Part 23

Constant in the purpose to which she had consecrated herself, Merry received her mother on that eventful morning with mind prepared to accept the supreme test. She had been standing at the window before her chamber door opened, looking out across the broad lawn to the wide expanse of water sparkling in the morning sun. She had watched a stately four-master sailing majestically by; she had watched the little pleasure craft, darting in and out as if playing at hide and seek. The great ship pursued its dignified course, following the track laid down for it by the mariner's chart; the frolicsome boats went hither or thither, whichever way the favoring wind filled their sails. The great ship by holding steadfastly to her course would eventually reach that port toward which she had set out, with her mission fulfilled; the little boats would return to the moorings from which they fluttered with no other purpose accomplished than the pleasure of the passing moment. Yes, Merry had told herself, it was purpose which counted. She had dashed out over and over again on brief excursions, but even her serious errands had been undertaken because they gave her pleasure. Unless the course be charted, unless the goal be predetermined, there could be no permanence, no majestic dignity to any performance. The time had come when she would permit no wavering. She would show her confidence in the experience of the older mariner, who had plotted out the chart, by following it without the semblance of a doubt.

"I'm ready, Momsie," she said brightly, turning toward Mrs. Thatcher,--"why, Momsie! what's the matter? It's all right, dearie. I'm sure we'll be very, very happy. I'm ready to see Mr. Hamlen whenever you say. It's all right, dearie."

Mrs. Thatcher sat down wearily, and Merry slipped to the floor at her feet, looking wonderingly up into her strained face. Marian leaned forward impulsively and kissed her, resting her cheek against the girl's face.

"My darling!" she said in a low, tense voice. "I have made a horrible mistake!"

The spoken words started a flood of tears which until then Marian had been able to restrain. The full weight of the responsibility again rushed over her. She had dared to interfere in two lives which should have been allowed to find their own expression, she had dared to pit her human judgment against Nature. What would be the final outcome? With Merry, she could not believe it would result in anything more serious than a further confusion of ideals, but with Hamlen she knew well how disastrous the effect must be. How could she make matters clear to this dear child when her own brain was so bewildered!

But when the tears had relieved the tension, and Marian felt the sympathetic encouragement of the heart beating against her own, the mother love, as always, rose triumphant over mental and physical limitations. During the next hours, amid confidences and revelations which enabled each at last to understand the other, mother and daughter experienced that rare communion which had been denied them, but which was theirs by right. The sacrifice Merry had been ready to make accomplished its purpose without necessity of execution; the sincerity of her mother's purpose became clear, and the girl discovered the natural refuge where she might always find relief from overpowering perplexities. When they went down-stairs together, with arms around each other, and strolled out into the rose-garden, there was a new meaning to the sunlight and to the fragrance of the flowers. Marian saw in it a promise that her morning supplication might not have been in vain.

* * * * *

The telephone message from Huntington that Hamlen had been located and that all was well relieved Marian's apprehensions, and left her with such thankfulness and joy that she was able to join her remaining guests in the day's activities. How all could be well she was unable to comprehend, for the shock to Hamlen's nature must have been too great for easy convalescence; but at all events the worst had not happened, and until Huntington returned no further details could be obtained. Merry, too, entered into the family life for the first time with any show of interest. Philip and Billy, who now alone remained of Philip's friends, annexed themselves in the absence of something better to do. Billy was still disgruntled, but his malady seemed to be located in his head rather than in the region of his heart.

Activity was an absolute necessity to Marian, so she announced that instead of the usual dinner they would picnic on the shore at a spot perhaps two miles distant from Sagamore Hall. Not that this required physical exertion for her, but it was a novelty which would prove diverting. As the sun sank low, the little party boarded the electric launch.

"Excuse me for asking, Marian, but where does the picnic come in?" Edith demanded, noting the total absence of baskets and bottles and the other usual paraphernalia. "I don't want to criticise, but I'm no air-plant."

