oh, it isn't as bad as all that," the speaker explained. "We love you
both, but in different ways, yet we can't make out just where you two
fellows hitch up. Now, that isn't _lese-majeste_, is it?"

"What do you think, Connie?" Huntington asked, lighting his pipe. "Is
that an insult or a compliment?"

"I don't see that it makes much difference from this crowd. We don't
care what they say about us as long as they pay us the compliment of
noticing us. That's the main point, and I'm glad we've been able to
start something."

"But why don't you tell us?" insisted the speaker. "You aren't
interested in anything Monty cares for except golf, and he hasn't even a
flirting acquaintance with business, which is your divinity, yet you two
fellows have formed a fine young Damon and Pythias combination which we
all envy. Why don't you tell us how it happened?"

"I don't know," Cosden answered, serious at last and speaking with
characteristic directness. "I never stopped to think of it; but if we're
satisfied, whose concern is it, anyhow?"

"If friendship requires explanation, then it isn't friendship," added
Huntington. "Connie contributes much to my life which would otherwise be
lacking, and I hope that he would say the same of my relation to him."

"Of course--that goes without saying; but neither one of you is telling
us anything. If you would explain your method perhaps we might become
more reconciled to some of these misfits lying around the Club--like
Baker over there--"

"We have a thousand members--" Baker protested.

"What has that to do with the present discussion?"

"Why pick on me?"

"Which is the misfit in my combination with Monty?" Cosden demanded.

"I'm not labeling you fellows," the speaker disclaimed--"I couldn't if I
tried; but each of you is so different from the other that such a
friendship seems inconsistent."

There was a twinkle in Huntington's eye as he listened to the persistent
cross-examination. "We are bachelors," he said quietly. "That should
explain everything; for what is a bachelor's life but one long
inconsistency? If our friends were all alike what would be the need of
having more than one? This friend gives us confidence in ourselves,
another gives us sympathy; this friend gives us the inspiration which
makes our work successful, another is the balance-wheel which prevents
us from losing the benefit which success brings us. Each fills a
separate and unique place in our lives, and, after all, the measure of
our life-work is the sum of these friendships."

The two responses demonstrated the difference between the men. William
Montgomery Huntington came from a Boston family of position where wealth
had accumulated during the several generations, each steward having
given good account to his successor. He had taken up the practice of law
after being graduated from Harvard--not from choice or necessity, but
because his father and his grandfather had adopted it before him. His
practice had never been a large one, but the supervision of certain
trust estates, handed over to his care by his father's death, entailed
upon him sufficient responsibility to enable him to maintain his
self-respect.

It would have been a fair question to ask what Montgomery Huntington's
manner of life would have been if his father had not been born before
him. He lived alone, since his younger brother married, in the same
house into which the family moved when he was an infant in arms. Modern
improvements had been introduced, it is true, in the building just as in
the generation itself; but the walls were unchanged. The son succeeded
to the father's place in directorates and on boards of trustees in
charitable institutions, and he performed his duties faithfully, as his
predecessor had done. Now, at forty-five, he had reached a point where
he found it difficult to distinguish between his working and his leisure
hours.

Cosden's heritage had been a healthy imagination, a robust constitution,
and an unbelievable capacity for work. Even his uncle Conover, from whom
he had a right to expect compensation for the indignity of wearing his
name throughout a lifetime, had left him to work out his own salvation.
His parents had never worn the purple, but, being sturdy, valuable
citizens, they spent their lives in fitting their son to occupy a
position in life higher than they themselves could hope to attain; and
Cosden had made the most of his opportunities. Seven years Huntington's
junior, he had succeeded in a comparatively short time in extracting
from his commercial pursuits a property which, from the standpoint of
income, at least, was hardly less than his friend's. He, too, was a
product of the university, but his name would be found blazoned on the
annals of Harvard athletics rather than in the archives of the Phi Beta
Kappa. His election as captain of the football team was a personal
triumph, for it broke the precedent of social dominance in athletics,
and laid the corner-stone for that democracy which since then has given
Harvard her remarkable string of victories. The same dogged
determination, backed up by real ability, which forced recognition in
college accomplished similar results in later and more serious
competitions. In the business world he was taken up first because he
made himself valuable and necessary, and he held his advantage by virtue
of his personal characteristics.

Cosden was not universally popular. He won his victories by sheer force
of determination and ability rather than by diplomacy or finesse. In
business dealings he had the reputation of being a hard man, demanding
his full pound of flesh and getting it, but he was scrupulously exact in
meeting his own obligations in the same spirit. To an extent this
characteristic was apparent in everything he did; but to those who came
to know him it ceased to be offensive because of other, more agreeable
qualities which went with it. They learned that, after all, money to him
was only the means to an end which he could not have secured without it.

To the man whose ruling passion is his business it is natural to measure
himself and his actions by the same yardstick which has yielded full
return in his office; to him whose property stands simply as a counter
and medium of exchange the measure of life is inevitably different. The
good-natured chaffing at the Club was forgotten by Huntington before he
stepped into his automobile, but it still remained in Cosden's mind. As
the car rolled out of the Club grounds he turned to his companion.

"Monty," he said, "what is there so different about us that it attracts
comment?"

"We should have found out if you hadn't snapped together like a steel
trap. There was the chance of a lifetime to learn all about ourselves,
and you shut them off by saying, 'If we're satisfied, whose concern is
it, anyhow?'"

"Of course we are different," Cosden continued; "that's only natural. No
two fellows are alike. I wonder if what you said about our being
bachelors hasn't more truth than poetry in it.--Give me a light from
your pipe."

"What is the connection?"

Cosden suddenly became absorbed and gave no sign that he heard the
question. When he spoke his words seemed still more irrelevant.

"Monty," he said seriously, "I want you to take a little trip with me
for perhaps two or three weeks, or longer. What do you say?"

Huntington showed no surprise. "It might possibly be arranged," he said.

Again Cosden relapsed into silence, puffing vigorously at his cigar as
was his habit when excited. Huntington watched him curiously, wondering
what lay behind.

"Did you ever try smoking a cigar with a vacuum cleaner?" he asked
maliciously. "They say it draws beautifully, and consumes the cigar in
one-tenth the time ordinarily required by a human being."

Cosden was oblivious to his raillery. "What do you think of marriage?"
he demanded abruptly.

The question, and the serious manner in which it was asked, succeeded in
rousing Huntington to a point of interest.

"What do I think of-- So that's the idea, is it, Connie? That's why you
picked me up on what I said about bachelors? Good heavens, man! you
haven't made up your mind to marry me off like this without my consent?"

"Of course not," Cosden answered, with some impatience; "but what do you
think of the idea in general?"

Huntington looked at his companion with some curiosity. "Well," he said
deliberately, "if you really ask the question seriously, I consider
marriage an immorality, as it offers the greatest possible encouragement
to deceit."

Cosden sighed. "You are a hard man to talk to when you don't start the
conversation. I really want your advice."

"Would it be asking too much to suggest that you throw out a few hints
here and there as to the real bearing of your inquiry, so that I may
come fairly close on the third guess?"

"I've decided to get married," Cosden announced.

"By Jove!" The words brought Huntington bolt upright in his seat. "You
don't really mean it?"

"That's just what I mean. It occurred to me on the way home from the
office last night. What you said about a bachelor's life being an
inconsistency reminded me of it. I believe you're right."

Huntington regarded him for a moment with a puzzled expression on his
face; then he relaxed, convulsed with laughter. Cosden was distinctly
nettled.

"This doesn't strike me as the friendliest way in the world to respond
to a fellow's request for advice on so serious a subject."

"You don't want to consult me," Huntington insisted, checking himself;
"what you need is a specialist. When did you first feel the attack
coming on? Oh, Lord! Connie! That's the funniest line you ever pulled
off!"

"Look here," Cosden said, with evident irritation; "I'm serious. With
any one else I should have approached the subject less abruptly, but I
don't see why I should pick and choose my words with you.

"And the trip"--Huntington interrupted, again convulsed--"'for two or
three weeks, or longer'? Is that to be your wedding-trip, and am I to go
along as guardian?"

The older man's amusement became contagious, and Cosden's annoyance
melted before his friend's keen enjoyment of the situation.

"Oh, well, have your laugh out," he said good-naturedly. "When it's all
over perhaps you'll discuss matters seriously. Can you advance any sane
reason why I should not marry if I see fit?"

"None whatever, my dear boy, provided you've found a girl who possesses
both imagination and a sense of humor."

"I have reached a point in my life where I can indulge myself in
marriage as in any other luxury," Cosden pursued, unruffled by
Huntington's comments. "I've slaved for fifteen years for one definite
purpose--to make money enough to become a power; and now I've got it. Up
to this time a wife would have been a handicap; now she can be an asset.
After all is said and done, Monty, a home is the proper thing for a man
to have. It's all right living as you and I do while one's mind is
occupied with other things, but it is an inconsistency, as you say.
Now--well, what have you to put up against my line of argument?"

"Am I to understand that all this, reduced to its last analysis, is
intended to convey the information that you have fallen in love?"

"What perfect nonsense!" Cosden replied disgustedly. "You and I aren't
school-boys any more. We're living in the twentieth century, Monty, and
people have learned that sometimes it's hard to distinguish between love
and indigestion. I won't say that marriage has come to be a business
proposition, but there's a good deal more thinking beforehand than there
used to be. A woman wants power as much as a man does, and the one way
she can get it is through her husband. It's only the young and
unsophisticated who fall for the bushel of love and a penny loaf these
days, and there are mighty few of those left. Get your basic business
principles right to begin with, I say, and the sentimental part comes
along of itself."

Huntington was convinced by this time that Cosden was seriously in
earnest. He had believed that he knew his friend well enough not to be
surprised at anything he said or did, but now he found himself not only
surprised, but distinctly shocked. He had joked with Cosden when he
first spoke of marriage, but in his heart he regarded it with a
sentimentality which no one of his friends suspected because of the
cynicisms which always sprang to his lips when the subject was
mentioned. He believed himself to have had a romance, and during these
years its memory still obtained from him a sacred observance which he
had successfully concealed from all the world. So, when Cosden coolly
announced that he had decided to select a wife just as he would have
picked out a car-load of pig iron, Huntington's first impulse was one of
resentment.

"It seems to me that you are proposing a partnership rather than a
marriage," he remarked.

"What else is marriage?" Cosden demanded. "You've hit it exactly. I
wouldn't take a man into business with me simply because I liked him,
but because I believed that he more than any one else could supplement
my work and extend my horizon. Marriage is the apotheosis of
partnership, and its success depends a great deal more upon the
psychology of selection than upon sentiment."

Huntington made no response. The first shock was tempered by his
knowledge of Cosden's character. It was natural that he should have
arrived at this conclusion, the older man told himself, and it was
curious that the thought had not occurred to Huntington sooner that the
days of their bachelor companionship must inevitably be numbered. There
was nothing else which Connie could wish for now: he had his clubs, his
friends, and ample means to gratify every desire; a home with wife and
children was really needed to complete the success which he had made. He
had proved himself the best of friends, which was a guarantee that he
would make a good husband. Huntington found himself echoing Cosden's
question, "Why not?"

"Have you selected the happy bride, Connie?" he asked at length, more
seriously.

"Only tentatively," was the complacent reply. "I met a girl in New York
last winter, and it seems to me she couldn't be improved upon if she had
been made to order; but I want to look the ground over a bit, and that
is where you come in. Her name is Marian Thatcher, and--"

"Thatcher--Marian Thatcher!" Huntington interrupted unexpectedly. "From
New York? Why--no, that would be ridiculous! Is she a widow?"

Cosden chuckled. "Not yet, and if she marries me it will be a long time
before she gets a chance to wear black. What put that idea in your
head?"

"Nothing," Huntington hastened to say. "I knew a girl years ago named
Marian who married a man named Thatcher, and they lived in New York."

"She is about twenty years old--"

"Not the same," Huntington remarked. Then after a moment's silence he
laughed. "What tricks Time plays us! I knew the girl I speak of when I
was in college, and I haven't seen her since her marriage. Go on with
your proposition."

"Well, she and her parents went down to Bermuda last week, and it
occurred to me that if you and I just happen down there next week it
would exactly fit into my plans. More than that, I have business reasons
for wanting to get closer to Thatcher himself. We've been against each
other on several deals, and this might mean a combination. What do you
say? Will you go?"

"Next week?" Huntington asked. "I couldn't pick up stakes in a minute
like that."

"Of course you can," Cosden persisted. "There's nothing in the world to
prevent your leaving to-night if you choose."

"There's Bill, you know."

"Well, what about Bill? Is he in any new scrape now?"

"No," Huntington admitted; "but he's sure to get into some trouble
before I return."

"Why can't his father straighten him out?"

Huntington laughed consciously. "No father ever understands his son as
well as an uncle."

"No father ever spoiled a son the way you spoil Bill--"

Huntington held up a restraining hand. "It is only the boy's animal
spirits bubbling over," he interrupted, "and the fact that he can't grow
up. You and I were in college once ourselves."

Huntington was never successful in holding out against Cosden's
persistency, and in the present case elements existed which argued with
almost equal force. He was curious to see how far his friend was in
earnest, and was this combination of names a pure coincidence? He
wondered.

The car came to a stop before Huntington's house.

"Well," he yielded at length, as he stepped out, "I presume it might be
arranged.--Let Mason take you home. You've given me a lot to think
over, Connie--"

"This wouldn't break up our intimacy, you understand," Cosden asserted
confidently. "No woman in the world shall ever do that; and it will be a
good thing for you, too, to have a woman's influence come into your
life."

"Perhaps," Huntington assented dubiously; "but because you show symptoms
of lapsing is no sign that I shall fall from the blessed state of
bachelorhood. I supposed that our inoculation made us both immune, but
if the virus has weakened in your system I have no doubt that any woman
you select will have a heart big enough for us both."

"If she hasn't, we won't take her into the firm," laughed Cosden.




       *       *       *       *       *

II

       *       *       *       *       *


Huntington was unusually preoccupied during the period of dinner. Even
when alone he was in the habit of making the evening meal a function, in
which his man Dixon and his cook took especial pride. But to-night the
words of praise or gentle criticism were lacking, one course succeeding
another mechanically without comment of any kind. When Dixon followed
him up-stairs to the library with coffee and liqueur he found him with
his _Transcript_ still unfolded lying in his lap; and, whatever may have
happened in the mean time, the same attitude of abstraction prevailed
when Dixon returned, three hours later, received his final instructions,
and was dismissed for the night. Cosden had undoubtedly dropped off into
that slumber which belongs by right to the man whose day has presented
him with a brilliant inspiration; but Huntington still sat alone,
absorbed in his own thoughts.

The chronicler has already intimated that Huntington was possessed of a
sentimental nature, but were he to stop there he would understate the
real truth. Huntington was exceedingly sentimental--far more so than he
himself realized, which made it natural that his friends should be
deceived. He was a bachelor not from choice, as he would have the world
think, but from circumstance, and the absence of home and wife and
children represented the one lack in an otherwise entirely satisfactory
career. It was the only thing his father had not provided for him, and
he himself had not possessed sufficient energy to take the initiative.

The conversation on the way home from the Club brought matters fairly
before Huntington's mental vision. One moment it seemed monstrous that
his friend of so many years' standing should deliberately announce his
intention of entering into an estate from which he himself must perforce
be barred, yet while the treachery seemed blackest Huntington found
himself acknowledging that it was the proper step for Cosden to take,
and admiring that characteristic which saved him from committing his own
mistake. Yet, if years before he had only--but herein lies the most
extraordinary evidence of Huntington's sentimentality. If the story were
told--and it can scarcely be called a story--it would begin and end like
Sidney Carton's in one long "what might have been."

It was the mention of the name quite as much as the subject of their
conversation which started in motion all that mysterious machinery which
forces the present far out of its proper focus, disregards the future,
and brings into the limelight those events of the past which the
intervening years have magnified. No one can really explain it, and the
wise make no attempt. "Marian Thatcher," Cosden had said. She was Marian
Seymour when he had known her, twenty-odd years before, and the Marian
he had known married a man named Thatcher right under the very noses of
the legion of admirers, himself included, who fluttered about her. Of
course it was only a coincidence, this combination of names, for the
girl Cosden spoke of was only twenty; but just as substances combined by
chemists in their laboratories begin to ferment and produce unwonted
conditions, so did the combination of those two names start in
Montgomery Huntington's brain that series of mental pictures which
caused him to forget that the hour had come when sane persons of his age
and disposition sought repose.

This was not the first time that he had thus outraged Nature, and for
the selfsame cause. Not a year of the more than twenty had passed
without at least one mental pilgrimage to the shrine which had become
more and more sacred as time piled itself on time. Satisfied that he
alone was awake in the house, Huntington rose and drew a small table
before his chair, and with a key taken from his pocket unlocked the
drawer. It was a curious performance at that hour of night, and he
seemed to be filled with guilty apprehensions, for he glanced from time
to time at the closely-curtained door as if fearing interruption. The
lock yielded readily and the contents of the drawer lay in front of him.
Then, before seating himself again, he laid a fresh log on the open
fire, turned off the lights, and resumed his favorite seat, with the
table and the open drawer before him, illumined only by the flickering
glare from the fireplace.

For a moment he threw himself back in his chair, shading his eyes with
his hand as if the mental picture was even more delectable than the
sight of the actual objects before him. Then he sat upright again, with
a deep sigh, and transferred from the open drawer to the top of the
table a most remarkable collection of articles, which seemed to belong
to any one else rather than to him.

There was a long white glove, which he reverently unfolded and placed at
the further edge of the table-top; there was a bunch of faded flowers,
the dried petals of which fell softly onto the white glove in spite of
the delicacy of his handling; there was a yellowed envelope, from which
he drew a brief note, read it word by word, shook his head sadly,
replaced the note in its covering, and laid the envelope tenderly on the
table beside its fellow-exhibits. A piece of pink ribbon followed the
envelope, and then--fie! Monty Huntington! where did you get it?--then
came a pink satin slipper; and the exhibition was complete.

The showman seemed well satisfied with what he saw before him, for he
reached across to his smoking-table and found as if by instinct a
well-burnt brier pipe, with stem of albatross wing, which he filled with
his own mixture of Arcady and puffed contentedly, his eyes fixed upon
the exhibits. Then the dim, flickering light and the incense of the
tobacco accomplished their transmogrification. No longer was he William
Montgomery Huntington, lawyer, man of affairs, director, trustee
and--bachelor; he was Monty Huntington, senior in Harvard College, back
in his rooms in Beck after his Senior Dance, stricken by the darts of
that roguish Cupid who shot his shafts from the soft tulle folds of the
gown worn that night by this same Marian, the casual mention of whose
name even now caused him to forget his age and position and the dignity
demanded in a bachelor of forty-five.

The cloud of fragrant smoke concealed the fact that the long white glove
was empty now; the flickering light made golden the words of the brief
note which thanked him for the evening which his escort had made so
wonderful a memory in a young girl's heart; the faded flowers were
things of color and fragrance, more sweetly redolent because they had
risen and fallen with her breath of life; the pink ribbon seemed to have
a dance-card at one end and to be tied to a graceful wrist at the other;
and the slipper--yes, the slipper--the dreamer smiled as he recalled the
fleeting figure which flew up the brownstone steps behind her chaperon
when he had last seen her, in playful fearfulness because he had managed
to whisper in her ear that she was the sweetest, dearest, most
bewitching maiden he had ever seen. The slipper had dropped off, and
remained in his possession by right of capture since the owner would not
come outside the door to claim her own.

He had intended to make this selfsame slipper the excuse for following
up what he was convinced was the romance of his life; but Marian Seymour
had already returned home to New York when he called three days later.
This was a disappointment, still at that moment it seemed but a
postponement after all, for he was sailing for Europe a fortnight hence
and could easily reach New York a day or two earlier than he had
planned. Thus far the idea was capital; but when the second call was
paid, with the pink slipper safely reposing in his pocket, he found that
the dainty foot to which the slipper belonged had stepped upon an ocean
steamer which sailed the day before.

