"It is a very different matter, my friend, to make light of something which you have and something which you lack. I may despise society, but if it was society that despised me you'd see me starting a campaign in New York that would make a football game look like a funeral procession."
Cosden regarded his animated companion for some moments in silence, but any one who knew him would have recognized that his mind had seized upon the germ of a new idea which pleased him, but which he was considering critically for the moment.
"Look here," he said suddenly. "It doesn't take me long to make up my mind. Why couldn't I persuade you to start a campaign like that for me—for us—in Boston?"
The abruptness of the suggestion, and the complete change from the subdued and humiliated seeker after light back to the dominating man of affairs who forces the solution of his dilemma, took even the astute Edith by surprise.
"Am I by any chance to consider that as an offer of marriage?" she demanded.
"That is just what I mean. What do you say?"
"Well, of all things!" She rose to her feet and walked up and down the piazza with Cosden following close behind. It was a moment or two before she recovered herself, and then she turned on him.
"I take back all the sympathy I ever gave you," she cried indignantly, "and I hate myself for having tried to help you with my advice."
Cosden regarded her outbreak with consternation. "I always supposed an offer of marriage was the greatest compliment a man could pay a woman," he exclaimed surprised.
"It is no compliment when such an offer is based so cold-bloodedly upon business advantage. You come down here to get a wife, which you havedecided in your counting-room will increase your assets. The first girl you select doesn't fit into your plans, as you had expected, so you look me over critically, tell me it doesn't take you long to make up your mind, and offer me a partnership.—All that remains, I suppose, is for us to discuss office hours and the division of the profits! My word! You are the most mercenary human creature I ever met!"
Edith was splendid in her anger, but Cosden refused to take her seriously.
"Come," he insisted; "you are far too sensible to look at it that way. Why, every one in the hotel is asking if we are engaged. What shall I tell them?"
"Tell them you proposed to me and that I refused you," she retorted defiantly, turning from him and disappearing through the open door.
"Well Marian, my play-time is over for the present," Thatcher remarked as he folded a cable he had just received and placed it in his pocket. "They need me at the office, so I'll sail on Monday. There's no reason for you to leave until later unless you wish to."
She looked up at him with an expression of such real disappointment that he felt the unspoken reproach.
"We have stayed a month longer than we intended, as it is," he explained, "and my going need not hasten your plans at all."
"I don't want you to return alone, Harry, and I loathe the thought of turning my back on this enchanting spot. Truly, each day makes it more difficult to leave it."
"Then if you don't go at once the problem may become serious," he laughed.
"You are so different down here, Harry, I hate to give you up to business again. That is a wife's real rival; I'm jealous of it."
"A rival which has made our pleasures possible, so you should be friends. Only a few years more of it, little woman, and then you may plan mydays as well as yours. Then we'll have one long play-time together."
"You've been saying that for five years," she protested petulantly; "but we seem to come no nearer. Haven't we enough to do that now?"
"Who shall say what 'enough' really is?" he smiled, taking her hand in his and looking with affection into her deep eyes. "That isn't what holds me; it takes time to work out of the old interests without serious loss, Marian, and present conditions aren't helpful."
"I suppose not," she agreed unwillingly; "but do make the period of waiting as short as possible. Merry and Philip are grown now, and I'm hungry for another honeymoon, such as we have been having here."
"Some day, little woman, some day!"
"Don't say that, Harry!" she protested again, this time more vigorously. "There is no expression in the English language I detest so much as 'some day.' When I was a little girl I had an uncle who was forever going to take me somewhere or give me something 'some day'; and 'some day' never came! I've always looked upon those two words as a diabolical combination invented by older people as an aggravation to children. But I will be patient, Harry. Can't you start in now to take some medicine which will be sure to clear your blood of business by the time these things you speak of work themselves out?"
"If present conditions continue," he laughed, "they will accomplish what you wish better than anything so homeopathic as physic. We shall allbe thrown out of business whether we like it or not. This cable I have just received," he continued more soberly, "is a case in point: the government is starting in to 'investigate' one of our pet interests, and the stock has begun to drop out of sight already. It is paternalism with a vengeance: protecting the infant industries to encourage their growth, and then spanking them when they respond!"
"Well," Marian sighed, "it's all Greek to me, but if you say it's wrong then I know it is. Now," she added, slipping her arm through his, "let's go over to the pool and see what is going on there."
Shouts of laughter and sounds of splashing greeted them as they reached the top of the tiled steps of the "Princess" pool, and they paused for a moment to see the finish of an exciting race.
"You're too fast for us, Miss Merry," Huntington acknowledged his defeat. Then he turned to Cosden who finished just behind him.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself to let a girl beat you like that, Connie?" he demanded.
"How about yourself?" was the retort; "you always claimed to be some swimmer."
"You let me win!" Merry declared.
"Indeed I didn't," Huntington protested stoutly. "It is eminently unfit that woman should defeat man in any athletic contest; she has beaten us out in everything else, and we must reserve something. Perhaps Connie let you beat him,—did you, Connie?"
Cosden laughed consciously. "Did I ever let any one beat me in anything when I could prevent it?" he asked.
"There you are," Huntington waved his arms dramatically. "We admit ourselves temporarily defeated, but not disgraced. As for myself, I shall immediately go into strict training, in an endeavor to alter my lines from endurance to speed."
The Thatchers strolled along the edge of the pool and seated themselves on one of the benches at the farther end of the enclosure.
"Here come Edith and Philip Hamlen," Marian called her husband's attention to the new arrivals; "where do you suppose she found him?"
"Hello, people," Edith greeted them. "Mr. Hamlen has been waiting for you in the hotel, and I told him I thought we should find you here. This looks to me like a perfectly good party."
"Come sit with us," Thatcher urged, drawing up another bench. "We elderly folk will watch the children at play."
