Merry's promise to consider the suggestion was equivalent to a victory, in her mother's mind. True, it had not been won without a cost, for the girl's plain, straightforward comments left their sting; but, after all, they represented only a child's distorted viewpoint which failed to appreciate the manifold demands upon a parent's time. Marian knew that she had been a devoted mother, and she craved appreciation; but this was more than she could expect. Merry's strictures were merely another expression of her peculiar and unfathomable nature.
The promise was the most that Marian could ask for, and with this concession she did not doubt her ability finally to show the child that the older judgment was wise and far-sighted. She knew that Merry had not given the promise lightly, and that once given she would be conscientious in fulfilling it. Her yielding, even to this extent, atoned for many instances in the past where the girl had seemed self-willed in insisting upon following her own judgment in spite of advice from all the family to the contrary; but these were unimportant incidents compared with the one at issue. Marian was nowquite content to let her daughter have her own way in anything and everything provided she did not interfere in the gratification of carrying this one great desire of her mother's life to a happy conclusion.
The relations which had existed between her and Philip Hamlen, and the responsibility she assumed for the aftermath, had become greatly magnified during these months. It was natural that she should feel a real satisfaction if she were able to repair the harm she had unwittingly inflicted; but Huntington's question, "Are you not thinking of him and of your obligation more than of your daughter?" proved so disquieting that before speaking to Merry she had made doubly sure in her own mind that the only way her responsibility affected her present actions was to color the result with the romance of the past. She was sincere in her conviction that at every step of her progress she had been guided solely by a desire for her daughter's complete and final welfare, and in her efforts she could find nothing other than a mother's natural love and anxiety.
There was another satisfaction, Marian admitted to herself, but it had no bearing upon the situation until after she became convinced that her attitude was justified from Merry's standpoint. She had never forgotten Hamlen's domination over her as a girl. At the moment when she met him so unexpectedly in Bermuda she felt the old-time sensation of dread she had experienced so many times when alone with him during their childhood days and the period of their engagement. She had never loved him; this knowledge had come clearly to herduring the years which had intervened. When she accepted the tacit understanding of an engagement it was because of the dominating influence of his mind over hers rather than a response from her heart to his fierce devotion. The break came on the occasion of the Senior Dance at Harvard to which she accepted Monty Huntington's escort. Hamlen, bitter against college and college life, and having no interest in the graduating festivities, not only refused to attend the dance but forbade her to go without him. Her indignation gave her strength to rebel against his domination. Later she sailed for Europe, feeling a profound sense of relief that she had been able to break the fetters which had bound her, she then realized, against her will.
The Hamlen she met at Bermuda was not the unreasonable boy of twenty years before. He was still bitter, but they met on terms which gave her the ascendency. Those traits which she had admired were accentuated, and the fierce intensity had become modified. Now it was her mind which controlled and his which yielded. He had tried to hold out against her in refusing to come to America, but he had yielded; he was now trying to hold out against her judgment that his marriage to Merry would restore the lost equilibrium, but again he would yield.
Still, above all other considerations, the great fact stood out in Marian's mind that the match itself was ideal. Merry would find in him an intellectual force which would satisfy her natural predilections; she would give him in her spontaneitya leaven to perpetuate the normal expressions of life which Huntington had taught him to understand. She would give him the youth which he had lost, he would give her the response which her unusual development could never obtain from a younger man. The balance was perfect. The mother's heart rejoiced that her efforts could make so noble a gift to her daughter, while the woman's heart found equal satisfaction that these same efforts could pay the debt of years in ample measure.
It would have been a relief if her plans for entertaining the Bermuda party could have been carried through without including Huntington, but, entirely aside from the fact that this omission would have been a marked slight, his co-operation in bringing Hamlen to this satisfactory condition had been so conspicuous that there was no alternative. Mrs. Thatcher was apprehensive lest he take advantage of his influence with Hamlen to strengthen his will against her judgment; but this was a chance she had to take.
Could she have read his mind Marian would have found nothing to fear from Huntington. His familiarity with Merry's nature made him aware, soon after his arrival, of the fact that something of unusual moment had occurred. There was a hectic excitement in her welcome, a yearning in her eyes, otherwise unexplained, which went straight to his heart and prepared him for the climax in the great renunciation of his life.
"When the supreme test comes," she had told him, "I shall accept it"; and he was convinced that the test had come and been accepted.
"Ah, well!" he sighed deeply, "who am I to interfere?"
It was the second day after his arrival before they finally found themselves alone together, and he realized that Merry had been awaiting this opportunity to have with him one of those intimate conversations which previously he had so much enjoyed. Now, knowing what was coming, he dreaded it. Until the words were spoken he could at least deceive himself into believing that he might be wrong, and this self-deception was all he now had left.
"Let us sit down here in the sand," she said to him, "just as we used to at Elba Beach."
"I wish we were back there now," he answered feelingly, as he responded to her request.
"We always wish for something we have had, instead of something we are going to have, don't we?" she asked, her hand modeling indefinite figures in the damp sand. "I wonder why that is."
"Because the past is known, and we can select the happy moments as we choose. The future is unknown, and we must take it as it comes."
"Oh, if we could only look into that future!" she exclaimed suddenly. "If we could only be sure that in it we could correct our mistakes! How that would simplify the problems of the present!"
"Why speak so strongly?" he asked. "That belongs to those who have mistakes to correct."
"I have been thinking of myself all my life," she replied, at once making the personal application. "I formed an ideal which I insisted upon realizing, and when I found it at last it proved beyond my reach."
"To have found it at all is more than most of us can claim."
Her hand paused in its idle motions, and she looked up at him inquiringly.
"But you found yours."
"Don't!" he said softly, a twinge of pain crossing his face.
"I've hurt you again!" she cried impulsively. "Don't you see how selfish I am? That proves it! There is no one I wouldn't rather hurt than you, yet twice I've done it. Please forgive me; I'll not do it again."
"There is nothing to forgive," he insisted as he did before. "I'm too sensitive, that is all. Sometimes Life draws back the curtain and shows us a wonderful picture of what might have been, to test the strength of the philosophy the years should have taught us. The strong say, 'That is not for me,' and pass it by; the weak stretch out their arms and cry in vain for what they ought to know is not for them. I am among the weak."
"You among the weak!" she cried incredulously. "How little you appreciate yourself! It is of your strength which you must give me now, for I am trying to be true to what you have taught me by your example: by making some one else happy I am going to seek for happiness myself."
