* * * * *
Nearly a month passed after their return to Boston before Huntington and
Cosden really saw anything of each other. They met casually, they
telephoned, they lunched in company with other friends at down-town
clubs, but neither one suggested an old-time getting together, and each
felt relieved by the omission of the other. Yet the reason each man held
for this feeling, had he openly acknowledged it, was as opposed to the
other's as were the characteristics of the men themselves. Huntington
craved nothing so much as an opportunity to be alone, that he might
review the extraordinary happenings of the past few weeks and thus
fortify himself sufficiently to prevent any lapse from what he knew to
be his duty; Cosden required a return to his usual feverish business
activity in order to digest his new ideas. Huntington remembered the
wonderful sunshine and the fragrant flowers, in the midst of which he
always saw a sweetly serious face peering out at him in spite of his
efforts at banishment; Cosden forgot everything except that he had been
shown up to himself in a light which demanded immediate and drastic
consideration. To both men the weeks just ended, including those which
had elapsed since their return had been epoch-making. But
self-confidence revives with time, however great a shock it may receive
and when Huntington finally invited his friend to dine with him Cosden
found himself quite ready to accept.
This first meeting was more formal than any which had taken place during
the many years of their acquaintance. Cosden often spoke of the relief
it was to him to be permitted to drop in at his friend's house in such
an intimate way,--without "fussing up," as he expressed it; now he
appeared in his dinner-coat, dressed as immaculately as Huntington
himself always was. His manner was more contained, and even though it
was evident that his restraint was studied Huntington was interested and
pleased to observe that as yet, at all events, the influence of the
Bermuda experiences made itself felt.
"Well, Monty," Cosden said as he lifted his cocktail-glass, "I'm glad to
be aboard again. I've been associating a good deal lately with a fellow
named Conover Cosden, and I must admit he bores me. Let's have this and
then a little dividend just for good luck.--By the way, I saw you at the
Symphony last night."
"At the Symphony?" Huntington echoed surprised. "You don't mean to
say--"
"Oh, yes, I do!" he laughed rather consciously. "Not that it means much
to me yet, but I've reached a point where I can call it an orchestra
instead of a band, anyway. Mighty fine concert, wasn't it? I know I'm
right, for I read the criticism in the paper this morning."
"How long are you going to keep this up?"
"To the bitter end!" Cosden declared dramatically. "If music has charms
to calm the savage beast now is its chance to demonstrate! That isn't
all, but you wouldn't believe any more. As a matter of fact I'm taking
in everything which begins with H for fear I may miss some one of those
'humanities'!"
Huntington gazed at him in sheer amazement.
"That's right," Cosden emphasized, only slightly embarrassed by the
expression of incredulity on his friend's face. "Instead of being merely
a 'sow's ear' I'm going the whole hog, and so far I've managed to pull
through without casualties. Now what do you and Edith Stevens think of
your handiwork!"
"By Jove, Connie!" Huntington exclaimed feelingly, "it's wonderful, and
I congratulate you. I had no idea--"
"Other than that I would remain without those 'finer instincts' all my
life," he finished for him. "Well, maybe I will, even at that; but at
all events I'm giving the whole thing the once over. If my health and
strength hold out perhaps when you and I make another vacation trip
together you won't be mortified by your friend as you were last time."
"Nonsense, Connie!" Huntington protested. "We both got out a little
beyond our depth down there, and things didn't look quite normal to us."
"Both?" Cosden demanded. "Where do you come in? That was my party, if I
remember correctly, and I got all the presents."
Huntington for the moment had been forgetful that he alone knew how much
the Bermuda days had disturbed his own equilibrium, and he recognized
that he had been almost guilty of betraying himself.
"Well," he said lightly, "I interjected myself into your affairs in a
shameless fashion, so whatever blame there is I insist on taking my full
share.--What you tell me is simply incredible!"
