Activity was an absolute necessity to Marian, so she announced that instead of the usual dinner they would picnic on the shore at a spot perhaps two miles distant from Sagamore Hall. Not that this required physical exertion for her, but it was a novelty which would prove diverting. As the sun sank low, the little party boarded the electric launch.
"Excuse me for asking, Marian, but where does the picnic come in?" Edith demanded, noting the total absence of baskets and bottles and the other usual paraphernalia. "I don't want to criticise, but I'm no air-plant."
Marian laughed, "Have faith," she replied. "A relief train is even now on its way to save you from starvation."
"Too bad for Huntington and Hamlen to miss all this," Cosden remarked, hoping to call forth some word of explanation.
"If you vote it a success, we may repeat it after they return," she answered evasively. "Perhaps then we can include Harry."
"That reminds me," Edith broke in, lookingvindictively toward Cosden. "Perhaps you will tell me why Harry rushed down here like a lost soul and then back again to New York. Mr. Cosden is very mysterious about it, and my curiosity is aroused."
"There isn't any mystery," Marian assured her. "There were some papers he had forgotten to take."
"Why didn't he telephone me to bring them to him?" Philip demanded. "Why is it he won't let me go to the office, when he promised me I could help him as soon as college was over?"
Mrs. Thatcher looked at Cosden questioningly. "Is there anything more than Harry told me?" she asked him.
Cosden knew that Thatcher was still trying to keep his family in ignorance of the strain under which he was laboring. It was for him to give such details as he chose rather than for his guest.
"I don't know how much you already know, Mrs. Thatcher," he replied with apparent candor. "These are strenuous days in Wall Street, and no one can tell what is going to happen next. As for you, Philip, don't be impatient. This is no time to initiate a youngster into any business. War is breaking loose in Europe, and if Germany and England lock horns there will be something doing."
"War!" Philip cried. "Do you really think there will be a war?"
"The idea!" Edith sniffed. "Those little savage tribes in the Balkans may call each other names and throw things around, but Germany and England are civilized nations. How perfectly absurd!"
"If there is a war, I want to get in it," Philip insisted."I've always wanted to go to war, and never supposed I would have a chance."
"I'll go with you," announced Billy with sudden enthusiasm, looking significantly at Merry as he saw the solution of his troubles. "I don't care what side I'm on or against whom I fight. Let's enlist together, Phil."
"You couldn't fight except for your own country, you silly," Merry laughed.
"Of course I could," he insisted stoutly. "You never think I can do what I say I can, but I'll show you. I can be a soldier of fortune like Robert Clay, or I can be a Canadian and get shot up as much as I like."
"But this isn't in a story, Billy, and Robert Clay was. More than that, you're no Canadian."
"Anyhow I was in Canada once."
"Don't mind Billy," Phil interrupted. "I'm really serious. There must be some way I could get into it. You know, Mother, how much I've always wanted to."
"Yes, my boy; I do know," Mrs. Thatcher answered. "Ever since you were old enough to play with toys it has always been soldiers and wars. I have thanked God that war was a horror of the past, for I know how hard it would be to hold you back if the opportunity offered."
"If he goes, then I go with him," Billy said with decision.
"You both had better wait until war is declared by somebody against somebody else," Cosden suggested.
"You don't think they'll patch it up, do you?" Philip inquired anxiously.
"Let us hope so," Mrs. Thatcher answered; "but this is a pleasure expedition. Let us banish thoughts of war."
As the launch rounded a rocky promontory a roaring fire was disclosed burning on the beach, around which several of the house servants were already busied in preparing supper. Back from the beach, beneath great spreading oaks, a cloth was laid on the ground, to which the contents of the hampers were being transferred. The usual limitations of camp life were conspicuous by their absence, the fascinations were emphasized by the marvelous smoothness with which everything was conducted.
"I don't call this picnicking," Edith declared, after her first taste of chowder. "Plant a forest of trees in Sherry's ball-room, paint an ocean on the wall, fake a moon rising over the orchestra stage, everybody sit cross-legged on the floor,—and there you have it. Sherry certainly couldn't improve on the service or the food."
"I can't find even an ant on mine," Billy complained, corroborating Edith's praise.
"Champagne like this is far too good for the common people," added Cosden turning to Mrs. Thatcher. "How did you do it? It is the apotheosis of gipsy life, and makes me reluctant to return to civilization."
Billy edged around until he gained a seat next to Merry. "This feast might have been in honor of our marriage," he whispered. "It's all your fault that I'm going to war, and if I'm shot up I'll come back and haunt you."
"Don't, Billy!" Merry sputtered, laughing andchoking,—"you'll make me swallow this the wrong way. There—" she continued as she recovered; "that's better. Now don't be silly or you'll spoil our fun. We are going to be good friends always, and that's all there is to it."
"You wait. You've been lots happier since I told you that you loved me, now haven't you? I know. You think it's a joke because you think I'm a joke, but when once I've gone to war you'll understand. I'll bet you even that you'll chase after me as a Red Cross nurse, and that I'll die with my head in your lap. Do you take me?"
Phil approached near enough to put an end to the proposition without Merry's reply.
"Do you suppose there's anything in this war talk?" he queried, sitting down beside them.
"Not a thing," his sister replied. "That would be too absurd."
"If there is, I could at least go as a correspondent,—that is, if Dad could spare me. I'm terribly keen about this."
"How could you work me in?" Billy demanded. "I couldn't do any newspaper stunt."
"How about taking pictures to illustrate my articles?"
"Great! I can shoot a Kodak like anything. Then it's all settled that we go together?"
"Suppose there isn't any war?" Merry persisted in throwing cold water upon their plans.
Both boys looked gloomily at each other. Then Billy had an inspiration.
"If there isn't," he declared with decision, "then Phil and I will dash over there and stir one up.We could make faces at them or do something and get one started. That's the idea, isn't it, Phil?"
"You make me tired!" Philip retorted. "This is too serious a matter to joke about."
As the older boy moved away disgustedly Billy again whispered to Merry. "Phil is just as bad as you," he said disconsolately. "He doesn't know seriousness when he sees it. Come on! Take a chance and be a sport!"
