Part 4

"Will you come to my villa some day this week?"

Hamlen seemed to hang expectantly upon the answer.

"Of course," Huntington replied promptly. "If you hadn't asked me, I should have come anyhow. It's an inherent right which I demand."

Hamlen pressed his hand and turned to Mrs. Thatcher, who walked with him to the door.

"I don't know whether to thank you or to curse you, Marian," he said feelingly in a low voice. "Through you I have had more interjected into my life in this single day than in the twenty-odd years which have passed by. Is this the dawn of a to-morrow or the epitome of human suffering? Are you my Genius or my Nemesis? Before God I ask the question seriously. I myself cannot answer it."

"Don't try," she answered, smiling; "let Time do that!"

* * * * *

V

* * * * *

Cosden had been sitting on the hotel piazza half an hour when "Merry" Thatcher emerged from the dining-room, gazed about the almost total vacancy as if looking for some one, and then advanced, recognizing in the solitary smoker an acquaintance of the night before.

"I'm always the first one," she complained after greeting him. "We're going sailing this morning, but I might have known that no one else would be down for breakfast at anywhere near the appointed time."

"Why not cheer me up while you're waiting?" Cosden suggested. "I formed the habit of early rising years ago when I had to do it; now that I don't have to, the habit still sticks."

"Mr. Huntington hasn't appeared yet?" she inquired.

Cosden laughed, and then looked at his watch. "When you come to know Mr. Huntington better you will admire his mathematical precision: he is never late, but he never arrives a moment earlier than is necessary. The breakfast hour is over at nine-thirty; at nine-fifteen you will observe the gentleman leisurely strolling in the direction of his table, with every detail of his morning dress perfectly adjusted, as if the world had placed all its time at his disposal, when in reality he can just get his order in and have it served hot."

The girl smiled at the description of his friend. "Not many men are so dependable," she commented.

"There is only one William Montgomery Huntington," Cosden admitted cheerfully. "It would be exactly the same if the closing of the breakfast room was four-thirty instead of nine-thirty."

The smile on her face changed to a deeper expression as she looked out across the harbor. She turned to Cosden suddenly.

"Wasn't he splendid last evening when he talked about the responsibilities of college life! For the first time I wished I were a boy!"

"He is a very intense person on some subjects; that happens to be one of them."

The girl could not fail to interest Cosden, even if he were not already attracted by his previous slight acquaintance, for the present mood showed her at her best. The nickname "Merry," given to distinguish the younger Marian from her mother, scarcely served as a descriptive appellation, for underneath the girlish vivacity ran a serious vein which gave her unusual poise, and made her seem older than she was. To Cosden she appeared at that moment the embodiment of attractive girlhood, for the big panama, almost encircling her face, well set off the dark hair and the sympathetic brown eyes, while the color which plainly showed in her cheeks, despite the depth of the complexion, gave just the touch needed to heighten the effect. The soft lines of the white flannel skirt and the pink silk sweater disclosed the youth and litheness of the figure. Cosden was surprised to find himself noticing these details so carefully, and accepted the fact as evidence that his interest in the girl was even deeper than he had supposed.

"I love intensity in men," she said simply; "so many seem ashamed to show it no matter how strongly they may feel!"

"That is due to the training of life," Cosden explained, caring little what direction the conversation took so long as they became better acquainted. "The higher up you go, the greater the repression. Diplomacy is the climax of gentlemanly concealment of one's real feelings, and the art among arts of courteous insincerity. In business, of course, there's a reason--"

"Can't a man be sincere in business?" she asked, looking at him with eyes so deep and straightforward in their expression that he found the question disconcerting.

"Why,--of course," he stumbled; "but 'sincerity' isn't exactly a business expression. If I let you know by my manner that I was eager to buy something which you wanted to sell, or to sell something you wanted to buy, it would naturally affect the price, wouldn't it?"

"Ought it to?" she persisted. "Why isn't that taking advantage?"

Cosden smiled indulgently. "Some time, if you like, I will give you a learned discourse on values and what affects them, but anything so erudite now would take your mind off the gaieties of your sailing trip."