Marian laughed, "Have faith," she replied. "A relief train is even now on its way to save you from starvation."

"Too bad for Huntington and Hamlen to miss all this," Cosden remarked, hoping to call forth some word of explanation.

"If you vote it a success, we may repeat it after they return," she answered evasively. "Perhaps then we can include Harry."

"That reminds me," Edith broke in, looking vindictively toward Cosden. "Perhaps you will tell me why Harry rushed down here like a lost soul and then back again to New York. Mr. Cosden is very mysterious about it, and my curiosity is aroused."

"There isn't any mystery," Marian assured her. "There were some papers he had forgotten to take."

"Why didn't he telephone me to bring them to him?" Philip demanded. "Why is it he won't let me go to the office, when he promised me I could help him as soon as college was over?"

Mrs. Thatcher looked at Cosden questioningly. "Is there anything more than Harry told me?" she asked him.

Cosden knew that Thatcher was still trying to keep his family in ignorance of the strain under which he was laboring. It was for him to give such details as he chose rather than for his guest.

"I don't know how much you already know, Mrs. Thatcher," he replied with apparent candor. "These are strenuous days in Wall Street, and no one can tell what is going to happen next. As for you, Philip, don't be impatient. This is no time to initiate a youngster into any business. War is breaking loose in Europe, and if Germany and England lock horns there will be something doing."

"War!" Philip cried. "Do you really think there will be a war?"

"The idea!" Edith sniffed. "Those little savage tribes in the Balkans may call each other names and throw things around, but Germany and England are civilized nations. How perfectly absurd!"

"If there is a war, I want to get in it," Philip insisted. "I've always wanted to go to war, and never supposed I would have a chance."

"I'll go with you," announced Billy with sudden enthusiasm, looking significantly at Merry as he saw the solution of his troubles. "I don't care what side I'm on or against whom I fight. Let's enlist together, Phil."

"You couldn't fight except for your own country, you silly," Merry laughed.

"Of course I could," he insisted stoutly. "You never think I can do what I say I can, but I'll show you. I can be a soldier of fortune like Robert Clay, or I can be a Canadian and get shot up as much as I like."

"But this isn't in a story, Billy, and Robert Clay was. More than that, you're no Canadian."

"Anyhow I was in Canada once."

"Don't mind Billy," Phil interrupted. "I'm really serious. There must be some way I could get into it. You know, Mother, how much I've always wanted to."

"Yes, my boy; I do know," Mrs. Thatcher answered. "Ever since you were old enough to play with toys it has always been soldiers and wars. I have thanked God that war was a horror of the past, for I know how hard it would be to hold you back if the opportunity offered."

"If he goes, then I go with him," Billy said with decision.

"You both had better wait until war is declared by somebody against somebody else," Cosden suggested.

"You don't think they'll patch it up, do you?" Philip inquired anxiously.

"Let us hope so," Mrs. Thatcher answered; "but this is a pleasure expedition. Let us banish thoughts of war."

As the launch rounded a rocky promontory a roaring fire was disclosed burning on the beach, around which several of the house servants were already busied in preparing supper. Back from the beach, beneath great spreading oaks, a cloth was laid on the ground, to which the contents of the hampers were being transferred. The usual limitations of camp life were conspicuous by their absence, the fascinations were emphasized by the marvelous smoothness with which everything was conducted.

"I don't call this picnicking," Edith declared, after her first taste of chowder. "Plant a forest of trees in Sherry's ball-room, paint an ocean on the wall, fake a moon rising over the orchestra stage, everybody sit cross-legged on the floor,--and there you have it. Sherry certainly couldn't improve on the service or the food."

"I can't find even an ant on mine," Billy complained, corroborating Edith's praise.

"Champagne like this is far too good for the common people," added Cosden turning to Mrs. Thatcher. "How did you do it? It is the apotheosis of gipsy life, and makes me reluctant to return to civilization."

