* * * * *
On their return from the Barracks Mrs. Thatcher and Edith Stevens left
the men on the piazza and went up-stairs for the ostensible purpose of
lying down, but with that ease with which two women change their plans
when once alone they found themselves sitting in Marian's room, engaged
in a heart-to-heart conversation.
"I really think he might do," Edith remarked, a propos of nothing.
As Mrs. Thatcher was intimately acquainted with Edith's mental processes
the remark was more intelligible than might have been expected.
"You don't mean Philip Hamlen?"
Edith laughed. "No; you warned me off of him yesterday. I mean Mr.
Cosden."
"At it again?" Marian laughed. "Edith, you are absolutely incorrigible!
It has been so long since you have played ducks and drakes with a man
that I really believed you had reformed. You are old enough to know
better!"
"I presume it will be the same with him as with the others," Edith
sighed. "That is my great weakness, I admit: I like a man just so long,
and then he bores me stiff. I don't see how a married woman stands it
to have only one man around her all the time. If you were as honest as I
am you would admit that it would be a relief to you, every now and then
if you could pour out your breakfast coffee with some one else sitting
in front of you instead of Harry."
"Harry answers very well, thank you."
"Habit, nothing else," Edith insisted. "He's as much a part of the
family furniture as the grand piano. But that's what gives me hope: if
you and so many other women can endure it, why can't I?"
"There are hundreds of men; why pick on Mr. Cosden?"
"I had a long, experimental conversation with him last night while you
and Mr. Huntington were holding your revival meeting on the pier, and I
really think he might do. Tell me what you know about him."
"Only what Harry has told me. They have had some business dealings
together, and Harry says he has made a lot of money. The fact that Monty
Huntington is his friend is his best recommendation."
"Mr. Huntington has a good social position in Boston, hasn't he?"
"Good heavens, yes! I believe one of his ancestors discovered Beacon
Street, or something of that kind; but that doesn't imply that Mr.
Cosden has the same position. A bachelor may have friends at his clubs
whom he does not necessarily bring into his social circle,--especially
in Boston."
"Mr. Cosden is frightfully commercial," Edith meditated aloud.
"So are you," Marian broke in laughing.
"I don't mind that," Edith continued, "so long as he has a human side.
I believe I could serve as a counter-irritant to keep him from remaining
merely a machine.
"You mustn't take away his capacity as provider," Marian teased her; "he
would need a fairly stiff income to sail the good ship 'Edith Stevens.'"
"With everything I want costing more and everything I own yielding less,
that is of vital importance, of course. But I really believe
Cossie--Connie--whatever they call him, might do."
"Well, it's fine to have that all settled, my dear," Marian agreed,
still showing her amusement. "Now, when are you going to break the news
to him?"
"Ah! that's another question!" Edith answered, entirely unabashed.
"Couldn't you find out from Mr. Huntington something about his hobbies
and his antipathies?"
"Of course; unless you select some one else in the mean time. Perhaps
we'd better wait until after luncheon."
"Oh, I'm serious," Edith protested,--"provided of course that he
measures up all right. The more I think it over the more serious I
become. Ricky was particularly trying this morning; I'm aghast at the
amount of last month's bills, and all in all it makes me realize the
importance of not letting one's age become an indiscretion. Even you
referred to my passing years."
"Poor Ricky!" Marian said sympathetically; "he never gets any credit for
sacrificing himself."
"I've acted in the interests of my sex," Edith asserted stoutly. "Ricky
is a joke. Except for the fact that he's my own brother I'd say he was
a scream. If it hadn't been for me he would have married some girl and
bored her to extinction. She couldn't have escaped him, but I can.
Somebody owes me a debt of gratitude."
"Well," Marian sighed, "I wish you luck; if Mr. Cosden isn't smart
enough to protect himself it will be his own fault."
"Why be catty, Marian?" Edith retorted with asperity. "It isn't
becoming."
Marian laughed. "You silly child!" she said. "You are the most supremely
selfish creature in the world, but you are so blissfully unconscious of
the fact that I love you for it. Some one has to stand up for Ricky;
Heaven knows he can't stand up for himself."
"Very good." Edith was only partly mollified. "I've no doubt Ricky will
be exceedingly grateful, but if you were to ask me I'd say that you have
men enough on your hands already without him. Now, I'm going to my room
to dress for luncheon. Afterwards, when you find an opportunity, I want
you to pump Mr. Huntington dry about Cossie--Connie--I'll never get used
to that name!--and leave me to do the rest."
