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I
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They were discussing Huntington and Cosden when the two men entered the
living-room of the Club and strolled toward the little group indulging
itself in relaxation after a more or less strenuous afternoon at golf.
It was natural, perhaps, that no one quite understood the basis upon
which their intimacy rested, for entirely aside from the difference in
their ages they seemed far separated in disposition and natural tastes.
Cosden's dynamic energy had made more than an average golf-player of
Huntington, and in other ways forced him out of the easy path of least
resistance; the older man's dignity and quiet philosophy tempered the
cyclonic tendencies of his friend. The one met the world as an
antagonist, and forced from it tribute and recognition; the other, never
having felt the necessity of competition, had formed the habit of taking
the world into his confidence and treating it as a friend.
These differences could not fail to attract the attention of their
companions at the Club as day after day they played their round
together, but this was the first time the subject had become a topic of
general conversation. The speaker sat with his back to the door and
continued his remarks after the newcomers came within hearing, in spite
of the efforts made by those around to suppress him. The sudden hush and
the conscious manner of those in the group would have conveyed the
information even if the words had not.
"So you're giving us the once over, are you?" Cosden demanded, dropping
into a chair. "You don't mean to say that the golf autobiographies have
become exhausted?"
"I never heard myself publicly discussed," added Huntington as he, too,
joined the party. "I am already experiencing a thrill of pleasurable
excitement. Don't stop. Connie and I are really keen to learn more of
ourselves."
"Well," the speaker replied, with some hesitation, "there's no use
trying to make you believe we were listening to Baker's explanation of
how the bunkers have been located exactly where the golf committee knows
his ball is going to strike--"
"Heaven forbid!" Huntington exclaimed; "but don't apologize. I
congratulate the Club that the members are at last turning their
attention to serious things. 'Tell the truth and shame the
devil'--provided it is Connie, and not me, you are going to shame."
"Don't mind me in the least," Cosden added. "My hide is tough, and I
rather like to be put through the acid test once in a while."
"Oh, it isn't as bad as all that," the speaker explained. "We love you
both, but in different ways, yet we can't make out just where you two
fellows hitch up. Now, that isn't _lese-majeste_, is it?"
"What do you think, Connie?" Huntington asked, lighting his pipe. "Is
that an insult or a compliment?"
"I don't see that it makes much difference from this crowd. We don't
care what they say about us as long as they pay us the compliment of
noticing us. That's the main point, and I'm glad we've been able to
start something."
"But why don't you tell us?" insisted the speaker. "You aren't
interested in anything Monty cares for except golf, and he hasn't even a
flirting acquaintance with business, which is your divinity, yet you two
fellows have formed a fine young Damon and Pythias combination which we
all envy. Why don't you tell us how it happened?"
"I don't know," Cosden answered, serious at last and speaking with
characteristic directness. "I never stopped to think of it; but if we're
satisfied, whose concern is it, anyhow?"
"If friendship requires explanation, then it isn't friendship," added
Huntington. "Connie contributes much to my life which would otherwise be
lacking, and I hope that he would say the same of my relation to him."
"Of course--that goes without saying; but neither one of you is telling
us anything. If you would explain your method perhaps we might become
more reconciled to some of these misfits lying around the Club--like
Baker over there--"
"We have a thousand members--" Baker protested.
"What has that to do with the present discussion?"
"Why pick on me?"
"Which is the misfit in my combination with Monty?" Cosden demanded.
"I'm not labeling you fellows," the speaker disclaimed--"I couldn't if I
tried; but each of you is so different from the other that such a
friendship seems inconsistent."
There was a twinkle in Huntington's eye as he listened to the persistent
cross-examination. "We are bachelors," he said quietly. "That should
explain everything; for what is a bachelor's life but one long
inconsistency? If our friends were all alike what would be the need of
having more than one? This friend gives us confidence in ourselves,
another gives us sympathy; this friend gives us the inspiration which
makes our work successful, another is the balance-wheel which prevents
us from losing the benefit which success brings us. Each fills a
separate and unique place in our lives, and, after all, the measure of
our life-work is the sum of these friendships."
