Part 15

"Your age!" Cosden determined to overpower the surprising obsession. "The idea of talking age at forty-five! Out with it, man! Tell me what has taken hold of you. I've left you too much by yourself lately, and it hasn't been a good thing for you."

"That's it, Connie," Huntington smiled weakly. "You mustn't do it again. First you take the heart out of me by declaring that you are going to get married, then you cheer me up by becoming normal again, and lastly you neglect me just as if you had taken the fatal step after all."

"That's better," Cosden said, rising from his dessert and putting his arm around his friend's shoulders. "Come on up-stairs and we'll gossip over our cigars like two old cats. It won't be long before we can get out on the links again, and then you'll forget that you have any age at all. Age! the idea! Why, Monty, you and I have only just begun to live!"

Arm in arm they walked slowly to the library in silence, but each one wondered at the new characteristic he had discovered in the other. Huntington was touched by Cosden's show of affection, the first time he had ever seen it manifested; Cosden marveled at the first break he had ever seen in his friend's self-possession. However easy-going Huntington might be, he always held himself well in hand; and Cosden envied him this trait. Huntington knew Cosden to be kind-hearted, but believed him to consider any outward demonstration as an evidence of weakness. The mutual discovery, surprising as it was, drew them closer together, and each realized that whatever had been the means a change had come in their relations which placed their friendship on a higher plane.

"There's something deeper in this than appears on the surface," Cosden declared insistently as he held the light for Huntington and then lit his own cigar. "You said down-stairs that we both got out beyond our depth at Bermuda, and perhaps you meant more than I realized. Then, when we met the Thatchers, it developed that you and Mrs. Thatcher had known each other years ago. Now, tell me, is there any association between these two ideas, and is this by chance the explanation of the changed Monty I find here to-night?"

Huntington did not reply at once. He was annoyed with himself that he had uncovered so much of his heart, and he had been pondering how to extricate himself from the delicate position. Under no circumstances must Cosden or any one else know how deep an impression Merry Thatcher had made upon him. The first duty he owed to her was to stand before the world simply as a devoted, older friend; his duty to himself was to prevent his associates from discovering how many kinds of fool he was to permit any such ridiculous condition to arise as that which at present existed. Now Cosden had unconsciously shown him the way out.

"Yes, Connie," he replied calmly; "there is an association which may be made of those ideas, and since you have spoken of it I will ask you to stand by me at the finish. There is something I have intended to do ever since I came home, but I lacked the courage; now you have given it to me."

Huntington rose abruptly, and crossing to the opposite side of the library he lifted the little mahogany table which stood there, placing it before the fire in front of the easy-chair from which he had just risen. Then he seated himself, and taking from his pocket the key to the small drawer he turned it in the lock. Cosden watched him with an interest far deeper than curiosity, for he felt from his friend's manner that the turning of the key unlocked something within him which until that moment had been closely hidden.

"It will be better to get it out of my system," Huntington said finally, after bringing all the accessories together.--"You never knew of my romance, did you?"

"Never," Cosden acknowledged; "I supposed you were the one man who had passed through life unscathed."

"I couldn't have told you of it before because you wouldn't have understood, but now you will appreciate matters better if you know the facts.--Do you remember my surprise when you first mentioned the name of Marian Thatcher?"

"Why, yes; you asked if she was a widow."

"Exactly. Mrs. Thatcher was Marian Seymour when I first met her, my senior year at college. There is no need to go into particulars; the fact remains that I was hard hit.--Look at these!"

He pulled out the drawer and laid the various exhibits on the top of the table. Cosden leaned forward and gingerly lifted the long white glove, looking into Huntington's face with a curious expression as he did so. Huntington met his gaze squarely, nodding his head in affirmation of the unasked question.

"What's this?" Cosden demanded, laying down the glove and picking up the slipper.