"Will you?" Merry exclaimed delighted. "Father always makes fun of me when I ask serious questions. I am sure I should hate business, because it seems always to be a question of taking advantage of some one else; but I should like to know something about it."

"You don't approve of taking advantage of some one else?"

"It is exactly the opposite of what we are taught to consider right, isn't it?"

"How about bargain-sales when you are home?" Cosden asked with apparent innocence. "Do you ever patronize them?"

"Why, yes," Merry replied frankly; "I frequently wait for them when I want some particular thing, and my allowance is running low."

Cosden laughed outright. "If consistency were really a jewel, then would woman go unadorned!"

"How in the world are you going to twist what I said into an inconsistency?"

"I'll let you make the demonstration yourself. Here is the problem: a dealer, believing a demand to exist for a certain article, lays in a stock to supply that demand. If you, and other dear ladies who really intend to buy the article, purchased when he first offered it for sale, his estimate of the demand would have been correct. But you all have learned the habits of the shops, so instead of rushing to his counters you play 'possum until the dealer really believes that he has over-estimated the demand, and down goes the value to him and consequently the price to you. Then you rush frantically from your lairs and secure the article you have really wanted from the beginning at a bargain price. Don't you admit that you are taking advantage of the dealer?"

"Oh, you men do put things in such a disagreeable way!" Merry laughed. "We have to do that to protect ourselves against the outrageous prices they charge in the first place."

"It's all a game," Cosden said seriously, "and a mighty fascinating one. So long as you stick to the rules you may bluff all you choose, and the best bluffer takes the blue chips."

"I'm sure I should hate it," Merry repeated. "I'm going to learn to be a teacher, so that if some one outbluffs father I can fall back upon a respectable pursuit."

"Even then you'll still be in the bluffing game," chuckled Cosden. "Think of the knowledge a teacher has to assume which he doesn't possess!"

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed in despair. "Why be an iconoclast? You leave me nothing but matrimony--"

"The worst bluff of all," interrupted Huntington, stepping forward from behind their chairs, immaculate in white flannels and a panama which rivaled Merry's. "Seeing Mr. Cosden in an academic mood, I could not resist the temptation to snare the nuggets of wisdom which fell from his lips. This must be my excuse for eavesdropping."

"There he is," Cosden said significantly to Merry. "You'd never dream that he'd come within an ace of missing his breakfast, would you?"

"Missing what?" Huntington demanded. "In what little pleasantry has my friendly critic been indulging himself?"

"Let the critic answer for himself," Cosden retorted. "I predicted to Miss Thatcher the exact moment when you would appear, thus proving myself a prophet."

"You take yourself too seriously, Connie. You're no prophet, nor even the son of a prophet; you're simply a good observer. Some men run a block and then wait five minutes for a car; I learned years ago that it was wiser to walk deliberately to the white post and arrive there at the precise moment. But I don't let that car get away from me, my friend."

"If my memory serves me right, Mr. Huntington, you were not always so deliberate," remarked Mrs. Thatcher significantly.

Huntington looked up quickly, unaware until then that the other late breakfasters had followed so closely on his heels.

"The night has been telling tales," he said.

"It was stupid of me not to recognize you before," she answered.

"Do you and Mother know each other?" Merry asked, much interested in the new turn of the conversation.

"Your mother," said Huntington gravely, "did me the honor to accept my escort to our Senior Dance--I won't tell you how many years ago. She deliberately broke my heart, sailed away to Europe, and then returned and married your father, just out of pique. Now that you know the story of my life, I ask you, why should I accelerate my motions, as my captious companion seems to think I should, when your mother's quixotic conduct deprived me years ago of all possible incentive?"

"Then you are really the Monty Huntington I knew!" Mrs. Thatcher exclaimed. "I was sure of it when you spoke of your Class to Philip Hamlen."

"I was sure it was you before you spoke at all," he said quietly. "I recognized an aroma the moment I came into your presence--"

"An aroma?" Mrs. Thatcher interrupted questioningly.

"I know not whether it was fragrance or reminiscence, but either is equally sweet."

