Part 22

"What's wrong?" Cosden asked. "Market gone to pieces?"

"It's hell,--nothing less," Thatcher answered, speaking with an excitement unnatural to him. "I left New York at four o'clock this morning. I've come to you, Cosden, as a last resort. We've fought each other on every deal we've ever been in, so you understand how hard I'm pushed. If you're fixed so that you can put me next to a bunch of cold, hard cash, you can have anything I control at a fraction of its value. This is your chance to make your everlasting fortune if you can command the cash."

"You don't mean it!" Cosden exclaimed. "Are you caught as bad as that?"

"Worse than that. Securities are dropping out of sight. Germany will declare war inside of a week, and there is danger of other big nations becoming involved. If they do, God only knows what will happen to the money system of the world; it is strained already to the breaking-point. You may thank Heaven, Cosden, that your investments are not in speculative stocks! But we're losing time. I must get back by three o'clock. Is there any chance of pulling off my forlorn hope? If not, we'll close our doors to-morrow."

"Do you actually mean that, Thatcher?"

"Exactly that. I don't advise you to do this unless you're fixed so that you can carry things comfortably, for I tell you we're in for a crisis; but if you can, it's the opportunity of a lifetime, and by sacrificing my personal interests I can save my house."

"How much do you need?"

"Half a million, in cash. I'm that much short of what I must have to see me through. It might as well be a billion!"

"What do you offer for it?"

"Five million in Consolidated Machinery stock."

Cosden whistled and then became contemplative, while Thatcher waited eagerly for his reply. The hesitation in itself was encouraging, for it indicated that Cosden could raise the money if he cared to do it.

"As a matter of fact, Thatcher," Cosden said at length, "I've been laying my pipes for just this moment ever since the trouble began, and I'm fixed where I can handle it all right; but I don't quite like the proposition as it stands."

"Then make your own proposition."

"I've counted on having my available cash earn me something handsome, of course; but I don't think I'd enjoy my profits much if I got them by cleaning you out."

"We must forget friendship and all else at a time like this," Thatcher cried. "For God's sake, man, if you can do it, don't stand on any foolish sentiment! It may ruin me, but my house will weather the storm. I ask it as a favor."

"How soon must you have the money?"

"By to-morrow."

"All right; I'll give you drafts to take back to New York."

"Thank God!" Thatcher exclaimed feverishly. "And you'll take the stock?"

"No, I don't want the stock. Give me your note."

"But I haven't a dollar's worth of collateral to put up with it. Everything I own is pledged."

"Damn the collateral! The signature will be genuine, won't it? That's good enough for me."

"You advance it simply as a loan?"

"Of course. Now let's get the drafts fixed up, and you run back to New York and keep your finger on the pulse of the market."

"You're sacrificing the chance of your life, Cosden," Thatcher exclaimed. "Why should you do this for me?"

"I don't quite understand it myself," Cosden admitted; "but as long as I want to why not make the most of it? I might change my mind."

"And we've always said you were a hard man, Cosden!" Thatcher exclaimed with gratitude in his voice.

"I was once," he admitted; "but lately I've been getting humanized, and anybody can slip anything over on me. Now you trot back to New York and cable Willie Kaiser that I disapprove of his declaring war."

"You are a friend in need!" Thatcher grasped his hand cordially. "I'll run up for a word with Marian, and then back into the vortex. Keep your eye on the cable news, Cosden. Hell is breaking loose!"

As Thatcher rushed up-stairs Cosden relit his cigar which had gone out during the excitement, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked meditatively up and down the piazza. He was immensely pleased with himself, and felt entitled to his self-approval.

"Even old Monty couldn't have done that better," he muttered. "Good old Thatcher--I hope it pulls him through!"

"What's the matter with Harry?" Edith demanded in a stage whisper, appearing from nowhere.

"He forgot his umbrella yesterday," Cosden lied, speciously, "and he's afraid it's going to rain."