Billy edged around until he gained a seat next to Merry. "This feast might have been in honor of our marriage," he whispered. "It's all your fault that I'm going to war, and if I'm shot up I'll come back and haunt you."

"Don't, Billy!" Merry sputtered, laughing and choking,--"you'll make me swallow this the wrong way. There--" she continued as she recovered; "that's better. Now don't be silly or you'll spoil our fun. We are going to be good friends always, and that's all there is to it."

"You wait. You've been lots happier since I told you that you loved me, now haven't you? I know. You think it's a joke because you think I'm a joke, but when once I've gone to war you'll understand. I'll bet you even that you'll chase after me as a Red Cross nurse, and that I'll die with my head in your lap. Do you take me?"

Phil approached near enough to put an end to the proposition without Merry's reply.

"Do you suppose there's anything in this war talk?" he queried, sitting down beside them.

"Not a thing," his sister replied. "That would be too absurd."

"If there is, I could at least go as a correspondent,--that is, if Dad could spare me. I'm terribly keen about this."

"How could you work me in?" Billy demanded. "I couldn't do any newspaper stunt."

"How about taking pictures to illustrate my articles?"

"Great! I can shoot a Kodak like anything. Then it's all settled that we go together?"

"Suppose there isn't any war?" Merry persisted in throwing cold water upon their plans.

Both boys looked gloomily at each other. Then Billy had an inspiration.

"If there isn't," he declared with decision, "then Phil and I will dash over there and stir one up. We could make faces at them or do something and get one started. That's the idea, isn't it, Phil?"

"You make me tired!" Philip retorted. "This is too serious a matter to joke about."

As the older boy moved away disgustedly Billy again whispered to Merry. "Phil is just as bad as you," he said disconsolately. "He doesn't know seriousness when he sees it. Come on! Take a chance and be a sport!"

The boy's persistency was the only jarring note in the whole experience, and the extent of that was too limited to produce lasting effect. The picnickers watched the sun set and the moon rise, then, filled with the calm delights which Nature so generously shared with them, and over-satiated with the creature comforts supplied by their hostess, they re-embarked in the launch and returned to Sagamore Hall. To their surprise, as they walked across the great lawn to the house, they saw some one coming down to meet them.

"Mr. Huntington has returned!" Marian cried, and she hastened toward him in advance of the others.

"Why, Harry!" she exclaimed surprised to discover that it was her husband. "How did you manage to get back to-night? I'm so glad to see you!"

Cosden hurried forward, sensing important revelations in Thatcher's return. The new-comer grasped his hand cordially, and his face even in the moonlight showed a relief from the long strain.

"With your help, old man, I've pulled through," he whispered later. "The stock-markets of the world are closed indefinitely. Germany and England are straining to jump at each other's throats. The history of the world starts revision from to-day, and now I'm going to stay down here for a while and let other people worry!"

* * * * *

XXXVII

* * * * *

Knowing that his telephone message would allay Mrs. Thatcher's greatest anxiety, Huntington made no effort to return to the shore that night, and when morning came it was a question whether he could go at all. He knew that Hamlen would keep his promise so long as he remained master of himself, but the roving eyes and the twitching nerves warned Huntington that he must not place too great reliance upon this expectation. All through the hours of darkness, without his friend's knowledge, he watched over him, sharing in sympathetic silence the suffering which the tossing body endured in expressing the tortures of the mind. When morning came at last Hamlen was quieter, but this condition was due to the exhaustion of high fever rather than to even temporary relief. Hastily summoning a physician, Huntington watched the examination, becoming more and more apprehensive as the expression of concern deepened on the doctor's face. Together they stepped into the hall, where the doctor shook his head gravely.

"Tell me something of what led up to this," he demanded.

Huntington briefly sketched Hamlen's history, and the climax.

"It will be nip and tuck," the doctor said crisply. "His resistance is low, but he'll probably pull through. What I'm afraid of is his reason. We'll break this fever now, and then you must find something to interest him outside of himself. That is his only salvation."

