* * * * *
Edith had secured the necessary records for the victrola from the hotel
office, and she and Cosden were alone in the ball-room ready for the
first lesson in modern dancing. Cosden had never before noticed how
enormous the room was, or how many of its windows opened onto the
piazza, or how curious the average hotel guest is when a novice is about
to be initiated into the mysteries of terpsichorean art.
"Pay no attention to them," Edith reassured him. "Those who know how to
dance have had to go through it, and those who haven't learned are
perishing for an opportunity. Listen!" she cried, as the music began.
"Can you possibly make your feet behave when you hear that heavenly
one-step? Look!"
Lifting her skirts gracefully above her ankles, Edith made herself a
veritable part of the music, pirouetting up and down and around, while
he watched her in mingled admiration and trepidation.
"There!" she cried, stopping before him; "it's perfectly simple, you
see. Now, you try it."
"By myself?" he inquired.
"Of course," she laughed. "How else can you learn?"
"All right," was the dubious assent; "but don't you think we might pull
those curtains down?"
"Nonsense! You might as well start in,--you couldn't look more foolish
than you do now."
"All right," he again assented, and took his place on the floor.
"Now, left foot forward--one, two, three, four. No; left foot, I said.
That's it. Now rise a little on your toes. Don't be so heavy, and for
Heaven's sake look as cheerful as you can!"
"This is awful!" Cosden ejaculated, mopping his forehead. "Don't you
think it's too warm a day to begin?"
"It isn't warm; it's really cool, and you haven't begun to begin yet.
Now start in again. Left foot,--left I say, one, two--oh! that miserable
victrola has stopped!"
"Let me wind it up," Cosden insisted quickly, glad of the opportunity to
struggle with something tangible.
"Now we'll try again," Edith said amiably. "This time get started before
the music runs down. Watch me just a moment. There,--now you know what
to do. Left, dear man, left,--not right, and rise on your toes, one,
two, three, four. Why don't you pay attention to the music?"
"I think I could learn better without the music. It throws me off."
"Move with it; then it will help you."
"I can't; it mixes me up."
"Don't you feel any impulse to move your feet when you hear that music?"
"Yes; I feel an inordinate desire to run out of the room."
"But, seriously, doesn't the rhythm of that one-step make you
instinctively want to dance?"
"Not the slightest. I never wanted to dance in my life until now, and
only now because you tell me that it's part of the game."
"Did you ever play any musical instrument?"
"Oh, yes; when I was a boy I played the bones in a minstrel show."
"Well, there's a ray of hope.--Wind up the victrola again, and we'll
start all over. You do wind it beautifully!"
"This is too big a job you've undertaken," he told her as they again
stood facing each other. "Let's call it off."
"No, indeed," Edith protested. "It is only fair to say that you are not
what would be called a natural dancer, but that will bring all the more
glory to your instructor when once you've learned. Why, look at the
tricks they teach animals! I'm not a bit discouraged, are you?"
"Are we down-hearted?" he echoed in a spirit of bravado.
"Not a bit of it; now we'll dance together, and I'll try to pull you
around. There, put your arm around my waist,--that's right. Hold me
closer,--don't be afraid. Imagine I'm your sister if it will keep you
from being embarrassed. Left foot forward--ta, ta, ta, ta--that's
better. No, let me lead. There, we can go forwards and backwards anyway,
but you mustn't step on my feet. That's the first thing to learn,--dance
on your own feet."
"I beg your pardon--"
"That's all right; I don't mind it at all. But when we stop dancing,
you know, you must take your arm away from my waist. How quickly you
overcame that early embarrassment!"
"I don't intend to give you another chance to suggest that I'm afraid,"
Cosden retorted. "I may not know much about girls or dancing, but if you
think I haven't nerve enough to put my arm around your waist,--well,
it's up to me to demonstrate."
"You bold, bad man!" Edith pointed her finger at him in mock-reproach.
"I sha'n't dare go on with the lesson until I've forgotten your
threatening attitude! Now let's see if a little turn on the piazza won't
give us courage to continue."
Cosden assented with alacrity. "Splendid notion!" he exclaimed; "that
will give me a chance to cool off."
"You are warm," she admitted, looking him over critically and noting
that his collar was completely wrecked. "You must read the Polite Book
of Dancing Etiquette--"
"Oh, Lord!" Cosden groaned.