"Oh, you tantalizing brute!" she cried, stamping her foot indignantly. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man in the world!"

* * * * *

XXXV

* * * * *

Huntington's mind worked hard as he settled back in the motor-car and surveyed the situation. It was impossible for him to have been so intimately associated with Hamlen all these weeks without assimilating his friend's manner of thought and action accurately enough to follow him in this climax of his tragedy. Of his determination he had no doubt; that he had as yet put it into execution was another matter. Huntington believed that Hamlen would wish to see him once more before he visited upon himself the extreme penalty which his hypersensitive nature would decree.

It was shortly after noon when the car drew up in front of Huntington's home. Mrs. Thatcher, in her feverish efforts to assist, had suggested that the fugitive might have gone across to Newport to take the boat from there to New York; but Huntington figured it differently. Hamlen disliked and distrusted New York, while Boston had become a second home to him. His belongings, such as he had brought with him from Bermuda, were still in the Beacon Street house, and Huntington was sure that following the instincts of a homing pigeon he would return there by the straightest path.

Still, the doubt lingered with sufficient persistency to quicken Huntington's movements up the brownstone steps. As he let himself in, Dixon met him in the hallway.

"Mr. Hamlen,--is he here?" Huntington demanded.

"Yes, sir; he's up-stairs and very wild, sir."

"Wild?" Huntington queried. "When did he arrive?"

"Last night, sir, about ten o'clock. When I let him in he rushed past me and went up-stairs, sir. I followed him, thinking he might need something, but he turned on me and cursed me, sir. When I ventured to take him some breakfast he swore at me again, and told me to get out of the way. I'm glad you've come, sir. I was at a loss to know what to do about luncheon."

Huntington waited to hear no more, but mounted quickly to Hamlen's room and knocked gently on the door.

"Keep out, I tell you!" came a hoarse, guttural voice so unlike Hamlen's that it startled him. "How many times must I tell you to leave me alone!"

"It is I,--Huntington."

There was a sound of shuffling feet, the pushing back of a chair, and the door was flung open.

"I knew you would come to me!" Hamlen cried, extending his hand eagerly. "You are the one man on earth who would stand by me!"

"Of course; but you've given me a devilish shock, old man. Come down-stairs where we can talk things over."

"Yes, we must do that," he assented, following. "My only fear was that you might not understand, and would delay your coming. I couldn't have waited long."

"I came as soon as I learned the facts."

"I should not have doubted. Now let us sit down."

The real shock to Huntington was that so great physical change could take place within so short time. Hamlen seemed years older. His erect carriage had slackened, his face was sunken, his hands and body twitched nervously, and his eyes burned with a consuming fire. Pity filled Huntington's heart, and he leaned over and placed his hand on his friend's knee.

"You mustn't take it like this," he said quietly. "There is something to be said on both sides."

Hamlen looked at him with a wan smile. "I wish there were," he said; "but let us not speak of that. To you, at least, there is no need of explanation. I told you what I dreaded,--well, the worst has come to pass; that's all there is to it."

"No!" Huntington contradicted, determined that he should not bear all the blame; "there is much more to it than that. You and I are not the only ones who understand. Mrs. Thatcher instructed me to ask your forgiveness for her blindness. She understands, too, Hamlen, and she knows that she brought it on herself."

"Marian asks _my_ forgiveness!" he repeated stupefied,--"she asks me to forgive her?"

Huntington nodded.

He pressed his hands against his temples. "My God, man! Is the world all topsy-turvy! I forget my obligations toward my hostess, I am false to my responsibilities as a friend, I force myself upon a married woman whom in all honor I am bound to protect,--and she asks me to forgive her! You are mocking me, Huntington. It is unworthy of you!"

"It is the provocation she understands, Hamlen, and having unwittingly given it, she accepts the responsibility, as she should. I'm not sure that I myself am not the one to blame, for I knew better than she the forces held back only by your self-control. If I had been more insistent in my warning all might have been different."

