The Bachelors Part 43

It seems an awful waste of it, We cannot eat it all._"

There was the hectic scramble for seats on the special train. s.n.a.t.c.hes of other songs came from here and there, and spasmodic cheering; but gradually the excitement settled down into the quieter calm of satisfied accomplishment. It was an orderly crowd which deserted the train at Back Bay, but the men bunched on the platform, before they separated, and again burst into song. The jibes were forgotten, the boastings hushed. These had their place only in the first expressions of exultant victory. A deeper sentiment seized the celebrating host, which was expressed with uncovered heads:

"_Fair Harvard! thy sons to thy jubilee throng, And with blessings surrender thee o'er, By these festival rites, from the age which is past To the age which is waiting before._"

Hamlen watched them in silence, touched with a new emotion by the sound of the words, familiar enough, but which now took on a different meaning. Huntington was right: it was not a boat-race he had just witnessed, it was not the celebration of a victory over Yale, it was a "festival rite," consecrating anew to its Alma Mater that brotherhood to which he belonged, in grateful acknowledgment of the character and power developed beneath her beneficent influence which placed within its reach "the Earth and all that's in it."

x.x.xI

In July, commercial stagnation increased, and the machinery of business which before had creaked dismally in its daily routine now groaned aloud in its travail; and the pity was that the conditions which caused it were artificially created. There was capital enough, but the banks h.o.a.rded it against possible contingencies; the crops were heavy, but it was suicidal for the railroads to move them at the rates legislated by the government; there were contracts to be let, but no one dared give them out or accept them because of the shadow which hung gloomily over every great industry in the shape of governmental paternalism and interference. Stocks representing property intrinsically valuable dropped lower and lower in the market, dividends which had been earned were diverted into surplus as further margin of safety against future developments, unknown and therefore to be feared. Incomes shrank in some cases almost to the vanis.h.i.+ng-point, while Was.h.i.+ngton reveled in an orgy of those good intentions with which they say h.e.l.l is paved.

Cosden by this time had come to a full realization of the significance of Thatcher's warning, and he understood now why the New York operator had shown so little interest in the attack on the Consolidated Machinery corporation which had seemed inevitable. In view of conditions as they had developed, and as Thatcher had foreseen them, no new enterprise would be launched until opportunity presented itself to take advantage of its inherent strength. The old-established company need fear no compet.i.tion while its own business was dropping off in such alarming proportions. So Cosden again reduced expenses, still further extended his bank affiliations, and settled back to meet whatever conditions might arise, knowing that his sagacity had placed him outside the pale of those fighting for their existence.

In this latter cla.s.s was Thatcher. The very success of his varied interests now made them s.h.i.+ning lights to attract the attention of the authorities in Was.h.i.+ngton. One by one he saw them attacked, and day by day he watched the dropping values of the stocks, called on by the banks to increase his collateral, drawing deeper and deeper into his personal resources which he had considered ample for any emergency. The strain was terrific yet the only break he permitted himself was during the week of his son's graduation.

The question of the summer home gave Thatcher much concern. The heavy expense of its upkeep made it an item to be considered at this time, yet he could not bring himself to the point of doing what he knew would be an act of wisdom. In their town house the Thatchers lived the usual formal life which belonged to their position, but it was Sagamore Hall they always meant when they spoke of "home." To relinquish it, even temporarily, seemed to Thatcher nothing less than sacrilege.

The estate consisted of some sixty acres wonderfully located on Narragansett Bay with nearly a mile frontage on the sea. A rolling, close-cropped lawn, bordered on either side by avenues of trees, ran back three hundred yards from the beach before the stately, old English, half-timbered mansion was reached, the broad expanse of green carpeting making a perfect harmony of perspective. The two great end gables of the house formed a shallow forecourt, filled in by a brick terrace with bal.u.s.trade. Between these gables, the central facade, a double-storied loggia of stone, reminiscent of a Dorsets.h.i.+re manor house, was strikingly beautiful with its splendid sculptured decorations.

The opposite front of the mansion faced the road, though removed some distance from it, and was approached through a gateway and a winding avenue in keeping with the dignity of the building itself. To the south, connected by shaded walks, was an unusual garden, the boundaries of which were marked by rare trees and shrubs so arranged that they formed a pyramidal ma.s.s of verdure, against which perennial blooms of rare and beautiful plants showed their bewildering colors to the best advantage.

This garden represented what Marian had put of herself into the estate during the twenty years they had lived there, and to her and to Thatcher each flower, shrub or tree represented something personal and recalled some happy experience.

At Sagamore Hall Marian really lived, keeping out of doors most of the time, entertaining her friends in a manner which made every one feel that each of the many attractions had been arranged for his own special enjoyment. Here the Bermuda party was again united. Thatcher still kept his wife in ignorance of the business complications which now seemed certain to overwhelm him. Marian noticed that he was tired and worried, but this had happened so many times before that she had come to look upon these conditions as deplorable but none the less inevitable factors in her husband's business life. In fact he had so explained on earlier occasions when she questioned him, and had discouraged her from showing too much concern. She recognized that he was scarcely in a mood for the reunion she had planned, but justified her insistence on the ground that he needed the relaxation; while he deemed it wise to yield rather than attempt an explanation.

Edith Stevens had been their guest for a fortnight before the other members of the party arrived. Philip was entertaining several of his college chums, including Billy Huntington, but Mrs. Thatcher particularly requested her daughter to have no guests during this visit, holding herself free to a.s.sist in the entertainment.