The boy's persistency was the only jarring note in the whole experience, and the extent of that was too limited to produce lasting effect. The picnickers watched the sun set and the moon rise, then, filled with the calm delights which Nature so generously shared with them, and over-satiated with the creature comforts supplied by their hostess, they re-embarked in the launch and returned to Sagamore Hall. To their surprise, as they walked across the great lawn to the house, they saw some one coming down to meet them.
"Mr. Huntington has returned!" Marian cried, and she hastened toward him in advance of the others.
"Why, Harry!" she exclaimed surprised to discover that it was her husband. "How did you manage to get back to-night? I'm so glad to see you!"
Cosden hurried forward, sensing important revelations in Thatcher's return. The new-comer grasped his hand cordially, and his face even in the moonlight showed a relief from the long strain.
"With your help, old man, I've pulled through," he whispered later. "The stock-markets of theworld are closed indefinitely. Germany and England are straining to jump at each other's throats. The history of the world starts revision from to-day, and now I'm going to stay down here for a while and let other people worry!"
Knowing that his telephone message would allay Mrs. Thatcher's greatest anxiety, Huntington made no effort to return to the shore that night, and when morning came it was a question whether he could go at all. He knew that Hamlen would keep his promise so long as he remained master of himself, but the roving eyes and the twitching nerves warned Huntington that he must not place too great reliance upon this expectation. All through the hours of darkness, without his friend's knowledge, he watched over him, sharing in sympathetic silence the suffering which the tossing body endured in expressing the tortures of the mind. When morning came at last Hamlen was quieter, but this condition was due to the exhaustion of high fever rather than to even temporary relief. Hastily summoning a physician, Huntington watched the examination, becoming more and more apprehensive as the expression of concern deepened on the doctor's face. Together they stepped into the hall, where the doctor shook his head gravely.
"Tell me something of what led up to this," he demanded.
Huntington briefly sketched Hamlen's history, and the climax.
"It will be nip and tuck," the doctor said crisply. "His resistance is low, but he'll probably pull through. What I'm afraid of is his reason. We'll break this fever now, and then you must find something to interest him outside of himself. That is his only salvation."
"I wish I thought I could," Huntington replied doubtfully. "There will be no help from him, for the last thing he desires is to live."
"But if to live is to—"
"I know,—I shall do my best."
A week later Hamlen's life was out of danger, but at times his mental wanderings confirmed the doctor's worst apprehensions. Yet Huntington came to dread the depression of the saner moments more than the vagrant hallucinations. The dramatic details of the unleashing of the war-dogs of one nation after another should have been enough to arouse his interest, but his only comment was, "It is a fitting end to a hollow world, with its thin veneer of sham civilization; would to God it had come sooner!"
Finally it seemed safe to leave the patient in the care of the trained nurse, and Huntington made his deferred return to Sagamore Hall. Marian had kept in touch with Hamlen's progress as well as she could over the telephone, but there was much which her heart craved to learn more intimately. The illness afforded a simple explanation to the other guests of the peculiar disappearance of both men, so Huntington's confidences needed to be toldto Mrs. Thatcher alone. Still, there was a single exception. One of the first questions Huntington asked of Marian was whether Merry knew the whole truth, and when he learned from both how much each had gained from their mutual confidences he insisted that the girl hear from him the details of what had happened since.
He told his story simply, trying to spare Marian and making as light as possible of the part which he himself had played, yet the whole-souled devotion he had given his friend could be concealed no more than the serious results of Mrs. Thatcher's persistency. Huntington had claimed from him the life which would have been forfeited, promising to make good use of it; now that it was at his disposal, what was he to do with it? He admitted freely to Mrs. Thatcher and Merry that as yet he had found no solution.
"This necessity of doing your splendid work over again is but one of the results of my culpable stupidity," Marian said penitently. "When I think of it, it seems as if I should go mad!"
Huntington rejoiced in the change which he found in Mrs. Thatcher. The sudden view she had gained of herself was all she needed to understand that one lack which no one could have made her see or comprehend. Huntington felt the closer relationship between her and Merry, and he believed the girl had found the answer to her question.
"We must forget our mistakes," he said, anxious to relieve Marian, "except when remembering them will prevent a repetition. We all have tried to do our full duty by this abnormal personality, and ourshortcomings should not cause us to question the sincerity of our acts."
"You are too generous," Mrs. Thatcher replied; "I shall never cease to hold myself accountable, never!"
"Don't, Momsie!" Merry begged. "Perhaps even now we can suggest something which will undo the harm."
"We must," Huntington said soberly. "Now, if I may finish out my visit with you it will be a real relief after these depressing days, and we will await the inspiration."
"We are counting on your doing so," Marian replied promptly. "It comforts me to have you share this time with me. I can't tell Harry the whole story yet. And Billy is waiting for you. He and Philip are crazed by this talk of war, and are trying to find some way to get into it. Of course it is ridiculous, but boys are irrepressible creatures. I don't need to tell you that!"
"I'm not so sure that it is ridiculous," Huntington surprised them both by saying. "I don't quite see where they could break into this war, but as for Billy I believe a first-hand knowledge of these terrible experiences would go far toward making a man of him."
"You surely wouldn't have them get into the fighting!" Mrs. Thatcher exclaimed.
"No, not that; but there are other ways. I heard some talk of forming ambulance squads to send to France. If they do that, I might urge Billy's father to let him go."
"Still, there would be danger, wouldn't there?" Merry asked.
"Some, perhaps; but there is danger in the life which surrounds these boys now. I am much concerned about Billy. Unless something happens to shake him up he will never know what life really is. The nobility of heroism, an every-day occurrence on the firing-line, is something which could not fail to leave its impress on these youngsters. It is worth thinking over."
"I couldn't let Philip go," Marian said with the old-time finality in her voice.
"Perhaps not," Huntington replied with a significant look. "It may be most unwise; but if Nature should seem to point strongly in that direction we must be careful not to thwart it."
Marian flushed. "You are right, Mr. Huntington," she said with frank understanding; "I shall be careful, you may be sure."
"Where are the boys now?" Huntington asked. "I would prefer to postpone the discussion with them until I am rested. I'm not used to problems, you know, and lately they seem to have concentrated themselves on me. Help me to escape them for another hour!"
"Take Mr. Huntington down to the water-garden," Marian suggested smiling; "no one will think of looking for you there."
"Would you like to go?" Merry asked him.
"Nothing would rest me more."