Edith suddenly caught sight of Cosden and she perceptibly stiffened. "Children!" she echoed, with an inflection of her voice and a toss of the head which attracted Marian's attention. "How is it that Mr. Cosden goes into the water? I should think he would be afraid of rust."
"I supposed it was by your orders, Edith," Marian said smiling. "Isn't he still acting under your instructions? But why 'rust'?"
"Certainly not by any orders of mine," she replied with emphasis. "What he needs as an adviser is a machinist to keep that wonderful business head of his in repair. Wouldn't you think it would rust if he got it wet?"
Edith's new attitude was more intelligible toMarian than to the men, but discretion suggested a change of subject.
"Harry is taking us home with him on Monday," she announced, suddenly turning to Hamlen and watching him narrowly as she spoke.
"On Monday?" Hamlen repeated after her. The color rushed into his usually pale face, and a tremor in his voice showed how much the news affected him. "You are going Monday?"
"The Thatcher family intact," Marian answered him; "I don't know about the others."
"Of course Ricky and I go when you do," Edith added. "I'm quite ready. The place is beginning to pall on me."
There was an injured look in Hamlen's face as he turned to her quickly. "Don't say that of my beautiful island!" he begged.
"Oh, the place is all right," Edith assured him; "it is simply some of the foreign element I don't like."
"Must you really go?" Hamlen asked Thatcher appealingly.
"It is my master's voice, and we slaves of the market dare not disregard the call."
Hamlen forced a smile. "I shall miss you," he said simply.
"Come with us," Marian urged in a low voice. "That would make our visit here complete."
The man made no response, yet she could see no signs of weakening. The color left his face and it was now more ashen than before. The lips were tightly compressed as if he feared to trust them, and his hands clenched the walking-stick he held in front of him with a grip of iron. He mastered himselfat last, and the pathetic smile which wrung Marian's heart whenever she saw it returned to his face. It was too clearly the reflection of a wound which pride alone concealed from sight.
"You are too generous," he said at length, feeling the necessity of making some response,—"far too generous; but it is like you, Marian. Huntington is generous too, but you both are mistaken in your kindness. There are some exotic growths which can't be transplanted; I am one of those."
He paused for a moment; then he continued: "I must ask one more favor before you go—come to me to-morrow afternoon and let us have a final celebration in honor of our reunion. Come to my villa, all of you, and in the midst of the family I have created—my flowers, my trees—let me dedicate my home anew to the dear friends who have brought life back to me, even though they too will soon join the memories amongst which I must continue to live. Give me this last experience to remain with me after you are gone."
"Of course we will, Philip,—we would love to come," Marian replied, affected by his words and the depth of emotion which his voice expressed. "It will be the one remembrance we would most rejoice to take back with us if we can't take you. For these days, Philip," she added in a voice so low that he alone could hear,—"these days have not been vital ones for you alone, dear friend. Our meeting has brought back much to me which I shall always cherish, and beyond all I wish I might be the means of giving you back that happiness you lost through me."
"No, no! You mustn't say that, Marian!"
"Oh, but I feel the burden of it, Philip! You give me no chance to make restitution. If you would only come—"
A tremor ran through his frame but he quickly controlled himself. "No, Marian," he said firmly; "you must come to me!"
While the little group were conversing together the bathers had left the pool, and now one by one appeared from the bath-houses, radiant from their invigorating exercise, and looking for new worlds to conquer. Cosden was first, and he seated himself on the bench beside Edith.
"Am I forgiven?" he asked in a low tone, but with a smile which expressed confidence in the answer.
"I never talk shop outside of business hours," was the chilling response, as she drew herself slightly away from him and looked straight ahead.
Merry was not far behind, and her appearance prevented Edith's hauteur from becoming too apparent.
"Mr. Huntington and I are going to have another race to-morrow morning," she announced. "I'm sure he let me beat him this time just to humiliate me the more when he shows what he can really do."
"I'd back you against the field if I could find any takers," Cosden insisted. "That shows what I think of his chances."
"It's great fun, anyway. Isn't this a fine old world, Momsie?" she cried impulsively, throwing her arms around her mother's neck and kissing her.
"'Here comes the bride,'" chanted Cosden as Huntington finally walked toward them with hisdignified stride. "If I took as much time to prink as you do I believe I could fuss myself up to look like something."
"You'd need a file!" Edith ejaculated spitefully.
"I beg your pardon?" Cosden interrogated, but no explanation was vouchsafed.
"This looks to me like a council of war," Huntington remarked.
"Call it rather a demobilization," Thatcher corrected. "I have made myself everlastingly unpopular by deciding to return to New York on Monday. Marian insists on leaving when I do, and the Stevenses are equally considerate of my pleasure. So I've spoiled everything."
"I have only been waiting for some one stronger than I to determine my own departure, so I include myself among the refugees. And Hamlen will go with me, won't you, my friend?"
Hamlen held up his hand deprecatingly. "I must complete my sentence of exile," he said with finality.
"Have you heard anything from New York?" Cosden inquired. "I left orders not to cable."
"The market is bad, and liable to become worse."
"Then my vacation is over, too. How about the trolley project?"
"Another postponement. I'll give you the details later."
"Mr. Hamlen has invited us to have tea with him to-morrow afternoon as a farewell celebration, and I have accepted for all."
"Not a farewell, Mrs. Thatcher," Huntington corrected, looking across at Hamlen. "There are some souls to whom we never say farewell. Ifhe won't come with us now it simply means a brief postponement. This friend of mine cannot come into my life as he has done these weeks and then go out of it again. He and I have already lost too many years of the companionship which should have been ours; now together we must make up for lost time."
Hamlen looked at him gratefully but did not answer. In single file the little party walked along the narrow edge of the pool, down the steps and back to the hotel. Cosden manœuvered so that he had a word with Edith before they separated.