It had come! Huntington needed no further confidence to complete the avowal. He must be careful not to endanger the possibility of success coming to the efforts which this brave spirit was prepared to make. Hamlen was almost normal now. If this must be, Huntington knew that hehad played his part in preparing his classmate for the supreme joy which ought to come to him in sharing the life of such a girl. At least he had made her happiness possible. But the irony of her reference to his teachings!
"Then you are ready for the supreme test?" he asked in a low voice.
"If it comes."
Then it had not come! The reaction took him to an absurd extreme until his sober sense returned and he realized that this made no change. If Hamlen were eliminated, still the years remained. He saw still more clearly that his opposition was not impartial. If Merry were to tell him of her engagement to some younger man of whom he might wholly approve, how could he take their hands in his and pronounce the banal benediction, "God bless you, my children!" His heart would cry out and his spirit rebel as bitterly in one case as in the other. Except for the question of age he must admit that Hamlen was eligible; that what he lacked in certain traits was offset by super-abundance in others. If Huntington were to be consistent he must efface himself; to interfere would be to accept greater responsibility than he had a right to assume.
"You are prepared to marry a man you do not love because you hope to make him happy, and thus gain happiness yourself?" he repeated the problem slowly, emphasizing every word.
"Yes," she replied deliberately; "and the reason I so want to peer into the future is to make certain that either one of these results is assured."
"I suppose Hamlen is the man," Huntington said soberly.
"He has spoken of it to you?"
"Yes; he mentioned it soon after he came to visit me."
"Then he does care for me? I had not realized that."
How could the question be answered? Even if Huntington felt himself free to repeat the confidence Hamlen had given him it would mar the perfection of the sacrifice for Merry to know the truth. Her very eagerness for happiness might bring it, and at whatever cost to himself he wanted that to come to her!
"When we spoke of it Mr. Hamlen was not in a condition to know what his feelings really were," Huntington replied guardedly. "He realized his limitations, and questioned, much as you do, the possibility of making any other person happy. Since he has learned more of the world he is greatly changed, but we have not again referred to the subject."
"With us both feeling our limitations, and with both striving to accomplish the same result, don't you think we ought to be successful?"
There was an appealing expression in Merry's face which besought a confirming answer. Huntington could not resist it.
"It must be so," he said with decision. He smiled into her tense face with a confidence his heart denied. "It must be so," he repeated. "Somewhere there must be a divinity which watches over gentle souls like yours, and brings them their reward."
While Huntington's spirits sank lower and lower Cosden's rose to a point which made him oblivious to the cares and worries of the world around him. He had passed through the probationary period with Edith Stevens with marked success, and this opportunity of consecutive days with her amid such congenial surroundings filled him with a delight which he had never found in his business successes. Edith was right, Huntington was right, Cosden admitted, in their contention that there was something finer and more satisfying than business ideals; but he gave Edith the credit for having proved it to him.
He went to extremes in this swing of the pendulum as in all others, but the net result was a smoothing down of many of the rough corners, and a tempering of the aggressive individualism which had often offended. Cosden sized himself up correctly when he remarked to Edith, "I never expect to be the finished product Monty is, but I'm going to quit advertising the fact."
Edith could but admire the persistency with which he worked upon his disagreeable problem. Her curiosity to see "how deep it went" developedduring the course of several other experiences together, into a complete willingness to forget past delinquencies, and a real desire to encourage him in the pursuit of his new course. It interested her to see that the same forcefulness which had made itself disagreeable before was the very agent which had accomplished the change she admired; that it was this same dogged determination which maintained the present poise and gave him the new dignity.
Marian was delighted by the way her guests grouped themselves, and everything seemed to play wonderfully into her hands. Edith appropriated Cosden and appointed herself his hostess; brother Ricky enjoyed himself hugely motoring around the country in one of the Thatcher automobiles, and did not ask to be considered except at meals; Philip kept his boy friends engaged in an absorbing series of outdoor activities which prevented Billy from interfering with her plans for Merry; Mr. Thatcher was so engrossed with business matters that he became almost a negligible quantity, which his guests understood and overlooked; Huntington so far, Marian rejoiced to admit, had carried himself admirably, dividing his time between Merry, Hamlen and herself in such a way as to be really helpful instead of a menace to her plans. Never had she entertained a group of friends so accommodating, and she was more deeply appreciative at this time than she cared to state.
Edith and Cosden strolled down a leaf-covered walk, flanked by antique statuettes, to an attractive pavilion at the end of the vista. Here they seatedthemselves after a leisurely walk about the estate. Edith knew she was taking chances, but as she felt quite capable of defending her position she saw no reason why she should not enjoy Cosden's continued devotion.
"I've ordered tea served here," she announced. "We seem to be a little early."
"I'm in no hurry," Cosden replied cheerfully; "are you?"
"I have forgotten how to hurry, after these delicious weeks here," Edith answered, leaning back in her rustic chair. "I think it agrees with me to be deliberate, as Marian is. I am going to cultivate it."
"You are deliberate with me, all right," he declared. "I don't quite understand myself nowadays. Usually when I find that I am making little progress along one line I shift onto another, but now I seem perfectly contented to sit back and watch you act your part. That shows that there's something deeper in all this, doesn't it?"
"You might shift back to Merry," she replied calmly.
"No," he said with decision; "I've learned the rules now, and you don't catch me revoking.—Tell me, if you don't like me, why do you let me hang around like this, and if you do like me, what's the use of putting me off so long?"
"There are loads of people I don't even take the trouble to like or dislike, whom I 'put off,' as you call it."
"Do you really dislike me?"
"No," Edith drawled slowly, as if deliberating;"I can't say that. In fact I think I rather like you—in spots."
Cosden leaned forward eagerly. "Isn't it stronger than that?" he demanded.
"I can't say it is," she replied, her voice manifesting the same interest which she might show if he had asked any other commonplace question; "but don't get down on your knees now, for here comes the tea and I loathe demonstration before servants."
"All right," Cosden said with resignation but without losing his cheerfulness; "you don't discourage me a bit. I guess counsel is just collecting a little extra fee for that break in Bermuda. I'll wait."
"I know how many lumps you take in your tea, and I know that you prefer cream, but shall I pass you the raspberry jam?"
"No, thank you," he replied promptly. "My mother always used to dose me up with calomel disguised in raspberry jam, and I can't eat it now without tasting the medicine."