Unconscious of plots and counterplots, Cosden and Huntington sauntered
innocently onto the piazza after their noonday meal. Billy had managed
to get himself invited to the Thatchers' table, so the two friends had
lunched by themselves. Both were self-centered, but neither noticed it
because of his own abstraction. Cosden was measuring up the girl as his
opportunity for observation broadened, Huntington was still affected by
his experience with Hamlen. Curiously enough, in spite of their
friendship, or perhaps because their intimacy gave each so clear a
knowledge of the other's characteristics neither one cared to speak of
the subject which was uppermost in his mind. "Monty is too much of a
cynic to appreciate my situation here," Cosden told himself; and
Huntington, without even mentally putting it into words, knew that
Hamlen did not and never would appeal to Cosden.
Shortly after the men had lighted their cigars the party from the
Thatchers' table joined them. Marian noticed that Edith casually dropped
into the chair beside Cosden's, and was amused to see that she began
operations at once.
"What are we going to do this afternoon?" Edith queried breezily.
"We've all been going since breakfast," Stevens suggested; "why not sit
still for a while?"
"Ricky!" said his sister severely, "no one asked your opinion. What in
the world is the use of sitting still? We can do that at home."
"What do you suggest?" Cosden asked her incautiously.
"Have you been to Harrington Sound?"
"No," he admitted; recognizing at once that he had given an unwise
opening.
"Then why don't you let me show you the way?" Edith asked, as if the
thought had only just occurred to her.
A chorus of approval went up from Huntington, Mrs. Thatcher and Billy.
"Suppose we all go," Cosden said, seeking safety in numbers.
"We have taken the drive several times," Mrs. Thatcher abetted Edith in
her conspiracy, "and I am sure Mr. Huntington is too gallant to leave
us. You can drive over and back comfortably by dinner-time."
"Won't you stop on the way home and get me some coral sand?" Merry
asked. "Edith will show you the beach."
A drive with Miss Stevens was the last thing Cosden had intended, but as
there seemed no possible escape he rose to the occasion and at once
ordered the victoria. Nor was the enthusiasm of Billy's send-off
balm-of-Gilead to his soul as the carriage moved away from the hotel
steps. Edith, in a suit of white Bermuda doe-skin, with a small purple
hat perched rakishly on her head, and carrying a purple parasol with
handle of abalone pearl, was looking her best, and to the amused
onlookers her snapping eyes and beaming countenance seemed to promise
compensation.
"I wish we might have a word together about Hamlen," Huntington remarked
to Marian as they turned back to the piazza.
"That is the very subject which is uppermost in my mind," she replied
eagerly. "You saw him this morning?"
"Yes; and he has absorbed my thoughts ever since. Suppose we sit down
and talk him over."
The others in the party left them to themselves. They had heard
Huntington's preliminary remark, and understood that they had no part in
the conversation.
"He is a pathetic figure," Huntington continued, "and he has won a
sympathy from me which I never remember to have given to any one before.
Think of twenty years of solitude! By Jove! he is the Modern Edmond
Dantes!"
"I've known him since he was a boy," Marian said as Huntington paused
for a moment. "If you are to understand the situation, perhaps I ought
to tell you more. For a time, we were engaged, but these relations were
broken off soon after his graduation. In fact I feel that I am to a
certain extent responsible for his present condition, for he left
America as soon as he heard of my engagement to Mr. Thatcher."
Huntington looked up quickly. "That gives Hamlen and me another bond of
sympathy," he said quietly.
"What do you mean?" she asked, surprised.
"That same announcement produced disastrous effects upon my life as
well."
"Why, you never saw me half a dozen times--"
"Once was enough," he replied seriously.
"Your imagination is as highly developed as your gallantry, Mr.
Huntington," Marian laughed; "but we mustn't let ourselves become
diverted.--Philip Hamlen was always sensitive and moody, but until I
discovered him down here I had no idea these characteristics could
become so exaggerated."
"He believes himself always to have been misunderstood," Huntington
added. "To-day he felt that we met on common ground, and the gratitude
in his eyes still haunts me."
"Can't we do something for him, between us?" she asked earnestly.
"We must," Huntington assented with decision. "I am still puzzling over
the problem. Have you anything to suggest?"
