* * * * *
Knowing that his telephone message would allay Mrs. Thatcher's greatest
anxiety, Huntington made no effort to return to the shore that night,
and when morning came it was a question whether he could go at all. He
knew that Hamlen would keep his promise so long as he remained master of
himself, but the roving eyes and the twitching nerves warned Huntington
that he must not place too great reliance upon this expectation. All
through the hours of darkness, without his friend's knowledge, he
watched over him, sharing in sympathetic silence the suffering which the
tossing body endured in expressing the tortures of the mind. When
morning came at last Hamlen was quieter, but this condition was due to
the exhaustion of high fever rather than to even temporary relief.
Hastily summoning a physician, Huntington watched the examination,
becoming more and more apprehensive as the expression of concern
deepened on the doctor's face. Together they stepped into the hall,
where the doctor shook his head gravely.
"Tell me something of what led up to this," he demanded.
Huntington briefly sketched Hamlen's history, and the climax.
"It will be nip and tuck," the doctor said crisply. "His resistance is
low, but he'll probably pull through. What I'm afraid of is his reason.
We'll break this fever now, and then you must find something to interest
him outside of himself. That is his only salvation."
"I wish I thought I could," Huntington replied doubtfully. "There will
be no help from him, for the last thing he desires is to live."
"But if to live is to--"
"I know,--I shall do my best."
A week later Hamlen's life was out of danger, but at times his mental
wanderings confirmed the doctor's worst apprehensions. Yet Huntington
came to dread the depression of the saner moments more than the vagrant
hallucinations. The dramatic details of the unleashing of the war-dogs
of one nation after another should have been enough to arouse his
interest, but his only comment was, "It is a fitting end to a hollow
world, with its thin veneer of sham civilization; would to God it had
come sooner!"
Finally it seemed safe to leave the patient in the care of the trained
nurse, and Huntington made his deferred return to Sagamore Hall. Marian
had kept in touch with Hamlen's progress as well as she could over the
telephone, but there was much which her heart craved to learn more
intimately. The illness afforded a simple explanation to the other
guests of the peculiar disappearance of both men, so Huntington's
confidences needed to be told to Mrs. Thatcher alone. Still, there was
a single exception. One of the first questions Huntington asked of
Marian was whether Merry knew the whole truth, and when he learned from
both how much each had gained from their mutual confidences he insisted
that the girl hear from him the details of what had happened since.
He told his story simply, trying to spare Marian and making as light as
possible of the part which he himself had played, yet the whole-souled
devotion he had given his friend could be concealed no more than the
serious results of Mrs. Thatcher's persistency. Huntington had claimed
from him the life which would have been forfeited, promising to make
good use of it; now that it was at his disposal, what was he to do with
it? He admitted freely to Mrs. Thatcher and Merry that as yet he had
found no solution.
"This necessity of doing your splendid work over again is but one of the
results of my culpable stupidity," Marian said penitently. "When I think
of it, it seems as if I should go mad!"
Huntington rejoiced in the change which he found in Mrs. Thatcher. The
sudden view she had gained of herself was all she needed to understand
that one lack which no one could have made her see or comprehend.
Huntington felt the closer relationship between her and Merry, and he
believed the girl had found the answer to her question.
"We must forget our mistakes," he said, anxious to relieve Marian,
"except when remembering them will prevent a repetition. We all have
tried to do our full duty by this abnormal personality, and our
shortcomings should not cause us to question the sincerity of our acts."
"You are too generous," Mrs. Thatcher replied; "I shall never cease to
hold myself accountable, never!"
"Don't, Momsie!" Merry begged. "Perhaps even now we can suggest
something which will undo the harm."
"We must," Huntington said soberly. "Now, if I may finish out my visit
with you it will be a real relief after these depressing days, and we
will await the inspiration."
"We are counting on your doing so," Marian replied promptly. "It
comforts me to have you share this time with me. I can't tell Harry the
whole story yet. And Billy is waiting for you. He and Philip are crazed
by this talk of war, and are trying to find some way to get into it. Of
course it is ridiculous, but boys are irrepressible creatures. I don't
need to tell you that!"
"I'm not so sure that it is ridiculous," Huntington surprised them both
by saying. "I don't quite see where they could break into this war, but
as for Billy I believe a first-hand knowledge of these terrible
experiences would go far toward making a man of him."
"You surely wouldn't have them get into the fighting!" Mrs. Thatcher
exclaimed.
"No, not that; but there are other ways. I heard some talk of forming
ambulance squads to send to France. If they do that, I might urge
Billy's father to let him go."
"Still, there would be danger, wouldn't there?" Merry asked.
"Some, perhaps; but there is danger in the life which surrounds these
boys now. I am much concerned about Billy. Unless something happens to
shake him up he will never know what life really is. The nobility of
heroism, an every-day occurrence on the firing-line, is something which
could not fail to leave its impress on these youngsters. It is worth
thinking over."
"I couldn't let Philip go," Marian said with the old-time finality in
her voice.
"Perhaps not," Huntington replied with a significant look. "It may be
most unwise; but if Nature should seem to point strongly in that
direction we must be careful not to thwart it."
Marian flushed. "You are right, Mr. Huntington," she said with frank
understanding; "I shall be careful, you may be sure."
"Where are the boys now?" Huntington asked. "I would prefer to postpone
the discussion with them until I am rested. I'm not used to problems,
you know, and lately they seem to have concentrated themselves on me.
Help me to escape them for another hour!"
