Part 10

"The proposition to have a line of cars run here is so obvious that there must have been powerful objections to obstruct it all these years," Cosden answered, quite content to await Thatcher's pleasure in resuming the main topic of their conversation.

It was a beautiful clear, cool morning, and the sea at their left sparkled brilliantly in its sapphire splendor. To the right of the carriage road were attractive cottages, overgrown with blooming _bougainvillea_ or other less spectacular foliage. Every now and then a more pretentious mansion appeared, built on some elevation which commanded a view of the water on either side, and surrounded by heavy clumps of cedar and fan-leaved palmettos. Frequently the road passed between high walls of solid coral limestone, from the crevices of which the ever-decorative Bermuda vegetation showed scarlet, orange and purple blooms against the green.

"There must be something more than sentiment," Thatcher commented. "I suspect that we shall uncover some large personal interests here which have been strong enough to protect themselves--"

"And find concealment behind the convenient screen of sentimentality," completed Cosden.

"Exactly. I wouldn't spend any time on it at all except that it seems so important to the people themselves."

Cosden laughed so spontaneously that Thatcher looked up quickly, trying to grasp the unintended humor in his last remark. His companion was hugely amused and made no effort to conceal it.

"Well?" Thatcher interrogated good-naturedly; "aren't you going to let me in on it?"

"It's funny, that's all," Cosden replied; "but it's perfectly good business either way you work it. Simply a question of how you sit when you have your picture taken."

Thatcher's face demanded further explanation, but before Cosden spoke again by way of enlightenment his amused expression disappeared, and he became serious.

"I don't know as it is so funny, after all," he said. "When you spoke of being interested in this trolley scheme principally because it was so important to the people, I couldn't help thinking how inconsistent you were."

"Inconsistent?" Thatcher echoed.

"Suppose you owned that line of stage-coaches, and leased it out just as you do these machines. Then some men came along and proposed to build a trolley-line which would push the stage-coaches off the map. That's what our new machines will do to your old ones. In one case you're interested in the improved method because it is so important to the people; in the other you say, 'The people be damned.' But you're no different from the rest of us. Our so-called consistency is as full of holes as a sieve; but it's always the other fellow who sees it. We're too close to ourselves to get the perspective."

"I am relieved," Thatcher said. "If it is only a question of inconsistency I'll take a chance on holding my own. But sometimes we are not so inconsistent as we seem. The 'other fellow' thinks he has a joke on us when in reality he only sees part of the situation. This 'nefarious trust,' for example which you cite as a hideous illustration of grinding monopoly, took hold of an industry, twenty years ago, and brought system out of chaos, shouldered all the risk, taught manufacturers how to make money out of their business, and enabled small factories to become big ones by leasing them machines which they could not afford to buy. The trust has prospered, but so have the manufacturers. Who shall say that those who took the risks are not entitled to the rewards, or that the system introduced and developed by the trust was not as much in the interests of the people as this trolley-line we are proposing?"

"There isn't much of anything we can't prove if we argue long enough, is there?" Cosden retorted. "If I hadn't heard all that before, and if I hadn't seen the way the 'system' worked out, I should be almost persuaded. Some one told me once that there were two sides to every story except that of Cain and Abel, but I came across an Icelandic myth a while ago in which Abel was the murderer, and since then I've refused to believe anything until I know the other side. Probably the only way for you and me to agree on this question is for each of us to buy some stock in the other fellow's company."

* * * * *

XV

* * * * *

Edith had secured the necessary records for the victrola from the hotel office, and she and Cosden were alone in the ball-room ready for the first lesson in modern dancing. Cosden had never before noticed how enormous the room was, or how many of its windows opened onto the piazza, or how curious the average hotel guest is when a novice is about to be initiated into the mysteries of terpsichorean art.

"Pay no attention to them," Edith reassured him. "Those who know how to dance have had to go through it, and those who haven't learned are perishing for an opportunity. Listen!" she cried, as the music began. "Can you possibly make your feet behave when you hear that heavenly one-step? Look!"

Lifting her skirts gracefully above her ankles, Edith made herself a veritable part of the music, pirouetting up and down and around, while he watched her in mingled admiration and trepidation.

"There!" she cried, stopping before him; "it's perfectly simple, you see. Now, you try it."

"By myself?" he inquired.

"Of course," she laughed. "How else can you learn?"

"All right," was the dubious assent; "but don't you think we might pull those curtains down?"

"Nonsense! You might as well start in,--you couldn't look more foolish than you do now."

"All right," he again assented, and took his place on the floor.

"Now, left foot forward--one, two, three, four. No; left foot, I said. That's it. Now rise a little on your toes. Don't be so heavy, and for Heaven's sake look as cheerful as you can!"

"This is awful!" Cosden ejaculated, mopping his forehead. "Don't you think it's too warm a day to begin?"

