MERWYN had been in the city some little time when Marian, unknown to him, learned of his presence. He, also, had seen her more than once, and while her aspect had increased his admiration and a feeling akin to reverence, it had also disheartened him. To a degree unrecognized by the girl herself, her present motives and stronger character had changed the expression of her face. He had seen her when unconscious of observation and preoccupied by thoughts which made her appear grave and almost stern, and he was again assured that the advantages on which he had once prided himself were as nothing to her compared with the loyalty of friends now in Virginia. He could not go there, nor could he explain why he must apparently shun danger and hardship. He felt that his oath to his mother would be, in her eyes, no extenuation of his conduct. Indeed, he believed that she would regard the fact that he could give such a pledge as another proof of his unworthiness to be called an American. How could it be otherwise when he himself could not look back upon the event without a sense of deep personal humiliation?
"I was an idiotic fool when I gave away manhood and its rights," he groaned. "My mother took advantage of me."
In addition to the personal motive to conceal the fact of his oath, he had even a stronger one. The revelation of his pledge would be proof positive of his mother's disloyalty, and might jeopardize the property on which she and his sisters depended for support. Moreover, while he bitterly resented Mrs. Merwyn's course towards him he felt that honor and family loyalty required that he should never speak a word to her discredit. The reflection implied in his final words to Marian had been wrung from him in the agony of a wounded spirit, and he now regretted them. Henceforth he would hide the fetters which in restraining him from taking the part in the war now prompted by his feelings also kept him from the side of the girl who had won the entire allegiance of his awakened heart. He did not know how to approach her, and feared lest a false step should render the gulf between them impassable. He saw that her pride, while of a different character, was greater than his own had ever been, and that the consideration of his birth and wealth, which he had once dreamed must outweigh all things else, would not influence her in the slightest degree. Men whom she regarded as his equals in these respects were not only at her feet but also facing the enemy as her loyal knights. How pitiable a figure in her eyes he must ever make compared with them!
But there is no gravitation like that of the heart. He felt that he must see her again, and was ready to sue for even the privilege of being tolerated in her drawing-room on terms little better than those formerly accorded him.
When he arrived in New York he had hesitated as to his course. His first impulse had been to adopt a life of severe and inexpensive simplicity. But he soon came to look upon this plan as an affectation. There was his city home, and he had a perfect right to occupy it, and abundant means to maintain it. After seeing Marian's resolute, earnest face as she passed in the street unconscious of his scrutiny, and after having learned more about her father from his legal adviser, the impression grew upon him that he had lost his chance, and he was inclined to take refuge in a cold, proud reticence and a line of conduct that would cause no surmises and questionings on the part of the world. He would take his natural position, and live in such a way as to render curiosity impertinent.
He had inherited too much of his father's temperament to sit down in morbid brooding, and even were he disposed toward such weakness he felt that his words to Marian required that he should do all that he was now free to perform in the advancement of the cause to which she was devoted. She might look with something like contempt on a phase of loyalty which gave only money when others were giving themselves, but it was the best he could do. Whether she would ever recognize the truth or not, his own self-respect required that he should keep his word and try to look at things from her point of view, and, as far as possible, act accordingly. For a time he was fully occupied with Mr. Bodoin in obtaining a fuller knowledge of his property and the nature of its investment. Having learned more definitely about his resources he next followed the impulse to aid the cause for which he could not fight.
A few mornings after the interview between Marian and her father described in the previous chapter, Mr. Vosburgh, looking over his paper at the breakfast-table, laughed and said: "What do you think of this, Marian? Here is Merwyn's name down for a large donation to the Sanitary and Christian Commissions."
His daughter smiled satirically as she remarked, "Such heroism takes away my breath."
"You are losing the power, Marian," said her mother, irritably, "of taking moderate, common-sense views of anything relating to the war. If the cause is first in your thoughts why not recognize the fact that Mr. Merwyn can do tenfold more with his money than if he went to the front and 'stopped a bullet,' as your officer friends express themselves? You are unfair, also. Instead of giving Mr. Merwyn credit for a generous act you sneer at him."
The girl bit her lip, and looked perplexed for a moment. "Well, then," she said, "I will give him credit. He has put himself to the inconvenience of writing two checks for amounts that he will miss no more than I would five cents."
"Ask your father," resumed Mrs. Vosburgh, indignantly, "if the men who sustain these great charities and the government are not just as useful as soldiers in the field. What would become of the soldiers if business in the city should cease? Your ideas, carried out fully, would lead your father to start to the front with a musket, instead of remaining where he can accomplish the most good."
"You are mistaken, mamma. My only fear is that he will incur too many risks as it is. I have never asked any one to go to the front, and I certainly would not ask Mr. Merwyn. Indeed, when I think of the cause, I would rather he should do as you suggest. I should be glad to have him give thousands and increase the volume of business by millions; but if he gave all he has, he could not stand in my estimation with men who offer their lives and risk mutilation and untold suffering from wounds. I know nothing of Mr. Merwyn's present motives, and they may be anything but patriotic. He may think it to his advantage to win some reputation for loyalty, when it is well known that his mother has none at all. Those two gifts, paltry for one of his means, count very little in these days of immense self-sacrifice. I value, in times of danger, especially when great principles are at stake, self-sacrifice and uncalculating heroism above all things, and I prefer to choose my friends from among those who voluntarily exhibit these qualities. No man living could win my favor who took risks merely to please me. Mr. Merwyn is nothing to me, and if I should ever meet him again socially, which is not probable, I should be the last one to suggest that he should go to the war; but if he, or any one, wishes my regard, there must be a compliance with the conditions on which I give it. I am content with the friends I have."
