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."
"Showyou!" 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-packedbuildings 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 readyto 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 neverseen 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 winsout 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 makepâté de foie grasout of the goose that lays the golden eggs.—Say, Merry, you're wonderful, you are,—simply wonderful!"
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, à 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 womanstands 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 longas 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 ascream. 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 experiencewith 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 visitif 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!"
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 disturbingelement 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 vacationtrip 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 oftheir 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 oughtto 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 youand 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 inoculationholds 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 anyfurther 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: