* * * * *
In July, commercial stagnation increased, and the machinery of business
which before had creaked dismally in its daily routine now groaned aloud
in its travail; and the pity was that the conditions which caused it
were artificially created. There was capital enough, but the banks
hoarded it against possible contingencies; the crops were heavy, but it
was suicidal for the railroads to move them at the rates legislated by
the government; there were contracts to be let, but no one dared give
them out or accept them because of the shadow which hung gloomily over
every great industry in the shape of governmental paternalism and
interference. Stocks representing property intrinsically valuable
dropped lower and lower in the market, dividends which had been earned
were diverted into surplus as further margin of safety against future
developments, unknown and therefore to be feared. Incomes shrank in some
cases almost to the vanishing-point, while Washington reveled in an orgy
of those good intentions with which they say Hell is paved.
Cosden by this time had come to a full realization of the significance
of Thatcher's warning, and he understood now why the New York operator
had shown so little interest in the attack on the Consolidated Machinery
corporation which had seemed inevitable. In view of conditions as they
had developed, and as Thatcher had foreseen them, no new enterprise
would be launched until opportunity presented itself to take advantage
of its inherent strength. The old-established company need fear no
competition while its own business was dropping off in such alarming
proportions. So Cosden again reduced expenses, still further extended
his bank affiliations, and settled back to meet whatever conditions
might arise, knowing that his sagacity had placed him outside the pale
of those fighting for their existence.
In this latter class was Thatcher. The very success of his varied
interests now made them shining lights to attract the attention of the
authorities in Washington. One by one he saw them attacked, and day by
day he watched the dropping values of the stocks, called on by the banks
to increase his collateral, drawing deeper and deeper into his personal
resources which he had considered ample for any emergency. The strain
was terrific yet the only break he permitted himself was during the week
of his son's graduation.
The question of the summer home gave Thatcher much concern. The heavy
expense of its upkeep made it an item to be considered at this time, yet
he could not bring himself to the point of doing what he knew would be
an act of wisdom. In their town house the Thatchers lived the usual
formal life which belonged to their position, but it was Sagamore Hall
they always meant when they spoke of "home." To relinquish it, even
temporarily, seemed to Thatcher nothing less than sacrilege.
The estate consisted of some sixty acres wonderfully located on
Narragansett Bay with nearly a mile frontage on the sea. A rolling,
close-cropped lawn, bordered on either side by avenues of trees, ran
back three hundred yards from the beach before the stately, old English,
half-timbered mansion was reached, the broad expanse of green carpeting
making a perfect harmony of perspective. The two great end gables of the
house formed a shallow forecourt, filled in by a brick terrace with
balustrade. Between these gables, the central facade, a double-storied
loggia of stone, reminiscent of a Dorsetshire manor house, was
strikingly beautiful with its splendid sculptured decorations.
The opposite front of the mansion faced the road, though removed some
distance from it, and was approached through a gateway and a winding
avenue in keeping with the dignity of the building itself. To the south,
connected by shaded walks, was an unusual garden, the boundaries of
which were marked by rare trees and shrubs so arranged that they formed
a pyramidal mass of verdure, against which perennial blooms of rare and
beautiful plants showed their bewildering colors to the best advantage.
This garden represented what Marian had put of herself into the estate
during the twenty years they had lived there, and to her and to Thatcher
each flower, shrub or tree represented something personal and recalled
some happy experience.
At Sagamore Hall Marian really lived, keeping out of doors most of the
time, entertaining her friends in a manner which made every one feel
that each of the many attractions had been arranged for his own special
enjoyment. Here the Bermuda party was again united. Thatcher still kept
his wife in ignorance of the business complications which now seemed
certain to overwhelm him. Marian noticed that he was tired and worried,
but this had happened so many times before that she had come to look
upon these conditions as deplorable but none the less inevitable factors
in her husband's business life. In fact he had so explained on earlier
occasions when she questioned him, and had discouraged her from showing
too much concern. She recognized that he was scarcely in a mood for the
reunion she had planned, but justified her insistence on the ground that
he needed the relaxation; while he deemed it wise to yield rather than
attempt an explanation.
Edith Stevens had been their guest for a fortnight before the other
members of the party arrived. Philip was entertaining several of his
college chums, including Billy Huntington, but Mrs. Thatcher
particularly requested her daughter to have no guests during this visit,
holding herself free to assist in the entertainment.
Since her return home after the Class Day festivities Merry had shown
little interest in what went on around her. Had her mother noticed it
she would have passed it over lightly as "one of the child's moods," but
Mrs. Thatcher was too completely engrossed in her own great scheme to be
keenly sensitive to anything around her. In fact Merry's attitude
seemed peculiarly receptive, and encouraged her, a few days before
Hamlen was expected, to take her daughter into her confidence.
In answering Huntington's question Marian expressed greater confidence
in Merry's acquiescence than she really felt. To herself she admitted
that she did not understand her daughter. Since the elaborate plans for
Merry's social life fell through because of the girl's lack of interest
and failure to respond, Marian had almost given up in despair. Merry was
unlike the daughters of the Thatchers' friends, who might be counted on
at all times to do the expected thing when given the expected
conditions; with her it was always the unexpected which happened. She
loved athletics, not because of the companionship of boys, as other
girls did, but for the games themselves; she was fond of dancing, but
she would as soon dance with another girl as with a man,--it was the
rhythmic motion of the dance itself which fascinated her; she had no
interest nor ability in making "small talk," but was always eager to
discuss problems which her mother felt she might better leave alone; she
tolerated young people of her own age, but expressed her real self only
when thrown with older friends. Mrs. Thatcher worried more over her
daughter's future than over any other phase of the family life, and the
solution which now seemed to offer itself contained so much promise that
Marian believed it to be foreordained.
It was not easy to broach the subject, but when once accomplished Marian
talked on for some time without waiting for Merry to enter into the
discussion. It was important, she felt, that the girl should know the
whole story before being permitted to express an opinion. As the full
significance of her mother's words dawned upon Merry there was an
instinctive recoil, but she listened with outward calm. Marian believed
herself to be suggesting nothing save deepest concern for her daughter's
future; Merry heard nothing but a personal appeal for sacrifice. The
romance of her mother's early experience, the results which came from
the breaking of the engagement, her own interest and participation in
Hamlen's new life,--all went to strengthen the appeal, but still it
asked for sacrifice.
As she listened Merry's mind was working fast. What were the relations
existing between them? She admired her mother tremendously, and was
proud of the attention her beauty excited wherever they went. She
respected her, for no wife or mother ever carried herself in these
positions with greater regard for the proprieties. Did she love her? Of
course! what a question to come to a girl's mind! Did she? The question
repeated itself insistently. Merry wondered. If this were disloyalty,
then the thought itself formed the offense; to analyze it was imperative
before putting it aside. The girl knew that she was face to face with
the crisis of her life, that the question now in mind had really been
the cause of that unrest she had failed to understand.
"Is this something which you ask me to do?" Merry inquired at length.
"No, my dear; that would be exceeding a mother's rights."
"But you wish it?"
"Yes; that is a different matter."
"I wonder if it is," the girl said soberly.
"It is a very different matter," Marian insisted. "I am thinking only of
you, dear child. Unless you felt convinced, as I do, that your marriage
would mean your happiness, I should be the last one to wish it."
"Why don't you let me wait, as other girls do, until I find the man I
love?"
"Because you're not like other girls, Merry--"
"I've always been a disappointment to you, haven't I, Momsie?" she asked
suddenly.
"Not that, dear," Marian disclaimed. "Of course it has worried me that
you would never be intimate with young people your own age. I have never
understood it--"
"That is because I never had any girlhood, Momsie," Merry explained
seriously. "I grew up too soon. When I was little I couldn't play like
other children because my governess was always teaching me manners; so I
had nothing to do but think."
"What are you talking about, child!" Mrs. Thatcher protested. "You are a
perfect tomboy, even to-day!"
"I've had to make up for lost time, Momsie. You never saw me play when I
was little; that came after I became old enough to have my own way. Then
I learned games, but not as a child learns them; they were serious
problems, to be thought out because I had formed the habit of thinking.
While I was away at school I felt older than the other girls there, and
I wasn't interested in what interested them; that gave me a chance to
think some more. Then I came home, and you gave me that wonderful
coming-out party! It was after that I disappointed you most, wasn't it,
Momsie? I couldn't live the life the other debutantes did--talking silly
nonsense until early morning with men who hadn't any sense at all,
rushing to _thes dansants_ smoking cigarettes, and all that sort of
thing."
"I never knew that you did smoke cigarettes," Marian said severely.
"I don't suppose the mothers of the other girls knew it either; it was
the secrecy which made it sporty and gave the smoking its only interest.
I couldn't stand it, Momsie! I had to be doing something worth while!
Finally you let me have my own way, very much against your will, and
since then I've been a tomboy, as you say. Father gave in on the boat,
and I've spent hours in her, all by myself, trying to find out what the
things worth while are. I haven't been very successful yet, Momsie, but
I do know that it is a waste of time to fool around with boys like Ted
Erskine when one may find a chance to talk with a real man like Mr.
Huntington."
"Mr. Hamlen is a real man, too, Merry. If you knew something of life--"
"It's because I know too much of life, and understand too little. Mr.
Huntington has helped me to understand."
"I had hoped that by being so much with him, you would be the more
prepared to appreciate Mr. Hamlen," Mrs. Thatcher said.
"I wish I might have been more with you, dearie."
Marian looked up quickly. "What do you mean by that?" she demanded.
"Haven't I given all my leisure to my family?"
"You have had so very little leisure, Momsie."
"I have had my own interests, of course--"
"I'm not criticising you, dearie," Merry hastened to interpose; "I'm
only trying to explain myself to you."
"I have done my best to prepare my children for the life they would
naturally enter--"
"Isn't life what we live every day, Momsie? It isn't all made up of
worldly things, is it?"
"Upon my word!" Marian cried. "One would think that I had entirely
neglected my family!"
"No, Momsie; you have been most ambitious for us, and have made sure
that we could have everything you thought we ought to have. Truly it
isn't that I don't appreciate what you have done; I simply can't
understand why any one should want the things you consider essential.
Why, for instance, are you so anxious for me to be married?"
"Because it is natural at this time in your life, Merry." Mrs. Thatcher
was determined to have no quarrel, in spite of what she considered just
provocation. "It is a mother's duty to advise her daughter when she sees
her on the verge of a mistake."
"Suppose I felt that I didn't care to marry, Momsie, that I should be
happier to go through life expressing my own individuality?"
"Don't let us get started on that," Marian protested. "You know how
little patience I have with feminism in any form. I do wish we might
discuss some subject in a normal way as other mothers and daughters do,
Merry," she continued, softening. "I have your interests on my mind all
the time, I want to help you to understand yourself and life, I love you
so, dear child,--and yet, whenever we try to talk anything over, it
always turns into an argument. What I have suggested to-day I have
thought of for months, I have considered it from every standpoint before
presenting it to you, but you give me no credit for that. Before you
even know how you feel about it you are ready to dismiss it. I really
think my efforts for your happiness are entitled to more consideration."
"You think this would be for Mr. Hamlen's happiness too?" Merry asked
soberly.
"I am sure of it," Marian replied, seeming to see a sign of yielding in
the girl's question.
"Why hasn't he spoken to me himself?" Merry asked at length.
"He will speak, of course; but to meet with another disappointment would
undo all the advance he has made."
"I can't think of Mr. Hamlen as a married man," Merry continued; "I
can't believe that he would be happy under conditions changed from what
they are now. If he could only go on living with Mr. Huntington--"
"That is out of the question, of course," Mrs. Thatcher answered. "Mr.
Huntington has accomplished a miracle in bringing him out of his old
obsession, and if it were possible to surround him now with normal
conditions there is no limit to the heights he might reach."
"Has he told you that he cared for me?"