"I sha'n't let you be cross with me," he said.
"I'm not cross; 'disgusted' is the word if you really want to know."
"But suppose my speaking was more sudden than my decision?"
"I would rather not discuss it, if you please."
"I've seen a great deal more of you than I have of Merry—"
"But when you make up your mind, Mr. Cosden—" Edith recalled his own words.
"I never change it without reason," he replied. "And more than that, it is very unprofessional to desert a client just when he needs you most."
"When a client disregards his counsel's advice it is time to change counsel," she retorted with decision.
"Oh, dear, no!" Cosden replied in so conciliatory a tone that she was partly mollified. The words rang with greater sincerity than she had believed him to possess. "That isn't the way real counsels do at all, especially when the client is so contrite."
"What is their custom?" Edith asked, amused in spite of herself.
"They charge it up on the bill and make him pay handsomely for his presumption."
"Oh!" she said, weakening a little in the caustic attitude she had assumed. "If it comes down to a matter of bookkeeping perhaps we can effect a compromise."
"To-day, Connie, is Saturday, to-morrow is the Sabbath, in which we are not permitted to toil, neither can we spin, and on the day which followeth we sail," Huntington remarked at luncheon.
Cosden regarded his companion critically. "It doesn't rhyme so I know it isn't poetry; then it must be Scripture."
"Freely paraphrased, it means that this afternoon is the last opportunity we shall have to exercise our golf-clubs on Bermudian soil."
"Enough said," Cosden answered sententiously; "I'll be ready whenever you are. What a relief it will be to play on a real course again when the season opens at home!"
"I admit that this is the one great deficiency of an otherwise admirably ordered resort," Huntington agreed. "Still, it is a whole lot better than no course at all, so let us be philosophers.—I'll be ready in an hour."
The afternoon's round proved an eventful one to Huntington. Not that his clubs were under better control, or that he was less penalized by the atrocious lies encountered so frequently. Not that he succeeded in defeating his opponent, which was usuallythe measure of an eventful day; but he found Cosden in a state of mind which gave him infinite relief.
The weak spots shown up by the analysis Huntington had made of his friendship with Cosden caused him real anxiety, explain them as he would. It was one thing to play with a man three times a week and another to live with him for a month of consecutive holidays. He had wondered whether their relations could ever return to what he had believed them to be before the shock came to his sense of propriety. Cosden's new state of mind shifted the balance so that the scales hung even, and the hope thus engendered made him indifferent to sliced drives, bad lies, or topped approaches. To Huntington, a friendship such as this had been assumed the proportions of a trust, and to disturb it was to shake the foundations of his every-day life to a most disquieting extent.
"This visit to Bermuda hasn't been at all what I expected," Cosden confided to him; "but I'm inclined to think it has been a success after all."
"I have found much to interest me here," Huntington admitted.
"Between you and Miss Stevens I've learned a few things about myself I didn't know before. The experience hasn't been altogether palatable, but perhaps it will prove salutary."
"That is ancient history now, Connie," Huntington protested, following his usual custom of avoiding the unpleasant. "Why bring it up again? Keep your mind on your game."
"It hasn't become ancient history yet," he insisted. "I want you to understand that I appreciateyour friendliness in going out of your way to say disagreeable things when you thought I needed to hear them. It isn't every one who would have done it."
"That's all right; now let's forget it."
"I don't want to forget it. In fact I'm particularly keen on remembering it. I tackled a job before I knew how to handle it, with the inevitable consequences. Now I think I can come nearer to understanding what the game is."
He paused long enough to negotiate a particularly difficult stymie which Huntington had laid him on the third green. As the ball dropped into the cup he looked up with a satisfied smile.
"You see I can play a game that I do understand, don't you, Monty? I'm going to play this new game just as well after I'm on to it. You were right: that little Thatcher girl is all I thought she was, but we are absolutely unsuited. I had to find it out for myself, but now it is as clear to me as it has been to you from the beginning. And this isn't the only thing I've found out."
"The air is pretty clear down here, Connie; one can see a long ways."
"Yes, when he's supplied with a pair of binoculars like you and Miss Stevens. The thing I can see clearest now is that I'm not ready to marry any girl just at present."
Huntington stopped as he was about to swing, dropped his club, and seized Cosden by the shoulders.
"Then you aren't going to desert me!"
"Hold on!" Cosden cried as he released himself; "you're going too fast! Don't overlook the factthat I said 'just at present.' It may be I shall never marry, but something tells me that there are wedding-bells for me before I get through with it. There's no doubt at all, however, that before that takes place I must acquire some of those flossy things you've taught me to look for. I'm going to take a few hundred shares in some humanizing company and see what it does for me. Then I'll find out just what there is in it, and let the future take care of itself."
Now that Cosden had come to these eminently satisfactory conclusions Huntington was too wise to offer any advice. His courage rose as this responsibility rolled away from his overburdened shoulders, and he dared hope that before he reached New York Mrs. Thatcher would voluntarily abandon her quixotic notion concerning Merry and Hamlen. This would leave him free to pull the strings for Billy,—but here he sighed. Could he hope ever to bring the boy up to the standard he himself would insist upon before permitting any thought of an alliance? And was the sigh all because of doubts of Billy? Forty-five must give way to twenty, but he admitted to himself that the supreme burden of all remained. If some of those years could only be turned back! But he knew himself now, and in that knowledge rested power.