"That may explain, but it does not condone."

"At least it mitigates. The beaver, innocently enough, undermines a dam in securing material to build its home, and the waters rush down to the destruction of the surrounding country. Surely you can't blame the waters! Nor can you seriously blame the beaver for not comprehending those natural laws of cause and effect.--Come, Hamlen, admit there's something in what I say, and realize that this is an accident rather than a tragedy."

Again Hamlen tried to smile, but the expression on his face failed to reassure.

"It would be well for me if it were you upon the bench," Hamlen said gravely. "The prisoner at the bar would receive far more leniency than he will from me! No, Huntington; I can admit nothing. I believed that I reached my lowest depth before I met you all in Bermuda. I believed my life was over,--a miserable, useless, lonely life if you will, but at least an honest one. Then you instilled hope into my dry bones. Judgment warned me not to listen to you, human weakness tempted me to make one further effort to redeem myself. I came to you here. Out of the bigness of your heart you gave me of yourself, you taught me what life really was. I acknowledge my debt, Huntington, and am grateful to you. Don't mistake that, my friend, in what I am going to say. The joy of the new experience lulled me into a sense of false security. I thought myself like other men, strong enough to hold the passionate love I have always borne that woman down, down where no one could ever see it. That was my arrogance, Huntington; for it, I am paying the price."

"She understands now if she never did before," Huntington reiterated. "She felt her responsibility for your lonely years, and in trying to atone made matters worse."

"It is not her place to protect me," Hamlen continued with conviction. "Take your own simile, with which you try to ease my sense of shame: even though the waters are not to be blamed, what do people do with them? Do they let them continue on their path of destruction? No, dear friend, your arguments are kindly meant, but untenable. I intend to put those waters where they will do no further harm."

Huntington's face set in determined lines. "So you will dare to assume the prerogatives of man and God?" he demanded sternly.

Hamlen had never seen Huntington in this mood, and his eyes shifted uneasily as they met the unflinching gaze of his friend.

"There will be no scandal, Huntington," he said quietly; "I shall not thus repay your royal hospitality. There are some matters I must turn over to you, and as my friend I know you will accept them. Then I will grasp your hand for the last time, thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me back the life I had abandoned, and pass on,--whither, it concerns myself alone."

"What are the matters you have in mind?" Huntington asked, hoping that some word of Hamlen's might give him inspiration.

"First, as to my property," Hamlen replied with returning confidence as his friend showed willingness to listen. "Here is my will." He drew a folded sheet from his pocket, on which he had written perhaps twenty lines. "Please look it over, and tell me if it is legally drawn when the necessary signatures are added."

Huntington took the paper, with difficulty focusing his mind upon the written words.

"Yes," he said, looking up at length; "this document is wonderfully simple and direct in its statements. The only possible attack upon it would be to raise an issue as to your mental status at the time you drew it up."

"Could any one question that?"

"Your later actions will determine," Huntington said significantly.

Hamlen laughed nervously. "Fortunately there is no one left who would have any interest to contest.--As I told you, the bulk of my property is now in liquid form on deposit in New York, which simplifies your work as executor. That, you see, I want to give to Harvard."

He paused for a moment and became meditative. "How little I thought, six months ago, that I should become a benefactor of the college I then despised! That is your work, my friend,--making me realize my obligation.--Hold on a minute: I want to add to that document! My bequest shall go to Harvard as the 'William Montgomery Huntington Foundation, given by a friend, the income to be used to foster larger acquaintance and closer intimacy amongst the members of each freshman class.' Make a note of that, will you? There may be other changes."

Huntington made the necessary notations. It was best to humor him until his entire plan was outlined.

"Now, as to the estate in Bermuda," he went on. "You see what I've done with it,--but have I been quite delicate? This whole affair, and its outcome, will be humiliating to that sensitive little girl, and this might be a constant reminder. I would like her to have it; she would appreciate my trees and my flowers,--their fragrance might help her to forget my grave offense. Then again, perhaps Marian would see in this act an effort on my part to atone. I couldn't leave it to her, but do you think the girl would understand my motive?"

