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 solitarylife 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.
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 solitarylife 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.
"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!"
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 makingno 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 manœuver 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 thoughtwas 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'vealways 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."
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, standstill 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! Heryouthful figure was disguised but not hidden by the quaint gown of white Georgette crêpe 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 crêpe, 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 thisafternoon," 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. Iam 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 himhere 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 ahobby; 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 hasbeen 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 sucha 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 theincunabulaand 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 Étienne'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 Étienne'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 couldnot 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?"
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 daughteremphasized 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 arrival at a conclusion brought with it a sense of relief.
Huntington suddenly became aware that his introspection had occupied more time than courtesy permitted, but Merry, absorbed in her own thoughts, had not noticed his abstraction. He tried to relieve the tension.
"'Silence is golden, speech is silvern,'" he quoted. "What do you say to our adopting a silver standard?"
Merry's laugh showed that the interruption was welcome. "You always say the least expected thing, Mr. Huntington!" she exclaimed. "My mind was a thousand miles from here."
"A thousand miles," Huntington repeated reflectively. "I'm fairly good in geography, but I'mafraid I'll have to ask you the direction before I locate the spot."
"Straight up," she responded, half entering into his mood, half returning to her serious vein,—"straight in that kingdom where desire to do the right and wise thing is not hampered by a lack of knowledge."
"You would like to help Hamlen?"
"Indeed I would!"
What a serious face it was! Huntington studied it with satisfaction yet with twinges of conscience.
"I should not burden you with my problem," he said penitently. "Why should youth be made to carry loads which belong to older shoulders?"
"Please—" the girl protested eagerly. "I want you to do it. I appreciate your confidence so much that I am eager to be of some real service."
"You like—responsibilities?" he queried.
"It isn't living to be without them, is it? They seem to come of their own accord to men: a woman usually has to work hard to find any that are worth while."
"Some women do," Huntington admitted; "others have more than their share without deserving them. Burdens usually seek and find the willing shoulders."
"Of course; but I mean the women who have been brought up as I have been. I've always had everything I wanted, and my parents have protected me against everything. They even protest when I rebel against my own uselessness by going into settlement work, and in other small ways try to express my individuality."
"Such as the course in bookbinding with Cobden-Sanderson?"
Merry smiled consciously. "That was such a poor attempt, because I had no ability. My squares were uneven, my backs were wrinkled, and it was really such sloppy work."
"Granting that what you say is true, yet the experience gained in doing it enabled you to understand Hamlen to-day far better than if you had never attempted it. That is the main point, isn't it?"
"I suppose nothing we do is ever wholly lost," she admitted. "I did understand Mr. Hamlen, but that understanding has brought me no nearer to the point where I can help him."
"You helped him to-day more than any one has ever done except myself.—You see how frankly I accept first glory."
"I helped him?" Merry protested. "Why, I only listened and allowed myself to be entertained."
"Yes; but there is a difference in the way one does even that. He hesitated to show you his work and yet he wanted to show it to you. That was the struggle between the habit of years to restrain his real feeling and the desire which your sympathetic personality created in him. And the desire won out. Each time the habit is broken its power over him becomes weaker. Now do you see the value of the service you rendered him?"
"It is wonderful how clearly you analyze things!" the girl exclaimed admiringly. "All I could see was depressing, but you found encouragement in everything."
"Surely those beautiful books encouraged you?"
"Yes; but they emphasized the awful pity of the deliberate repression of his full ability."
"Still; the fact that the demand for expression was as stronger than the will to repress it shows the character beneath."
"Then not to express one's individuality shows a lack of character?" Merry inquired soberly.
"I think I sense some personal application," Huntington answered guardedly. "I must know more before I utter further words of wisdom."
The girl looked up into his face inquiringly, and then laughed consciously. "I am really becoming frightened by your power to understand," she said, only half jokingly. "I do mean to make a personal application. I want to express myself individually, but, being a woman, I cannot find the opportunity. If I really had character I'm sure that I should force the opportunity."
