* * * * *
The letter postmarked "New York," announcing Hamlen's arrival, did not
take Huntington by surprise, but it fulfilled his expectations sooner
than he expected. The desirability of making certain changes in
investments, the letter explained, made it necessary for Hamlen to come
to the States, and if his classmate's invitation to Boston still held
good he would be glad to avail himself of the opportunity to renew their
friendship.
This announcement found Huntington in the introspective mood which had
alarmed Cosden, and suggested a comparison in which he placed himself
under the microscope for a mercilessly minute analysis. Hamlen was
convinced that he had made a failure of life, but what had he,
Huntington demanded of himself, accomplished which could entitle him to
claim success? He had not separated himself from his fellow-men, it was
true, he had been a decent citizen, performing such duties as came to
him with faithfulness and ability,--yet what had he really contributed
to the community or to the life in which he lived which made it better
because he had been a part of it? He had created nothing, nor even made
an effort to create. No painting bore his signature; no volume added
his contribution to the world's knowledge on any subject; no
philanthropic or business enterprise owed its inception to his
initiative; no child of his was growing up to bear its share in the
struggle of to-morrow or to bless his memory for parental sacrifice and
guidance. Hamlen at least had given himself to the world in the
wonderful volumes which would live after him, even though their
creator's identity never was disclosed. Hamlen at least had made the
flowers and the shrubs of his island estate bear witness to the power
within him which refused to be restrained; but Huntington's labors, if
he could dignify them by so serious a name, had been perfunctory at
best. He was rich in the world's goods and in human friendships, he was
respected by all who knew him. For what? he demanded: because his
grandfather and his father before him had created, and had played their
part so well in the developing life of the city of their birth that a
luster had been given to the family name. His virtues were wholly
negative; his was a reflected glory and undeserved. The position in the
community which Huntington knew himself to occupy, and the fact that
Hamlen, because of his exile, would be considered to have forfeited his
position, struck him as a commentary on the value of popular esteem and
the lack of proportion in accrediting to each individual what was his
proper due.
Hamlen had nothing to his credit in the columns where Huntington scored
heaviest: he was a poor citizen in his relations to those around him; he
took no part in making others happier for his companionship or stronger
by his example; his life had always been pointed inward, and yet, even
with the limitations needlessly imposed upon it, there had been
something within him, which Huntington had never felt within himself,
great enough and strong enough to rise superior to these limitations, to
burst the bonds by which Hamlen had sought to hold it back, and to force
the expression of its own individuality! There, at least, was something
positive; and yet the world would have called Huntington a success and
Hamlen a failure! "We have torn off the bandages too fast," Huntington
had complacently told Hamlen on that eventful first visit. Was it not
presumption on his part when until now his own vision had been equally
restricted? Huntington's first impulse was to make a frank admission,
when Hamlen arrived, of the wide divergence between what people credited
to him and what his real position ought to be; then he realized that his
friend needed some one to look up to. He must, for a time at least,
accept the position, however ironical it seemed; but he felt himself an
impostor and a fraud.
Since his return home Huntington had been more than ever grateful for
the diverting influence of Billy's irresponsibility, and he encouraged
him to come frequently to the house and to bring his friends with him.
He would not have believed that a two months' absence could produce so
momentous a change of his entire viewpoint. The calm tranquillity in his
mental equipoise was seriously disturbed, and he welcomed anything which
took his mind off himself and his personal affairs.
He had urged Billy to bring young Thatcher in to dine with him, for in
view of what Marian had said he hoped that Hamlen and the boy would make
good with each other when once they met. Thus far Billy had always
selected an evening when Huntington was engaged, but with the certainty
that Hamlen would soon arrive a special effort produced a mutually
convenient date, and the two boys appeared eager for their dinner and
obviously ready to be entertained.
Philip Thatcher carried himself better than his friend, and seemed
older. His work on the crew had developed his frame and given him a
poise which does not come to those college students who watch athletic
sports from the side-lines. He had represented his university in
competition, and this responsibility showed itself to his advantage.