The two responses demonstrated the difference between the men. William
Montgomery Huntington came from a Boston family of position where wealth
had accumulated during the several generations, each steward having
given good account to his successor. He had taken up the practice of law
after being graduated from Harvard--not from choice or necessity, but
because his father and his grandfather had adopted it before him. His
practice had never been a large one, but the supervision of certain
trust estates, handed over to his care by his father's death, entailed
upon him sufficient responsibility to enable him to maintain his
self-respect.
It would have been a fair question to ask what Montgomery Huntington's
manner of life would have been if his father had not been born before
him. He lived alone, since his younger brother married, in the same
house into which the family moved when he was an infant in arms. Modern
improvements had been introduced, it is true, in the building just as in
the generation itself; but the walls were unchanged. The son succeeded
to the father's place in directorates and on boards of trustees in
charitable institutions, and he performed his duties faithfully, as his
predecessor had done. Now, at forty-five, he had reached a point where
he found it difficult to distinguish between his working and his leisure
hours.
Cosden's heritage had been a healthy imagination, a robust constitution,
and an unbelievable capacity for work. Even his uncle Conover, from whom
he had a right to expect compensation for the indignity of wearing his
name throughout a lifetime, had left him to work out his own salvation.
His parents had never worn the purple, but, being sturdy, valuable
citizens, they spent their lives in fitting their son to occupy a
position in life higher than they themselves could hope to attain; and
Cosden had made the most of his opportunities. Seven years Huntington's
junior, he had succeeded in a comparatively short time in extracting
from his commercial pursuits a property which, from the standpoint of
income, at least, was hardly less than his friend's. He, too, was a
product of the university, but his name would be found blazoned on the
annals of Harvard athletics rather than in the archives of the Phi Beta
Kappa. His election as captain of the football team was a personal
triumph, for it broke the precedent of social dominance in athletics,
and laid the corner-stone for that democracy which since then has given
Harvard her remarkable string of victories. The same dogged
determination, backed up by real ability, which forced recognition in
college accomplished similar results in later and more serious
competitions. In the business world he was taken up first because he
made himself valuable and necessary, and he held his advantage by virtue
of his personal characteristics.
Cosden was not universally popular. He won his victories by sheer force
of determination and ability rather than by diplomacy or finesse. In
business dealings he had the reputation of being a hard man, demanding
his full pound of flesh and getting it, but he was scrupulously exact in
meeting his own obligations in the same spirit. To an extent this
characteristic was apparent in everything he did; but to those who came
to know him it ceased to be offensive because of other, more agreeable
qualities which went with it. They learned that, after all, money to him
was only the means to an end which he could not have secured without it.
To the man whose ruling passion is his business it is natural to measure
himself and his actions by the same yardstick which has yielded full
return in his office; to him whose property stands simply as a counter
and medium of exchange the measure of life is inevitably different. The
good-natured chaffing at the Club was forgotten by Huntington before he
stepped into his automobile, but it still remained in Cosden's mind. As
the car rolled out of the Club grounds he turned to his companion.
"Monty," he said, "what is there so different about us that it attracts
comment?"
"We should have found out if you hadn't snapped together like a steel
trap. There was the chance of a lifetime to learn all about ourselves,
and you shut them off by saying, 'If we're satisfied, whose concern is
it, anyhow?'"
"Of course we are different," Cosden continued; "that's only natural. No
two fellows are alike. I wonder if what you said about our being
bachelors hasn't more truth than poetry in it.--Give me a light from
your pipe."
"What is the connection?"
Cosden suddenly became absorbed and gave no sign that he heard the
question. When he spoke his words seemed still more irrelevant.
"Monty," he said seriously, "I want you to take a little trip with me
for perhaps two or three weeks, or longer. What do you say?"
Huntington showed no surprise. "It might possibly be arranged," he said.
Again Cosden relapsed into silence, puffing vigorously at his cigar as
was his habit when excited. Huntington watched him curiously, wondering
what lay behind.