Even this second misadventure failed to dampen his ardor. Good fortune
had arranged for him to follow in her direction, and surely, when once
upon the same continent, the slipper would be a lodestone of sufficient
potency to draw together two souls such as theirs. Yet he returned six
months later without having had the expected happen, and soon after
landing he learned of her engagement to a Mr. Thatcher.

There is a certain gratification which comes to the experienced man of
the world of twenty-two when he finds himself a martyr; and Monty
Huntington enjoyed this gratification to the utmost. He was
conscientious in believing himself to be wretchedly unhappy, but as a
matter of fact he had in the instant become a hero to himself. Women
were faithless: misogamists in prose and poetry had so chronicled the
fact, and he had already, at this early age, become the victim of their
perfidy. Marian Seymour should have known the depth of his love for her;
she should have known that he would have told her of his affection had
she given him the opportunity; and the mere fact that he had never so
declared himself was not of the slightest importance. She had
deliberately disregarded his impassioned though unexpressed sentiments
toward her, and had thrown herself away on a man he did not even know!

Fortunately, Time treats with kindly hand those tragedies which are
imagined as well as those which actually exist. Each year added to the
luster of the memory. Marian Seymour herself would not have recognized
her own face could Huntington have translated it out of the figments of
his mind upon the crude medium of canvas. And, be it said, had
Huntington come face to face with the original during these years, it is
doubtful whether he would have recognized her; for the idealization had
become absolutely real to him. No sculptor had ever modeled hand and arm
so perfect as that which the yellowed glove had held; no foot was ever
shaped with graceful line equal to that which once the satin slipper had
incased. The faithlessness of woman had long since been forgotten, and
the sanctity of this romance, which might have been, provided all the
details which it would otherwise have lacked. Each year made it more
real, until now there was no doubt about it. Other men worshiped at the
shrine of departed dear ones with no greater sincerity than did
Montgomery Huntington revere this near-romance of his life.

So, as he sat there, he was not the bachelor his friends considered him,
but rather a man bereft of wife and children. Cosden, knowing nothing of
this secret grief, had wantonly torn the veil aside and exposed the
wound. Yet, with the sorrow of the widower and the childless, there must
have come back to Huntington some memories which were not sad, for when
Dixon happened upon him in the morning, soundly sleeping in his
favorite chair with this curious exhibit before him, and with a pink
slipper firmly grasped within his hand, there was a smile as if of
happiness upon his face. And Dixon, discreet valet that he was, showed
no surprise, a half-hour later, when he found the table and its strange
contents carefully put away without his aid, or when his master summoned
him to his room, where he appeared to be just rising as usual from a
sleep as restful as it had been unportentous.




       *       *       *       *       *

III

       *       *       *       *       *


"Then I shall leave Bermuda feeling that my beautiful dream is wholly
incomplete."

Mrs. Henry Thatcher spoke with a degree of resignation, but her tone
signified that the apparent retreat was only to gain strength for a
final advance which was sure to gain her point. She knew that this
discussion with her husband would end as all their differences of
opinion ended, and so did he. Perhaps his opposition was the inevitable
expression of his own individuality which every married man likes to
make a pretense of preserving; perhaps it pleased him to see his wife's
half-playful, half-serious attack upon his own judgment in gently
forcing him into a position where her wishes became his desires.

"Better to have your dream incomplete than his privacy invaded," was the
apparently unmoved reply. "When an owner plants a sign, 'Private
Property,' conspicuously at the entrance to his estate, he is sure to
have some idea in the back of his head which is as much to be respected
as your curiosity is to be gratified."

"It is a compliment in itself that we wish to see the grounds," she
persisted; "the owner, whoever he is, could not consider it otherwise."

"A compliment which has evidently been repeated often enough to become a
nuisance--hence the sign."

Marian Thatcher sighed heavily as she threw herself back in the
victoria. Her husband was holding out longer than usual.

"I simply must see the view from that point," she declared; "and until I
can examine that gorgeous _bougainvillea_ at closer range I refuse to
return to New York."

"There!" laughed Edith Stevens, looking mischievously into Thatcher's
face, "that is what I call an ultimatum! Come, Ricky,"--speaking to her
brother--"let us walk back to the hotel. It will be humiliating to see
Marian disciplined in public!"

"You all are making me the scapegoat," Marian protested. "You know that
you are just as eager to get inside those walls as I am. Look!" she
cried, leaning forward in the carriage. "Isn't that-- Yes, it _is_ a
century plant, and it's in bloom! Oh, Harry! you wouldn't make me wait
another hundred years to see that, would you?"

"Let me be the dove of peace," Stevens suggested, manifesting unusual
comprehension and activity as he stepped out of the carriage. "I'll run
in and beard the jolly old lion in his den."

Thatcher shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly, Marian clapped her hands
with delight, and Edith Stevens smiled indulgently as they settled back
to await the result of the embassy.

This midwinter pilgrimage to Bermuda was the result of a sudden impulse
made while the Stevenses were their box-guests at the opera in New York
two weeks before. They had exhausted the superlatives forced from their
lips by the dramatic transformation from December to June--from ice and
snow to roses and oleanders; they had followed the beaten track,
touching elbows with the happy bride and the inquisitive traveler,
seeing the sights in true tourist fashion; they had passed through the
stage of quiet contentment, satisfied to sit on the broad sun-piazza of
the "Princess" in passive lassitude, watching others experience what
they had seen, learning the regulation forms of recreation indulged in
by those who settled down more permanently. From the same point of
vantage they had watched the great sails of the pleasure-boats pass so
close beside them that they could have tossed pennies upon their decks;
they saw the gorgeous sunsets behind Gibbs' Hill, with the ravishing
changes of color and light and shade thrown upon the myriad of tiny
islands scattered picturesquely throughout the bay.

Then the period of inaction turned into a desire to learn more deeply of
the beauties which the tourist never sees, and they poked through the
narrow "tribal" lanes and unfrequented roads on foot, on bicycles, or
_en voiture_, searching for the unexpected, and finding rich rewards at
the end of every quest. It was one of these expeditions which led them
to the highest rise of Spanish Point, where they stopped their carriage
before the entrance to a private estate, within the walls of which they
saw evidences of what the hand of man can do in supplementing Nature's
work.

Presently Stevens could be seen coming toward them, waving his hat as a
signal for their advance. The driver turned in through the gateway.

"He's a mighty decent sort," Stevens announced as he met the approaching
vehicle. "Can't make out whether he's English or American, but he
offered no objections whatever."

"There!" Marian cried triumphantly; "of course he feels complimented! If
his grounds were merely the commonplace no one would want to disturb his
'privacy,' as Harry calls it. Did you ever see such a spot?"

"Wonderful!" echoed Edith, equally impressed by the luxuriant bloom on
either side of the driveway. "Thank Heaven here is a man who knows how
not to vulgarize flowers."

As they reached the front of the coraline stone house the owner stepped
forward to greet them. He was a man of striking appearance, and his
visitors found their attention at once diverted from the beauty
surrounding them to the personality which manifested itself even in this
brief moment of their meeting. He was fairly tall, but slight, the
narrowness of his face being accentuated by the closely-cropped beard.
As he removed his broad panama he disclosed a heavy head of hair, well
turned to grey, which, with the darkness of his complexion, was set off
by the white doe-skin suit he wore. As he came nearer his visitors were
instinctively impressed by the expression of his face, for the high
forehead, the deep, restless, yet penetrating eyes, the refined yet
unsatisfied lines of the mouth, belonged to the ascetic rather than to
the cottager, to the spiritual seeker for the unattainable rather than
to the owner of an estate such as this.

"I am glad you discounted my apparent inhospitality," he said, with
pleasant dignity. "The tourists would overrun me if I did not take some
such measure to protect myself; but I am always glad to welcome any one
whose interest is more than curiosity."

"It is good of you to make a virtue out of our presumption," Marian
replied as their host assisted them to alight. Then their eyes met and
there was instant recognition.

"Philip!" she cried in utter amazement. "Is it possible that this is
you--here?"

The man bowed until his face almost touched the hand he still held, and
the surprise seemed for the moment to deprive him of power of speech. He
courteously motioned his guests to precede him through an arbor of
_poinsettia_ into a tropical garden on a cliff overhanging the water.

"Harry," Marian continued, still excited by her experience, "this is
Philip Hamlen--you've heard me speak so many times of him. My husband,
Mr. Thatcher, Philip," she added, as the two men shook hands; then she
presented him to the Stevenses.

Outwardly Hamlen showed none of the confusion which Marian so plainly
manifested. He was the self-contained host, seemingly interested in the
coincidence of the unexpected meeting, but by no means exercised over
it.

"Welcome to my Garden of Eden," he said, smiling, as the magnificent
expanse of cliff and sea greeted them--"thrice welcome, since to two of
us this is in the nature of a reunion."

It was a revelation even in spite of their expectations. Involuntarily
the eye first took in the turquoise water and the crumbling, broken
shore-line undershot by the caves formed by the pounding of centuries of
waves against the layers of animal formation. Except for the great
dry-dock and the naval barracks across the entrance to Hamilton Harbor,
all seemed as Nature had intended it.

Then, as the vision narrowed to its immediate surroundings, the visitors
realized how much art had accomplished in making the garden into which
their host had shown them seem so completely in harmony with the
brilliant setting of its location. They had thought of Bermuda as the
home of the Easter lily, not realizing that this is but a seasonal
incident; they could not have believed it possible to make the luxuriant
bloom of the tropical trees, shrubs, and flowers so subservient to the
beauty of their foliage, yet so marvelous a finish to the brilliancy of
the whole. The great rubber-tree extended its awkward branches in
exactly the right directions to add quaint picturesqueness; the
_poincianas_, as graceful as the rubber-tree was _gauche_, lifted their
smooth, bare branches like elephant trunks, from which the great leaves
hung down in magnificent clusters; the calabash, with its own ungainly
beauty, proved its right by exactly fitting into the landscape at its
own particular corner and the row of giant cabbage-palms stood like
sentinels, adding a quiet dignity suggestive of the East. Between these
and other massive trunks the smaller trees and flowering shrubs were
interspersed in so original and bewildering a manner that each glance
forced a new exclamation of delight. The night-blooming cereus crawled
like an ugly reptile in and out among the branches of the giant cedars,
but the bursting buds gave evidence that at nightfall they would redeem
the hideous suggestiveness of the trailing vine. Cacti and sago-palms
formed brilliant backgrounds for the lilies of novel shapes and colors,
and for the other flowers which vied with one another for preference in
the eye of their beholder.

The conversation was commonplace in its nature, and in it Marian took
little part. The vivacity which usually made her conspicuous in any
group had entirely left her. Her interest in the view from the Point and
in the magnificent vegetation had vanished, and her eyes followed Hamlen
as he indicated each special beauty to his guests. Edith Stevens was the
only one who sensed the unusual; the men were too discreet or too
occupied by the novelty of their experience.

"Do you mind, Harry," Marian said aloud, turning to her husband, "if the
gardener shows you around the grounds? It has been years since I last
saw Mr. Hamlen, and there are some matters I simply must talk over with
him."

Nothing Marian Thatcher asked or did ever surprised her husband or her
friends. The abruptness of the question, and the certainty she
manifested that her request would at once be complied with, were
characteristic. In the present instance, however, it was obvious that
the unexpected meeting touched some hidden spring which took her back to
a time in her life before they themselves had claims upon her, and they
respected her desire to be alone with her revived friendship. A few
moments later, with jocose chidings that she had appropriated for
herself the chief attraction of the estate, they moved off under the
guidance of the gardener, who was proud of the interest manifested in
the results of his work in carrying out his master's plans.

"Please don't come back for at least half an hour," Marian called after
them. Then she turned to her companion.

"So this is where you disappeared to?"

Hamlen bowed his head. He was not so careful now to conceal his
emotions, and it was evident that old memories were stirred within him,
as well.

"Could I have found a more beautiful exile?" he asked.

"How many years have you been here?" she demanded.

"I left New York the week following the announcement of your engagement
to Mr. Thatcher. Perhaps you can figure it out better than I. Time has
come to mean nothing to me here."

"That was in ninety-three," Marian said, reflecting,--"over twenty years
ago! You have been here ever since?"

Hamlen hesitated before he answered. "I have been back to the States
only once--when my father died. I have made short excursions to London,
to Paris, to Berlin, to Vienna; but the world is all the same, and I was
always glad to return here, to this retreat."

"Twenty years of solitude!" Marian repeated. "Don't tell me that it was
because of--"

"I came here because I wanted to get away from every old association,"
Hamlen interrupted hastily. "I settled down here because I loved this
beautiful island--and I love it still."

"But your friends, Philip--"

A tinge of bitterness crept into his voice. "Friends?" he repeated after
her. "What friends did I ever have whom I could regret to leave behind?"

"I know," she admitted, striving to ease the pain her words had
inflicted; "but your father--and your classmates."

"Yes--my father. I was wrong to leave him. Had I waited but two years
longer, I should have left behind me no ties of any kind. But the good
old pater understood me; he was the only one who ever did."

"Haven't you kept in touch with any one at home?"

"This is 'home,'" he corrected.

"Not for you, Philip," she insisted. "This is a Garden of Eden, as you
yourself called it, this is a dream life of sunshine and the fragrance
of flowers, this is the home of the lotus-eaters, for the present moment
enticing men--and women, too--away from the stern pursuits of life; but
it is not 'home' for such as you."

"I have found it all you say and more," Hamlen replied firmly; "but it
has not been the life of inactivity which you suggest. The very things
which tempted you to turn in here from your drive show that my years of
patient study and experiment have not been altogether in vain. Inside
the house I have my library, which can scarcely be equaled in the
States. There I keep up my work more assiduously than I could possibly
have done elsewhere. The literature of the past belongs to me, for I
have made it part of myself. I know Homer, Vergil, Dante, Shakespeare,
not as books only, but almost word for word. I can speak five languages
as well as my own. Is this the existence of the lotus-eater, Marian? Is
this merely the dream life of sunshine and of flowers?"

She looked at him long before replying. Then she rested her hand gently
upon his arm.

"It's the same Philip, isn't it?--the same old Philip who refused, over
twenty years ago, to recognize the real significance of life? The same
Philip--older, more refined by the chastening of time, more polished by
the refinement of accomplishment, but with his eyes still closed to the
difference between the means and the end."

The expression on Hamlen's face showed that he failed utterly to
comprehend.

"Why had you no friends to leave behind you?" she asked abruptly,
realizing the cruelty of her question, but determined to make him see
her point.

"Because no one understood me," he answered doggedly.

"Was it their failure to understand you, or your failure to give them
the opportunity?"

"Both, perhaps. I had no time to fritter away in college; most of the
men did."

"There you are! Can't you see what I mean? The particular things the
fellows did there were forgotten within twenty-four hours, but the
friendships formed while doing them have endured throughout their lives.
The 'things' were the means, the experience was the end. What
friendships can you have here?"

Instead of answering her, Hamlen rose and motioned silently that she
precede him through the arbor and up the path to the edge of the cliff.

"Do you think I can be lonely while I hear the surge of that great ocean
upon my shore?" he demanded. "Do you think I miss the friendships which
so often bring sorrow in their wake while I can conjure up from the past
the most glorious friends the world has ever known, visit with them,
argue over my pet theories, and give them all this setting here whose
counterpart can never be surpassed?"

She smiled sadly in reply. "You have built your life upon the same basis
as this island itself," she said--"upon the foundations of what is dead
and past. You have argued with yourself until you have come to believe
the fallacy you preach--that you, an Anglo-Saxon, can be content with
such a life as this. Are you true to your responsibilities? Are you--"

"What do I owe the world?" he interrupted. "I ask from it nothing but
peace and solitude, and surely even the most insignificant has a right
to that without incurring responsibilities. Why, Marian, I stand here
upon this Point, as the little steamers leave their trail of smoke
behind them, and thank God that for one day, three days, a week, we are
cut off from the world. There is nothing I love so much as this
separation from my fellow-men."

"Then how fortunate, after all--" she began, but he interrupted her.

"That is another story," he insisted. "I am speaking of what life means
to me to-day, not what it might have meant under other circumstances."

They strolled slowly back into the garden and settled themselves upon a
stone seat which commanded a superb view of the surrounding country. It
was her heart rather than her eyes which controlled Marian now, and she
saw before her nothing but this man-grown boy, who at an earlier time in
her life had exercised an absorbing influence upon her. It was her
heart, still loyal to the friendship which remained, struggling to find
the right word which should start in motion the machinery to bring the
latent potentiality into action.

"Your ideas are no different now than then," she said at length, "except
that time has intensified them. You used to compare what you found in
books with what you found in life, to the distinct disadvantage of the
realities."

"Yes," Hamlen admitted; "and it is just as true to-day."

"Do you know why?" she demanded pointedly.

"Because life is so full of insincerity."

"No," she protested, "you are wrong, absolutely wrong. The real reason
lies in you. You have always given of yourself in your intellectual
pursuits, and have received in kind. In your relations with life you
have never given of yourself, and again you have received in kind.
Philip, Philip! why don't you study yourself as you do your books, and
even now learn the lesson you need to know?"

"Was that why--back there--" he began.

She paused for a moment as the conversation took her back to the earlier
days.

"You thought me changeable," she evaded the question; "but for that you
yourself were responsible. You drew me to you with irresistible force,
then repelled me by your intolerance of all those lighter interests
which were natural to youth of our age. Your letters stimulated my
ambition, your conversation stirred in me all that was best; but as soon
as we were separated I felt a lack which for a long time I was unable to
understand."

"Why did you come," he asked, "to awaken these memories I have tried so
hard to forget?" but she seemed not to hear him.

"Then I realized what a dream it was," she continued. "Music to you
meant canon and fugue, counterpoint and diminished sevenths; to me it
was the invitation to dance. You had no friends, and I was frightened
by your willingness to be alone. You had nothing in common with me
or my friends; you gave my heart nothing to feed upon except
intellect--intellect, and I found myself one moment beneath its hypnotic
influence, the next striving to break away from its oppression. Perhaps
this was what you had in mind, Philip, that we two run off to some
island such as this, to spend our lives in Utopia, alone except for
ourselves and your books."

"For me, that would have been all I could have asked."

"But no one, Philip, can live on that alone. We need to draw from our
companionship with others in order to give of it to each other. And you
forget"--she smiled mischievously--"that when Aristotle begins to bore
you he can be placed back upon the shelf. You couldn't do that with a
wife! Admit, dear friend, that I or any other woman would have made you
utterly wretched."

"I will admit that of any woman other than you."

They rose as by mutual impulse and strolled about the garden for several
moments in silence, the thoughts of each centered upon the past.

"See this wild honey." Hamlen touched the curiously formed leaf. "It
took me months to make it twine about that tree."

"How long would it have taken to make a baby's fingers twine about your
heart?" Marian asked meaningly.

A twinge of pain shot across his face. "Have you--children?" he asked.

"Forgive me, Philip," she answered contritely. "Yes," in answer to his
question; "a daughter, whom you shall meet at the hotel, and a big,
strapping son. He's a senior at Harvard now, and his name is--Philip."

Hamlen suddenly seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Your
husband won't begrudge me that," he said, with a quaver in his voice.

"Thank God!" Marian cried unexpectedly. "It is a relief to find even a
small defect in that intellectual armor of yours! Philip, you are a
humbug, and you deceive no one but yourself! It is not solitude which
you love, it is not friendship which you despise; it is simply that you
have made a virtue out of a condition which exists because you don't
know how to change it. Let me help you now."

"How can the leopard change his spots?" he demanded incredulously.

"Go back with us when we sail for New York week after next. Leave things
here just as they are, and keep this wonderful spot as a retreat when
life becomes too strenuous. Harry and I will return here with you if you
wish us to, and will introduce so many serpents into your Garden of Eden
that you'll relegate us to the cliff while you take refuge in your
library. But between now and that time go back with us into that life
which is your life. Place yourself where you can feel the competition of
what goes on about you. Try pushing against the current, and learn the
joy of contact with something which opposes. Study the people around
you, and make friends--it's not too late, with your splendid personality
and with me to show you how. Come and get acquainted with your namesake.
Help him to learn from you what you can teach him better than any one I
know, and learn from him what his youthfulness can teach you. Will you
do it, Philip? Will you let this wonderful work you've done here be the
means and not the end? Will you put your accomplishments where they can
be of value, instead of hoarding them, as a miser does his gold?"