Sunday dawned bright and clear, one of those superlative days which Bermuda produces now and then as an aggravation to her departing visitors, and to demonstrate that she herself can improve even upon her own perfection. Those who had planned to devote the morning to packing againstthe morrow's sailing found the voice of duty too weak to make itself heard above the irresistible call to the open. Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher seized the opportunity to drive again to Harrington Sound, Merry and Huntington took a final walk to Elba Beach, while Cosden insisted that Edith Stevens permit him to escort her to the Barracks and the band concert. This left Ricky Stevens entirely out in the cold, but he was so accustomed to it that he did not even notice that it had happened again. Cheerfully lighting a cigarette, after the others had departed, and swinging his stick with an energy deserving of better things, he devoted the morning to making a final round of the tobacco-shops, laying in a huge amount of additional smoking materials.
By afternoon all were again united, and set off together for Hamlen's villa. Their host elected to receive them in the garden instead of at the house, and as the guests passed through the rustic arbor, vivid in the coloring of thepoinsettiawhich bore it down, each felt in varying degree the dramatic effect of the reception. Hamlen stepped quietly forward to receive them, clad in the familiar white doe-skin suit which was never so effective as against its present background. His manner was courtly, but the reserve his friends had seen broken down during their visit again possessed him, and his face, even when he smiled to welcome them, was reminiscent of some great renunciation.
"Forgive me for not meeting you when you first drove up," Hamlen said to Marian. "In my sentimentality I preferred to greet you here. These trees, these shrubs, these flowers," he indicated, "I plantedone by one. I tended them in their infancy, I have watched them in their growth. To me they have personalities as much as human beings. They represent my family, they are all I have, and, as I told you yesterday, I want them to join me in this last meeting before you depart and leave us to ourselves."
Their host's attitude was not fully appreciated except by the three who knew him best, so it was natural that by degrees the party separated in such a way that Mrs. Thatcher, Merry and Huntington were left with him while the others explored the grounds in greater detail.
"For the first time in my life, Marian," Hamlen said, "I shall regret to see a steamer pass my Point and leave me cut off from the world. As I told you, always before I have gloried in it. To-morrow—"
"We shall be waving to you to-morrow, Philip, and wishing you were with us."
"It won't be long," Huntington added, "before you will be on one of those same steamers on your way to us."
"I hope so," was the non-committal reply.
"We do want you, all of us," Merry smiled persuadingly. "We have come to know each other so well here that we shall miss not being where we can run in to disturb you in your work."
"I shall miss those interruptions too, and the work will be all I shall have to fall back upon. Somehow," he added, turning to Huntington,—"somehow I haven't been able to do the same work since you have been here. I don't understand it. I have been happier during these weeks than in allthe years which preceded them, yet my work has not been so good. Why is it?"
"The reason is obvious," Huntington answered quietly, but with a degree of satisfaction in his tone. "In what you say I find a pledge that you will come to us. Our visit, Hamlen, has disturbed the equilibrium of your life; it can never be the same again. Your work now is not so good because your mind has found a new horizon, and refuses to confine itself within the narrow compass which it had before. You can't do as good work again until your life finds new anchorage. Then you will reach heights beyond your dreams; but it will be through your friends that the new anchorage will come. We can afford to be patient, Hamlen, for you must surely turn to us; you cannot avoid it no matter how hard you try."
Huntington's magnetic voice affected Hamlen as deeply as his words. His vision seemed so clear, his domination so complete that it startled the weaker man. Mrs. Thatcher and Merry knew at that moment that, if he chose, Huntington could have compelled Hamlen to follow him to the ends of the earth; and the response their host made showed that he recognized it too.
"You won't force me, Huntington?" he appealed.
"It must come only when you wish it," was the reassuring reply; "but when that moment does arrive, know well, dear friend, how hearty a welcome awaits you."
Hamlen took his hand in both his own and gazed for a long moment into Huntington's face. "Classmate—friend," was all he said, but those who heard the words knew them to be enough.
As they mixed again with the others, and the conversation became more general, the seriousness of Hamlen's earlier bearing partially wore away, relieving the unnatural tension which had almost turned an informal social function into the observance of a religious rite. Then the shadows lengthened, and two of the servants brought out a rustic table laden with eatables, with a huge bowl of strawberries as a centerpiece. There was no need of decoration beyond its cut-glass and rare china, for each dish was a selected masterpiece.
"A Class Day spread in February!" Merry exclaimed enthusiastically. "How we shall miss these strawberries when we get home!"
"'Strawberries may come and strawberries may go, but prunes go on forever,'" Cosden added, glancing at Edith for approval.
The whole experience affected Mrs. Thatcher deeply. She saw the Hamlen of her youth full of promise and ambition, she saw the Hamlen of to-day bound hand and foot in the bonds of his false sophistry. What would he have been had she not broken her word to him? She was vaguely conscious that her present emotion was deeper than any she had ever been called upon to feel for her husband or for her children; she half-sensed the fact that previously her deepest feelings had been for herself. Now she felt a sympathy which demanded restitution, and the impulse must be worthy since it was for the happiness of some one other than herself. Of course, Merry should not be coerced against her will,—but if it could only be!
Every episode, however epochful, must end, andMarian rose at length, indicating that the good-byes must be spoken.
"You'll be down to see us off, Philip?" she asked.
"No," he answered unexpectedly; "if you will excuse me I should prefer to watch you from my Point up there. I want you to remember me amid my own surroundings, rather than as a part of something to which I don't belong."
Next morning, as the little tender passed Spanish Point, carrying its passengers to the "Arcadian," three persons stood in the stern waving to a solitary figure standing erect and motionless. When he made out the greetings from the boat he raised his arm high above his head and held it there, like a Roman of old, in stately recognition. He gave no sign that he saw their further salutes, yet they knew he could not fail to see them. They remained there until the figure became smaller and smaller, and then finally was cut off altogether by a turn in their course.
"This is too much for me!" Mrs. Thatcher cried suddenly, as if apologizing for the break in her voice. "If I don't get my mind on something else I shall burst into tears! I'm going forward with the others."