"Don't give me too much credit for it yet. Like everything else in my
life there's a selfish motive back of it. Edith Stevens never said a
truer thing than that it is a different matter making light of something
which you have and something which you lack. Measuring things up on this
basis shows me that nearly every time I've opened my mouth I've put my
foot in it. Now I'm going to play safe and make myself very, very wise
on some subjects regarding which I've been a bit of a scoffer. Then, if
I don't want to, I won't do them, but never again because I can't do
them!"
"You needn't be ashamed of your motive; many a man has had one less
worthy. But what is your business doing all this time?"
"Well, well, well!" Cosden laughed. "Good old Monty! We've been together
nearly an hour, and you are the first to mention business! You wouldn't
have believed I could go as long as that without speaking of it, would
you? But let me tell you I have them all guessing down at the office. I
can see it every day. Of course, I'm keeping my eye on things as much as
ever, but I'm not making so much noise about it. You see this is
something I have, so I can afford to treat it lightly. Now I have
something to measure myself by, and it helps a lot.--But don't let us
spend all the time talking about me; what have you been doing with
yourself?"
"Drifting, as usual," Huntington replied, regretting that the
conversation turned on him; "wishing I might take twenty years off my
life and begin over again."
"Why, Monty! You say that so seriously I really believe you mean it!
What's happened? It isn't like you."
"Nothing, dear boy, nothing at all," Huntington disclaimed quickly,
trying to throw off the mood which had so promptly attracted his
friend's attention. "I've seen quite a bit of Billy and his friend Phil
Thatcher since I came home, and--I envy them their youth."
Cosden looked at him long and searchingly before he spoke. "You're in a
curious mood to-night," he said at length. "During the years I've known
you I've never before seen you other than a philosopher, taking life day
by day as you found it, and getting all there was out of it."
"What is philosophy unless one can find the stone?" Huntington exclaimed
with feeling. "It is the philosopher's stone I want to-night, and I
can't get it. I'm feeling my age, Connie, and the sensation isn't
agreeable."
"Your age!" Cosden determined to overpower the surprising obsession.
"The idea of talking age at forty-five! Out with it, man! Tell me what
has taken hold of you. I've left you too much by yourself lately, and it
hasn't been a good thing for you."
"That's it, Connie," Huntington smiled weakly. "You mustn't do it again.
First you take the heart out of me by declaring that you are going to
get married, then you cheer me up by becoming normal again, and lastly
you neglect me just as if you had taken the fatal step after all."
"That's better," Cosden said, rising from his dessert and putting his
arm around his friend's shoulders. "Come on up-stairs and we'll gossip
over our cigars like two old cats. It won't be long before we can get
out on the links again, and then you'll forget that you have any age at
all. Age! the idea! Why, Monty, you and I have only just begun to live!"
Arm in arm they walked slowly to the library in silence, but each one
wondered at the new characteristic he had discovered in the other.
Huntington was touched by Cosden's show of affection, the first time he
had ever seen it manifested; Cosden marveled at the first break he had
ever seen in his friend's self-possession. However easy-going Huntington
might be, he always held himself well in hand; and Cosden envied him
this trait. Huntington knew Cosden to be kind-hearted, but believed him
to consider any outward demonstration as an evidence of weakness. The
mutual discovery, surprising as it was, drew them closer together, and
each realized that whatever had been the means a change had come in
their relations which placed their friendship on a higher plane.
"There's something deeper in this than appears on the surface," Cosden
declared insistently as he held the light for Huntington and then lit
his own cigar. "You said down-stairs that we both got out beyond our
depth at Bermuda, and perhaps you meant more than I realized. Then,
when we met the Thatchers, it developed that you and Mrs. Thatcher had
known each other years ago. Now, tell me, is there any association
between these two ideas, and is this by chance the explanation of the
changed Monty I find here to-night?"
Huntington did not reply at once. He was annoyed with himself that he
had uncovered so much of his heart, and he had been pondering how to
extricate himself from the delicate position. Under no circumstances
must Cosden or any one else know how deep an impression Merry Thatcher
had made upon him. The first duty he owed to her was to stand before the
world simply as a devoted, older friend; his duty to himself was to
prevent his associates from discovering how many kinds of fool he was to
permit any such ridiculous condition to arise as that which at present
existed. Now Cosden had unconsciously shown him the way out.