"You see," was the unabashed reply; "it went as deep as that. Laugh if you like; I sha'n't mind. We'll clean up this whole business to-night, and the more ridiculous you make it the shorter work it will be."

"I would have laughed a month ago," Cosden admitted; "but, as you say, I understand some things now that I didn't before. Every man has a right to a romance, and he's entitled to have it respected."

"Thanks, dear boy; but romances don't belong to five-and-forty, and this farce has gone far enough. Now we'll watch it go up in smoke, as most romances do. But first let us pay it befitting honor."

Dixon appeared in response to the bell.

"A bottle of Moet & Chandon, '98," Huntington ordered.

During the time required by Dixon the two men puffed silently at their cigars. Huntington feared lest some inopportune word might disturb the success of his stratagem; Cosden, believing that he was witnessing the final act in the tragedy of his friend's life, respected the solemnity of the occasion.

"Now, Connie," Huntington rose with the glass in his hand, "I ask you to drink to the dearest girl in the world, past, present and future,--to Marian Thatcher, God bless her!"

"To Marian Thatcher--God bless her!" Cosden repeated after him; and Huntington turned away to chuckle to himself that he had paid homage to the reality while his friend believed him to be giving tribute to the figment. He blessed the figment for bestowing her name upon the reality!

"Now for the renunciation," Huntington said solemnly, and one by one he laid the long-cherished trophies upon the fire, watching in silence their reduction to the elements. His success filled him with a spirit of bravado. The opportunity might never come again.

"Once again, Connie old boy!" he cried.

He held out his disengaged hand and grasped Cosden's as he lifted his refilled glass.

"To Marian Thatcher--God bless her!"

Cosden still held his glass after his friend placed his on the table.

"Would it seem a sacrilege if I asked you to join me in a toast?" he asked, with an unnatural hesitation in his voice.

"Why,--no," Huntington said wonderingly. "Fill up the glasses again."

Then he held his high, waiting for his friend to speak.

"To Edith Stevens," Cosden finally blurted out,--"God bless her!"

"Edith Stevens!" Huntington almost choked in his surprise. "You don't mean--"

"I don't know what I mean," Cosden admitted, blushing furiously; "but I miss her like blazes, and I'm either in love or else I'm suffering from a new disease the doctors haven't named!"

* * * * *

XXIII

* * * * *

The letter postmarked "New York," announcing Hamlen's arrival, did not take Huntington by surprise, but it fulfilled his expectations sooner than he expected. The desirability of making certain changes in investments, the letter explained, made it necessary for Hamlen to come to the States, and if his classmate's invitation to Boston still held good he would be glad to avail himself of the opportunity to renew their friendship.

This announcement found Huntington in the introspective mood which had alarmed Cosden, and suggested a comparison in which he placed himself under the microscope for a mercilessly minute analysis. Hamlen was convinced that he had made a failure of life, but what had he, Huntington demanded of himself, accomplished which could entitle him to claim success? He had not separated himself from his fellow-men, it was true, he had been a decent citizen, performing such duties as came to him with faithfulness and ability,--yet what had he really contributed to the community or to the life in which he lived which made it better because he had been a part of it? He had created nothing, nor even made an effort to create. No painting bore his signature; no volume added his contribution to the world's knowledge on any subject; no philanthropic or business enterprise owed its inception to his initiative; no child of his was growing up to bear its share in the struggle of to-morrow or to bless his memory for parental sacrifice and guidance. Hamlen at least had given himself to the world in the wonderful volumes which would live after him, even though their creator's identity never was disclosed. Hamlen at least had made the flowers and the shrubs of his island estate bear witness to the power within him which refused to be restrained; but Huntington's labors, if he could dignify them by so serious a name, had been perfunctory at best. He was rich in the world's goods and in human friendships, he was respected by all who knew him. For what? he demanded: because his grandfather and his father before him had created, and had played their part so well in the developing life of the city of their birth that a luster had been given to the family name. His virtues were wholly negative; his was a reflected glory and undeserved. The position in the community which Huntington knew himself to occupy, and the fact that Hamlen, because of his exile, would be considered to have forfeited his position, struck him as a commentary on the value of popular esteem and the lack of proportion in accrediting to each individual what was his proper due.