Merry and Huntington still lingered, hoping that they might catch one more glimpse of the solitary watcher; but in vain. When the girl turned toward him Huntington saw that tears glistened in her eyes.
"That is the most pathetic figure I have ever seen!"
Huntington made no answer, but at that momenthe became conscious that he was holding a small hand tightly grasped within his own. Impulsively he raised it to his lips, then he as suddenly released it.
"To seal our friendship," he explained consciously, "at this crisis in the life of one who has been the means of bringing us together. I owe him much for that!"
The "Arcadian" rested lazily at anchor just outside the harbor, apparently as willing as other visitors to drift on the tide of peace and contentment. The coils of smoke, rising straight upward from its funnels, supplied the only sign of intended departure. The bustle and activity usually attendant upon a sailing seemed absent, and the boat lay there like a pleasure-yacht ready to take on board its master's guests.
This impression deepened as the passengers from the tender were transferred on board and moved about the spacious decks, visiting their state-rooms resplendent with inviting brass bedsteads in place of the discouraging berths, and inspecting the swimming-pool.
"You must be sure of your weather before you indulge yourself there," Cosden remarked. "They told us, coming down, of a dignified British admiral who was tempted to a plunge, but no sooner was he in the pool than a young cyclone struck the boat, and for twenty minutes he was thrown forwards and backwards and sideways in spite of the efforts of the stewards to get him out. As he weighed nearly three hundred pounds the situation became serious.Finally, when the water was drawn off, he was dragged upon the stone slabs more dead than alive and held there until the storm abated, indifferent to the dignity of his person or to the glory of the British navy."
"That ought to act as an excellent flesh-reducer," Huntington commented. "Perhaps it would serve in my efforts to alter my lines for speed."
"I don't see that you need it," Edith laughed; "but we'll all be down to give encouragement."
"About that time you'll be making love to your little brass bedstead," remarked Mrs. Thatcher.
Edith's face fell. "I forgot all about that!" she cried aghast. "You don't think it will be as rough going back as it was coming down, do you? Oh! I forgot all about that!"
"It's certain to be bad enough to make you feel 'very annoyed,'" Marian confirmed maliciously.
"Let's go on deck," Ricky Stevens said with a sudden show of interest; "it's so awfully stuffy down here!"
Edith gave him a glance of approval. "For once in your life, Richard Stevens, you have a real idea. I can feel the boat beginning to roll now."
"Nonsense!" Huntington laughed, "we're scarcely out of the harbor yet; but the deck is much the better place; we are passing close to the shore and this last view of the islands is beautiful. We shall have ample opportunity to inspect the boat later on."
"I've seen all I want to," Edith asserted, as they started back to the companion way. "It was silly of me to forget that awful experience coming down. I am sure the boat is rolling, in spite of your denials."
"Then look," Huntington insisted, as they stepped out on the deck again. "You could navigate this sea in a canoe."
"Well, anyway," she compromised, "I shall be much more comfortable in my little steamer chair, so lead me to it."
Mrs. Thatcher, still affected by her last sight of Hamlen, was glad to sit down beside her friend while the others walked up and down the decks, watching the passing panorama of the shore, knowing that it would last too short a time at best.
"Marian," Edith said suddenly, "I have a presentiment that I shall die of seasickness on this trip home, and there is something I want to say to you while I can."
"No one ever died of seasickness, child," Marian laughed; "but if you have something serious on your conscience the sooner you get it off the better."
"It's Mr. Cosden," Edith explained.
"I noticed that something had gone wrong in that quarter. Has he escaped you, after all?"
"It is really too bad of you to take advantage of me when I'm so ill!"
"My poor Edith!" Marian said soothingly, "forgive me, dear; I forgot your serious condition for the moment. Tell me about Mr. Cosden."
"He is impossible," the invalid announced. "I really thought there was some hope for him until a few days ago, but he is so frightfully commercial that he crocks."
"He—what?"
"It comes off on everything he touches. He can't look at anything from any other standpoint.It's a tragic disappointment to me, and I think it just as well that I am going to expire from this awful seasickness. I really thought I could train him, but he's too crude. That is the only word to use."
"He can't be that or he couldn't be Monty Huntington's friend. I rather like him. He's blunt and matter-of-fact and all that; but I like to see a man with confidence in himself."
"I have an idea that Mr. Huntington has somewhat revised his opinions. I certainly have; and whatever anybody else may think I agree with myself."
"That ought to be comforting to you, my dear; but I'm really sorry things haven't pulled through this time. I'm afraid it's your last chance. What did he do that was crude,—refuse to propose?"
Edith sat bolt upright, her cheeks flaming, with all signs of her recent indisposition vanished.
"I hate you in that tantalizing mood, Marian Thatcher! You always put the meanest interpretation on everything! Of course he proposed, but he didn't do it in a nice way; he just figured it out as if it was one of his business deals, and made me feel as if I ought to go right to the shipping department and get packed up."
"My dear Edith," Marian expostulated; "you mustn't be so fastidious. It doesn't make so much difference how these men propose; the main thing is to have them do it. Truly, I'm disappointed in you! Here you have been working desperately to lead him to a point where he would let you put the ball and chain on him, and then, for some silly little reason, you let him get away from you! Really,I'm disappointed! From what I've seen, you two seem admirably suited to each other."
"You don't understand, Marian," she protested; "he made this trip for the express purpose of picking out a wife—"
"In Bermuda? Why couldn't he find one nearer home?"
"The girl he had selected for the distinguished honor was in Bermuda—"
Marian Thatcher was interested. Her amusement over her friend's annoyances, real or imagined, became tempered by curiosity, and that changed a passing incident into an event.
"He told you this and yet proposed to you? Who was the other girl?"
"You really don't know?"
"Certainly not. Why should I know? This is all news to me."
