Part 18

There was a new note of determination in his voice, but the dread was still there. "I do not want to marry Miss Thatcher, Huntington," he said slowly, with emphasis on every word; "yet unless you help me I shall do it. I cannot resist Mrs. Thatcher if she is determined to accomplish this. You spoke of logic and judgment when we talked of it before, but these are not enough. Marian is a wonderful woman. She believes that this marriage will be for our happiness, but I tell you, Huntington, it would be a tragedy for us both. I have never had but one woman in my heart, and any effort to dethrone that image would produce a condition for which I cannot hold myself responsible. That is what I fear, and you must help me."

"Of course I'll help you, my dear fellow," Huntington reassured him, "but are you not exaggerating Mrs. Thatcher's attitude? I can't believe that she will proceed further when she knows how you really feel."

Hamlen shook his head. "You have heard of men who lost their reason by being accidentally locked in a tomb overnight--think what it has meant to me to live with the specters of the dead for twenty years! As I look back, I wonder that I've held together at all! I'm not rational even now,--I know that; but I'm improving every day. What you have looked upon as an obsession, an eccentricity, has been a condition over which I have had no control, but through you I have been able to partially extricate myself. Mrs. Thatcher stirred the dead embers when she found me in Bermuda, and beneath them lay the smoldering flames which had slowly consumed my life. That I was able to hold them in check there gave me courage to accept your point of view, and I know that I have gained strength during these weeks I have spent with you."

"You are stronger in every way," Huntington said with decision. "If you were able to hold yourself in check then, you should now feel doubly safe."

"Perhaps," Hamlen admitted doubtfully; "that is why I don't follow my strong impulse to let you put me up at the Club. I want to test myself still further. Whenever Marian Thatcher's name is mentioned I feel such a confusion of emotions that I realize how far I am yet from being my own master. I must either conquer or else return to the old life."

"I'll stand by you--of course I will!" Huntington laughed, hoping to lessen Hamlen's apprehension by treating the subject lightly. "Keep the specters of the past back among the dead where they belong; don't let them stalk in your present in which you are just beginning to find what life really is. Mrs. Thatcher is a beautiful woman of flesh and blood and not an avenging Nemesis!"

"My God, Huntington! can't I make even you understand!" Hamlen cried out. "It is the fact that Marian Seymour is a beautiful woman of flesh and blood that the specter stalks! You who have never loved can't sympathize as I do with the aboriginal man who struck down whomever stood between himself and the woman he wanted, and carried his prize bodily to his cave. I boasted that these twenty years had given me opportunity for super-intellectual development, but instead I find myself controlled by almost primeval instincts. My respect for law is weakened, my regard for the rights of others seems stultified. This woman has been mine since we were boy and girl together, Huntington, and I want my woman! Before she broke the engagement my domination was too complete, for it made her fear me; when we met twenty years later it was she who dominated. Now, as I am coming back to myself, I feel my former power returning, and I know that if I chose I could compel a subservience of her will to mine. That is what I dread, for my exile has destroyed my sense of proportion. If I do not exercise my own strength then I must let her will be supreme, and that means that I shall marry the girl while I worship the mother.--Don't belittle my fearfulness, Huntington; it is a real thing to be reckoned with."

"Whether real or not," Huntington said kindly, "the fact that you think it so is enough. I shall not advise you nor urge you to do anything except what you yourself think wise, and so far as I can, whenever or wherever you wish it, I will help you."

This discussion left a deep impression upon Huntington. He had never looked upon Hamlen as a man of force, but rather as a visionary of nervous tenseness; yet this outburst showed a strength which would have carried his classmate far had it been properly directed. In spite of his present activities Huntington could see that Hamlen still lived much in his past,--the unconscious return to Mrs. Thatcher's girlhood name was evidence of that, his reference to the ghostly companions of his Bermuda life was equally convincing. What puzzled him was Hamlen's conviction that Mrs. Thatcher was determined to compel the suggested alliance against his will. This Huntington could not believe. She had expressly stated to him that it was only an idea to be acted upon in case it proved wise. Had Hamlen shown an interest in Merry, then undoubtedly Marian's influence would be exercised in his behalf; but surely a mother's heart would not be insistent in so serious a crisis! In this at least Hamlen's apprehensions carried him too far.

The opportunity to satisfy himself came to Huntington the day after his guests arrived. They had motored down the North Shore and back to the Club for lunch on a bright Sunday morning which seemed prepared especially to show Boston's environs off to best advantage; and as they strolled about the Club grounds he found himself paired off with Mrs. Thatcher.

