A moment later she sprang out of bed and threw a kimono about her. Then she opened the window-door and passed out onto the little balcony. The sun was just rising, and Marian unconsciously first felt the beauty of the breaking day. It had been long since she had seen a sunrise! She stood watching it for a brief moment, brushing back with her hand the mass of beautiful hair which fell about her shoulders and lay against her ashen cheeks. Then she stepped forward, and facing the East like a Sun-worshiper of old fell upon her knees in an agony of prayer. The God who made a world like this she supplicated, who flooded it with the radiance of such a day, would not so punish her for a single act of folly! Mistaken as it was, behind it all lay a desire to atone, an effort for the happiness of others. He would not ask for retribution such as that!
Relieved by her outburst she returned to her chamber. She must see Huntington. He would know what to do. He would be God's agent to prevent the awful climax. But it would be several hours before she could disturb him, and these hours must be endured.
Huntington responded promptly to the summons when it reached him, wondering what the occasion might be. Marian's explanation of Hamlen's disappearance the night before had been so diplomatic that he had accepted it, so the real story was a complete surprise. He listened intently as she told him everything, sparing herself in no degree, anxious only to receive from him some assurance that her fears were unwarranted.
"You should have told me sooner," was the only criticism Huntington made, after learning the details.
"I was completely dazed," Marian explained helplessly. "This awful thought only came to me in the early morning. You don't think it too late! Don't tell me that!"
"It is useless to speculate," he answered gravely. "Knowing Hamlen as we do, and knowing how high his sense of honor, the next step seems inevitable. He will consider that he has sinned against the woman he loves, and will demand of himself an expiation beyond what he would exact from any one else. I shall do my best to find him. Let us hope it will be in time."
"Couldn't I go with you?—No, of course I couldn't,—but how can I endure it until I know? What can I do to help?"
Huntington had risen, ready to take his motor-car which had been summoned when first he learned the facts. There was no excitement in his manner, but an alert readiness to undertake his duty with the least possible delay. As Mrs. Thatcher asked the question a sternness seemed to come into his face, but his voice was kindly as he replied.
"Whatever you tell the others," he said with decision, "Merry must know the whole truth. There is another tragedy going on in that little girl's soul which needs a mother's care. That is where you can help.—I shall telephone you as soon as I have news."
As the crunching of the wheels on the gravel road died away Mrs. Thatcher rose and went to her daughter's room. Never before had she so promptly followed another's suggestion, but at that moment she felt an aversion to her own judgment, and welcomed the opportunity to follow rather than to lead.