"I'm glad to be able to tell you something, my dear Marian," Edith said complacently. "You are so terribly superior it really cheers me up to have the chance to add to your knowledge, even in a small way. Mr. Cosden came down here for the purpose of proposing to Merry."
"To Merry!" Marian cried. "That man had the audacity to think he could marry my child! Well, upon my soul! Why, he never saw her more than two or three times before he came to Bermuda! How could he possibly have fallen in love—"
"In love!" Edith laughed. "Love? That's a real joke! Mr. Cosden has never dealt in that commodity! I tell you, Marian, he just picks out the thing he wants, and then he gets it—"
"He could never getmydaughter."
"But you just said you admired men who had confidence in themselves—"
"I didn't say I cared for men with such unmitigated nerve as that. The idea!"
"You thought us well suited to each other."
"Certainly I did; that's an entirely different matter. You are just as mercenary as he, and I think you would make a perfect team,—but Merry! Ho, ho! The audacity of it!"
Sitting on the edge of her steamer chair Marian tapped the deck excitedly with her toe and carefully adjusted an imaginary crease in her skirt. Suddenly she turned again to her companion.
"So he came down to get Merry,—and proposed to you?"
"Yes; rather well manœuvered, wasn't it? You see, don't you, that my mercenary instincts saved you from an unpleasant maternal duty?"
"I bless you for it," Marian said heartily; "but you've refused him, so that leaves him loose to begin over again. He's not safe yet."
"I wouldn't worry about that just now," Edith reassured her. "Mr. Cosden has learned a few things since he has been under my instruction, and I think he will be less precipitate."
"Why don't you continue the good work and polish him up for yourself? You must have found some good points or you wouldn't have gone to all this trouble."
"No, Marian; it's too big a contract. I once had hopes but they are gone. The first thing I knew he'd have me packed up in spite of myself andshipped off somewhere. I'm very disappointed, but I dare not take the chance."
It was fortunate, if Miss Stevens was to unburden her heart to her friend at all, that she acted so promptly, for after the headland of St. George's and St. David's light-house faded away in the distance it became apparent that the elements were not kindly disposed toward those on board the "Arcadian." The air became oppressive in its sultriness, and the clouds gathered ominously. Within an hour the calmness of the sea was forgotten. The little party playing shuffleboard found it difficult to keep their feet, and of a sudden a sharp, vicious squall struck the boat, sending all uncertain passengers to their state-rooms. Luncheon, served with difficulty, found a reasonable number at their seats, but by dinner-time the "good sailors" might have selected any locations they chose. Nature had declared a division, and the state-room stewards found far greater demand upon their services than did those in the dining-saloon. The majority of the passengers simply endured until the safe haven of New York harbor might be reached, the minority adjusted themselves to the conditions and made the most of them.
Merry and Huntington were among the fortunate minority.
"At last I have found something to struggle against!" she cried enthusiastically during the storm, as they stood in a sheltered position on deck watching the quivering steamer plow steadfastly through the great waves.
"Still eager for a struggle!" Huntington exclaimedsmiling, understanding the spirit of the girl better than he cared to acknowledge. "I don't like to think of you as struggling at all."
"I must," she said firmly. "Unless I do, I feel myself slipping backwards."
"Of course," he admitted, "struggling means development, yet my wish for you is freedom from anything which opposes. Is it selfishness on my part, this desire to keep you as you are, or is it merely another of those paradoxes of which life is made up?"
"Whatever it is," Merry answered simply, "I know that your wish is for my good, for I know you are my friend."
She turned toward him as she spoke and looked full in his face with an expression of confidence in her own which tested Huntington's self-denial. But the years—the inexorable years—were there!
"It is you who have made me realize the necessity of struggling," she continued. "It is through the companionship I have had these weeks with you, and your friendship, that I have been able to crystallize ideas which before were so uncontrolled that they made me restless and discontented. What I heard you say to Mr. Hamlen, what I have seen in your every-day philosophy has taught me to concentrate my efforts in one grand struggle with myself."
"If you keep it there," Huntington answered, "I shall be content; it would be no kindness to wish it otherwise. But one of these days, little friend, some man will come along with a nature equal to your own, and in the division of the struggle youwill find the happiness multiplied. That will be your chance to contribute your share to the real life which you will jointly live."
"You have remembered what I said that first time we walked home from Mr. Hamlen's!"
"I shall always remember it. From it I first learned the depth and beauty of your womanhood."
"Please, Mr. Huntington—" she begged deprecatingly; but her companion saw no reason to recall the words.
On the second morning the passengers came up on deck in anticipation of landing in the afternoon. Even Edith Stevens had passed through the ordeal without the fatal results she had predicted. Cosden seized the first opportunity for a final word of reconciliation.
"Don't give me up," he urged. "I've learned a lot of things down here, and I appreciate what you have done for me more than I have shown. I'm going to do a bit of sandpapering when I get home, and I want you to let me run in to see you once in a while in New York, just to report progress."
And Edith, either because after her experiences she felt too weak to combat him, or because she thought he needed encouragement, ingloriously capitulated.
The final good-byes were said on the dock, after the customs officials had completed their inspection.
"Of course we'll see you in New York now and then," Mrs. Thatcher said to the two men; "and when we open up at the shore we must plan a real reunion."
"I shall hope to have Hamlen here by then," Huntington remarked.
"You are more optimistic than I; but in the mean time I shall be eager to receive news of him through you."
"Drop in at the office next time you're in town, Cosden," said Thatcher; "we'll talk over Consolidated Machinery and the Bermuda Trolleys."
"I'm thinking of getting out of business altogether, to devote myself to art," was Cosden's enigmatical reply; but the expression on Edith Stevens' face showed that at least she understood.