Huntington realized that in hesitating to answer her question he had been wiser than he knew. The seriousness which appeared from time to time on the girl's face, then, was not a passing mood, but rather the index of warring emotions. An unguarded word at this moment might do much injury to a nature which was striving to find itself.
"Do you know yet what form you wish your individuality to take?" he asked cautiously.
"Not exactly," was the frank response. "What I object to, is that a girl isn't allowed to become interested in anything that is worth while. She is given her education and 'brought out,' after which, whether she likes it or not, she seems to be placedin a position of waiting for some man to come along to marry her. Why can't she be allowed to do something, just as a boy is, until she finds out whether she wants to marry or not?"
"That would be a fatal error!" Huntington explained with mock gravity, hoping to lighten the serious turn the conversation had taken. "If any such idea gained ground marriage would become the exception rather than the rule. How many girls do you think would ever marry if they were permitted to find any other real interest in life?"
"But I'm serious, Mr. Huntington," Merry protested, showing that she felt hurt by his flippancy. "I couldn't bear to be a nonentity all my days. Think of realizing one's own ambitions only by marrying a man who could fulfil them! I could not be happy unless I contributed my share to the real life which we jointly lived."
"You could do it," Huntington said with conviction, "but not every woman could.—See that old man bowing to us. Suppose we go and speak with him. Do you mind?"
"Every one is so courteous here," she exclaimed as they crossed the narrow road. "I never pass one of the natives without receiving a greeting of some kind, and the children are forever shyly forcing flowers or fruit upon me. It makes one love the place."
The old man was overjoyed to have attracted attention. He hobbled forward with difficulty as they approached, and bowed as low as his infirmities would permit.
"You are welcome to Bermuda," he said with acracked, high-pitched voice. "We are pleased to have strangers visit us."
"Your visitors remain strangers but a little while," Huntington answered him, "because of your hospitality."
"Won't you come in and sit down?" the old man urged.
"Not to-day, thank you; but if we should not be intruding it would be a pleasure to return some other time."
"You could not intrude, sir," he insisted; "for I am only waiting."
"Waiting?" Huntington questioned.
"Yes; waiting for that," and he pointed to a tall cedar growing inside the yard, beside which was the stump of another tree.
"He wants to tell us something," Merry whispered.
"They were planted there sixty years ago," the old man continued, "the two of them. They were little slips, stuck in our wedding-cake as is our custom here, when my wife and I were married. We put them in the ground, for everything takes root in this soil, and they grew side by side for fifty years. Then that one fell"—pointing to the stump,—"and the next day my wife was taken sick and died. We made her coffin from the cedar wood of that tree, sir. Now I'm waiting for the other one to fall. That was ten years ago now, so it won't be long."
"Isn't that a beautiful idea?" Merry exclaimed, touched by the unconscious pathos of the old man's words. "We would like to come back and have you tell us about your wife."
"She was a sweet, young girl like yourself whenI married her," he replied. "We were both born here and never left the island. But the maps aren't fair to us; we're not so small"—he straightened and waved his arm—"we're not so small, as you can see."
They left him happy over the unusual break in his monotony, and continued their walk to the hotel.
"Here is the other side to the picture," Huntington remarked. "This old man and his wife, and hundreds of others no doubt, live their lives out here happy and contented with their nineteen square miles of world, yet you and I are pitying Hamlen because of his self-exile under circumstances infinitely more acceptable!"
"It is a question of what one has within, isn't it?" Merry asked, "that something which keeps one from being satisfied with anything less than the most and the best that life can give him and he can give to life."
Huntington looked at her with undisguised admiration. "You couldn't have stated it better if you had taken all the college courses in the world," he said. "You're a wonderful little girl, Miss Merry, and if you don't let your heart play pranks with that well-balanced head of yours you will certainly achieve your great ambition."
They were near the hotel now, and the conversation had strayed so far from the original subject that the girl did not follow him.
"My great ambition?" she asked. "And that is—"
"I won't tell you until we're up the steps."
"Well?" she demanded archly, as at length they stood on the piazza.
"You will marry a man who will let you contribute your share to the real life which you will jointly live."