The evening before had developed nothing of any moment. The two boys rushed in after dinner, completely monopolized the situation for such time as they were present, and then dashed off to keep a college engagement. Things were too "thick," Billy explained to Merry, to have a real visit. Thatcher seemed worn out and asked the indulgence of his host to permit his early retiring; Mrs. Thatcher was happy and complacent, rejoicing in the change she found in Hamlen and grateful to her ally for having brought it about; Merry appeared strangely quiet, but even if her presence had been wholly silent it would have seemed a benediction to Huntington, whose sentiments no one suspected, and on whom all depended for the expression of their individual purposes. Huntington smiled grimly to himself as he recalled Hamlen's matter-of-fact assumption that love had never entered into his life; he even questioned whether his friend's self-imposed restraint was more difficult than the repression of his own emotion!

After luncheon they walked out onto the golf links, Huntington and Marian finding a retreat in one of the thatched-roof shelters from which they could command an extended view on all sides. Thatcher and Hamlen had fallen behind, following Merry, who was eager to secure a better idea of the earlier holes in the course. Marian seated herself and then looked up into Huntington's face with an expression of complete satisfaction.

"It is simply wonderful!" she exclaimed.

"It is a fine course--"

"I'm not thinking of the course," she interrupted. "What you have done with Philip Hamlen is simply wonderful!"

"You must give your boy his share of the credit; his influence over Hamlen is no less than mine."

"I am glad my son could do something toward paying his mother's debt," she replied feelingly. "Now if you and I can complete the work I shall feel that restitution has been amply made."

"You refer to your daughter?"

"Yes; if I can see Merry married to Philip Hamlen I shall be blissfully content."

Huntington did not reply at once. He must be fair to this woman of whose determination he could now have no doubt; he must be fair to Hamlen, but above all he must be fair to the girl herself. Could he assume any position of impartiality? Would not each word really be a cry from his own heart, not against Hamlen but against any one who should create a barrier between himself and her? But Hamlen had besought his aid, so after all a responsibility existed, not of his making, which could not be shirked. He would meet the issue squarely with special care to eliminate himself.

"I regret to say that I cannot sympathize with that plan," he said deliberately.

Mrs. Thatcher looked at him in complete surprise. "I thought we agreed--"

"I have had greater opportunity to study Hamlen since we last talked."

She was genuinely distressed by Huntington's attitude. "I have set my heart upon it," she said firmly. "Through me his life was wrecked; it would be only justice if I helped him to find his happiness."

At that moment Huntington wondered how Marian Seymour could ever have attracted him. He had told Hamlen that the alchemy of a woman's heart was past his comprehension, but he had believed that mothers' hearts were all the same. He knew that Mrs. Thatcher was devoted to her daughter, yet her insistence appeared to him inexplicable and reprehensible. Had his companion been a man he would have told him so; under the present circumstances he spoke more guardedly.

"Being friends and allies, we should be frank in expressing our conviction," he explained; "this must excuse my otherwise unwarranted objections."

"You know Merry now. Don't you agree with me that her interest is in men older than herself?"

"Has she been consulted?"

Mrs. Thatcher flushed. "No," she answered; "I shall not speak to her until Philip Hamlen has been persuaded."

"You think she will acquiesce?"

"I am sure of it. She may not understand at first, but I am certain that she will feel as I do. Who could fail to see that he would be an ideal husband for her?"

"What would your life have been if you had married Hamlen?"

"But he has changed,--he has learned much from his experience."

"He is still, and always will be an abnormal personality," Huntington insisted. "Marriage, in my opinion, has no place in his life, and no woman could possibly endure his eccentricities. He can still find much to interest him among men, but I beg of you not to pursue an experiment which contains so many elements of danger."

"You put it strongly, Mr. Huntington."

"I feel it strongly; that must be my excuse."

Mrs. Thatcher was visibly affected. It was several moments before she spoke, and Huntington could see that she resented his attitude.

"You look at it wholly from a man's standpoint," she protested. "No one with Philip Hamlen's temperament can find the life he craves in companionship with men alone. Of course I respect your convictions, but you in turn must respect mine. I am so sure I am right that I cannot abandon the hope I have so long cherished. It will be more difficult of accomplishment without you, but if necessary I must carry it through alone."

"Forgive me, Mrs. Thatcher,--but are you not thinking of him and of your obligation more than of your daughter?"

"You surely don't think I would force Merry against her will!"

"Sometimes we leave one a free moral agent," Huntington said pointedly, "and at the same time bind him with chains stronger than iron by expression of our own desires."

The approach of Hamlen and Merry brought the unsatisfactory discussion to a forced conclusion, and Huntington rejoiced that it saved him from further expostulations. Thatcher had returned to the club-house to telephone, leaving Hamlen and Merry by themselves. Hamlen responded to Merry's spontaneous vivacity, and both were in the best of spirits as they walked toward the shelter. He was heavier now and it became him. The sallowness had left his face and a slight color appeared in his cheeks. The girl beside him, as always when enthusiastic, radiated happiness. Her companion could scarcely keep up with her as she half walked half ran up the slight incline.

