The Bachelors Part 7

"I suppose bachelors are as necessary to the demonstration as guinea-pigs to the laboratory," Huntington said. "Come on, Connie; let us take a chance."

No truer statement had ever been made in jest than that the previous twenty-four hours had been a period of self-sacrifice to Edith Stevens.

She was younger than Mrs. Thatcher, and their friends accused them of accepting each other as foils to accentuate their contrasting characteristics. Miss Stevens was slight and erect, and was always gowned with a taste and skill which gave her an air of distinction; her friend possessed such striking fascination of person and manner that she gave distinction to any fas.h.i.+on she might adopt. Mrs. Thatcher's activities accomplished results; Edith's seemed simply the expression of an eternal unrest. The younger woman's hair was light, and her eyes blue, while Mrs. Thatcher was a perfect brunette; and the approach of the two women to the same subject was always from a different standpoint. Yet they had been the closest of friends from school days.

Except with Marian, Edith, as a rule, dominated the situation at all times. Now, however, she found herself absolutely side-tracked, while her friend occupied the center of the stage in the interesting character of past or present object of admiration from three perfectly good men.

Men were a hobby with Edith Stevens. Her brother feelingly remarked that the only reason she never married was that no individual male possessed the composite attributes she demanded. To be one of three women, surrounded by five men, and not to be able to command the attention of any one of them except her brother was nothing less than irony. She had tried flirting with Thatcher years before, and had long since given him up in despair; Hamlen was annexed by Marian before she had even a chance to compete, and of the two remaining eligibles Huntington suddenly confessed himself a part of the flotsam her friend had left behind in her beblossomed path toward the altar.

"Take one more look at Mr. Cosden, Marian," she said maliciously, as the little party walked slowly down the steps toward the yacht. "Perhaps he, too, was an early admirer."

Mrs. Thatcher laughed. "No," she rea.s.sured her, "I'm sure he never crossed my horizon until last night. I'll renounce all claims on him, but don't you set your cap for Philip Hamlen; I have other plans for him."

"Where is Mr. Hamlen?" Edith demanded. "Didn't you invite him?"

"No," Marian replied quickly. "It would be cruel not to give him time to recover his balance after yesterday. Heigh ho!" she sighed. "I wonder whether I'm glad or sorry that I found him here."

"I've been waiting for a report on that reunion," Edith said suggestively. "I haven't forgotten the letters which we used to read together years ago."

"Weren't they wonderful?" Marian exclaimed. Then she added, after a pause, "I don't believe I realized until yesterday the depth of suffering which a sensitive soul can reach."

VI

The sailing-party disembarked at the landing steps of the "Princess"

shortly after six o'clock, and were greeted by a tall young man whose face was almost concealed by the broad brim of his hat, turned down as if to protect its owner from possible prostration from the sun. At the opposite end of the young man the white trouser-legs were turned up at least two laps higher than would have been expected, so that hat and trousers together made a normal average. Below the turn-up of the trousers showed a considerable expanse of white-silk hosiery, terminating in spotless white buckskin shoes; below the down-turned hat-brim was a grin which extended well across the boyish face.

Altogether, the young man warranted the attention he attracted.

The skipper made so perfect a landing that the ident.i.ty of those on board was disclosed only at the last moment; but the single glance the young man had was sufficient to rea.s.sure him, and he stepped forward eagerly.

"h.e.l.lo, everybody!" he cried cheerfully. "Wish you Happy New-Year!"

Merry was the first to grasp the significance of the excitement. "Why, it's Billy Huntington!" she exclaimed.

"Of course," he admitted, still grinning; "who else would charge down here like a young dace just for the pleasure of wis.h.i.+ng you the compliments of the season?"

The young man paused long enough to a.s.sist the ladies over the rail, with a greeting to each.

"There's your uncle," Merry said, nodding in the direction of the men; "don't you recognize him?"

