IV

* * * * *

It was in the long, spacious dining-room of the "Princess" that Cosden

pointed out the Thatcher party to Huntington, and Hamlen was with them.

Naturally enough Huntington's eyes first rested on the girl's face, and

in it he found enough that was reminiscent to cause a start. It was

Marian Seymour as she must have looked when he knew her, but not at all

as he had come to think of her during the intervening years. How

ridiculously young she was! But Huntington had discovered that young

people were getting to look younger every year now. It almost annoyed

him, whenever he went to Cambridge to straighten out some mix-up of

nephew Billy's, to see how much smaller and younger the students were

to-day than when he was there. He remembered distinctly that he and his

mates had been men when he was in college; but the present generation

was made up of youngsters who should not be allowed abroad without their

nurses.

Miss Thatcher, whom Cosden pointed out to him, came within the same

category. She carried herself with a dignity not always seen in girls of

her age, but she was undeniably young. Then his glance passed from her

to the older woman whom he took to be her mother, and he found himself

guilty of staring shamelessly. This was undoubtedly the Marian Seymour

of sainted memory, now delightfully matured into an extremely attractive

matron of thirty-eight or forty. The slight figure had changed but

little from what he remembered; the face still showed traces of its

former mischievous vivacity, even though it had become more decorous.

Such changes as he saw were only those which come in the natural

development of a charming girl into a well set-up woman of the world. So

this was the genius who would have presided over his household if he had

happened to find her at home upon either of those two momentous

occasions, or if he had happened to discover her in Europe on that

eventful trip and had happened to tell her of his devotion, and,

incidentally, she had happened to respond to his declaration of undying

affection.

His inspection was as complete and analytic as the distance between the

two tables would permit. She was a fascinating woman, he acknowledged,

and yet--she was so different from what he had pictured her. The wife

with whom he had mentally lived these twenty years he himself had

created out of the all-too-scanty materials of memory, added to

substantially by what his imagination had skilfully selected of what he

thought she ought to be. He had not been more successful in his creation

than Nature herself, he was forced to admit, but while looking at Mrs.

Thatcher he experienced the mortifying sensation of being a

self-convicted bigamist.

Curiously, he had never thought of her as growing older along with him.

His glance returned to the daughter's face, and in it he found a closer

semblance to what his mind had pictured. She was more mature than her

mother had been, yet she possessed many of the same physical

characteristics. Was it possible that she might have been his daughter?

Here came the third distinct shock. For the first time he had something

against which to measure his own age, and involuntarily he touched his

heavy head of hair to reassure himself that baldness, that advertisement

of advancing years, had not overtaken him in the moment.

"Well," Cosden interrupted his reveries; "I'm waiting to hear your first

impressions."

Huntington started guiltily, as if his friend had witnessed the

gymnastics his mind had executed. It was natural that Cosden, being

nearest to him, should come in for the force of the reaction.

"How do you suppose I can express an opinion on a girl half-way across a

room the size of this?" he answered with as much asperity as ever crept

into the evenness of his tone.

Cosden looked up surprised. "Why, Monty!" he expostulated, "don't get

peevish!"

"Don't bother me with foolish questions," was the ungracious rejoinder.

"I'm studying the situation. Later I'll give you my impressions."

"But you've seen her," Cosden persisted. "What do you think of the

perspective?"

"She is very young," Huntington replied, regaining his composure and

realizing that to fall in with Cosden's mood was easier than to explain

his own.

"She's twenty--just the right age for a man thirty-eight," was the

complacent reply. "I've figured it all out. A woman grows old faster

than a man, and eighteen years is just the proper handicap."

"Which is her husband?" Huntington asked.

"Her husband?" Cosden repeated after him.

"I mean her mother's husband," Huntington corrected hastily; "which one

is Mr. Thatcher?"

"The man with the smooth face; I don't know the others. We'll meet them

later."

As the party left the dining-room Mr. Thatcher recognized Cosden and

fell behind to greet him.

"Well met!" he exclaimed cordially, after being presented to Huntington.

"It is a relief to see some one I know. Down here on a vacation trip, I

suppose?"

