* * * * *
"To-day, Connie, is Saturday, to-morrow is the Sabbath, in which we are
not permitted to toil, neither can we spin, and on the day which
followeth we sail," Huntington remarked at luncheon.
Cosden regarded his companion critically. "It doesn't rhyme so I know it
isn't poetry; then it must be Scripture."
"Freely paraphrased, it means that this afternoon is the last
opportunity we shall have to exercise our golf-clubs on Bermudian soil."
"Enough said," Cosden answered sententiously; "I'll be ready whenever
you are. What a relief it will be to play on a real course again when
the season opens at home!"
"I admit that this is the one great deficiency of an otherwise admirably
ordered resort," Huntington agreed. "Still, it is a whole lot better
than no course at all, so let us be philosophers.--I'll be ready in an
hour."
The afternoon's round proved an eventful one to Huntington. Not that his
clubs were under better control, or that he was less penalized by the
atrocious lies encountered so frequently. Not that he succeeded in
defeating his opponent, which was usually the measure of an eventful
day; but he found Cosden in a state of mind which gave him infinite
relief.
The weak spots shown up by the analysis Huntington had made of his
friendship with Cosden caused him real anxiety, explain them as he
would. It was one thing to play with a man three times a week and
another to live with him for a month of consecutive holidays. He had
wondered whether their relations could ever return to what he had
believed them to be before the shock came to his sense of propriety.
Cosden's new state of mind shifted the balance so that the scales hung
even, and the hope thus engendered made him indifferent to sliced
drives, bad lies, or topped approaches. To Huntington, a friendship such
as this had been assumed the proportions of a trust, and to disturb it
was to shake the foundations of his every-day life to a most disquieting
extent.
"This visit to Bermuda hasn't been at all what I expected," Cosden
confided to him; "but I'm inclined to think it has been a success after
all."
"I have found much to interest me here," Huntington admitted.
"Between you and Miss Stevens I've learned a few things about myself I
didn't know before. The experience hasn't been altogether palatable, but
perhaps it will prove salutary."
"That is ancient history now, Connie," Huntington protested, following
his usual custom of avoiding the unpleasant. "Why bring it up again?
Keep your mind on your game."
"It hasn't become ancient history yet," he insisted. "I want you to
understand that I appreciate your friendliness in going out of your way
to say disagreeable things when you thought I needed to hear them. It
isn't every one who would have done it."
"That's all right; now let's forget it."
"I don't want to forget it. In fact I'm particularly keen on remembering
it. I tackled a job before I knew how to handle it, with the inevitable
consequences. Now I think I can come nearer to understanding what the
game is."
He paused long enough to negotiate a particularly difficult stymie which
Huntington had laid him on the third green. As the ball dropped into the
cup he looked up with a satisfied smile.
"You see I can play a game that I do understand, don't you, Monty? I'm
going to play this new game just as well after I'm on to it. You were
right: that little Thatcher girl is all I thought she was, but we are
absolutely unsuited. I had to find it out for myself, but now it is as
clear to me as it has been to you from the beginning. And this isn't the
only thing I've found out."
"The air is pretty clear down here, Connie; one can see a long ways."
"Yes, when he's supplied with a pair of binoculars like you and Miss
Stevens. The thing I can see clearest now is that I'm not ready to marry
any girl just at present."
Huntington stopped as he was about to swing, dropped his club, and
seized Cosden by the shoulders.
"Then you aren't going to desert me!"
"Hold on!" Cosden cried as he released himself; "you're going too fast!
Don't overlook the fact that I said 'just at present.' It may be I
shall never marry, but something tells me that there are wedding-bells
for me before I get through with it. There's no doubt at all, however,
that before that takes place I must acquire some of those flossy things
you've taught me to look for. I'm going to take a few hundred shares in
some humanizing company and see what it does for me. Then I'll find out
just what there is in it, and let the future take care of itself."
Now that Cosden had come to these eminently satisfactory conclusions
Huntington was too wise to offer any advice. His courage rose as this
responsibility rolled away from his overburdened shoulders, and he dared
hope that before he reached New York Mrs. Thatcher would voluntarily
abandon her quixotic notion concerning Merry and Hamlen. This would
leave him free to pull the strings for Billy,--but here he sighed. Could
he hope ever to bring the boy up to the standard he himself would insist
upon before permitting any thought of an alliance? And was the sigh all
because of doubts of Billy? Forty-five must give way to twenty, but he
admitted to himself that the supreme burden of all remained. If some of
those years could only be turned back! But he knew himself now, and in
that knowledge rested power.
Sunday dawned bright and clear, one of those superlative days which
Bermuda produces now and then as an aggravation to her departing
visitors, and to demonstrate that she herself can improve even upon her
own perfection. Those who had planned to devote the morning to packing
against the morrow's sailing found the voice of duty too weak to make
itself heard above the irresistible call to the open. Mr. and Mrs.
Thatcher seized the opportunity to drive again to Harrington Sound,
Merry and Huntington took a final walk to Elba Beach, while Cosden
insisted that Edith Stevens permit him to escort her to the Barracks and
the band concert. This left Ricky Stevens entirely out in the cold, but
he was so accustomed to it that he did not even notice that it had
happened again. Cheerfully lighting a cigarette, after the others had
departed, and swinging his stick with an energy deserving of better
things, he devoted the morning to making a final round of the
tobacco-shops, laying in a huge amount of additional smoking materials.
By afternoon all were again united, and set off together for Hamlen's
villa. Their host elected to receive them in the garden instead of at
the house, and as the guests passed through the rustic arbor, vivid in
the coloring of the _poinsettia_ which bore it down, each felt in
varying degree the dramatic effect of the reception. Hamlen stepped
quietly forward to receive them, clad in the familiar white doe-skin
suit which was never so effective as against its present background. His
manner was courtly, but the reserve his friends had seen broken down
during their visit again possessed him, and his face, even when he
smiled to welcome them, was reminiscent of some great renunciation.