Mrs. Thatcher did not reply at once, and Huntington respected her
silence. He realized that her answer could not be given spontaneously,
that the proposition was too vital for anything but the most serious
consideration. As a matter of fact, however, she had already considered
it. Marian Thatcher was a woman of strong impulses, with strength of
will equal to carry them through to success. She had been appalled by
Hamlen's condition, and felt keenly her personal responsibility. During
the hours which had intervened since the accidental meeting, many of
them sleepless hours of the night, she had searched her mind for some
expedient which should in part work restitution. She had discovered a
possible solution, but it was of a nature so intimate that she hesitated
to take Huntington into her confidence.
"I had thought--" she began at length, but then she paused. "We must
pull him out of himself," she began again; "we must get him where he
will find something to think of other than himself."
"Suppose that to be accomplished, what then?"
"I had thought--he needs--he needs a woman who believes in him, to give
him courage, to restore his lost faith in himself. A friendship such as
you or any other man can give will help much, but if the right woman
could happen to come into his life--"
"Isn't that taking too long a step for a first one? Huntington
inquired.
"Perhaps; but I feel myself so largely responsible that it would mean
much to me to atone--"
Marian's intensity made its impression upon Huntington even as it had
upon Hamlen; but he could not follow her. How a married woman could make
atonement just at this crisis was not clearly apparent. She realized
that her stumbling remarks must be confusing.
"It is difficult for me to tell you just what I have in mind," she
stated definitely at length. "You don't know me well enough not to
misunderstand, and you don't know Merry. But if I am to accept your aid
I must run that risk, mustn't I?"
"I shall try not to misunderstand--"
"You mustn't think me unmotherly or indelicate," she continued. "It may
be the last thing in the world which ought to happen, but if Philip
Hamlen and Merry should take it into their heads to marry it would seem
almost like poetic justice, wouldn't it?"
"By Jove, no!" Huntington ejaculated hastily, with visions of Cosden
swimming before his eyes.
"Of course you are surprised," Marian said, laughing consciously; "but
if you think of it you must admit that Merry would make him an ideal
wife, and I believe he would be a wonderful husband. Her interest has
always been in men older than herself, and he is only now ready to enjoy
his youth. Of course, it is only an idea, but stranger things than that
have happened."
"Well," he said guardedly, sparring for time, "that may be the ultimate
outcome; but first of all we must do a bit of humanizing. I would like
to take him back to Boston to pay me a long visit if he would go. After
that, we could see how things worked out."
"Splendid!" Marian exclaimed; "and being in Boston he would be nearer my
Philip. That was the one suggestion which seemed to appeal to him when I
tried to persuade him to leave Bermuda. He would be much more likely to
accept the suggestion from you than from me. The boy is named for him,
and I believe they could do much for each other."
"Capital!" echoed Huntington. "I know from experience how much a boy can
do to keep an older man from thinking too much about himself. We are
making progress. I will do my best to drag him away from here, and if I
succeed we will arrange with Philip to take charge of that side of his
education."
Marian smiled gratefully as she heard the plan put definitely into
words. "You have relieved me of an oppressive burden," she said
feelingly. "It is such a relief to talk the matter over with some one
who really understands. Don't misjudge me by what I suggest about Merry.
I can't forget the closeness of those earlier relations, I can't forget
my responsibility, and I shouldn't be true to myself if I failed to do
all in my power to bring Philip Hamlen back to himself."
"His natural qualities and his helplessness form a strong appeal,"
Huntington replied evasively. "I shall be glad to assist in this
socialistic experiment, Mrs. Thatcher, but I'm not quite sure that I am
wholly sympathetic."
"You will see more reason in my suggestion after you know them both
better," Marian said confidently, placing her hand within the one
outstretched to her. "When you do, I am sure I shall have your cordial
co-operation in bringing about the match."
"If you are right, I shall ask that my case be placed next upon the
calendar."
"Willingly!" Mrs. Thatcher laughed. "I'll find a wife within a month."
"Heaven forbid!" he cried. "Unless--" he added slyly;--"unless you
become a widow in the mean time!"