Mr. Vosburgh looked at his daughter for a moment as if she were fulfilling his ideal, and soon after departed for his office. A few days after, when the early shadows of the late autumn were gathering, he was interrupted in his preparations to return up town by the entrance of the subject of the recent discussion.
Merwyn was pale and evidently embarrassed as he asked, "Mr. Vosburgh, have you a few moments of leisure?"
"Yes," replied the gentleman, briefly.
He led the way to a private office and gave his caller a chair.
The young man was at a loss to begin a conversation necessarily of so delicate a nature, and hesitated.
Mr. Vosburgh offered no aid or encouragement, for his thought was, "This young fellow must show his hand fully before I commit myself or Marian in the slightest degree."
"Miss Vosburgh, no doubt, has told you of the character of our last interview," Merwyn began at last, plunging in medias res.
"My daughter is in the habit of giving me her confidence," was the quiet reply.
"Then, sir, you know how unworthy I am to make the request to which I am nevertheless impelled. In justice I can hope for nothing. I have forfeited the privilege of meeting Miss Vosburgh again, and I do not feel that it would be right for me to see her without your permission. The motives which first led me into her society were utterly unworthy of a true man, and had she been the ordinary society girl that I supposed she was, the results might have been equally deserving of condemnation. I will not plead in extenuation that I had been unfortunate in my previous associations, and in the influences that had developed such character as I had. Can you listen to me patiently?"
The gentleman bowed.
"I eventually learned to comprehend Miss Vosburgh's superiority in some degree, and was so fascinated by her that I offered marriage in perfect good faith; but the proposal was made in a complacent and condescending spirit that was so perfectly absurd that now I wonder at my folly. Her reply was severe, but not so severe as I deserved, and she led me to see myself at last in a true light. It is little I can now ask or hope. My questions narrow down to these: Is Miss Vosburgh disposed to give me only justice? Have I offended her so deeply that she cannot meet me again? Had my final words no weight with her? She has inspired in me the earnest wish to achieve such character as I am capable of,—such as circumstances permit. During the summer I saw her influence over others. She was the first one in the world who awakened in my own breast the desire to be different. I cannot hope that she will soon, if ever, look upon me as a friend; but if she can even tolerate me with some degree of kindliness and good-will, I feel that I should be the better and happier for meeting her occasionally. If this is impossible, please say to her that the pledge implied among the last words uttered on that evening, which I shall never forget, shall be kept. I shall try to look at right and duty as she would."
As he concluded, Mr. Vosburgh's face softened somewhat. For a while the young man's sentences had been a little formal and studied, evidently the result of much consideration; they had nevertheless the impress of truth. The gentleman's thought was: "If Mr. Merwyn makes good his words by deeds this affair has not yet ended. My little girl has been much too angry and severe not to be in danger of a reaction."
After a moment of silence he said: "Mr. Merwyn, I can only speak for myself in this matter. Of course, I naturally felt all a father's resentment at your earlier attentions to my daughter. Since you have condemned them unsparingly I need not refer to them again. I respect your disposition to atone for the past and to enter on a life of manly duty. You have my hearty sympathy, whatever may be the result. I also thank you for your frank words to me. Nevertheless, Miss Vosburgh must answer the questions you have asked. She is supreme in her drawing-room, and alone can decide whom she will receive there. I know she will not welcome any one whom she believes to be unworthy to enter. I will tell her all that you have said."
"I do not hope to be welcomed, sir. I only ask to be received with some degree of charity. May I call on you to-morrow and learn Miss Vosburgh's decision?"
"Certainly, at any hour convenient to you."
Merwyn bowed and retired. When alone he said, with a deep sigh of relief: "Well, I have done all in my power at present. If she has a woman's heart she won't be implacable."
"What kept you so late?" Mrs. Vosburgh asked, as her husband came down to dinner.
"A gentleman called and detained me."
"Give him my compliments when you see him again," said Marian, "and tell him that I don't thank him for his unreasonable hours. You need more recreation, papa. Come, take us out to hear some music to-night."
A few hours later they were at the Academy, occupying balcony seats. Marian was glancing over the house, between the acts, with her glass, when she suddenly arrested its motion, and fixed it on a lonely occupant of an expensive box. After a moment she handed the lorgnette to her father, and directed him whither to look. He smiled and said, "He appears rather pensive and preoccupied, doesn't he?"
"I don't fancy pensive, preoccupied men in these times. Why didn't he fill his box, instead of selfishly keeping it all to himself?"
"Perhaps he could not secure the company he wished."
"Who is it?" Mrs. Vosburgh asked.
She was told, and gave Merwyn a longer scrutiny than the others.
"Shall I go and give him your compliments and the message you spoke of at dinner?" resumed Mr. Vosburgh, in a low tone.
"Was it Mr. Merwyn that called so late?" she asked, with a sudden intelligence in her eyes.
Her father nodded, while the suggestion of a smile hovered about his mouth.
"Just think of it, Marian!" said Mrs. Vosburgh. "We all might now be in that box if you had been like other girls."
"I am well content where I am."