"Why--yes," Cosden hesitated, seeing some deeper meaning behind the

bromidic question; "that is, I thought so until I saw you. Now I'm not

quite sure."

Thatcher laughed. "I had the same idea, but I can't seem to get away

from business; it pursues me! I've stumbled onto something--not very

tremendous, but still it may be a good thing. I'd be glad to have you

look it over with me if you care to. We'll discuss it later if you don't

object to talking shop during leisure hours."

Cosden's face assumed that keen, resourceful expression which his

friends knew so well. "I'm never too much at leisure to discuss

business," he said.

"Good! Now, when you and Mr. Huntington have finished dinner, join us on

the piazza and we'll all have our coffee together."

Huntington looked at his friend significantly as Thatcher moved away. "I

didn't come down here on a business trip," he suggested.

"It won't interfere with you at all," Cosden reassured him. "Thatcher is

a big man, and has a good eye for things. What he has in mind may be

well worth looking into."

"So long as you don't let it divert us from our main purpose I won't

object," Huntington conceded gravely; "but the spirit of the chase is on

me, and I can't mix sport and business. This is the first time I have

ever approached a girl from a matrimonial point of view, even

vicariously. I'm beginning to enjoy it and I refuse to be thrown off the

scent."

* * * * *

There is no moon like a Bermuda moon. The contrast between its soft yet

brilliant light--as it fell first upon the harbor, throwing the islands

into silhouette, then flooding the piazza--and the electric glare, out

of which the two men stepped ten minutes later, made a deep impression

upon Huntington. The eyes of his friend, however, were focused upon the

little party, chatting merrily about the table, awaiting their arrival.

"I had them postpone our coffee," Thatcher explained as he presented

Cosden to the Stevenses and to Hamlen, and Huntington to each. "We shall

enjoy it the more for having you with us."

Huntington found himself sitting between the daughter and Hamlen, while

Cosden sat next to Mrs. Thatcher across the table. There had been no

recognition, and Huntington was glad of it; he preferred to introduce

the subject in his own way and at his own time. The girl, however, had

already discovered a bond.

"Aren't you Billy Huntington's uncle?" she asked.

"Yes," he admitted; "but where in the world did you meet him?"

"He is a particular friend of my brother Philip's," she explained.

"Philip is a year ahead of him at Harvard, you know, but they are great

pals. My brother always has him at the house whenever he's in New York."

"Well, well!" laughed Huntington. "The young rascal never told me

anything about it! But wait a minute--Phil Thatcher--why, of course!

Billy has had him in to dine with me several times. So he's your

brother!"

"Yes; I was sure I was right," she smiled. "We're friends already,

aren't we?"

"We are," Huntington acquiesced gravely; "and I shall do something

particularly nice for Billy to show my appreciation of what he has done

for me."

Mrs. Thatcher caught the general drift of her daughter's conversation,

and she leaned across the table.

"Are you not a Harvard man, Mr. Huntington?" she asked. "If so, you and

Mr. Hamlen must have been in college at about the same time."

"Yes," Huntington replied; and turning to Hamlen he gave the year of his

graduation.

"That was my Class also," was the reply; but there was nothing in

Hamlen's manner to invite reminiscence.

"Hamlen--Philip Hamlen," Huntington repeated meditatively. "I don't

believe we knew each other, did we? But the name is familiar. I have it!

You are the lost Philip Hamlen our Class Secretary has been searching

for; I have seen the name in the list of missing men each time a Class

Report has been issued. You must send him your history, my dear fellow.

We're proud of our Class, and we don't want to lose sight of a single

member."

There was a bitterness in Hamlen's voice as he replied. "My history

would interest no one; it is better that I remain among the 'missing

men.'"

Huntington sensed at once what lay behind his classmate's response. "No

college graduate can afford to do that," he expostulated. "Whether one

wishes it so or not, he has accepted a heritage which carries with it

responsibilities, and these force him to his capacity for the honor of

his Class and of his Alma Mater."

Mrs. Thatcher was following the conversation not only with interest, but

with a certain degree of anxiety.

"Mr. Huntington is right, Philip," she added; "you know that he is

right."

Hamlen moved uneasily in his chair. "It is curious how much more

interested our classmates become in us after we separate than while we

are together in college," he said significantly.

