IT may well be imagined that Mrs. Vosburgh was not far distantduring the momentous interview described in the last chapter, and,as Merwyn rushed from the house as if pursued by the furies, sheappeared at once on the scene, full of curiosity and dismay.
Exclamations, questionings, elicited little from Marian. The strainof the long, eventful day had been too great, and the young girl,who might have been taken as a type of incensed womanhood a fewmoments before, now had scarcely better resources than such remediesas Mrs. Vosburgh's matronly experience knew how to apply. Few remainlong on mountain-tops, physical or metaphorical, and deep valleyslie all around them. Little else could be done for the poor girlthan to bring the oblivion of sleep, and let kindly Nature nurseher child back to a more healthful condition of body and mind.
But it would be long before Willard Merwyn would be amenable to thegentle offices of nature. Simpson, the footman, flirting desperatelywith the pretty waitress in the kitchen below, heard his master'sswift, heavy step on the veranda, and hastened out only in time toclamber into his seat as Merwyn drove furiously away in the rainand darkness. Every moment the trembling lackey expected they wouldall go to-wreck and ruin, but the sagacious animals were giventheir heads, and speedily made their way home.
The man took the reeking steeds to the stable, and Merwyn disappeared.He did not enter the house, for he felt that he would stifle there,and the thought of meeting his mother was intolerable. Therefore,he stole away to a secluded avenue, and strode back and forthunder the dripping trees, oblivious, in his fierce perturbation,of outward discomfort.
Mrs. Merwyn waited in vain for him to enter, then questioned theattendant.
"Faix, mum, I know nothin' at all. Mr. Willard druv home loike onepossessed, and got out at the door, and that's the last oi've seenuv 'im."
The lady received the significant tidings with mingled anxiety andsatisfaction. Two things were evident. He had become more interestedin Miss Vosburgh than he had admitted, and she, by strange goodfortune, had refused him.
"It was a piece of folly that had to come in some form, I suppose,"she soliloquized, "although I did not think Willard anything likeso sure to perpetrate it as most young men. Well, the girl hassaved me not a little trouble, for, of course, I should have beencompelled to break the thing up;" and she sat down to watch andwait. She waited so long that anxiety decidedly got the better ofher satisfaction.
Meanwhile the object of her thoughts was passing through an experienceof which he had never dreamed. In one brief hour his complacency,pride, and philosophy of life had been torn to tatters. He sawhimself as Marian saw him, and he groaned aloud in his loathing andhumiliation. He looked back upon his superior airs as ridiculous,and now felt that he would rather be a private in Strahan's companythan the scorned and rejected wretch that he was. The passionatenature inherited from his mother was stirred to its depths. Eventhe traits which he believed to be derived from his father, andwhich the calculating lawyer had commended, had secured the younggirl's most withering contempt; and he saw how she contrasted himwith her father and Mr. Lane,--yes, even with little Strahan. Inher bitter words he heard the verdict of the young men with whomhe had associated, and of the community. Throughout the summer hehad dwelt apart, wrapped in his own self-sufficiency and fanciedsuperiority. His views had been of gradual growth, and he had cometo regard them as infallible, especially when stamped with theapproval of his father's old friend; but the scathing words, yetringing in his ears, showed him that brave, conscientious manhoodwas infinitely more than his wealth and birth. As if by a revelationfrom heaven he saw that he had been measuring everything with thelittle rule of self, and in consequence he had become so mean andsmall that a generous-hearted girl had shrunk from him in loathing.
Then in bitter anger and resentment he remembered how he wastrammelled by his oath to his mother. It seemed to him that hislife was blighted by this pledge and a false education. There wasno path to her side who would love and honor only a MAN.
At last the mere physical manifestations of passion and excitementbegan to pass away, and he felt that he was acting almost like oneinsane as he entered the house.
Mrs. Merwyn met him, but he said, hoarsely, "I cannot talk withyou to-night."
"Willard, be rational. You are wet through. You will catch yourdeath in these clothes."
"Nothing would suit me better, as I feel now;" and he broke away.