Those same "animal spirits" which gave Billy his boyish manner found a
natural outlet, in Philip's case, during the hours of physical athletic
training. His face was more his father's than like Mrs. Thatcher's; yet
at times Huntington discovered expressions or mannerisms resembling his
sister, which was enough to add to the interest he had already taken in
the boy.
"Hello, Uncle Monty!" Billy announced their arrival. "We've come in to
eat ourselves out of shape."
When this operation had been performed, and the coffee period took them
back to the library, Huntington settled down to the real purpose of the
evening.
"Philip," he said, "there is a man coming to visit me next week whom I
want you to know and who wants to know you. He is an unusual character.
I wish you would show him something of what Harvard life is to-day, and
when you get acquainted tell me what you think of him."
"I should be glad to meet any friend of yours, Mr. Huntington," the boy
answered.
"He has a greater claim on you than simply as my friend," Huntington
continued. "He was also a friend of your mother's, years ago, and while
we were in Bermuda he showed us all a great deal of attention. He lives
there."
"You mean that Hamlen chap?" Billy asked. "Is he really coming here?
He's a dead one!"
"Don't let Billy's remarks prejudice you, Philip," Huntington urged.
"Hamlen is a classmate of mine who has passed through some unfortunate
experiences. He has lived by himself ever since he graduated, seeing
hardly any one, and he will find much that is unusual when he returns to
Boston and Cambridge after his long exile. He is a real man, Philip, and
I want you to help me bring him back into the present again. Will you do
it?"
"I'll try,--gladly," was the hearty answer. "It sounds like a pretty big
contract, but if I can really help I shall be glad to do it."
"I know you will," Huntington said; "I was sure of it."
"Why don't you ask me?" Billy demanded. "Why go out of the family?"
"You may come into it later, but I want his first impressions to be
favorable."
"Stung!" Billy cried, laughing. "But I don't care. I don't care what
happens now, for Phil has asked me to spend the Easter recess with him
in New York, and I shall see Merry again."
"So it is still 'Merry,' is it?" Huntington asked, looking at him with
an expression which any one other than a boy would have noticed. "By
this time I thought there might have been a dozen others."
"Merry is still the one best bet," Billy insisted. "Phil here doesn't
know what a cinch it is to have a sister like that."
"I believe it's because of Merry that you like me," Phil declared, half
seriously.
"Well," Billy said guardedly, "it may have been the fact that you were
her brother that first attracted me--"
"Why, you never saw her until we'd known each other several months--"
"We were acquainted before that," was the admission; "but I really came
to know you after you introduced me to her. That, Phil, was the best
thing you ever did. It was after I met Merry that I discovered that you
were the finest old scout in the world."
"You make me tired!" Philip answered disgustedly. "I never saw any one
so crazy over a girl. There are lots of other things in the world,
Billy, besides girls. I'd hate to think of getting engaged up and having
to train around with just one girl all my life."
"That's because you can't marry Merry,--she's your sister."
"I don't make any exceptions,--Merry's just a girl, like the rest of
them."
"You don't appreciate her, that's all."
"Oh, Merry is all right, of course. She and I have always been good
pals, and we've played together like two boys. She'd make any one a good
wife if he didn't mind being bossed."
Huntington listened to the tilt between the boys with amusement, and yet
with a real feeling of envy. What riches these youths possessed with
life all before them, its mysteries still unexplained, its illusions
still unshattered!
"I thought your sister the finest girl I ever met," he said to Philip,
curious to see what response the boy would make.
"Oh, she wouldn't show that side to you," Philip replied; "it's only
with people her own age."
Huntington winced. There it was again, and again he had brought it upon
himself! To these boys he seemed an antique fossil of humanity, entitled
to respect and veneration! He must appear the same to her. "People of
her own age,"--of course, that was the natural thing as it would appear
to any one. Again he cursed himself inwardly for being fool enough
deliberately to open up the wound.
Billy was delighted to hear his uncle's comment on the girl, and beamed
contentedly.
"You see, Phil," he said, "even Uncle Monty noticed what a corker she
is, and usually he never looks at a girl twice. Uncle Monty is a cynic
on marriage, a woman-hater and all that sort of thing. Yet even he
noticed Merry."
"Don't say that, Billy!" Huntington protested with unusual vehemence.