"You will find there many useful suggestions which will add to your
popularity with your partners. For instance, it tells you that when
overheated by the exercise you should stand erect and throw your chin
out; then the perspiration will run down the back of your neck and be
less noticeable.--Come now, see what a light Bermuda breeze will do to
cheer you up."
Edith was well pleased with the results of the first lesson. She had
felt some misgivings, for Cosden was the most masterful man she had ever
met. If this masterfulness could not be broken down, then her plans
could not be carried out; but she recalled the fact that Henry Thatcher,
so pliable in his wife's hands, was spoken of as dictatorial and
self-confident in his business relations. If this was true of Thatcher,
it might be equally true of Cosden, and the experiment was well worth
trying. In the hour just past Edith had proved her sagacity to herself.
Cosden explained his present docility by saying that he always obeyed
his doctor's orders; Edith had discovered in that brief time two facts
unknown even to himself: that his confidence came only from a knowledge
of his own strength, that in treading new and unknown paths he was not
only willing to be led but accepted guidance gratefully.
After this important discovery, she intuitively came to a better
understanding of the man. "Men know more than they understand, and women
understand more than they know," some one has tritely said. Edith
Stevens was a woman, and understanding was enough; she did not crave to
know. When Cosden stated so flatly, "I always get what I go after," she
had thought him a tactless braggart, who deserved to be shown his place;
now, with this new light thrown upon his character, she understood his
remark quite differently. The man knew but one way to accomplish his
purpose, and that was to go directly at it, head-on, overpowering
opposition by the force of his momentum. In his beginnings, Edith
surmised, he had not always felt so confident, and these bold assertions
were made partly to give himself additional courage and partly to
conceal from the world the existence of any doubt as to his ultimate
success. What had been first a policy became a habit, and if Edith were
correct in her analysis Cosden was at the present moment repeating his
early experiences.
* * * * *
Time in Bermuda cannot be figured by calendar days. Whether this is due
to the evenness and perfection of the temperature, which so satisfies
the physical demands as to eliminate all desire for change, or to the
natural beauty which exorcises those sordid demands life elsewhere
compels, it would be difficult to determine; but the fact remains that
except for the sailing of the little steamers a week is like a long,
delicious day, with the nights a passing incident,--a curtain drawn for
a moment to deprive the vision of its wondrous panorama, lest the spirit
become satiated and thus less appreciative.
More than a fortnight had passed since Billy Huntington's spectacular
departure, yet no one suggested that vacation days were drawing to an
end. It was Thatcher who found least to occupy him, yet even he had
fallen beneath the spell and was content to drift. By this time Marian
was fully convinced that a match between Hamlen and Merry was
foreordained, and that her mission was to drag him forth from his exile;
but she was not satisfied with her progress in either one of her
self-imposed labors. Hamlen was a changed man since the new
companionship came into his life, but whenever he was brought up against
the question of leaving his retreat the old terror seized him, and he
slipped back behind his defenses.
"I wish I might," said he to her one day, "believe me, I wish I might;
but you don't know what you ask. The bitterness of my attitude toward
the world has become an abnormal condition which you could not be
expected to understand. Your visit here has tempered it--I know now that
there are exceptions; but don't urge me against my better judgment. Let
me remember this visit in all its happiness; perhaps its memory will
enable me later to do as you suggest."
Huntington was no more successful in his efforts. His classmate listened
to him patiently and showed a full appreciation of the friendly
suggestions; but no promise could be exacted, and Hamlen seemed stronger
than the combined forces against him. Yet, in spite of disappointments,
Huntington was optimistic.
"We may not be able to take him with us," he admitted to Marian, "but
after we are gone he will find this place unendurable. Time will be our
ally."
Cosden's sudden intimacy with Edith Stevens mystified Huntington, but he
welcomed it as a temporary respite. So long as Cosden was making no
exertion to advance his interests with Merry, no more active effort
could be expected from his friend. He asked no questions and Cosden
vouchsafed no information, which on both sides marked a change in the
relations of the two men.