He stood watching her wonderful animation as she spoke with a conviction
which swept him off his feet. In the past she had listened to him, and
he could but be conscious of the domination which his mind had held over
hers; now he knew their positions to be reversed. Was this what the
world had given her? And the boy--Philip, named after him. Why was it
that the lessons he had taught himself during all these years proved so
inadequate to combat the yearning which he felt within him?

Marian was not slow to sense the conflict in his heart, nor to follow up
her advantage.

"What have you really accomplished, Philip?" she asked quietly. "Be
generous in sharing your splendid development with us."

"I could not give this up," he protested.

"Of course you couldn't, and you should not," she assented. "Give up
nothing, but simply add to what you have by assimilating from others. I
want you to know my husband, my children, and my friends, and I want
them to know you. Say that you will return with us, Philip."

He gazed at her helplessly, then turned his head aside. The emotion
against which he had fought for twenty years had escaped from his
control, and he was ashamed that another should see what he knew his
face betrayed.

"It is impossible," he said, when he was himself again; "it would not be
fair."

"To whom?" she demanded.

"To you--or to your husband--"

"Nonsense! We all understand one another too well for that! It is the
boy who needs you and whom you need."

Hamlen turned to her again. "The boy," he repeated after her--"Philip!
You would let him come into my life?"

"I desire nothing so much," she answered resolutely, a great joy surging
in her heart as she seemed to see the barrier between him and life
crumbling before her attack.

"Would the boy permit it? I might not be able--"

"Let me be judge of that," she smiled.

The man passed his hand wearily over his eyes as Mrs. Thatcher watched
his uncertainty with fearfulness and yet with eager expectancy. She knew
that she could say no more, that there was danger in bringing further
pressure upon this spirit already extended to its extremest tension; and
yet she longed to take advantage of what she had gained in awakening the
latent human element and in disturbing the complacency which habit had
established upon premises so false.

"Oh, Marian!" Hamlen cried at length, in a voice so full of suffering
that it staggered her; "the world is not to be trusted even when you
hold it up so temptingly before me. It always has been false and always
will be so for me. Each time I have given it the chance it has struck me
a harder blow than before. No, Marian, I can't expose myself again. If I
could make myself a part of some one else--if this boy-- No, no! I
couldn't take the risk. You mustn't ask me. You mean it kindly, but--"

"Trust me," Marian said softly. "Come," she continued, nodding in the
direction of the returning party. "I will tell Harry that you are dining
with us to-night at the 'Princess.'"




       *       *       *       *       *

IV

       *       *       *       *       *


It was in the long, spacious dining-room of the "Princess" that Cosden
pointed out the Thatcher party to Huntington, and Hamlen was with them.
Naturally enough Huntington's eyes first rested on the girl's face, and
in it he found enough that was reminiscent to cause a start. It was
Marian Seymour as she must have looked when he knew her, but not at all
as he had come to think of her during the intervening years. How
ridiculously young she was! But Huntington had discovered that young
people were getting to look younger every year now. It almost annoyed
him, whenever he went to Cambridge to straighten out some mix-up of
nephew Billy's, to see how much smaller and younger the students were
to-day than when he was there. He remembered distinctly that he and his
mates had been men when he was in college; but the present generation
was made up of youngsters who should not be allowed abroad without their
nurses.

Miss Thatcher, whom Cosden pointed out to him, came within the same
category. She carried herself with a dignity not always seen in girls of
her age, but she was undeniably young. Then his glance passed from her
to the older woman whom he took to be her mother, and he found himself
guilty of staring shamelessly. This was undoubtedly the Marian Seymour
of sainted memory, now delightfully matured into an extremely attractive
matron of thirty-eight or forty. The slight figure had changed but
little from what he remembered; the face still showed traces of its
former mischievous vivacity, even though it had become more decorous.
Such changes as he saw were only those which come in the natural
development of a charming girl into a well set-up woman of the world. So
this was the genius who would have presided over his household if he had
happened to find her at home upon either of those two momentous
occasions, or if he had happened to discover her in Europe on that
eventful trip and had happened to tell her of his devotion, and,
incidentally, she had happened to respond to his declaration of undying
affection.

His inspection was as complete and analytic as the distance between the
two tables would permit. She was a fascinating woman, he acknowledged,
and yet--she was so different from what he had pictured her. The wife
with whom he had mentally lived these twenty years he himself had
created out of the all-too-scanty materials of memory, added to
substantially by what his imagination had skilfully selected of what he
thought she ought to be. He had not been more successful in his creation
than Nature herself, he was forced to admit, but while looking at Mrs.
Thatcher he experienced the mortifying sensation of being a
self-convicted bigamist.

Curiously, he had never thought of her as growing older along with him.
His glance returned to the daughter's face, and in it he found a closer
semblance to what his mind had pictured. She was more mature than her
mother had been, yet she possessed many of the same physical
characteristics. Was it possible that she might have been his daughter?
Here came the third distinct shock. For the first time he had something
against which to measure his own age, and involuntarily he touched his
heavy head of hair to reassure himself that baldness, that advertisement
of advancing years, had not overtaken him in the moment.

"Well," Cosden interrupted his reveries; "I'm waiting to hear your first
impressions."

Huntington started guiltily, as if his friend had witnessed the
gymnastics his mind had executed. It was natural that Cosden, being
nearest to him, should come in for the force of the reaction.

"How do you suppose I can express an opinion on a girl half-way across a
room the size of this?" he answered with as much asperity as ever crept
into the evenness of his tone.

Cosden looked up surprised. "Why, Monty!" he expostulated, "don't get
peevish!"

"Don't bother me with foolish questions," was the ungracious rejoinder.
"I'm studying the situation. Later I'll give you my impressions."

"But you've seen her," Cosden persisted. "What do you think of the
perspective?"

"She is very young," Huntington replied, regaining his composure and
realizing that to fall in with Cosden's mood was easier than to explain
his own.

"She's twenty--just the right age for a man thirty-eight," was the
complacent reply. "I've figured it all out. A woman grows old faster
than a man, and eighteen years is just the proper handicap."

"Which is her husband?" Huntington asked.

"Her husband?" Cosden repeated after him.

"I mean her mother's husband," Huntington corrected hastily; "which one
is Mr. Thatcher?"

"The man with the smooth face; I don't know the others. We'll meet them
later."

As the party left the dining-room Mr. Thatcher recognized Cosden and
fell behind to greet him.

"Well met!" he exclaimed cordially, after being presented to Huntington.
"It is a relief to see some one I know. Down here on a vacation trip, I
suppose?"

"Why--yes," Cosden hesitated, seeing some deeper meaning behind the
bromidic question; "that is, I thought so until I saw you. Now I'm not
quite sure."

Thatcher laughed. "I had the same idea, but I can't seem to get away
from business; it pursues me! I've stumbled onto something--not very
tremendous, but still it may be a good thing. I'd be glad to have you
look it over with me if you care to. We'll discuss it later if you don't
object to talking shop during leisure hours."

Cosden's face assumed that keen, resourceful expression which his
friends knew so well. "I'm never too much at leisure to discuss
business," he said.

"Good! Now, when you and Mr. Huntington have finished dinner, join us on
the piazza and we'll all have our coffee together."

Huntington looked at his friend significantly as Thatcher moved away. "I
didn't come down here on a business trip," he suggested.

"It won't interfere with you at all," Cosden reassured him. "Thatcher is
a big man, and has a good eye for things. What he has in mind may be
well worth looking into."

"So long as you don't let it divert us from our main purpose I won't
object," Huntington conceded gravely; "but the spirit of the chase is on
me, and I can't mix sport and business. This is the first time I have
ever approached a girl from a matrimonial point of view, even
vicariously. I'm beginning to enjoy it and I refuse to be thrown off the
scent."

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no moon like a Bermuda moon. The contrast between its soft yet
brilliant light--as it fell first upon the harbor, throwing the islands
into silhouette, then flooding the piazza--and the electric glare, out
of which the two men stepped ten minutes later, made a deep impression
upon Huntington. The eyes of his friend, however, were focused upon the
little party, chatting merrily about the table, awaiting their arrival.

"I had them postpone our coffee," Thatcher explained as he presented
Cosden to the Stevenses and to Hamlen, and Huntington to each. "We shall
enjoy it the more for having you with us."

Huntington found himself sitting between the daughter and Hamlen, while
Cosden sat next to Mrs. Thatcher across the table. There had been no
recognition, and Huntington was glad of it; he preferred to introduce
the subject in his own way and at his own time. The girl, however, had
already discovered a bond.

"Aren't you Billy Huntington's uncle?" she asked.

"Yes," he admitted; "but where in the world did you meet him?"

"He is a particular friend of my brother Philip's," she explained.
"Philip is a year ahead of him at Harvard, you know, but they are great
pals. My brother always has him at the house whenever he's in New York."

"Well, well!" laughed Huntington. "The young rascal never told me
anything about it! But wait a minute--Phil Thatcher--why, of course!
Billy has had him in to dine with me several times. So he's your
brother!"

"Yes; I was sure I was right," she smiled. "We're friends already,
aren't we?"

"We are," Huntington acquiesced gravely; "and I shall do something
particularly nice for Billy to show my appreciation of what he has done
for me."

Mrs. Thatcher caught the general drift of her daughter's conversation,
and she leaned across the table.

"Are you not a Harvard man, Mr. Huntington?" she asked. "If so, you and
Mr. Hamlen must have been in college at about the same time."

"Yes," Huntington replied; and turning to Hamlen he gave the year of his
graduation.

"That was my Class also," was the reply; but there was nothing in
Hamlen's manner to invite reminiscence.

"Hamlen--Philip Hamlen," Huntington repeated meditatively. "I don't
believe we knew each other, did we? But the name is familiar. I have it!
You are the lost Philip Hamlen our Class Secretary has been searching
for; I have seen the name in the list of missing men each time a Class
Report has been issued. You must send him your history, my dear fellow.
We're proud of our Class, and we don't want to lose sight of a single
member."

There was a bitterness in Hamlen's voice as he replied. "My history
would interest no one; it is better that I remain among the 'missing
men.'"

Huntington sensed at once what lay behind his classmate's response. "No
college graduate can afford to do that," he expostulated. "Whether one
wishes it so or not, he has accepted a heritage which carries with it
responsibilities, and these force him to his capacity for the honor of
his Class and of his Alma Mater."

Mrs. Thatcher was following the conversation not only with interest, but
with a certain degree of anxiety.

"Mr. Huntington is right, Philip," she added; "you know that he is
right."

Hamlen moved uneasily in his chair. "It is curious how much more
interested our classmates become in us after we separate than while we
are together in college," he said significantly.

"Why is it curious?" Huntington persisted. "Why is it not the natural
sequence of events?"

"You could not understand." Hamlen spoke with rising emotion. "You had
everything in college; I had nothing. You remember my name only because
you've seen it listed amongst the 'missing men'; but I knew you the
moment I saw you. Back there you were Monty Huntington, manager of the
crew, member of all the exclusive societies, in everything, a part of
everything. Your classmates courted your acquaintance, and the four
years at Cambridge meant something to you. To me they meant nothing
except what I learned in the class-rooms. You as an alumnus owe all that
you say to the Class and to the Alma Mater, for both gave you much; I
owe them nothing, for they gave me nothing."

"My dear fellow!" Huntington expostulated hastily, "forgive me for
touching on so tender a subject; yet I am glad I did, for it is only
fair that you let me set you right. The college world is a small one,
and its citizens are young, untried boys. They are sometimes selfish and
cruel and unreasonable without meaning it, while they are enjoying what
is to most of them their first freedom, and they are trying to conduct
themselves like full-grown men. There are heartburns which at the time
seem tragedies. Then the undeveloped citizens of this little world, the
biggest of them, pass out into the great world, for which the college
life is only a training-school, and become infinitesimal parts of it.
There the ratio becomes readjusted. What seemed essentials--like the
clubs, for instance, or athletics--become non-essentials as the men look
back upon them; become simply pleasant memories of delightful
companionship. The next few years represent the real trying-out period,
and each member of the Class measures up his fellow-members by what they
have done since college. The mere fact of being members of the same
Class is the bond. I don't care what you did in college, Hamlen; but I
sha'n't let you get away from me until you tell me what you've done
since, or until you promise that I shall see you when next you come to
Boston. The fact that I didn't know you in college makes me the more
keen to know you now."

"I thank you a thousand times!" Mrs. Thatcher cried impulsively. "What
you have said in five minutes will do more to set Mr. Hamlen right than
weeks of argument from me. I found him to-day in a veritable paradise
which he has built here, and where he has lived alone practically since
he left college. I am trying to persuade him to come back into the world
again, and you can help me to accomplish it."

Hamlen was visibly affected by Huntington's cordiality. "This has been a
bewildering day," he said. "For over twenty years I have lived alone,
nursing a resentment toward college and life in general until it has
come to be a religion. This afternoon Mrs. Thatcher finds me
unexpectedly and begins to batter down my defenses; now Mr. Huntington,
without realizing it, attempts to complete the demolition. Don't wonder
that I'm not myself to-night; but I thank my classmate for what he has
said, just as I thank Mrs. Thatcher for her earlier efforts."

"Mr. Huntington," Thatcher remarked, "you have given Stevens and me a
new idea of the value of a college degree. I wasn't especially keen
about having my boy go to college, but now, by George! I wouldn't have
it otherwise."

"Huntington is a living propagandum for Harvard," Cosden said lightly,
realizing the desirability of leading the conversation into a less
serious channel. "My degree represents simply an additional tool to use
in carving out success, to him it means idolatry. If Huntington's house
was on fire, I should expect to see him climbing down the firemen's
ladder in his pink pajamas with his precious sheepskin under his arm
carried as tenderly as a mother would a child."

"Oh, you may make light of it," Huntington replied good-naturedly, "but
Hamlen and I are treading on sacred ground. The one weakness of college
life is that the opportunities it offers come before we are competent to
appreciate or embrace them. That is what brings about the condition
which he has misunderstood. It would be much better if we all could have
two years of college when we're seventeen and the other two when we're
forty."

The conversation drifted into smoother channels, but by the time the
party separated the acquaintance had developed to a point far beyond an
ordinary first meeting. Underneath it different elements were at work in
each one's mind and heart, put in motion by the unexpected intensity of
almost the earliest words which had been exchanged. Hamlen was the first
to leave. He said good-night casually to the group, but managed to
separate Huntington from the others.

"You have done much for one of your classmates to-night," he said
simply. "I thank you for it."

"Nonsense!" Huntington protested. "I'm more than delighted to have this
opportunity to know you--and I want to know you better."

"Will you come to my villa some day this week?"

Hamlen seemed to hang expectantly upon the answer.

"Of course," Huntington replied promptly. "If you hadn't asked me, I
should have come anyhow. It's an inherent right which I demand."

Hamlen pressed his hand and turned to Mrs. Thatcher, who walked with him
to the door.

"I don't know whether to thank you or to curse you, Marian," he said
feelingly in a low voice. "Through you I have had more interjected into
my life in this single day than in the twenty-odd years which have
passed by. Is this the dawn of a to-morrow or the epitome of human
suffering? Are you my Genius or my Nemesis? Before God I ask the
question seriously. I myself cannot answer it."

"Don't try," she answered, smiling; "let Time do that!"




       *       *       *       *       *

V

       *       *       *       *       *


Cosden had been sitting on the hotel piazza half an hour when "Merry"
Thatcher emerged from the dining-room, gazed about the almost total
vacancy as if looking for some one, and then advanced, recognizing in
the solitary smoker an acquaintance of the night before.

"I'm always the first one," she complained after greeting him. "We're
going sailing this morning, but I might have known that no one else
would be down for breakfast at anywhere near the appointed time."

"Why not cheer me up while you're waiting?" Cosden suggested. "I formed
the habit of early rising years ago when I had to do it; now that I
don't have to, the habit still sticks."

"Mr. Huntington hasn't appeared yet?" she inquired.

Cosden laughed, and then looked at his watch. "When you come to know Mr.
Huntington better you will admire his mathematical precision: he is
never late, but he never arrives a moment earlier than is necessary. The
breakfast hour is over at nine-thirty; at nine-fifteen you will observe
the gentleman leisurely strolling in the direction of his table, with
every detail of his morning dress perfectly adjusted, as if the world
had placed all its time at his disposal, when in reality he can just get
his order in and have it served hot."

The girl smiled at the description of his friend. "Not many men are so
dependable," she commented.

"There is only one William Montgomery Huntington," Cosden admitted
cheerfully. "It would be exactly the same if the closing of the
breakfast room was four-thirty instead of nine-thirty."

The smile on her face changed to a deeper expression as she looked out
across the harbor. She turned to Cosden suddenly.

"Wasn't he splendid last evening when he talked about the
responsibilities of college life! For the first time I wished I were a
boy!"

"He is a very intense person on some subjects; that happens to be one of
them."

The girl could not fail to interest Cosden, even if he were not already
attracted by his previous slight acquaintance, for the present mood
showed her at her best. The nickname "Merry," given to distinguish the
younger Marian from her mother, scarcely served as a descriptive
appellation, for underneath the girlish vivacity ran a serious vein
which gave her unusual poise, and made her seem older than she was. To
Cosden she appeared at that moment the embodiment of attractive
girlhood, for the big panama, almost encircling her face, well set off
the dark hair and the sympathetic brown eyes, while the color which
plainly showed in her cheeks, despite the depth of the complexion, gave
just the touch needed to heighten the effect. The soft lines of the
white flannel skirt and the pink silk sweater disclosed the youth and
litheness of the figure. Cosden was surprised to find himself noticing
these details so carefully, and accepted the fact as evidence that his
interest in the girl was even deeper than he had supposed.

"I love intensity in men," she said simply; "so many seem ashamed to
show it no matter how strongly they may feel!"

"That is due to the training of life," Cosden explained, caring little
what direction the conversation took so long as they became better
acquainted. "The higher up you go, the greater the repression. Diplomacy
is the climax of gentlemanly concealment of one's real feelings, and the
art among arts of courteous insincerity. In business, of course, there's
a reason--"

"Can't a man be sincere in business?" she asked, looking at him with
eyes so deep and straightforward in their expression that he found the
question disconcerting.

"Why,--of course," he stumbled; "but 'sincerity' isn't exactly a
business expression. If I let you know by my manner that I was eager to
buy something which you wanted to sell, or to sell something you wanted
to buy, it would naturally affect the price, wouldn't it?"

"Ought it to?" she persisted. "Why isn't that taking advantage?"

Cosden smiled indulgently. "Some time, if you like, I will give you a
learned discourse on values and what affects them, but anything so
erudite now would take your mind off the gaieties of your sailing
trip."

"Will you?" Merry exclaimed delighted. "Father always makes fun of me
when I ask serious questions. I am sure I should hate business, because
it seems always to be a question of taking advantage of some one else;
but I should like to know something about it."

"You don't approve of taking advantage of some one else?"

"It is exactly the opposite of what we are taught to consider right,
isn't it?"

"How about bargain-sales when you are home?" Cosden asked with apparent
innocence. "Do you ever patronize them?"

"Why, yes," Merry replied frankly; "I frequently wait for them when I
want some particular thing, and my allowance is running low."

Cosden laughed outright. "If consistency were really a jewel, then would
woman go unadorned!"

"How in the world are you going to twist what I said into an
inconsistency?"

"I'll let you make the demonstration yourself. Here is the problem: a
dealer, believing a demand to exist for a certain article, lays in a
stock to supply that demand. If you, and other dear ladies who really
intend to buy the article, purchased when he first offered it for sale,
his estimate of the demand would have been correct. But you all have
learned the habits of the shops, so instead of rushing to his counters
you play 'possum until the dealer really believes that he has
over-estimated the demand, and down goes the value to him and
consequently the price to you. Then you rush frantically from your
lairs and secure the article you have really wanted from the beginning
at a bargain price. Don't you admit that you are taking advantage of the
dealer?"

"Oh, you men do put things in such a disagreeable way!" Merry laughed.
"We have to do that to protect ourselves against the outrageous prices
they charge in the first place."

