Chapter XXXII

Merry's promise to consider the suggestion was equivalent to a victory, in her mother's mind. True, it had not been won without a cost, for the girl's plain, straightforward comments left their sting; but, after all, they represented only a child's distorted viewpoint which failed to appreciate the manifold demands upon a parent's time. Marian knew that she had been a devoted mother, and she craved appreciation; but this was more than she could expect. Merry's strictures were merely another expression of her peculiar and unfathomable nature.

The promise was the most that Marian could ask for, and with this concession she did not doubt her ability finally to show the child that the older judgment was wise and far-sighted. She knew that Merry had not given the promise lightly, and that once given she would be conscientious in fulfilling it. Her yielding, even to this extent, atoned for many instances in the past where the girl had seemed self-willed in insisting upon following her own judgment in spite of advice from all the family to the contrary; but these were unimportant incidents compared with the one at issue. Marian was now quite content to let her daughter have her own way in anything and everything provided she did not interfere in the gratification of carrying this one great desire of her mother's life to a happy conclusion.

The relations which had existed between her and Philip Hamlen, and the responsibility she assumed for the aftermath, had become greatly magnified during these months. It was natural that she should feel a real satisfaction if she were able to repair the harm she had unwittingly inflicted; but Huntington's question, "Are you not thinking of him and of your obligation more than of your daughter?" proved so disquieting that before speaking to Merry she had made doubly sure in her own mind that the only way her responsibility affected her present actions was to color the result with the romance of the past. She was sincere in her conviction that at every step of her progress she had been guided solely by a desire for her daughter's complete and final welfare, and in her efforts she could find nothing other than a mother's natural love and anxiety.

There was another satisfaction, Marian admitted to herself, but it had no bearing upon the situation until after she became convinced that her attitude was justified from Merry's standpoint. She had never forgotten Hamlen's domination over her as a girl. At the moment when she met him so unexpectedly in Bermuda she felt the old-time sensation of dread she had experienced so many times when alone with him during their childhood days and the period of their engagement. She had never loved him; this knowledge had come clearly to her during the years which had intervened. When she accepted the tacit understanding of an engagement it was because of the dominating influence of his mind over hers rather than a response from her heart to his fierce devotion. The break came on the occasion of the Senior Dance at Harvard to which she accepted Monty Huntington's escort. Hamlen, bitter against college and college life, and having no interest in the graduating festivities, not only refused to attend the dance but forbade her to go without him. Her indignation gave her strength to rebel against his domination. Later she sailed for Europe, feeling a profound sense of relief that she had been able to break the fetters which had bound her, she then realized, against her will.

The Hamlen she met at Bermuda was not the unreasonable boy of twenty years before. He was still bitter, but they met on terms which gave her the ascendency. Those traits which she had admired were accentuated, and the fierce intensity had become modified. Now it was her mind which controlled and his which yielded. He had tried to hold out against her in refusing to come to America, but he had yielded; he was now trying to hold out against her judgment that his marriage to Merry would restore the lost equilibrium, but again he would yield.

Still, above all other considerations, the great fact stood out in Marian's mind that the match itself was ideal. Merry would find in him an intellectual force which would satisfy her natural predilections; she would give him in her spontaneity a leaven to perpetuate the normal expressions of life which Huntington had taught him to understand. She would give him the youth which he had lost, he would give her the response which her unusual development could never obtain from a younger man. The balance was perfect. The mother's heart rejoiced that her efforts could make so noble a gift to her daughter, while the woman's heart found equal satisfaction that these same efforts could pay the debt of years in ample measure.

It would have been a relief if her plans for entertaining the Bermuda party could have been carried through without including Huntington, but, entirely aside from the fact that this omission would have been a marked slight, his co-operation in bringing Hamlen to this satisfactory condition had been so conspicuous that there was no alternative. Mrs. Thatcher was apprehensive lest he take advantage of his influence with Hamlen to strengthen his will against her judgment; but this was a chance she had to take.

Could she have read his mind Marian would have found nothing to fear from Huntington. His familiarity with Merry's nature made him aware, soon after his arrival, of the fact that something of unusual moment had occurred. There was a hectic excitement in her welcome, a yearning in her eyes, otherwise unexplained, which went straight to his heart and prepared him for the climax in the great renunciation of his life.

"When the supreme test comes," she had told him, "I shall accept it"; and he was convinced that the test had come and been accepted.

"Ah, well!" he sighed deeply, "who am I to interfere?"

