Huntington's mind worked hard as he settled back in the motor-car and surveyed the situation. It was impossible for him to have been so intimately a.s.sociated with Hamlen all these weeks without a.s.similating his friend's manner of thought and action accurately enough to follow him in this climax of his tragedy. Of his determination he had no doubt; that he had as yet put it into execution was another matter. Huntington believed that Hamlen would wish to see him once more before he visited upon himself the extreme penalty which his hypersensitive nature would decree.

It was shortly after noon when the car drew up in front of Huntington's home. Mrs. Thatcher, in her feverish efforts to a.s.sist, had suggested that the fugitive might have gone across to Newport to take the boat from there to New York; but Huntington figured it differently. Hamlen disliked and distrusted New York, while Boston had become a second home to him. His belongings, such as he had brought with him from Bermuda, were still in the Beacon Street house, and Huntington was sure that following the instincts of a homing pigeon he would return there by the straightest path.

Still, the doubt lingered with sufficient persistency to quicken Huntington's movements up the brownstone steps. As he let himself in, Dixon met him in the hallway.

"Mr. Hamlen,--is he here?" Huntington demanded.

"Yes, sir; he's up-stairs and very wild, sir."

"Wild?" Huntington queried. "When did he arrive?"

"Last night, sir, about ten o'clock. When I let him in he rushed past me and went up-stairs, sir. I followed him, thinking he might need something, but he turned on me and cursed me, sir. When I ventured to take him some breakfast he swore at me again, and told me to get out of the way. I'm glad you've come, sir. I was at a loss to know what to do about luncheon."

Huntington waited to hear no more, but mounted quickly to Hamlen's room and knocked gently on the door.

"Keep out, I tell you!" came a hoa.r.s.e, guttural voice so unlike Hamlen's that it startled him. "How many times must I tell you to leave me alone!"

"It is I,--Huntington."

There was a sound of shuffling feet, the pushing back of a chair, and the door was flung open.

"I knew you would come to me!" Hamlen cried, extending his hand eagerly.

"You are the one man on earth who would stand by me!"

"Of course; but you've given me a devilish shock, old man. Come down-stairs where we can talk things over."

"Yes, we must do that," he a.s.sented, following. "My only fear was that you might not understand, and would delay your coming. I couldn't have waited long."

"I came as soon as I learned the facts."

"I should not have doubted. Now let us sit down."

The real shock to Huntington was that so great physical change could take place within so short time. Hamlen seemed years older. His erect carriage had slackened, his face was sunken, his hands and body twitched nervously, and his eyes burned with a consuming fire. Pity filled Huntington's heart, and he leaned over and placed his hand on his friend's knee.

"You mustn't take it like this," he said quietly. "There is something to be said on both sides."

Hamlen looked at him with a wan smile. "I wish there were," he said; "but let us not speak of that. To you, at least, there is no need of explanation. I told you what I dreaded,--well, the worst has come to pa.s.s; that's all there is to it."

"No!" Huntington contradicted, determined that he should not bear all the blame; "there is much more to it than that. You and I are not the only ones who understand. Mrs. Thatcher instructed me to ask your forgiveness for her blindness. She understands, too, Hamlen, and she knows that she brought it on herself."

"Marian asks _my_ forgiveness!" he repeated stupefied,--"she asks me to forgive her?"

Huntington nodded.

He pressed his hands against his temples. "My G.o.d, man! Is the world all topsy-turvy! I forget my obligations toward my hostess, I am false to my responsibilities as a friend, I force myself upon a married woman whom in all honor I am bound to protect,--and she asks me to forgive her! You are mocking me, Huntington. It is unworthy of you!"

"It is the provocation she understands, Hamlen, and having unwittingly given it, she accepts the responsibility, as she should. I'm not sure that I myself am not the one to blame, for I knew better than she the forces held back only by your self-control. If I had been more insistent in my warning all might have been different."

"That may explain, but it does not condone."

"At least it mitigates. The beaver, innocently enough, undermines a dam in securing material to build its home, and the waters rush down to the destruction of the surrounding country. Surely you can't blame the waters! Nor can you seriously blame the beaver for not comprehending those natural laws of cause and effect.--Come, Hamlen, admit there's something in what I say, and realize that this is an accident rather than a tragedy."