"It's all a game," Cosden said seriously, "and a mighty fascinating one.
So long as you stick to the rules you may bluff all you choose, and the
best bluffer takes the blue chips."

"I'm sure I should hate it," Merry repeated. "I'm going to learn to be a
teacher, so that if some one outbluffs father I can fall back upon a
respectable pursuit."

"Even then you'll still be in the bluffing game," chuckled Cosden.
"Think of the knowledge a teacher has to assume which he doesn't
possess!"

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed in despair. "Why be an iconoclast? You leave
me nothing but matrimony--"

"The worst bluff of all," interrupted Huntington, stepping forward from
behind their chairs, immaculate in white flannels and a panama which
rivaled Merry's. "Seeing Mr. Cosden in an academic mood, I could not
resist the temptation to snare the nuggets of wisdom which fell from his
lips. This must be my excuse for eavesdropping."

"There he is," Cosden said significantly to Merry. "You'd never dream
that he'd come within an ace of missing his breakfast, would you?"

"Missing what?" Huntington demanded. "In what little pleasantry has my
friendly critic been indulging himself?"

"Let the critic answer for himself," Cosden retorted. "I predicted to
Miss Thatcher the exact moment when you would appear, thus proving
myself a prophet."

"You take yourself too seriously, Connie. You're no prophet, nor even
the son of a prophet; you're simply a good observer. Some men run a
block and then wait five minutes for a car; I learned years ago that it
was wiser to walk deliberately to the white post and arrive there at the
precise moment. But I don't let that car get away from me, my friend."

"If my memory serves me right, Mr. Huntington, you were not always so
deliberate," remarked Mrs. Thatcher significantly.

Huntington looked up quickly, unaware until then that the other late
breakfasters had followed so closely on his heels.

"The night has been telling tales," he said.

"It was stupid of me not to recognize you before," she answered.

"Do you and Mother know each other?" Merry asked, much interested in the
new turn of the conversation.

"Your mother," said Huntington gravely, "did me the honor to accept my
escort to our Senior Dance--I won't tell you how many years ago. She
deliberately broke my heart, sailed away to Europe, and then returned
and married your father, just out of pique. Now that you know the story
of my life, I ask you, why should I accelerate my motions, as my
captious companion seems to think I should, when your mother's quixotic
conduct deprived me years ago of all possible incentive?"

"Then you are really the Monty Huntington I knew!" Mrs. Thatcher
exclaimed. "I was sure of it when you spoke of your Class to Philip
Hamlen."

"I was sure it was you before you spoke at all," he said quietly. "I
recognized an aroma the moment I came into your presence--"

"An aroma?" Mrs. Thatcher interrupted questioningly.

"I know not whether it was fragrance or reminiscence, but either is
equally sweet."

Huntington's gallantry, half assumed, half real, as it seemed to those
who heard his words, passed simply as a pleasantry with all except
Cosden, who knew his friend too well not to recognize the presence of
something deeper beneath the lightly spoken expressions. But Thatcher's
voice brought him back from his surmises.

"We are counting on you both to join us," he insisted. "Our party will
be incomplete without you."

"Please come," Mrs. Thatcher added. "For the last twenty-four hours I
have been renewing all my girlhood friendships, and poor Edith Stevens
here hasn't had a chance even to express an opinion. That for Edith is
real self-sacrifice."

"Edith is sitting back and learning a thing or two," Miss Stevens
retorted calmly.

"Do come and give her a chance to demonstrate," Mrs. Thatcher appealed.

"I suppose bachelors are as necessary to the demonstration as
guinea-pigs to the laboratory," Huntington said. "Come on, Connie; let
us take a chance."

No truer statement had ever been made in jest than that the previous
twenty-four hours had been a period of self-sacrifice to Edith Stevens.
She was younger than Mrs. Thatcher, and their friends accused them of
accepting each other as foils to accentuate their contrasting
characteristics. Miss Stevens was slight and erect, and was always
gowned with a taste and skill which gave her an air of distinction; her
friend possessed such striking fascination of person and manner that she
gave distinction to any fashion she might adopt. Mrs. Thatcher's
activities accomplished results; Edith's seemed simply the expression of
an eternal unrest. The younger woman's hair was light, and her eyes
blue, while Mrs. Thatcher was a perfect brunette; and the approach of
the two women to the same subject was always from a different
standpoint. Yet they had been the closest of friends from school days.

Except with Marian, Edith, as a rule, dominated the situation at all
times. Now, however, she found herself absolutely side-tracked, while
her friend occupied the center of the stage in the interesting character
of past or present object of admiration from three perfectly good men.
Men were a hobby with Edith Stevens. Her brother feelingly remarked that
the only reason she never married was that no individual male possessed
the composite attributes she demanded. To be one of three women,
surrounded by five men, and not to be able to command the attention of
any one of them except her brother was nothing less than irony. She had
tried flirting with Thatcher years before, and had long since given him
up in despair; Hamlen was annexed by Marian before she had even a chance
to compete, and of the two remaining eligibles Huntington suddenly
confessed himself a part of the flotsam her friend had left behind in
her beblossomed path toward the altar.

"Take one more look at Mr. Cosden, Marian," she said maliciously, as the
little party walked slowly down the steps toward the yacht. "Perhaps he,
too, was an early admirer."

Mrs. Thatcher laughed. "No," she reassured her, "I'm sure he never
crossed my horizon until last night. I'll renounce all claims on him,
but don't you set your cap for Philip Hamlen; I have other plans for
him."

"Where is Mr. Hamlen?" Edith demanded. "Didn't you invite him?"

"No," Marian replied quickly. "It would be cruel not to give him time to
recover his balance after yesterday. Heigh ho!" she sighed. "I wonder
whether I'm glad or sorry that I found him here."

"I've been waiting for a report on that reunion," Edith said
suggestively. "I haven't forgotten the letters which we used to read
together years ago."

"Weren't they wonderful?" Marian exclaimed. Then she added, after a
pause, "I don't believe I realized until yesterday the depth of
suffering which a sensitive soul can reach."




       *       *       *       *       *

VI

       *       *       *       *       *


The sailing-party disembarked at the landing steps of the "Princess"
shortly after six o'clock, and were greeted by a tall young man whose
face was almost concealed by the broad brim of his hat, turned down as
if to protect its owner from possible prostration from the sun. At the
opposite end of the young man the white trouser-legs were turned up at
least two laps higher than would have been expected, so that hat and
trousers together made a normal average. Below the turn-up of the
trousers showed a considerable expanse of white-silk hosiery,
terminating in spotless white buckskin shoes; below the down-turned
hat-brim was a grin which extended well across the boyish face.
Altogether, the young man warranted the attention he attracted.

The skipper made so perfect a landing that the identity of those on
board was disclosed only at the last moment; but the single glance the
young man had was sufficient to reassure him, and he stepped forward
eagerly.

"Hello, everybody!" he cried cheerfully. "Wish you Happy New-Year!"

Merry was the first to grasp the significance of the excitement. "Why,
it's Billy Huntington!" she exclaimed.

"Of course," he admitted, still grinning; "who else would charge down
here like a young dace just for the pleasure of wishing you the
compliments of the season?"

The young man paused long enough to assist the ladies over the rail,
with a greeting to each.

"There's your uncle," Merry said, nodding in the direction of the men;
"don't you recognize him?"

"Surest thing you know," Billy answered, still hanging back. "I'm
waiting to see if he will recognize me, under all the circumstances."

"Come here, you young rascal," Huntington responded to the implied
question as he stepped on the pier; "come here and give an account of
yourself."

"Well," Billy replied slowly, clinging to the extended hand as a refuge,
"you see I didn't know Mr. Cosden came down with you, and it was
vacation, and I thought you'd be awfully lonely here without me--"

"I see," his uncle said dryly; "it was all on my account."

Billy seemed to feel the necessity of further explanation. "Of course I
knew Merry--the Thatchers were here. Phil told me--"

"Too bad Philip couldn't have come with you," Mrs. Thatcher remarked.

"Yes; he went up to the Lawrences' house-party for over Christmas as he
planned."

"How did you leave your worthy parents?" Huntington inquired.

A look of dismay passed over the boy's face. "I forgot to telegraph them
from New York, and I meant to cable just as soon as I arrived." Then an
expression of relief came to his assistance: "But they'll know I'm with
you--somewhere."

Huntington sighed. "Another reckoning for me when I return!" he said
resignedly; "but it's worth it all to know that you 'charged down here
like a young dace' as soon as you realized your poor uncle's 'awful
loneliness.'"

"Then it was you who tried to signal us from the tender?" Merry came to
his rescue.

"Yes; I thought it was you; I wigwagged until I almost plunged
overboard. I've got to go back Monday, to reach Cambridge in time to
register, so I hated to lose a whole day out of three."

"There's one thing about a college education which Mr. Huntington didn't
mention last evening," Thatcher remarked to Cosden as they walked toward
the bar for the anteprandial cocktail; "it gives a boy freedom of action
and breadth of imagination."

"Huntington left out a whole lot of things he might have touched on,"
Cosden said testily. "That's a topic on which we don't agree, and never
shall. There is a boy with many sterling qualities going to waste
because Monty has more wishbone than backbone in the matter of
discipline."

"Don't get started on that, Connie," Huntington's voice came from the
rear. "I've no doubt it's deserved, but that boy keeps me from
remembering that my own days of irresponsibility are so far behind me. I
believe I enjoy him the more because I haven't a parent's duty to
perform."

"It's a sort of reciprocity without personal liability," laughed
Thatcher.

"Exactly. I wonder sometimes if what we gain by experience is worth what
we lose in illusion.--Aren't you coming up-stairs to dress for dinner,
Billy?" Huntington continued, as his nephew and Merry walked past them,
engaged in an animated conversation.

"Don't wait for me," was the prompt response. "I'm a bear at dressing,
and I'll be ready before Dixon has put in your collar-studs."

"I feel easier down here since I know that you're off duty, too, and not
likely to upset my apple-cart while I'm away," Thatcher remarked to
Cosden with a smile. "Did you know, Mr. Huntington," he continued,
turning, "that your friend is a wrecker of other men's plans?"

"It's the best thing he does," Huntington agreed promptly. "That exactly
explains my presence here."

Cosden was immensely pleased by Thatcher's acknowledgment of his
importance, but he tried to carry it off lightly.

"Oh, well," he said indifferently, "you must let me have my innings once
in a while. I have to get to you sometimes to make up for other bouts
which I've been glad to forget."

"You'll join us, of course," Thatcher added, to Huntington.

"I can resist anything but temptation," Huntington replied soberly; "I
love the enemy."

"This cocktail-drinking is a curious thing," Thatcher remarked. "In cold
weather we take it to warm us up, in warm weather to cool us off; when
we are depressed it is to cheer us, and when we're happy it's because we
want to celebrate. And there you are.--How about the Consolidated
Machinery deal?" Thatcher changed the subject abruptly, and spoke to
Cosden. "Are we going to fight each other on that?"

"I'm afraid we'll have to," Cosden admitted frankly; "but I'll be glad
to talk it over with you. From here, the interests look too far apart
even to compromise."

Cosden and Huntington went up in the elevator together, leaving Thatcher
on the piazza.

"What the devil did that young cub show up here for just at this time?"
Cosden demanded.

"Didn't you hear?" Monty explained innocently. "He wanted to cheer me up
in my 'awful loneliness.'"

"Lonely fiddlesticks!" Cosden protested irritably. "Don't you grasp the
fact that his coming is going to mess things up?"

"Why, no," Huntington said slowly, pausing at the door of his room to
give his friend opportunity to finish his remarks; "I can't for the life
of me see that."

"Don't you see that it's Merry Thatcher the kid is making up to?"

"Oh, ho!" Huntington exclaimed. "So that's the situation! It was stupid
of me not to understand."

"Well, that's it; and I won't have it."

"Of course you won't; but how are you going to stop it?"

"That's your job, Monty. It's up to you to send him about his business."

"That doesn't appeal to me as a sporting proposition," Huntington said
after a moment's deliberation. "I didn't come down here to help you get
a corner in anything, but merely as an observer, and to give you expert
advice. Now you suggest a combination--trust, as it were--of two
full-grown men against a half-baked boy. It isn't worthy of you, Connie,
and I'm not sure that it isn't an illegal restraint of trade. Oh, no; I
couldn't think of it."

"I'd like to see you in the same situation just once," growled Cosden.
"Why the devil can't you send the boy home?"

"If I did, he'd come back so quick he'd meet himself going away,"
Huntington said gravely; "but as a matter of fact I understand that he
plans to go on Monday, and there's no boat sailing before then anyhow."

He opened the door of his room and stepped inside.

"I might add, Connie," he continued, "that if you're afraid to take
chances with a boy like that I don't feel much confidence in the final
outcome of your benedictine expedition."

"I'm serious in this," Cosden snapped back. "My bump of humor evidently
got light-struck in the developing. Billy has twenty years ahead of him
to pick out a girl while I haven't, and he must understand that I mean
business."

"Of course he must," agreed Huntington. "It hadn't occurred to me until
you spoke of it that there was the remotest chance of having Billy show
sense enough to become interested in any girl so well calculated to
make a man of him. In fact, I doubt very much whether his own intellect
has carried him so far. It's all right for you or me to contemplate
committing matrimony, but a young man, in these days of increasing cost
of everything, is likely to become a grandfather before he can afford to
be a father. Only the other day, Connie, the thought came to me that if
this high cost of living continues it will make death a necessity of
life."

"You are evidently in no frame of mind to discuss anything serious now,"
Cosden retorted; "I'll wait until after dinner."

"Do!" Huntington's face brightened. "Look at the reproachful expression
on the bosom of that beautiful white shirt which Dixon has laid out for
me. Can't you almost hear the pathos in its tone as it asks to be
filled?"

The door slammed, and Cosden's heavy tread could be heard as he
disgustedly retreated down the hall to his own room.

One of the compensations of maturity is that the adjustment of proper
proportions comes more quickly than to youth. It may be that Cosden saw
the modicum of truth which lay beneath his friend's bantering; it may be
that he was ashamed to have shown any uncertainty in his mind as to the
final outcome of his embassy. At all events, he seemed to be in the best
of humor when he dined with Huntington and the boy, and even accepted
with good grace the unexpected announcement that Billy and Merry were to
"take in" the dance at the "Hamilton." It may be that he was determined
to demonstrate his strength of mind, for when the little party
reassembled on the piazza, and the young people disappeared soon after
the coffee, he devoted himself to Edith Stevens with an assiduity which
caused Huntington to smile quietly to himself. Stevens and Thatcher,
finding the ladies well provided for, went down-stairs for a game of
billiards. Mrs. Thatcher cheerfully accepted Huntington's invitation to
stroll to the pier, leaving Miss Stevens and Cosden by themselves.

"I've made an appointment for you on Monday morning," Thatcher remarked
to Cosden as he passed by.

"Good! I'll keep it," was the prompt response.

"What do you think of Marian's resurrection?" Edith asked him when they
were alone.

Cosden looked in the direction of the pier. "Do you mean--" he began.

"Oh, no!" she interrupted him. "That is merely a revival, which I
imagine may develop into an experience meeting. I mean Mr. Hamlen. Think
of a devotion that forces a man to bury himself for twenty years! I
could throw myself on his neck for restoring my lost belief in the
constancy of man."

"I hadn't heard that side of the story," Cosden observed.

"It was while we were at school together," Edith explained. "Marian was
irresistible then--as now, and every man she met lost his head
altogether; but for a time she and Mr. Hamlen were engaged. Then she
married the last man we expected; but she and Harry have been very
happy. It simply shows that you never can tell."

"Did you know Hamlen then?"

"No; but I heard enough about him. If he had been merely intelligent
instead of intellectual he might have had her just as well as not. He
simply frightened her out of it."

"Where did Monty come in?"

"I never heard of him; things couldn't have gone very far."

"You remember what he said just before we started out this morning? I
know him pretty well and Monty doesn't speak like that unless there is
something back of it."

"Well," Edith laughed, "I'm sure I should have known, even so. Why, I
could reel off so many names that you would think Marian was a heartless
coquette; but it wasn't that at all. She simply loved attention, as all
women do."

"How about the daughter?" queried Cosden.

"Merry?" Miss Stevens interrogated. "Oh, Merry is an up-to-date,
twentieth-century thoroughbred. Marian has never known just what to make
of her because she isn't like other girls, but to my mind the comparison
is all to her credit. I'm generous when I give the child so good a
character, for I know she heartily disapproves of me."

Cosden was pleased with the intuition he had shown in his selection. "I
should think young Huntington would bore her about as much as a
youngster in kilts," he said, to draw her out.

"He is her brother's friend, she adores athletics and dancing, and she
is exercising the prerogative of her age and sex."

There was a silence of several moments, during which time Cosden was
debating with himself whether it was too late for him to bring his
dancing of the vintage of the nineties up to the present confusion of
innovations. He had scoffed at modern dances but it might become
necessary to revise his views.

"What an unusual ring you have," Miss Stevens exclaimed, leaning over
his hand which rested upon the arm of his chair. "Is there a romance
connected with it?"

Cosden took it off and handed it to her. "No," he said. "When you know
me better you will understand that romance doesn't come into my make-up.
I bought that ring myself particularly to avoid any sentiment. I can
take it off when I like, wear it or not as I choose, and if I lose it
nobody's heart is broken."

"That is an original idea," she laughed; then her face sobered. "I used
to think romance was everything," she said seriously. "Now I wonder if
what we call romance isn't another word for illusion. As I look back at
my girl friends and see how many romances became tragedies, and how many
matter-of-fact marriages, like Marian's and Harry's, have developed into
real unions, I'm inclined to think that romance is a form of hypnotism."

"You've expressed my idea to a dot," Cosden replied emphatically.
"Huntington is a sentimentalist, and he stamps my common-sense ideas as
evidences of a commercial instinct. I've seen just what you've seen, and
I believe that the business of life rests on exactly the same basis as
the business of trade."

"Take Harry Thatcher, for example," Edith continued her own
conversation rather than replied to his; "there's nothing brilliant
about him outside his business success, but you always know where to
find him. He's a comfortable man to have around. With men, they say he
dominates everything he goes into, but in his home,--well, every now and
then he stands out just on principle, but as a matter of fact even his
ideas are in his wife's name."

Mrs. Thatcher and Huntington approached them returning from their
moon-bath on the steps of the pier.

"Did you ever see so wonderful a night, Edith?" she exclaimed with
enthusiasm. "This atmosphere, and the renewing of my friendship with Mr.
Huntington, make me feel like a girl again."

"Monty must have been composing poetry," Cosden remarked.

"No," Huntington disclaimed promptly; "poetry is the one contagious
disease of youth which I have escaped. But Mrs. Thatcher has helped me
to set back my clock of life more than twenty years, and that is an
achievement of which I feel justly proud."




       *       *       *       *       *

VII

       *       *       *       *       *


Sunday morning found the party possessed of divers minds regarding the
proper use to make of the wonderful sunshine and the mild yet bracing
air, delicately scented with thousands of blooms on every side. Mr. and
Mrs. Thatcher announced definitely that they proposed to hear the band
concert at the Barracks, which gave a certain basis upon which to hang
other plans. Billy Huntington suggested to Merry that they walk to Elba
Beach, and Cosden, with the cordial disapproval of Edith Stevens and
Billy, invited himself to accompany the young people on their walk.
Huntington accounted for himself by reporting that Hamlen had
telephoned, asking him to make the promised visit that morning, so the
Stevenses joined forces with the Thatchers, and the plans were complete.

Hamlen was visibly ill at ease when Huntington arrived. It was the only
time during the twenty years of his residence there that any guest had
been received at his villa by invitation of its owner. The new
experience excited him, but the sincerity of Huntington's admiration of
the grounds, and the friendliness of his attitude, made it impossible
for any barrier long to exist between them. A touch of the old-time
bitterness passed through Hamlen's mind, soon after Huntington's
arrival, as he thought what it would have meant to him during any one of
those four years at college to have had Monty Huntington come to his
room in the same spirit of comradeship! Yet, he admitted to himself, the
tragedies of that small world did lose some of their poignancy in
retrospect, just as Huntington had said. He had been at a disadvantage
in that the world into which he had been graduated was not the great
world of which his classmate spoke, but rather another little one,
smaller even than that which had tortured him,--so small that he had
remained still instead of growing, as the others had, into an estate
from which he might look back with broader vision.