During the remainder of the evening Mr. Vosburgh observed some evidences of suppressed excitement in Marian, and saw that she managed to get a glimpse of that box more than once. Long before the opera ended it was empty. He pointed out the fact, and said, humorously, "Mr. Merwyn evidently has something on his mind."
"I should hope so; and so have you, papa. Has he formally demanded my hand with the condition that you stop the war, and inform the politicians that this is their quarrel, and that they must fight it out with toothpicks?"
"No; his request was more modest than that."
"You think I am dying with curiosity, but I can wait until we get home."
When they returned, Mr. Vosburgh went to his library, for he was somewhat owlish in his habits.
Marian soon joined him, and said: "You must retire as soon as you have finished that cigar. Even the momentous Mr. Merwyn shall not keep us up a second longer. Indeed, I am so sleepy already that I may ask you to begin your tale to-night, and end with 'to be continued.'"
He looked at her so keenly that her color rose a little, then said, "I think, my dear, you will listen till I say 'concluded;'" and he repeated the substance of Merwyn's words.
She heard him with a perplexed little frown. "What do you think I ought to do, papa?"
"Do you remember the conversation we had here last June?"
"Yes; when shall I forget it?"
"Well, since you wish my opinion I will give it frankly. It then became your ambition to make the most and best of men over whom you had influence, if they were worth the effort. Merwyn has been faulty and unmanly, as he fully admits himself, but he has proved apparently that he is not commonplace. You must take your choice, either to resent the past, or to help him carry out his better purposes. He does not ask much, although no doubt he hopes for far more. In granting his request you do not commit yourself to his hopes in the least."
"Well, papa, he said that I couldn't possess a woman's heart and cast him off in utter contempt, so I think I shall have to put him on probation. But he must be careful not to presume again. I can be friendly to many, but a friend to very few. Before he suggests that relation he must prove himself the peer of other friends."
MERWYN had not been long in the city before he was waited upon and asked to do his share towards sustaining the opera, and he had carelessly taken a box which had seldom been occupied. On the evening after his interview with Mr. Vosburgh, his feeling of suspense was so great that he thought he could beguile a few hours with music. He found, however, that the light throng, and even the harmonious sounds, irritated, rather than diverted, his perturbed mind, and he returned to his lonely home, and restlessly paced apartments rendered all the more dreary by their magnificence.
He proved his solicitude in a way that led Mr. Vosburgh to smile slightly, for when that gentleman entered his office, Merwyn was awaiting him.
"I have only to tell you," he said, in response to the young man's questioning eyes, "that Miss Vosburgh accedes to your request as you presented it to me;" and in parting he gave his hand with some semblance of friendliness.
Merwyn went away elated, feeling that he had gained all for which he had a right to hope. Eager as he was for the coming interview with Marian, he dreaded it and feared that he might be painfully embarrassed. In this eagerness he started early for an evening call; but when he reached his destination, he hesitated, passing and repassing the dwelling before he could gather courage to enter. The young girl would have smiled, could she have seen her former suitor, once so complacent and condescending. She certainly could not complain of lack of humility now.
At last he perceived that two other callers had passed in, and he followed them, feeling that their presence would enable both him and the object of his thoughts to take refuge in conventionalities.
He was right in this view, for with a scarcely perceptible increase of color, and a polite bow, Marian received him as she would any other mere calling acquaintance, introduced him to the two gentlemen present, and conversation at once became general. Merwyn did not remain long under constraint. Even Marian had to admit to herself that he acquitted himself well and promised better for the future. When topics relating to the war were broached, he not only talked as loyally as the others, but also proved himself well informed. Mrs. Vosburgh soon appeared and greeted him cordially, for the lady was ready enough to entertain the hopes which his presence again inspired. He felt that his first call, to be in good taste, should be rather brief, and he took his departure before the others, Marian bowing with the same distant politeness that had characterized her greeting. She made it evident that she had granted just what he had asked and nothing more. Whether he could ever inspire anything like friendliness the future only would reveal. He had serious doubts, knowing that he suffered in contrast with even the guests of the present evening. One was an officer home on sick-leave; the other exempted from military duty by reason of lameness, which did not extend to his wit and conversational powers. Merwyn also knew that he would ever be compared with those near friends now in Virginia.
What did he hope? What could he hope? He scarcely knew, and would not even entertain the questions. He was only too glad that the door was not closed to him, and, with the innate hopefulness of youth, he would leave the future to reveal its possibilities. He was so thoroughly his father's son that he would not be disheartened, and so thoroughly himself that the course he preferred would be the one followed, so far as was now possible.
"Well?" said Mr. Vosburgh, when Marian came to the library to kiss him good-night.
"What a big, long question that little word contains!" she cried, laughing, and there was a little exhilaration in her manner which did not escape him.
"You may tell me much, little, or nothing."
"I will tell you nothing, then, for there is nothing to tell. I received and parted with Mr. Merwyn on his terms, and those you know all about. Mamma was quite gracious, and my guests were polite to him."
"Are you willing to tell me what impression he made in respect to his loyalty?"
"Shrewd papa! You think this the key to the problem. Perhaps it is, if there is any problem. Well, so far as WORDS went he proved his loyalty in an incidental way, and is evidently informing himself concerning events. If he has no better proof to offer than words, his probation will end unfavorably, even though he may not be immediately aware of the fact. Of course, now that I have granted his request, I must be polite to him so long as he chooses to come."