"Very well," Edith laughed, "try some honey. But please tell me what has put your friend Monty in the dumps. At Bermuda he was stimulating, but down here he's as cheerful as a crutch."
"Monty in the dumps?" Cosden echoed, surprised. "Why, I hadn't noticed it. Just before Hamlen came to visit him, he was way down,—bemoaned his age, and all that sort of thing. I thought we'd got him out of that. I must look him over and see what the trouble is.—Here come our hostess and Hamlen. Did you ever see such a change in any one?"
Marian approached with her brightest smile. "I'm glad Edith is keeping you from being bored," she said. "I'm afraid I've been very remiss."
"I don't see how you could divide yourself into much smaller bits, Mrs. Thatcher," Cosden replied. "This is a big family you have at present."
"The bigger the better," she exclaimed brightly. "I hoped I should find you out here, and as I see the tea is still hot perhaps Edith will let us join you. Philip and I have been walking and talking until we are really tired."
"I am entranced with all this," Hamlen said, turning to Edith. "I had no idea, when I paraded my few acres at Bermuda, that I was competing with an estate like Sagamore. I wonder some one didn't rebuke me for my presumption!"
"Isn't that a pretty compliment!" Marian cried. "You have put yourself into every inch of your beautiful place, Philip; Harry and I have only done that to a very small extent. It is beautiful, I admit, and I love it just as I love the beauties with which you have surrounded yourself at home."
"It makes little difference, after all, where one finds it, so long as it is beauty," Hamlen replied. "'The dawn is my Assyria; the sunset and moonrise my Paphos and unimaginable realms of faerie; broad noon shall be my England of the senses and the understanding; the night shall be my Germany of mystic philosophy and dreams.' I used to think Emerson must have written that in Bermuda, but it might have been written here."
Edith caught the expression on Cosden's face and almost laughed.
"What's the use?" he whispered to her without being detected. "This pace is too swift for me! He reeled that off as easily as I could the latest quotations on copper!"
"Oh, Philip!" Mrs. Thatcher exclaimed, "I can't tell you what it means to me to see you yourself again after that awful shock you gave me at Bermuda! Truly, when we left you behind us I gave up hope."
"What hope there was you took away with you, so I was forced to follow."
"Come, Cossie—Connie—," Edith stumbled,—"if I'm to call you by your given name you'll have to change it to something reasonable,—this is no place for us."
"Don't let us drive you away," Marian protested.
"That's all right; we want to be driven away. If we stay longer, and Mr. Hamlen talks like that, Mr. Cosden will become sentimental.—Bye, bye."
Mrs. Thatcher and Hamlen watched them as they strolled leisurely up the path, Edith swinging her parasol and Cosden walking meekly beside her. Finally Marian turned to him and laughed.
"What a dance that girl is leading him!"
"Do you think she cares for him?"
"In her way; but if he marries her he will have earned her!—He went down to Bermuda on purpose to become engaged to Merry."
"He did!" Hamlen exclaimed, surprised; "why, they were never together when I saw them."
"Nor often at other times. Of course, it was ridiculous,—but with you, Philip, she'll be the happiest girl in all the world."
His eyes dropped quickly as she turned the conversation, and the expression on his face completely changed.
"You are wrong, Marian," he protested; "no happiness can ever come to any woman through me."
"Don't disparage yourself," she answered gently. "You are a different man from what you were. Do you think I would counsel this if I were not sure?"
"You believe it, Marian," he conceded, "and I wish I shared your confidence. But I know myself. The time when I might have made something of what I had passed long ago. If I am to go on at all it must be with my real self suppressed, and the only way to do this is to plod my path alone."
"Why slip back, Philip? Why suppress your real self?"
"I know the danger of permitting it to assume control."
"When last we talked you seemed willing to accept my judgment."
"I am still, in everything but this. I appreciate your desire for my happiness, Marian, but you are taking a responsibility beyond what is wise. I am complimented by your daughter's willingness to listen to an offer of marriage from me, but if the test really came she could not meet it."
"She would, Philip,—she would."
"I cannot comprehend it," he continued; "she has seen me at my worst."
"She understands you, and appreciates the wonderful qualities you possess. She is too young to know the depth of love, but old enough to recognizewhat a man like you can become to her. If you would only speak with her you too would understand."
Hamlen moved uncomfortably in his chair, and was silent for what seemed an interminable period. When at last he turned he spoke with a conviction which shocked her.
"No, Marian," he said deliberately; "it can never be. Let us end this farce before it goes too far."
"Philip!" she cried, seeing her work of months crumbling before her, and reading in his determined face the miscarriage of what she believed to be predestined. "I can't permit you to destroy the years which remain to you."
She leaned over and took his hand in hers. Success had been so near that she could not see it slip away from her now without a supreme effort. Merry needed such a man as this and Hamlen needed her. Why should these false ideas, created by years of self-depreciation, stand in the way of what she knew was best?
"I can't let you destroy the years which remain to you," she repeated earnestly. "I can't see my child's happiness marred by your foolish insistence upon ideals which rest on conditions now long since passed away. Philip, if you loved me once, show it now by your confidence in my judgment, by your faith in my purpose. Tell me one reason why this should not be."
"If I loved you once?" he echoed her words with a force which startled her. "Tell you one reason why this should not be? The one answers the other, Marian; for that love, intensified by the denialof twenty years, is now a power I can't withstand."
"Philip!" she cried, striving to release her hand which he held in a grip which hurt her, "you don't mean that you still—"
"I mean that I have never ceased to love you, Marian. Look at me now and tell me if you doubt it. Even while I cursed you for ruining my life, I loved you. Every day of the twenty years I have lived alone I have had your face before me, I have held out my arms beseeching you to come to me, I have beaten my head against the wall in despair that the one longing of my heart could never hope for realization."
"You never told me—I did not know—"
"I have at least been strong enough to keep my secret, Marian; but it is sacrilege for you to talk to me of marriage to your daughter. Now that you know the truth you will urge no further. Could anything be more dishonorable than to offer myself to her when even to-day my love for you is beating at my heart until I can scarcely contain it? No, no! let us have an end to all this mockery! In the name of a life's devotion, in the name of the love you once had for me—"
"Release me, Philip," she entreated, frightened by his tenseness; but he only tightened his grip upon her hand. She realized the importance of terminating this impossible situation, regardless of the pain it might inflict.