This much at least had borne fruit from the conversation at the hotel,
but beyond this there was an impression still deeper which increased
Hamlen's spirit of unrest. From the time when he began to feel things
strongly there had existed in him a sense of justice which completely
dominated his other attributes. By the time he entered college this
sense had assumed exaggerated proportions, and he had reached a point
where he was looking for injustices, and was quick to resent them. He
might have made a place for himself in athletics had he not expected
some one else to take the initiative; he might have made friends except
that he waited to be sought out. When he saw other fellows around him
succeed where he had failed, the sensitiveness of his nature placed his
classmates on trial, appointed himself judge, and condemned them as
guilty of injustice, the most heinous crime in the category of sin. As a
penalty, he had banished them from his life. The fact that they bore
their punishment with seeming indifference served only to twist the
knife in the wound.

His devotion to Marian Seymour gave his strange nature its only outlet.
Her father and his had been bosom friends in boyhood, and they had hoped
to see their children bound together in even closer ties. The tense,
deep nature of the boy dominated,--even more so after he went to college
and she to school, and they saw less of each other. He was different
from other boys she knew, and at first it pleased her vanity that he had
no thought for any one else, even though he demanded so much of her.
Then she became fairly terrified by his intensity, and when she broke
the engagement, just after his graduation, she welcomed her release.

Her engagement and marriage to Thatcher supplied the final evidence that
the whole world was built upon a structure of injustice, and Hamlen fled
from it with a sense of leaving behind a thing despised. During all
these years the judge had worn his ermine, and the world represented the
condemned prisoner, working out its sentence, but somehow failing to
gain salutary results from its long chastisement. Now a belated witness
appears, supplying testimony which shakes the integrity of the judicial
decision. Huntington presents the case from a position new to the
self-appointed judge, and Hamlen had spent many hours since that
eventful meeting wondering whether the world had really been on trial
or he himself. Many of the words which Marian had spoken, which had not
made their impression when he first heard them came back with redoubled
force after Huntington had added his testimony to hers. "Was it their
failure to understand you or your failure to give them the opportunity?"
she asked. "The citizens of the college world are young, untried boys,"
Huntington explained, "trying to conduct themselves like full-grown
men." What right had he to condemn them because in their youth and
inexperience they had fallen below the standard older men had set? Had
he a right to expect them to search him out any more than they a right
to demand the same of him? "You drew me to you with irresistible force,"
Marian admitted, only to make the agony the more unbearable when she
added, "Then you repelled me by your intolerance of all those lighter
interests which were natural to youth of our age." Intolerance! That was
a form of injustice, and he had judged her guilty upon the same
indictment! "Each member of the Class measures up his fellow-members by
what they have done since they have left college," Huntington had said.
Every word seemed seared into Hamlen's brain as he put himself through
this fierce analysis. "What have you really accomplished?" was Marian's
question.

So Hamlen had struggled with himself during the intervening hours, and
now Huntington came to him as a classmate, as a friend, claiming kinship
and insisting upon recognition of his claim. If Monty Huntington had
been what Hamlen believed him to be in college, he would not now have
forced himself upon him in spite of his own rude disclaimers of any
present desire for recognition. If he had misjudged Huntington had he
not misjudged his other classmates, had he not misjudged the world at
large?

This was the doubt which had been raised in Hamlen's mind, and with it
came a sense of responsibility and the necessity of restitution should
that doubt turn into a certainty. Forty-eight hours earlier he had asked
Marian, "What do I owe the world?" and it was from Huntington he
received his answer. It was uncanny how closely the two opinions of the
case, made by persons widely separated in viewpoint and environment,
dovetailed each into the other. This interview with Huntington would
settle all doubt, he was convinced, and if the injustice proved to be
vested in himself alone, what was there left for him out of the wreck he
had made of life? What wonder that he was ill at ease; what wonder that
his heart beat more quickly as he realized that the moment of his own
conviction might be at hand!

They walked about the grounds, as the others had done, and Huntington's
exclamations were no less enthusiastic; yet it was obvious that this was
but a prelude to the real purpose of his visit. They paused for a moment
as they came back through the garden, and the hesitation forced the
question from Hamlen's lips.

"Don't you care to see the view from the Point?"

"Not to-day," Huntington answered frankly. "I want to come again and
examine every cranny; but to-day, Hamlen, my interest lies in something
deeper. You have shown me what you are by profession; now show me what
you are by nature. You remember the old Greek adage, 'Would you know a
man, give him power.' My version of it is 'Would you know a man, give
him leisure'; for leisure is the expression of power, the stored-up
capital of that unmeasured treasure called Time whose currency is in the
blood and which promotes life itself. Here, in these grounds, your work
has been similar to that of any one of us in his office. Now I want to
know the man. Take me to his workshop."

Hamlen understood him beyond the necessity of further words. He had told
Marian that it was in his books that he found his relaxation, but it was
not to his library that he now silently led his guest. It was to a small
room on the back of the villa, in which Huntington found cases of type,
a hand-press, and a bench containing every description of binder's
tools. As they entered Hamlen closed the door behind them.

"I don't know why I brought you here," he spoke apologetically, "except
that by what you just said you seemed to know this place existed. No one
else has ever entered with me, for I have a sentiment about it which
would seem ridiculous to any one except myself."

"It is a miniature printing-office and bindery combined!"

"This is where I spend my leisure. This is where I withdraw into a
solitude even more complete than that in which I live. These
books"--pointing to a case near by--"represent the pitifully meager
contribution which I have made to the world while you and my other
classmates have taken the positions to which you are entitled. That I
show them to you now is a confession of the narrow outlook I have always
had on life."

Huntington was busy examining the volumes, one by one, giving no sign
that he heard the crisp words. He turned the leaves critically, he
examined the bindings, he studied the typography and the designs. Then
at length he looked up.

"I was mistaken when I said I did not know you," he remarked.

"I don't understand," Hamlen replied.

"Printing as an art has always been a hobby of mine," Huntington
explained. "With two exceptions I have every one of these books in my
collection at home."

The color came into Hamlen's face. "You mean--" he began.

"I mean that these splendid examples of the bookmaker's art have
attracted much attention among those of us who understand what they
represent, and I count myself fortunate to be the first to solve the
mystery which has surrounded them, when I next meet with my
fellow-collectors."

"How is it possible," demanded Hamlen, "that any of these should have
fallen into your hands?"

"Were they not placed upon the market?"

"I did not suppose any of them reached America," Hamlen explained. "Out
of curiosity to see what would happen I sent the first volumes to a
dealer in London, and he has been kind enough to take the subsequent
volumes as they have been issued."

"And kind enough to himself," Huntington added, "to call the attention
of all the leading collectors to the uniqueness of the work. Some time I
will show you his circulars if you care to know what he thinks of you;
and I may add that there is none of us who considers his claims
exaggerated."

"Then the work is good?" Hamlen asked, unable to conceal his excitement.

"It is superb both in conception and execution; but its greatest merit
is its originality. Most of the good printing and binding which we have
to-day rests definitely in conception upon some one of the great
master-printers or binders of the past: the work of Aldus, Jenson,
Etienne, Plantin, Elzevir, Baskerville, Didot, William Morris, is drawn
upon to greater or less degree by every modern printer, the volumes of
Grolier, Maiolus, or Geoffroy Tory are revived in nearly every modern
binding of importance; but your books are absolutely unique. Frankly, I
don't sympathize with all of them, but there is not one which does not
interest me. Tell me, where did you learn the art of bookmaking enough
to make yourself a master?"

"Your praise is too high," Hamlen answered deprecatingly.

"I am not praising your work," Huntington insisted; "that would be
presumptuous. Its merit has passed far beyond the point where praise
from me could affect it. Each volume which comes into the market is
hungrily snatched up, and we all have been eager to discover who the
master was. Where did you learn so much?"

"I have been interested in the mechanics of printing ever since, as a
boy, I had my first press," explained Hamlen; "but I only turned to it
seriously after I came here and felt the need of something to keep my
mind engaged. I have in my library examples from probably most of the
great printers and binders, but--I'm afraid you won't understand me when
I say it--they have never interested me particularly, nor do they now. I
am only interested in what I do myself; and when I explain I am sure you
will not think me egotistical."

"Go on," Huntington urged as Hamlen paused, but there was a break before
the speaker continued.

"You said a moment ago that you did not sympathize with some of my
books; that is perfectly natural. I said just now that I was only
interested in my own work; that, too, I believe, is natural. I have no
knowledge of the great _incunabula_, I know nothing of the history of
printing, and in making these few books I have had no thought of
producing examples of the printer's or the binder's art: they stand to
me simply as symbolic of certain phases of myself,--some good, perhaps,
some bad; but all representative of my mood when they were made. I tell
you, Huntington"--Hamlen continued with deep intensity--"I tell you now
what I have never before put into words, that those are not books at
all; they are simply the expression of a something in my soul which
demands an outlet, and it comes out through my finger-tips. That sounds
absurd, but it is the solemn truth!"

"Absurd?" cried Huntington. "My dear fellow, what you have just said is
the explanation of the books which we collectors, poor simple fools,
haven't been able to give. Don't you see that by your very act you have
placed yourself among the masters? What else are the sculptures of
Michelangelo, the paintings of Raphael, but the expression of their
messages to the world made through the media with which they were
familiar? With them it was stone and canvas, with you it is type and
paper and leather. Thank God you couldn't write!"

Hamlen listened to him in amazement, unable to grasp at once the
significance or the breadth of all he heard. It was natural that
Huntington's last words should be the first in his hearer's mind.

"What do you mean,--'thank God you couldn't write'?"

"I mean that what you have just told me is the reason why the arts of
painting, architecture and sculpture have stood still these four hundred
and fifty years. Stop and think, man! Who in those arts has surpassed
the work of the old masters within that limit of time? No one, I say; no
one! And why? Think of your dates! Four hundred and fifty years take us
back to the invention of printing. That was what did it! With all it
accomplished for the cause of learning it was the death-knell to the
further development of the arts; for with the invention of printing came
an easier way to give to the world that message which the human soul
contains. Since then the real artist, whoever he was, instead of
laboring to express his message in stone, or bronze, or on canvas, has
simply taken pen and ink and patient paper and given the outpourings of
his soul to the dear public in the form of a book. Again I say, thank
God you couldn't write!"

When Huntington turned to his companion he was amazed to see that he had
dropped upon a stool, with bowed head resting on his hands, was sobbing
like a child. With a woman's tenderness and intuition Huntington gently
rested his hand upon his head.

"We have torn off the bandages too fast, my friend," he said quietly.
"Philip Hamlen doesn't belong among the 'missing men'; he belongs among
the masters of art of his generation."




       *       *       *       *       *

VIII

       *       *       *       *       *


Between Cosden and Billy Huntington the breach had become well-defined
during the past twenty-four hours. Up to this time the boy had
considered him merely as an unsympathetic personality, whose advice to
his uncle frequently made the task of carrying his point more difficult;
but as the point was always eventually carried Billy had borne him no
permanent ill-will. Cosden looked upon him as a spoiled child, to be
punished frequently on general principles just for the good of the
service. Now, however, affairs assumed a different footing: the boy,
jealous of the passing moments which brought the sailing of the
"Arcadian" nearer at hand, regarded the older man's action in joining in
the walk to Elba Beach as a distinct intrusion; while Cosden,
unconsciously applying his familiar business principles, deliberately
determined to eliminate the possible competition of a diverting
influence by exhibiting to the "prospect" a superior line of samples.
Not that he really considered Billy worthy of such serious attention,
but he was exercising that precaution which more than once had saved him
from committing a business mistake.

Merry Thatcher was not unaware of the relations which existed between
the two, even though Cosden's present viewpoint was naturally unknown to
her. Billy had been particularly frank in his expressions the evening
before, and as they started off that morning he found opportunity to
paint his feelings in vivid colorings. Considering the situation as
amusing rather than serious, she held herself as a neutral observer.

When it became evident that Cosden was in earnest in his suggestion to
accompany them, Billy was seized with an inspiration.

"What kind of bike do you ride, Mr. Cosden?" he asked, stopping in front
of the bicycle-shed of the "Princess."

"Bike?" Cosden echoed. "I thought we were going to walk."

"Oh, no!" Billy assured him with confidence. "It's too far for Merry to
hike it along the pavements, and these roads are bully for wheels."

"All right," Cosden assented without further hesitation. "I haven't
ridden for some time, but I guess I haven't forgotten how."

"You know it's pretty tricky, riding down here in Bermuda," Billy
cautioned him. "You have to turn out to the left, and all that sort of
thing."

"I'll take care of that," Cosden answered with decision, recognizing
what was in the boy's mind. "You go ahead and get the wheels."

Billy's glance at Merry as Cosden turned aside to say a word to
Huntington was most expressive, and he managed to speak with her in an
undertone before the older man rejoined them.

"The big stiff!" he ejaculated. "I hope he takes a header on this first
hill!--You know how to ride, don't you?"

Merry's laughing nod reassured him. "Yes," she said; "it will be loads
of fun!"

"Great! then let's tear things up a bit, and give him a run for his
money."

Huntington stepped up with Cosden as the negro boy brought out the
wheels.

"So you're going back to first principles, Connie?" he asked. "It must
have been you who suggested bicycles."

"No; Billy wants to show me a thing or two about riding."

"Show _you_!" Huntington laughed. "You'll have your hands full, my boy,
riding with him. Why, he won everything in sight in the bicycle-races on
the Mott Haven team when he was in college. He was as good as a
professional then, and I don't believe he's forgotten it all yet. Throw
out your chest, Connie, and let the lady admire your medals."

Billy's face fell, and he looked at Merry dubiously. "Let's walk," he
said.

"No, you don't!" Cosden insisted. "This was your idea, and now we'll see
it through. Come on."

There was a complete reversal in the boy's spirits. The way Cosden
handled the wheel showed clearly enough that bicycle-riding was second
nature to him, and Billy's interest in the trip had obviously waned. But
Merry had already mounted and was starting on behind Cosden, so nothing
remained for him but to follow. Down past the tennis-courts, out onto
Front Street, winding through the closely-packed buildings of the town
itself, past Parliament House and Pembroke Hall, with its magnificent
group of Royal Palms, then around the harbor, they soon found themselves
riding between gardens and great trees on either side, which protected
the coraline houses, with their curious tiled roofs, from the glare of
the sun and the inquisitive gaze of the passers-by.

"Can you take that hill without dismounting?" Cosden challenged Merry,
as they approached a steep rise in the road.

"Try me!" she answered gaily.

"Oh, what's the use in tiring Merry all out?" Billy protested. "This
isn't an endurance test; we're out for fun."

"We'll wait for you," the girl taunted him laughingly, and the two shot
ahead for the hill. The boy muttered something about Mr. Cosden which
undoubtedly would have been much to the point had it been heard, and
pedaled hard to make up for their start, but he reached the top of the
incline in considerably poorer condition than either of the others.

"Whew!" Billy puffed, "let's stop a minute; there's a dandy view from
here."

"Shall we rest?" Cosden asked Merry.

"Not on my account," she replied unhelpfully. "I'm perfectly fresh, and
the ride is exhilarating."

"Then it would be a pity to be held back by Billy's inexperience,"
Cosden commented, glancing at him with a malicious smile. "On, on to
Elba Beach!"

The boy managed nearly to keep up with them for the balance of the
distance, but was quite ready to throw himself on the ground when they
arrived at their destination.

"Those are the 'boilers,' Billy," Merry announced to him, as they found
the expanse of sea spread out before them, with the curious coral atols
in the foreground, around which the water seethed.

"Nothing that boils interests me in the least," was the unenthusiastic
reply. "Lead me to an ice-chest and I'll give it the bunny-hug. Say, Mr.
Cosden, you are some rider, aren't you? And Merry is no slouch!"

"I'm glad you suggested the change," Cosden said. "I have underrated
your headwork, my boy."

"You certainly ride mighty well for a man your age,--doesn't he, Merry?"
Billy continued with apparent good humor, but, aggravated to a point of
impertinence by the patronizing attitude, he determined to break even
with his tormentor. "Your wind is good, and the way you pedaled up that
hill made me forget that you were old enough to be my father. You're
mighty well preserved, aren't you?"

Cosden was nettled. "Your idea of age needs some revision," he retorted
sharply. "If I were to figure things the same way, I would suggest that
the next time you come to Elba Beach you use an automobile perambulator
instead of a bicycle.--Now let's call it quits."

"They don't allow automobiles down here," Billy corrected seriously.
"That's one reason why I came. I never want to see a buzz-wagon again."

"Skid, collision, run-over, smash-up--" Merry began helpfully.

"No--worse still," Billy rejoined slowly, evidently surveying the past
in his mind.--"Say, Phil was in this, too."

"Phil?" the girl echoed anxiously. "He wasn't hurt, was he?"

"No, not hurt exactly; but we both had the shivers all right, and the
more I think it over the less of a joke it seems to me. You see, Bud
Warner has a crackerjack car, and he asked Phil and me to dash out with
him one afternoon. The first thing we knew he turned in at a place out
in Belmont, rode to the front door, and went on in to fuss a dame there
that he's been rushing. Well, Phil and I cooled our heels half an hour
waiting for him and then we thought we'd get even by giving him the
slip, for it was a good two miles' walk to the cars and Bud is no bear
as a walker. We slid out with the motor all right, but just before we
reached Harvard Square a wise-guy cop pinched us for stealing the car,
and ran us both in."

"Arrested you for stealing?" Merry demanded.

"Surest thing you know," Billy confirmed. "When Bud found we'd slipped
him, he was sore, and to get even he telephoned the police-station, gave
them the number of the car, and said it had been stolen. Oh! we were in
bad, for fair."

"And Uncle Monty far from home," commented Cosden.

"Yes," Billy admitted; "I didn't know it at the time or I should have
been still more peeved. Well--we stayed there in the cooler for two
hours when Bud showed up and was brought in where we were. He gave us
the once over, and acted as if he'd never seen us before in all his
young life. 'I couldn't have believed it of such respectable-looking
young men,' he said,--the darned hypocrite! 'I couldn't send them to
State's prison,' said he, 'on account of their families.' Then he made
an imitation like thinking, and finally he said, 'Officer, I withdraw
the charge of theft, but ask you to hold the prisoners for exceeding the
speed limit.--What's the bail? I'll help them out for the sake of their
families.' So he bailed us out, and we went back together, with Bud
thinking he'd played us a fine, swell joke."

"Did you jump your bail?" Merry inquired, thoroughly amused.

"No; we didn't dare. We came up before the judge next morning, and it
cost us ten bones apiece and costs. That's what made me so short on my
Christmas money."

"I'll guarantee you found some way to get around that," Cosden said,
suggestively egging him on to display his youthfulness.

Billy grinned. "I had to," he admitted. "I thought I could get some
money from Uncle Monty, but he had gone away, so I had Mother's present
charged to Father, and Father's present charged to Mother."

"Frenzied finance!" cried Cosden, amused in spite of his desire to
disparage the boy. "You are wasting your time in college; you should be
in Wall Street."

"Your advice ought to be good, Mr. Cosden," agreed Billy, "for you
certainly know how to make your money work overtime. I can always tell
when Uncle Monty gives me any of the tired cash he wins out of you from
the gratitude it shows for getting a little rest."

Cosden did not like Billy's come-backs, and he did not like the
amusement which he saw restrained in Merry's face. Still, he accepted
the responsibility in large measure for putting himself on the boy's
level.

"I'd like to have charge of your business education," he said
significantly.

"It may come to that," the boy said with a total lack of enthusiasm.
"That's the one real threat Uncle Monty always holds over me."

"You are impertinent--" Cosden realized that the ragging was going too
far.

"Who began it?" was the retort.

"Who is going to invite me to have some strawberries and cream?" Merry
interrupted, feeling it to be her mission to come to the rescue, and
recognizing Billy's mistake in antagonizing so close a friend of his
uncle.

Billy was on his feet in an instant, but Cosden was ahead of him.