"Did you ever try smoking a cigar with a vacuum cleaner?" he asked
maliciously. "They say it draws beautifully, and consumes the cigar in
one-tenth the time ordinarily required by a human being."
Cosden was oblivious to his raillery. "What do you think of marriage?"
he demanded abruptly.
The question, and the serious manner in which it was asked, succeeded in
rousing Huntington to a point of interest.
"What do I think of-- So that's the idea, is it, Connie? That's why you
picked me up on what I said about bachelors? Good heavens, man! you
haven't made up your mind to marry me off like this without my consent?"
"Of course not," Cosden answered, with some impatience; "but what do you
think of the idea in general?"
Huntington looked at his companion with some curiosity. "Well," he said
deliberately, "if you really ask the question seriously, I consider
marriage an immorality, as it offers the greatest possible encouragement
to deceit."
Cosden sighed. "You are a hard man to talk to when you don't start the
conversation. I really want your advice."
"Would it be asking too much to suggest that you throw out a few hints
here and there as to the real bearing of your inquiry, so that I may
come fairly close on the third guess?"
"I've decided to get married," Cosden announced.
"By Jove!" The words brought Huntington bolt upright in his seat. "You
don't really mean it?"
"That's just what I mean. It occurred to me on the way home from the
office last night. What you said about a bachelor's life being an
inconsistency reminded me of it. I believe you're right."
Huntington regarded him for a moment with a puzzled expression on his
face; then he relaxed, convulsed with laughter. Cosden was distinctly
nettled.
"This doesn't strike me as the friendliest way in the world to respond
to a fellow's request for advice on so serious a subject."
"You don't want to consult me," Huntington insisted, checking himself;
"what you need is a specialist. When did you first feel the attack
coming on? Oh, Lord! Connie! That's the funniest line you ever pulled
off!"
"Look here," Cosden said, with evident irritation; "I'm serious. With
any one else I should have approached the subject less abruptly, but I
don't see why I should pick and choose my words with you.
"And the trip"--Huntington interrupted, again convulsed--"'for two or
three weeks, or longer'? Is that to be your wedding-trip, and am I to go
along as guardian?"
The older man's amusement became contagious, and Cosden's annoyance
melted before his friend's keen enjoyment of the situation.
"Oh, well, have your laugh out," he said good-naturedly. "When it's all
over perhaps you'll discuss matters seriously. Can you advance any sane
reason why I should not marry if I see fit?"
"None whatever, my dear boy, provided you've found a girl who possesses
both imagination and a sense of humor."
"I have reached a point in my life where I can indulge myself in
marriage as in any other luxury," Cosden pursued, unruffled by
Huntington's comments. "I've slaved for fifteen years for one definite
purpose--to make money enough to become a power; and now I've got it. Up
to this time a wife would have been a handicap; now she can be an asset.
After all is said and done, Monty, a home is the proper thing for a man
to have. It's all right living as you and I do while one's mind is
occupied with other things, but it is an inconsistency, as you say.
Now--well, what have you to put up against my line of argument?"
"Am I to understand that all this, reduced to its last analysis, is
intended to convey the information that you have fallen in love?"
"What perfect nonsense!" Cosden replied disgustedly. "You and I aren't
school-boys any more. We're living in the twentieth century, Monty, and
people have learned that sometimes it's hard to distinguish between love
and indigestion. I won't say that marriage has come to be a business
proposition, but there's a good deal more thinking beforehand than there
used to be. A woman wants power as much as a man does, and the one way
she can get it is through her husband. It's only the young and
unsophisticated who fall for the bushel of love and a penny loaf these
days, and there are mighty few of those left. Get your basic business
principles right to begin with, I say, and the sentimental part comes
along of itself."
Huntington was convinced by this time that Cosden was seriously in
earnest. He had believed that he knew his friend well enough not to be
surprised at anything he said or did, but now he found himself not only
surprised, but distinctly shocked. He had joked with Cosden when he
first spoke of marriage, but in his heart he regarded it with a
sentimentality which no one of his friends suspected because of the
cynicisms which always sprang to his lips when the subject was
mentioned. He believed himself to have had a romance, and during these
years its memory still obtained from him a sacred observance which he
had successfully concealed from all the world. So, when Cosden coolly
announced that he had decided to select a wife just as he would have
picked out a car-load of pig iron, Huntington's first impulse was one of
resentment.
