The Bachelors Part 50

Hamlen looked up at him anxiously. Everything was progressing so well that the new tone in Huntington's voice gave him apprehension.

"It is always well to have these matters provided for, and if you haven't a will it is time you drew one up. As to the disposition of your property, it is yours to do with as you like, and I appreciate the compliment you have paid to me. Up to this point I have no right to interfere."

Hamlen stiffened at the suggestion of interference. "There are limits,"

he said quietly, "even to the rights of a friends.h.i.+p such as ours."

"True; but we haven't begun to reach them yet. You acknowledge--don't you?--that you still have an obligation to our Alma Mater which is unsatisfied?"

"I think I have acknowledged that in a substantial way," Hamlen replied, surprised.

"What can you think of an Alma Mater which would accept money in exchange for the life of one of her sons? Do you consider her as mercenary as that?"

"When the son has forfeited his right to life--"

"Who are you to take upon yourself the judicial ermine, Hamlen?"

Huntington said sternly. "You have years before you yet to devote to her welfare. If you are a man, fulfil your obligations during your natural lifetime, and then supplement your labors by the princely gift you have in mind. If you will insist on a.s.suming all the blame for this regrettable affair, don't let it make you s.h.i.+rk your duty, but go at life again with an added incentive to pay your debt."

"You demand of me what is beyond my strength. I can't go on."

"That is cowardice, Hamlen.--Forgive the word," he added quickly as he saw the color mount to his friend's cheeks, "forgive the cruelty; but I must make you see yourself."

"It takes some courage to carry through what I have in mind," he protested.

"Not the slightest in the world," Huntington contradicted. "Just pull a wretched little trigger, pump half an ounce of lead into your diseased brain, and you think your troubles are over. I know the pleasures of this world, my friend, but I am entirely ignorant of those of the next.

Let us take our chances on these when our time comes, not before. No, Hamlen, the easy thing is to side-step our difficulties here; it is the hard thing to stand up in our boots and say, 'Yes, I've broken your laws, I've outraged your sensibilities; but I'm going to atone for what I've done.' You have that strength, Hamlen, and I sha'n't let you pa.s.s it up."

"I'm sorry I waited for you!" Hamlen retorted sullenly.

"No, you're not; for you are an honest man." It was hard for Huntington to be brutal, but this was the moment when Hamlen must be forced to yield if at all. "You said a moment ago that I gave you back the life you had abandoned; then that life belongs to me. If you destroy it, you rob me of something which is mine, and that is theft. I don't care whether you agree with me or not, but I demand of you my property, on which you gave up your claim. If I leave it in your hands will you protect it for me, and deliver it to me when I am ready to make use of it?"

This was a new idea to Hamlen, and he could not meet it. He was only conscious that Huntington was taking full advantage of his influence over him, and was driving him on relentlessly. He s.h.i.+fted his eyes uncomfortably, and in them was bitter resentment.

"You leave me no alternative," he said helplessly. "For G.o.d's sake tell me what you want!"

"I don't know," Huntington admitted frankly; "but for the present give me your promise that you will stay here until I reach my decision. I must go back to Sagamore to relieve the anxiety of those who are suffering on your account. When I return I shall hope to have found the solution. Have I your promise?"

Hamlen leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

"You are too strong for me," he muttered. "I must do as you wish."

Huntington laid his hand kindly on the bowed head.

x.x.xVI

In spite of Mrs. Thatcher's watchfulness, Billy had seen Merry and met his Waterloo. Blissfully unaware of the momentous happenings about him, and determined to "get even" with "the Gorgon," the boy developed a plot of his own which was perfect in conception barring one important detail: he and Merry were to slip away in a motor-car, dash over to Fall River to a young clergyman he knew, have the knot tied before interference was possible, and then return to Sagamore Hall for the parental blessing.

The question of license occurred to him, but that was a mere detail which could be arranged on the way over.

It was several days after this brilliant idea came to Billy before he found opportunity to take Merry into his confidence, but the more he thought it over the more strongly it appealed. The fact that she seemed even less responsive than usual did not discourage him, for girls, he had discovered, always act exactly contrary to their real feelings in affairs of this kind. The details were so absurdly simple and the outcome would be so eminently satisfactory that the possibility of failure became more and more remote. But, as the strength of any chain is determined by its weakest link, it was in this one omitted detail that Billy's plan slipped up; the idea did not appeal to Merry with sufficient force even to be given serious consideration.

