"Look at me!" he commanded, and she slowly raised her head and gazed into his face.

"Do you remember the last time you looked at me like that?" he asked quietly, but even in his low tones there was a compelling force she recognized.

"Come," he said rising, and drawing her toward him. "If it was not love which brought you to my arms before, then it must be the same impulse to-day. Come, Marian, it is not the daughter I want, it is you,--my beloved, my sweetheart of years gone by!"

"Philip!" she protested feebly, "Philip--I entreat--" but the old, irresistible influence was too strong, and he folded her in his arms.

In a moment his face changed as if touched by a magician's wand. The lines which years and disappointment had traced were miraculously smoothed away, and the expression of contentment was that which comes only when the seeker has at last reached the consummation of his quest.

The lips moved silently, the eyes looked far into the distance. The past was forgotten, the future unheeded, but the wonderful present was his!

A convulsive sob from Marian finally brought him to himself. He loosened his hold, and gazed into her face with abject horror.

"My G.o.d!" he cried, as he allowed her limp form to slip back into the chair. "What have I done! Marian, child, speak to me! Tell me that you forgive me! It was the years which did it, not I; Marian! speak to me!

Tell me you forgive me!"

He gazed helplessly around as no response came. She lay there, her head resting on the back of the chair, sobbing hysterically but giving no sign that she even heard his words. He watched her until at last she opened her eyes and regained control. Then he spoke again.

"Leave it unspoken, Marian," he exclaimed with an agony in his voice which the suspense intensified. "I have said it to myself. I have made myself an outcast, a pariah! Let me take you to the house. Then you need never think of me again."

"No," she said brokenly; "leave me here."

"This is the end, Marian!" The words came short and crisp. "I ask your forgiveness no more. There are some things which are past forgiveness. I only ask you to forget.--Good-bye!"

x.x.xIV

The long, sleepless night which followed Marian's harrowing experience, painful as it was, proved the most vital moment of her life. From girlhood it had been hers to receive rather than to give. Her beauty and vivacity had always attracted attention and homage, her positive nature demanded and was given leadership, until she came to regard this as natural and to be expected. To have Huntington question her judgment was as novel as it was unpleasant, to have Merry suggest a worldliness in her approach to life struck her as absolutely incongruous. Mrs. Thatcher knew herself to be a competent woman, and as no one before had questioned her ethics, she accepted the successful outcome of her undertakings as conclusive proof that her judgment was correct.

She might pa.s.s Huntington's comment by as the expression of one who could look at any question only from a man's standpoint, she could make light of what Merry said on the ground that the girl knew so little of life; but in her experience with Hamlen she had come face to face with a mistake so real that it compelled a readjustment of her perspective. She could harbor no resentment against him: the climax had come as the direct result of her own error in judgment, and the responsibility belonged to her alone. Ever since that eventful meeting in Bermuda she had seen the battling of conflicting emotions. To her more than to any one else should have come knowledge of the limit beyond which this self-tortured soul could not be pressed. She had deceived herself in regard to the reclamation; Hamlen's condition remained unchanged; Huntington had simply developed him to a point where he had gained better control. Beneath the deceptive smoothness of the surface still surged the turmoil started twenty years before, seething with unsatisfied yearnings, and kept under only by the superb strength of will which she herself at last had broken down. Huntington had warned her of the danger but she refused to recognize its existence. Marian could blame no one but herself, and the fact that her intentions had been of the best did not mitigate the tragedy she had perpetrated. This latest buffet of the world would be conclusive evidence to Hamlen that he had no place in its daily routine.

Marian had reached this point in her mental struggle when the most awful thought of all suddenly came to her.

"Would the harm stop there!"

She sat bolt upright, staring ahead into the grey dawn which lighted the chamber through the long windows. "Merciful G.o.d!" she cried aloud,--"not that! not that!"