Nearly a month passed after their return to Boston before Huntington and Cosden really saw anything of each other. They met casually, they telephoned, they lunched in company with other friends at down-town clubs, but neither one suggested an old-time getting together, and each felt relieved by the omission of the other. Yet the reason each man held for this feeling, had he openly acknowledged it, was as opposed to the other's as were the characteristics of the men themselves. Huntington craved nothing so much as an opportunity to be alone, that he might review the extraordinary happenings of the past few weeks and thus fortify himself sufficiently to prevent any lapse from what he knew to be his duty; Cosden required a return to his usual feverish business activity in order to digest his new ideas. Huntington remembered the wonderful sunshine and the fragrant flowers, in the midst of which he always saw a sweetly serious face peering out at him in spite of his efforts at banishment; Cosden forgot everything except that he had been shown up to himself in a light which demanded immediate and drastic consideration. To both men the weeks just ended,including those which had elapsed since their return had been epoch-making. But self-confidence revives with time, however great a shock it may receive and when Huntington finally invited his friend to dine with him Cosden found himself quite ready to accept.
This first meeting was more formal than any which had taken place during the many years of their acquaintance. Cosden often spoke of the relief it was to him to be permitted to drop in at his friend's house in such an intimate way,—without "fussing up," as he expressed it; now he appeared in his dinner-coat, dressed as immaculately as Huntington himself always was. His manner was more contained, and even though it was evident that his restraint was studied Huntington was interested and pleased to observe that as yet, at all events, the influence of the Bermuda experiences made itself felt.
"Well, Monty," Cosden said as he lifted his cocktail-glass, "I'm glad to be aboard again. I've been associating a good deal lately with a fellow named Conover Cosden, and I must admit he bores me. Let's have this and then a little dividend just for good luck.—By the way, I saw you at the Symphony last night."
"At the Symphony?" Huntington echoed surprised. "You don't mean to say—"
"Oh, yes, I do!" he laughed rather consciously. "Not that it means much to me yet, but I've reached a point where I can call it an orchestra instead of a band, anyway. Mighty fine concert, wasn't it? I know I'm right, for I read the criticism in the paper this morning."
"How long are you going to keep this up?"
"To the bitter end!" Cosden declared dramatically. "If music has charms to calm the savage beast now is its chance to demonstrate! That isn't all, but you wouldn't believe any more. As a matter of fact I'm taking in everything which begins with H for fear I may miss some one of those 'humanities'!"
Huntington gazed at him in sheer amazement.
"That's right," Cosden emphasized, only slightly embarrassed by the expression of incredulity on his friend's face. "Instead of being merely a 'sow's ear' I'm going the whole hog, and so far I've managed to pull through without casualties. Now what do you and Edith Stevens think of your handiwork!"
"By Jove, Connie!" Huntington exclaimed feelingly, "it's wonderful, and I congratulate you. I had no idea—"
"Other than that I would remain without those 'finer instincts' all my life," he finished for him. "Well, maybe I will, even at that; but at all events I'm giving the whole thing the once over. If my health and strength hold out perhaps when you and I make another vacation trip together you won't be mortified by your friend as you were last time."
"Nonsense, Connie!" Huntington protested. "We both got out a little beyond our depth down there, and things didn't look quite normal to us."
"Both?" Cosden demanded. "Where do you come in? That was my party, if I remember correctly, and I got all the presents."
Huntington for the moment had been forgetful that he alone knew how much the Bermuda dayshad disturbed his own equilibrium, and he recognized that he had been almost guilty of betraying himself.
"Well," he said lightly, "I interjected myself into your affairs in a shameless fashion, so whatever blame there is I insist on taking my full share.—What you tell me is simply incredible!"
"Don't give me too much credit for it yet. Like everything else in my life there's a selfish motive back of it. Edith Stevens never said a truer thing than that it is a different matter making light of something which you have and something which you lack. Measuring things up on this basis shows me that nearly every time I've opened my mouth I've put my foot in it. Now I'm going to play safe and make myself very, very wise on some subjects regarding which I've been a bit of a scoffer. Then, if I don't want to, I won't do them, but never again because I can't do them!"
"You needn't be ashamed of your motive; many a man has had one less worthy. But what is your business doing all this time?"
"Well, well, well!" Cosden laughed. "Good old Monty! We've been together nearly an hour, and you are the first to mention business! You wouldn't have believed I could go as long as that without speaking of it, would you? But let me tell you I have them all guessing down at the office. I can see it every day. Of course, I'm keeping my eye on things as much as ever, but I'm not making so much noise about it. You see this is something I have, so I can afford to treat it lightly. Now I have something to measure myself by, and it helpsa lot.—But don't let us spend all the time talking about me; what have you been doing with yourself?"
"Drifting, as usual," Huntington replied, regretting that the conversation turned on him; "wishing I might take twenty years off my life and begin over again."
"Why, Monty! You say that so seriously I really believe you mean it! What's happened? It isn't like you."
"Nothing, dear boy, nothing at all," Huntington disclaimed quickly, trying to throw off the mood which had so promptly attracted his friend's attention. "I've seen quite a bit of Billy and his friend Phil Thatcher since I came home, and—I envy them their youth."
Cosden looked at him long and searchingly before he spoke. "You're in a curious mood to-night," he said at length. "During the years I've known you I've never before seen you other than a philosopher, taking life day by day as you found it, and getting all there was out of it."
"What is philosophy unless one can find the stone?" Huntington exclaimed with feeling. "It is the philosopher's stone I want to-night, and I can't get it. I'm feeling my age, Connie, and the sensation isn't agreeable."
"Your age!" Cosden determined to overpower the surprising obsession. "The idea of talking age at forty-five! Out with it, man! Tell me what has taken hold of you. I've left you too much by yourself lately, and it hasn't been a good thing for you."
