"Edith Stevens!" Huntington almost choked in his surprise. "You don't mean—"
"I don't know what I mean," Cosden admitted, blushing furiously; "but I miss her like blazes, and I'm either in love or else I'm suffering from a new disease the doctors haven't named!"
XXIII
The letter postmarked "New York," announcing Hamlen's arrival, did not take Huntington by surprise, but it fulfilled his expectations sooner than he expected. The desirability of making certain changes in investments, the letter explained, made it necessary for Hamlen to come to the States, and if his classmate's invitation to Boston still held good he would be glad to avail himself of the opportunity to renew their friendship.
This announcement found Huntington in the introspective mood which had alarmed Cosden, and suggested a comparison in which he placed himself under the microscope for a mercilessly minute analysis. Hamlen was convinced that he had made a failure of life, but what had he, Huntington demanded of himself, accomplished which could entitle him to claim success? He had not separated himself from his fellow-men, it was true, he had been a decent citizen, performing such duties as came to him with faithfulness and ability,—yet what had he really contributed to the community or to the life in which he lived which made it better because he had been a part of it? He had created nothing, nor even made an effort to create. No painting bore his signature; no volume added his contribution to the world's knowledge on any subject; no philanthropic or business enterprise owed its inception to his initiative; no child of his was growing up to bear its share in the struggle of to-morrow or to bless his memory for parental sacrifice and guidance. Hamlen at least had given himself to the world in the wonderful volumes which would live after him, even though their creator's identity never was disclosed. Hamlen at least had made the flowers and the shrubs of his island estate bear witness to the power within him which refused to be restrained; but Huntington's labors, if he could dignify them by so serious a name, had been perfunctory at best. He was rich in the world's goods and in human friendships, he was respected by all who knew him. For what? he demanded: because his grandfather and his father before him had created, and had played their part so well in the developing life of the city of their birth that a luster had been given to the family name. His virtues were wholly negative; his was a reflected glory and undeserved. The position in the community which Huntington knew himself to occupy, and the fact that Hamlen, because of his exile, would be considered to have forfeited his position, struck him as a commentary on the value of popular esteem and the lack of proportion in accrediting to each individual what was his proper due.
Hamlen had nothing to his credit in the columns where Huntington scored heaviest: he was a poor citizen in his relations to those around him; he took no part in making others happier for his companionship or stronger by his example; his life had always been pointed inward, and yet, even with the limitations needlessly imposed upon it, there had been something within him, which Huntington had never felt within himself, great enough and strong enough to rise superior to these limitations, to burst the bonds by which Hamlen had sought to hold it back, and to force the expression of its own individuality! There, at least, was something positive; and yet the world would have called Huntington a success and Hamlen a failure! "We have torn off the bandages too fast," Huntington had complacently told Hamlen on that eventful first visit. Was it not presumption on his part when until now his own vision had been equally restricted? Huntington's first impulse was to make a frank admission, when Hamlen arrived, of the wide divergence between what people credited to him and what his real position ought to be; then he realized that his friend needed some one to look up to. He must, for a time at least, accept the position, however ironical it seemed; but he felt himself an impostor and a fraud.
Since his return home Huntington had been more than ever grateful for the diverting influence of Billy's irresponsibility, and he encouraged him to come frequently to the house and to bring his friends with him. He would not have believed that a two months' absence could produce so momentous a change of his entire viewpoint. The calm tranquillity in his mental equipoise was seriously disturbed, and he welcomed anything which took his mind off himself and his personal affairs.
He had urged Billy to bring young Thatcher in to dine with him, for in view of what Marian had said he hoped that Hamlen and the boy would make good with each other when once they met. Thus far Billy had always selected an evening when Huntington was engaged, but with the certainty that Hamlen would soon arrive a special effort produced a mutually convenient date, and the two boys appeared eager for their dinner and obviously ready to be entertained.