* * * * *
They lingered in happy disregard of passing time, each seeming to fear
disillusionment if they deserted their magic garden. Huntington no
longer felt the oppression of the years, Merry no longer drifted from
her anchorage.
"Monty," she whispered slyly,--"dare I call you Monty?"
"If you don't, I shall call you incorrigible!"
"Monty,--who is Benten?"
She asked the question so hesitatingly, as if ashamed to admit her
ignorance, that he laughed.
"Benten?" he repeated after her. "Surely you know Benten! She is none
other than an adorable Japanese lady of antiquity who is known as the
deity of Beauty, the divinity of Love and the Goddess of Eloquence. I
have no doubt she has other attributes, but those are enough for us,
aren't they, little sweetheart?"
"Oh, Monty,--you know so much!" she sighed. "It is going to be a
terrible strain!"
She seemed very winsome in her present mood, and he smiled happily.
"The strain will be on me, dear heart," he protested. "I have assumed
wisdom all these years with no danger of being unmasked; now you will
find me out.
"I'm glad it happened here in this garden," she said contentedly. "I
seem to feel more at home in this atmosphere. Benten shall be my patron
saint from this day."
"Shall we spend our honeymoon in Japan?" he asked. "Why not keep this
setting to the end?"
She clapped her hands. "Splendid!" she cried. "That will be
Paradise;--and you'll teach me all you know about everything?"
"Why not let your Hearn teach you of Japan? He knows it all. He would
tell you, too, that Benten is also Goddess of the Sea," he pointed to
the brilliant spot of color at the end of the avenue, now made
spectacular by the radiance of the setting sun. "He would understand
why, under this influence, I could not keep from telling you my secret;
for 'is not the sea most ancient and most excellent of speakers,--the
eternal poet, chanter of that mystic hymn whose rhythm shakes the world,
whose mighty syllables no man may learn?'"
"Oh, Monty," she murmured, nestling closer to him in blissful happiness,
"please go on. To hear you talk is just like listening to a beautiful
symphony. And to think you're going to share it all with me! Let us stay
right here forever!"
"Mer-ry!" came Philip's call across the lawn.
"Uncle Mon-ty!" Billy halloed.
"There come those horrid boys," she pouted, sitting up straight. "Why
are boys, anyway?"
"You told me once that it was only when they became serious that you
worried about them," he teased her.
"They are serious now,--they've found out you're here, and they're going
to talk war with you.--I don't want to give you up even for a moment!"
"Nor I you," he whispered, as the boys were close at hand; "but we must
keep our secret a little longer."
They rose and walked up the avenue to meet them.
"Mother said to wait because you were tired, but Billy couldn't, so I
came with him," Philip explained lamely.
"I am never too tired to receive a welcome like this--"
"We want your advice," Billy interrupted.
"Won't it wait until we get to the house?"
"No," Billy insisted; "it's urgent. Phil and I want to go to the war,
and if we don't hurry they may call it off and then we'll be rooked."
"I wish there was a chance they might," Huntington said feelingly.
"There's no fear of that, boy. They are in for a long and terrible
struggle."
"Great!" cried Philip. "I've always wanted to go to war, and I never
believed there would be another."
"I'm going because I want to get shot up just to spite Merry," added
Billy, remembering his grievance and looking at the girl gloomily.
"The fact that you realize so little what you are saying is the greatest
argument you could advance in favor of your going," Huntington said,
looking at them gravely.
"I didn't mean to speak as I did," Philip replied apologetically. "It
is a terrible thing, of course, but since it has come I am crazy to be a
part of it. I believe I'll run away if Mother and Dad don't let me go!"
"I meant just what I said," Billy insisted stoutly. "Merry is very
unhappy,--haven't you noticed it?"
"Do I look so now?" she laughed at him.
"You shouldn't interrupt," he reproved her; "it isn't polite.--She
doesn't know what is the matter with her, but I do."
"What is the matter, Billy?" Huntington inquired seriously. "If I knew,
perhaps I could help her."