"But you are," the boy insisted. "The last time I dined here with you
and Mr. Cosden, before you went to Bermuda, I heard you tell him that
many a married man who seemed contented was only resigned."
"That doesn't mean that I'm a 'woman-hater'; I won't stand for it! Be
careful what you say!"
Billy looked at him in amazement. It was a rare thing to see his uncle
ruffled.
"I beg your pardon, Uncle Monty," he apologized. "I didn't intend to
bump any one's feelings. Truly I wasn't joshing at all,--I thought you
meant it! But I'm glad you didn't, for now you'll be more sympathetic
with me, and you can help me a lot."
"All right, boy," Huntington said soberly. "I know you didn't mean
anything by what you said, but marriage is a mighty sacred thing and you
ought not to speak lightly of it."
"How's Mr. Cosden?" Billy asked, eager to get the conversation onto
safer grounds.
"Well and happy; he dined with me last week."
"Say, but he can ride a bicycle!--What did he have against me down at
Bermuda?"
"He said you covered too much territory."
"I don't see where I got in his way, but he was forever butting in on
Merry and me. And the way he hustled me off in that little speed-boat! I
never had any one take such an interest in my getting back to college on
time! That must have cost him quite a bit of kale. I can't understand
it."
"It was because he is so good a friend of mine," Huntington explained.
"He saw a youngster down there who flopped around like a big St. Bernard
pup"--Huntington was gratified that his memory still retained Merry's
simile,--"and he served the best interests of his friend by keeping you
from making a mistake on your latest flop. Doesn't that clear things
up?"
"As clear as mud," Billy grunted. "I guess I need one of those
glass-bottomed boats they use down there to see the spinach and the
gold-fish. I could see the gold-fish all right, but the spinach was on
me.--That reminds me, Uncle Monty, will you lend me a hundred dollars?"
"For what, this time?"
"I want to lend it to Phil,--he's broke because his father has cut down
his allowance."
"Billy!" Philip cried aghast; "I told you that in confidence. I wouldn't
think of borrowing money from Mr. Huntington."
"How in the world do you expect to get a hundred dollars out of me
unless I land Uncle Monty for it?--and he asked, 'for what?' You heard
him."
"It's all right, Phil," Huntington said reassuringly. "Billy doesn't
have any secrets from me because he can't keep them. I would much rather
lend the money to you than to him."
"That isn't fair," Billy protested. "Phil is sure to pay it back, and I
need it."
"I don't know what has happened," Philip explained without paying any
attention to what his friend was trying to say, "but all of a sudden Dad
wrote that I must cut my expenses in two. That's a hard thing to do in a
minute, and I don't see why I should do it anyway, for Dad has all kinds
of money."
"These are hard times in Wall Street, my boy," Huntington answered him,
"and many a rich man's son has to cut his corners. If your father has
written you that I advise you to follow his instructions. He isn't a man
to say it unless he means it.--I'll gladly help you out while you're
getting adjusted."
"Thank you, Mr. Huntington, but perhaps I won't need it. Even cut in two
my allowance is bigger than most of the boys'."
"Fathers are so inconsiderate," Billy yawned; "very few of them
understand their sons."
"A paraphrase of the old saw, Billy," Huntington commented. "To-day we
would say that it is a wise stock which knows its own par."
"Or a wise corn which knows its own popper," laughed Billy.
"Or a wise beast which knows its own fodder," Philip added,--"now we're
all even!"
"Speaking of fodder," Billy said, showing renewed signs of life, "let's
go down to the Copley-Plaza and get something to eat."
"After the dinner you ate?" Huntington demanded.
"That was over two hours ago, and I'm as hollow as a tin can. Come on,
Phil."
"You can't be serious, Billy," insisted Huntington.
"I sure am. Whenever I get a real square feed I have a pain, and
to-night I've felt perfectly comfortable."
"All right, go on if you feel that way," his uncle replied. "Take him
away, Phil, and let him stuff himself until he has a pain! I'll let you
know when Hamlen arrives, and then I'll count on you to help me out.
"Better include me," Billy insisted.
"The next time I ask you to dine with me, young man, I'll thank you to
get filled up at the hotel first!"
* * * * *