* * * * *
X
* * * * *
For some reason best known to himself Huntington did not confide to
Cosden the fact that Mrs. Thatcher had suggested the possibility of a
match between Merry and Hamlen. She had referred to it as "poetic
justice"; perhaps Huntington, knowing his friend to be unsympathetic in
his relations toward poetry in general, might fail to appreciate the
present application, particularly since he himself, though possessing
pronounced fondness for the poets, had not fully risen to the idea. As a
matter of fact, the suggestion shocked him no less than Cosden's
business-like proposition concerning his own marriage. What were people
thinking of, these days!
He looked forward to the morrow and to the sailing of the "Arcadian"
with a sense of partial relief, for Billy's boyish infatuation and
Cosden's impatient demands for interference had considerably disturbed
his tranquillity. Huntington was a man of action when he so elected, and
he enjoyed doing things when they were of his own choice and could be
done in his own time and way; but nothing annoyed him more than to be
forced into action by another's choice or election. Now, just as he saw
one disturbing element about to be eliminated, another of seemingly
greater magnitude loomed up on the horizon, and he cordially wished
himself back in Boston with nothing more serious than the east winds to
worry him.
But no disturbing element was apparent in his face as he stepped out
onto the piazza after his leisurely breakfast the following morning.
Glancing around, he discovered Cosden and Miss Stevens standing at the
further corner, watching the hustle of the departing guests.
"You're just in time to witness the great event of the day," she greeted
him as he joined them, pleased that she had Cosden and Huntington even
temporarily to herself. "One of the best things they do down here is to
arrange the sailings to New York at a time when one may see the boat off
without getting up at all hours of the night."
Cosden started to speak and then paused, looking at her narrowly to make
certain that by no possible construction could any answer of his be
twisted into an invitation to drive to St. George's, or to some other
point equally remote.
"Your remark shows that you and Mr. Huntington have much in common," he
observed at length.
"Ability to sleep is an evidence of a clear conscience," she asserted.
"Which explains my restless nights, and the necessity of making up my
quota at the wrong end," Huntington said.
"But you come from New England, Mr. Huntington," Edith expostulated.
"I've always heard a lot about the New England conscience."
"I'll wager you never heard anything good about it," Huntington smiled.
"Does it ever really keep any one from doing the things he wants to do?"
she asked mischievously.
"No," Huntington answered gravely; "it simply makes him very
uncomfortable while he's doing them."
"I thought your sleeplessness might be caused by anxiety lest that
precious nephew of yours forget to take the boat this morning," Cosden
remarked dryly.
Huntington was quietly amused. "How about you?" he asked.
"I'm here to throw him bodily on board at the first sign of any change
of plan."
"You speak as if you had a grudge against the boy," Edith said, looking
surprised.
"Not at all," Cosden demurred; "Billy is all right, but he covers too
much territory. Since he landed I haven't been able to put my foot on
the ground without stepping on him. His Alma Mater needs Billy more than
I do, and, as Monty says, we alumni must be loyal to our Dear Mother."
"His Alma Mater will have to do without him for a few days longer unless
he appears soon," Edith remarked calmly, pointing toward the dock. "The
tender has just started and will be here at the pier in a moment."
Both men sprang to their feet.
"Where in the world can that boy be?" Huntington demanded with real
concern.
"You go up to his room and I'll look around down here," Cosden said,
taking command of the situation.
Huntington disappeared with astonishing alacrity, while his friend
deserted Miss Stevens to pursue the search down-stairs.
"Why don't you find Miss Thatcher?" Cosden suggested, coming back to her
as the idea struck him; "that will probably locate the boy."
"I'd rather watch the man-hunt from here," she retorted coolly. "I don't
want to miss seeing you throw him bodily on board."
The tender came slowly alongside the "Princess" steps, taking on board
the passengers from the hotel. Cosden and Huntington both appeared from
different directions as the gang-plank was drawn up and the little
steamer's screw began to churn. Huntington was out of breath, but not
empty-handed--he carried with him a bag which showed evidences of hectic
packing, with pajama strings hanging out from the partially closed top.
"He hadn't even packed his things!" Huntington panted indignantly.
"Stay here a moment," Cosden said, leaving him standing irresolutely at
the top of the stone steps, watching the stretch of water increase
between the departing tender and the pier.
"Please turn this way," Edith called, leveling her camera at him from
the piazza rail. "I want to be sure to get that suit-case into the
picture."
"Wait until Connie comes back," Huntington begged.
At that moment a disheveled figure appeared running frantically up the
"Princess" driveway.
"I've lost my boat!" Billy cried with well-simulated despair.
