* * * * *
Merry's promise to consider the suggestion was equivalent to a victory,
in her mother's mind. True, it had not been won without a cost, for the
girl's plain, straightforward comments left their sting; but, after all,
they represented only a child's distorted viewpoint which failed to
appreciate the manifold demands upon a parent's time. Marian knew that
she had been a devoted mother, and she craved appreciation; but this was
more than she could expect. Merry's strictures were merely another
expression of her peculiar and unfathomable nature.
The promise was the most that Marian could ask for, and with this
concession she did not doubt her ability finally to show the child that
the older judgment was wise and far-sighted. She knew that Merry had not
given the promise lightly, and that once given she would be
conscientious in fulfilling it. Her yielding, even to this extent,
atoned for many instances in the past where the girl had seemed
self-willed in insisting upon following her own judgment in spite of
advice from all the family to the contrary; but these were unimportant
incidents compared with the one at issue. Marian was now quite content
to let her daughter have her own way in anything and everything provided
she did not interfere in the gratification of carrying this one great
desire of her mother's life to a happy conclusion.
The relations which had existed between her and Philip Hamlen, and the
responsibility she assumed for the aftermath, had become greatly
magnified during these months. It was natural that she should feel a
real satisfaction if she were able to repair the harm she had
unwittingly inflicted; but Huntington's question, "Are you not thinking
of him and of your obligation more than of your daughter?" proved so
disquieting that before speaking to Merry she had made doubly sure in
her own mind that the only way her responsibility affected her present
actions was to color the result with the romance of the past. She was
sincere in her conviction that at every step of her progress she had
been guided solely by a desire for her daughter's complete and final
welfare, and in her efforts she could find nothing other than a mother's
natural love and anxiety.
There was another satisfaction, Marian admitted to herself, but it had
no bearing upon the situation until after she became convinced that her
attitude was justified from Merry's standpoint. She had never forgotten
Hamlen's domination over her as a girl. At the moment when she met him
so unexpectedly in Bermuda she felt the old-time sensation of dread she
had experienced so many times when alone with him during their childhood
days and the period of their engagement. She had never loved him; this
knowledge had come clearly to her during the years which had
intervened. When she accepted the tacit understanding of an engagement
it was because of the dominating influence of his mind over hers rather
than a response from her heart to his fierce devotion. The break came on
the occasion of the Senior Dance at Harvard to which she accepted Monty
Huntington's escort. Hamlen, bitter against college and college life,
and having no interest in the graduating festivities, not only refused
to attend the dance but forbade her to go without him. Her indignation
gave her strength to rebel against his domination. Later she sailed for
Europe, feeling a profound sense of relief that she had been able to
break the fetters which had bound her, she then realized, against her
will.
The Hamlen she met at Bermuda was not the unreasonable boy of twenty
years before. He was still bitter, but they met on terms which gave her
the ascendency. Those traits which she had admired were accentuated, and
the fierce intensity had become modified. Now it was her mind which
controlled and his which yielded. He had tried to hold out against her
in refusing to come to America, but he had yielded; he was now trying to
hold out against her judgment that his marriage to Merry would restore
the lost equilibrium, but again he would yield.
Still, above all other considerations, the great fact stood out in
Marian's mind that the match itself was ideal. Merry would find in him
an intellectual force which would satisfy her natural predilections; she
would give him in her spontaneity a leaven to perpetuate the normal
expressions of life which Huntington had taught him to understand. She
would give him the youth which he had lost, he would give her the
response which her unusual development could never obtain from a younger
man. The balance was perfect. The mother's heart rejoiced that her
efforts could make so noble a gift to her daughter, while the woman's
heart found equal satisfaction that these same efforts could pay the
debt of years in ample measure.
It would have been a relief if her plans for entertaining the Bermuda
party could have been carried through without including Huntington, but,
entirely aside from the fact that this omission would have been a marked
slight, his co-operation in bringing Hamlen to this satisfactory
condition had been so conspicuous that there was no alternative. Mrs.
Thatcher was apprehensive lest he take advantage of his influence with
Hamlen to strengthen his will against her judgment; but this was a
chance she had to take.
Could she have read his mind Marian would have found nothing to fear
from Huntington. His familiarity with Merry's nature made him aware,
soon after his arrival, of the fact that something of unusual moment had
occurred. There was a hectic excitement in her welcome, a yearning in
her eyes, otherwise unexplained, which went straight to his heart and
prepared him for the climax in the great renunciation of his life.
"When the supreme test comes," she had told him, "I shall accept it";
and he was convinced that the test had come and been accepted.
"Ah, well!" he sighed deeply, "who am I to interfere?"