"I never loved you, Philip," she said deliberately. "At the time, I thought I did; but it was my mind and not my heart you dominated."
He dropped her hand as if she had struck him, and, dazed, supported himself against the rustic chair.
"You never loved me?" he repeated brokenly after her. "You never—oh, God! why did you tell me that! Why did you come back into my life to stir up those forces which had crushed me, but which I had at last subdued!"
Then he turned his eyes upon her, full of the reproach which he dared not trust himself to speak.
"If it was the domination of my mind then, why should it not be now?" he asked in a voice which trembled with emotion. "Look at me, Marian!"
"Don't, Philip, I entreat of you; you frighten me!
"Look at me!" he commanded, and she slowly raised her head and gazed into his face.
"Do you remember the last time you looked at me like that?" he asked quietly, but even in his low tones there was a compelling force she recognized.
"Come," he said rising, and drawing her toward him. "If it was not love which brought you to my arms before, then it must be the same impulse to-day. Come, Marian, it is not the daughter I want, it is you,—my beloved, my sweetheart of years gone by!"
"Philip!" she protested feebly, "Philip—I entreat—" but the old, irresistible influence was too strong, and he folded her in his arms.
In a moment his face changed as if touched by a magician's wand. The lines which years and disappointment had traced were miraculously smoothed away, and the expression of contentment was thatwhich comes only when the seeker has at last reached the consummation of his quest. The lips moved silently, the eyes looked far into the distance. The past was forgotten, the future unheeded, but the wonderful present was his!
A convulsive sob from Marian finally brought him to himself. He loosened his hold, and gazed into her face with abject horror.
"My God!" he cried, as he allowed her limp form to slip back into the chair. "What have I done! Marian, child, speak to me! Tell me that you forgive me! It was the years which did it, not I; Marian! speak to me! Tell me you forgive me!"
He gazed helplessly around as no response came. She lay there, her head resting on the back of the chair, sobbing hysterically but giving no sign that she even heard his words. He watched her until at last she opened her eyes and regained control. Then he spoke again.
"Leave it unspoken, Marian," he exclaimed with an agony in his voice which the suspense intensified. "I have said it to myself. I have made myself an outcast, a pariah! Let me take you to the house. Then you need never think of me again."
"No," she said brokenly; "leave me here."
"This is the end, Marian!" The words came short and crisp. "I ask your forgiveness no more. There are some things which are past forgiveness. I only ask you to forget.—Good-bye!"
The long, sleepless night which followed Marian's harrowing experience, painful as it was, proved the most vital moment of her life. From girlhood it had been hers to receive rather than to give. Her beauty and vivacity had always attracted attention and homage, her positive nature demanded and was given leadership, until she came to regard this as natural and to be expected. To have Huntington question her judgment was as novel as it was unpleasant, to have Merry suggest a worldliness in her approach to life struck her as absolutely incongruous. Mrs. Thatcher knew herself to be a competent woman, and as no one before had questioned her ethics, she accepted the successful outcome of her undertakings as conclusive proof that her judgment was correct.
She might pass Huntington's comment by as the expression of one who could look at any question only from a man's standpoint, she could make light of what Merry said on the ground that the girl knew so little of life; but in her experience with Hamlen she had come face to face with a mistake so real that it compelled a readjustment of her perspective. She could harbor no resentment againsthim: the climax had come as the direct result of her own error in judgment, and the responsibility belonged to her alone. Ever since that eventful meeting in Bermuda she had seen the battling of conflicting emotions. To her more than to any one else should have come knowledge of the limit beyond which this self-tortured soul could not be pressed. She had deceived herself in regard to the reclamation; Hamlen's condition remained unchanged; Huntington had simply developed him to a point where he had gained better control. Beneath the deceptive smoothness of the surface still surged the turmoil started twenty years before, seething with unsatisfied yearnings, and kept under only by the superb strength of will which she herself at last had broken down. Huntington had warned her of the danger but she refused to recognize its existence. Marian could blame no one but herself, and the fact that her intentions had been of the best did not mitigate the tragedy she had perpetrated. This latest buffet of the world would be conclusive evidence to Hamlen that he had no place in its daily routine.
Marian had reached this point in her mental struggle when the most awful thought of all suddenly came to her.
"Would the harm stop there!"
She sat bolt upright, staring ahead into the grey dawn which lighted the chamber through the long windows. "Merciful God!" she cried aloud,—"not that! not that!"
A moment later she sprang out of bed and threw a kimono about her. Then she opened the window-door and passed out onto the little balcony. Thesun was just rising, and Marian unconsciously first felt the beauty of the breaking day. It had been long since she had seen a sunrise! She stood watching it for a brief moment, brushing back with her hand the mass of beautiful hair which fell about her shoulders and lay against her ashen cheeks. Then she stepped forward, and facing the East like a Sun-worshiper of old fell upon her knees in an agony of prayer. The God who made a world like this she supplicated, who flooded it with the radiance of such a day, would not so punish her for a single act of folly! Mistaken as it was, behind it all lay a desire to atone, an effort for the happiness of others. He would not ask for retribution such as that!
Relieved by her outburst she returned to her chamber. She must see Huntington. He would know what to do. He would be God's agent to prevent the awful climax. But it would be several hours before she could disturb him, and these hours must be endured.
Huntington responded promptly to the summons when it reached him, wondering what the occasion might be. Marian's explanation of Hamlen's disappearance the night before had been so diplomatic that he had accepted it, so the real story was a complete surprise. He listened intently as she told him everything, sparing herself in no degree, anxious only to receive from him some assurance that her fears were unwarranted.
"You should have told me sooner," was the only criticism Huntington made, after learning the details.
"I was completely dazed," Marian explained helplessly. "This awful thought only came to me in the early morning. You don't think it too late! Don't tell me that!"
"It is useless to speculate," he answered gravely. "Knowing Hamlen as we do, and knowing how high his sense of honor, the next step seems inevitable. He will consider that he has sinned against the woman he loves, and will demand of himself an expiation beyond what he would exact from any one else. I shall do my best to find him. Let us hope it will be in time."
"Couldn't I go with you?—No, of course I couldn't,—but how can I endure it until I know? What can I do to help?"
Huntington had risen, ready to take his motor-car which had been summoned when first he learned the facts. There was no excitement in his manner, but an alert readiness to undertake his duty with the least possible delay. As Mrs. Thatcher asked the question a sternness seemed to come into his face, but his voice was kindly as he replied.