"You did it deliberately, you young rascal!" Huntington cried, aroused
at last to exasperation.
"Uncle Monty!" Billy's face wore an injured expression which would have
fitted a Raphael cherub. "You know I wouldn't have missed that boat for
anything. I'm sure to be rooked if I'm not in Cambridge Thursday."
Cosden joined them in time to hear Billy's expostulations. "We couldn't
let that happen," he said comfortingly. "Come on; I've fixed it up with
the jolly skipper in this motor-boat. He swears he can reach the
'Arcadian' before the tender does. Quick! there isn't a minute to lose!"
"But I haven't packed my bag--"
"Here it is!"
Huntington removed Billy's one remaining hope, and the boy saw that he
was fairly beaten.
The broad grin returned to his face as he took his bag. "That's mighty
good of you, Mr. Cosden," he said, with such apparent sincerity that it
disarmed his uncle's wrath. "There aren't many men who would help a
fellow out like that. I won't forget it!"
He ran down the stone steps and took his place in the stern of the
motor-boat. "Good-bye, everybody! Say, Uncle Monty, explain to Merry why
I didn't have time to say 'good-bye' to her, and don't forget that this
joy-ride is on Mr. Cosden. Good-bye!"
They watched the little boat speed after the tender, which by this time
had reached the narrows; then they turned back to the piazza.
"We've succeeded in making ourselves fairly conspicuous," Cosden
remarked. "A good deal of fuss over one small boy, eh, Monty?"
"Thank you so much!" Edith cried enthusiastically as they joined her. "I
haven't seen so much excitement since I arrived,--and I love to watch
two live men in action."
"It's frightful, being stared at, isn't it?" Cosden protested.
"Don't believe a word he says, Miss Stevens," Huntington retaliated. "He
really loves to be stared at; it's the disappointment on the people's
faces after looking at him that causes the worry.--Now, Connie, you can
put your foot on the ground without stepping on Billy. How are you
planning to take advantage of your opportunity?"
Cosden glanced at his watch. "I have an appointment with Thatcher at
eleven on that little business proposition. We're to meet at the
'Hamilton.' I've just about time to keep it. As for you, I suggest that
you invite Miss Stevens to show you the way to the Devil's Hole. They
have a wonderful collection of fish over there, which the Scotch keeper
puts through their paces every little while whenever he needs the money.
I commend your attention to the bachelor-fish: it has a bad disposition,
makes itself obnoxious to its fellow-creatures, and would be sarcastic
in its conversation if it had the power of speech."
With this parting shot Cosden made his excuses to Miss Stevens and
walked over to the "Hamilton." His spirits had improved immensely within
the past half-hour, and the proximity of his appointment caused him to
forget for the moment that his vacation trip thus far had distinctly
bored him. To Cosden a vacation consisted, as Henry James would have
described it, of "agitated scraps of rest, snatched by the liveliest
violence." On other occasions, when he sought relaxation, he had found
it in strenuous physical exercise; in the present instance he had
intended to engage himself in the more unfamiliar occupation of offering
a partnership to Merry Thatcher in the "Cosden Social Development
Company, Limited," although he had not expressed it to himself in just
these words. In this expectation he had so far signally failed. Had he
been a baron of old he might have seized the prospective bride bodily
and made off with her to his ancestral castle, but, even with the
handicap imposed by modern civilization, now that the diverting
influence had been eliminated, he believed the opportunity was nearer to
the point of offering itself. The fact that Thatcher had turned to him
in this proposition, whatever it was, not only pleased him as a further
evidence of recognition, but supplied him with an agreeable outlet for
his pent-up energy.
Cosden had told Huntington that Thatcher was a "big man," and his
friend, having learned his business vocabulary, understood what was
meant by this designation: Thatcher was a man of substantial means, held
influential positions on important boards, and wielded a power in the
financial circles in which he moved. Cosden had been far-sighted, he
told himself, to have happened upon the scene at this particular
juncture, for Thatcher would scarcely have gone out of his way to invite
him to join in the enterprise except for the coincidence of their
meeting; and Cosden was not averse to being included in the Thatcher
group of operators.
Thatcher was awaiting him on the lower piazza when he arrived at the
"Hamilton."