"Better than any one I know," Huntington replied.

Hamlen seemed to have reached the end of his elaboration, and was silent.

"How soon is this remarkable document to become operative?" Huntington demanded.

"Six months from to-day if you do not hear from me to the contrary, or upon receiving proof of death."

"All right," Huntington rejoined with apparent complacency. "I'll have it drafted in proper form and you can execute it to-morrow or next day. Now listen to me."

Hamlen looked up at him anxiously. Everything was progressing so well that the new tone in Huntington's voice gave him apprehension.

"It is always well to have these matters provided for, and if you haven't a will it is time you drew one up. As to the disposition of your property, it is yours to do with as you like, and I appreciate the compliment you have paid to me. Up to this point I have no right to interfere."

Hamlen stiffened at the suggestion of interference. "There are limits," he said quietly, "even to the rights of a friendship such as ours."

"True; but we haven't begun to reach them yet. You acknowledge--don't you?--that you still have an obligation to our Alma Mater which is unsatisfied?"

"I think I have acknowledged that in a substantial way," Hamlen replied, surprised.

"What can you think of an Alma Mater which would accept money in exchange for the life of one of her sons? Do you consider her as mercenary as that?"

"When the son has forfeited his right to life--"

"Who are you to take upon yourself the judicial ermine, Hamlen?" Huntington said sternly. "You have years before you yet to devote to her welfare. If you are a man, fulfil your obligations during your natural lifetime, and then supplement your labors by the princely gift you have in mind. If you will insist on assuming all the blame for this regrettable affair, don't let it make you shirk your duty, but go at life again with an added incentive to pay your debt."

"You demand of me what is beyond my strength. I can't go on."

"That is cowardice, Hamlen.--Forgive the word," he added quickly as he saw the color mount to his friend's cheeks, "forgive the cruelty; but I must make you see yourself."

"It takes some courage to carry through what I have in mind," he protested.

"Not the slightest in the world," Huntington contradicted. "Just pull a wretched little trigger, pump half an ounce of lead into your diseased brain, and you think your troubles are over. I know the pleasures of this world, my friend, but I am entirely ignorant of those of the next. Let us take our chances on these when our time comes, not before. No, Hamlen, the easy thing is to side-step our difficulties here; it is the hard thing to stand up in our boots and say, 'Yes, I've broken your laws, I've outraged your sensibilities; but I'm going to atone for what I've done.' You have that strength, Hamlen, and I sha'n't let you pass it up."

"I'm sorry I waited for you!" Hamlen retorted sullenly.

"No, you're not; for you are an honest man." It was hard for Huntington to be brutal, but this was the moment when Hamlen must be forced to yield if at all. "You said a moment ago that I gave you back the life you had abandoned; then that life belongs to me. If you destroy it, you rob me of something which is mine, and that is theft. I don't care whether you agree with me or not, but I demand of you my property, on which you gave up your claim. If I leave it in your hands will you protect it for me, and deliver it to me when I am ready to make use of it?"

This was a new idea to Hamlen, and he could not meet it. He was only conscious that Huntington was taking full advantage of his influence over him, and was driving him on relentlessly. He shifted his eyes uncomfortably, and in them was bitter resentment.

"You leave me no alternative," he said helplessly. "For God's sake tell me what you want!"

"I don't know," Huntington admitted frankly; "but for the present give me your promise that you will stay here until I reach my decision. I must go back to Sagamore to relieve the anxiety of those who are suffering on your account. When I return I shall hope to have found the solution. Have I your promise?"

Hamlen leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

"You are too strong for me," he muttered. "I must do as you wish."

Huntington laid his hand kindly on the bowed head.