"Won't you come, Momsie?"
"No, dear; you must do the honors in my stead."
They wandered through the formal garden in silence, down the shadedbosquet, and across a bit of lawn to the fresh-water garden which was builtonly a little back from the shore itself. A miniature torii, from whose crossbeam hung a replica in straw of the mysticshimenawa, marked the entrance, sounding the motivation for the Oriental note within. They passed through this and walked between the rows of Japanese maples which formed an avenue ending in a vista of the sea. In the moment they had transported themselves, for within the limitations marked by the avenue of trees there was nothing to suggest anything save the East: there were the little shrines surrounded by Oriental flower-pots; there was a tiny lake, crossed by an arched stone bridge, through which could be seen the luxuriant bloom of the lotus and other rare aquatic plants, brilliant in their coloring and foliage, growing in and out of the water and over the rocks with well-planned irregularity; there was the lilliputian grove of dwarfed trees impudently challenging comparison with their taller neighbors.
"I'm glad you brought me here," Huntington said as they seated themselves upon a curiously-carved stone. "Other parts of the estate are far more impressive, but you have no spot which appeals to me more by virtue of its beauty."
"I love it too," the girl acknowledged. "Almost every one looks at it once or twice and admires it, but no one seems to care to linger here as I do. I am sure to be alone, so I come almost every day to read Lafcadio Hearn and to dream of Nippon."
"I understand," Huntington said quietly; "and I'll warrant you find yourself spending much of your time gazing at the surface of that little lake."
"Yes," she exclaimed surprised; "but how do you know that, and why should I do it?"
"It is not so mysterious, after all," he answered smiling. "I have no psychic powers, but I know a little of the Oriental teachings: the surface of the lake is a mirror, symbolic of illusion and reflecting our souls, in which alone we must seek the Buddha.—But to-day it is of a modern divinity I would prefer to speak. These have been hard weeks for you, Merry, and I have sympathized with you."
"Why,—yes; in a way," she admitted. "But like everything else I do, they haven't amounted to anything, have they?"
"Haven't they?" he asked pointedly. "Isn't some of that unrest gone now that you and the dear mother understand each other?"
"Of course. That means everything to me, but again it is I who benefit. Oh! Mr. Huntington, I want so much to do something for somebody else, and no matter how hard I try it always turns out that I am the gainer. I believed I had the opportunity at last, and again I was mistaken. But this time it wasn't my fault, was it? At least I was ready to do my part."
"Don't you know that you can't try to do something for some one else without having it come back to you?"
"Do you expect that what you are doing for Mr. Hamlen will bring you a reward?"
"It has already given me your friendship. Isn't that enough?"
The color came to Merry's face, and she turnedher glance away. "What can that mean to you who have so many friendships?" she asked.
"It is the friendship I value most among them all."
She looked up at him quickly, startled by the intensity of his tone. "You can't mean that," she said. "To me it is different. You brought into my life something which it never had and never would have had except for you. To me your friendship is the grandest thing I know, but what can mine mean to you? Something fine and splendid must come in return for the months you have given Mr. Hamlen. I wish—" she hesitated a moment but then continued bravely—"yes, I wish it might even bring you back the girl you loved—and found too late!"
"Merry! child! what are you saying!" he cried.
"Have I hurt you again?"
"Not hurt me; but you make it hard for me to be fair to our friendship."
"Can't we be friends—because of her?"
Huntington turned to her gently, taking her hand in his. His face showed the force of the emotion which fought for supremacy, but the calmness with which he spoke evidenced his control.
"I have tried to be fair to our friendship," he repeated, "but you must not misunderstand. I wonder if it would be more kind to tell you the truth, even though it cost me what I value so."
"Don't,—please don't!" she begged.
"I fear I must," he said with decision, "no matter what it costs. Whether this strain with Hamlen has weakened my resolve, or because the romanceof the Japanese Benten hovers over this spot and bids me speak, I must tell you, little girl, that my friendship has only been a blind to cover something far deeper, which I have no right to offer you. The time has come for you to know that, for it will tell you what you are to me. I would relinquish all I possess to turn back the years until they gave me the right to ask you to be my wife."
She started to her feet and tried to speak, but he stopped her.
"You don't need to answer," he insisted. "I understand only too well."
"But the girl you met too late—"
"Was you, dear child! I am a generation ahead of my time; otherwise I believe it might have been."
He smiled as he always did when deeply moved, but this time the sadness showed through the mask. As the full comprehension of his words came to her, Merry's color faded but she looked into his face with a woman's candor.
"Is the difference in our ages the only reason?" she asked.
"Alas! that is enough!"
"No, no!" she cried impulsively. "You wouldn't let that stand between us!"
"Do you realize what you are saying, Merry? It can't be that you understand!"
"I do! I do!" she cried. "Please don't stop. Say it to me!"
He placed his arm around her and drew her to him. "Can it possibly be?" he demanded incredulously. "Can this really have come to me?"
Merry hid her face on his shoulder. "Say it!" she insisted, "please,—please say it!"
"Merry—child—I love you!"
Her arm crept about his neck, and then her radiant face came out from its hiding place, and held itself ready for the consecration.
They lingered in happy disregard of passing time, each seeming to fear disillusionment if they deserted their magic garden. Huntington no longer felt the oppression of the years, Merry no longer drifted from her anchorage.
"Monty," she whispered slyly,—"dare I call you Monty?"
"If you don't, I shall call you incorrigible!"
"Monty,—who is Benten?"
She asked the question so hesitatingly, as if ashamed to admit her ignorance, that he laughed.
"Benten?" he repeated after her. "Surely you know Benten! She is none other than an adorable Japanese lady of antiquity who is known as the deity of Beauty, the divinity of Love and the Goddess of Eloquence. I have no doubt she has other attributes, but those are enough for us, aren't they, little sweetheart?"
"Oh, Monty,—you know so much!" she sighed. "It is going to be a terrible strain!"
She seemed very winsome in her present mood, and he smiled happily.
"The strain will be on me, dear heart," he protested. "I have assumed wisdom all these yearswith no danger of being unmasked; now you will find me out.
"I'm glad it happened here in this garden," she said contentedly. "I seem to feel more at home in this atmosphere. Benten shall be my patron saint from this day."
"Shall we spend our honeymoon in Japan?" he asked. "Why not keep this setting to the end?"