"I wanted to have a few words with you before we join this promoter
person up-stairs," he explained, "so I sent Stevens on ahead to tell him
we are on our way. Duncan is the man's name. He's a Scotchman who has
lived down here for many years. He has little education, and you could
cut his brogue with a knife."
"I won't object to his brogue if his signature is any good at the foot
of a check," Cosden interrupted.
"He doesn't come in on that end," Thatcher continued. "The idea is his,
and he can be of service later on if we proceed with it. It isn't very
large, and we can finance it easily if the thing is worth taking up at
all. The scheme is to fit Bermuda out with a trolley system, and to
bring the right tidy little island down to the twentieth century."
"Not a bad suggestion," Cosden commented,--"and a great improvement upon
the present system of bicycling." Billy would have rejoiced had he known
how stiff his adversary's legs were after the famous ride to Elba Beach.
"Why hasn't some one thought of it before?"
"Duncan will tell you the story as he has told me," Thatcher said
rising. "Come, let us go to him now. Ricky will have exhausted his
vocabulary by this time."
Cosden smiled at the mention of Stevens' name. "He's a curious
fellow,--Stevens," he remarked. "With that vacant expression on his face
he ought to make a corking poker-player. Is he interested in this
deal?"
"Ricky interested in business?" Thatcher laughed. "He would run a mile
to avoid it! No, he's just a messenger this morning; but Ricky is all
right in his way. He's the society member of his family. He isn't a
heavy-weight, but when it comes to dancing or the latest word in men's
attire, you can't overlook Ricky."
* * * * *
Cosden's departure left Huntington and Miss Stevens together on the
piazza of the hotel. The bustle attendant upon the sailing had quieted
down but Huntington had not recovered from the unusually violent action
of the past few moments.
"I was going over to have another visit with Hamlen," he remarked, "but
the morning is gone."
"It isn't eleven o'clock yet," Miss Stevens commented.
"By Jove! is that all? Well, it's too late now, but I'll go this
afternoon.--It seems as if ages had passed since breakfast! Do you
suppose they'll keep that boy on board once they get him there?"
"Of course," she laughed. "Why worry about him?"
"I'm not worrying," Huntington protested. "I never worry,--I don't
believe in it. Worry is for parents and married people generally."
"What a cynic you are on the subject of marriage," Edith remarked; "you
never pass an opportunity to knock it, do you?"
"Am I so heartless as all that?" Huntington inquired by way of answer.
"But why can't you and I, who may class ourselves among those fortunate
ones who have escaped the snares, be honest with each other and enjoy
watching the thraldom of others who have shown themselves less
discreet?"
"How do you know that I do class myself among the fortunate ones?"
"Because you are unmarried, and seeing you is to know that you could not
enjoy that blessed state except through choice."
Edith smiled at his gallantry, wondering whether he was really as
flippant as he would have her think.
"If a woman were to take that position she would be accused of 'sour
grapes,' wouldn't she?"
"Probably; such is the instinctive pessimism of the times. It is so much
easier to do the conventional when one sees it going on all about him
that people are intellectually incapable of comprehending that to avoid
the obvious may be a matter of pre-determination, and an evidence of
strength rather than the result of accident or an act of omission."
"Does Mr. Cosden share your views upon this subject?" Edith inquired.
"Not at the present moment, if I am credibly informed by my
observations."
Edith looked at him critically. "Do you mean that he is engaged?" she
asked pointedly.
"Oh, no," Huntington disclaimed promptly, conscious that he was talking
of his friend with considerable freedom, but suddenly inspired with the
idea that it might help the situation; "no, I didn't mean that at all.
He isn't as careful as he used to be about exposing himself; that is
what I was trying to say. You see, I don't know how long inoculation
holds good: it's seven years for smallpox, and three years for typhoid.
How long should you say a man could hold out against matrimony on the
same ratio?"
"When was Mr. Cosden 'inoculated,' as you call it?" she asked, smiling.
"When he started out to make his fortune, about fifteen years ago."
"Then I'm sure it has run out of his system long since," she laughed.
"He ought to be very susceptible."
"I'm afraid you're right," Huntington sighed. "Of course, Connie has a
strong, robust constitution and he may pull through, but I will admit
that I've seen symptoms lately which cause me some anxiety. Did you
notice anything while you were out driving?"
"I noticed a good many things, but nothing which would contribute to the
subject you mention. He was about as responsive as the wrong side of a
mirror, but I talked at him until he had to say something in
self-defense."