"I wish I thought I could," Huntington replied doubtfully. "There will be no help from him, for the last thing he desires is to live."

"But if to live is to--"

"I know,--I shall do my best."

A week later Hamlen's life was out of danger, but at times his mental wanderings confirmed the doctor's worst apprehensions. Yet Huntington came to dread the depression of the saner moments more than the vagrant hallucinations. The dramatic details of the unleashing of the war-dogs of one nation after another should have been enough to arouse his interest, but his only comment was, "It is a fitting end to a hollow world, with its thin veneer of sham civilization; would to God it had come sooner!"

Finally it seemed safe to leave the patient in the care of the trained nurse, and Huntington made his deferred return to Sagamore Hall. Marian had kept in touch with Hamlen's progress as well as she could over the telephone, but there was much which her heart craved to learn more intimately. The illness afforded a simple explanation to the other guests of the peculiar disappearance of both men, so Huntington's confidences needed to be told to Mrs. Thatcher alone. Still, there was a single exception. One of the first questions Huntington asked of Marian was whether Merry knew the whole truth, and when he learned from both how much each had gained from their mutual confidences he insisted that the girl hear from him the details of what had happened since.

He told his story simply, trying to spare Marian and making as light as possible of the part which he himself had played, yet the whole-souled devotion he had given his friend could be concealed no more than the serious results of Mrs. Thatcher's persistency. Huntington had claimed from him the life which would have been forfeited, promising to make good use of it; now that it was at his disposal, what was he to do with it? He admitted freely to Mrs. Thatcher and Merry that as yet he had found no solution.

"This necessity of doing your splendid work over again is but one of the results of my culpable stupidity," Marian said penitently. "When I think of it, it seems as if I should go mad!"

Huntington rejoiced in the change which he found in Mrs. Thatcher. The sudden view she had gained of herself was all she needed to understand that one lack which no one could have made her see or comprehend. Huntington felt the closer relationship between her and Merry, and he believed the girl had found the answer to her question.

"We must forget our mistakes," he said, anxious to relieve Marian, "except when remembering them will prevent a repetition. We all have tried to do our full duty by this abnormal personality, and our shortcomings should not cause us to question the sincerity of our acts."

"You are too generous," Mrs. Thatcher replied; "I shall never cease to hold myself accountable, never!"

"Don't, Momsie!" Merry begged. "Perhaps even now we can suggest something which will undo the harm."

"We must," Huntington said soberly. "Now, if I may finish out my visit with you it will be a real relief after these depressing days, and we will await the inspiration."

"We are counting on your doing so," Marian replied promptly. "It comforts me to have you share this time with me. I can't tell Harry the whole story yet. And Billy is waiting for you. He and Philip are crazed by this talk of war, and are trying to find some way to get into it. Of course it is ridiculous, but boys are irrepressible creatures. I don't need to tell you that!"

"I'm not so sure that it is ridiculous," Huntington surprised them both by saying. "I don't quite see where they could break into this war, but as for Billy I believe a first-hand knowledge of these terrible experiences would go far toward making a man of him."

"You surely wouldn't have them get into the fighting!" Mrs. Thatcher exclaimed.

"No, not that; but there are other ways. I heard some talk of forming ambulance squads to send to France. If they do that, I might urge Billy's father to let him go."

"Still, there would be danger, wouldn't there?" Merry asked.

"Some, perhaps; but there is danger in the life which surrounds these boys now. I am much concerned about Billy. Unless something happens to shake him up he will never know what life really is. The nobility of heroism, an every-day occurrence on the firing-line, is something which could not fail to leave its impress on these youngsters. It is worth thinking over."

"I couldn't let Philip go," Marian said with the old-time finality in her voice.

"Perhaps not," Huntington replied with a significant look. "It may be most unwise; but if Nature should seem to point strongly in that direction we must be careful not to thwart it."

Marian flushed. "You are right, Mr. Huntington," she said with frank understanding; "I shall be careful, you may be sure."