Edith was equally mysterious with Marian, smiling sagely when her friend
tried to draw her out; but she admitted or denied nothing. She
faithfully performed her self-assumed duties, and Cosden lived up to his
agreement to take the medicine his doctor prescribed. By this time he
was able to pull through on the one-step and the canter waltz, but his
great success was the fox-trot. This, he discovered without assistance,
is danced in as many ways as there are individual dancers, so he
developed an original "series" which gave him supreme satisfaction,
since as he explained, no one could prove whether he or his partner was
at fault when a mistake was made. Edith had long since given up all hope
of having him follow the music, but he had actually learned the steps,
and his persistency in pursuing with grim relentlessness what she knew
to be an irksome duty could but win her respect.
In fact, she looked upon the result of her experiment with no little
pride. Each afternoon the two might be seen on the ball-room floor,
working away as if their lives depended upon it, with the Victrola
repeating over and over the same tunes which, except for her own
persistency, would have driven Edith mad. Always after the dancing
lesson they promenaded the hotel piazza "to cool off," and their joint
devotion to their undertaking was so assiduous that it became almost a
feature of the hotel life. Edith's triumph came when Merry was called in
to "assist" at one of the later lessons. Try as they would, Cosden and
his new partner were at odds in each effort they made to dance together,
while with Edith he succeeded passably well. In Cosden's mind there
could be but one explanation.
"I always thought she knew how to dance," he expressed it after Merry
left them alone. "How little you can judge of anything until you know
how to do it yourself!" And Edith, wise person that she was, did not
explain to him that this was the first time he had danced without her
guiding hand!
Cosden had become dependent upon his chief adviser in other ways than
dancing. He found her so sympathetic in listening to his problems and so
helpfully intelligent in discussing them that he gradually confided to
her more of his intimate affairs than he had ever shared with any one
else. Ostensibly, she was adviser only in his affair with Merry, but it
was a short step to extend her line of operations without having him
realize that she was exceeding her contract. She explained matters which
seemed subtle to him with such clearness, her counsels were so wise and
her criticisms so fearless that Cosden's admiration was profound.
"You are a bit severe, you know," he said to her one day; "but I like
it. The only reason I go to a specialist is because I know he
understands his subject better than I do, and so I swallow what he tells
me, hook, line and sinker. And you are a great success as an expert in
your line, Miss Stevens,--you're all right."
Whereupon Edith courtesied gracefully and answered demurely, "Thank you,
sir; I am glad I give satisfaction."
Thatcher and Cosden had carried the trolley proposition as far as lay
within their power, and awaited a response from the Bermuda government
before they could proceed. This threw Cosden back again upon his
original purpose, to which he clung with a bulldog tenacity. Edith knew
by this time that when his mind once settled upon a course diversion was
an impossibility, so she encouraged rather than opposed him. She left
Cosden's confidence in himself undisturbed while she encouraged his
dependence, and complacently permitted affairs to take their course.
Just when the master stroke would be delivered she could not tell, but
she was prepared to have it descend suddenly at any moment.
The fortnight had given Huntington a new lease of life. His efforts to
humanize Hamlen forced him out of his habitual course along the line of
least resistance, and without analyzing his new sensations he found them
to be agreeable. In addition to this Merry and he were boon companions
now, and he discovered that the vivacity of a young girl was no less
effective in making him forget his years than the noisier enthusiasm of
his youthful nephew. Merry accepted her responsibilities with great
seriousness, and discussed Hamlen's persistent obstinacy with Huntington
from every possible angle. In fact, Huntington made a point of inventing
new angles in order to prolong the discussions, and to supply the excuse
for walks and drives which threw them much together.
As a result of their growing intimacy Huntington came to favor Billy's
ambitions far above those of Cosden. He had not changed in his
conviction that neither one of them was at all suited to the girl, but
if it could be possible to hold matters in abeyance until the boy might
be developed up to her, there would at least be much satisfaction to him
personally if Merry could be kept in the family. Of course he must be
loyal to his friend, but as Cosden seemed to be finding much pleasure in
Miss Stevens' companionship his conscience did not suffer any twinges
which were too painful to be endured.
But complacency is ever a forerunner of seismic upheavals. The days had
repeated themselves often enough now for Huntington to regard their
routine as practically fixed, and he was anticipating the usual quiet,
after-breakfast smoke on the piazza, during which period he would
discuss with Merry some new attack upon Hamlen's obstinacy, or some new
trip during which the attack could be devised. This had seemed such a
certainty to Huntington that Cosden's words were in the nature of a
shock.