He was so haggard when he came down late the next morning that hismother could not have believed such a change possible in so shorta time. "It is going to be more serious than I thought," was hermental comment as she poured him out a cup of coffee.
It was indeed; for after drinking the coffee in silence, he lookedfrowningly out of the window for a time; then said abruptly to thewaiter, "Leave the room."
The tone was so stern that the man stole out with a scared look.
"Willard," began Mrs. Merwyn, with great dignity, "you are actingin a manner unbecoming your birth and breeding."
Turning from the window, he fixed his eyes on his mother with alook that made her shiver.
At last he asked, in a low, stern voice, "Why did you bind me withthat oath?"
"Because I foresaw some unutterable folly such as you are nowmanifesting."
"No," he said, in the same cold, hard tone. "It was becauseyour cursed Confederacy was more to you than my freedom, than mymanhood,--more to you than I am myself."
"O Willard! What ravings!"
"Was my father insane when he quietly insisted on his rights,yielding you yours? What right had you to cripple my life?"
"I took the only effective means to prevent you from doing justthat for yourself."
"How have you succeeded?"
"I have prevented you, as a man of honor, from doing, under a gustof passion, what would spoil all my plans and hopes."
"I am not a man. You have done your best to prevent me from beingone. You have bound me with a chain, and made me like one of theslaves on your plantation. Your plans and hopes? Have I no rightto plans and hopes?"
"You know my first thought has been of you and for you."
"No, I do not know this. I now remember that, when you bound me,a thoughtless, selfish, indolent boy, you said that you would havetorn your heart out rather than marry my father had you foreseenwhat was coming. This miserable egotist, Jeff Davis, and his schemeof empire, cost what it may, are more to you than husband or child.A mother would have said: 'You have reached manhood and have therights of a man. I will advise you and seek to guide you. You knowmy feelings and views, and in their behalf I will even entreatyou; but you have reached that age when the law makes you free,and holds you accountable to your own conscience.' Of what valueis my life if it is not mine? I should have the right to make myown life, like others."
"You have the right to make it, but not to mar it."
"In other words, your prejudices, your fanaticism, are to take theplace of my conscience and reason. You expect me to carry a sham ofmanhood out into the world. I wish you to release me from my oath."
"Never," cried Mrs. Merwyn, with a passion now equal to his own."You have fallen into the hands of a Delilah, and she has shornyou of your manhood. Infatuated with a nameless Northern girl, youwould blight your life and mine. When you come to your senses youwill thank me on your knees that I interposed an oath that cannotbe broken between you and suicidal folly;" and she was about toleave the room.
"Stop," he said, huskily. "When I bound myself I did so withoutrealizing what I did. I was but a boy, knowing not the future. Idid it out of mere good-will to you, little dreaming of the fettersyou were forging. Since you will not release me and treat me as aman I shall keep the oath. I swore never to put on the uniform ofa Union soldier, or to step on Southern soil with a hostile purpose,but you have taught me to detest your Confederacy with implacablehate; and I shall use my means, my influence, all that I am, toaid others to destroy it."
"What! are you not going back to England with us?"
"Yes.
"
"Before you have been there a week this insane mood will pass away."
"Did my father's moods pass away?"
"Your father--" began the lady, impetuously, and then hesitated.
"My father always yielded you your just rights and maintained hisown. I shall imitate his example as far as I now may. The oath isa thing that stands by itself. It will probably spoil my life, butI cannot release myself from it."
"You leave me only one course, Willard,--to bear with you as if youwere a passionate child. You never need hope for my consent to analliance with the under-bred creature who has been the cause ofthis folly."
"Thank you. You now give me your complete idea of my manhood. Irequest that these subjects be dismissed finally between us. I makeanother pledge,--I shall be silent whenever you broach them;" andwith a bow he left the apartment.
Half an hour later he was climbing the nearest mountain, resolvedon a few hours of solitude. From a lofty height he could seethe little Vosburgh cottage, and, by the aid of a powerful glass,observed that the pony phaeton did not go out as usual, althoughthe day was warm and beautiful after the storm.