"Yes, Connie," he replied calmly; "there is an association which may be
made of those ideas, and since you have spoken of it I will ask you to
stand by me at the finish. There is something I have intended to do ever
since I came home, but I lacked the courage; now you have given it to
me."
Huntington rose abruptly, and crossing to the opposite side of the
library he lifted the little mahogany table which stood there, placing
it before the fire in front of the easy-chair from which he had just
risen. Then he seated himself, and taking from his pocket the key to the
small drawer he turned it in the lock. Cosden watched him with an
interest far deeper than curiosity, for he felt from his friend's
manner that the turning of the key unlocked something within him which
until that moment had been closely hidden.
"It will be better to get it out of my system," Huntington said finally,
after bringing all the accessories together.--"You never knew of my
romance, did you?"
"Never," Cosden acknowledged; "I supposed you were the one man who had
passed through life unscathed."
"I couldn't have told you of it before because you wouldn't have
understood, but now you will appreciate matters better if you know the
facts.--Do you remember my surprise when you first mentioned the name of
Marian Thatcher?"
"Why, yes; you asked if she was a widow."
"Exactly. Mrs. Thatcher was Marian Seymour when I first met her, my
senior year at college. There is no need to go into particulars; the
fact remains that I was hard hit.--Look at these!"
He pulled out the drawer and laid the various exhibits on the top of the
table. Cosden leaned forward and gingerly lifted the long white glove,
looking into Huntington's face with a curious expression as he did so.
Huntington met his gaze squarely, nodding his head in affirmation of the
unasked question.
"What's this?" Cosden demanded, laying down the glove and picking up the
slipper.
"You see," was the unabashed reply; "it went as deep as that. Laugh if
you like; I sha'n't mind. We'll clean up this whole business to-night,
and the more ridiculous you make it the shorter work it will be."
"I would have laughed a month ago," Cosden admitted; "but, as you say, I
understand some things now that I didn't before. Every man has a
right to a romance, and he's entitled to have it respected."
"Thanks, dear boy; but romances don't belong to five-and-forty, and this
farce has gone far enough. Now we'll watch it go up in smoke, as most
romances do. But first let us pay it befitting honor."
Dixon appeared in response to the bell.
"A bottle of Moet & Chandon, '98," Huntington ordered.
During the time required by Dixon the two men puffed silently at their
cigars. Huntington feared lest some inopportune word might disturb the
success of his stratagem; Cosden, believing that he was witnessing the
final act in the tragedy of his friend's life, respected the solemnity
of the occasion.
"Now, Connie," Huntington rose with the glass in his hand, "I ask you to
drink to the dearest girl in the world, past, present and future,--to
Marian Thatcher, God bless her!"
"To Marian Thatcher--God bless her!" Cosden repeated after him; and
Huntington turned away to chuckle to himself that he had paid homage to
the reality while his friend believed him to be giving tribute to the
figment. He blessed the figment for bestowing her name upon the reality!
"Now for the renunciation," Huntington said solemnly, and one by one he
laid the long-cherished trophies upon the fire, watching in silence
their reduction to the elements. His success filled him with a spirit
of bravado. The opportunity might never come again.
"Once again, Connie old boy!" he cried.
He held out his disengaged hand and grasped Cosden's as he lifted his
refilled glass.
"To Marian Thatcher--God bless her!"
Cosden still held his glass after his friend placed his on the table.
"Would it seem a sacrilege if I asked you to join me in a toast?" he
asked, with an unnatural hesitation in his voice.
"Why,--no," Huntington said wonderingly. "Fill up the glasses again."
Then he held his high, waiting for his friend to speak.
"To Edith Stevens," Cosden finally blurted out,--"God bless her!"
"Edith Stevens!" Huntington almost choked in his surprise. "You don't
mean--"
"I don't know what I mean," Cosden admitted, blushing furiously; "but I
miss her like blazes, and I'm either in love or else I'm suffering from
a new disease the doctors haven't named!"
* * * * *