Huntington's gallantry, half assumed, half real, as it seemed to those who heard his words, passed simply as a pleasantry with all except Cosden, who knew his friend too well not to recognize the presence of something deeper beneath the lightly spoken expressions. But Thatcher's voice brought him back from his surmises.

"We are counting on you both to join us," he insisted. "Our party will be incomplete without you."

"Please come," Mrs. Thatcher added. "For the last twenty-four hours I have been renewing all my girlhood friendships, and poor Edith Stevens here hasn't had a chance even to express an opinion. That for Edith is real self-sacrifice."

"Edith is sitting back and learning a thing or two," Miss Stevens retorted calmly.

"Do come and give her a chance to demonstrate," Mrs. Thatcher appealed.

"I suppose bachelors are as necessary to the demonstration as guinea-pigs to the laboratory," Huntington said. "Come on, Connie; let us take a chance."

No truer statement had ever been made in jest than that the previous twenty-four hours had been a period of self-sacrifice to Edith Stevens. She was younger than Mrs. Thatcher, and their friends accused them of accepting each other as foils to accentuate their contrasting characteristics. Miss Stevens was slight and erect, and was always gowned with a taste and skill which gave her an air of distinction; her friend possessed such striking fascination of person and manner that she gave distinction to any fashion she might adopt. Mrs. Thatcher's activities accomplished results; Edith's seemed simply the expression of an eternal unrest. The younger woman's hair was light, and her eyes blue, while Mrs. Thatcher was a perfect brunette; and the approach of the two women to the same subject was always from a different standpoint. Yet they had been the closest of friends from school days.

Except with Marian, Edith, as a rule, dominated the situation at all times. Now, however, she found herself absolutely side-tracked, while her friend occupied the center of the stage in the interesting character of past or present object of admiration from three perfectly good men. Men were a hobby with Edith Stevens. Her brother feelingly remarked that the only reason she never married was that no individual male possessed the composite attributes she demanded. To be one of three women, surrounded by five men, and not to be able to command the attention of any one of them except her brother was nothing less than irony. She had tried flirting with Thatcher years before, and had long since given him up in despair; Hamlen was annexed by Marian before she had even a chance to compete, and of the two remaining eligibles Huntington suddenly confessed himself a part of the flotsam her friend had left behind in her beblossomed path toward the altar.

"Take one more look at Mr. Cosden, Marian," she said maliciously, as the little party walked slowly down the steps toward the yacht. "Perhaps he, too, was an early admirer."

Mrs. Thatcher laughed. "No," she reassured her, "I'm sure he never crossed my horizon until last night. I'll renounce all claims on him, but don't you set your cap for Philip Hamlen; I have other plans for him."

"Where is Mr. Hamlen?" Edith demanded. "Didn't you invite him?"

"No," Marian replied quickly. "It would be cruel not to give him time to recover his balance after yesterday. Heigh ho!" she sighed. "I wonder whether I'm glad or sorry that I found him here."

"I've been waiting for a report on that reunion," Edith said suggestively. "I haven't forgotten the letters which we used to read together years ago."

"Weren't they wonderful?" Marian exclaimed. Then she added, after a pause, "I don't believe I realized until yesterday the depth of suffering which a sensitive soul can reach."

* * * * *

VI

* * * * *

The sailing-party disembarked at the landing steps of the "Princess" shortly after six o'clock, and were greeted by a tall young man whose face was almost concealed by the broad brim of his hat, turned down as if to protect its owner from possible prostration from the sun. At the opposite end of the young man the white trouser-legs were turned up at least two laps higher than would have been expected, so that hat and trousers together made a normal average. Below the turn-up of the trousers showed a considerable expanse of white-silk hosiery, terminating in spotless white buckskin shoes; below the down-turned hat-brim was a grin which extended well across the boyish face. Altogether, the young man warranted the attention he attracted.

The skipper made so perfect a landing that the identity of those on board was disclosed only at the last moment; but the single glance the young man had was sufficient to reassure him, and he stepped forward eagerly.

"Hello, everybody!" he cried cheerfully. "Wish you Happy New-Year!"