"Was he as complacent and superior as ever?"
"Whither is your subtlety tending? Are you, as well as mamma, an ally of Mr. Merwyn? You know he was not. Indeed, I must admit that, in manner, he carried out the spirit of his request."
"Then, to use your own words, he was 'befittingly humble'? No, I am not his ally. I am disposed to observe the results of your experiment."
"There shall be no experimenting, papa. Circumstances have enabled him to understand me as well as he ever can, and he must act in view of what he knows me to be. I shall not seek to influence him, except by being myself, nor shall I lower my standard in his favor."
"Very well, I shall note his course with some interest. It is evident, however, that the uncertainties of his future action will not keep either of us awake."
When she left him, he fell into a long revery, and his concluding thoughts were: "I doubt whether Marian understands herself in respect to this young fellow. She is too resentful. She does not feel the indifference which she seeks to maintain. The subtle, and, as yet, unrecognized instinct of her womanhood leads her to stand aloof. This would be the natural course of a girl like Marian towards a man who, for any cause, had gained an unusual hold upon her thoughts. I must inform myself thoroughly in regard to this Mr. Merwyn. Thus far her friends have given me little solicitude; but here is one, towards whom she is inclined to be hostile, that it may be well to know all about. Even before she is aware of it herself, she is on the defensive against him, and this, to a student of human nature, is significant. She virtually said to-night that he must win his way and make his own unaided advances toward manhood. Ah, my little girl! if it was not in him ever to have greater power over you than Mr. Strahan, you would take a kindlier interest in his efforts."
If Marian idolized her father as she had said, it can readily be guessed how much she was to him, and that he was not forgetful of his purpose to learn more about one who manifested so deep an interest in his daughter, and who possibly had the power to create a responsive interest. It so happened that he was acquainted with Mr. Bodoin, and had employed the shrewd lawyer in some government affairs. Another case had arisen in which legal counsel was required, and on the following day advice was sought.
When this part of the interview was over, Mr. Vosburgh remarked, casually, "By the way, I believe you are acquainted with Mr. Willard Merwyn and his affairs."
"Yes," replied the lawyer, at once on the alert.
"Do your relations to Mr. Merwyn permit you to give me some information concerning him?"
The attorney thought rapidly. His client had recently been inquiring about Mr. Vosburgh, and, therefore, the interest was mutual. On general principles it was important that the latter should be friendly, for he was a secret and trusted agent of the government, and Mrs. Merwyn's course might render a friend at court essential. Although the son had not mentioned Marian's name, Mr. Bodoin shrewdly guessed that she was exerting the influence that had so greatly changed the young man's views and plans. The calculating lawyer had never imagined that he would play the role of match-maker, but he was at once convinced that, in the stormy and uncertain times, Merwyn could scarcely make a better alliance than the one he meditated. Therefore with much apparent frankness the astute lawyer told Mr. Vosburgh all that was favorable to the young man.
"I think he will prove an unusual character," concluded the lawyer, "for he is manifesting some of his father's most characteristic traits," and these were mentioned. "When, after attaining his majority, the son returned from England, he was in many respects little better than a shrewd, self-indulgent boy, indifferent to everything but his own pleasure, but, for some reason, he has greatly changed. Responsibility has apparently sobered him and made him thoughtful. I have also told him much about my old friend and client, his father, and the young fellow is bent on imitating him. While he is very considerate of his mother and sisters, he has identified himself with his father's views, and has become a Northern man to the backbone. Even to a degree contrary to my advice, he insists on investing his means in government bonds."
This information was eminently satisfactory, and even sagacious Mr. Vosburgh did not suspect the motives of the lawyer, whom he knew to be eager to retain his good-will, since it was in his power to give much business to those he trusted.
"I may become Merwyn's ally after all, if he makes good his own and Mr. Bodoin's words," was his smiling thought, as he returned to his office.
He was too wise, however, to use open influence with his daughter, or to refer to the secret interview. Matters should take their own course for the present, while he remained a vigilant observer, for Marian's interest and happiness were dearer to him than his own life.
Merwyn sought to use his privilege judiciously, and concentrated all his faculties on the question of his standing in Marian's estimation. During the first few weeks, it was evident that his progress in her favor was slow, if any were made at all. She was polite, she conversed with him naturally and vivaciously on topics of general interest, but there appeared to be viewless and impassable barriers between them. Not by word or sign did she seek to influence his action.
She was extremely reticent about herself, and took pains to seem indifferent in regard to his life and plans, but she was beginning to chafe under what she characterized as his "inaction." Giving to hospitals and military charities and buying United-States bonds counted for little in her eyes.
"He parades his loyalty, and would have me think that he looks upon the right to call on me as a great privilege, but he does not care enough about either me or the country to incur any risk or hardship."
Thoughts like these were beginning not only to rekindle her old resentment, but also to cause a vague sense of disappointment. Merwyn had at least accomplished one thing,—he confirmed her father's opinion that he was not commonplace. Travel, residence abroad, association with well-bred people, and a taste for reading, had given him a finish which a girl of Marian's culture could not fail to appreciate. Because he satisfied her taste and eye, she was only the more irritated by his failure in what she deemed the essential elements of manhood. In spite of the passionate words he had once spoken, she was beginning to believe that a cold, calculating persistency was the corner-stone of his character, that even if he were brave enough to fight, he had deliberately decided to take no risks and enjoy his fortune. If this were true, she assured herself, he might shoulder the national debt if he chose, but he could never become her friend.