"Whatever you tell the others," he said with decision, "Merry must know the whole truth. There is another tragedy going on in that little girl's soul which needs a mother's care. That is where you can help.—I shall telephone you as soon as I have news."
As the crunching of the wheels on the gravel road died away Mrs. Thatcher rose and went to her daughter's room. Never before had she so promptly followed another's suggestion, but at that moment she felt an aversion to her own judgment, and welcomedthe opportunity to follow rather than to lead.
"All this mystery is getting on my nerves," Edith remarked to Cosden as they sauntered out onto the piazza after a later breakfast. "Mr. Hamlen, after seeming perfectly rational with us in thebosquetyesterday, rushes into the house, packs his belongings, and disappears without saying 'good-bye' to any one. Marian, also rational when we saw her yesterday, becomes invisible to the naked eye, and sends word she has a headache—the first I've ever known her to have. This morning she is down to breakfast before any one of us is up except Mr. Huntington, who by a strange coincidence also craves an early breakfast for the first time on record. Marian has gone up-stairs again, and our friend Monty has motored off to Heaven knows where. Now then, what's the answer?"
"Why not accept Mrs. Thatcher's explanation until you have a better one?" Cosden asked, drawing his chair nearer to hers.
"Because it's too fishy, and my curiosity is aroused."
"In that case I'm sure you'll find out all about it," he said smiling.
"Why aren't you interested?"
"I'm perfectly comfortable," he explained, "and so entirely satisfied with the present company that I can spare Hamlen, Monty, and even Mrs. Thatcher just as well as not."
"Then you're going to leave me to do the work?" she demanded. "That's just like a man!"
"I'm glad they're gone," Cosden admitted. "It gives me just the chance I've been waiting for: will you marry me?"
"Again?" Edith inquired.
"No; just this once."
"It would serve you right if I did!"
"I dare you to!"
"No! no! no! no!" she cried.
"Give me an option for thirty days."
"You silly!" she laughed. "For a sensible man you can be more kinds of foolish than any one I know."
"Flattery doesn't hurt anybody unless he swallows it," Cosden retorted complacently.
Whither their gibes would have carried them is needless to consider, for they were interrupted by the approach of a motor-car up the driveway.
"Monty has made a quick trip," Cosden observed, "now you can satisfy your curiosity."
"On the contrary," Edith retorted rising, "the plot thickens. That is Harry Thatcher. What in the world has happened to send him motoring down here at ten o'clock in the morning?"
They passed through the hallway to theporte cochèreon the opposite side of the house. Thatcher was just descending from the car.
"Hello!" he greeted Edith, who was ahead. "Where's Marian?"
"Up-stairs. What brings you home at this time of day?"
"Don't disturb her yet," he exclaimed, disregarding her question. "I want a word with Cosden first. You'll excuse us?"
Locking his arm through Cosden's Thatcher led him back onto the piazza which the two had just left.
"What's wrong?" Cosden asked. "Market gone to pieces?"
"It's hell,—nothing less," Thatcher answered, speaking with an excitement unnatural to him. "I left New York at four o'clock this morning. I've come to you, Cosden, as a last resort. We've fought each other on every deal we've ever been in, so you understand how hard I'm pushed. If you're fixed so that you can put me next to a bunch of cold, hard cash, you can have anything I control at a fraction of its value. This is your chance to make your everlasting fortune if you can command the cash."
"You don't mean it!" Cosden exclaimed. "Are you caught as bad as that?"
"Worse than that. Securities are dropping out of sight. Germany will declare war inside of a week, and there is danger of other big nations becoming involved. If they do, God only knows what will happen to the money system of the world; it is strained already to the breaking-point. You may thank Heaven, Cosden, that your investments are not in speculative stocks! But we're losing time. I must get back by three o'clock. Is there any chance of pulling off my forlorn hope? If not, we'll close our doors to-morrow."
"Do you actually mean that, Thatcher?"
"Exactly that. I don't advise you to do this unless you're fixed so that you can carry things comfortably, for I tell you we're in for a crisis; butif you can, it's the opportunity of a lifetime, and by sacrificing my personal interests I can save my house."
"How much do you need?"
"Half a million, in cash. I'm that much short of what I must have to see me through. It might as well be a billion!"
"What do you offer for it?"
"Five million in Consolidated Machinery stock."
Cosden whistled and then became contemplative, while Thatcher waited eagerly for his reply. The hesitation in itself was encouraging, for it indicated that Cosden could raise the money if he cared to do it.
"As a matter of fact, Thatcher," Cosden said at length, "I've been laying my pipes for just this moment ever since the trouble began, and I'm fixed where I can handle it all right; but I don't quite like the proposition as it stands."
"Then make your own proposition."
"I've counted on having my available cash earn me something handsome, of course; but I don't think I'd enjoy my profits much if I got them by cleaning you out."
"We must forget friendship and all else at a time like this," Thatcher cried. "For God's sake, man, if you can do it, don't stand on any foolish sentiment! It may ruin me, but my house will weather the storm. I ask it as a favor."
"How soon must you have the money?"
"By to-morrow."
"All right; I'll give you drafts to take back to New York."
"Thank God!" Thatcher exclaimed feverishly. "And you'll take the stock?"
"No, I don't want the stock. Give me your note."
"But I haven't a dollar's worth of collateral to put up with it. Everything I own is pledged."
"Damn the collateral! The signature will be genuine, won't it? That's good enough for me."
"You advance it simply as a loan?"
"Of course. Now let's get the drafts fixed up, and you run back to New York and keep your finger on the pulse of the market."
"You're sacrificing the chance of your life, Cosden," Thatcher exclaimed. "Why should you do this for me?"
"I don't quite understand it myself," Cosden admitted; "but as long as I want to why not make the most of it? I might change my mind."
"And we've always said you were a hard man, Cosden!" Thatcher exclaimed with gratitude in his voice.
"I was once," he admitted; "but lately I've been getting humanized, and anybody can slip anything over on me. Now you trot back to New York and cable Willie Kaiser that I disapprove of his declaring war."
"You are a friend in need!" Thatcher grasped his hand cordially. "I'll run up for a word with Marian, and then back into the vortex. Keep your eye on the cable news, Cosden. Hell is breaking loose!"
As Thatcher rushed up-stairs Cosden relit his cigar which had gone out during the excitement, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walkedmeditatively up and down the piazza. He was immensely pleased with himself, and felt entitled to his self-approval.