"Dear me!" Huntington held up his hands deprecatingly. "That is one of
the worst symptoms possible. I had no idea that it had gone as far as
that. You and I must take Connie in hand."
"Who is the girl?" Edith demanded abruptly.
"Ah! I am counting on you to help me find out."
"It all must have happened before you came down here."
"On the contrary; Connie was quite himself until he reached Bermuda.
Since then--"
"Why, he hasn't met any one here except--"
"You and Miss Thatcher," Huntington completed. "You see how the search
narrows itself. I shall continue my investigations until I discover the
truth.
"How perfectly ridiculous!" Edith cried, not yet convinced as to his
sincerity. "Why, Merry is a mere child, and--what makes you think there
is anything of that kind in Mr. Cosden's mind?"
"His vindictiveness. Haven't you noticed the way he treated Billy? And
he has actually been harsh with me on two occasions. It isn't like
Connie; and if it affects him like this now, Heaven alone knows what the
outcome will be if matters go further. You know the old song:
"_You may carve it on his tombstone, you may cut it on his card,
That a young man married is a young man marred._"
"There you go again," laughed Edith; "the cynic once more leaps into the
limelight."
"But won't you pledge yourself to assist me in my noble work? Why not
form ourselves into a society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Single
Persons, and be sworn to do all we can to intervene between matrimony
and its victims?"
"Of course each would be at liberty to use his own judgment?" queried
Edith, amused.
"Yes; so long as he did not confound judgment with sentiment."
"That is a capital suggestion," she agreed smiling. "I will gladly join
you. Our first undertaking, I presume, will be to prevent affairs from
going any further between Merry and Mr. Cosden--granting that they
exist?"
"I don't say that. I recognize in you a superior person, and as such I
have absolute confidence that you will act in accord with the unwritten
constitution of our Society."
"Thank you for that confidence," Edith said still smiling. Then she
added enigmatically, "Whenever I accept a responsibility I always rise
promptly to the emergency. In the present instance it requires careful
consideration. Now, if you will excuse me I will take my morning
constitutional."
Huntington was not sorry to have a few moments of solitary
contemplation. Throwing away a half-smoked cigar, he drew his pipe from
his pocket and filled it with his favorite mixture--unchanged since he
first became acquainted with it at college. A cigarette represented to
Huntington the casual inconsequence of youth, a cigar the aristocracy of
smoking, a pipe that comfortable companionship which encourages
relaxation and introspective thought. With the first whiff he pulled his
hat down over his face, settled deep in his chair, and began to run over
the events of the past few days. Huntington's mind was methodical if not
always orderly, and his account of stock, when finally classified under
the head of "responsibilities," summed up about as follows:
_Responsibility 1_: To keep peace with Connie, and yet
persuade him against or frighten him out of his present
assinine intentions.
_Responsibility 2_: To pull Hamlen out of the solitary life
which he had affected, and to force him to assume that
position in the world to which he rightly belonged.
_Responsibility 3_: To demonstrate to Mrs. Thatcher that her
unmotherly idea of making restitution to Hamlen by throwing
her daughter at his head was the product of an overwrought
sentimentality rather than a rational suggestion.
_Responsibility 4_: To become sufficiently intimate with
Merry, the direct or indirect occasion of the entire
complication, to be able to judge as to the probable outcome
of all the other responsibilities.
The sum total of his obligations appalled him, and he found himself
proceeding in a mental circle, making no progress beyond the
recapitulation. He was not displeased, therefore, when he found himself
interrupted in his reveries by a bell-boy who stood before him, holding
out a tray containing a telegram. He took it mechanically, wondering who
had located him in this island retreat. Opening the yellow envelope he
read the following message, sent by wireless from the "Arcadian":
"_That Cosden person has slipped it over on me this time,
but I depend on you to watch out for my interests with
Merry. She is the one best bet. Don't let that antique
vintage of 1875 annoy her with his attentions. I know I can
trust you. Please cable money to me in New York care of
Hotel Biltmore to pay for this message and other expenses to
Cambridge._
"BILLY."
Huntington groaned aloud as he twisted uncomfortably in his chair.
"Another responsibility to add to the others!" he cried, "and I believed
bachelor's life one of freedom and ease! If ever I get out of this mess
I'll bury myself in some monastery, and let its cold grey walls protect
me against the matrimonial madness of the world!"
* * * * *