Then came the terrible and useless slaughter of Fredericksburg. With the fatuity that characterized the earlier years of the war, the heroic army of the Potomac, which might have annihilated Lee on previous occasions, was hurled against heights and fortifications that, from the beginning, rendered the attack hopeless.
Marian's friends were exposed to fearful perils, but passed through the conflict unscathed. Her heart went out to them in a deeper and stronger sympathy than ever, and Merwyn in contrast lost correspondingly.
During the remaining weeks of December, she saw that her father was almost haggard from care and anxiety, and he was compelled to make trips to Washington and even to the front.
"The end has not come yet," he had said to her, after one of these flying visits. "Burnside has made an awful blunder, but he is eager to retrieve himself, and now has plans on foot that promise better. The disaffection among his commanding officers and troops is what I am most afraid of—more, indeed, than of the rebel army. Unlike his predecessor, he is determined to move, to act, and I think we may soon hear of another great battle."
Letters from her friends confirmed this view, especially a brief note from Lane, in which the writer, fearing that it might be his last, had not wholly veiled his deep affection. "I am on the eve of participating in an immense cavalry movement," it began, "and it may be some time before I can write to you again, if ever."
The anxiety caused by this missive was somewhat relieved by a humorous account of the recall of the cavalry force. She then learned, through her father, that the entire army was again on the move, and that another terrific battle would be fought in a day or two.
"Burnside should cross the Rappahannock to-day or to-morrow, at the latest," Mr. Vosburgh had remarked at breakfast, to which he had come from the Washington owl-train.
It was the 20th of December, and when the shadows of the early twilight were gathering, Burnside had, in fact, massed his army at the fords of the river, and his troops, "little Strahan" among them, were awaiting orders to enter the icy tide in the stealthy effort to gain Lee's left flank. There are many veterans now living who remember the terrific "storm of wind, rain, sleet, and snow" that assailed the unsheltered army. It checked further advance more effectually than if all the rebel forces had been drawn up on the farther shore. After a frightful night, the Union army was discovered in the dawn by Lee.
Even then Burnside would have crossed, and, in spite of his opponent's preparations and every other obstacle, would have fought a battle, had he not been paralyzed by a foe with which no general could cope,—Virginia mud. The army mired helplessly, supply trains could not reach it. With difficulty the troops were led back to their old quarters, and so ended the disastrous campaigns of the year, so far as the army of the Potomac was concerned.
The storm that drenched and benumbed the soldiers on the Rappahannock was equally furious in the city of New York, and Mr. Vosburgh sat down to dinner frowning and depressed. "It seems as if fate is against us," he said. "This storm is general, I fear, and may prove more of a defence to Lee than his fortifications at Fredericksburg. It's bad enough to have to cope with treachery and disaffection."
"Treachery, papa?"
"Yes, treachery," replied her father, sternly. "Scoundrels in our own army informed Washington disunionists of the cavalry movement of which Captain Lane wrote you, and these unmolested enemies at the capital are in constant communication with Lee. When will our authorities and the North awake to the truth that this is a life-and-death struggle, and that there must be no more nonsense?"
"Would to Heaven I were a man!" said the young girl. "At this very moment, no doubt, Mr. Merwyn is enjoying his sumptuous dinner, while my friends may be fording a dark, cold river to meet their death. Oh! I can't eat anything to-night."
"Nonsense!" cried her mother, irritably.
"Come, little girl, you are taking things too much to heart. I am very glad you are not a man. In justice, I must also add that Mr. Merwyn is doing more for the cause than any of your friends. It so happens that I have learned that he is doing a great deal of which little is known."
"Pardon me," cried the girl, almost passionately. "Any man who voluntarily faces this storm, and crosses that river to-night or to-morrow, does infinitely more in my estimation."
Her father smiled, but evidently his appetite was flagging also, and he soon went out to send and receive some cipher despatches.
Merwyn was growing hungry for some evidence of greater friendliness than he had yet received. Hitherto, he had never seen Marian alone when calling, and the thought had occurred that if he braved the storm in paying her a visit, the effort might be appreciated. One part of his hope was fulfilled, for he found her drawing-room empty. While he waited, that other stormy and memorable evening when he had sought to find her alone flashed on his memory, and he feared that he had made a false step in coming.
This impression was confirmed by her pale face and distant greeting. In vain he put forth his best efforts to interest her. She remained coldly polite, took but a languid part in the conversation, and at times even permitted him to see that her thoughts were preoccupied. He had been humble and patient a long time, and now, in spite of himself, his anger began to rise.
Feeling that he had better take his leave while still under self-control, and proposing also to hint that she had failed somewhat in courtesy, he arose abruptly and said: "You are not well this evening, Miss Vosburgh? I should have perceived the fact earlier. I wish you good-night."
She felt the slight sting of his words, and was in no mood to endure it. Moreover, if she had failed in such courtesy as he had a right to expect, he should know the reason, and she felt at the moment willing that he should receive the implied reproach.
Therefore she said: "Pardon me, I am quite well. It is natural that I should be a little distraite, for I have learned that my friends are exposed to this storm, and will probably engage in another terrible battle to-morrow, or soon."