Merry was the first to grasp the significance of the excitement. "Why, it's Billy Huntington!" she exclaimed.

"Of course," he admitted, still grinning; "who else would charge down here like a young dace just for the pleasure of wishing you the compliments of the season?"

The young man paused long enough to assist the ladies over the rail, with a greeting to each.

"There's your uncle," Merry said, nodding in the direction of the men; "don't you recognize him?"

"Surest thing you know," Billy answered, still hanging back. "I'm waiting to see if he will recognize me, under all the circumstances."

"Come here, you young rascal," Huntington responded to the implied question as he stepped on the pier; "come here and give an account of yourself."

"Well," Billy replied slowly, clinging to the extended hand as a refuge, "you see I didn't know Mr. Cosden came down with you, and it was vacation, and I thought you'd be awfully lonely here without me--"

"I see," his uncle said dryly; "it was all on my account."

Billy seemed to feel the necessity of further explanation. "Of course I knew Merry--the Thatchers were here. Phil told me--"

"Too bad Philip couldn't have come with you," Mrs. Thatcher remarked.

"Yes; he went up to the Lawrences' house-party for over Christmas as he planned."

"How did you leave your worthy parents?" Huntington inquired.

A look of dismay passed over the boy's face. "I forgot to telegraph them from New York, and I meant to cable just as soon as I arrived." Then an expression of relief came to his assistance: "But they'll know I'm with you--somewhere."

Huntington sighed. "Another reckoning for me when I return!" he said resignedly; "but it's worth it all to know that you 'charged down here like a young dace' as soon as you realized your poor uncle's 'awful loneliness.'"

"Then it was you who tried to signal us from the tender?" Merry came to his rescue.

"Yes; I thought it was you; I wigwagged until I almost plunged overboard. I've got to go back Monday, to reach Cambridge in time to register, so I hated to lose a whole day out of three."

"There's one thing about a college education which Mr. Huntington didn't mention last evening," Thatcher remarked to Cosden as they walked toward the bar for the anteprandial cocktail; "it gives a boy freedom of action and breadth of imagination."

"Huntington left out a whole lot of things he might have touched on," Cosden said testily. "That's a topic on which we don't agree, and never shall. There is a boy with many sterling qualities going to waste because Monty has more wishbone than backbone in the matter of discipline."

"Don't get started on that, Connie," Huntington's voice came from the rear. "I've no doubt it's deserved, but that boy keeps me from remembering that my own days of irresponsibility are so far behind me. I believe I enjoy him the more because I haven't a parent's duty to perform."

"It's a sort of reciprocity without personal liability," laughed Thatcher.

"Exactly. I wonder sometimes if what we gain by experience is worth what we lose in illusion.--Aren't you coming up-stairs to dress for dinner, Billy?" Huntington continued, as his nephew and Merry walked past them, engaged in an animated conversation.

"Don't wait for me," was the prompt response. "I'm a bear at dressing, and I'll be ready before Dixon has put in your collar-studs."

"I feel easier down here since I know that you're off duty, too, and not likely to upset my apple-cart while I'm away," Thatcher remarked to Cosden with a smile. "Did you know, Mr. Huntington," he continued, turning, "that your friend is a wrecker of other men's plans?"

"It's the best thing he does," Huntington agreed promptly. "That exactly explains my presence here."

Cosden was immensely pleased by Thatcher's acknowledgment of his importance, but he tried to carry it off lightly.

"Oh, well," he said indifferently, "you must let me have my innings once in a while. I have to get to you sometimes to make up for other bouts which I've been glad to forget."

"You'll join us, of course," Thatcher added, to Huntington.

"I can resist anything but temptation," Huntington replied soberly; "I love the enemy."

"This cocktail-drinking is a curious thing," Thatcher remarked. "In cold weather we take it to warm us up, in warm weather to cool us off; when we are depressed it is to cheer us, and when we're happy it's because we want to celebrate. And there you are.--How about the Consolidated Machinery deal?" Thatcher changed the subject abruptly, and spoke to Cosden. "Are we going to fight each other on that?"