"I know the place," Merry said. "You see, I'm the old settler here, so
I'll show you all the attractions. Think of strawberries and cream in
January!--Won't you go ahead of us, Mr. Cosden, and ask the boy to put a
table out on the piazza? It will be lovely there."

As Cosden moved out of earshot she turned to her companion.

"You must not upset him like that, Billy," she reproved him firmly;
"your uncle will never forgive you."

"He has no right to butt in on us," the boy protested gloomily.

"But he's here, and you must be civil to him. Think how much older he is
than you are, and you're quarreling with him as if he were your own
age."

"Oh, I'll be civil to him if he'll only can his grouch. Why, he got sore
with me for kidding him about his age, yet you noticed how old he is
yourself."

"He isn't old, Billy. Why, he's younger than Mr. Huntington, isn't he?"

"Perhaps he is; but Uncle Monty always makes you feel that he's your own
age. I never think of him any differently than I do of any of my other
pals. But Mr. Cosden--ugh!"

"I know, Billy; but you don't want to say anything that will queer you
with your uncle, do you?"

Billy looked at her quizzically before he replied, then his broad,
good-natured grin replaced the frown.

"I get you, Stevie--what's the feminine for Steve, anyhow? You mean that
a fellow ought not to make _pate de foie gras_ out of the goose that
lays the golden eggs.--Say, Merry, you're wonderful, you are,--simply
wonderful!"




       *       *       *       *       *

IX

       *       *       *       *       *


On their return from the Barracks Mrs. Thatcher and Edith Stevens left
the men on the piazza and went up-stairs for the ostensible purpose of
lying down, but with that ease with which two women change their plans
when once alone they found themselves sitting in Marian's room, engaged
in a heart-to-heart conversation.

"I really think he might do," Edith remarked, a propos of nothing.

As Mrs. Thatcher was intimately acquainted with Edith's mental processes
the remark was more intelligible than might have been expected.

"You don't mean Philip Hamlen?"

Edith laughed. "No; you warned me off of him yesterday. I mean Mr.
Cosden."

"At it again?" Marian laughed. "Edith, you are absolutely incorrigible!
It has been so long since you have played ducks and drakes with a man
that I really believed you had reformed. You are old enough to know
better!"

"I presume it will be the same with him as with the others," Edith
sighed. "That is my great weakness, I admit: I like a man just so long,
and then he bores me stiff. I don't see how a married woman stands it
to have only one man around her all the time. If you were as honest as I
am you would admit that it would be a relief to you, every now and then
if you could pour out your breakfast coffee with some one else sitting
in front of you instead of Harry."

"Harry answers very well, thank you."

"Habit, nothing else," Edith insisted. "He's as much a part of the
family furniture as the grand piano. But that's what gives me hope: if
you and so many other women can endure it, why can't I?"

"There are hundreds of men; why pick on Mr. Cosden?"

"I had a long, experimental conversation with him last night while you
and Mr. Huntington were holding your revival meeting on the pier, and I
really think he might do. Tell me what you know about him."

"Only what Harry has told me. They have had some business dealings
together, and Harry says he has made a lot of money. The fact that Monty
Huntington is his friend is his best recommendation."

"Mr. Huntington has a good social position in Boston, hasn't he?"

"Good heavens, yes! I believe one of his ancestors discovered Beacon
Street, or something of that kind; but that doesn't imply that Mr.
Cosden has the same position. A bachelor may have friends at his clubs
whom he does not necessarily bring into his social circle,--especially
in Boston."

"Mr. Cosden is frightfully commercial," Edith meditated aloud.

"So are you," Marian broke in laughing.

"I don't mind that," Edith continued, "so long as he has a human side.
I believe I could serve as a counter-irritant to keep him from remaining
merely a machine.

"You mustn't take away his capacity as provider," Marian teased her; "he
would need a fairly stiff income to sail the good ship 'Edith Stevens.'"

"With everything I want costing more and everything I own yielding less,
that is of vital importance, of course. But I really believe
Cossie--Connie--whatever they call him, might do."

"Well, it's fine to have that all settled, my dear," Marian agreed,
still showing her amusement. "Now, when are you going to break the news
to him?"

"Ah! that's another question!" Edith answered, entirely unabashed.
"Couldn't you find out from Mr. Huntington something about his hobbies
and his antipathies?"

"Of course; unless you select some one else in the mean time. Perhaps
we'd better wait until after luncheon."

"Oh, I'm serious," Edith protested,--"provided of course that he
measures up all right. The more I think it over the more serious I
become. Ricky was particularly trying this morning; I'm aghast at the
amount of last month's bills, and all in all it makes me realize the
importance of not letting one's age become an indiscretion. Even you
referred to my passing years."

"Poor Ricky!" Marian said sympathetically; "he never gets any credit for
sacrificing himself."

"I've acted in the interests of my sex," Edith asserted stoutly. "Ricky
is a joke. Except for the fact that he's my own brother I'd say he was
a scream. If it hadn't been for me he would have married some girl and
bored her to extinction. She couldn't have escaped him, but I can.
Somebody owes me a debt of gratitude."

"Well," Marian sighed, "I wish you luck; if Mr. Cosden isn't smart
enough to protect himself it will be his own fault."

"Why be catty, Marian?" Edith retorted with asperity. "It isn't
becoming."

Marian laughed. "You silly child!" she said. "You are the most supremely
selfish creature in the world, but you are so blissfully unconscious of
the fact that I love you for it. Some one has to stand up for Ricky;
Heaven knows he can't stand up for himself."

"Very good." Edith was only partly mollified. "I've no doubt Ricky will
be exceedingly grateful, but if you were to ask me I'd say that you have
men enough on your hands already without him. Now, I'm going to my room
to dress for luncheon. Afterwards, when you find an opportunity, I want
you to pump Mr. Huntington dry about Cossie--Connie--I'll never get used
to that name!--and leave me to do the rest."

Unconscious of plots and counterplots, Cosden and Huntington sauntered
innocently onto the piazza after their noonday meal. Billy had managed
to get himself invited to the Thatchers' table, so the two friends had
lunched by themselves. Both were self-centered, but neither noticed it
because of his own abstraction. Cosden was measuring up the girl as his
opportunity for observation broadened, Huntington was still affected by
his experience with Hamlen. Curiously enough, in spite of their
friendship, or perhaps because their intimacy gave each so clear a
knowledge of the other's characteristics neither one cared to speak of
the subject which was uppermost in his mind. "Monty is too much of a
cynic to appreciate my situation here," Cosden told himself; and
Huntington, without even mentally putting it into words, knew that
Hamlen did not and never would appeal to Cosden.

Shortly after the men had lighted their cigars the party from the
Thatchers' table joined them. Marian noticed that Edith casually dropped
into the chair beside Cosden's, and was amused to see that she began
operations at once.

"What are we going to do this afternoon?" Edith queried breezily.

"We've all been going since breakfast," Stevens suggested; "why not sit
still for a while?"

"Ricky!" said his sister severely, "no one asked your opinion. What in
the world is the use of sitting still? We can do that at home."

"What do you suggest?" Cosden asked her incautiously.

"Have you been to Harrington Sound?"

"No," he admitted; recognizing at once that he had given an unwise
opening.

"Then why don't you let me show you the way?" Edith asked, as if the
thought had only just occurred to her.

A chorus of approval went up from Huntington, Mrs. Thatcher and Billy.

"Suppose we all go," Cosden said, seeking safety in numbers.

"We have taken the drive several times," Mrs. Thatcher abetted Edith in
her conspiracy, "and I am sure Mr. Huntington is too gallant to leave
us. You can drive over and back comfortably by dinner-time."

"Won't you stop on the way home and get me some coral sand?" Merry
asked. "Edith will show you the beach."

A drive with Miss Stevens was the last thing Cosden had intended, but as
there seemed no possible escape he rose to the occasion and at once
ordered the victoria. Nor was the enthusiasm of Billy's send-off
balm-of-Gilead to his soul as the carriage moved away from the hotel
steps. Edith, in a suit of white Bermuda doe-skin, with a small purple
hat perched rakishly on her head, and carrying a purple parasol with
handle of abalone pearl, was looking her best, and to the amused
onlookers her snapping eyes and beaming countenance seemed to promise
compensation.

"I wish we might have a word together about Hamlen," Huntington remarked
to Marian as they turned back to the piazza.

"That is the very subject which is uppermost in my mind," she replied
eagerly. "You saw him this morning?"

"Yes; and he has absorbed my thoughts ever since. Suppose we sit down
and talk him over."

The others in the party left them to themselves. They had heard
Huntington's preliminary remark, and understood that they had no part in
the conversation.

"He is a pathetic figure," Huntington continued, "and he has won a
sympathy from me which I never remember to have given to any one before.
Think of twenty years of solitude! By Jove! he is the Modern Edmond
Dantes!"

"I've known him since he was a boy," Marian said as Huntington paused
for a moment. "If you are to understand the situation, perhaps I ought
to tell you more. For a time, we were engaged, but these relations were
broken off soon after his graduation. In fact I feel that I am to a
certain extent responsible for his present condition, for he left
America as soon as he heard of my engagement to Mr. Thatcher."

Huntington looked up quickly. "That gives Hamlen and me another bond of
sympathy," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?" she asked, surprised.

"That same announcement produced disastrous effects upon my life as
well."

"Why, you never saw me half a dozen times--"

"Once was enough," he replied seriously.

"Your imagination is as highly developed as your gallantry, Mr.
Huntington," Marian laughed; "but we mustn't let ourselves become
diverted.--Philip Hamlen was always sensitive and moody, but until I
discovered him down here I had no idea these characteristics could
become so exaggerated."

"He believes himself always to have been misunderstood," Huntington
added. "To-day he felt that we met on common ground, and the gratitude
in his eyes still haunts me."

"Can't we do something for him, between us?" she asked earnestly.

"We must," Huntington assented with decision. "I am still puzzling over
the problem. Have you anything to suggest?"

Mrs. Thatcher did not reply at once, and Huntington respected her
silence. He realized that her answer could not be given spontaneously,
that the proposition was too vital for anything but the most serious
consideration. As a matter of fact, however, she had already considered
it. Marian Thatcher was a woman of strong impulses, with strength of
will equal to carry them through to success. She had been appalled by
Hamlen's condition, and felt keenly her personal responsibility. During
the hours which had intervened since the accidental meeting, many of
them sleepless hours of the night, she had searched her mind for some
expedient which should in part work restitution. She had discovered a
possible solution, but it was of a nature so intimate that she hesitated
to take Huntington into her confidence.

"I had thought--" she began at length, but then she paused. "We must
pull him out of himself," she began again; "we must get him where he
will find something to think of other than himself."

"Suppose that to be accomplished, what then?"

"I had thought--he needs--he needs a woman who believes in him, to give
him courage, to restore his lost faith in himself. A friendship such as
you or any other man can give will help much, but if the right woman
could happen to come into his life--"

"Isn't that taking too long a step for a first one? Huntington
inquired.

"Perhaps; but I feel myself so largely responsible that it would mean
much to me to atone--"

Marian's intensity made its impression upon Huntington even as it had
upon Hamlen; but he could not follow her. How a married woman could make
atonement just at this crisis was not clearly apparent. She realized
that her stumbling remarks must be confusing.

"It is difficult for me to tell you just what I have in mind," she
stated definitely at length. "You don't know me well enough not to
misunderstand, and you don't know Merry. But if I am to accept your aid
I must run that risk, mustn't I?"

"I shall try not to misunderstand--"

"You mustn't think me unmotherly or indelicate," she continued. "It may
be the last thing in the world which ought to happen, but if Philip
Hamlen and Merry should take it into their heads to marry it would seem
almost like poetic justice, wouldn't it?"

"By Jove, no!" Huntington ejaculated hastily, with visions of Cosden
swimming before his eyes.

"Of course you are surprised," Marian said, laughing consciously; "but
if you think of it you must admit that Merry would make him an ideal
wife, and I believe he would be a wonderful husband. Her interest has
always been in men older than herself, and he is only now ready to enjoy
his youth. Of course, it is only an idea, but stranger things than that
have happened."

"Well," he said guardedly, sparring for time, "that may be the ultimate
outcome; but first of all we must do a bit of humanizing. I would like
to take him back to Boston to pay me a long visit if he would go. After
that, we could see how things worked out."

"Splendid!" Marian exclaimed; "and being in Boston he would be nearer my
Philip. That was the one suggestion which seemed to appeal to him when I
tried to persuade him to leave Bermuda. He would be much more likely to
accept the suggestion from you than from me. The boy is named for him,
and I believe they could do much for each other."

"Capital!" echoed Huntington. "I know from experience how much a boy can
do to keep an older man from thinking too much about himself. We are
making progress. I will do my best to drag him away from here, and if I
succeed we will arrange with Philip to take charge of that side of his
education."

Marian smiled gratefully as she heard the plan put definitely into
words. "You have relieved me of an oppressive burden," she said
feelingly. "It is such a relief to talk the matter over with some one
who really understands. Don't misjudge me by what I suggest about Merry.
I can't forget the closeness of those earlier relations, I can't forget
my responsibility, and I shouldn't be true to myself if I failed to do
all in my power to bring Philip Hamlen back to himself."

"His natural qualities and his helplessness form a strong appeal,"
Huntington replied evasively. "I shall be glad to assist in this
socialistic experiment, Mrs. Thatcher, but I'm not quite sure that I am
wholly sympathetic."

"You will see more reason in my suggestion after you know them both
better," Marian said confidently, placing her hand within the one
outstretched to her. "When you do, I am sure I shall have your cordial
co-operation in bringing about the match."

"If you are right, I shall ask that my case be placed next upon the
calendar."

"Willingly!" Mrs. Thatcher laughed. "I'll find a wife within a month."

"Heaven forbid!" he cried. "Unless--" he added slyly;--"unless you
become a widow in the mean time!"




       *       *       *       *       *

X

       *       *       *       *       *


For some reason best known to himself Huntington did not confide to
Cosden the fact that Mrs. Thatcher had suggested the possibility of a
match between Merry and Hamlen. She had referred to it as "poetic
justice"; perhaps Huntington, knowing his friend to be unsympathetic in
his relations toward poetry in general, might fail to appreciate the
present application, particularly since he himself, though possessing
pronounced fondness for the poets, had not fully risen to the idea. As a
matter of fact, the suggestion shocked him no less than Cosden's
business-like proposition concerning his own marriage. What were people
thinking of, these days!

He looked forward to the morrow and to the sailing of the "Arcadian"
with a sense of partial relief, for Billy's boyish infatuation and
Cosden's impatient demands for interference had considerably disturbed
his tranquillity. Huntington was a man of action when he so elected, and
he enjoyed doing things when they were of his own choice and could be
done in his own time and way; but nothing annoyed him more than to be
forced into action by another's choice or election. Now, just as he saw
one disturbing element about to be eliminated, another of seemingly
greater magnitude loomed up on the horizon, and he cordially wished
himself back in Boston with nothing more serious than the east winds to
worry him.

But no disturbing element was apparent in his face as he stepped out
onto the piazza after his leisurely breakfast the following morning.
Glancing around, he discovered Cosden and Miss Stevens standing at the
further corner, watching the hustle of the departing guests.

"You're just in time to witness the great event of the day," she greeted
him as he joined them, pleased that she had Cosden and Huntington even
temporarily to herself. "One of the best things they do down here is to
arrange the sailings to New York at a time when one may see the boat off
without getting up at all hours of the night."

Cosden started to speak and then paused, looking at her narrowly to make
certain that by no possible construction could any answer of his be
twisted into an invitation to drive to St. George's, or to some other
point equally remote.

"Your remark shows that you and Mr. Huntington have much in common," he
observed at length.

"Ability to sleep is an evidence of a clear conscience," she asserted.

"Which explains my restless nights, and the necessity of making up my
quota at the wrong end," Huntington said.

"But you come from New England, Mr. Huntington," Edith expostulated.
"I've always heard a lot about the New England conscience."

"I'll wager you never heard anything good about it," Huntington smiled.

"Does it ever really keep any one from doing the things he wants to do?"
she asked mischievously.

"No," Huntington answered gravely; "it simply makes him very
uncomfortable while he's doing them."

"I thought your sleeplessness might be caused by anxiety lest that
precious nephew of yours forget to take the boat this morning," Cosden
remarked dryly.

Huntington was quietly amused. "How about you?" he asked.

"I'm here to throw him bodily on board at the first sign of any change
of plan."

"You speak as if you had a grudge against the boy," Edith said, looking
surprised.

"Not at all," Cosden demurred; "Billy is all right, but he covers too
much territory. Since he landed I haven't been able to put my foot on
the ground without stepping on him. His Alma Mater needs Billy more than
I do, and, as Monty says, we alumni must be loyal to our Dear Mother."

"His Alma Mater will have to do without him for a few days longer unless
he appears soon," Edith remarked calmly, pointing toward the dock. "The
tender has just started and will be here at the pier in a moment."

Both men sprang to their feet.

"Where in the world can that boy be?" Huntington demanded with real
concern.

"You go up to his room and I'll look around down here," Cosden said,
taking command of the situation.

Huntington disappeared with astonishing alacrity, while his friend
deserted Miss Stevens to pursue the search down-stairs.

"Why don't you find Miss Thatcher?" Cosden suggested, coming back to her
as the idea struck him; "that will probably locate the boy."

"I'd rather watch the man-hunt from here," she retorted coolly. "I don't
want to miss seeing you throw him bodily on board."

The tender came slowly alongside the "Princess" steps, taking on board
the passengers from the hotel. Cosden and Huntington both appeared from
different directions as the gang-plank was drawn up and the little
steamer's screw began to churn. Huntington was out of breath, but not
empty-handed--he carried with him a bag which showed evidences of hectic
packing, with pajama strings hanging out from the partially closed top.

"He hadn't even packed his things!" Huntington panted indignantly.

"Stay here a moment," Cosden said, leaving him standing irresolutely at
the top of the stone steps, watching the stretch of water increase
between the departing tender and the pier.

"Please turn this way," Edith called, leveling her camera at him from
the piazza rail. "I want to be sure to get that suit-case into the
picture."

"Wait until Connie comes back," Huntington begged.

At that moment a disheveled figure appeared running frantically up the
"Princess" driveway.

"I've lost my boat!" Billy cried with well-simulated despair.

"You did it deliberately, you young rascal!" Huntington cried, aroused
at last to exasperation.

"Uncle Monty!" Billy's face wore an injured expression which would have
fitted a Raphael cherub. "You know I wouldn't have missed that boat for
anything. I'm sure to be rooked if I'm not in Cambridge Thursday."

Cosden joined them in time to hear Billy's expostulations. "We couldn't
let that happen," he said comfortingly. "Come on; I've fixed it up with
the jolly skipper in this motor-boat. He swears he can reach the
'Arcadian' before the tender does. Quick! there isn't a minute to lose!"

"But I haven't packed my bag--"

"Here it is!"

Huntington removed Billy's one remaining hope, and the boy saw that he
was fairly beaten.

The broad grin returned to his face as he took his bag. "That's mighty
good of you, Mr. Cosden," he said, with such apparent sincerity that it
disarmed his uncle's wrath. "There aren't many men who would help a
fellow out like that. I won't forget it!"

He ran down the stone steps and took his place in the stern of the
motor-boat. "Good-bye, everybody! Say, Uncle Monty, explain to Merry why
I didn't have time to say 'good-bye' to her, and don't forget that this
joy-ride is on Mr. Cosden. Good-bye!"

They watched the little boat speed after the tender, which by this time
had reached the narrows; then they turned back to the piazza.

"We've succeeded in making ourselves fairly conspicuous," Cosden
remarked. "A good deal of fuss over one small boy, eh, Monty?"

"Thank you so much!" Edith cried enthusiastically as they joined her. "I
haven't seen so much excitement since I arrived,--and I love to watch
two live men in action."

"It's frightful, being stared at, isn't it?" Cosden protested.

"Don't believe a word he says, Miss Stevens," Huntington retaliated. "He
really loves to be stared at; it's the disappointment on the people's
faces after looking at him that causes the worry.--Now, Connie, you can
put your foot on the ground without stepping on Billy. How are you
planning to take advantage of your opportunity?"