Again the old desperate expression, that she remembered so well, came into his eyes as he exclaimed, bitterly: "You think me a coward because I remain in the city? What is this storm, or that battle, compared with what I am facing! Good-night;" and, giving her no chance for further words, he hastened away.
MERWYN found the storm so congenial to his mood that he breasted it for hours before returning to his home. There, in weariness and reaction, he sank into deep dejection.
"What is the use of anger?" he asked himself, as he renewed the dying fire in his room. "In view of all the past, she has more cause for resentment than I, while it is a matter of indifference to her whether I am angry or not. I might as well be incensed at ice because it is cold, and she is ice to me. She has her standard and a circle of friends who come up to it. This I never have done and never can do. Therefore she only tolerates me and is more than willing that I should disappear below her horizon finally. I was a fool to speak the words I did to-night. What can they mean to her when nothing is left for me, apparently, but a safe, luxurious life? Such outbreaks can only seem hysterical or mere affectations, and there shall be no more of them, let the provocation be what it may. Indeed, why should I inflict myself on her any more? I cannot say that she has not a woman's heart, but I wronged and chilled it from the first, and cannot now retrieve myself. If I should go to her to-morrow, even in a private's uniform, she would give me her hand cordially, but she compares me with hundreds of thousands who seem braver men than I. It is useless for me to suggest that I am doing more than those who go to fight. Her thought would be: 'I have all the friends I need among more knightly spirits who are not afraid to look brave enemies in the face, and without whom the North would be disgraced. Let graybeards furnish the sinews of war; let young men give their blood if need be. It is indeed strange that a man's arm should be paralyzed, and his best hope in life blighted, by a mother!'"
If he could have known Marian's thoughts and heard the conversation that ensued with her father, he would not have been so despondent.
When he left her so abruptly she again experienced the compunctions she had felt before. Whether he deserved it or not she could not shut her eyes to the severity of the wound inflicted, or to his suffering. In vain she tried to assure herself that he did deserve it. Granting this, the thoughts asserted themselves: "Why am I called upon to resent his course? Having granted his request to visit me, I might, at least, be polite and affable on his own terms. Because he wishes more, and perhaps hopes for more, this does not, as papa says, commit me in the least. He may have some scruple in fighting openly against the land of his mother's ancestry. If that scruple has more weight with him than my friendly regard, that is his affair. His words to-night indicated that he must be under some strong restraint. O dear! I wish I had never known him; he perplexes and worries me. The course of my other friends is simple and straightforward as the light. Why do I say other friends? He's not a friend at all, yet my thoughts return to him in a way that is annoying."
When her father came home she told him what had occurred, and unconsciously permitted him to see that her mind was disturbed. He did not smile quizzically, as some sagacious people would have done, thus touching the young girl's pride and arraying it against her own best interests, it might be. With the thought of her happiness ever uppermost, he would discover the secret causes of her unwonted perturbation. Not only Merwyn—about whom he had satisfied himself—should have his chance, but also the girl herself. Mrs. Vosburgh's conventional match-making would leave no chance for either. The profounder man believed that nature, unless interfered with by heavy, unskilful hands, would settle the question rightly.
He therefore listened without comment, and at first only remarked, "Evidently, Marian, you are not trying to make the most and best of this young fellow."
"But, papa, am I bound to do this for people who are disagreeable to me and who don't meet my views at all?"
"Certainly not. Indeed, you may have frozen Merwyn out of the list of your acquaintances already."
"Well," replied the girl, almost petulantly, "that, perhaps, will be the best ending of the whole affair."
"That's for you to decide, my dear."
"But, papa, I FEEL that you don't approve of my course."
"Neither do I disapprove of it. I only say, according to our bond to be frank, that you are unfair to Merwyn. Of course, if he is essentially disagreeable to you, there is no occasion for you to make a martyr of yourself."
"That's what irritates me so," said the girl, impetuously. "He might have made himself very agreeable. But he undervalued and misunderstood me so greatly from the first that it was hard to forgive him."
"If he hadn't shown deep contrition and regret for that course I shouldn't wish you to forgive him, even though his antecedents had made anything better scarcely possible."
"Come down to the present hour, then. What he asked of you is one thing. I see what he wishes. He desires, at least, the friendship that I give to those who fulfil my ideal of manhood in these times. He has no right to seek this without meeting the conditions which remove all hesitation in regard to others. It angers me that he does so. I feel as if he were seeking to buy my good-will by donations to this, that, and the other thing. He still misunderstands me. Why can't he realize that, to one of my nature, fording the icy Rappahannock to-night would count for more than his writing checks for millions?"
"Probably he does understand it, and that is what he meant by his words to-night, when he said, 'What is this storm, or what a battle?'"