She clapped her hands. "Splendid!" she cried. "That will be Paradise;—and you'll teach me all you know about everything?"
"Why not let your Hearn teach you of Japan? He knows it all. He would tell you, too, that Benten is also Goddess of the Sea," he pointed to the brilliant spot of color at the end of the avenue, now made spectacular by the radiance of the setting sun. "He would understand why, under this influence, I could not keep from telling you my secret; for 'is not the sea most ancient and most excellent of speakers,—the eternal poet, chanter of that mystic hymn whose rhythm shakes the world, whose mighty syllables no man may learn?'"
"Oh, Monty," she murmured, nestling closer to him in blissful happiness, "please go on. To hear you talk is just like listening to a beautiful symphony. And to think you're going to share it all with me! Let us stay right here forever!"
"Mer-ry!" came Philip's call across the lawn.
"Uncle Mon-ty!" Billy halloed.
"There come those horrid boys," she pouted, sitting up straight. "Why are boys, anyway?"
"You told me once that it was only when theybecame serious that you worried about them," he teased her.
"They are serious now,—they've found out you're here, and they're going to talk war with you.—I don't want to give you up even for a moment!"
"Nor I you," he whispered, as the boys were close at hand; "but we must keep our secret a little longer."
They rose and walked up the avenue to meet them.
"Mother said to wait because you were tired, but Billy couldn't, so I came with him," Philip explained lamely.
"I am never too tired to receive a welcome like this—"
"We want your advice," Billy interrupted.
"Won't it wait until we get to the house?"
"No," Billy insisted; "it's urgent. Phil and I want to go to the war, and if we don't hurry they may call it off and then we'll be rooked."
"I wish there was a chance they might," Huntington said feelingly. "There's no fear of that, boy. They are in for a long and terrible struggle."
"Great!" cried Philip. "I've always wanted to go to war, and I never believed there would be another."
"I'm going because I want to get shot up just to spite Merry," added Billy, remembering his grievance and looking at the girl gloomily.
"The fact that you realize so little what you are saying is the greatest argument you could advance in favor of your going," Huntington said, looking at them gravely.
"I didn't mean to speak as I did," Philip repliedapologetically. "It is a terrible thing, of course, but since it has come I am crazy to be a part of it. I believe I'll run away if Mother and Dad don't let me go!"
"I meant just what I said," Billy insisted stoutly. "Merry is very unhappy,—haven't you noticed it?"
"Do I look so now?" she laughed at him.
"You shouldn't interrupt," he reproved her; "it isn't polite.—She doesn't know what is the matter with her, but I do."
"What is the matter, Billy?" Huntington inquired seriously. "If I knew, perhaps I could help her."
"Of course you could; that's why I'm telling you. She's in love with me and she doesn't know it."
"By Jove!" Huntington exclaimed, looking at Merry's beaming face as she walked beside him, and then at the serious features of the boy on the other side. "I'm afraid I can't help, after all."
"Yes, you can," Billy insisted confidently. "Merry will believe anything you tell her. Now if I go to war and get shot up she will realize her destiny, and will come to the hospital over there somewhere and be a Red Cross nurse, and fix me all up. Then we'll be married,—unless my wound is fatal and I die," he added, gulping down the pathos which this painful picture stirred within himself.
"I can't stay with you, Billy, if you harrow up my feelings like this," Huntington declared. "It isn't fair to take advantage of your sympathetic old uncle."
"He's just talking in bunches, Mr. Huntington," Philip said disgustedly. "You mustn't mind whathe says. His mouth is full of mush all the time now. I'm sick of it!"
"How about my feelings, Billy?" Merry demanded. "Have you no pity for me?"
"Why should I?" he retorted. "It's all your fault.—Uncle Monty, wouldn't you like to have Merry in the family?"
"I certainly would," was the frank response spoken with a sincerity which gave the boy unbounded encouragement.
"Now you've said something!" Billy exclaimed and he turned to Merry with a gesture of finality! "I want you in the family, Uncle Monty wants you, Phil wants me for a brother-in-law—"
"I'm not so sure," Philip interrupted.
"Oh, yes, he does," Billy continued unabashed.—"So it's up to you. Will you make us all happy, or will you send me to meet my fate amid the horrors of war?"
"That'll be about all of that," Philip said, scowling. "We came out here to talk war and not nonsense. I won't stand for it!"
"We mustn't get these two great questions confused, Billy," Huntington said soothingly. "I have something to tell you later which may solve one of them, and we should approach the other with a calm and judicial mind. I haven't any right to advise you, Philip, for your mother and father probably have definite ideas which must be respected; but if a way could be found for Billy to have some of the experiences over there without running too much danger, I should be inclined to throw my influence in favor of his going."
"Hurrah!" Billy cried.
"That is all I could possibly expect, Mr. Huntington," Philip acknowledged. "If Billy is allowed to go, I'm sure Mother and Dad will consent."
"Very good. I promise you to look into it carefully, and Billy will keep you posted as to the result."
"What's the other solution?" Billy asked suspiciously.
"I'll tell you later.—Now let me speak with the others. There is nothing more for us to talk about, is there?"
"I'm sorry I spoke so lightly about the war," Philip said, grasping Huntington's hand as they separated. "I have fighting in my blood somewhere, and I'm so excited over it all that I forget myself sometimes."
"War means to forget one's self at all times, my boy," Huntington answered kindly. "With all its savagery, with all its brutal return to primeval instincts, the sacrifices and the heroism it calls for ennoble those who are drawn into its hideous vortex. No man can once feel this and ever again look upon life in a small way. That is why, under certain circumstances, I might favor Billy's desire."
"That is my second desire," Billy carefully explained; "my first is that Merry become a member of our family."
"To that," his uncle replied, "I have already given my unqualified approval."
The boys left them and they continued to the house. Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher met them at the steps.
"I had begun to fear that you and Merry werelost," Marian said, after Huntington greeted his host.
"We have been lost a long time," Huntington replied, with a meaning they did not comprehend; "now we have indeed found ourselves."
He took Merry's hand in his and stood for a moment looking at them both.
"Would this time be inopportune," he continued, "to ask if you can spare this little girl to some one who loves her very dearly?"