"Of course you could; that's why I'm telling you. She's in love with me
and she doesn't know it."
"By Jove!" Huntington exclaimed, looking at Merry's beaming face as she
walked beside him, and then at the serious features of the boy on the
other side. "I'm afraid I can't help, after all."
"Yes, you can," Billy insisted confidently. "Merry will believe anything
you tell her. Now if I go to war and get shot up she will realize her
destiny, and will come to the hospital over there somewhere and be a Red
Cross nurse, and fix me all up. Then we'll be married,--unless my wound
is fatal and I die," he added, gulping down the pathos which this
painful picture stirred within himself.
"I can't stay with you, Billy, if you harrow up my feelings like this,"
Huntington declared. "It isn't fair to take advantage of your
sympathetic old uncle."
"He's just talking in bunches, Mr. Huntington," Philip said disgustedly.
"You mustn't mind what he says. His mouth is full of mush all the time
now. I'm sick of it!"
"How about my feelings, Billy?" Merry demanded. "Have you no pity for
me?"
"Why should I?" he retorted. "It's all your fault.--Uncle Monty,
wouldn't you like to have Merry in the family?"
"I certainly would," was the frank response spoken with a sincerity
which gave the boy unbounded encouragement.
"Now you've said something!" Billy exclaimed and he turned to Merry with
a gesture of finality! "I want you in the family, Uncle Monty wants you,
Phil wants me for a brother-in-law--"
"I'm not so sure," Philip interrupted.
"Oh, yes, he does," Billy continued unabashed.--"So it's up to you. Will
you make us all happy, or will you send me to meet my fate amid the
horrors of war?"
"That'll be about all of that," Philip said, scowling. "We came out here
to talk war and not nonsense. I won't stand for it!"
"We mustn't get these two great questions confused, Billy," Huntington
said soothingly. "I have something to tell you later which may solve one
of them, and we should approach the other with a calm and judicial mind.
I haven't any right to advise you, Philip, for your mother and father
probably have definite ideas which must be respected; but if a way could
be found for Billy to have some of the experiences over there without
running too much danger, I should be inclined to throw my influence in
favor of his going."
"Hurrah!" Billy cried.
"That is all I could possibly expect, Mr. Huntington," Philip
acknowledged. "If Billy is allowed to go, I'm sure Mother and Dad will
consent."
"Very good. I promise you to look into it carefully, and Billy will keep
you posted as to the result."
"What's the other solution?" Billy asked suspiciously.
"I'll tell you later.--Now let me speak with the others. There is
nothing more for us to talk about, is there?"
"I'm sorry I spoke so lightly about the war," Philip said, grasping
Huntington's hand as they separated. "I have fighting in my blood
somewhere, and I'm so excited over it all that I forget myself
sometimes."
"War means to forget one's self at all times, my boy," Huntington
answered kindly. "With all its savagery, with all its brutal return to
primeval instincts, the sacrifices and the heroism it calls for ennoble
those who are drawn into its hideous vortex. No man can once feel this
and ever again look upon life in a small way. That is why, under certain
circumstances, I might favor Billy's desire."
"That is my second desire," Billy carefully explained; "my first is that
Merry become a member of our family."
"To that," his uncle replied, "I have already given my unqualified
approval."
The boys left them and they continued to the house. Mr. and Mrs.
Thatcher met them at the steps.
"I had begun to fear that you and Merry were lost," Marian said, after
Huntington greeted his host.
"We have been lost a long time," Huntington replied, with a meaning they
did not comprehend; "now we have indeed found ourselves."
He took Merry's hand in his and stood for a moment looking at them both.
"Would this time be inopportune," he continued, "to ask if you can spare
this little girl to some one who loves her very dearly?"
"So Billy has persuaded you to become his champion?" Mrs. Thatcher said
with some annoyance. "I didn't think Merry cared for him. He is so
irresponsible, Mr. Huntington. It is difficult to refuse anything you
ask, but couldn't the matter wait?"