She was overwrought, excited, and off her guard, and spoke from a deep impulse. "A woman, in giving herself, gives everything. If he can't give up a scruple—I mean if his loyalty is so slight that his mother's wishes and dead ancestors—"
"My dear little girl, you are not under the slightest obligation to give anything," resumed her father, discreetly oblivious to the significance of her words. "If you care to give a little good-will and kindness to one whom you have granted the right to visit you, they will tend to confirm and develop the better and manly qualities he is now manifesting. You know I have peculiar faculties of finding out about people, and, incidentally and casually, I have informed myself about this Mr. Merwyn. I think I can truly say that he is doing all and more than could be expected of a young fellow in his circumstances, with the one exception that he does not put on our uniform and go to the front. He may have reasons—very possibly, as you think, mistaken and inadequate ones—which, nevertheless, are binding on his conscience. What else could his words mean to-night? He is not living a life of pleasure-seeking and dissipation, like so many other young nabobs in the city. Apparently he has not sought much other society than yours. Pardon me for saying it, but you have not given him much encouragement to avoid the temptations that are likely to assail a lonely, irresponsible young fellow. In one sense you are under no obligation to do this; in another, perhaps you are, for you must face the fact that you have great influence over him. This influence you must either use or throw away, as you decide. You are not responsible for this influence; neither are your friends responsible for the war. When it came, however, they faced the disagreeable and dangerous duties that it brought."
"O papa! I have been a stupid, resentful fool."
"No, my dear; at the worst you have been misled by generous and loyal impulses. Your deep sympathy with recent events has made you morbid, and therefore unfair. To your mind Mr. Merwyn represented the half-hearted element that shuns meeting what must be met at every cost. If this were true of him I should share in your spirit, but he appears to be trying to be loyal and to do what he can in the face of obstacles greater than many overcome."
"I don't believe he will ever come near me again!" she exclaimed.
"Then you are absolved in the future. Of course we can make no advances towards a man who has been your suitor."
Merwyn's course promised to fulfil her fear,—she now acknowledged to herself that it was a fear,—for his visits ceased. She tried to dismiss him from her thoughts, but a sense of her unfairness and harshness haunted her. She did not see why she had not taken her father's view, or why she had thrown away her influence that accorded with the scheme of life to which she had pledged herself. The very restraint indicated by his words was a mystery, and mysteries are fascinating. She remembered, with compunction, that not even his own mother had sought to develop a true, manly spirit in him. "Now he is saying," she thought, bitterly, "that I, too, am a fanatic,—worse than his mother."
Weeks passed and she heard nothing from him, nor did her father mention his name. While her regret was distinct and positive, it must not be supposed that it gave her serious trouble. Indeed, the letters of Mr. Lane, and the semi-humorous journal of Strahan and Blauvelt, together with the general claims of society and her interest in her father's deep anxieties, were fast banishing it from her mind, when, to her surprise, his card was handed to her one stormy afternoon, late in January.
"I am sorry to intrude upon you, Miss Vosburgh," he began, as she appeared, "but—"
"Why should you regard it as an intrusion, Mr. Merwyn?"
"I think a lady has a right to regard any unwelcome society as an intrusion."
"Admitting even so much, it does not follow that this is an intrusion," she said, laughing. Then she added, with slightly heightened color: "Mr. Merwyn, I must at least keep my own self-respect, and this requires an acknowledgment. I was rude to you when you last called. But I was morbid from anxiety and worry over what was happening. I had no right to grant your request to call upon me and then fail in courtesy."
"Will you, then, permit me to renew my old request?" he asked, with an eagerness that he could not disguise.
"Certainly not. That would imply such utter failure on my part! You should be able to forgive me one slip, remembering the circumstances."
"You have the most to forgive," he replied, humbly. "I asked for little more than toleration, but I felt that I had not the right to force even this upon you."
"I am glad you are inclined to be magnanimous," she replied, laughing. "Women usually take advantage of that trait in men—when they manifest it. We'll draw a line through the evening of the 20th of December, and, as Jefferson says, in his superb impersonation of poor old Rip, 'It don't count.' By the way, have you seen him?" she asked, determined that the conversation should take a different channel.
"No; I have been busy of late. But pardon me, Miss Vosburgh, I'm forgetting my errand shamefully. Do not take the matter too seriously. I think you have no reason to do so. Mr. Strahan is in the city and is ill. I have just come from him."
Her face paled instantly, and she sank into a chair.
"I beg of you not to be so alarmed," he added, hastily. "I shall not conceal anything from you. By the merest chance I saw him coming up Broadway in a carriage, and, observing that he looked ill, jumped into a hack and followed him to his residence. You had reason for your anxiety on December 20th, for he took a severe cold from exposure that night. For a time he made light of it, but at last obtained sick-leave. He asked me to tell you—"
"He has scarcely mentioned the fact that he was not well;" and there was an accent of reproach in the young girl's tones.
"I understand Strahan better than I once did, perhaps because better able to understand him," was Merwyn's quiet reply. "He is a brave, generous fellow, and, no doubt, wished to save you from anxiety. There has been no chance for him to say very much to me."
"Was he expected by his family?"
"They were merely informed, by a telegram, that he was on his way. He is not so well as when he started. Naturally he is worse for the journey. Moreover, he used these words, 'I felt that I was going to be ill and wished to get home.'"
"Has a physician seen him yet?"
"Yes, I brought their family physician in the hack, which I had kept waiting. He fears that it will be some time before his patient is out again. I have never been seriously ill myself, but I am sure—I mean, I have heard—that a few words often have great influence in aiding one in Strahan's condition to triumph over disease. It is often a question of will and courage, you know. I will take a note to him if you wish. Poor fellow! he may have his biggest fight on hand while the others are resting in winter quarters."
"I shall be only too glad to avail myself of your offer. Please excuse me a moment."
When she returned he saw traces of tears in her eyes. She asked, eagerly, "Will you see him often?"
"I shall call daily."