A moment later she sprang out of bed and threw a kimono about her. Then she opened the window-door and pa.s.sed out onto the little balcony. The sun was just rising, and Marian unconsciously first felt the beauty of the breaking day. It had been long since she had seen a sunrise! She stood watching it for a brief moment, brushing back with her hand the ma.s.s of beautiful hair which fell about her shoulders and lay against her ashen cheeks. Then she stepped forward, and facing the East like a Sun-worshiper of old fell upon her knees in an agony of prayer. The G.o.d who made a world like this she supplicated, who flooded it with the radiance of such a day, would not so punish her for a single act of folly! Mistaken as it was, behind it all lay a desire to atone, an effort for the happiness of others. He would not ask for retribution such as that!

Relieved by her outburst she returned to her chamber. She must see Huntington. He would know what to do. He would be G.o.d's agent to prevent the awful climax. But it would be several hours before she could disturb him, and these hours must be endured.

Huntington responded promptly to the summons when it reached him, wondering what the occasion might be. Marian's explanation of Hamlen's disappearance the night before had been so diplomatic that he had accepted it, so the real story was a complete surprise. He listened intently as she told him everything, sparing herself in no degree, anxious only to receive from him some a.s.surance that her fears were unwarranted.

"You should have told me sooner," was the only criticism Huntington made, after learning the details.

"I was completely dazed," Marian explained helplessly. "This awful thought only came to me in the early morning. You don't think it too late! Don't tell me that!"

"It is useless to speculate," he answered gravely. "Knowing Hamlen as we do, and knowing how high his sense of honor, the next step seems inevitable. He will consider that he has sinned against the woman he loves, and will demand of himself an expiation beyond what he would exact from any one else. I shall do my best to find him. Let us hope it will be in time."

"Couldn't I go with you?--No, of course I couldn't,--but how can I endure it until I know? What can I do to help?"

Huntington had risen, ready to take his motor-car which had been summoned when first he learned the facts. There was no excitement in his manner, but an alert readiness to undertake his duty with the least possible delay. As Mrs. Thatcher asked the question a sternness seemed to come into his face, but his voice was kindly as he replied.

"Whatever you tell the others," he said with decision, "Merry must know the whole truth. There is another tragedy going on in that little girl's soul which needs a mother's care. That is where you can help.--I shall telephone you as soon as I have news."

As the crunching of the wheels on the gravel road died away Mrs.

Thatcher rose and went to her daughter's room. Never before had she so promptly followed another's suggestion, but at that moment she felt an aversion to her own judgment, and welcomed the opportunity to follow rather than to lead.

"All this mystery is getting on my nerves," Edith remarked to Cosden as they sauntered out onto the piazza after a later breakfast. "Mr. Hamlen, after seeming perfectly rational with us in the _bosquet_ yesterday, rushes into the house, packs his belongings, and disappears without saying 'good-bye' to any one. Marian, also rational when we saw her yesterday, becomes invisible to the naked eye, and sends word she has a headache--the first I've ever known her to have. This morning she is down to breakfast before any one of us is up except Mr. Huntington, who by a strange coincidence also craves an early breakfast for the first time on record. Marian has gone up-stairs again, and our friend Monty has motored off to Heaven knows where. Now then, what's the answer?"

"Why not accept Mrs. Thatcher's explanation until you have a better one?" Cosden asked, drawing his chair nearer to hers.

"Because it's too fishy, and my curiosity is aroused."

"In that case I'm sure you'll find out all about it," he said smiling.

"Why aren't you interested?"

"I'm perfectly comfortable," he explained, "and so entirely satisfied with the present company that I can spare Hamlen, Monty, and even Mrs.

Thatcher just as well as not."

"Then you're going to leave me to do the work?" she demanded. "That's just like a man!"

"I'm glad they're gone," Cosden admitted. "It gives me just the chance I've been waiting for: will you marry me?"

"Again?" Edith inquired.

"No; just this once."

"It would serve you right if I did!"

"I dare you to!"

"No! no! no! no!" she cried.

"Give me an option for thirty days."

"You silly!" she laughed. "For a sensible man you can be more kinds of foolish than any one I know."

"Flattery doesn't hurt anybody unless he swallows it," Cosden retorted complacently.