It was the second day after his arrival before they finally found
themselves alone together, and he realized that Merry had been awaiting
this opportunity to have with him one of those intimate conversations
which previously he had so much enjoyed. Now, knowing what was coming,
he dreaded it. Until the words were spoken he could at least deceive
himself into believing that he might be wrong, and this self-deception
was all he now had left.
"Let us sit down here in the sand," she said to him, "just as we used to
at Elba Beach."
"I wish we were back there now," he answered feelingly, as he responded
to her request.
"We always wish for something we have had, instead of something we are
going to have, don't we?" she asked, her hand modeling indefinite
figures in the damp sand. "I wonder why that is."
"Because the past is known, and we can select the happy moments as we
choose. The future is unknown, and we must take it as it comes."
"Oh, if we could only look into that future!" she exclaimed suddenly.
"If we could only be sure that in it we could correct our mistakes! How
that would simplify the problems of the present!"
"Why speak so strongly?" he asked. "That belongs to those who have
mistakes to correct."
"I have been thinking of myself all my life," she replied, at once
making the personal application. "I formed an ideal which I insisted
upon realizing, and when I found it at last it proved beyond my reach."
"To have found it at all is more than most of us can claim."
Her hand paused in its idle motions, and she looked up at him
inquiringly.
"But you found yours."
"Don't!" he said softly, a twinge of pain crossing his face.
"I've hurt you again!" she cried impulsively. "Don't you see how selfish
I am? That proves it! There is no one I wouldn't rather hurt than you,
yet twice I've done it. Please forgive me; I'll not do it again."
"There is nothing to forgive," he insisted as he did before. "I'm too
sensitive, that is all. Sometimes Life draws back the curtain and shows
us a wonderful picture of what might have been, to test the strength of
the philosophy the years should have taught us. The strong say, 'That is
not for me,' and pass it by; the weak stretch out their arms and cry in
vain for what they ought to know is not for them. I am among the weak."
"You among the weak!" she cried incredulously. "How little you
appreciate yourself! It is of your strength which you must give me now,
for I am trying to be true to what you have taught me by your example:
by making some one else happy I am going to seek for happiness myself."
It had come! Huntington needed no further confidence to complete the
avowal. He must be careful not to endanger the possibility of success
coming to the efforts which this brave spirit was prepared to make.
Hamlen was almost normal now. If this must be, Huntington knew that he
had played his part in preparing his classmate for the supreme joy which
ought to come to him in sharing the life of such a girl. At least he had
made her happiness possible. But the irony of her reference to his
teachings!
"Then you are ready for the supreme test?" he asked in a low voice.
"If it comes."
Then it had not come! The reaction took him to an absurd extreme until
his sober sense returned and he realized that this made no change. If
Hamlen were eliminated, still the years remained. He saw still more
clearly that his opposition was not impartial. If Merry were to tell him
of her engagement to some younger man of whom he might wholly approve,
how could he take their hands in his and pronounce the banal
benediction, "God bless you, my children!" His heart would cry out and
his spirit rebel as bitterly in one case as in the other. Except for the
question of age he must admit that Hamlen was eligible; that what he
lacked in certain traits was offset by super-abundance in others. If
Huntington were to be consistent he must efface himself; to interfere
would be to accept greater responsibility than he had a right to assume.
"You are prepared to marry a man you do not love because you hope to
make him happy, and thus gain happiness yourself?" he repeated the
problem slowly, emphasizing every word.
"Yes," she replied deliberately; "and the reason I so want to peer into
the future is to make certain that either one of these results is
assured."
"I suppose Hamlen is the man," Huntington said soberly.
"He has spoken of it to you?"
"Yes; he mentioned it soon after he came to visit me."
"Then he does care for me? I had not realized that."
How could the question be answered? Even if Huntington felt himself free
to repeat the confidence Hamlen had given him it would mar the
perfection of the sacrifice for Merry to know the truth. Her very
eagerness for happiness might bring it, and at whatever cost to himself
he wanted that to come to her!
"When we spoke of it Mr. Hamlen was not in a condition to know what his
feelings really were," Huntington replied guardedly. "He realized his
limitations, and questioned, much as you do, the possibility of making
any other person happy. Since he has learned more of the world he is
greatly changed, but we have not again referred to the subject."
"With us both feeling our limitations, and with both striving to
accomplish the same result, don't you think we ought to be successful?"
There was an appealing expression in Merry's face which besought a
confirming answer. Huntington could not resist it.
"It must be so," he said with decision. He smiled into her tense face
with a confidence his heart denied. "It must be so," he repeated.
"Somewhere there must be a divinity which watches over gentle souls like
yours, and brings them their reward."
* * * * *