"So Billy has persuaded you to become his champion?" Mrs. Thatcher said with some annoyance. "I didn't think Merry cared for him. He is so irresponsible, Mr. Huntington. It is difficult to refuse anything you ask, but couldn't the matter wait?"
"The boy isn't grown up enough to think of such things yet," Thatcher added.
Huntington smiled quietly at the natural mistake. "It is for one who is perhaps too far grown up I stand as champion, but I am hoping you will not look upon that as an obstacle. I did for many months, but Merry has a way of making one forget his years."
"You!" Marian cried.
"You don't mean it, my dear fellow!" Thatcher held out his hand cordially.
"We children ask the parental blessing."
Merry slipped by, into her mother's arms.
"Oh! Momsie! I am happy at last!"
"You have certainly kept us in the dark!" Marian exclaimed, recovering from her surprise.
Then the pleasure in her face changed to one ofconcern. "You have loved Merry, yet stood aside these weeks?"
"I could not believe that she could care for me."
"Almost a triple tragedy!" Marian said soberly, so low that only Huntington heard her. "Can any one ever forgive me!"
"Come, we must tell Edith and Cosden," Thatcher urged. "They are consumed with impatience to see you."
"Let us wait until dinner," Huntington suggested. "Billy must be considered, for the dear boy believes himself madly in love with Merry,—even as I did once with her mother."
"Nonsense!" laughed Marian.
"It didn't seem like nonsense then, but I forgive you since you give me this sweet child, which I know you consider a greater gift than the one I would have asked."
"I never heard of this," Thatcher exclaimed.
"No man can marry a woman like Mrs. Thatcher without finding wrecks along the shore."
"A very pretty remark from a son-in-law," she retorted. "I shall hold you strictly to your loyalty!"
"Let me find Billy while you are dressing for dinner," Huntington said. "I'll overtake you after breaking the news gently to him."
"Don't be late," Merry whispered to him in parting. "When I leave you I shall think it all a dream."
"So it is, dear heart, but one which is sure to come true!"
Billy joined his uncle in his room, and the older man sat down beside him on the window-seat.
"Boy," he said, "you and I have been great pals, and I want you to be the first to know of a wonderful thing which has happened to me."
"You've beaten Mr. Cosden at golf," Billy guessed.
"It is something which will hurt you for a minute but I want you to show how good a sport you are."
"You're not going to make me live within my allowance?"
"Merry is going to marry me."
"She isn't!" the boy cried, almost bursting into tears. "She isn't,—she's going to marry me!"
"Steady, Billy, steady! Remember what pals we are! You wouldn't want her to marry you if she loved some one else, would you?"
Billy quieted down, swallowing hard but saying nothing.
"Think how many years I have waited for this wonderful thing to happen. Think how many years you have ahead of you in which to have it happen. For it will happen to you, boy,—it must."
"But you are a woman-hater."
"No, boy,—a Merry lover! Won't you forget your infatuation and wish me joy?"
"I shall never marry," Billy said disconsolately.
"That is what I said, twenty years ago!"
"You can't depend on girls, anyhow."
"That is what I said, twenty years ago! Won't you wish me joy? It's the first time I've ever asked you to do anything for me."
"It's asking a whole lot."
"It is,—and the greater the gift if you give it to me."
"So Merry is really going to marry you?"
Huntington nodded his head.
"Oh, well, I suppose I shall get over it."
"Good for you, boy! And you wish me joy?"
"I can't; I'm a woman-hater now myself."
"Wish me as much joy as possible under the circumstances."
"I'll do that; but don't expect me to throw a fit in doing it."
"All right," Huntington patted him affectionately on the shoulder. "Now run and get ready for dinner, and don't forget that I'm keeping Merry in the family!"
"Oh! come. Don't rub it in!"
"I won't, but I'm so happy that I'm kiddish!"
"Many a married man seems contented when he's only resigned," quoted Billy maliciously.
"Get out!" Huntington shouted, throwing a chair-pillow at the retreating figure.
It was at dinner that the party reassembled, this time in its full strength of numbers. The table was set in the Italian dining-porch, which occupied the east gable, and by reason of its uniqueness formed a charming background for the ceremony. Three of its sides were open, the over-story being supported on columns; the plaster wall was covered with masses of flowering and decorative plants, clinging to a lattice, and broken in the center by a niche enclosing an old marble fountain. Edith and Cosden greeted Huntington cordially when he came down, plying him with questions until he begged for mercy.
"You don't show any ill effects from acting as trained nurse," Cosden remarked; "in fact I neversaw you look so well. Glad you came in time for this farewell dinner; I'm back into the harness again to-morrow."
"I wish you could stay longer, Mr. Cosden," Marian urged.
"I'm ashamed of the length of time I have already imposed upon your hospitality," Cosden replied; "but you must hold Edith responsible. It takes her an eternity to get a little word of three letters out of her mouth."
"That isn't a commodity which requires advertising," she remarked, tossing her head.
"I'll get you yet, you little devil!" whispered Cosden.
"This dinner is epoch-making," Thatcher said seriously after they were seated, "and the epochs divide themselves into two parts. The first one I'm going to explain; then, as it is proper that my wife should have the last word, Marian will tell you the second. We have with us this evening—that's the way the toastmaster usually starts in, isn't it?—a man whom I have known for several years, whose integrity is unquestioned, but who has been considered by his business associates as one who exacted his last pound of flesh."
Cosden looked quickly at Thatcher, and reddened at the pointed glance which Edith gave him.
"A few days ago," Thatcher continued, "owing to extraordinary business conditions, that man found the one house which he would like best to control in a position where he could legitimately force it to accept his own terms. I know, because that house was mine."
"Cut it out, Thatcher," Cosden growled; "this isn't an experience meeting."
Thatcher paid no attention to him. "At this crisis, I went down on my knees, and begged him a favor to accept a little trifle of four and a half millions profit in exchange for saving my house and reputation."
"Harry!" Marian cried. "I've been blind to your troubles too!"
"This was his chance. He remarked coolly that he had been making plans to take advantage of his opportunity when it came, handed me drafts which enabled me to weather the storm, and refused to accept one penny of the blood-money which I was only too ready to give him. That is the way our friend Cosden collects his pound of flesh."
"Connie did that?" Huntington demanded, gratified beyond measure but speaking lightly to cover Cosden's embarrassment. "Why, Connie,—I thought you were a business man!"