"It seems to me that you are proposing a partnership rather than a
marriage," he remarked.
"What else is marriage?" Cosden demanded. "You've hit it exactly. I
wouldn't take a man into business with me simply because I liked him,
but because I believed that he more than any one else could supplement
my work and extend my horizon. Marriage is the apotheosis of
partnership, and its success depends a great deal more upon the
psychology of selection than upon sentiment."
Huntington made no response. The first shock was tempered by his
knowledge of Cosden's character. It was natural that he should have
arrived at this conclusion, the older man told himself, and it was
curious that the thought had not occurred to Huntington sooner that the
days of their bachelor companionship must inevitably be numbered. There
was nothing else which Connie could wish for now: he had his clubs, his
friends, and ample means to gratify every desire; a home with wife and
children was really needed to complete the success which he had made. He
had proved himself the best of friends, which was a guarantee that he
would make a good husband. Huntington found himself echoing Cosden's
question, "Why not?"
"Have you selected the happy bride, Connie?" he asked at length, more
seriously.
"Only tentatively," was the complacent reply. "I met a girl in New York
last winter, and it seems to me she couldn't be improved upon if she had
been made to order; but I want to look the ground over a bit, and that
is where you come in. Her name is Marian Thatcher, and--"
"Thatcher--Marian Thatcher!" Huntington interrupted unexpectedly. "From
New York? Why--no, that would be ridiculous! Is she a widow?"
Cosden chuckled. "Not yet, and if she marries me it will be a long time
before she gets a chance to wear black. What put that idea in your
head?"
"Nothing," Huntington hastened to say. "I knew a girl years ago named
Marian who married a man named Thatcher, and they lived in New York."
"She is about twenty years old--"
"Not the same," Huntington remarked. Then after a moment's silence he
laughed. "What tricks Time plays us! I knew the girl I speak of when I
was in college, and I haven't seen her since her marriage. Go on with
your proposition."
"Well, she and her parents went down to Bermuda last week, and it
occurred to me that if you and I just happen down there next week it
would exactly fit into my plans. More than that, I have business reasons
for wanting to get closer to Thatcher himself. We've been against each
other on several deals, and this might mean a combination. What do you
say? Will you go?"
"Next week?" Huntington asked. "I couldn't pick up stakes in a minute
like that."
"Of course you can," Cosden persisted. "There's nothing in the world to
prevent your leaving to-night if you choose."
"There's Bill, you know."
"Well, what about Bill? Is he in any new scrape now?"
"No," Huntington admitted; "but he's sure to get into some trouble
before I return."
"Why can't his father straighten him out?"
Huntington laughed consciously. "No father ever understands his son as
well as an uncle."
"No father ever spoiled a son the way you spoil Bill--"
Huntington held up a restraining hand. "It is only the boy's animal
spirits bubbling over," he interrupted, "and the fact that he can't grow
up. You and I were in college once ourselves."
Huntington was never successful in holding out against Cosden's
persistency, and in the present case elements existed which argued with
almost equal force. He was curious to see how far his friend was in
earnest, and was this combination of names a pure coincidence? He
wondered.
The car came to a stop before Huntington's house.
"Well," he yielded at length, as he stepped out, "I presume it might be
arranged.--Let Mason take you home. You've given me a lot to think
over, Connie--"
"This wouldn't break up our intimacy, you understand," Cosden asserted
confidently. "No woman in the world shall ever do that; and it will be a
good thing for you, too, to have a woman's influence come into your
life."
"Perhaps," Huntington assented dubiously; "but because you show symptoms
of lapsing is no sign that I shall fall from the blessed state of
bachelorhood. I supposed that our inoculation made us both immune, but
if the virus has weakened in your system I have no doubt that any woman
you select will have a heart big enough for us both."
"If she hasn't, we won't take her into the firm," laughed Cosden.
* * * * *