"The boy isn't grown up enough to think of such things yet," Thatcher
added.
Huntington smiled quietly at the natural mistake. "It is for one who is
perhaps too far grown up I stand as champion, but I am hoping you will
not look upon that as an obstacle. I did for many months, but Merry has
a way of making one forget his years."
"You!" Marian cried.
"You don't mean it, my dear fellow!" Thatcher held out his hand
cordially.
"We children ask the parental blessing."
Merry slipped by, into her mother's arms.
"Oh! Momsie! I am happy at last!"
"You have certainly kept us in the dark!" Marian exclaimed, recovering
from her surprise.
Then the pleasure in her face changed to one of concern. "You have
loved Merry, yet stood aside these weeks?"
"I could not believe that she could care for me."
"Almost a triple tragedy!" Marian said soberly, so low that only
Huntington heard her. "Can any one ever forgive me!"
"Come, we must tell Edith and Cosden," Thatcher urged. "They are
consumed with impatience to see you."
"Let us wait until dinner," Huntington suggested. "Billy must be
considered, for the dear boy believes himself madly in love with
Merry,--even as I did once with her mother."
"Nonsense!" laughed Marian.
"It didn't seem like nonsense then, but I forgive you since you give me
this sweet child, which I know you consider a greater gift than the one
I would have asked."
"I never heard of this," Thatcher exclaimed.
"No man can marry a woman like Mrs. Thatcher without finding wrecks
along the shore."
"A very pretty remark from a son-in-law," she retorted. "I shall hold
you strictly to your loyalty!"
"Let me find Billy while you are dressing for dinner," Huntington said.
"I'll overtake you after breaking the news gently to him."
"Don't be late," Merry whispered to him in parting. "When I leave you I
shall think it all a dream."
"So it is, dear heart, but one which is sure to come true!"
Billy joined his uncle in his room, and the older man sat down beside
him on the window-seat.
"Boy," he said, "you and I have been great pals, and I want you to be
the first to know of a wonderful thing which has happened to me."
"You've beaten Mr. Cosden at golf," Billy guessed.
"It is something which will hurt you for a minute but I want you to show
how good a sport you are."
"You're not going to make me live within my allowance?"
"Merry is going to marry me."
"She isn't!" the boy cried, almost bursting into tears. "She
isn't,--she's going to marry me!"
"Steady, Billy, steady! Remember what pals we are! You wouldn't want her
to marry you if she loved some one else, would you?"
Billy quieted down, swallowing hard but saying nothing.
"Think how many years I have waited for this wonderful thing to happen.
Think how many years you have ahead of you in which to have it happen.
For it will happen to you, boy,--it must."
"But you are a woman-hater."
"No, boy,--a Merry lover! Won't you forget your infatuation and wish me
joy?"
"I shall never marry," Billy said disconsolately.
"That is what I said, twenty years ago!"
"You can't depend on girls, anyhow."
"That is what I said, twenty years ago! Won't you wish me joy? It's the
first time I've ever asked you to do anything for me."
"It's asking a whole lot."
"It is,--and the greater the gift if you give it to me."
"So Merry is really going to marry you?"
Huntington nodded his head.
"Oh, well, I suppose I shall get over it."
"Good for you, boy! And you wish me joy?"
"I can't; I'm a woman-hater now myself."
"Wish me as much joy as possible under the circumstances."
"I'll do that; but don't expect me to throw a fit in doing it."
"All right," Huntington patted him affectionately on the shoulder. "Now
run and get ready for dinner, and don't forget that I'm keeping Merry in
the family!"
"Oh! come. Don't rub it in!"
"I won't, but I'm so happy that I'm kiddish!"
"Many a married man seems contented when he's only resigned," quoted
Billy maliciously.
"Get out!" Huntington shouted, throwing a chair-pillow at the retreating
figure.