Hamlen had nothing to his credit in the columns where Huntington scored heaviest: he was a poor citizen in his relations to those around him; he took no part in making others happier for his companionship or stronger by his example; his life had always been pointed inward, and yet, even with the limitations needlessly imposed upon it, there had been something within him, which Huntington had never felt within himself, great enough and strong enough to rise superior to these limitations, to burst the bonds by which Hamlen had sought to hold it back, and to force the expression of its own individuality! There, at least, was something positive; and yet the world would have called Huntington a success and Hamlen a failure! "We have torn off the bandages too fast," Huntington had complacently told Hamlen on that eventful first visit. Was it not presumption on his part when until now his own vision had been equally restricted? Huntington's first impulse was to make a frank admission, when Hamlen arrived, of the wide divergence between what people credited to him and what his real position ought to be; then he realized that his friend needed some one to look up to. He must, for a time at least, accept the position, however ironical it seemed; but he felt himself an impostor and a fraud.

Since his return home Huntington had been more than ever grateful for the diverting influence of Billy's irresponsibility, and he encouraged him to come frequently to the house and to bring his friends with him. He would not have believed that a two months' absence could produce so momentous a change of his entire viewpoint. The calm tranquillity in his mental equipoise was seriously disturbed, and he welcomed anything which took his mind off himself and his personal affairs.

He had urged Billy to bring young Thatcher in to dine with him, for in view of what Marian had said he hoped that Hamlen and the boy would make good with each other when once they met. Thus far Billy had always selected an evening when Huntington was engaged, but with the certainty that Hamlen would soon arrive a special effort produced a mutually convenient date, and the two boys appeared eager for their dinner and obviously ready to be entertained.

Philip Thatcher carried himself better than his friend, and seemed older. His work on the crew had developed his frame and given him a poise which does not come to those college students who watch athletic sports from the side-lines. He had represented his university in competition, and this responsibility showed itself to his advantage. Those same "animal spirits" which gave Billy his boyish manner found a natural outlet, in Philip's case, during the hours of physical athletic training. His face was more his father's than like Mrs. Thatcher's; yet at times Huntington discovered expressions or mannerisms resembling his sister, which was enough to add to the interest he had already taken in the boy.

"Hello, Uncle Monty!" Billy announced their arrival. "We've come in to eat ourselves out of shape."

When this operation had been performed, and the coffee period took them back to the library, Huntington settled down to the real purpose of the evening.

"Philip," he said, "there is a man coming to visit me next week whom I want you to know and who wants to know you. He is an unusual character. I wish you would show him something of what Harvard life is to-day, and when you get acquainted tell me what you think of him."

"I should be glad to meet any friend of yours, Mr. Huntington," the boy answered.

"He has a greater claim on you than simply as my friend," Huntington continued. "He was also a friend of your mother's, years ago, and while we were in Bermuda he showed us all a great deal of attention. He lives there."

"You mean that Hamlen chap?" Billy asked. "Is he really coming here? He's a dead one!"

"Don't let Billy's remarks prejudice you, Philip," Huntington urged. "Hamlen is a classmate of mine who has passed through some unfortunate experiences. He has lived by himself ever since he graduated, seeing hardly any one, and he will find much that is unusual when he returns to Boston and Cambridge after his long exile. He is a real man, Philip, and I want you to help me bring him back into the present again. Will you do it?"

"I'll try,--gladly," was the hearty answer. "It sounds like a pretty big contract, but if I can really help I shall be glad to do it."

"I know you will," Huntington said; "I was sure of it."

"Why don't you ask me?" Billy demanded. "Why go out of the family?"

"You may come into it later, but I want his first impressions to be favorable."