"Why is it curious?" Huntington persisted. "Why is it not the natural

sequence of events?"

"You could not understand." Hamlen spoke with rising emotion. "You had

everything in college; I had nothing. You remember my name only because

you've seen it listed amongst the 'missing men'; but I knew you the

moment I saw you. Back there you were Monty Huntington, manager of the

crew, member of all the exclusive societies, in everything, a part of

everything. Your classmates courted your acquaintance, and the four

years at Cambridge meant something to you. To me they meant nothing

except what I learned in the class-rooms. You as an alumnus owe all that

you say to the Class and to the Alma Mater, for both gave you much; I

owe them nothing, for they gave me nothing."

"My dear fellow!" Huntington expostulated hastily, "forgive me for

touching on so tender a subject; yet I am glad I did, for it is only

fair that you let me set you right. The college world is a small one,

and its citizens are young, untried boys. They are sometimes selfish and

cruel and unreasonable without meaning it, while they are enjoying what

is to most of them their first freedom, and they are trying to conduct

themselves like full-grown men. There are heartburns which at the time

seem tragedies. Then the undeveloped citizens of this little world, the

biggest of them, pass out into the great world, for which the college

life is only a training-school, and become infinitesimal parts of it.

There the ratio becomes readjusted. What seemed essentials--like the

clubs, for instance, or athletics--become non-essentials as the men look

back upon them; become simply pleasant memories of delightful

companionship. The next few years represent the real trying-out period,

and each member of the Class measures up his fellow-members by what they

have done since college. The mere fact of being members of the same

Class is the bond. I don't care what you did in college, Hamlen; but I

sha'n't let you get away from me until you tell me what you've done

since, or until you promise that I shall see you when next you come to

Boston. The fact that I didn't know you in college makes me the more

keen to know you now."

"I thank you a thousand times!" Mrs. Thatcher cried impulsively. "What

you have said in five minutes will do more to set Mr. Hamlen right than

weeks of argument from me. I found him to-day in a veritable paradise

which he has built here, and where he has lived alone practically since

he left college. I am trying to persuade him to come back into the world

again, and you can help me to accomplish it."

Hamlen was visibly affected by Huntington's cordiality. "This has been a

bewildering day," he said. "For over twenty years I have lived alone,

nursing a resentment toward college and life in general until it has

come to be a religion. This afternoon Mrs. Thatcher finds me

unexpectedly and begins to batter down my defenses; now Mr. Huntington,

without realizing it, attempts to complete the demolition. Don't wonder

that I'm not myself to-night; but I thank my classmate for what he has

said, just as I thank Mrs. Thatcher for her earlier efforts."

"Mr. Huntington," Thatcher remarked, "you have given Stevens and me a

new idea of the value of a college degree. I wasn't especially keen

about having my boy go to college, but now, by George! I wouldn't have

it otherwise."

"Huntington is a living propagandum for Harvard," Cosden said lightly,

realizing the desirability of leading the conversation into a less

serious channel. "My degree represents simply an additional tool to use

in carving out success, to him it means idolatry. If Huntington's house

was on fire, I should expect to see him climbing down the firemen's

ladder in his pink pajamas with his precious sheepskin under his arm

carried as tenderly as a mother would a child."

"Oh, you may make light of it," Huntington replied good-naturedly, "but

Hamlen and I are treading on sacred ground. The one weakness of college

life is that the opportunities it offers come before we are competent to

appreciate or embrace them. That is what brings about the condition

which he has misunderstood. It would be much better if we all could have

two years of college when we're seventeen and the other two when we're

forty."

The conversation drifted into smoother channels, but by the time the

party separated the acquaintance had developed to a point far beyond an

ordinary first meeting. Underneath it different elements were at work in

each one's mind and heart, put in motion by the unexpected intensity of

almost the earliest words which had been exchanged. Hamlen was the first

to leave. He said good-night casually to the group, but managed to

separate Huntington from the others.

"You have done much for one of your classmates to-night," he said

simply. "I thank you for it."

"Nonsense!" Huntington protested. "I'm more than delighted to have this

opportunity to know you--and I want to know you better."

"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."

* * * * *