"It isn't warm; it's really cool, and you haven't begun to begin yet. Now start in again. Left foot,--left I say, one, two--oh! that miserable victrola has stopped!"

"Let me wind it up," Cosden insisted quickly, glad of the opportunity to struggle with something tangible.

"Now we'll try again," Edith said amiably. "This time get started before the music runs down. Watch me just a moment. There,--now you know what to do. Left, dear man, left,--not right, and rise on your toes, one, two, three, four. Why don't you pay attention to the music?"

"I think I could learn better without the music. It throws me off."

"Move with it; then it will help you."

"I can't; it mixes me up."

"Don't you feel any impulse to move your feet when you hear that music?"

"Yes; I feel an inordinate desire to run out of the room."

"But, seriously, doesn't the rhythm of that one-step make you instinctively want to dance?"

"Not the slightest. I never wanted to dance in my life until now, and only now because you tell me that it's part of the game."

"Did you ever play any musical instrument?"

"Oh, yes; when I was a boy I played the bones in a minstrel show."

"Well, there's a ray of hope.--Wind up the victrola again, and we'll start all over. You do wind it beautifully!"

"This is too big a job you've undertaken," he told her as they again stood facing each other. "Let's call it off."

"No, indeed," Edith protested. "It is only fair to say that you are not what would be called a natural dancer, but that will bring all the more glory to your instructor when once you've learned. Why, look at the tricks they teach animals! I'm not a bit discouraged, are you?"

"Are we down-hearted?" he echoed in a spirit of bravado.

"Not a bit of it; now we'll dance together, and I'll try to pull you around. There, put your arm around my waist,--that's right. Hold me closer,--don't be afraid. Imagine I'm your sister if it will keep you from being embarrassed. Left foot forward--ta, ta, ta, ta--that's better. No, let me lead. There, we can go forwards and backwards anyway, but you mustn't step on my feet. That's the first thing to learn,--dance on your own feet."

"I beg your pardon--"

"That's all right; I don't mind it at all. But when we stop dancing, you know, you must take your arm away from my waist. How quickly you overcame that early embarrassment!"

"I don't intend to give you another chance to suggest that I'm afraid," Cosden retorted. "I may not know much about girls or dancing, but if you think I haven't nerve enough to put my arm around your waist,--well, it's up to me to demonstrate."

"You bold, bad man!" Edith pointed her finger at him in mock-reproach. "I sha'n't dare go on with the lesson until I've forgotten your threatening attitude! Now let's see if a little turn on the piazza won't give us courage to continue."

Cosden assented with alacrity. "Splendid notion!" he exclaimed; "that will give me a chance to cool off."

"You are warm," she admitted, looking him over critically and noting that his collar was completely wrecked. "You must read the Polite Book of Dancing Etiquette--"

"Oh, Lord!" Cosden groaned.

"You will find there many useful suggestions which will add to your popularity with your partners. For instance, it tells you that when overheated by the exercise you should stand erect and throw your chin out; then the perspiration will run down the back of your neck and be less noticeable.--Come now, see what a light Bermuda breeze will do to cheer you up."

Edith was well pleased with the results of the first lesson. She had felt some misgivings, for Cosden was the most masterful man she had ever met. If this masterfulness could not be broken down, then her plans could not be carried out; but she recalled the fact that Henry Thatcher, so pliable in his wife's hands, was spoken of as dictatorial and self-confident in his business relations. If this was true of Thatcher, it might be equally true of Cosden, and the experiment was well worth trying. In the hour just past Edith had proved her sagacity to herself. Cosden explained his present docility by saying that he always obeyed his doctor's orders; Edith had discovered in that brief time two facts unknown even to himself: that his confidence came only from a knowledge of his own strength, that in treading new and unknown paths he was not only willing to be led but accepted guidance gratefully.

After this important discovery, she intuitively came to a better understanding of the man. "Men know more than they understand, and women understand more than they know," some one has tritely said. Edith Stevens was a woman, and understanding was enough; she did not crave to know. When Cosden stated so flatly, "I always get what I go after," she had thought him a tactless braggart, who deserved to be shown his place; now, with this new light thrown upon his character, she understood his remark quite differently. The man knew but one way to accomplish his purpose, and that was to go directly at it, head-on, overpowering opposition by the force of his momentum. In his beginnings, Edith surmised, he had not always felt so confident, and these bold assertions were made partly to give himself additional courage and partly to conceal from the world the existence of any doubt as to his ultimate success. What had been first a policy became a habit, and if Edith were correct in her analysis Cosden was at the present moment repeating his early experiences.