Cosden glanced at his watch. "I have an appointment with Thatcher at
eleven on that little business proposition. We're to meet at the
'Hamilton.' I've just about time to keep it. As for you, I suggest that
you invite Miss Stevens to show you the way to the Devil's Hole. They
have a wonderful collection of fish over there, which the Scotch keeper
puts through their paces every little while whenever he needs the money.
I commend your attention to the bachelor-fish: it has a bad disposition,
makes itself obnoxious to its fellow-creatures, and would be sarcastic
in its conversation if it had the power of speech."

With this parting shot Cosden made his excuses to Miss Stevens and
walked over to the "Hamilton." His spirits had improved immensely within
the past half-hour, and the proximity of his appointment caused him to
forget for the moment that his vacation trip thus far had distinctly
bored him. To Cosden a vacation consisted, as Henry James would have
described it, of "agitated scraps of rest, snatched by the liveliest
violence." On other occasions, when he sought relaxation, he had found
it in strenuous physical exercise; in the present instance he had
intended to engage himself in the more unfamiliar occupation of offering
a partnership to Merry Thatcher in the "Cosden Social Development
Company, Limited," although he had not expressed it to himself in just
these words. In this expectation he had so far signally failed. Had he
been a baron of old he might have seized the prospective bride bodily
and made off with her to his ancestral castle, but, even with the
handicap imposed by modern civilization, now that the diverting
influence had been eliminated, he believed the opportunity was nearer to
the point of offering itself. The fact that Thatcher had turned to him
in this proposition, whatever it was, not only pleased him as a further
evidence of recognition, but supplied him with an agreeable outlet for
his pent-up energy.

Cosden had told Huntington that Thatcher was a "big man," and his
friend, having learned his business vocabulary, understood what was
meant by this designation: Thatcher was a man of substantial means, held
influential positions on important boards, and wielded a power in the
financial circles in which he moved. Cosden had been far-sighted, he
told himself, to have happened upon the scene at this particular
juncture, for Thatcher would scarcely have gone out of his way to invite
him to join in the enterprise except for the coincidence of their
meeting; and Cosden was not averse to being included in the Thatcher
group of operators.

Thatcher was awaiting him on the lower piazza when he arrived at the
"Hamilton."

"I wanted to have a few words with you before we join this promoter
person up-stairs," he explained, "so I sent Stevens on ahead to tell him
we are on our way. Duncan is the man's name. He's a Scotchman who has
lived down here for many years. He has little education, and you could
cut his brogue with a knife."

"I won't object to his brogue if his signature is any good at the foot
of a check," Cosden interrupted.

"He doesn't come in on that end," Thatcher continued. "The idea is his,
and he can be of service later on if we proceed with it. It isn't very
large, and we can finance it easily if the thing is worth taking up at
all. The scheme is to fit Bermuda out with a trolley system, and to
bring the right tidy little island down to the twentieth century."

"Not a bad suggestion," Cosden commented,--"and a great improvement upon
the present system of bicycling." Billy would have rejoiced had he known
how stiff his adversary's legs were after the famous ride to Elba Beach.
"Why hasn't some one thought of it before?"

"Duncan will tell you the story as he has told me," Thatcher said
rising. "Come, let us go to him now. Ricky will have exhausted his
vocabulary by this time."

Cosden smiled at the mention of Stevens' name. "He's a curious
fellow,--Stevens," he remarked. "With that vacant expression on his face
he ought to make a corking poker-player. Is he interested in this
deal?"

"Ricky interested in business?" Thatcher laughed. "He would run a mile
to avoid it! No, he's just a messenger this morning; but Ricky is all
right in his way. He's the society member of his family. He isn't a
heavy-weight, but when it comes to dancing or the latest word in men's
attire, you can't overlook Ricky."

       *       *       *       *       *

Cosden's departure left Huntington and Miss Stevens together on the
piazza of the hotel. The bustle attendant upon the sailing had quieted
down but Huntington had not recovered from the unusually violent action
of the past few moments.

"I was going over to have another visit with Hamlen," he remarked, "but
the morning is gone."

"It isn't eleven o'clock yet," Miss Stevens commented.

"By Jove! is that all? Well, it's too late now, but I'll go this
afternoon.--It seems as if ages had passed since breakfast! Do you
suppose they'll keep that boy on board once they get him there?"

"Of course," she laughed. "Why worry about him?"

"I'm not worrying," Huntington protested. "I never worry,--I don't
believe in it. Worry is for parents and married people generally."

"What a cynic you are on the subject of marriage," Edith remarked; "you
never pass an opportunity to knock it, do you?"

"Am I so heartless as all that?" Huntington inquired by way of answer.
"But why can't you and I, who may class ourselves among those fortunate
ones who have escaped the snares, be honest with each other and enjoy
watching the thraldom of others who have shown themselves less
discreet?"

"How do you know that I do class myself among the fortunate ones?"

"Because you are unmarried, and seeing you is to know that you could not
enjoy that blessed state except through choice."

Edith smiled at his gallantry, wondering whether he was really as
flippant as he would have her think.

"If a woman were to take that position she would be accused of 'sour
grapes,' wouldn't she?"

"Probably; such is the instinctive pessimism of the times. It is so much
easier to do the conventional when one sees it going on all about him
that people are intellectually incapable of comprehending that to avoid
the obvious may be a matter of pre-determination, and an evidence of
strength rather than the result of accident or an act of omission."

"Does Mr. Cosden share your views upon this subject?" Edith inquired.

"Not at the present moment, if I am credibly informed by my
observations."

Edith looked at him critically. "Do you mean that he is engaged?" she
asked pointedly.

"Oh, no," Huntington disclaimed promptly, conscious that he was talking
of his friend with considerable freedom, but suddenly inspired with the
idea that it might help the situation; "no, I didn't mean that at all.
He isn't as careful as he used to be about exposing himself; that is
what I was trying to say. You see, I don't know how long inoculation
holds good: it's seven years for smallpox, and three years for typhoid.
How long should you say a man could hold out against matrimony on the
same ratio?"

"When was Mr. Cosden 'inoculated,' as you call it?" she asked, smiling.

"When he started out to make his fortune, about fifteen years ago."

"Then I'm sure it has run out of his system long since," she laughed.
"He ought to be very susceptible."

"I'm afraid you're right," Huntington sighed. "Of course, Connie has a
strong, robust constitution and he may pull through, but I will admit
that I've seen symptoms lately which cause me some anxiety. Did you
notice anything while you were out driving?"

"I noticed a good many things, but nothing which would contribute to the
subject you mention. He was about as responsive as the wrong side of a
mirror, but I talked at him until he had to say something in
self-defense."

"Dear me!" Huntington held up his hands deprecatingly. "That is one of
the worst symptoms possible. I had no idea that it had gone as far as
that. You and I must take Connie in hand."

"Who is the girl?" Edith demanded abruptly.

"Ah! I am counting on you to help me find out."

"It all must have happened before you came down here."

"On the contrary; Connie was quite himself until he reached Bermuda.
Since then--"

"Why, he hasn't met any one here except--"

"You and Miss Thatcher," Huntington completed. "You see how the search
narrows itself. I shall continue my investigations until I discover the
truth.

"How perfectly ridiculous!" Edith cried, not yet convinced as to his
sincerity. "Why, Merry is a mere child, and--what makes you think there
is anything of that kind in Mr. Cosden's mind?"

"His vindictiveness. Haven't you noticed the way he treated Billy? And
he has actually been harsh with me on two occasions. It isn't like
Connie; and if it affects him like this now, Heaven alone knows what the
outcome will be if matters go further. You know the old song:

  "_You may carve it on his tombstone, you may cut it on his card,
  That a young man married is a young man marred._"

"There you go again," laughed Edith; "the cynic once more leaps into the
limelight."

"But won't you pledge yourself to assist me in my noble work? Why not
form ourselves into a society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Single
Persons, and be sworn to do all we can to intervene between matrimony
and its victims?"

"Of course each would be at liberty to use his own judgment?" queried
Edith, amused.

"Yes; so long as he did not confound judgment with sentiment."

"That is a capital suggestion," she agreed smiling. "I will gladly join
you. Our first undertaking, I presume, will be to prevent affairs from
going any further between Merry and Mr. Cosden--granting that they
exist?"

"I don't say that. I recognize in you a superior person, and as such I
have absolute confidence that you will act in accord with the unwritten
constitution of our Society."

"Thank you for that confidence," Edith said still smiling. Then she
added enigmatically, "Whenever I accept a responsibility I always rise
promptly to the emergency. In the present instance it requires careful
consideration. Now, if you will excuse me I will take my morning
constitutional."

Huntington was not sorry to have a few moments of solitary
contemplation. Throwing away a half-smoked cigar, he drew his pipe from
his pocket and filled it with his favorite mixture--unchanged since he
first became acquainted with it at college. A cigarette represented to
Huntington the casual inconsequence of youth, a cigar the aristocracy of
smoking, a pipe that comfortable companionship which encourages
relaxation and introspective thought. With the first whiff he pulled his
hat down over his face, settled deep in his chair, and began to run over
the events of the past few days. Huntington's mind was methodical if not
always orderly, and his account of stock, when finally classified under
the head of "responsibilities," summed up about as follows:

     _Responsibility 1_: To keep peace with Connie, and yet
     persuade him against or frighten him out of his present
     assinine intentions.

     _Responsibility 2_: To pull Hamlen out of the solitary life
     which he had affected, and to force him to assume that
     position in the world to which he rightly belonged.

     _Responsibility 3_: To demonstrate to Mrs. Thatcher that her
     unmotherly idea of making restitution to Hamlen by throwing
     her daughter at his head was the product of an overwrought
     sentimentality rather than a rational suggestion.

     _Responsibility 4_: To become sufficiently intimate with
     Merry, the direct or indirect occasion of the entire
     complication, to be able to judge as to the probable outcome
     of all the other responsibilities.

The sum total of his obligations appalled him, and he found himself
proceeding in a mental circle, making no progress beyond the
recapitulation. He was not displeased, therefore, when he found himself
interrupted in his reveries by a bell-boy who stood before him, holding
out a tray containing a telegram. He took it mechanically, wondering who
had located him in this island retreat. Opening the yellow envelope he
read the following message, sent by wireless from the "Arcadian":

     "_That Cosden person has slipped it over on me this time,
     but I depend on you to watch out for my interests with
     Merry. She is the one best bet. Don't let that antique
     vintage of 1875 annoy her with his attentions. I know I can
     trust you. Please cable money to me in New York care of
     Hotel Biltmore to pay for this message and other expenses to
     Cambridge._

  "BILLY."

Huntington groaned aloud as he twisted uncomfortably in his chair.
"Another responsibility to add to the others!" he cried, "and I believed
bachelor's life one of freedom and ease! If ever I get out of this mess
I'll bury myself in some monastery, and let its cold grey walls protect
me against the matrimonial madness of the world!"




       *       *       *       *       *

XI

       *       *       *       *       *


By a curious coincidence Edith Stevens' "morning constitutional" took
her in the direction of the "Hamilton," and by another coincidence,
equally curious, she met Thatcher, Cosden, and her brother as they
emerged from the hotel after their conference with Duncan. Cosden was
still in an elated mental condition as a result of the fact that he had
again placed himself within the control of his master passion. Even
though Thatcher spoke of the enterprise as "small," it was an opening
wedge, and Cosden knew how to make the most of an opening.

The visit to Bermuda had already taught him that he was engaging in a
game of which he did not know even the first rudiments. It had seemed
easy enough to him when he first undertook it, but the experience of
these few days had undeceived him. When in the past he had wanted
anything, he simply played the game until he won out; now he saw that in
spite of his claim that marriage firmly rested upon basic business
principles, there was a certain hiatus which could not be filled in by
the education derived from every-day business routine in a
counting-room. He had met no discouragements as yet, but he was making
no beginning, and that of course was retrogression.

As he saw Miss Stevens approaching Cosden was seized with one of those
inspirations which had made his business career so signal a success. It
was stupid of him not to have thought of it before! Whenever he wanted
advice upon factory management he employed the best expert he could
secure; now that he required specialized service in the matter of
approaching Miss Thatcher upon the delicate subject he had in mind, why
should he not employ the same method? Every woman was by nature a
specialist in affairs of this kind, and from what he had already seen of
Miss Stevens he believed he could scarcely have selected one better
fitted to act in the capacity suggested.

It was easy enough to manoeuver matters so that he should walk back
with her to the "Princess," especially as she seemed unconsciously to
fall in with his plans by addressing her greeting particularly to him.
Cosden's response was so cordial and his pleasure in seeing her so
sincere that Edith was thoroughly mystified. Previously he had seemed
preoccupied, and appeared to endure her companionship rather than seek
it; now he threw aside his indifference and met her as a comrade. An
instant understanding flashed across her mind: Huntington had hinted
that his friend had suddenly developed interesting tendencies, and had
said plainly that the objective was either Merry Thatcher or herself.
Could it be that--well, perhaps it would not be necessary to use force
after all! Then, as a result of that curious feminine paradox, her next
thought was contradictory: "If he is really interested in me then I
shall lose interest in him." Still, the game was worth playing out.

They turned in at the little shaded lane which offers a short cut to the
hotel, but instead of entering the hallway Cosden stopped and indicated
the steps leading down to the tennis-courts.

"Would you mind having a very personal conversation with me down there?"
he asked with so much significance in his voice that Edith became almost
agitated.

"I'd love to sit down for a moment," she assented. "I've been walking so
long that I could take that bench in my arms and hug it."

"I'm in a quandary," Cosden began without preliminaries as soon as Edith
had adjusted herself where she would appear to best advantage. "I have
an idea that you can help me out."

"First aid to the wounded is right in my line," Edith assured him
helpfully.

Even with the inspiration which expectancy on the part of an audience is
always supposed to give a speaker, Cosden's fluency became somewhat
modified when he actually touched upon his main topic.

"I'm a peculiar sort of man, I've no doubt--"

"I wouldn't give a snap of my finger for a man who didn't possess
individuality," she interrupted emphatically.

"Well, perhaps it is more than individuality. Men seem to understand me
all right, but I've never had a sister, and I've been too tied down by
my business to cultivate women. I'm a man's man--I suppose that about
expresses it."

"That's a good recommendation; look at my brother,--he's a lady's man.
Would you change individualities with Ricky?"

"Perhaps not," Cosden said guardedly; "still in this matter your brother
could probably give me a pointer or two.--Hang it all! when I talk to a
man I don't have any difficulty in making myself understood, but here I
am, floundering round with you like a school-boy!"

"Just imagine for the moment that I am a man and that you are talking to
me about some one else--"

"That's it exactly; I knew you would understand. I thought Monty would
help me out, but he absolutely refuses to take me seriously. The truth
of the matter is that I've decided to get married."

Even with the preparation given her by Huntington's remarks Cosden's
statement came with an abruptness which surprised Edith into a becoming
flutter. Her eyes fell for the moment and she could feel a flush come
into her face. Knowing how some men admire the combination of blue eyes
and rosy cheeks she hastened to look up, but was disappointed to find
her companion's gaze resting upon the distant horizon.

"You have decided?" she asked archly; "where does the girl come in?"

"Oh, she'll come in all right at the finish, I've no doubt," Cosden
replied. "I'm taking you at your word, and I'm talking to you just as I
would to a man. I want you to tell me what I ought to do to make sure
that nothing goes wrong. I've always got what I've gone after, and it
would break me all up to come a cropper just because I hadn't handled
the matter right."

"Have you given the prospective bride any suggestion of your
intentions?" Edith inquired, her eyes again drooping.

"Not a word. That's not my way. I always plan things out to the finish,
and then it's plain sailing to the end."

"Have you reason to think she cares for you?"

"She has no more idea that I think of marrying anybody than you had
before I began to tell you; but I don't see why she should have any
special objection to me. The whole point is, I'm somewhat older than
she, and I'm not sure that I speak the same language."

Edith's mind executed some lightning mathematical calculations, and she
wondered if he were older than he looked.

"There is not too much difference, I am sure."

"Just eighteen years," Cosden announced with finality.

The color left Edith's face, and then it returned with greater strength.
Her surprise showed only in her snapping eyes, for she held herself well
in hand; but her mind was working fast. She was thankful enough that he
had been so wrapped up in himself that he was oblivious to her mistake.

"It would serve him right if I did marry him, to pay him back for this,"
was what her eyes said, but the words she spoke fitted well enough into
Cosden's understanding.

"Well, of course, eighteen years is a good deal--"

"Just the proper handicap." Cosden repeated the phrase he had used in
his discussion with Huntington. "Women grow old faster than men."

Edith bit her lip to hold back the caustic reply which was almost
spoken. He certainly was intent upon his purpose, but that did not
excuse his lack of gallantry. His friend could give him points on that!
The responsibility she had told Huntington she would assume became a
real one!

"Perhaps," she seemed to assent; "but of course it makes a difference
who the girl is. If I knew her--"

"You know her all right; it's Merry Thatcher."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as if the identity was a complete surprise. "Yes,
you would have to plan your campaign pretty carefully with Merry. She is
a girl with definite ideas of her own, and she might not be influenced
by the fact that you always get what you go after."

Cosden looked at her suspiciously.

"Yes; I think I could help you," she added quickly.

"I'd be mighty grateful if you would," Cosden said with obvious relief.

"Now, let me see--" Edith proceeded carefully, but the way was clearing
before her. "I think you will need to take quite a course of training,"
she laughed. "Are you prepared to do that?"

"When I place myself in my doctor's hands I usually take his medicines."

"All right; then we'll start in at once. I must ask you a lot of
questions. Are you fond of athletics?"

"Next to my business, it's my longest suit."

"There is the first point of common interest. You are making a good
start.--Are you fond of reading?

"I like a good detective story."

"How about Stevenson and Ibsen and Lafcadio Hearn?"

"Not in mine, except 'Treasure Island' and 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.'"

Edith pursed her lips. "Not so good on the second test, Mr. Cosden. How
about opera?"

"My favorites are 'Lohengrin' and the 'Merry Widow.'"

"Horrors! That you must keep sacredly hidden from the dear girl. I've
known her to go to the opera eight times in one week, and sigh for more.
Of course you adore orchestral music?"

"You'll have to score zeros against me on music, but perhaps I can come
back strong in some other branches."

She held up a finger chidingly. "You from Boston, and don't rave over
your Symphony Orchestra! That is a real blow! I supposed every one in
Boston went to the Symphony concerts just for the prestige, even though
he couldn't tell whether the orchestra was playing or only tuning up."

"You see I'm not trying to sail under false colors."

"Well, now I come to the supreme test of all: do you dance?"

Cosden threw up his hands in real despair. "You are making me look
ridiculous," he said. "I knew the old dances, but I've never put myself
up against the new ones. I suppose I could learn."

"Well, well, well!" ejaculated the fair inquisitor. "All I can say is
that you showed real business judgment in coming to me first. Merry
would have made short work of you; she's crazy about dancing. Oh, don't
look so serious; the case may not be so hopeless as it seems."

"I don't see how it could be much worse." Cosden was genuinely
chagrined.

"It isn't every one who finds a fairy godmother waiting for him when he
comes out of his chrysalis, Mr. Cosden," Edith explained. "She will help
young Lochinvar to throw aside his antiquity and come down to date. In
two weeks' time you'll feel so spritely that Mr. Huntington and his
friends of equal age will bore you,--all provided that you follow your
instructor's precepts."

Cosden caught the contagion of her optimism. "It's mighty good of you,
Miss Stevens. I have no right to ask so much of a comparative stranger."

"Don't worry a bit," Edith reassured him. "You are to start right in and
practise on me. I'll teach you the new steps, and coach you in all
that's needful. You may lose your breath and a few friends, but I'll
guarantee to show you how to win a wife. Now you may begin your
education by leading me in to luncheon."




       *       *       *       *       *

XII

       *       *       *       *       *


Out of the helpless floundering in the lap of his "responsibilities" a
realization came to Huntington that immediate action of some sort was
imperative to prevent him from breaking his most zealously observed
commandment, "Thou shalt not worry." His antipathy to this favorite
pastime was not due to an acceptance of the Japanese theory that worry
produces poison in the human system, but rather to a willingness on his
part to let others do what he himself found distasteful. It was an
article of faith with him to avoid the unpleasant. During luncheon
Cosden was wrapped in his own thoughts, which gave final opportunity for
this realization to crystallize into a conclusion that the moment was at
hand to demonstrate his good intentions to Mrs. Thatcher, and to become
better acquainted with her daughter,--all in a single operation.