"Stung!" Billy cried, laughing. "But I don't care. I don't care what happens now, for Phil has asked me to spend the Easter recess with him in New York, and I shall see Merry again."

"So it is still 'Merry,' is it?" Huntington asked, looking at him with an expression which any one other than a boy would have noticed. "By this time I thought there might have been a dozen others."

"Merry is still the one best bet," Billy insisted. "Phil here doesn't know what a cinch it is to have a sister like that."

"I believe it's because of Merry that you like me," Phil declared, half seriously.

"Well," Billy said guardedly, "it may have been the fact that you were her brother that first attracted me--"

"Why, you never saw her until we'd known each other several months--"

"We were acquainted before that," was the admission; "but I really came to know you after you introduced me to her. That, Phil, was the best thing you ever did. It was after I met Merry that I discovered that you were the finest old scout in the world."

"You make me tired!" Philip answered disgustedly. "I never saw any one so crazy over a girl. There are lots of other things in the world, Billy, besides girls. I'd hate to think of getting engaged up and having to train around with just one girl all my life."

"That's because you can't marry Merry,--she's your sister."

"I don't make any exceptions,--Merry's just a girl, like the rest of them."

"You don't appreciate her, that's all."

"Oh, Merry is all right, of course. She and I have always been good pals, and we've played together like two boys. She'd make any one a good wife if he didn't mind being bossed."

Huntington listened to the tilt between the boys with amusement, and yet with a real feeling of envy. What riches these youths possessed with life all before them, its mysteries still unexplained, its illusions still unshattered!

"I thought your sister the finest girl I ever met," he said to Philip, curious to see what response the boy would make.

"Oh, she wouldn't show that side to you," Philip replied; "it's only with people her own age."

Huntington winced. There it was again, and again he had brought it upon himself! To these boys he seemed an antique fossil of humanity, entitled to respect and veneration! He must appear the same to her. "People of her own age,"--of course, that was the natural thing as it would appear to any one. Again he cursed himself inwardly for being fool enough deliberately to open up the wound.

Billy was delighted to hear his uncle's comment on the girl, and beamed contentedly.

"You see, Phil," he said, "even Uncle Monty noticed what a corker she is, and usually he never looks at a girl twice. Uncle Monty is a cynic on marriage, a woman-hater and all that sort of thing. Yet even he noticed Merry."

"Don't say that, Billy!" Huntington protested with unusual vehemence.

"But you are," the boy insisted. "The last time I dined here with you and Mr. Cosden, before you went to Bermuda, I heard you tell him that many a married man who seemed contented was only resigned."

"That doesn't mean that I'm a 'woman-hater'; I won't stand for it! Be careful what you say!"

Billy looked at him in amazement. It was a rare thing to see his uncle ruffled.

"I beg your pardon, Uncle Monty," he apologized. "I didn't intend to bump any one's feelings. Truly I wasn't joshing at all,--I thought you meant it! But I'm glad you didn't, for now you'll be more sympathetic with me, and you can help me a lot."

"All right, boy," Huntington said soberly. "I know you didn't mean anything by what you said, but marriage is a mighty sacred thing and you ought not to speak lightly of it."

"How's Mr. Cosden?" Billy asked, eager to get the conversation onto safer grounds.

"Well and happy; he dined with me last week."

"Say, but he can ride a bicycle!--What did he have against me down at Bermuda?"

"He said you covered too much territory."

"I don't see where I got in his way, but he was forever butting in on Merry and me. And the way he hustled me off in that little speed-boat! I never had any one take such an interest in my getting back to college on time! That must have cost him quite a bit of kale. I can't understand it."

"It was because he is so good a friend of mine," Huntington explained. "He saw a youngster down there who flopped around like a big St. Bernard pup"--Huntington was gratified that his memory still retained Merry's simile,--"and he served the best interests of his friend by keeping you from making a mistake on your latest flop. Doesn't that clear things up?"