It was at dinner that the party reassembled, this time in its full
strength of numbers. The table was set in the Italian dining-porch,
which occupied the east gable, and by reason of its uniqueness formed a
charming background for the ceremony. Three of its sides were open, the
over-story being supported on columns; the plaster wall was covered with
masses of flowering and decorative plants, clinging to a lattice, and
broken in the center by a niche enclosing an old marble fountain. Edith
and Cosden greeted Huntington cordially when he came down, plying him
with questions until he begged for mercy.
"You don't show any ill effects from acting as trained nurse," Cosden
remarked; "in fact I never saw you look so well. Glad you came in time
for this farewell dinner; I'm back into the harness again to-morrow."
"I wish you could stay longer, Mr. Cosden," Marian urged.
"I'm ashamed of the length of time I have already imposed upon your
hospitality," Cosden replied; "but you must hold Edith responsible. It
takes her an eternity to get a little word of three letters out of her
mouth."
"That isn't a commodity which requires advertising," she remarked,
tossing her head.
"I'll get you yet, you little devil!" whispered Cosden.
"This dinner is epoch-making," Thatcher said seriously after they were
seated, "and the epochs divide themselves into two parts. The first one
I'm going to explain; then, as it is proper that my wife should have the
last word, Marian will tell you the second. We have with us this
evening--that's the way the toastmaster usually starts in, isn't it?--a
man whom I have known for several years, whose integrity is
unquestioned, but who has been considered by his business associates as
one who exacted his last pound of flesh."
Cosden looked quickly at Thatcher, and reddened at the pointed glance
which Edith gave him.
"A few days ago," Thatcher continued, "owing to extraordinary business
conditions, that man found the one house which he would like best to
control in a position where he could legitimately force it to accept his
own terms. I know, because that house was mine."
"Cut it out, Thatcher," Cosden growled; "this isn't an experience
meeting."
Thatcher paid no attention to him. "At this crisis, I went down on my
knees, and begged him a favor to accept a little trifle of four and a
half millions profit in exchange for saving my house and reputation."
"Harry!" Marian cried. "I've been blind to your troubles too!"
"This was his chance. He remarked coolly that he had been making plans
to take advantage of his opportunity when it came, handed me drafts
which enabled me to weather the storm, and refused to accept one penny
of the blood-money which I was only too ready to give him. That is the
way our friend Cosden collects his pound of flesh."
"Connie did that?" Huntington demanded, gratified beyond measure but
speaking lightly to cover Cosden's embarrassment. "Why, Connie,--I
thought you were a business man!"
Edith made no comment but her gaze never left Cosden's face. His
confusion was genuine, for to be made a hero in the midst of one's
friends is more than any man can stand. Marian hastened to his rescue.
"I shall tell Mr. Cosden what I think of him when we are alone," she
said gratefully. "Now let us turn from the worship of Midas to that of a
coy little divinity who may yet teach Edith to speak in words of one
syllable. Harry says that I am to have the last word. It shall be brief:
Mr. and Mrs. Henry Thatcher announce the engagement of their only
daughter to--Mr. William Montgomery Huntington."
The effect of this announcement was even more dramatic than the first.
"You sly old dog!" Cosden cried, reaching over and pummeling Huntington
on the back.
"Great work!" was Philip's congratulation, but he subsided when he saw
the expression on Billy's face.
It was epoch-making, as Thatcher had promised. The relief over the happy
solution of the business crisis, and the surprise and joy of the
announced engagement made the dinner pass from an episode into an event.
Billy's lack of enthusiasm might be easily understood and as easily
forgiven, but Edith's subdued attitude was less comprehensible. It was
only as they left the table to go out upon the piazza that she broke her
silence. She held back after Marian and Merry passed through the door
and turned to Cosden.
"Did you really do that?" she demanded.
He nodded his head sheepishly. "You see, as Monty says, I'm no kind of
business man after all."
"I think you're the greatest business genius in the world!"
"You do!" he cried. "Then why don't you follow Merry's example?"
"I might," she said smiling.
* * * * *