"I'm afraid we'll have to," Cosden admitted frankly; "but I'll be glad to talk it over with you. From here, the interests look too far apart even to compromise."

Cosden and Huntington went up in the elevator together, leaving Thatcher on the piazza.

"What the devil did that young cub show up here for just at this time?" Cosden demanded.

"Didn't you hear?" Monty explained innocently. "He wanted to cheer me up in my 'awful loneliness.'"

"Lonely fiddlesticks!" Cosden protested irritably. "Don't you grasp the fact that his coming is going to mess things up?"

"Why, no," Huntington said slowly, pausing at the door of his room to give his friend opportunity to finish his remarks; "I can't for the life of me see that."

"Don't you see that it's Merry Thatcher the kid is making up to?"

"Oh, ho!" Huntington exclaimed. "So that's the situation! It was stupid of me not to understand."

"Well, that's it; and I won't have it."

"Of course you won't; but how are you going to stop it?"

"That's your job, Monty. It's up to you to send him about his business."

"That doesn't appeal to me as a sporting proposition," Huntington said after a moment's deliberation. "I didn't come down here to help you get a corner in anything, but merely as an observer, and to give you expert advice. Now you suggest a combination--trust, as it were--of two full-grown men against a half-baked boy. It isn't worthy of you, Connie, and I'm not sure that it isn't an illegal restraint of trade. Oh, no; I couldn't think of it."

"I'd like to see you in the same situation just once," growled Cosden. "Why the devil can't you send the boy home?"

"If I did, he'd come back so quick he'd meet himself going away," Huntington said gravely; "but as a matter of fact I understand that he plans to go on Monday, and there's no boat sailing before then anyhow."

He opened the door of his room and stepped inside.

"I might add, Connie," he continued, "that if you're afraid to take chances with a boy like that I don't feel much confidence in the final outcome of your benedictine expedition."

"I'm serious in this," Cosden snapped back. "My bump of humor evidently got light-struck in the developing. Billy has twenty years ahead of him to pick out a girl while I haven't, and he must understand that I mean business."

"Of course he must," agreed Huntington. "It hadn't occurred to me until you spoke of it that there was the remotest chance of having Billy show sense enough to become interested in any girl so well calculated to make a man of him. In fact, I doubt very much whether his own intellect has carried him so far. It's all right for you or me to contemplate committing matrimony, but a young man, in these days of increasing cost of everything, is likely to become a grandfather before he can afford to be a father. Only the other day, Connie, the thought came to me that if this high cost of living continues it will make death a necessity of life."

"You are evidently in no frame of mind to discuss anything serious now," Cosden retorted; "I'll wait until after dinner."

"Do!" Huntington's face brightened. "Look at the reproachful expression on the bosom of that beautiful white shirt which Dixon has laid out for me. Can't you almost hear the pathos in its tone as it asks to be filled?"

The door slammed, and Cosden's heavy tread could be heard as he disgustedly retreated down the hall to his own room.

One of the compensations of maturity is that the adjustment of proper proportions comes more quickly than to youth. It may be that Cosden saw the modicum of truth which lay beneath his friend's bantering; it may be that he was ashamed to have shown any uncertainty in his mind as to the final outcome of his embassy. At all events, he seemed to be in the best of humor when he dined with Huntington and the boy, and even accepted with good grace the unexpected announcement that Billy and Merry were to "take in" the dance at the "Hamilton." It may be that he was determined to demonstrate his strength of mind, for when the little party reassembled on the piazza, and the young people disappeared soon after the coffee, he devoted himself to Edith Stevens with an assiduity which caused Huntington to smile quietly to himself. Stevens and Thatcher, finding the ladies well provided for, went down-stairs for a game of billiards. Mrs. Thatcher cheerfully accepted Huntington's invitation to stroll to the pier, leaving Miss Stevens and Cosden by themselves.

"I've made an appointment for you on Monday morning," Thatcher remarked to Cosden as he passed by.

"Good! I'll keep it," was the prompt response.

"What do you think of Marian's resurrection?" Edith asked him when they were alone.