"Surest thing you know," Billy answered, still hanging back. "I'm waiting to see if he will recognize me, under all the circ.u.mstances."

"Come here, you young rascal," Huntington responded to the implied question as he stepped on the pier; "come here and give an account of yourself."

"Well," Billy replied slowly, clinging to the extended hand as a refuge, "you see I didn't know Mr. Cosden came down with you, and it was vacation, and I thought you'd be awfully lonely here without me--"

"I see," his uncle said dryly; "it was all on my account."

Billy seemed to feel the necessity of further explanation. "Of course I knew Merry--the Thatchers were here. Phil told me--"

"Too bad Philip couldn't have come with you," Mrs. Thatcher remarked.

"Yes; he went up to the Lawrences' house-party for over Christmas as he planned."

"How did you leave your worthy parents?" Huntington inquired.

A look of dismay pa.s.sed over the boy's face. "I forgot to telegraph them from New York, and I meant to cable just as soon as I arrived." Then an expression of relief came to his a.s.sistance: "But they'll know I'm with you--somewhere."

Huntington sighed. "Another reckoning for me when I return!" he said resignedly; "but it's worth it all to know that you 'charged down here like a young dace' as soon as you realized your poor uncle's 'awful loneliness.'"

"Then it was you who tried to signal us from the tender?" Merry came to his rescue.

"Yes; I thought it was you; I wigwagged until I almost plunged overboard. I've got to go back Monday, to reach Cambridge in time to register, so I hated to lose a whole day out of three."

"There's one thing about a college education which Mr. Huntington didn't mention last evening," Thatcher remarked to Cosden as they walked toward the bar for the anteprandial c.o.c.ktail; "it gives a boy freedom of action and breadth of imagination."

"Huntington left out a whole lot of things he might have touched on,"

Cosden said testily. "That's a topic on which we don't agree, and never shall. There is a boy with many sterling qualities going to waste because Monty has more wishbone than backbone in the matter of discipline."

"Don't get started on that, Connie," Huntington's voice came from the rear. "I've no doubt it's deserved, but that boy keeps me from remembering that my own days of irresponsibility are so far behind me. I believe I enjoy him the more because I haven't a parent's duty to perform."

"It's a sort of reciprocity without personal liability," laughed Thatcher.

"Exactly. I wonder sometimes if what we gain by experience is worth what we lose in illusion.--Aren't you coming up-stairs to dress for dinner, Billy?" Huntington continued, as his nephew and Merry walked past them, engaged in an animated conversation.

"Don't wait for me," was the prompt response. "I'm a bear at dressing, and I'll be ready before Dixon has put in your collar-studs."

"I feel easier down here since I know that you're off duty, too, and not likely to upset my apple-cart while I'm away," Thatcher remarked to Cosden with a smile. "Did you know, Mr. Huntington," he continued, turning, "that your friend is a wrecker of other men's plans?"

"It's the best thing he does," Huntington agreed promptly. "That exactly explains my presence here."

Cosden was immensely pleased by Thatcher's acknowledgment of his importance, but he tried to carry it off lightly.

"Oh, well," he said indifferently, "you must let me have my innings once in a while. I have to get to you sometimes to make up for other bouts which I've been glad to forget."

"You'll join us, of course," Thatcher added, to Huntington.

"I can resist anything but temptation," Huntington replied soberly; "I love the enemy."

"This c.o.c.ktail-drinking is a curious thing," Thatcher remarked. "In cold weather we take it to warm us up, in warm weather to cool us off; when we are depressed it is to cheer us, and when we're happy it's because we want to celebrate. And there you are.--How about the Consolidated Machinery deal?" Thatcher changed the subject abruptly, and spoke to Cosden. "Are we going to fight each other on that?"

"I'm afraid we'll have to," Cosden admitted frankly; "but I'll be glad to talk it over with you. From here, the interests look too far apart even to compromise."

Cosden and Huntington went up in the elevator together, leaving Thatcher on the piazza.