Edith made no comment but her gaze never left Cosden's face. His confusion was genuine, for to be made a hero in the midst of one's friends is more than any man can stand. Marian hastened to his rescue.
"I shall tell Mr. Cosden what I think of him when we are alone," she said gratefully. "Now let us turn from the worship of Midas to that of a coy little divinity who may yet teach Edith to speak in words of one syllable. Harry says that I am to have the last word. It shall be brief: Mr. and Mrs. Henry Thatcher announce the engagement of their only daughter to—Mr. William Montgomery Huntington."
The effect of this announcement was even more dramatic than the first.
"You sly old dog!" Cosden cried, reaching over and pummeling Huntington on the back.
"Great work!" was Philip's congratulation, but he subsided when he saw the expression on Billy's face.
It was epoch-making, as Thatcher had promised. The relief over the happy solution of the business crisis, and the surprise and joy of the announced engagement made the dinner pass from an episode into an event. Billy's lack of enthusiasm might be easily understood and as easily forgiven, but Edith's subdued attitude was less comprehensible. It was only as they left the table to go out upon the piazza that she broke her silence. She held back after Marian and Merry passed through the door and turned to Cosden.
"Did you really do that?" she demanded.
He nodded his head sheepishly. "You see, as Monty says, I'm no kind of business man after all."
"I think you're the greatest business genius in the world!"
"You do!" he cried. "Then why don't you follow Merry's example?"
"I might," she said smiling.
Huntington dared not extend his visit beyond a few blissful days, but into these he crowded the full expression of his long-delayed romance. The wonder of it never left him, the joy of it filled him with quiet content.
The lovers watched Cosden's departure next morning, and by virtue of the priority of their engagement, considered themselves entitled to tease Edith who was not to leave until the following day.
"Well," Huntington remarked, as they turned back into the hallway, "as Connie says, he usually gets what he goes after."
"Don't you think he's earned me?" Edith retaliated.
"And you him," Huntington retorted. "Everything is as it should be. You are just the girl for him, and he will make you a husband in a thousand. I need not tell you how cordially I have congratulated him."
"I don't think our Society proved very effective," she remarked dryly.
"On the contrary, it demonstrated its efficiency by the present most satisfactory exceptions.—But you are giving me a great many mysteries to explain to Merry!"
The evening before Huntington felt it necessary to return to his patient he touched upon a subject which had been avoided.
"Mamma," he said to Mrs. Thatcher, "I think—"
"Don't you dare to call me that, Monty Huntington!" Marian exclaimed vehemently. "If I am to go through life with a son-in-law older than I am, at least I won't be called 'mamma'!"
"I'm trying to be respectful," Huntington explained mischievously.
"Never you mind that,—call me 'Marian.' That at least will give me the benefit of the doubt."
"I'm sorry to mark my entrance into the family by causing mortification," Huntington continued in mock-seriousness. "It never occurred to me, if my prospective wife made no objections, that my age would be offensive to her parents. But the case isn't so serious as Ned Fordham's, is it?"
"He married Mrs. Eustis, didn't he?"
"Yes; and you remember that she has a married daughter and a small grandchild. Ned said the idea of a ready-made family was fine, but he thought it immoral for him to become a grandfather before he became a father."
"Rather late for him to come to that conclusion, wasn't it?" Thatcher laughed.
"Yes; but he found two other men in the same predicament, so the three of them have formed a 'Society of Illegitimate Grandparents,' and now they're looking for more members."
"Ned would joke at his own funeral!" chuckled Thatcher.
"It isn't your age I'm objecting to," Marian explained; "it's my own. Merry's engagement makes me realize it."
"She and I are going to make you forget that you have any age at all," Huntington declared.—"But when you interrupted me I was going to speak of a really important matter.—We mustn't be unmindful of poor Hamlen."
"No, indeed," Marian replied seriously. "Happiness is selfish, isn't it, in making us temporarily forgetful? Poor Philip!"
"We are doing him no injustice," he reassured her; "in fact I think the news I can take will please him. But I want you and Merry to go back to Boston with me."
"Whatever you think is wise shall be done," she acquiesced, "but wouldn't it be better for you to go ahead to prepare him for our coming?"
"That is by far the wiser plan," Huntington assented promptly.
"Take me with you, Monty," Merry whispered; "I wish we never need be separated again."
"Stay here, sweetheart, and plan out with the dear mother how soon that day may be. I have been waiting too long already!"
The nurse met Huntington as he entered the door, and replied to the question his face asked sooner than his lips.
"There is a remarkable improvement," she announced cheerfully. "The doctor was here this morning, and left word for you that the progress is beyond his understanding."
"Splendid!" he cried. "Where shall I find Hamlen?
"In the library, Mr. Huntington; it is all I can do to persuade him to go anywhere else."
Huntington mounted the stairs two steps at time. "Hamlen!" he cried, "where are you?"
"Here!" a well-contained voice replied as he entered the room, "in your library, sitting in your favorite chair, eating your food, drinking your rum—in short, exercising every prerogative a man can assume who has unfettered himself from worldly responsibilities, and awaits the command of his master."
"You certainly are better," Huntington exclaimed, looking at him critically, astonished by the tone of his remark.
"Except for my weakness," Hamlen answered, holding out his hand, "better than I've been in all my life."
"You amaze me!" Huntington exclaimed. "I hoped for an improvement, but this return to more than your best self—"
"I've fought the fight, my friend, and this is the result."
"It is a positive triumph!" Huntington drew a chair beside the patient, and regarded him with an expression of mystified gratification. "What in the world has happened?"
"You went away and gave me a chance to think," Hamlen replied seriously. "Do you know, Huntington, I'm convinced that there ought to be a law condemning every human being to solitary confinement for a certain period each year, to make himthink. Deprive him of his companions, his books, his writing materials—everything, and just force him to think. We take things so much for granted, we accept so many half-truths, we so easily lose our sense of proportion."
"That is a capital idea, but you've done your share of it already."
"My thoughts were misdirected. You not only gave me the opportunity but something basic on which to build. I wonder if you realize how pitilessly you laid me bare!"