"Not in so many words," her mother admitted; "that is scarcely to be
expected. I understand him so much better than he does himself. He
disparages his abilities, which is not a bad characteristic in a
husband, and without some assurance of success I doubt if he would ever
mention the subject to you. But you know what it would mean to him. I
shall never urge you against your will, my dear," she repeated with real
feeling,--"you know that without my telling you; but I do feel my own
responsibility so keenly! He was a boy of such promise, as he is to-day
a man of rare capabilities if the right one could only guide him in
making use of his talents. Haven't you felt this yourself, my dear, when
you have been with him?"
Merry passed her hand wearily over her forehead. She could not
understand why she did not at once protest against what she felt to be
an unnatural suggestion. Still, the constancy of the lover, the sympathy
which she had felt for Hamlen since their first meeting in Bermuda, and
her own state of uncertainty combined in a confused way in the girl's
mind. Huntington's face was before her as her mother spoke of Hamlen,
his voice was in her ears, his words echoed in her heart: "I found the
girl too late!" Mrs. Thatcher thought Merry's hesitation came from a
consideration of the arguments just advanced, but what Huntington had
said formed the greatest argument of all. This closed for her all hope
of happiness coming as a direct response to the craving of her heart,
and left her only the possibility of attaining it through the indirect
means of giving happiness to some one else.
"That is what he would do," she whispered; and the thought brought
comfort.
"Haven't you felt this?" Mrs. Thatcher repeated at length, to recall the
girl to herself. "You have always seemed so much more at home with older
men, and he must have appealed to you. He would respond so quickly to
the sympathy you could give him."
"Wouldn't it be wrong to marry a man you didn't love?" Merry asked
quietly.
"But you respect him, don't you, dear? And respect is the first step
toward love. I wouldn't have you marry him unless that came, but there
is plenty of time before the wedding need be considered."
"I am very unhappy!" Merry exclaimed suddenly, with a little catch in
her voice.
"Unhappy, my dear!" Mrs. Thatcher cried with real sympathy, drawing the
girl's head upon her shoulder. "Why should you be unhappy? Tell Mother."
"I don't know, myself," Merry admitted, crying softly. "I've been
unhappy ever so long. Now and then things have seemed to straighten out,
but never for long at a time. Now I'm more unsettled than I have ever
been, and I don't feel as if I could be much of a success in making any
one else happy while I feel so miserable myself."
"This may be just what you need to help you find yourself, my dear,"
Mrs. Thatcher answered, kissing her affectionately. "Oftentimes, when
we are wretched ourselves, we find happiness in giving it to others.
Don't promise me anything, dear child, except that you will think the
matter over carefully, and be prepared to settle it wisely when the time
comes. Let me say again, unless you decide for yourself that your life
will be made richer and brighter by marrying Philip Hamlen, of course I
should not wish you to consider it."
Unconsciously Mrs. Thatcher had touched upon the same argument Merry had
used with herself. The girl had striven for happiness and failed to find
it; she had evolved a creed which called for ideals which she had come
to believe did not exist; she had demanded something for herself before
she thought of giving of herself. In her failure she had proved her
fallacy. The one person who had it in his power to disprove her present
contentions must consider her a visionary without the character to make
the visions real. Romance had already come to him, and having found the
girl too late that chapter in his life was closed. He was happy because
he always thought of others rather than himself. That was the only royal
road after all. There was nothing repellent about Hamlen. He had many
attributes which compelled admiration, and if he once became settled,
that in itself might release the indisputable abilities he possessed to
accomplish the great work which might lay before him. But would marriage
give that to him? Was she the one to bring about the metamorphosis which
her mother so confidently predicted? Would happiness come to her as a
result of giving it to him?
The thoughts and the questions crowded through her mind in such numbers
and with such conflicting incoherence that she could hope to find no
answers. But her decision need not be made now--that one fact remained
clear and she clung to it. Perhaps another day would bring relief.
"I will think it over, Momsie," she promised in a tired voice. "Forgive
me if I haven't seemed considerate. I want to do the right thing, dear,
but it is so hard to know what that is."
"You are a darling!" Mrs. Thatcher cried, kissing her affectionately.
"Don't worry about that. Mother will help you to find out."
* * * * *