"If my leaving the table won't disturb your reflections--" he began.

Cosden looked up quickly and smiled. "I didn't intend to be such poor
company, Monty," he apologized. "The fact is, I have a good deal on my
mind. Of course you can't understand what that means; all you have to do
is to eat three meals a day, stand still while Dixon dolls you up at
stated intervals and go to sleep at night after he tucks you away in
your little trundle-bed."

There was an indulgent expression in Huntington's eye as he listened.
"Yes," he acquiesced; "it is always difficult for any one to see the
other fellow's viewpoint. But don't apologize; I think I like you better
when you're quiet.--Now, if you don't mind, I'll have a word with Mrs.
Thatcher."

He strolled leisurely to the table where the Thatcher party sat.

"I am going over to Mr. Hamlen's villa this afternoon," he announced; "I
wonder if Miss Merry would care to go with me."

"I'd love to," the girl replied promptly, with evident eagerness in her
voice. "Especially if you are going to talk with him as you did the
other evening," she added.

"You're taking that Hamlen chap rather seriously, aren't you?" Stevens
volunteered.

"He's entitled to it," Huntington said with a decision which Stevens
took to be a rebuff, and subsided.

Mrs. Thatcher was quick to understand that Huntington was acting in
response to her suggestion of the night before, and her face showed her
appreciation.

"I have wanted Merry to see those wonderful grounds," she exclaimed;
"this is just the time to do it."

"When does our Society go into executive session?" asked Edith, with a
significant smile; "my committee wishes to report progress."

"Splendid!" Huntington responded. "The notices shall be sent out at
once." Then he turned again to Merry. "You'll go?" he asked.

"Of course I will; I'll be ready whenever you say."

"I'll telephone Hamlen and see what time he would prefer to have us
come."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Shall we walk?" she asked him, as they met at the appointed hour on the
piazza of the hotel.

"It's over two miles," he suggested doubtfully. The idea of walking
anywhere when a conveyance was within reach never occurred to Huntington
naturally.

"I don't mind the distance at all unless you do," she replied; "I always
walk when I can, and the afternoon is delightful."

As Huntington regarded his vivacious companion he was conscious of
another shock similar to those he had experienced when he first saw her
and her mother the evening of his arrival. She had discarded the
unconventional costume of the morning, exchanging it for an afternoon
gown of softest texture, so girlish, yet to the practised eye revealing
in every detail the artist's creation,--arraying herself with such
special care that her escort could not fail to understand her
appreciation of his attention. It was Marian Seymour once more whose
hand he held in his as he assisted the girl down the long steps, and his
mind leaped back again over the five and twenty years. But what a
difference at his end of the picture! She was the same, but he--well,
the years had dealt kindly with him he must admit, but forty-five at
best must pay homage to twenty! Her youthful figure was disguised but
not hidden by the quaint gown of white Georgette crepe and lace,
relieved from its monotone by a soft, moon-blue satin girdle,
embroidered with roses and leaves in pastel shades. The wide-brimmed hat
of the same crepe, its crown of blue satin banded with flowers, the
dainty parasol, and the white kid colonials completed a becoming
costume. Huntington concluded that his slipper, so carefully preserved
at home, was as antique a souvenir as himself! "Shall we walk?" she
asked; he would have liked nothing better than to parade up and down
forever before every one he knew with this splendid young creature
beside him, exhaling all that glowing health and youth could add to the
natural charms which were her birthright! Particularly was he unable to
resist giving Cosden a look of triumph as they passed by him at the
steps.

"Room for one more in your party?" Cosden asked, rising impulsively.

"Full house, Connie," was the uncompromising response. "We're off on a
missionary trip, and you wouldn't be interested."

To Merry herself this was an adventure as pleasing as it was unusual.
Huntington had made a deep impression upon her on that one occasion to
which she so often referred. In her quiet, tense way the girl was a
hero-worshiper, and in that single moment Huntington had qualified for
the hero's crown. That he should have selected her as his companion for
this afternoon was enough to set her cheeks aglow and to make her eyes
sparkle with girlish anticipation.

"I'm afraid my nephew Billy has been imposing on your good-nature, these
days," he began.

"Billy?" she laughed. "Not a bit of it! Billy is the best fun ever. I
never saw such an irrepressible boy; he's just like a big St. Bernard
pup!"

Huntington decided to remember this for later use in time of need.

"I suppose we old-stagers forget how youthful we were at his age, but
sometimes it seems to me as if Billy would never grow up."

"Oh, he's all right, Mr. Huntington," Merry reassured him. "My brother
Phil is older, but every now and then he breaks out just the same. I
think they're lots of fun. It's only when they become serious that I
feel worried about them."

"Billy isn't often guilty of that," was Huntington's comment. "When he
and I are alone I don't mind having him bubble over. It keeps me young,
so I rather like it; but down here it seemed as if he was getting in
every one's way,--just like a puppy, as you say. Mr. Cosden--"

"I'm afraid Mr. Cosden doesn't remember his own boyhood as well as you
remember yours," Merry interrupted. "How much more he would enjoy
himself if he had a bump of humor, wouldn't he?"

"Connie? Why, I never noticed that he lacked humor. Of course Connie is
very intense; he goes at his business as if it were the only thing in
life, and when it comes to play it's the same way. Now that you speak
about it, I don't know that I have noticed much sense of humor in him.
Perhaps that's why we pull together so well."

"I'm glad you asked me to go with you this afternoon," Merry continued.
"Mother has told me something about Mr. Hamlen, and I feel terribly
sorry for him. He was so miserably unhappy the other evening. She says
he has one of the most wonderful places she ever saw."

"He has; but I believe you will be even more interested in studying the
man than his frame. The morning I spent with him stands out as an event
in my life. You heard us discussing college the other evening; well,
Hamlen is the product of the one great fault in the life at Harvard when
we were there."

"For Phil's sake, I hope all the faults are overcome by now."

Huntington smiled. His face was one which smiled easily, adding to the
charm of his low, well-modulated voice.

"Most of the faults have been eradicated," he replied, "but weaknesses
will always exist. Perhaps I should have called this a weakness. To-day
it is partially remedied, and I believe that the new freshman
dormitories are going to be a large insurance clause against it."

"I don't believe I understand--"

"Nor can you until I cease speaking in enigmas," laughed Huntington. "I
once went to a lecture William James gave on Pragmatism, and all I took
away as a reward for my hour of careful listening was that 'nothing is
the only resultant of the one thing which isn't.' I upbraided him for it
when next we met, and he explained that the prerogative of a philosopher
is that he can retreat behind meaningless expressions and still be
considered wise. I am no philosopher, so it is cowardly of me to try to
take similar advantage of you. Hamlen is a college-made recluse, and
there is no denying the fact that at Harvard there has been less effort
made by the students to find out the personal characteristics of their
classmates than at any of the other colleges. Each fellow has had to
show them forth himself, and it had to be done his freshman year. If he
held back, as Hamlen did, they have let him stay in his shell; then he
concluded they didn't like him."

"But a boy can't advertise his characteristics--"

"No; but he can manifest them in legitimate ways. Why, my freshman year
there was a little fellow in the Class who didn't weigh a hundred
pounds, and had no more strength than a cat; but he went in for crew,
football, baseball, track athletics, debating,--and everything else you
could imagine. He was no good in any of them, and didn't come within a
mile of making any team. We all made fun of him and we all loved him for
his grit. He didn't have to advertise; we knew him through and through.
That is the kind of boy that makes good at Harvard."

"Some boys wouldn't realize the importance of this until too late, with
no one to tell them, would they?"

"That is the whole point, Miss Merry, and it hasn't taken you as long to
see it as it has taken the college authorities. When Hamlen and I were
there no one made any effort to shake us up together. I had my own small
circle of friends, and we cared precious little for any one outside of
it. If I had known Hamlen then as I have come to know him here in less
than a week, I should have insisted on his being one of that little
circle; but I didn't know him at all. I am watching this segregation of
the freshmen with great interest. It seems as if they must get to know
each other better now; but if this experiment doesn't solve the problem
then the authorities must keep on trying until they find one that does."

They walked on in silence for several moments. Huntington was deeply in
earnest, and Merry eager to hear every word. Her father, not being a
college man, had always been more or less intolerant of the claims made
by college graduates, so her ideas had naturally been colored by his
views. Her brother was sent to Harvard because his mother wished it, not
because Thatcher had changed his opinions, and Merry's new views, as
gained by her brother's life there, had not given her any deeper
understanding. What Huntington said to Hamlen supplied her with another
viewpoint, and she was keenly interested in this continuation of the
same subject.

"Hamlen is a man cowed and embittered by his experiences," Huntington
said, speaking again. "Every time he has gone out into the world it has
been head foremost, without looking. He has butted against stone wall
after stone wall when he could have seen the opening had he used his
eyes. Each time he has been bruised he has fancied that the world struck
him, when in reality the wound was self-inflicted."

"Has he no friends--no hobby which can take him out of himself?"

"He believes himself to be friendless, but he has a hobby; I discovered
it when I was at his villa yesterday. Do you happen by any chance to
know anything of the artistic side of bookmaking?"

"I took some lessons from Cobden-Sanderson while we were in London two
winters ago, but I haven't done much with what I learned."

"Did you really?" Huntington stopped short and looked at her in genuine
surprise. "That is a curious coincidence! I hadn't the remotest idea,
when I asked the question, that you knew there was anything in a book
except the story. Well, that does simplify matters! Hamlen has a
hand-press and a miniature bindery, and has made some really exquisite
volumes. It is his one remaining human trait. I've known the books for
years, but no one could find out who made them. Well, well! I promise
that you shall see Hamlen this afternoon in a mood quite different from
the one you saw him in the other night; you shall know the man as I know
him, and better than he knows himself!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Huntington noticed a new light in Hamlen's eyes as he greeted them at
the villa. The man was more reserved in the presence of a third person,
but Huntington was relieved to find that the fact of Merry's coming did
not throw his host back into that restrained attitude which he
manifested when first they met.

"I have brought you another congenial soul," Huntington explained.

"Can there be such--for me?" Hamlen demanded, but his guest continued as
if he had not heard.

"Quite accidentally I find that Miss Merry has been a pupil of
Cobden-Sanderson's, and I want her to see what you have done in this
miniature island press of yours."

"I should be so interested," Merry exclaimed eagerly.

"How can it interest any one but me?" Hamlen asked incredulously. "I am
parading my inmost self in public, and it seems indecent."

"I should not wish to intrude--" the girl began but Hamlen held up a
deprecating hand, and the expression on his face refuted the apparent
lack of courtesy.

"I am sure you won't misunderstand, Miss Thatcher, being, as Mr.
Huntington says, a congenial soul. It is I who am apologizing. To have
any one show interest in what I do is a new experience, and I hesitate
for fear I may be indelicate. And yet I want to show you what I've
done!"

"Of course I understand," Merry replied cordially; "I'm proud to be
among the first to see your work."

"Before we go indoors, may I not take you around the grounds?" he turned
to Huntington. "Perhaps you are in the mood for it to-day?"

"By all means," his guest responded. "It will give us exactly the right
atmosphere for what is to follow."

Huntington rejoiced to see Hamlen's attitude. For an hour they wandered
from one point to another, Merry in a state of ecstasy from the superb
beauty of it all, Hamlen supremely happy in this sympathetic
companionship of which he knew so little, and Huntington contentedly
watching the life-drama enacting before his eyes. On the stage such a
sudden change from tragedy to comedy would have been considered crude,
for who could write lines of such delicacy as to portray the yearning of
a human soul, or what actors are there so great that they could mimic
the birth of hope? "God is the master-dramatist, after all," Huntington
murmured to himself as he studied the changes which made the tortured
derelict of a few days before into the contained and self-respecting
host.

They returned to the house, and Hamlen took them to his press and
bindery. Huntington purposely kept in the background, asking a question
now and then, adding a word only where it was necessary, and giving his
host the opportunity of explaining the finer points of the work to the
responsive and comprehending mind of the girl. Little by little he could
see the real Hamlen emerge from his manufactured self under the
influences around him.

But his interest was not wholly centered in Hamlen. Until to-day
Huntington had observed Merry only in her relation to others; now he
felt a personal pride in the way she carried herself, in her quick
understanding, her sympathetic responsiveness. He felt unconsciously for
these brief moments a pleasurable sense of possession which added to his
enjoyment.

"Now take us to your library," he said to Hamlen at length. "You told me
that you had there some examples of the old master-printers at which you
had scarcely looked. I want to see them; perhaps they may show us the
influences which unconsciously affected your work."

"Most of them belonged to my father," Hamlen explained, as he opened the
door for his guests to pass through into the larger room.

"He was a collector, then?"

"In a small way. As I look back, he must have known a good deal about
old books; but I had no interest then, so they made little impression."

Huntington glanced around at the shelves critically.

"Classics, classics, classics!" he cried. "Good heavens, man, do you
mean to tell me that you haven't any modern books at all?"

Hamlen flushed. "There are many of these which I don't know well yet,"
was his reply. "Until then why should I accept counterfeits?"

Huntington had already found the shelf which held the _incunabula_ and
the later examples of printing.

"Jenson, Aldus--ah, here is the 'Hypnerotomachia Poliphili,' and a
splendid copy! That is the only illustrated volume Aldus ever issued,"
he explained to Merry as he turned the pages. "Here is where you found
that half-diamond formation of the type," he added, speaking to Hamlen,
and pointing to the printed page.

Hamlen bent forward. "I didn't even remember that it had ever been
used," he said. "I simply felt the necessity of filling out my page."

"So did Aldus," Huntington answered significantly. "Here is one of
Etienne's Greek books. Splendid work, isn't it? And yet, after giving
France the crown of typographical supremacy which Italy had lost, he had
to flee for his life because he wouldn't let his books be censored!"

"My father had a fine copy of Plantin's 'Polyglot Bible.'" Hamlen drew
one of the massive volumes from the shelf.

"Yes," Huntington replied, glancing critically at it and then at several
of the other books; "your father must have known his subject well, for
these examples follow the supremacy of printing from Italy down to
modern times. See, starting with Aldus, you have one of Etienne's, then
one of Plantin's, representing the period when Belgium snatched the
prestige from France, then here is a 'Terence' of Elzevir's, printed
when Holland was supreme; then Baskerville's 'Vergil,' which gave
England the crown in the eighteenth century--"

"Where does Caxton come in?" Merry asked.

"He belongs to the period of Aldus, but his work was distinctly inferior
to that of his Italian rival.--I say, Hamlen, where did your father go,
after Baskerville?"

Huntington, continuing his examination of the volumes, answered his own
question. "Here it is,--a beautiful example of Didot's 'Racine,' printed
in that type which he and Bodoni cut together. Splendid judgment your
father showed! This explains everything: you come naturally by your
genius. What you have called instinct is really inheritance. Now the
next; what is it?" Huntington became impatient in his eagerness.

"That is as late as my father's collection went."

"But surely you have a Kelmscott 'Chaucer'?"

"Yes; I bought one when I was in England."

"Put it up here just after the 'Racine.' There you are: except for
Gutenberg's 'Mazzarine Bible,' which you may be excused for not
possessing because of its rarity, you have a complete set representing
the best printing which has been done in each epoch."

"You see how little I realized it," Hamlen apologized.

"You expressed your realization in the most tangible way possible, my
dear fellow! You produced examples which are worthy to stand on the same
shelf with those masterpieces. We won't put any living printer's work
there yet, until Time has placed its value upon it, but I'll wager that
when the next selection is made the books of Philip Hamlen will receive
consideration."

"I wish I might believe that," Hamlen said with deep feeling; "it would
mean everything to me."

"You must believe it. When you come to Boston, and find out how other
collectors regard your work, you'll think my praise is tame. Until then,
believe what I tell you, and take out of it the gratification which
belongs to you.--I want you to go back to Boston with me, Hamlen, and
pay me a visit. Will you do it?"

The change in subject was so abrupt that it took his host entirely
unawares.

"Do you mean that, Huntington?" he asked.

"Of course I mean it. In fact, I insist upon it. I want to take you home
to exhibit to my jealous friends as my own discovery.--Then it's all
agreed."

"I couldn't leave here," Hamlen said soberly.

"I'll wait for you," Huntington replied. "I'm really in no hurry at
all."

Hamlen laughed, and it was the first time Huntington had seen his
reserve break down. He could not help contrasting it with the burst of
emotion which had preceded his departure only the day before.

"You are a hard man to resist," Hamlen said lightly; "but that is
something for the future. Let me have it to look forward to."

"Well, I haven't left Bermuda yet, and I don't want to go without
you.--Now, Miss Merry, I must get you safely back to the hotel. Do you
feel equal to another walk?"

"I'm eager for it," she replied.

At the door Hamlen managed to have a word alone with Huntington.

"You knew her mother when she was a girl, you said?"

"Yes;--slightly," was the guarded reply.

"She was wonderful!" he exclaimed with much feeling. Then he added, "The
daughter is very like her, don't you think?"




       *       *       *       *       *

XIII

       *       *       *       *       *


Hamlen's remark remained in Huntington's mind long after it was spoken.
He himself had been impressed by Merry's resemblance to her mother as
they set out on their afternoon's pilgrimage; yet his reply to Hamlen's
question was a prompt denial. Huntington's mind centered itself upon
this paradox as they walked down the long driveway, and he wondered why
he had impulsively yet deliberately given an impression so at variance
with what he knew to be the facts. Seeking for self-justification, he
turned his head slightly so that he might inspect his companion more
closely without attracting her attention. After all, he satisfied
himself, the resemblance was occasioned more by certain intangible
characteristics than by any similarity of features. Marian Seymour
possessed a beauty of more startling type than her daughter; indeed,
until that afternoon Huntington had thought of Merry as an attractive
rather than a beautiful girl. Now that the subject forced itself upon
him he realized she was both, and that the type proved so satisfying
that he had been content to enjoy it without the temptation of analysis.

Huntington's further acquaintance with the daughter emphasized his
disapproval of her mother's idea regarding her possible marriage to
Hamlen, and this led him to make a comparison between Marian Seymour as
she was to-day and the idealization with which he had been so long
familiar. Her beauty still remained, her fascination was perhaps greater
since experience had given substance to her girlish vivacity and charm,
and her energy was such that she unconsciously dominated every situation
of which she was a factor. She was evidently devoted to her husband and
to her children, but her force of personality dominated them as it did
all others with whom she came in contact. Huntington had rather admired
this trait in a woman, but now it clashed with his own judgment. He gave
her credit for believing that she would be acting in her daughter's
interest, but her suggestion did shock him, for it seemed to show a lack
of sympathetic understanding. The idea of Merry married to Philip
Hamlen! The man was all right, in his way, of course. Eventually he
might become less of the recluse and more nearly human; but obviously he
was too old and too settled in his eccentricities to be inflicted on any
woman, and least of all on a girl like this.

"But still, confound him!" Huntington said to himself, "he came out of
his chrysalis far enough to take notice!"

Then his thoughts jumped from Hamlen to Cosden. Connie was more alive
than Hamlen could ever be expected to become, but the same arguments
applied to him in greater or less degree. It was easy enough to
understand what had attracted him, for Connie always instinctively
sensed in anything the really vital assets. Now that Huntington was
becoming better acquainted with Merry he resented more and more the idea
of this coldly-calculated courtship, and he wondered why this
characteristic of Cosden's had not more often offended him in the past.

From this point it was an easy shift to Billy,--dear, lovable, spoiled,
heedless Billy! Of course he loved Merry, just as he had always loved
every beautiful object he had ever seen; and, naturally enough, he
wanted this beautiful object just as he had wanted hundreds of others
during his brief but meteoric career. And still of course, he looked to
his Uncle Monty to gratify his whim in this as in all other cases! It
was going to the other extreme: Billy was as much too young and
irresponsible as the others were too old and unsuitable. This much
Huntington was able to settle definitely in his mind, and his 

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