* * * * *

Time in Bermuda cannot be figured by calendar days. Whether this is due to the evenness and perfection of the temperature, which so satisfies the physical demands as to eliminate all desire for change, or to the natural beauty which exorcises those sordid demands life elsewhere compels, it would be difficult to determine; but the fact remains that except for the sailing of the little steamers a week is like a long, delicious day, with the nights a passing incident,--a curtain drawn for a moment to deprive the vision of its wondrous panorama, lest the spirit become satiated and thus less appreciative.

More than a fortnight had passed since Billy Huntington's spectacular departure, yet no one suggested that vacation days were drawing to an end. It was Thatcher who found least to occupy him, yet even he had fallen beneath the spell and was content to drift. By this time Marian was fully convinced that a match between Hamlen and Merry was foreordained, and that her mission was to drag him forth from his exile; but she was not satisfied with her progress in either one of her self-imposed labors. Hamlen was a changed man since the new companionship came into his life, but whenever he was brought up against the question of leaving his retreat the old terror seized him, and he slipped back behind his defenses.

"I wish I might," said he to her one day, "believe me, I wish I might; but you don't know what you ask. The bitterness of my attitude toward the world has become an abnormal condition which you could not be expected to understand. Your visit here has tempered it--I know now that there are exceptions; but don't urge me against my better judgment. Let me remember this visit in all its happiness; perhaps its memory will enable me later to do as you suggest."

Huntington was no more successful in his efforts. His classmate listened to him patiently and showed a full appreciation of the friendly suggestions; but no promise could be exacted, and Hamlen seemed stronger than the combined forces against him. Yet, in spite of disappointments, Huntington was optimistic.

"We may not be able to take him with us," he admitted to Marian, "but after we are gone he will find this place unendurable. Time will be our ally."

Cosden's sudden intimacy with Edith Stevens mystified Huntington, but he welcomed it as a temporary respite. So long as Cosden was making no exertion to advance his interests with Merry, no more active effort could be expected from his friend. He asked no questions and Cosden vouchsafed no information, which on both sides marked a change in the relations of the two men.

Edith was equally mysterious with Marian, smiling sagely when her friend tried to draw her out; but she admitted or denied nothing. She faithfully performed her self-assumed duties, and Cosden lived up to his agreement to take the medicine his doctor prescribed. By this time he was able to pull through on the one-step and the canter waltz, but his great success was the fox-trot. This, he discovered without assistance, is danced in as many ways as there are individual dancers, so he developed an original "series" which gave him supreme satisfaction, since as he explained, no one could prove whether he or his partner was at fault when a mistake was made. Edith had long since given up all hope of having him follow the music, but he had actually learned the steps, and his persistency in pursuing with grim relentlessness what she knew to be an irksome duty could but win her respect.

In fact, she looked upon the result of her experiment with no little pride. Each afternoon the two might be seen on the ball-room floor, working away as if their lives depended upon it, with the Victrola repeating over and over the same tunes which, except for her own persistency, would have driven Edith mad. Always after the dancing lesson they promenaded the hotel piazza "to cool off," and their joint devotion to their undertaking was so assiduous that it became almost a feature of the hotel life. Edith's triumph came when Merry was called in to "assist" at one of the later lessons. Try as they would, Cosden and his new partner were at odds in each effort they made to dance together, while with Edith he succeeded passably well. In Cosden's mind there could be but one explanation.

"I always thought she knew how to dance," he expressed it after Merry left them alone. "How little you can judge of anything until you know how to do it yourself!" And Edith, wise person that she was, did not explain to him that this was the first time he had danced without her guiding hand!

Cosden had become dependent upon his chief adviser in other ways than dancing. He found her so sympathetic in listening to his problems and so helpfully intelligent in discussing them that he gradually confided to her more of his intimate affairs than he had ever shared with any one else. Ostensibly, she was adviser only in his affair with Merry, but it was a short step to extend her line of operations without having him realize that she was exceeding her contract. She explained matters which seemed subtle to him with such clearness, her counsels were so wise and her criticisms so fearless that Cosden's admiration was profound.

"You are a bit severe, you know," he said to her one day; "but I like it. The only reason I go to a specialist is because I know he understands his subject better than I do, and so I swallow what he tells me, hook, line and sinker. And you are a great success as an expert in your line, Miss Stevens,--you're all right."

Whereupon Edith courtesied gracefully and answered demurely, "Thank you, sir; I am glad I give satisfaction."

Thatcher and Cosden had carried the trolley proposition as far as lay within their power, and awaited a response from the Bermuda government before they could proceed. This threw Cosden back again upon his original purpose, to which he clung with a bulldog tenacity. Edith knew by this time that when his mind once settled upon a course diversion was an impossibility, so she encouraged rather than opposed him. She left Cosden's confidence in himself undisturbed while she encouraged his dependence, and complacently permitted affairs to take their course. Just when the master stroke would be delivered she could not tell, but she was prepared to have it descend suddenly at any moment.

