The Bachelors. William Dana Orcutt

      "I am glad you discounted my apparent inhospitality," he said, with pleasant dignity. "The tourists would overrun me if I did not take some such measure to protect myself; but I am always glad to welcome any one whose interest is more than curiosity."

      "It is good of you to make a virtue out of our presumption," Marian replied as their host assisted them to alight. Then their eyes met and there was instant recognition.

      "Philip!" she cried in utter amazement. "Is it possible that this is you—here?"

      The man bowed until his face almost touched the hand he still held, and the surprise seemed for the moment to deprive him of power of speech. He courteously motioned his guests to precede him through an arbor of poinsettia into a tropical garden on a cliff overhanging the water.

      "Harry," Marian continued, still excited by her experience, "this is Philip Hamlen—you've heard me speak so many times of him. My husband, Mr. Thatcher, Philip," she added, as the two men shook hands; then she presented him to the Stevenses.

      Outwardly Hamlen showed none of the confusion which Marian so plainly manifested. He was the self-contained host, seemingly interested in the coincidence of the unexpected meeting, but by no means exercised over it.

      "Welcome to my Garden of Eden," he said, smiling, as the magnificent expanse of cliff and sea greeted them—"thrice welcome, since to two of us this is in the nature of a reunion."

      It was a revelation even in spite of their expectations. Involuntarily the eye first took in the turquoise water and the crumbling, broken shore-line undershot by the caves formed by the pounding of centuries of waves against the layers of animal formation. Except for the great dry-dock and the naval barracks across the entrance to Hamilton Harbor, all seemed as Nature had intended it.

      Then, as the vision narrowed to its immediate surroundings, the visitors realized how much art had accomplished in making the garden into which their host had shown them seem so completely in harmony with the brilliant setting of its location. They had thought of Bermuda as the home of the Easter lily, not realizing that this is but a seasonal incident; they could not have believed it possible to make the luxuriant bloom of the tropical trees, shrubs, and flowers so subservient to the beauty of their foliage, yet so marvelous a finish to the brilliancy of the whole. The great rubber-tree extended its awkward branches in exactly the right directions to add quaint picturesqueness; the poincianas, as graceful as the rubber-tree was gauche, lifted their smooth, bare branches like elephant trunks, from which the great leaves hung down in magnificent clusters; the calabash, with its own ungainly beauty, proved its right by exactly fitting into the landscape at its own particular corner and the row of giant cabbage-palms stood like sentinels, adding a quiet dignity suggestive of the East. Between these and other massive trunks the smaller trees and flowering shrubs were interspersed in so original and bewildering a manner that each glance forced a new exclamation of delight. The night-blooming cereus crawled like an ugly reptile in and out among the branches of the giant cedars, but the bursting buds gave evidence that at nightfall they would redeem the hideous suggestiveness of the trailing vine. Cacti and sago-palms formed brilliant backgrounds for the lilies of novel shapes and colors, and for the other flowers which vied with one another for preference in the eye of their beholder.

      The conversation was commonplace in its nature, and in it Marian took little part. The vivacity which usually made her conspicuous in any group had entirely left her. Her interest in the view from the Point and in the magnificent vegetation had vanished, and her eyes followed Hamlen as he indicated each special beauty to his guests. Edith Stevens was the only one who sensed the unusual; the men were too discreet or too occupied by the novelty of their experience.

      "Do you mind, Harry," Marian said aloud, turning to her husband, "if the gardener shows you around the grounds? It has been years since I last saw Mr. Hamlen, and there are some matters I simply must talk over with him."

      Nothing Marian Thatcher asked or did ever surprised her husband or her friends. The abruptness of the question, and the certainty she manifested that her request would at once be complied with, were characteristic. In the present instance, however, it was obvious that the unexpected meeting touched some hidden spring which took her back to a time in her life before they themselves had claims upon her, and they respected her desire to be alone with her revived friendship. A few moments later, with jocose chidings that she had appropriated for herself the chief attraction of the estate, they moved off under the guidance of the gardener, who was proud of the interest manifested in the results of his work in carrying out his master's plans.

      "Please don't come back for at least half an hour," Marian called after them. Then she turned to her companion.

      "So this is where you disappeared to?"

      Hamlen bowed his head. He was not so careful now to conceal his emotions, and it was evident that old memories were stirred within him, as well.

      "Could I have found a more beautiful exile?" he asked.

      "How many years have you been here?" she demanded.

      "I left New York the week following the announcement of your engagement to Mr. Thatcher. Perhaps you can figure it out better than I. Time has come to mean nothing to me here."

      "That was in ninety-three," Marian said, reflecting—"over twenty years ago! You have been here ever since?"

      Hamlen hesitated before he answered. "I have been back to the States only once—when my father died. I have made short excursions to London, to Paris, to Berlin, to Vienna; but the world is all the same, and I was always glad to return here, to this retreat."

      "Twenty years of solitude!" Marian repeated. "Don't tell me that it was because of—"

      "I came here because I wanted to get away from every old association," Hamlen interrupted hastily. "I settled down here because I loved this beautiful island—and I love it still."

      "But your friends, Philip—"

      A tinge of bitterness crept into his voice. "Friends?" he repeated after her. "What friends did I ever have whom I could regret to leave behind?"

      "I know," she admitted, striving to ease the pain her words had inflicted; "but your father—and your classmates."

      "Yes—my father. I was wrong to leave him. Had I waited but two years longer, I should have left behind me no ties of any kind. But the good old pater understood me; he was the only one who ever did."

      "Haven't you kept in touch with any one at home?"

      "This is 'home,'" he corrected.

      "Not for you, Philip," she insisted. "This is a Garden of Eden, as you yourself called it, this is a dream life of sunshine and the fragrance of flowers, this is the home of the lotus-eaters, for the present moment enticing men—and women, too—away from the stern pursuits of life; but it is not 'home' for such as you."

      "I have found it all you say and more," Hamlen replied firmly; "but it has not been the life of inactivity which you suggest. The very things which tempted you to turn in here from your drive show that my years of patient study and experiment have not been altogether in vain. Inside the house I have my library, which can scarcely be equaled in the States. There I keep up my work more assiduously than I could possibly have done elsewhere. The literature of the past belongs to me, for I have made it part of myself. I know Homer, Vergil, Dante, Shakespeare, not as books only, but almost word for word. I can speak five languages as well as my own. Is this the existence of the lotus-eater, Marian? Is this merely the dream life of sunshine and of flowers?"

      She looked at him long before replying. Then she rested her hand gently upon his arm.

      "It's the same Philip, isn't it?—the same old Philip who refused, over twenty years ago, to recognize the real significance of life? The same Philip—older, more refined by the chastening of time, more polished by the refinement of accomplishment, but with his eyes still closed to the difference between the means and the end."

      The expression on Hamlen's face showed that he failed utterly to comprehend.