"Miss Thatcher and I are going sailing this morning," he announced.
"Eh--what? Oh, sailing--are you?" Huntington stumbled a bit before
recovering himself. "It's a fine morning for that," he continued with
decision.
"You've been doing better lately, Monty," Cosden complimented him. "At
first I didn't think you were going to help me out at all, but for some
time now you've been putting yourself right into it, just as I wanted
you to. What have you to say about the girl now? She's all right, isn't
she?"
"You don't mean that you're still serious in that direction--"
"Of course I am. Why should you think I had changed my mind?" Cosden
interrupted. "I don't often do that, do I?"
"But you have hardly seen her."
"I've been biding my time, Monty, that's all, while Miss Stevens coached
me up a bit. It's really a great game,--there's more to it than I
thought."
"You are absolutely unsuited to each other."
"Why, Monty, I believe you're jealous!"
"Well, suppose I am?"
Cosden showed his amusement. "I would take that as a challenge from any
one but an old cynic like you," he laughed.
Huntington failed to enter into Cosden's lightheartedness. "This is a
serious matter, Connie," he insisted. "That little girl is too fine to
have her name bandied like this. I give you warning right here that I
step down and out on this proposition. I can't imagine a worse crime
than to harness a high-strung, thoughtful, sentimental child like that
to a human adding-machine like you, and I won't be a party to it."
The younger man realized at last that his friend was serious. He looked
at him soberly for a moment, then he placed his hand on his shoulder.
"Is this all our friendship amounts to?" he asked.
"It is the greatest act of friendship I have ever been called upon to
show you," Huntington returned. "You would be as wretched with her as
she with you. I felt sure that you had come to the same conclusion, and
I admired your good sense."
"Is there by any chance some deeper reason?" Cosden demanded pointedly.
"No, Connie," Huntington replied quickly; "don't be ridiculous! I am
just as unsuited to her as you are. Why, I'm old enough to be her
father! But somewhere there is a man who is meant for her and who is
worthy of her, and I only hope that he will appear before any one
persuades her into making a mistake.
"Don't you think her capable of taking care of that herself?"
"Frankly, I do. I don't think you have the remotest chance of
interesting her."
"What has happened to lower me so in your estimation?" Cosden persisted,
puzzled rather than resentful. "Our friendship dates back a good many
years, Monty, and this is the first time you ever made me feel you
disapproved of me. Does it mean--"
"It means that I'm proving my friendship now," Huntington interrupted,
"by telling you an unpleasant truth. During this long friendship, which
I never prized more highly than I do this moment, I have watched you
work out your success, often against heavy odds. All this I have
admired, Connie, but to win as you have done has been at a cost I had
not realized until I saw you under these new conditions: it has kept you
from developing those finer instincts which a man needs to guide him at
a time like this."
"You mean romance, I suppose, and sentiment."
"I mean a sensing of the proportions and a respect for appropriateness
even if it interferes with your preconceived plans. Your interest in
this girl exists admittedly because of what an alliance with her will do
for you: it will bring you closer to the group of operators of which her
father is the head, she will preside with credit over your household,
through her you may perhaps secure social advantages which now you feel
are beyond your reach."
"Isn't all that legitimate?"
"Entirely legitimate, measured by laws of barter and sale,--but to my
mind eminently improper when applied to Miss Thatcher."
As Huntington grew more and more intense Cosden's attitude gradually
became normal again, and an indulgent expression replaced the serious
aspect which his face had assumed as their conversation progressed.
"Well, Monty," he said, slapping him on the back, "you've got that off
your mind, and it's a good thing to have happen. What you want is to
take your endorsement off my social note; that's all right,--consider it
done. Your sentimental notions are great in story-books but less
valuable in every-day life. You stick to your ideals, and I will to
mine. I've made up my mind to get married, and you know what happens
when once my mind is made up."
"You are absolutely hopeless!" Huntington cried despondently.
"Hopeful, you mean," laughed Cosden, "in spite of your gloomy
forebodings. What you say ought to shake my confidence in myself, no
doubt, but somehow I think I'd rather hear it direct from Miss Thatcher
herself. Hello!" he exclaimed as he looked at his watch, "it's time to
start. Cheer up, Monty! Really, things aren't half as bad as they look
from where you sit!"
* * * * *