"Forgive me for not meeting you when you first drove up," Hamlen said to
Marian. "In my sentimentality I preferred to greet you here. These
trees, these shrubs, these flowers," he indicated, "I planted one by
one. I tended them in their infancy, I have watched them in their
growth. To me they have personalities as much as human beings. They
represent my family, they are all I have, and, as I told you yesterday,
I want them to join me in this last meeting before you depart and leave
us to ourselves."
Their host's attitude was not fully appreciated except by the three who
knew him best, so it was natural that by degrees the party separated in
such a way that Mrs. Thatcher, Merry and Huntington were left with him
while the others explored the grounds in greater detail.
"For the first time in my life, Marian," Hamlen said, "I shall regret to
see a steamer pass my Point and leave me cut off from the world. As I
told you, always before I have gloried in it. To-morrow--"
"We shall be waving to you to-morrow, Philip, and wishing you were with
us."
"It won't be long," Huntington added, "before you will be on one of
those same steamers on your way to us."
"I hope so," was the non-committal reply.
"We do want you, all of us," Merry smiled persuadingly. "We have come to
know each other so well here that we shall miss not being where we can
run in to disturb you in your work."
"I shall miss those interruptions too, and the work will be all I
shall have to fall back upon. Somehow," he added, turning to
Huntington,--"somehow I haven't been able to do the same work since you
have been here. I don't understand it. I have been happier during these
weeks than in all the years which preceded them, yet my work has not
been so good. Why is it?"
"The reason is obvious," Huntington answered quietly, but with a degree
of satisfaction in his tone. "In what you say I find a pledge that you
will come to us. Our visit, Hamlen, has disturbed the equilibrium of
your life; it can never be the same again. Your work now is not so good
because your mind has found a new horizon, and refuses to confine itself
within the narrow compass which it had before. You can't do as good work
again until your life finds new anchorage. Then you will reach heights
beyond your dreams; but it will be through your friends that the new
anchorage will come. We can afford to be patient, Hamlen, for you must
surely turn to us; you cannot avoid it no matter how hard you try."
Huntington's magnetic voice affected Hamlen as deeply as his words. His
vision seemed so clear, his domination so complete that it startled the
weaker man. Mrs. Thatcher and Merry knew at that moment that, if he
chose, Huntington could have compelled Hamlen to follow him to the ends
of the earth; and the response their host made showed that he recognized
it too.
"You won't force me, Huntington?" he appealed.
"It must come only when you wish it," was the reassuring reply; "but
when that moment does arrive, know well, dear friend, how hearty a
welcome awaits you."
Hamlen took his hand in both his own and gazed for a long moment into
Huntington's face. "Classmate--friend," was all he said, but those who
heard the words knew them to be enough.
As they mixed again with the others, and the conversation became more
general, the seriousness of Hamlen's earlier bearing partially wore
away, relieving the unnatural tension which had almost turned an
informal social function into the observance of a religious rite. Then
the shadows lengthened, and two of the servants brought out a rustic
table laden with eatables, with a huge bowl of strawberries as a
centerpiece. There was no need of decoration beyond its cut-glass and
rare china, for each dish was a selected masterpiece.
"A Class Day spread in February!" Merry exclaimed enthusiastically. "How
we shall miss these strawberries when we get home!"
"'Strawberries may come and strawberries may go, but prunes go on
forever,'" Cosden added, glancing at Edith for approval.
The whole experience affected Mrs. Thatcher deeply. She saw the Hamlen
of her youth full of promise and ambition, she saw the Hamlen of to-day
bound hand and foot in the bonds of his false sophistry. What would he
have been had she not broken her word to him? She was vaguely conscious
that her present emotion was deeper than any she had ever been called
upon to feel for her husband or for her children; she half-sensed the
fact that previously her deepest feelings had been for herself. Now she
felt a sympathy which demanded restitution, and the impulse must be
worthy since it was for the happiness of some one other than herself. Of
course, Merry should not be coerced against her will,--but if it could
only be!
Every episode, however epochful, must end, and Marian rose at length,
indicating that the good-byes must be spoken.
"You'll be down to see us off, Philip?" she asked.
"No," he answered unexpectedly; "if you will excuse me I should prefer
to watch you from my Point up there. I want you to remember me amid my
own surroundings, rather than as a part of something to which I don't
belong."
* * * * *
Next morning, as the little tender passed Spanish Point, carrying its
passengers to the "Arcadian," three persons stood in the stern waving to
a solitary figure standing erect and motionless. When he made out the
greetings from the boat he raised his arm high above his head and held
it there, like a Roman of old, in stately recognition. He gave no sign
that he saw their further salutes, yet they knew he could not fail to
see them. They remained there until the figure became smaller and
smaller, and then finally was cut off altogether by a turn in their
course.
"This is too much for me!" Mrs. Thatcher cried suddenly, as if
apologizing for the break in her voice. "If I don't get my mind on
something else I shall burst into tears! I'm going forward with the
others."
Merry and Huntington still lingered, hoping that they might catch one
more glimpse of the solitary watcher; but in vain. When the girl turned
toward him Huntington saw that tears glistened in her eyes.
"That is the most pathetic figure I have ever seen!"
Huntington made no answer, but at that moment he became conscious that
he was holding a small hand tightly grasped within his own. Impulsively
he raised it to his lips, then he as suddenly released it.
"To seal our friendship," he explained consciously, "at this crisis in
the life of one who has been the means of bringing us together. I owe
him much for that!"
* * * * *