"Now, Connie," Huntington rose with the gla.s.s in his hand, "I ask you to drink to the dearest girl in the world, past, present and future,--to Marian Thatcher, G.o.d bless her!"

"To Marian Thatcher--G.o.d bless her!" Cosden repeated after him; and Huntington turned away to chuckle to himself that he had paid homage to the reality while his friend believed him to be giving tribute to the figment. He blessed the figment for bestowing her name upon the reality!

"Now for the renunciation," Huntington said solemnly, and one by one he laid the long-cherished trophies upon the fire, watching in silence their reduction to the elements. His success filled him with a spirit of bravado. The opportunity might never come again.

"Once again, Connie old boy!" he cried.

He held out his disengaged hand and grasped Cosden's as he lifted his refilled gla.s.s.

"To Marian Thatcher--G.o.d bless her!"

Cosden still held his gla.s.s after his friend placed his on the table.

"Would it seem a sacrilege if I asked you to join me in a toast?" he asked, with an unnatural hesitation in his voice.

"Why,--no," Huntington said wonderingly. "Fill up the gla.s.ses again."

Then he held his high, waiting for his friend to speak.

"To Edith Stevens," Cosden finally blurted out,--"G.o.d bless her!"

"Edith Stevens!" Huntington almost choked in his surprise. "You don't mean--"

"I don't know what I mean," Cosden admitted, blushing furiously; "but I miss her like blazes, and I'm either in love or else I'm suffering from a new disease the doctors haven't named!"

XXIII

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 cla.s.smate'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 a.n.a.lysis. Hamlen was convinced that he had made a failure of life, but what had he, Huntington demanded of himself, accomplished which could ent.i.tle 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 ident.i.ty 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 l.u.s.ter 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 compet.i.tion, 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 cla.s.smate of mine who has pa.s.sed 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."