"Even old Monty couldn't have done that better," he muttered. "Good old Thatcher—I hope it pulls him through!"
"What's the matter with Harry?" Edith demanded in a stage whisper, appearing from nowhere.
"He forgot his umbrella yesterday," Cosden lied, speciously, "and he's afraid it's going to rain."
"Oh, you tantalizing brute!" she cried, stamping her foot indignantly. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man in the world!"
Huntington's mind worked hard as he settled back in the motor-car and surveyed the situation. It was impossible for him to have been so intimately associated with Hamlen all these weeks without assimilating his friend's manner of thought and action accurately enough to follow him in this climax of his tragedy. Of his determination he had no doubt; that he had as yet put it into execution was another matter. Huntington believed that Hamlen would wish to see him once more before he visited upon himself the extreme penalty which his hypersensitive nature would decree.
It was shortly after noon when the car drew up in front of Huntington's home. Mrs. Thatcher, in her feverish efforts to assist, had suggested that the fugitive might have gone across to Newport to take the boat from there to New York; but Huntington figured it differently. Hamlen disliked and distrusted New York, while Boston had become a second home to him. His belongings, such as he had brought with him from Bermuda, were still in the Beacon Street house, and Huntington was sure that following the instincts of a homing pigeon he would return there by the straightest path.
Still, the doubt lingered with sufficient persistency to quicken Huntington's movements up the brownstone steps. As he let himself in, Dixon met him in the hallway.
"Mr. Hamlen,—is he here?" Huntington demanded.
"Yes, sir; he's up-stairs and very wild, sir."
"Wild?" Huntington queried. "When did he arrive?"
"Last night, sir, about ten o'clock. When I let him in he rushed past me and went up-stairs, sir. I followed him, thinking he might need something, but he turned on me and cursed me, sir. When I ventured to take him some breakfast he swore at me again, and told me to get out of the way. I'm glad you've come, sir. I was at a loss to know what to do about luncheon."
Huntington waited to hear no more, but mounted quickly to Hamlen's room and knocked gently on the door.
"Keep out, I tell you!" came a hoarse, guttural voice so unlike Hamlen's that it startled him. "How many times must I tell you to leave me alone!"
"It is I,—Huntington."
There was a sound of shuffling feet, the pushing back of a chair, and the door was flung open.
"I knew you would come to me!" Hamlen cried, extending his hand eagerly. "You are the one man on earth who would stand by me!"
"Of course; but you've given me a devilish shock, old man. Come down-stairs where we can talk things over."
"Yes, we must do that," he assented, following. "My only fear was that you might not understand, and would delay your coming. I couldn't have waited long."
"I came as soon as I learned the facts."
"I should not have doubted. Now let us sit down."
The real shock to Huntington was that so great physical change could take place within so short time. Hamlen seemed years older. His erect carriage had slackened, his face was sunken, his hands and body twitched nervously, and his eyes burned with a consuming fire. Pity filled Huntington's heart, and he leaned over and placed his hand on his friend's knee.
"You mustn't take it like this," he said quietly. "There is something to be said on both sides."
Hamlen looked at him with a wan smile. "I wish there were," he said; "but let us not speak of that. To you, at least, there is no need of explanation. I told you what I dreaded,—well, the worst has come to pass; that's all there is to it."
"No!" Huntington contradicted, determined that he should not bear all the blame; "there is much more to it than that. You and I are not the only ones who understand. Mrs. Thatcher instructed me to ask your forgiveness for her blindness. She understands, too, Hamlen, and she knows that she brought it on herself."
"Marian asksmyforgiveness!" he repeated stupefied,—"she asks me to forgive her?"
Huntington nodded.
He pressed his hands against his temples. "My God, man! Is the world all topsy-turvy! I forgetmy obligations toward my hostess, I am false to my responsibilities as a friend, I force myself upon a married woman whom in all honor I am bound to protect,—and she asks me to forgive her! You are mocking me, Huntington. It is unworthy of you!"
"It is the provocation she understands, Hamlen, and having unwittingly given it, she accepts the responsibility, as she should. I'm not sure that I myself am not the one to blame, for I knew better than she the forces held back only by your self-control. If I had been more insistent in my warning all might have been different."
"That may explain, but it does not condone."
"At least it mitigates. The beaver, innocently enough, undermines a dam in securing material to build its home, and the waters rush down to the destruction of the surrounding country. Surely you can't blame the waters! Nor can you seriously blame the beaver for not comprehending those natural laws of cause and effect.—Come, Hamlen, admit there's something in what I say, and realize that this is an accident rather than a tragedy."
Again Hamlen tried to smile, but the expression on his face failed to reassure.
"It would be well for me if it were you upon the bench," Hamlen said gravely. "The prisoner at the bar would receive far more leniency than he will from me! No, Huntington; I can admit nothing. I believed that I reached my lowest depth before I met you all in Bermuda. I believed my life was over,—a miserable, useless, lonely life if you will, but at least an honest one. Then you instilled hope into my dry bones. Judgment warnedme not to listen to you, human weakness tempted me to make one further effort to redeem myself. I came to you here. Out of the bigness of your heart you gave me of yourself, you taught me what life really was. I acknowledge my debt, Huntington, and am grateful to you. Don't mistake that, my friend, in what I am going to say. The joy of the new experience lulled me into a sense of false security. I thought myself like other men, strong enough to hold the passionate love I have always borne that woman down, down where no one could ever see it. That was my arrogance, Huntington; for it, I am paying the price."
"She understands now if she never did before," Huntington reiterated. "She felt her responsibility for your lonely years, and in trying to atone made matters worse."
"It is not her place to protect me," Hamlen continued with conviction. "Take your own simile, with which you try to ease my sense of shame: even though the waters are not to be blamed, what do people do with them? Do they let them continue on their path of destruction? No, dear friend, your arguments are kindly meant, but untenable. I intend to put those waters where they will do no further harm."
Huntington's face set in determined lines. "So you will dare to assume the prerogatives of man and God?" he demanded sternly.
Hamlen had never seen Huntington in this mood, and his eyes shifted uneasily as they met the unflinching gaze of his friend.
"There will be no scandal, Huntington," he saidquietly; "I shall not thus repay your royal hospitality. There are some matters I must turn over to you, and as my friend I know you will accept them. Then I will grasp your hand for the last time, thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me back the life I had abandoned, and pass on,—whither, it concerns myself alone."