The laughing response which he had looked for was not spoken, but to his amazement Merry turned from him without a word and disappeared within the hallway.
Thatcher and Cosden chartered one of the hotel carriages the next morning and started on a tour of inspection over the route plotted out by Duncan for the proposed trolley-line. After passing beyond the town limits, and with the long stretch of superb coral road ahead of them, Thatcher turned to his companion.
"Why can't we get together on the Consolidated Machinery?" he asked pointedly.
"The public demands that your nefarious trust be compelled to recognize its rights," Cosden replied smiling.
"Good!" Thatcher smiled in response. "Now that you have that piffle off your chest, please go on."
"This time we have the goods," Cosden added significantly.
"If you are so sure of it, why don't you show them to us? Then we can tell whether it's a real hold-up or merely an attempt."
"That's just the point, and the sooner your crowd realizes it the less time you will waste. This is not a hold-up game; we have the goods, and we can make a better thing by operating than by selling out."
"You have courage to buck up against an organization as strong as ours."
"Not only courage but capital enough to see us through."
The antiquated stage-coach, plying between St. George's and Hamilton, lumbered past them. Cosden smiled as he turned to his companion.
"There's a perfect illustration of the situation," he said. "Your machines belong to the same vintage as that old coach, yet by maintaining a monopoly, as you have been able to do until now, you have succeeded in forcing manufacturers to employ antique methods, and to pay you a whacking big royalty for the privilege of remaining twenty years behind the times. That stage-coach will stand as much chance of continuing on its beat, if our trolley scheme goes through, as your machines have of keeping out of the scrap-heap when ours once get on the market. This isn't any news to you, Thatcher, and that's what makes your whole crowd so anxious."
"If what Duncan tells us is correct," Thatcher retorted quickly, "we have just about as much show of pulling off the trolley scheme as you fellows have of putting this machinery game over on us. Somebody has been going to do this to us for twenty years, but somehow the manufacturers keep coming back to renew their contracts."
"Of course they do," Cosden admitted; "they haven't dared to do anything else. Look at the terms in your leases! Any manufacturer would have to be absolutely sure that the new machines were backed strongly enough to keep you from punishinghim for his temerity. That can now be guaranteed, and with the element of fear eliminated they will flock to us, rejoicing that they have the opportunity to leave their shackles of bondage behind them."
"Another Emancipation Proclamation!" laughed Thatcher; but Cosden found the moment to impress the enemy with the strength of his position too opportune to allow himself to be diverted.
"Think of it, Thatcher," he cried with characteristic enthusiasm. "In less than two years they can save enough, through the economies of production, to buy their machines outright, instead of continuing year after year to pay you tribute with nothing at the end to show for it. We give them methods as well as machines, and show them how an ordinary workman can produce the high-grade output of a skilled operative by means of the improved automatic features of our machinery. The makers of medium-quality goods can now turn out work equal to that heretofore produced only by high-grade manufacturers."
"You're a grand salesman, Cosden," Thatcher said lightly. "Your company ought to put you on the road! Our people would pay you a big salary to handle the sales end of our organization."
"I shouldn't be worth ten dollars a week to them. There are three kinds of salesmen, Thatcher: one sells his concern, another sells his customers, and the third sells his goods. A man can't belong in the third class unless he himself believes in what he's selling. I've been making these machines for our crowd for five years, including the experimentalperiod, and I know what I'm talking about. Four big plants are now being equipped, and when they once begin running you'll see your royalties dropping away from you like friends after a failure. The fact that you have had a monopoly has encouraged your people to keep their eyes on the stock-market instead of on the improvement of their machines, and our biggest asset is the fact that every manufacturer who is leasing from you to-day is sore over his treatment."
"That goes without saying," Thatcher admitted; "they would be sore if we gave them the machines outright. But if you are so sure your improvements are valuable, why go to the expense of duplicating our selling and manufacturing equipment when we stand ready to make a fair trade?"
"The new machines wouldn't be worth as much to you as they are to us."
"Why not?"