"Would it be too much trouble for you to let me know how he is, should he be very seriously ill?" Then, remembering that this might lead to calls more frequent than she was ready to receive, or than he would find it convenient to make, she added: "I suppose you are often down town and might leave word with papa at his office. I have merely a formal acquaintance with Mrs. Strahan and her daughters, and, if Mr. Strahan should be very ill, I should have to rely upon you for information."
"I shall make sure that you learn of his welfare daily until he is able to write to you, and I esteem it a privilege to render you this service."
He then bowed and turned away, and she did not detain him. Indeed, her mind was so absorbed by her friend's danger that she could not think of much else.
The next day a note, addressed to Mr. Vosburgh, was left at his office, giving fuller particulars of Strahan's illness, which threatened to be very serious indeed. High fever had been developed, and the young soldier had lost all intelligent consciousness. Days followed in which this fever was running its course, and Merwyn's reports, ominous in spite of all effort to disguise the deep anxiety felt by Strahan's friends, were made only through Mr. Vosburgh. Marian began to regret her suggestion that the information should come in this way, for she now felt that Merwyn had received the impression that his presence would not be agreeable. She was eager for more details and oppressed with the foreboding that she would never see her light-hearted friend again. She was almost tempted to ask Merwyn to call, but felt a strange reluctance to do so.
"I gave him sufficient encouragement to continue his visits," she thought, "and he should distinguish between the necessity of coming every day and the privilege of coming occasionally."
One evening her father looked very grave as he handed Marian the note addressed to him.
"O papa!" exclaimed the girl, "he's worse!"
"Yes, I fear Strahan is in a very critical condition. I happened to meet Merwyn when he left the note to-day, and the young fellow himself looked haggard and ill. But he carelessly assured me that he was perfectly well. He said that the crisis of Strahan's fever was approaching, and that the indications were bad."
"Papa!" cried the girl, tearfully, "I can't endure this suspense and inaction. Why would it be bad taste for us to call on Mrs. Strahan this evening? She must know how dear a friend Arthur is to me. I don't care for conventionality in a case like this. It seems cold-blooded to show no apparent interest, and it might do Arthur good if he should learn that we had been there because of our anxiety and sympathy."
"Well, my dear, what you suggest is the natural and loyal course, and therefore outweighs all conventionality in my mind. We'll go after dinner."
Marian's doubt as to her reception by Mrs. Strahan was speedily dispelled, for the sorrow-stricken mother was almost affectionate in her welcome.
"Arthur, in his delirium, often mentions your name," she said, "and then he is in camp or battle again, or else writing his journal. I have thought of sending for you, but he wouldn't have known you. He does not even recognize me, and has not for days. Our physician commands absolute quiet and as little change in those about him as possible. What we should have done without Mr. Merwyn I scarcely know. He is with him now, and has watched every night since Arthur's return. I never saw any one so changed, or else we didn't understand him. He is tireless in his strength, and womanly in his patience. His vigils are beginning to tell on him sadly, but he says that he will not give up till the crisis is past. If Arthur lives he will owe his life largely to one who, last summer, appeared too indolent to think of anything but his own pleasure. How we often misjudge people! They were boys and playmates together, and are both greatly changed. O Miss Vosburgh, my heart just stands still with dread when I think of what may soon happen. Arthur had become so manly, and we were so proud of him! He has written me more than once of your influence, and I had hoped that the way might open for our better acquaintance."
"Do you think the crisis may come to-night?" Marian asked, with quivering lips.
"Yes, it may come now at any hour. The physician will remain all night."
"Oh, I wish I might know early in the morning. Believe me, I shall not sleep."
"You shall know, Miss Vosburgh, and I hope you will come and see me, whatever happens. You will please excuse me now, for I cannot be away from Arthur at this time. I would not have seen any one but you."
At one o'clock in the morning there was a ring at Mr. Vosburgh's door. He opened it, and Merwyn stood there wrapped in his fur cloak. "Will you please give this note to Miss Vosburgh?" he said. "I think it contains words that will bring welcome relief and hope. I would not have disturbed you at this hour had I not seen your light burning;" and, before Mr. Vosburgh could reply, he lifted his hat and strode away.
The note ran as follows:
"MY DEAR MISS VOSBURGH:—Arthur became conscious a little before twelve. He was fearfully weak, and for a time his life appeared to flicker. I alone was permitted to be with him. After a while I whispered that you had been here. He smiled and soon fell into a quiet sleep. Our physician now gives us strong hopes.
"Sincerely and gratefully yours,
Marian, who had been sleepless from thoughts more evenly divided between her friend and Merwyn than she would have admitted even to herself, handed the note to her father. Her face indicated both gladness and perplexity. He read and returned it with a smile.
"Papa," she said, "you have a man's straightforward common-sense. I am only a little half-girl and half-woman. Do you know, I almost fear that both Mrs. Strahan and Mr. Merwyn believe I am virtually engaged to Arthur."
"Their belief can't engage you," said her father, laughing. "Young Strahan will get well, thanks to you and Merwyn. Mrs. Strahan said that both were greatly changed. Merwyn certainly must have a hardy nature, for he improves under a steady frost."
"Papa!" cried Marian, with a vivid blush, "you are a deeper and more dangerous ally of Mr. Menvyn than mamma. I am on my guard against you both, and I shall retire at once before you begin a panegyric that will cease only when you find I am asleep."
"Yes, my dear, go and sleep the sleep of the unjust!"