The mists of passion were passing from his mind, and in strongreaction from his violent excitement he sunk, at first, into deepdepression. So morbid was he that he cried aloud: "O my father!Would to God that you had lived! Where are you that you can giveno counsel, no help?"
But he was too young to give way to utter despondency, and at lasthis mind rallied around the words he had spoken to Marian. "I shall,hereafter, measure everything by the breadth of your woman's soul."
As he reviewed the events of the summer in the light of recentexperience, he saw how strong, unique, and noble her character was.Faults she might have in plenty, but she was above meannesses andmercenary calculation. The men who had sought her society had beenincited to manly action, and beneath all the light talk and badinageearnest and heroic purposes had been formed; he meanwhile, poorfool! had been too blinded by conceited arrogance to understandwhat was taking place. He had so misunderstood her as to imaginethat after she had spent a summer in giving heroic impulses shewould be ready to form an alliance that would stultify all heraction, and lose her the esteem of men who were proving their regardin the most costly way. He wondered at himself, but thought:--
"I had heard so much about financial marriages abroad that I hadgained the impression that no girl in these days would slight anoffer like mine. Even her own mother was ready enough to meet myviews. I wonder if she will ever forgive me, ever receive me againas a guest, so that I can make a different impression. I fear shewill always think me a coward, hampered as I am by a restraintthat I cannot break. Well, my only chance is to take up life fromher point of view, and to do the best I can. There is something inmy nature which forbids my ever yielding or giving up. So far asit is now possible I shall keep my word to her, and if she has awoman's heart she may, in time, so far relent as to give me a placeamong her friends. This is now my ambition, for, if I achieve this,I shall know I am winning such manhood as I can attain."
When Merwyn appeared at dinner he was as quiet and courteous asif nothing had happened; but his mother was compelled to note thatthe boyishness had departed out of his face, and in its stronglines she recognized his growing resemblance to his father.
Two weeks later he accompanied his mother and sisters to England.Before his departure he learned that Marian had been seriously ill,but was convalescent, and that her father had returned.
Meantime and during the voyage, with the differences natural tothe relation of mother and son, his manner was so like that of hisfather towards her that she was continually reminded of the past,and was almost led to fear that she had made a grave error in theact she had deemed so essential. But her pride and her hopes forthe future prevented all concession.
"When he is once more in society abroad this freak will pass away,"she thought, "and some English beauty will console him."
But after they were well established in a pretty villa nearcongenial acquaintances, Merwyn said one morning, "I shall returnto New York next week."
"Willard! how can you think of such a thing? I was planning tospend the latter part of the winter in Rome."
"That you may easily do with your knowledge of the city and yourwide circle of friends."
"But we need you. We want you to be with us, and I think it mostunnatural in you to leave us alone."
"I have taken no oath to dawdle around Europe indefinitely. Ipropose to return to New York and go into business."
"You have enough and more than enough already."
"I certainly have had enough of idleness."
"But I protest against it. I cannot consent."
"Mamma," he said, in the tone she so well remembered, "is not mylife even partially my own? What is your idea of a man whom bothlaw and custom make his own master? Even as a woman you chose foryourself at the proper age. What strange infatuation do you cherishthat you can imagine that a son of Willard Merwyn has no life ofhis own to live? It is now just as impossible for me to idle awaymy best years in a foreign land as it would be for me to returnto my cradle. I shall look after your interests and comfort to thebest of my ability, and, if you decide to return to New York, youshall be received with every courtesy."
"I shall never return to New York. I would much prefer to go to myplantation and share the fortunes of my own people."
"I supposed you would feel in that way, and I will do all inmy power to further your wishes, whatever they may be. My wishes,in personal matters, are now equally entitled to respect. I shallcarry them out;" and with a bow that precluded all further remonstrancehe left the room.
A day or two later she asked, abruptly, "Will you use your meansand influence against the South?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Merwyn's face became rigid, but nothing more was said. Whenhe bade her good-by there was an evident struggle in her heart,but she repressed all manifestations of feeling, and mother andson parted.
CHAPTER XVII.
COMING TO THE POINT.
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