"Because you would never use them. The improved models would simply be side-tracked to keep them from competing against your antiques. You would be paying whatever it cost to get hold of them for hush money, just as you have done a hundred times before."
"Suppose we did: what difference would it make to you, so long as you get a good thing out of it? I don't understand that your company was organized for philanthropic purposes."
"No; business and philanthropy usually work better when they're given allowances for separate maintenance, but in this particular case the two seem to be walking along hand in hand. Self-interest,Thatcher, is the strongest motive in the world, and when you find a proposition which offers self-interest to the buyer as well as to the seller you have an irresistible argument."
"This is a great road-bed for a trolley-line," Thatcher remarked, leaning over the side of the carriage. "The construction problem ought to be a simple one."
"The proposition to have a line of cars run here is so obvious that there must have been powerful objections to obstruct it all these years," Cosden answered, quite content to await Thatcher's pleasure in resuming the main topic of their conversation.
It was a beautiful clear, cool morning, and the sea at their left sparkled brilliantly in its sapphire splendor. To the right of the carriage road were attractive cottages, overgrown with bloomingbougainvilleaor other less spectacular foliage. Every now and then a more pretentious mansion appeared, built on some elevation which commanded a view of the water on either side, and surrounded by heavy clumps of cedar and fan-leaved palmettos. Frequently the road passed between high walls of solid coral limestone, from the crevices of which the ever-decorative Bermuda vegetation showed scarlet, orange and purple blooms against the green.
"There must be something more than sentiment," Thatcher commented. "I suspect that we shall uncover some large personal interests here which have been strong enough to protect themselves—"
"And find concealment behind the convenient screen of sentimentality," completed Cosden.
"Exactly. I wouldn't spend any time on it at all except that it seems so important to the people themselves."
Cosden laughed so spontaneously that Thatcher looked up quickly, trying to grasp the unintended humor in his last remark. His companion was hugely amused and made no effort to conceal it.
"Well?" Thatcher interrogated good-naturedly; "aren't you going to let me in on it?"
"It's funny, that's all," Cosden replied; "but it's perfectly good business either way you work it. Simply a question of how you sit when you have your picture taken."
Thatcher's face demanded further explanation, but before Cosden spoke again by way of enlightenment his amused expression disappeared, and he became serious.
"I don't know as it is so funny, after all," he said. "When you spoke of being interested in this trolley scheme principally because it was so important to the people, I couldn't help thinking how inconsistent you were."
"Inconsistent?" Thatcher echoed.
"Suppose you owned that line of stage-coaches, and leased it out just as you do these machines. Then some men came along and proposed to build a trolley-line which would push the stage-coaches off the map. That's what our new machines will do to your old ones. In one case you're interested in the improved method because it is so important to the people; in the other you say, 'The people be damned.' But you're no different from the rest of us. Our so-called consistency is as full of holes as a sieve;but it's always the other fellow who sees it. We're too close to ourselves to get the perspective."
"I am relieved," Thatcher said. "If it is only a question of inconsistency I'll take a chance on holding my own. But sometimes we are not so inconsistent as we seem. The 'other fellow' thinks he has a joke on us when in reality he only sees part of the situation. This 'nefarious trust,' for example which you cite as a hideous illustration of grinding monopoly, took hold of an industry, twenty years ago, and brought system out of chaos, shouldered all the risk, taught manufacturers how to make money out of their business, and enabled small factories to become big ones by leasing them machines which they could not afford to buy. The trust has prospered, but so have the manufacturers. Who shall say that those who took the risks are not entitled to the rewards, or that the system introduced and developed by the trust was not as much in the interests of the people as this trolley-line we are proposing?"
"There isn't much of anything we can't prove if we argue long enough, is there?" Cosden retorted. "If I hadn't heard all that before, and if I hadn't seen the way the 'system' worked out, I should be almost persuaded. Some one told me once that there were two sides to every story except that of Cain and Abel, but I came across an Icelandic myth a while ago in which Abel was the murderer, and since then I've refused to believe anything until I know the other side. Probably the only way for you and me to agree on this question is for each of us to buy some stock in the other fellow's company."