"What are the matters you have in mind?" Huntington asked, hoping that some word of Hamlen's might give him inspiration.
"First, as to my property," Hamlen replied with returning confidence as his friend showed willingness to listen. "Here is my will." He drew a folded sheet from his pocket, on which he had written perhaps twenty lines. "Please look it over, and tell me if it is legally drawn when the necessary signatures are added."
Huntington took the paper, with difficulty focusing his mind upon the written words.
"Yes," he said, looking up at length; "this document is wonderfully simple and direct in its statements. The only possible attack upon it would be to raise an issue as to your mental status at the time you drew it up."
"Could any one question that?"
"Your later actions will determine," Huntington said significantly.
Hamlen laughed nervously. "Fortunately there is no one left who would have any interest to contest.—As I told you, the bulk of my property is now in liquid form on deposit in New York, which simplifies your work as executor. That, you see, I want to give to Harvard."
He paused for a moment and became meditative. "How little I thought, six months ago, that I should become a benefactor of the college I then despised! That is your work, my friend,—making me realize my obligation.—Hold on a minute: I want to add to that document! My bequest shall go to Harvard as the 'William Montgomery Huntington Foundation, given by a friend, the income to be used to foster larger acquaintance and closer intimacy amongst the members of each freshman class.' Make a note of that, will you? There may be other changes."
Huntington made the necessary notations. It was best to humor him until his entire plan was outlined.
"Now, as to the estate in Bermuda," he went on. "You see what I've done with it,—but have I been quite delicate? This whole affair, and its outcome, will be humiliating to that sensitive little girl, and this might be a constant reminder. I would like her to have it; she would appreciate my trees and my flowers,—their fragrance might help her to forget my grave offense. Then again, perhaps Marian would see in this act an effort on my part to atone. I couldn't leave it to her, but do you think the girl would understand my motive?"
"Better than any one I know," Huntington replied.
Hamlen seemed to have reached the end of his elaboration, and was silent.
"How soon is this remarkable document to become operative?" Huntington demanded.
"Six months from to-day if you do not hear fromme to the contrary, or upon receiving proof of death."
"All right," Huntington rejoined with apparent complacency. "I'll have it drafted in proper form and you can execute it to-morrow or next day. Now listen to me."
Hamlen looked up at him anxiously. Everything was progressing so well that the new tone in Huntington's voice gave him apprehension.
"It is always well to have these matters provided for, and if you haven't a will it is time you drew one up. As to the disposition of your property, it is yours to do with as you like, and I appreciate the compliment you have paid to me. Up to this point I have no right to interfere."
Hamlen stiffened at the suggestion of interference. "There are limits," he said quietly, "even to the rights of a friendship such as ours."
"True; but we haven't begun to reach them yet. You acknowledge—don't you?—that you still have an obligation to our Alma Mater which is unsatisfied?"
"I think I have acknowledged that in a substantial way," Hamlen replied, surprised.
"What can you think of an Alma Mater which would accept money in exchange for the life of one of her sons? Do you consider her as mercenary as that?"
"When the son has forfeited his right to life—"
"Who are you to take upon yourself the judicial ermine, Hamlen?" Huntington said sternly. "You have years before you yet to devote to her welfare. If you are a man, fulfil your obligations during yournatural lifetime, and then supplement your labors by the princely gift you have in mind. If you will insist on assuming all the blame for this regrettable affair, don't let it make you shirk your duty, but go at life again with an added incentive to pay your debt."
"You demand of me what is beyond my strength. I can't go on."
"That is cowardice, Hamlen.—Forgive the word," he added quickly as he saw the color mount to his friend's cheeks, "forgive the cruelty; but I must make you see yourself."
"It takes some courage to carry through what I have in mind," he protested.
"Not the slightest in the world," Huntington contradicted. "Just pull a wretched little trigger, pump half an ounce of lead into your diseased brain, and you think your troubles are over. I know the pleasures of this world, my friend, but I am entirely ignorant of those of the next. Let us take our chances on these when our time comes, not before. No, Hamlen, the easy thing is to side-step our difficulties here; it is the hard thing to stand up in our boots and say, 'Yes, I've broken your laws, I've outraged your sensibilities; but I'm going to atone for what I've done.' You have that strength, Hamlen, and I sha'n't let you pass it up."
"I'm sorry I waited for you!" Hamlen retorted sullenly.
"No, you're not; for you are an honest man." It was hard for Huntington to be brutal, but this was the moment when Hamlen must be forced to yield if at all. "You said a moment ago that Igave you back the life you had abandoned; then that life belongs to me. If you destroy it, you rob me of something which is mine, and that is theft. I don't care whether you agree with me or not, but I demand of you my property, on which you gave up your claim. If I leave it in your hands will you protect it for me, and deliver it to me when I am ready to make use of it?"
This was a new idea to Hamlen, and he could not meet it. He was only conscious that Huntington was taking full advantage of his influence over him, and was driving him on relentlessly. He shifted his eyes uncomfortably, and in them was bitter resentment.
"You leave me no alternative," he said helplessly. "For God's sake tell me what you want!"
"I don't know," Huntington admitted frankly; "but for the present give me your promise that you will stay here until I reach my decision. I must go back to Sagamore to relieve the anxiety of those who are suffering on your account. When I return I shall hope to have found the solution. Have I your promise?"
Hamlen leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.
"You are too strong for me," he muttered. "I must do as you wish."
Huntington laid his hand kindly on the bowed head.
In spite of Mrs. Thatcher's watchfulness, Billy had seen Merry and met his Waterloo. Blissfully unaware of the momentous happenings about him, and determined to "get even" with "the Gorgon," the boy developed a plot of his own which was perfect in conception barring one important detail: he and Merry were to slip away in a motor-car, dash over to Fall River to a young clergyman he knew, have the knot tied before interference was possible, and then return to Sagamore Hall for the parental blessing. The question of license occurred to him, but that was a mere detail which could be arranged on the way over.
It was several days after this brilliant idea came to Billy before he found opportunity to take Merry into his confidence, but the more he thought it over the more strongly it appealed. The fact that she seemed even less responsive than usual did not discourage him, for girls, he had discovered, always act exactly contrary to their real feelings in affairs of this kind. The details were so absurdly simple and the outcome would be so eminently satisfactory that the possibility of failure became more and more remote. But, as the strength of any chain isdetermined by its weakest link, it was in this one omitted detail that Billy's plan slipped up; the idea did not appeal to Merry with sufficient force even to be given serious consideration.