Again Hamlen tried to smile, but the expression on his face failed to rea.s.sure.

"It would be well for me if it were you upon the bench," Hamlen said gravely. "The prisoner at the bar would receive far more leniency than he will from me! No, Huntington; I can admit nothing. I believed that I reached my lowest depth before I met you all in Bermuda. I believed my life was over,--a miserable, useless, lonely life if you will, but at least an honest one. Then you instilled hope into my dry bones. Judgment warned me not to listen to you, human weakness tempted me to make one further effort to redeem myself. I came to you here. Out of the bigness of your heart you gave me of yourself, you taught me what life really was. I acknowledge my debt, Huntington, and am grateful to you. Don't mistake that, my friend, in what I am going to say. The joy of the new experience lulled me into a sense of false security. I thought myself like other men, strong enough to hold the pa.s.sionate love I have always borne that woman down, down where no one could ever see it. That was my arrogance, Huntington; for it, I am paying the price."

"She understands now if she never did before," Huntington reiterated.

"She felt her responsibility for your lonely years, and in trying to atone made matters worse."

"It is not her place to protect me," Hamlen continued with conviction.

"Take your own simile, with which you try to ease my sense of shame: even though the waters are not to be blamed, what do people do with them? Do they let them continue on their path of destruction? No, dear friend, your arguments are kindly meant, but untenable. I intend to put those waters where they will do no further harm."

Huntington's face set in determined lines. "So you will dare to a.s.sume the prerogatives of man and G.o.d?" he demanded sternly.

Hamlen had never seen Huntington in this mood, and his eyes shifted uneasily as they met the unflinching gaze of his friend.

"There will be no scandal, Huntington," he said quietly; "I shall not thus repay your royal hospitality. There are some matters I must turn over to you, and as my friend I know you will accept them. Then I will grasp your hand for the last time, thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me back the life I had abandoned, and pa.s.s on,--whither, it concerns myself alone."

"What are the matters you have in mind?" Huntington asked, hoping that some word of Hamlen's might give him inspiration.

"First, as to my property," Hamlen replied with returning confidence as his friend showed willingness to listen. "Here is my will." He drew a folded sheet from his pocket, on which he had written perhaps twenty lines. "Please look it over, and tell me if it is legally drawn when the necessary signatures are added."

Huntington took the paper, with difficulty focusing his mind upon the written words.

"Yes," he said, looking up at length; "this doc.u.ment is wonderfully simple and direct in its statements. The only possible attack upon it would be to raise an issue as to your mental status at the time you drew it up."

"Could any one question that?"

"Your later actions will determine," Huntington said significantly.

Hamlen laughed nervously. "Fortunately there is no one left who would have any interest to contest.--As I told you, the bulk of my property is now in liquid form on deposit in New York, which simplifies your work as executor. That, you see, I want to give to Harvard."

He paused for a moment and became meditative. "How little I thought, six months ago, that I should become a benefactor of the college I then despised! That is your work, my friend,--making me realize my obligation.--Hold on a minute: I want to add to that doc.u.ment! My bequest shall go to Harvard as the 'William Montgomery Huntington Foundation, given by a friend, the income to be used to foster larger acquaintance and closer intimacy amongst the members of each freshman cla.s.s.' Make a note of that, will you? There may be other changes."

Huntington made the necessary notations. It was best to humor him until his entire plan was outlined.

"Now, as to the estate in Bermuda," he went on. "You see what I've done with it,--but have I been quite delicate? This whole affair, and its outcome, will be humiliating to that sensitive little girl, and this might be a constant reminder. I would like her to have it; she would appreciate my trees and my flowers,--their fragrance might help her to forget my grave offense. Then again, perhaps Marian would see in this act an effort on my part to atone. I couldn't leave it to her, but do you think the girl would understand my motive?"

"Better than any one I know," Huntington replied.

Hamlen seemed to have reached the end of his elaboration, and was silent.

"How soon is this remarkable doc.u.ment to become operative?" Huntington demanded.

"Six months from to-day if you do not hear from me to the contrary, or upon receiving proof of death."

"All right," Huntington rejoined with apparent complacency. "I'll have it drafted in proper form and you can execute it to-morrow or next day.

Now listen to me."