"I had no intention, my dear fellow—"
"Oh, it was right; that was the very thing which saved me. I was sincere in feeling myself sunk in degradation, in wanting to end it all, and I hated you for standing in my way. But when you laid claim to my life, which I valued so slightly, I began to analyze it to discover why you cared to have it. You have done more for me, Huntington, than any human being ever did for a fellow-creature, and why you did it was past my comprehension."
"We are bound by ties of a great brotherhood," Huntington explained.
"No man I ever saw before has considered them so sacred. You are an idealist, Huntington. Your devotion to college and to college responsibilities amounts to a fetish. But I thank God for your idealism: it is not what college relations really are but what they ought to be!"
"I never will admit that, Hamlen."
"Of course you won't; if you did you would lose your idealism. I saw all this, and it gave me my explanation: what you have done for me, Huntington,you would have done for any other college man under the same circumstances. It was not because of any claim the individual had upon you, but rather the acknowledgment of the greater appeal made by that brotherhood you venerate."
"No, Hamlen; you must not depreciate the appeal which your own personality made from the first."
"I don't depreciate it,—I'm proud of it; but to understand your idolatrous worship of the brotherhood makes it possible for me to accept the heavy obligations under which you place me. When you left me I felt that you must hate the sight of my haggard face, the sound of my complaining voice, the burden of silly weakness which I foisted upon your generous shoulders."
"I understood what lay beneath."
"You did, and to a wonderful extent; but it took me hours of bitter fighting to understand. Then the bigness of the great central thing at last came to me, and I recognized it. Sitting here in this chair I cried out in my excitement. The littleness of my own previous viewpoint overwhelmed me, and what had seemed tragedies assumed at last their smaller proportions. The greatness of your own ideals, the claim which the Alma Mater ought to have upon her sons, the right which the larger world outside has to demand big things of those to whom it gives advantages, made the petty failures of my life so insignificant that I was ashamed to have paraded them in public. I have been lying down on my weaknesses, Huntington, as no man ever has a right to do; but you have seen the last of that. I'll stand up now and take my medicine, I'll paywhatever penalty my latest indiscretion may demand, I'll practise some of that idealism which makes you what you are, and lay the ghost which for years has tortured me with pin-pricks."
"You give me too much credit, Hamlen," Huntington insisted firmly; "but since you find relief in what I've said or done I rejoice in your exaggeration."
"You claimed my life, my friend," Hamlen returned again to his earlier statement, "and it belongs to you. In all honor, I must make it reflect attributes which will give it value. With that accomplished, I stand ready to make delivery; but with it you must also accept its obligations. How will you have me pay them?"
"Your obligations are not so serious as you imagine," Huntington replied with decision; "the only one as yet unpaid is to yourself. Had I not seen this surprising evidence of your latent strength I should not have believed you capable of meeting it; now I do."
"But Marian—the insult my actions gave her—"
"Forgotten, and forgiven,—if forgiveness be required."
"If I could see her once more, and she would listen to me—"
"She is coming here to see you as soon as I tell her you are strong enough."
"Coming here?" he echoed; "I can't believe it! And the girl—can she ever understand?"
"On that point I can reassure you with even greater certainty, for I am to be the substitute bridegroom!"
Hamlen looked at him steadily to make sure he was in earnest.
"You are to marry Miss Thatcher?" he asked deliberately.
"The Gods have been good to me, Hamlen; they have given me the one gift I craved."
"Then you have loved her all these weeks?"
"Since first I saw her."
"My friend!" Hamlen raised himself unsteadily in his weakness, refusing assistance, until he stood upon his feet. Then supporting himself with one hand, he raised the other to his forehead in salute.
"You, sir, are a great man!" he said with dramatic fervor. "You not only possess ideals, but actually live up to them! A world that can produce one such as you is entitled to my respect, and is a place worth living in!"
"Cease!" Huntington cried, genuinely embarrassed by Hamlen's tribute. "Leave me out of this, for this is your day. To rise superior to the habit of twenty years, to let the world knock you down time after time, and finally come up smiling with an acknowledgment that it was your fault after all, to stand ready to pool issues with that world which you have always considered your enemy, is an exhibition of character which puts you so far beyond the rest of us that you couldn't see us if we saluted you.—I thought my happiest moment came when I discovered unexpectedly that Merry loved me; now you have taken me to heights beyond.
"I believe you," Hamlen answered him, his voice weak from the strain of the interview, but his eyes bright with excitement and his face radiant,—"Ibelieve every word you say. For one of your great brotherhood to find himself at last means more to you than any personal happiness,—such is the strength of the fetish! I wonder if the girl is big enough to share you with your other idol!"
"Have no fears," Huntington laughed contentedly. "She will worship at the shrine with devotion equal to my own, and my fellow-worshipers shall bow the knee to her."
The nurse gave Huntington a reproving glance when she came for her patient, but Hamlen would not permit even a suggestion that his friend had been unmindful of his weakness.
"It's all right," he reassured her. "I know I'm excited, I know that I've pulled too hard on my strength, but something has come to me—inside here—which no doctor could ever give me. You'll see. Take me away now and I'll be as docile as a child.—But, Huntington, please telephone Marian that instead of coming to see me, I'd rather go to her. I would prefer to tell her what I have to say down there where the trees are cousins to my trees, and the language of the flowers can fill in the words when I find my own speech inadequate.—She'll understand."
It was another fortnight before the fugitive was able to return to Sagamore Hall. Huntington telephoned, as he had promised, but he also found it necessary to run down there himself, to explain in detail the miracle which had happened. Mrs. Thatcher appreciated his thoughtfulness of her, Merry expressed her full approval, and incidentally he found the experience agreeable, so the necessity of his appearance in person was unanimously conceded. Still, the satisfaction of this visit was completely overshadowed by his feeling of triumph when Hamlen actually accompanied him.
The drone of the motor-car brought Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher and Merry to the door to greet them, for Marian wished their welcome to express to the fullest the fact that whatever had occurred was forgotten. Hamlen read it so, and it helped him.
"I have to move a bit slowly yet," he explained as he rose cautiously in the tonneau. "Another month and I'll be as good as new."
They assisted him up the steps and through the hallway to a great easy chair on the piazza beyond. Then, after a few moments of general conversation, they left him alone with Marian.
"Isn't it wonderful?" he exclaimed with frank delight. "I'm as pleased with myself as a kitten with two tails."