As a matter of fact the boy could not have selected a less opportune moment for presenting his forlorn hope. Merry had reached that ecstatic height to which martyrs attain. Joan of Arc was no more zealous to sacrifice herself to save Orléans than was Merry to pay the debt of honor her mother owed to Hamlen. It may be that the Maid was influenced in her heart by other motives beyond the "heavenly voices" which are generally accredited; it may be that Merry was more susceptible to the "call" she believed had come to her for some reason other than a willingness for martyrdom,—but in both cases the sincerity of the response was too genuine to be questioned. Billy's infatuated wooing seemed to her like sacrilege, and his mad plan for elopement too ridiculous for discussion.
"Let us be friends, dear Billy," she said to him sweetly and gently,—"just friends, you and Philip and I. We'll always have the best of times together, help each other over the hard places, and sympathize with every sorrow which comes to any one of us."
"No!" he protested vigorously, kicking viciously at an inoffensive root protruding slightly beneath his foot. "Nix on this brother and sister game; there's nothing in it."
"I need you as a friend, Billy,—I need you this very minute!"
Billy pricked up his ears at the words and at thepathetic note in Merry's voice; but he did not intend to be caught off his guard.
"What do you mean 'need me as a friend'? Want me to run an errand for you? All right, off I go."
"No, Billy; I need your sympathy. We're old pals, and ought to stand by each other."
He looked at her with a dawning understanding.
"Merry," he said, with the conviction of one who has made a great discovery,—"you're unhappy!"
"Perhaps," she admitted; "I'm not sure."
"I knew it!" he declared with satisfaction. "You are unhappy and I know the reason why: you're in love with me without realizing it. You're fighting against your destiny and you don't understand what the trouble is. That's why you are unhappy."
"No, no, Billy; that isn't it."
"Yes, it is; you take my word for it. We'll just slip it over on the whole bunch, get married, and then you'll see. You'll be as happy as a lark."
"Oh! Billy, I do wish you'd be serious!"
"Serious? ha! I should say I was serious! And to show you how sure I am I'm right, I'll make you a sporting proposition: if our getting married doesn't shake your fit of blues then we'll call the whole thing off. What do you say?"
Merry laughed in spite of herself. "You certainly are the most impossible boy! You speak of getting married as if it were a set of tennis."
"It's easy enough to get a divorce. Why don't you take a chance? Come on, be a sport!"
When he found this wooing ineffective, Billy adopted the tragicmotif. "Every time I think I've picked a rose," he declared disconsolately, "it turns out to be poison ivy; and here I am, stung again!"
It was unfortunate for Billy that Merry could never take him seriously. While the boy poured out his youthful protestations she was gentle and considerate, but her appeal to his reason proved futile because no such thing existed. Later, when alone, the absurdity of the situation gave her an outlet, and she laughed quietly to herself. Poor, dear, easy-going Billy! She would have spared him even these imaginary heart-pangs if she could, but the real meaning of life and its responsibilities was yet for him to learn.
Constant in the purpose to which she had consecrated herself, Merry received her mother on that eventful morning with mind prepared to accept the supreme test. She had been standing at the window before her chamber door opened, looking out across the broad lawn to the wide expanse of water sparkling in the morning sun. She had watched a stately four-master sailing majestically by; she had watched the little pleasure craft, darting in and out as if playing at hide and seek. The great ship pursued its dignified course, following the track laid down for it by the mariner's chart; the frolicsome boats went hither or thither, whichever way the favoring wind filled their sails. The great ship by holding steadfastly to her course would eventually reach that port toward which she had set out, with her mission fulfilled; the little boats would return to the moorings from which they fluttered with noother purpose accomplished than the pleasure of the passing moment. Yes, Merry had told herself, it was purpose which counted. She had dashed out over and over again on brief excursions, but even her serious errands had been undertaken because they gave her pleasure. Unless the course be charted, unless the goal be predetermined, there could be no permanence, no majestic dignity to any performance. The time had come when she would permit no wavering. She would show her confidence in the experience of the older mariner, who had plotted out the chart, by following it without the semblance of a doubt.
"I'm ready, Momsie," she said brightly, turning toward Mrs. Thatcher,—"why, Momsie! what's the matter? It's all right, dearie. I'm sure we'll be very, very happy. I'm ready to see Mr. Hamlen whenever you say. It's all right, dearie."
Mrs. Thatcher sat down wearily, and Merry slipped to the floor at her feet, looking wonderingly up into her strained face. Marian leaned forward impulsively and kissed her, resting her cheek against the girl's face.
"My darling!" she said in a low, tense voice. "I have made a horrible mistake!"
The spoken words started a flood of tears which until then Marian had been able to restrain. The full weight of the responsibility again rushed over her. She had dared to interfere in two lives which should have been allowed to find their own expression, she had dared to pit her human judgment against Nature. What would be the final outcome? With Merry, she could not believe it would resultin anything more serious than a further confusion of ideals, but with Hamlen she knew well how disastrous the effect must be. How could she make matters clear to this dear child when her own brain was so bewildered!
But when the tears had relieved the tension, and Marian felt the sympathetic encouragement of the heart beating against her own, the mother love, as always, rose triumphant over mental and physical limitations. During the next hours, amid confidences and revelations which enabled each at last to understand the other, mother and daughter experienced that rare communion which had been denied them, but which was theirs by right. The sacrifice Merry had been ready to make accomplished its purpose without necessity of execution; the sincerity of her mother's purpose became clear, and the girl discovered the natural refuge where she might always find relief from overpowering perplexities. When they went down-stairs together, with arms around each other, and strolled out into the rose-garden, there was a new meaning to the sunlight and to the fragrance of the flowers. Marian saw in it a promise that her morning supplication might not have been in vain.
The telephone message from Huntington that Hamlen had been located and that all was well relieved Marian's apprehensions, and left her with such thankfulness and joy that she was able to join her remaining guests in the day's activities. How all could be well she was unable to comprehend, for the shock to Hamlen's nature must have been toogreat for easy convalescence; but at all events the worst had not happened, and until Huntington returned no further details could be obtained. Merry, too, entered into the family life for the first time with any show of interest. Philip and Billy, who now alone remained of Philip's friends, annexed themselves in the absence of something better to do. Billy was still disgruntled, but his malady seemed to be located in his head rather than in the region of his heart.