"Where are the boys now?" Huntington asked. "I would prefer to postpone the discussion with them until I am rested. I'm not used to problems, you know, and lately they seem to have concentrated themselves on me. Help me to escape them for another hour!"

"Take Mr. Huntington down to the water-garden," Marian suggested smiling; "no one will think of looking for you there."

"Would you like to go?" Merry asked him.

"Nothing would rest me more."

"Won't you come, Momsie?"

"No, dear; you must do the honors in my stead."

They wandered through the formal garden in silence, down the shaded _bosquet_, and across a bit of lawn to the fresh-water garden which was built only a little back from the shore itself. A miniature torii, from whose crossbeam hung a replica in straw of the mystic _shimenawa_, marked the entrance, sounding the motivation for the Oriental note within. They passed through this and walked between the rows of Japanese maples which formed an avenue ending in a vista of the sea. In the moment they had transported themselves, for within the limitations marked by the avenue of trees there was nothing to suggest anything save the East: there were the little shrines surrounded by Oriental flower-pots; there was a tiny lake, crossed by an arched stone bridge, through which could be seen the luxuriant bloom of the lotus and other rare aquatic plants, brilliant in their coloring and foliage, growing in and out of the water and over the rocks with well-planned irregularity; there was the lilliputian grove of dwarfed trees impudently challenging comparison with their taller neighbors.

"I'm glad you brought me here," Huntington said as they seated themselves upon a curiously-carved stone. "Other parts of the estate are far more impressive, but you have no spot which appeals to me more by virtue of its beauty."

"I love it too," the girl acknowledged. "Almost every one looks at it once or twice and admires it, but no one seems to care to linger here as I do. I am sure to be alone, so I come almost every day to read Lafcadio Hearn and to dream of Nippon."

"I understand," Huntington said quietly; "and I'll warrant you find yourself spending much of your time gazing at the surface of that little lake."

"Yes," she exclaimed surprised; "but how do you know that, and why should I do it?"

"It is not so mysterious, after all," he answered smiling. "I have no psychic powers, but I know a little of the Oriental teachings: the surface of the lake is a mirror, symbolic of illusion and reflecting our souls, in which alone we must seek the Buddha.--But to-day it is of a modern divinity I would prefer to speak. These have been hard weeks for you, Merry, and I have sympathized with you."

"Why,--yes; in a way," she admitted. "But like everything else I do, they haven't amounted to anything, have they?"

"Haven't they?" he asked pointedly. "Isn't some of that unrest gone now that you and the dear mother understand each other?"

"Of course. That means everything to me, but again it is I who benefit. Oh! Mr. Huntington, I want so much to do something for somebody else, and no matter how hard I try it always turns out that I am the gainer. I believed I had the opportunity at last, and again I was mistaken. But this time it wasn't my fault, was it? At least I was ready to do my part."

"Don't you know that you can't try to do something for some one else without having it come back to you?"

"Do you expect that what you are doing for Mr. Hamlen will bring you a reward?"

"It has already given me your friendship. Isn't that enough?"

The color came to Merry's face, and she turned her glance away. "What can that mean to you who have so many friendships?" she asked.

"It is the friendship I value most among them all."

She looked up at him quickly, startled by the intensity of his tone. "You can't mean that," she said. "To me it is different. You brought into my life something which it never had and never would have had except for you. To me your friendship is the grandest thing I know, but what can mine mean to you? Something fine and splendid must come in return for the months you have given Mr. Hamlen. I wish--" she hesitated a moment but then continued bravely--"yes, I wish it might even bring you back the girl you loved--and found too late!"

"Merry! child! what are you saying!" he cried.

"Have I hurt you again?"

"Not hurt me; but you make it hard for me to be fair to our friendship."

"Can't we be friends--because of her?"

Huntington turned to her gently, taking her hand in his. His face showed the force of the emotion which fought for supremacy, but the calmness with which he spoke evidenced his control.