"Look at them!" Mrs. Thatcher exclaimed, turning to Huntington. "Who are you to tell me I am wrong!"

Huntington was spared the necessity of reply for Merry had reached them. Mrs. Thatcher rose and strolled away by herself to relieve her overwrought feelings.

"Oh, for a golf-skirt and a bag of clubs!" the girl cried. "When may I play this adorable course?"

"To-morrow morning," Huntington replied promptly, "if my guests permit me to provide them with other entertainment. After to-morrow I must give you up to those most exalted of personages, the Seniors."

"I'd love to play this course," Merry said gratefully,--"but you're going over for Class Day, aren't you?"

"Yes; but we old grads don't count as against the Seniors. They are the heroes and we bend the knee. On Thursday we shall walk respectfully up to the graduating class, bow politely, and say, 'We who are about to die, salute you'!"

Merry laughed gaily. "Then, the next day, these heroes jump down off their pedestals, walk respectfully up to the old grads, bow politely, and say, 'Please give us a job'!"

"Don't be an iconoclast, Miss Merry," Huntington retorted. "These boys may be looking for jobs, but they are richer than any of us: they have youth, and life is before them."

"Grandpa!" the girl laughed mischievously.

"I sha'n't let you call me that!" he cried, really piqued.

"Then don't be so unfair to yourself!" she retaliated; "you are the youngest 'old' man I ever met!"

* * * * *

XXIX

* * * * *

It was with real regret the following morning that Huntington watched his ball drop into the cup on the eighteenth green. The round had been too perfect, the experience too enjoyable to come to an end so soon.

"Five down," Merry remarked. "That looks to me like a real defeat."

"I'm glad to find some game I can play better than you," Huntington replied banteringly. "I'm still sore over our swimming-races in Bermuda. But in all fairness I must admit that this course is built for a man's game, and the premium on the length of the wooden clubs was all that saved me to-day."

"You are generous,--but I acknowledge my defeat. Do we have to go home now?"

"There is at least an hour between us and the rigid convention of luncheon," Huntington answered. "Shall we spend it on the piazza?"

"It is much nicer beneath one of these great trees," she said, suiting her action to the word and sitting down upon the grass. "Come. Let us imagine that we're back in Bermuda again!"

Huntington seated himself beside her, still rebellious that their moments together were passing so swiftly. He had wondered how she would appear to him when he saw her again, half hoping to find that the charm of the earlier setting had exaggerated her attractiveness, half dreading an awakening. This would have simplified his problem, but it would also have robbed his life of the richness which had entered it. Even though he saw his course plainly plotted out for him, there was a delicious joy in knowing that there existed one who had awakened in him that which alone is best and without which no man's experience can be complete.

But his half-hope was not to be gratified nor his half-dread realized. The girl was different, but the intervening months had done their work well. She seemed older and more mature, yet this passing of the girl into womanhood had been accomplished without marring those characteristics which he had before admired. His eyes rested on her face longer than he realized, as these thoughts passed through his mind, but until she spoke he had no idea that she had noticed the closeness of his scrutiny.

"Well," she said smiling, "do you approve?"

He made no apology, for they understood each other too well, but instead accepted her question seriously.

"Entirely," he replied with an air of sincerity which forced the color into her face. "The expression of the mouth, the tilt of the head, the sparkle in the eyes,--all is perfection. But you suggested that we imagine ourselves back in Bermuda. For myself, I should not dare to try it, for it could never be the same."

"Should we want it to be?" she asked earnestly. "An experience repeated must have something added or it fails to satisfy. To be the same would bring disappointment. I've argued that all out with myself, so I'm sure I'm right."

"Why should you have done that?" he demanded.

"Because those were the most wonderful days I have ever known," she explained simply and without embarrassment. "I found myself wishing them back; then I realized that if I could have my wish gratified it wouldn't satisfy me. I was unhappy when I went down there for no reason in the world except that I couldn't seem to find my place. With all their love no one at home has ever understood me, and I had reached a point where I didn't understand myself. Then you gave me the chance to know Mr. Hamlen, and in what you said to him and to me I saw what happens when one has no anchorage. That was what had made me unhappy,--I was drifting horribly."

"You concealed it well," Huntington said. "All the time we were together I never suspected that you had a care in the world."

"That is a compliment to yourself," the girl answered. "With your optimism you draw out the best in every one. See what you did with Mr. Hamlen down there, and what you have done with him since! You are the most completely happy person I have ever met, and--don't scold!--I have tried to imitate you. I haven't been very successful yet, but I'm trying. Some time, when the supreme test comes, I shall accept it, and then you will see what your example has accomplished."