As a matter of fact the boy could not have selected a less opportune moment for presenting his forlorn hope. Merry had reached that ecstatic height to which martyrs attain. Joan of Arc was no more zealous to sacrifice herself to save Orleans than was Merry to pay the debt of honor her mother owed to Hamlen. It may be that the Maid was influenced in her heart by other motives beyond the "heavenly voices" which are generally accredited; it may be that Merry was more susceptible to the "call" she believed had come to her for some reason other than a willingness for martyrdom,--but in both cases the sincerity of the response was too genuine to be questioned. Billy's infatuated wooing seemed to her like sacrilege, and his mad plan for elopement too ridiculous for discussion.

"Let us be friends, dear Billy," she said to him sweetly and gently,--"just friends, you and Philip and I. We'll always have the best of times together, help each other over the hard places, and sympathize with every sorrow which comes to any one of us."

"No!" he protested vigorously, kicking viciously at an inoffensive root protruding slightly beneath his foot. "Nix on this brother and sister game; there's nothing in it."

"I need you as a friend, Billy,--I need you this very minute!"

Billy p.r.i.c.ked up his ears at the words and at the pathetic note in Merry's voice; but he did not intend to be caught off his guard.

"What do you mean 'need me as a friend'? Want me to run an errand for you? All right, off I go."

"No, Billy; I need your sympathy. We're old pals, and ought to stand by each other."

He looked at her with a dawning understanding.

"Merry," he said, with the conviction of one who has made a great discovery,--"you're unhappy!"

"Perhaps," she admitted; "I'm not sure."

"I knew it!" he declared with satisfaction. "You are unhappy and I know the reason why: you're in love with me without realizing it. You're fighting against your destiny and you don't understand what the trouble is. That's why you are unhappy."

"No, no, Billy; that isn't it."

"Yes, it is; you take my word for it. We'll just slip it over on the whole bunch, get married, and then you'll see. You'll be as happy as a lark."

"Oh! Billy, I do wish you'd be serious!"

"Serious? ha! I should say I was serious! And to show you how sure I am I'm right, I'll make you a sporting proposition: if our getting married doesn't shake your fit of blues then we'll call the whole thing off.

What do you say?"

Merry laughed in spite of herself. "You certainly are the most impossible boy! You speak of getting married as if it were a set of tennis."

"It's easy enough to get a divorce. Why don't you take a chance? Come on, be a sport!"

When he found this wooing ineffective, Billy adopted the tragic _motif_.

"Every time I think I've picked a rose," he declared disconsolately, "it turns out to be poison ivy; and here I am, stung again!"

It was unfortunate for Billy that Merry could never take him seriously.

While the boy poured out his youthful protestations she was gentle and considerate, but her appeal to his reason proved futile because no such thing existed. Later, when alone, the absurdity of the situation gave her an outlet, and she laughed quietly to herself. Poor, dear, easy-going Billy! She would have spared him even these imaginary heart-pangs if she could, but the real meaning of life and its responsibilities was yet for him to learn.

Constant in the purpose to which she had consecrated herself, Merry received her mother on that eventful morning with mind prepared to accept the supreme test. She had been standing at the window before her chamber door opened, looking out across the broad lawn to the wide expanse of water sparkling in the morning sun. She had watched a stately four-master sailing majestically by; she had watched the little pleasure craft, darting in and out as if playing at hide and seek. The great s.h.i.+p pursued its dignified course, following the track laid down for it by the mariner's chart; the frolicsome boats went hither or thither, whichever way the favoring wind filled their sails. The great s.h.i.+p by holding steadfastly to her course would eventually reach that port toward which she had set out, with her mission fulfilled; the little boats would return to the moorings from which they fluttered with no other purpose accomplished than the pleasure of the pa.s.sing moment. Yes, Merry had told herself, it was purpose which counted. She had dashed out over and over again on brief excursions, but even her serious errands had been undertaken because they gave her pleasure. Unless the course be charted, unless the goal be predetermined, there could be no permanence, no majestic dignity to any performance. The time had come when she would permit no wavering. She would show her confidence in the experience of the older mariner, who had plotted out the chart, by following it without the semblance of a doubt.