Since her return home after the Cla.s.s Day festivities Merry had shown little interest in what went on around her. Had her mother noticed it she would have pa.s.sed it over lightly as "one of the child's moods," but Mrs. Thatcher was too completely engrossed in her own great scheme to be keenly sensitive to anything around her. In fact Merry's att.i.tude seemed peculiarly receptive, and encouraged her, a few days before Hamlen was expected, to take her daughter into her confidence.

In answering Huntington's question Marian expressed greater confidence in Merry's acquiescence than she really felt. To herself she admitted that she did not understand her daughter. Since the elaborate plans for Merry's social life fell through because of the girl's lack of interest and failure to respond, Marian had almost given up in despair. Merry was unlike the daughters of the Thatchers' friends, who might be counted on at all times to do the expected thing when given the expected conditions; with her it was always the unexpected which happened. She loved athletics, not because of the companions.h.i.+p of boys, as other girls did, but for the games themselves; she was fond of dancing, but she would as soon dance with another girl as with a man,--it was the rhythmic motion of the dance itself which fascinated her; she had no interest nor ability in making "small talk," but was always eager to discuss problems which her mother felt she might better leave alone; she tolerated young people of her own age, but expressed her real self only when thrown with older friends. Mrs. Thatcher worried more over her daughter's future than over any other phase of the family life, and the solution which now seemed to offer itself contained so much promise that Marian believed it to be foreordained.

It was not easy to broach the subject, but when once accomplished Marian talked on for some time without waiting for Merry to enter into the discussion. It was important, she felt, that the girl should know the whole story before being permitted to express an opinion. As the full significance of her mother's words dawned upon Merry there was an instinctive recoil, but she listened with outward calm. Marian believed herself to be suggesting nothing save deepest concern for her daughter's future; Merry heard nothing but a personal appeal for sacrifice. The romance of her mother's early experience, the results which came from the breaking of the engagement, her own interest and partic.i.p.ation in Hamlen's new life,--all went to strengthen the appeal, but still it asked for sacrifice.

As she listened Merry's mind was working fast. What were the relations existing between them? She admired her mother tremendously, and was proud of the attention her beauty excited wherever they went. She respected her, for no wife or mother ever carried herself in these positions with greater regard for the proprieties. Did she love her? Of course! what a question to come to a girl's mind! Did she? The question repeated itself insistently. Merry wondered. If this were disloyalty, then the thought itself formed the offense; to a.n.a.lyze it was imperative before putting it aside. The girl knew that she was face to face with the crisis of her life, that the question now in mind had really been the cause of that unrest she had failed to understand.

"Is this something which you ask me to do?" Merry inquired at length.

"No, my dear; that would be exceeding a mother's rights."

"But you wish it?"

"Yes; that is a different matter."

"I wonder if it is," the girl said soberly.

"It is a very different matter," Marian insisted. "I am thinking only of you, dear child. Unless you felt convinced, as I do, that your marriage would mean your happiness, I should be the last one to wish it."

"Why don't you let me wait, as other girls do, until I find the man I love?"

"Because you're not like other girls, Merry--"

"I've always been a disappointment to you, haven't I, Momsie?" she asked suddenly.

"Not that, dear," Marian disclaimed. "Of course it has worried me that you would never be intimate with young people your own age. I have never understood it--"

"That is because I never had any girlhood, Momsie," Merry explained seriously. "I grew up too soon. When I was little I couldn't play like other children because my governess was always teaching me manners; so I had nothing to do but think."

"What are you talking about, child!" Mrs. Thatcher protested. "You are a perfect tomboy, even to-day!"

"I've had to make up for lost time, Momsie. You never saw me play when I was little; that came after I became old enough to have my own way. Then I learned games, but not as a child learns them; they were serious problems, to be thought out because I had formed the habit of thinking.

While I was away at school I felt older than the other girls there, and I wasn't interested in what interested them; that gave me a chance to think some more. Then I came home, and you gave me that wonderful coming-out party! It was after that I disappointed you most, wasn't it, Momsie? I couldn't live the life the other debutantes did--talking silly nonsense until early morning with men who hadn't any sense at all, rus.h.i.+ng to _thes dansants_ smoking cigarettes, and all that sort of thing."

"I never knew that you did smoke cigarettes," Marian said severely.

"I don't suppose the mothers of the other girls knew it either; it was the secrecy which made it sporty and gave the smoking its only interest.

I couldn't stand it, Momsie! I had to be doing something worth while!

Finally you let me have my own way, very much against your will, and since then I've been a tomboy, as you say. Father gave in on the boat, and I've spent hours in her, all by myself, trying to find out what the things worth while are. I haven't been very successful yet, Momsie, but I do know that it is a waste of time to fool around with boys like Ted Erskine when one may find a chance to talk with a real man like Mr.

Huntington."

"Mr. Hamlen is a real man, too, Merry. If you knew something of life--"

"It's because I know too much of life, and understand too little. Mr.

Huntington has helped me to understand."

"I had hoped that by being so much with him, you would be the more prepared to appreciate Mr. Hamlen," Mrs. Thatcher said.

"I wish I might have been more with you, dearie."

Marian looked up quickly. "What do you mean by that?" she demanded.

"Haven't I given all my leisure to my family?"

"You have had so very little leisure, Momsie."

"I have had my own interests, of course--"

"I'm not criticising you, dearie," Merry hastened to interpose; "I'm only trying to explain myself to you."

"I have done my best to prepare my children for the life they would naturally enter--"

"Isn't life what we live every day, Momsie? It isn't all made up of worldly things, is it?"

"Upon my word!" Marian cried. "One would think that I had entirely neglected my family!"