The sincerity of the girl's words made Huntington uncomfortable. At first it pleased him to discover how genuine was her respect, but as she continued he found himself embarrassed by the character she gave him.

"I shall begin to think myself somebody if you go on," he expostulated. "You are crediting me with attributes I don't seem to recognize."

"That is because they come so naturally to you," she explained. "You are happy because your life is spent in making other people happy. That is the lesson I learned."

"You were doing that long before I met you, and you are doing it now."

"No," she insisted; "it may have seemed so to you, but I was really trying to find happiness for myself, and because I was thinking of myself it didn't come. Since I returned home I've tried your plan, and so far it has worked splendidly."

"But the supreme test," Huntington asked,--"what is that to be?"

"Oh, I don't know," she answered with an effort to speak indifferently; "being a girl I suppose it will be my marriage."

"That should be the supreme triumph of your happiness rather than the test."

"I used to think so but I've changed my mind. I had a vision once of what I thought marriage ought to be.--We spoke of it in Bermuda, and you made fun of it, don't you remember? I'm convinced now that it was all wrong."

"You said that you would marry only a man who would let you contribute your share to the real life which you would jointly live."

"Yes," Merry answered consciously; "and you laughed at me! But you were right. I ought not to think so much of myself." She paused a moment. "The man I really loved probably wouldn't care for me at all," she continued soberly, her eyes averted. "If I am convinced that I can make the man I marry happy, then I am more certain of finding happiness myself. That is making a tremendous compromise with sentiment, but don't you think it more sensible, after all?"

"Then the supreme test, as I understand it, would be to marry a man you thought you could make happy whether you cared for him or not?"

Merry nodded her head in affirmation. A sudden suspicion came into Huntington's mind, and he looked at the girl curiously.

"Has your mother been talking to you upon this subject?" he demanded with more directness than he had a right to use.

"Why, no," she answered, showing her surprise. "She thinks me too indifferent to men; but we have never discussed the matter seriously because there has been no occasion."

Huntington was relieved by her words but her ideas were not reassuring. He started to tell her that she was entirely wrong, but he checked himself because he realized that differing with people had now come to be a habit with him. Two days before he had carefully explained to Hamlen how erroneous his convictions were only to discover that he himself had been in error. Yesterday he had differed with Mrs. Thatcher, and now he found his ideas at variance with Merry's. Instead, he lifted the girl's left hand, which rested on the grass beside him, and gently pointing to the third finger he looked earnestly into her deep eyes.

"Merry," he said calling her by her name for the first time, "when the moment comes for some man to slip a gold band on there I want you to remember what I tell you now. You have pictured me as an apostle of optimism and as the happiest person you know. I could tell you something about that, but instead I'll try to live up to your picture. But this much is gospel truth, and I want you to remember it: that gold band will stand as a symbol and the circle means completeness. It doesn't stand for sacrifice, or for supreme tests, or for anything of that sort,--it does stand for just what you saw in your 'vision.' A very wise person once said that marriage was either a complete union or a complete isolation, and he was right. My friends think me a cynic on this subject, but my cynicism is a result of the complete isolation I see every day in the lives of my friends. I want your marriage to be a complete union, little girl, and that can't come if you apply your present ideas to a sacrament so sacred that every-day principles become meaningless. Marriage is the merging of all that is beautiful in two lives, and unless the love on each side strives to outdo the other in contributing to the joint account, the beauty fades, and the gold circlet stands as a symbol of slavery instead of representing the most wonderful relation which mortals are permitted to enjoy."

"Mr. Huntington!" she exclaimed in a low tone, "I had no idea you looked upon marriage like that! I didn't believe any man did! It makes me have more faith in my vision. Still, after all, that doesn't change the fact itself, for you are the exception. But, feeling as you do, I know now that the only reason you are not married is that you have never found the girl."

Huntington looked full into her face before he turned his head aside. "I did find the girl," he answered with a depth of feeling in his voice; "but I found her too late."

"Forgive me!" Merry cried impulsively, convinced that she had torn open a concealed wound.

"There is nothing to forgive, dear child," he said quickly. Then with that smile which took the world in its embrace he added, "Don't waste your sympathy on me; life has already given me more than I deserve."

"I am so sorry," Merry replied soberly. "She must have been a wonderful girl to win such a love."

"She was," he answered.

* * * * *

XXX

* * * * *

Billy Huntington was the founder of an original secret organization called the "Club for Undesirables." Being the founder he was privileged to write the By-Laws, and these consisted of a single Article: "The members of this Club shall be elected by the non-members." Exercising his prerogative he had proposed, seconded and elected Cosden and others of his acquaintance who failed to attain the standards he demanded of those around him; and now he unanimously declared Mrs. Thatcher a member in full standing.