"As clear as mud," Billy grunted. "I guess I need one of those glass-bottomed boats they use down there to see the spinach and the gold-fish. I could see the gold-fish all right, but the spinach was on me.--That reminds me, Uncle Monty, will you lend me a hundred dollars?"

"For what, this time?"

"I want to lend it to Phil,--he's broke because his father has cut down his allowance."

"Billy!" Philip cried aghast; "I told you that in confidence. I wouldn't think of borrowing money from Mr. Huntington."

"How in the world do you expect to get a hundred dollars out of me unless I land Uncle Monty for it?--and he asked, 'for what?' You heard him."

"It's all right, Phil," Huntington said reassuringly. "Billy doesn't have any secrets from me because he can't keep them. I would much rather lend the money to you than to him."

"That isn't fair," Billy protested. "Phil is sure to pay it back, and I need it."

"I don't know what has happened," Philip explained without paying any attention to what his friend was trying to say, "but all of a sudden Dad wrote that I must cut my expenses in two. That's a hard thing to do in a minute, and I don't see why I should do it anyway, for Dad has all kinds of money."

"These are hard times in Wall Street, my boy," Huntington answered him, "and many a rich man's son has to cut his corners. If your father has written you that I advise you to follow his instructions. He isn't a man to say it unless he means it.--I'll gladly help you out while you're getting adjusted."

"Thank you, Mr. Huntington, but perhaps I won't need it. Even cut in two my allowance is bigger than most of the boys'."

"Fathers are so inconsiderate," Billy yawned; "very few of them understand their sons."

"A paraphrase of the old saw, Billy," Huntington commented. "To-day we would say that it is a wise stock which knows its own par."

"Or a wise corn which knows its own popper," laughed Billy.

"Or a wise beast which knows its own fodder," Philip added,--"now we're all even!"

"Speaking of fodder," Billy said, showing renewed signs of life, "let's go down to the Copley-Plaza and get something to eat."

"After the dinner you ate?" Huntington demanded.

"That was over two hours ago, and I'm as hollow as a tin can. Come on, Phil."

"You can't be serious, Billy," insisted Huntington.

"I sure am. Whenever I get a real square feed I have a pain, and to-night I've felt perfectly comfortable."

"All right, go on if you feel that way," his uncle replied. "Take him away, Phil, and let him stuff himself until he has a pain! I'll let you know when Hamlen arrives, and then I'll count on you to help me out.

"Better include me," Billy insisted.

"The next time I ask you to dine with me, young man, I'll thank you to get filled up at the hotel first!"

* * * * *

XXIV

* * * * *

The Stevenses, brother and sister, lived together in the old family mansion in Washington Square. The income from the property left behind by the elder members of the family would have been ample if Richard had contributed even a modest amount as a result of his daily exertion; but as exertion had never proved one of Ricky's strong points, except in opposition to his sister's efforts to bully him into business, Edith was forced to practise many economies to make the divided sum serve her requirements.

"If you ever showed half the ability after you got into business that you do in keeping out of it, you'd make a howling success," she told him; yet in spite of her perennial resentment she made many personal sacrifices to enable her brother to lead his aimless existence. They were a curious combination of selfishness and generosity, each going to extremes in both. Each criticised the other in unstinted terms, yet underneath it all lay an affection which would have carried either through fire and brimstone had the other required it.

Richard Stevens still kept up his social activities, but Edith moved in a smaller and quieter circle made up of old-time friends. She knew she could not compete, in these days of extravagant entertainment, and unless she could repay her social obligations in kind she preferred not to accept. She could not have everything she wished, so she selected what she believed contributed most to her happiness and peace of mind. All this had been carefully considered, and having been thus settled she philosophically accepted conditions as they were. She exacted much from her brother by way of attention, and he responded willingly, still finding ample leisure outside her demands to live his own life in a manner which satisfied himself.