It was the second day after his arrival before they finally found themselves alone together, and he realized that Merry had been awaiting this opportunity to have with him one of those intimate conversations which previously he had so much enjoyed. Now, knowing what was coming, he dreaded it. Until the words were spoken he could at least deceive himself into believing that he might be wrong, and this self-deception was all he now had left.

"Let us sit down here in the sand," she said to him, "just as we used to at Elba Beach."

"I wish we were back there now," he answered feelingly, as he responded to her request.

"We always wish for something we have had, instead of something we are going to have, don't we?" she asked, her hand modeling indefinite figures in the damp sand. "I wonder why that is."

"Because the past is known, and we can select the happy moments as we choose. The future is unknown, and we must take it as it comes."

"Oh, if we could only look into that future!" she exclaimed suddenly. "If we could only be sure that in it we could correct our mistakes! How that would simplify the problems of the present!"

"Why speak so strongly?" he asked. "That belongs to those who have mistakes to correct."

"I have been thinking of myself all my life," she replied, at once making the personal application. "I formed an ideal which I insisted upon realizing, and when I found it at last it proved beyond my reach."

"To have found it at all is more than most of us can claim."

Her hand paused in its idle motions, and she looked up at him inquiringly.

"But you found yours."

"Don't!" he said softly, a twinge of pain crossing his face.

"I've hurt you again!" she cried impulsively. "Don't you see how selfish I am? That proves it! There is no one I wouldn't rather hurt than you, yet twice I've done it. Please forgive me; I'll not do it again."

"There is nothing to forgive," he insisted as he did before. "I'm too sensitive, that is all. Sometimes Life draws back the curtain and shows us a wonderful picture of what might have been, to test the strength of the philosophy the years should have taught us. The strong say, 'That is not for me,' and pass it by; the weak stretch out their arms and cry in vain for what they ought to know is not for them. I am among the weak."

"You among the weak!" she cried incredulously. "How little you appreciate yourself! It is of your strength which you must give me now, for I am trying to be true to what you have taught me by your example: by making some one else happy I am going to seek for happiness myself."

It had come! Huntington needed no further confidence to complete the avowal. He must be careful not to endanger the possibility of success coming to the efforts which this brave spirit was prepared to make. Hamlen was almost normal now. If this must be, Huntington knew that he had played his part in preparing his classmate for the supreme joy which ought to come to him in sharing the life of such a girl. At least he had made her happiness possible. But the irony of her reference to his teachings!

"Then you are ready for the supreme test?" he asked in a low voice.

"If it comes."

Then it had not come! The reaction took him to an absurd extreme until his sober sense returned and he realized that this made no change. If Hamlen were eliminated, still the years remained. He saw still more clearly that his opposition was not impartial. If Merry were to tell him of her engagement to some younger man of whom he might wholly approve, how could he take their hands in his and pronounce the banal benediction, "God bless you, my children!" His heart would cry out and his spirit rebel as bitterly in one case as in the other. Except for the question of age he must admit that Hamlen was eligible; that what he lacked in certain traits was offset by super-abundance in others. If Huntington were to be consistent he must efface himself; to interfere would be to accept greater responsibility than he had a right to assume.

"You are prepared to marry a man you do not love because you hope to make him happy, and thus gain happiness yourself?" he repeated the problem slowly, emphasizing every word.

"Yes," she replied deliberately; "and the reason I so want to peer into the future is to make certain that either one of these results is assured."

"I suppose Hamlen is the man," Huntington said soberly.

"He has spoken of it to you?"

"Yes; he mentioned it soon after he came to visit me."

"Then he does care for me? I had not realized that."

How could the question be answered? Even if Huntington felt himself free to repeat the confidence Hamlen had given him it would mar the perfection of the sacrifice for Merry to know the truth. Her very eagerness for happiness might bring it, and at whatever cost to himself he wanted that to come to her!

"When we spoke of it Mr. Hamlen was not in a condition to know what his feelings really were," Huntington replied guardedly. "He realized his limitations, and questioned, much as you do, the possibility of making any other person happy. Since he has learned more of the world he is greatly changed, but we have not again referred to the subject."

"With us both feeling our limitations, and with both striving to accomplish the same result, don't you think we ought to be successful?"

There was an appealing expression in Merry's face which besought a confirming answer. Huntington could not resist it.

"It must be so," he said with decision. He smiled into her tense face with a confidence his heart denied. "It must be so," he repeated. "Somewhere there must be a divinity which watches over gentle souls like yours, and brings them their reward."

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