"You well may be!" she laughed at his expression, which in its nature was eloquent of the changed mental attitude. "And our rejoicing is not far behind yours."
"I know it; that is the most wonderful part of the whole thing. No matter how idiotic my actions, you and Huntington have stuck right by me, and have proved me wrong by the bigness of your hearts."
"Forget the past," Marian urged, "and start things from to-day."
"No; I wouldn't want to do that, even if I could."
He paused for a moment, and played with a tassel which fell across his lap from the cushion she had placed in the chair.
"Of course," he said without looking up, "much of it will always seem like a delirious dream, but after all it is the past which has given me the present. And except for the past I should not have Huntington."
There was a wealth of feeling in his words which showed Mrs. Thatcher how strong a hold his friend had gained upon him.
"Does he know how much he means to you, I wonder?"
Hamlen looked up quickly. "He hasn't the slightest conception," he answered. "I have never seen a man so oblivious to the power he exercises over others, or to the results which he obtains. He really thinks I've come through this crisis because of some latent strength of character, whenin reality it has been the reflection of his own. He would tell you that when I was dying of shame and mortification I took myself by the boot-straps and pulled myself out of the abyss, and he would never believe it was the result of the philosophy he demonstrated by every word and act. He positively made me ashamed to do anything but respond. And now that I am out, he has fired me with a desire to use the years which remain in doing something for some one else. Can you wonder that I love him?"
Marian's face reflected the pleasure his words gave her. "This is the real Philip Hamlen I have seen behind his mask," she exclaimed; "this is the Philip I tried in my mistaken way to rescue from the chaos of confused ideals. I failed but Mr. Huntington succeeded; my gratitude to him passes all bounds."
"You must take some of the credit whether you wish to or not," Hamlen insisted. "When you invaded my Garden of Eden last winter and made those disturbing statements, you weakened the barrier of false beliefs with which I had surrounded myself. You could have restored the structure had I permitted it, but I wasn't ready for it then. You were entirely right when you said that I had forgotten the teachings of the masters I venerated, that I was blind to the difference between the means and the end. But, Marian—" for the first time his voice quavered—"that was before I had a friend! Think of living all those years without a friend! It was through your invasion that my horrible tranquillity was disturbed; it was through you thatI met the one man in all the world who could take advantage of that condition to build a human structure upon such ruins."
"Give me all the credit you can, Philip. I need it to help me to forget."
"Tut! tut!" he chided her. "I may touch upon the past, but to you it is forbidden! Through you"—he went on—"I gained my friend, and, as if to demonstrate the philosophy he lives, in giving him to me you gained him too; for to your daughter is assured the most wonderful of companionships. Now, by the same token, in giving him to her, I shall expect the reward of being admitted to full friendship in this family whose members mean the world to me."
"We already count you one of us, Philip, and we shall accept nothing less."
"Then am I rich in friendship!" he exclaimed. "The law of compensation gives a greater joy of realization to one who has drifted than to him who has lived a normal existence: such a man is spared the depths, but he can never reach the heights."
Two duster-clad, begoggled figures burst unceremoniously through the hallway onto the piazza where Marian and Hamlen had been scrupulously left alone by a comprehending family.
"Well, I'm glad to find some signs of life!" cried a familiar voice.
"Edith!" Marian exclaimed. "Where on earth did you come from? And Mr. Cosden!"
"Connie and I crept up on the house to surprise you," she explained, as greetings were exchanged all around, "but we began to think the joke was onus and we'd struck the morgue by mistake. Where are the people anyhow? We can't stay but a minute."
"Here we are!" Merry answered her, and as if by magic the entire family appeared from various directions.
"Where did you come from, where are you going, and why can't you stay but a minute?" Huntington demanded of Cosden as he grasped his hand.
Cosden grinned and looked at Edith.
"Oh, go ahead and tell them if you want to," she remarked indifferently. "They're sure to find it out some time, and it might as well be now."
"What in the world—" Mrs. Thatcher began.
"We're married!" Cosden announced, his face beaming with happiness and satisfaction.
"Yes,—that's right," Edith corroborated, seeing doubt in the eager faces peering at them, speechless with surprise. "I told you that if once I gave Connie half a chance he'd have me packed up and shipped before I knew it, and that's just what has happened!"
"Don't apologize," Marian laughed, kissing her. "I think you've done a very smart thing to elope like this."
"Good heavens, Connie, I never thought of that! An elopement for me would just be the last thing in the world! How can you call it that when there is no one to elope from but Ricky!"
"Whatever you call it, I've got you!" Cosden declared, tapping his pocket. "The parson gave me a perfectly good bill of sale, and it will take some trying to break this contract. Now don't you try!"
Thatcher was the only one who rose fully to the occasion, and as a result of his presence of mind the butler appeared with a bottle of Pommery from which he filled the accompanying glasses. After Thatcher proposed the toast to the happy couple, Huntington again raised his glass to Cosden.
"Here's to Edith, God bless her!" he exclaimed.
Cosden understood, and the spirit of mischief seized him.
"How about that other toast we drank that night, Monty?"
Huntington put his arm around Merry's waist and drew her closer to him.
"It stands!" he replied with smiling defiance. "To Marian—little Marian—God bless her!"
"You rascal! You slipped it over on me!"
"Well, good-bye, people!" Edith interrupted.
"Stay for supper," Mrs. Thatcher urged.
"No; here it is five o'clock and the wedding breakfast hasn't been served yet. We're off!"
"It is pitiful to see you kidnapped like this," Marian teased her.
"Oh, well!" she looked slyly up into her husband's face. "Connie's not a bad sort as men go, and I'm game to take a chance."
"Isn't she the best ever?" Cosden cried proudly. "I'm strong for the Benedicts and the Benedictines! Hurry up, Monty,—go and do likewise!"
They were off like a whirlwind, then all returned to Hamlen on the piazza. The two boys had stayed with him while the farewells were spoken at the door. Billy felt a bond of sympathy at last, for he too had suffered from the perfidy of woman! Philipwas genuinely fond of Hamlen, and the older man clung to his friendship with even greater tenacity since this return to his normal condition.
"We are talking war," Hamlen explained to Marian as they returned to him. "These boys are eager to see what is going on over there."
"So we've heard," she replied, smiling indulgently. "They have presented the case to us from as many angles as a certain manufacturer has varieties of pickles."