"Take Mr. Huntington down to the water-garden," Marian suggested
smiling; "no one will think of looking for you there."
"Would you like to go?" Merry asked him.
"Nothing would rest me more."
"Won't you come, Momsie?"
"No, dear; you must do the honors in my stead."
They wandered through the formal garden in silence, down the shaded
_bosquet_, and across a bit of lawn to the fresh-water garden which was
built only a little back from the shore itself. A miniature torii, from
whose crossbeam hung a replica in straw of the mystic _shimenawa_,
marked the entrance, sounding the motivation for the Oriental note
within. They passed through this and walked between the rows of Japanese
maples which formed an avenue ending in a vista of the sea. In the
moment they had transported themselves, for within the limitations
marked by the avenue of trees there was nothing to suggest anything save
the East: there were the little shrines surrounded by Oriental
flower-pots; there was a tiny lake, crossed by an arched stone bridge,
through which could be seen the luxuriant bloom of the lotus and other
rare aquatic plants, brilliant in their coloring and foliage, growing in
and out of the water and over the rocks with well-planned irregularity;
there was the lilliputian grove of dwarfed trees impudently challenging
comparison with their taller neighbors.
"I'm glad you brought me here," Huntington said as they seated
themselves upon a curiously-carved stone. "Other parts of the estate are
far more impressive, but you have no spot which appeals to me more by
virtue of its beauty."
"I love it too," the girl acknowledged. "Almost every one looks at it
once or twice and admires it, but no one seems to care to linger here as
I do. I am sure to be alone, so I come almost every day to read Lafcadio
Hearn and to dream of Nippon."
"I understand," Huntington said quietly; "and I'll warrant you find
yourself spending much of your time gazing at the surface of that little
lake."
"Yes," she exclaimed surprised; "but how do you know that, and why
should I do it?"
"It is not so mysterious, after all," he answered smiling. "I have no
psychic powers, but I know a little of the Oriental teachings: the
surface of the lake is a mirror, symbolic of illusion and reflecting our
souls, in which alone we must seek the Buddha.--But to-day it is of a
modern divinity I would prefer to speak. These have been hard weeks for
you, Merry, and I have sympathized with you."
"Why,--yes; in a way," she admitted. "But like everything else I do,
they haven't amounted to anything, have they?"
"Haven't they?" he asked pointedly. "Isn't some of that unrest gone now
that you and the dear mother understand each other?"
"Of course. That means everything to me, but again it is I who benefit.
Oh! Mr. Huntington, I want so much to do something for somebody else,
and no matter how hard I try it always turns out that I am the gainer. I
believed I had the opportunity at last, and again I was mistaken. But
this time it wasn't my fault, was it? At least I was ready to do my
part."
"Don't you know that you can't try to do something for some one else
without having it come back to you?"
"Do you expect that what you are doing for Mr. Hamlen will bring you a
reward?"
"It has already given me your friendship. Isn't that enough?"
The color came to Merry's face, and she turned her glance away. "What
can that mean to you who have so many friendships?" she asked.
"It is the friendship I value most among them all."
She looked up at him quickly, startled by the intensity of his tone.
"You can't mean that," she said. "To me it is different. You brought
into my life something which it never had and never would have had
except for you. To me your friendship is the grandest thing I know, but
what can mine mean to you? Something fine and splendid must come in
return for the months you have given Mr. Hamlen. I wish--" she hesitated
a moment but then continued bravely--"yes, I wish it might even bring
you back the girl you loved--and found too late!"
"Merry! child! what are you saying!" he cried.
"Have I hurt you again?"
"Not hurt me; but you make it hard for me to be fair to our friendship."
"Can't we be friends--because of her?"
Huntington turned to her gently, taking her hand in his. His face showed
the force of the emotion which fought for supremacy, but the calmness
with which he spoke evidenced his control.
"I have tried to be fair to our friendship," he repeated, "but you must
not misunderstand. I wonder if it would be more kind to tell you the
truth, even though it cost me what I value so."
"Don't,--please don't!" she begged.
"I fear I must," he said with decision, "no matter what it costs.
Whether this strain with Hamlen has weakened my resolve, or because the
romance of the Japanese Benten hovers over this spot and bids me speak,
I must tell you, little girl, that my friendship has only been a blind
to cover something far deeper, which I have no right to offer you. The
time has come for you to know that, for it will tell you what you are to
me. I would relinquish all I possess to turn back the years until they
gave me the right to ask you to be my wife."
She started to her feet and tried to speak, but he stopped her.
"You don't need to answer," he insisted. "I understand only too well."
"But the girl you met too late--"
"Was you, dear child! I am a generation ahead of my time; otherwise I
believe it might have been."
He smiled as he always did when deeply moved, but this time the sadness
showed through the mask. As the full comprehension of his words came to
her, Merry's color faded but she looked into his face with a woman's
candor.
"Is the difference in our ages the only reason?" she asked.
"Alas! that is enough!"
"No, no!" she cried impulsively. "You wouldn't let that stand between
us!"
"Do you realize what you are saying, Merry? It can't be that you
understand!"
"I do! I do!" she cried. "Please don't stop. Say it to me!"
He placed his arm around her and drew her to him. "Can it possibly be?"
he demanded incredulously. "Can this really have come to me?"
Merry hid her face on his shoulder. "Say it!" she insisted,
"please,--please say it!"
"Merry--child--I love you!"
Her arm crept about his neck, and then her radiant face came out from
its hiding place, and held itself ready for the consecration.
* * * * *