* * * * *

XXXVI

* * * * *

In spite of Mrs. Thatcher's watchfulness, Billy had seen Merry and met his Waterloo. Blissfully unaware of the momentous happenings about him, and determined to "get even" with "the Gorgon," the boy developed a plot of his own which was perfect in conception barring one important detail: he and Merry were to slip away in a motor-car, dash over to Fall River to a young clergyman he knew, have the knot tied before interference was possible, and then return to Sagamore Hall for the parental blessing. The question of license occurred to him, but that was a mere detail which could be arranged on the way over.

It was several days after this brilliant idea came to Billy before he found opportunity to take Merry into his confidence, but the more he thought it over the more strongly it appealed. The fact that she seemed even less responsive than usual did not discourage him, for girls, he had discovered, always act exactly contrary to their real feelings in affairs of this kind. The details were so absurdly simple and the outcome would be so eminently satisfactory that the possibility of failure became more and more remote. But, as the strength of any chain is determined by its weakest link, it was in this one omitted detail that Billy's plan slipped up; the idea did not appeal to Merry with sufficient force even to be given serious consideration.

As a matter of fact the boy could not have selected a less opportune moment for presenting his forlorn hope. Merry had reached that ecstatic height to which martyrs attain. Joan of Arc was no more zealous to sacrifice herself to save Orleans than was Merry to pay the debt of honor her mother owed to Hamlen. It may be that the Maid was influenced in her heart by other motives beyond the "heavenly voices" which are generally accredited; it may be that Merry was more susceptible to the "call" she believed had come to her for some reason other than a willingness for martyrdom,--but in both cases the sincerity of the response was too genuine to be questioned. Billy's infatuated wooing seemed to her like sacrilege, and his mad plan for elopement too ridiculous for discussion.

"Let us be friends, dear Billy," she said to him sweetly and gently,--"just friends, you and Philip and I. We'll always have the best of times together, help each other over the hard places, and sympathize with every sorrow which comes to any one of us."

"No!" he protested vigorously, kicking viciously at an inoffensive root protruding slightly beneath his foot. "Nix on this brother and sister game; there's nothing in it."

"I need you as a friend, Billy,--I need you this very minute!"

Billy pricked up his ears at the words and at the pathetic note in Merry's voice; but he did not intend to be caught off his guard.

"What do you mean 'need me as a friend'? Want me to run an errand for you? All right, off I go."

"No, Billy; I need your sympathy. We're old pals, and ought to stand by each other."

He looked at her with a dawning understanding.

"Merry," he said, with the conviction of one who has made a great discovery,--"you're unhappy!"

"Perhaps," she admitted; "I'm not sure."

"I knew it!" he declared with satisfaction. "You are unhappy and I know the reason why: you're in love with me without realizing it. You're fighting against your destiny and you don't understand what the trouble is. That's why you are unhappy."

"No, no, Billy; that isn't it."

"Yes, it is; you take my word for it. We'll just slip it over on the whole bunch, get married, and then you'll see. You'll be as happy as a lark."

"Oh! Billy, I do wish you'd be serious!"

"Serious? ha! I should say I was serious! And to show you how sure I am I'm right, I'll make you a sporting proposition: if our getting married doesn't shake your fit of blues then we'll call the whole thing off. What do you say?"

Merry laughed in spite of herself. "You certainly are the most impossible boy! You speak of getting married as if it were a set of tennis."

"It's easy enough to get a divorce. Why don't you take a chance? Come on, be a sport!"

When he found this wooing ineffective, Billy adopted the tragic _motif_. "Every time I think I've picked a rose," he declared disconsolately, "it turns out to be poison ivy; and here I am, stung again!"

It was unfortunate for Billy that Merry could never take him seriously. While the boy poured out his youthful protestations she was gentle and considerate, but her appeal to his reason proved futile because no such thing existed. Later, when alone, the absurdity of the situation gave her an outlet, and she laughed quietly to herself. Poor, dear, easy-going Billy! She would have spared him even these imaginary heart-pangs if she could, but the real meaning of life and its responsibilities was yet for him to learn.