The fortnight had given Huntington a new lease of life. His efforts to humanize Hamlen forced him out of his habitual course along the line of least resistance, and without analyzing his new sensations he found them to be agreeable. In addition to this Merry and he were boon companions now, and he discovered that the vivacity of a young girl was no less effective in making him forget his years than the noisier enthusiasm of his youthful nephew. Merry accepted her responsibilities with great seriousness, and discussed Hamlen's persistent obstinacy with Huntington from every possible angle. In fact, Huntington made a point of inventing new angles in order to prolong the discussions, and to supply the excuse for walks and drives which threw them much together.

As a result of their growing intimacy Huntington came to favor Billy's ambitions far above those of Cosden. He had not changed in his conviction that neither one of them was at all suited to the girl, but if it could be possible to hold matters in abeyance until the boy might be developed up to her, there would at least be much satisfaction to him personally if Merry could be kept in the family. Of course he must be loyal to his friend, but as Cosden seemed to be finding much pleasure in Miss Stevens' companionship his conscience did not suffer any twinges which were too painful to be endured.

But complacency is ever a forerunner of seismic upheavals. The days had repeated themselves often enough now for Huntington to regard their routine as practically fixed, and he was anticipating the usual quiet, after-breakfast smoke on the piazza, during which period he would discuss with Merry some new attack upon Hamlen's obstinacy, or some new trip during which the attack could be devised. This had seemed such a certainty to Huntington that Cosden's words were in the nature of a shock.

"Miss Thatcher and I are going sailing this morning," he announced.

"Eh--what? Oh, sailing--are you?" Huntington stumbled a bit before recovering himself. "It's a fine morning for that," he continued with decision.

"You've been doing better lately, Monty," Cosden complimented him. "At first I didn't think you were going to help me out at all, but for some time now you've been putting yourself right into it, just as I wanted you to. What have you to say about the girl now? She's all right, isn't she?"

"You don't mean that you're still serious in that direction--"

"Of course I am. Why should you think I had changed my mind?" Cosden interrupted. "I don't often do that, do I?"

"But you have hardly seen her."

"I've been biding my time, Monty, that's all, while Miss Stevens coached me up a bit. It's really a great game,--there's more to it than I thought."

"You are absolutely unsuited to each other."

"Why, Monty, I believe you're jealous!"

"Well, suppose I am?"

Cosden showed his amusement. "I would take that as a challenge from any one but an old cynic like you," he laughed.

Huntington failed to enter into Cosden's lightheartedness. "This is a serious matter, Connie," he insisted. "That little girl is too fine to have her name bandied like this. I give you warning right here that I step down and out on this proposition. I can't imagine a worse crime than to harness a high-strung, thoughtful, sentimental child like that to a human adding-machine like you, and I won't be a party to it."

The younger man realized at last that his friend was serious. He looked at him soberly for a moment, then he placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Is this all our friendship amounts to?" he asked.

"It is the greatest act of friendship I have ever been called upon to show you," Huntington returned. "You would be as wretched with her as she with you. I felt sure that you had come to the same conclusion, and I admired your good sense."

"Is there by any chance some deeper reason?" Cosden demanded pointedly.

"No, Connie," Huntington replied quickly; "don't be ridiculous! I am just as unsuited to her as you are. Why, I'm old enough to be her father! But somewhere there is a man who is meant for her and who is worthy of her, and I only hope that he will appear before any one persuades her into making a mistake.

"Don't you think her capable of taking care of that herself?"

"Frankly, I do. I don't think you have the remotest chance of interesting her."

"What has happened to lower me so in your estimation?" Cosden persisted, puzzled rather than resentful. "Our friendship dates back a good many years, Monty, and this is the first time you ever made me feel you disapproved of me. Does it mean--"

"It means that I'm proving my friendship now," Huntington interrupted, "by telling you an unpleasant truth. During this long friendship, which I never prized more highly than I do this moment, I have watched you work out your success, often against heavy odds. All this I have admired, Connie, but to win as you have done has been at a cost I had not realized until I saw you under these new conditions: it has kept you from developing those finer instincts which a man needs to guide him at a time like this."

"You mean romance, I suppose, and sentiment."

"I mean a sensing of the proportions and a respect for appropriateness even if it interferes with your preconceived plans. Your interest in this girl exists admittedly because of what an alliance with her will do for you: it will bring you closer to the group of operators of which her father is the head, she will preside with credit over your household, through her you may perhaps secure social advantages which now you feel are beyond your reach."

"Isn't all that legitimate?"

"Entirely legitimate, measured by laws of barter and sale,--but to my mind eminently improper when applied to Miss Thatcher."

As Huntington grew more and more intense Cosden's attitude gradually became normal again, and an indulgent expression replaced the serious aspect which his face had assumed as their conversation progressed.