"That's it, Connie," Huntington smiled weakly. "You mustn't do it again. First you take the heartout of me by declaring that you are going to get married, then you cheer me up by becoming normal again, and lastly you neglect me just as if you had taken the fatal step after all."
"That's better," Cosden said, rising from his dessert and putting his arm around his friend's shoulders. "Come on up-stairs and we'll gossip over our cigars like two old cats. It won't be long before we can get out on the links again, and then you'll forget that you have any age at all. Age! the idea! Why, Monty, you and I have only just begun to live!"
Arm in arm they walked slowly to the library in silence, but each one wondered at the new characteristic he had discovered in the other. Huntington was touched by Cosden's show of affection, the first time he had ever seen it manifested; Cosden marveled at the first break he had ever seen in his friend's self-possession. However easy-going Huntington might be, he always held himself well in hand; and Cosden envied him this trait. Huntington knew Cosden to be kind-hearted, but believed him to consider any outward demonstration as an evidence of weakness. The mutual discovery, surprising as it was, drew them closer together, and each realized that whatever had been the means a change had come in their relations which placed their friendship on a higher plane.
"There's something deeper in this than appears on the surface," Cosden declared insistently as he held the light for Huntington and then lit his own cigar. "You said down-stairs that we both got out beyond our depth at Bermuda, and perhaps youmeant more than I realized. Then, when we met the Thatchers, it developed that you and Mrs. Thatcher had known each other years ago. Now, tell me, is there any association between these two ideas, and is this by chance the explanation of the changed Monty I find here to-night?"
Huntington did not reply at once. He was annoyed with himself that he had uncovered so much of his heart, and he had been pondering how to extricate himself from the delicate position. Under no circumstances must Cosden or any one else know how deep an impression Merry Thatcher had made upon him. The first duty he owed to her was to stand before the world simply as a devoted, older friend; his duty to himself was to prevent his associates from discovering how many kinds of fool he was to permit any such ridiculous condition to arise as that which at present existed. Now Cosden had unconsciously shown him the way out.
"Yes, Connie," he replied calmly; "there is an association which may be made of those ideas, and since you have spoken of it I will ask you to stand by me at the finish. There is something I have intended to do ever since I came home, but I lacked the courage; now you have given it to me."
Huntington rose abruptly, and crossing to the opposite side of the library he lifted the little mahogany table which stood there, placing it before the fire in front of the easy-chair from which he had just risen. Then he seated himself, and taking from his pocket the key to the small drawer he turned it in the lock. Cosden watched him with an interest far deeper than curiosity, for he felt from his friend'smanner that the turning of the key unlocked something within him which until that moment had been closely hidden.
"It will be better to get it out of my system," Huntington said finally, after bringing all the accessories together.—"You never knew of my romance, did you?"
"Never," Cosden acknowledged; "I supposed you were the one man who had passed through life unscathed."
"I couldn't have told you of it before because you wouldn't have understood, but now you will appreciate matters better if you know the facts.—Do you remember my surprise when you first mentioned the name of Marian Thatcher?"
"Why, yes; you asked if she was a widow."
"Exactly. Mrs. Thatcher was Marian Seymour when I first met her, my senior year at college. There is no need to go into particulars; the fact remains that I was hard hit.—Look at these!"
He pulled out the drawer and laid the various exhibits on the top of the table. Cosden leaned forward and gingerly lifted the long white glove, looking into Huntington's face with a curious expression as he did so. Huntington met his gaze squarely, nodding his head in affirmation of the unasked question.
"What's this?" Cosden demanded, laying down the glove and picking up the slipper.
"You see," was the unabashed reply; "it went as deep as that. Laugh if you like; I sha'n't mind. We'll clean up this whole business to-night, and the more ridiculous you make it the shorter work it will be."
"I would have laughed a month ago," Cosden admitted; "but, as you say, I understand some things now that I didn't before. Every man has a right to a romance, and he's entitled to have it respected."
"Thanks, dear boy; but romances don't belong to five-and-forty, and this farce has gone far enough. Now we'll watch it go up in smoke, as most romances do. But first let us pay it befitting honor."
Dixon appeared in response to the bell.
"A bottle of Moët & Chandon, '98," Huntington ordered.
During the time required by Dixon the two men puffed silently at their cigars. Huntington feared lest some inopportune word might disturb the success of his stratagem; Cosden, believing that he was witnessing the final act in the tragedy of his friend's life, respected the solemnity of the occasion.
"Now, Connie," Huntington rose with the glass in his hand, "I ask you to drink to the dearest girl in the world, past, present and future,—to Marian Thatcher, God bless her!"
"To Marian Thatcher—God bless her!" Cosden repeated after him; and Huntington turned away to chuckle to himself that he had paid homage to the reality while his friend believed him to be giving tribute to the figment. He blessed the figment for bestowing her name upon the reality!
"Now for the renunciation," Huntington said solemnly, and one by one he laid the long-cherished trophies upon the fire, watching in silence their reduction to the elements. His success filled him witha spirit of bravado. The opportunity might never come again.
"Once again, Connie old boy!" he cried.
He held out his disengaged hand and grasped Cosden's as he lifted his refilled glass.
"To Marian Thatcher—God bless her!"
Cosden still held his glass after his friend placed his on the table.
"Would it seem a sacrilege if I asked you to join me in a toast?" he asked, with an unnatural hesitation in his voice.
"Why,—no," Huntington said wonderingly. "Fill up the glasses again."
Then he held his high, waiting for his friend to speak.
"To Edith Stevens," Cosden finally blurted out,—"God bless her!"
"Edith Stevens!" Huntington almost choked in his surprise. "You don't mean—"
"I don't know what I mean," Cosden admitted, blushing furiously; "but I miss her like blazes, and I'm either in love or else I'm suffering from a new disease the doctors haven't named!"