MERWYN had been in the city some little time when Marian, unknownto him, learned of his presence. He, also, had seen her more thanonce, and while her aspect had increased his admiration and afeeling akin to reverence, it had also disheartened him. To a degreeunrecognized by the girl herself, her present motives and strongercharacter had changed the expression of her face. He had seen herwhen unconscious of observation and preoccupied by thoughts whichmade her appear grave and almost stern, and he was again assuredthat the advantages on which he had once prided himself were asnothing to her compared with the loyalty of friends now in Virginia.He could not go there, nor could he explain why he must apparentlyshun danger and hardship. He felt that his oath to his mother wouldbe, in her eyes, no extenuation of his conduct. Indeed, he believedthat she would regard the fact that he could give such a pledgeas another proof of his unworthiness to be called an American. Howcould it be otherwise when he himself could not look back upon theevent 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 beproof positive of his mother's disloyalty, and might jeopardizethe property on which she and his sisters depended for support.Moreover, while he bitterly resented Mrs. Merwyn's course towardshim he felt that honor and family loyalty required that he shouldnever speak a word to her discredit. The reflection implied inhis final words to Marian had been wrung from him in the agony ofa wounded spirit, and he now regretted them. Henceforth he wouldhide the fetters which in restraining him from taking the part inthe war now prompted by his feelings also kept him from the side ofthe girl who had won the entire allegiance of his awakened heart.He did not know how to approach her, and feared lest a false stepshould render the gulf between them impassable. He saw that herpride, while of a different character, was greater than his ownhad ever been, and that the consideration of his birth and wealth,which he had once dreamed must outweigh all things else, would notinfluence her in the slightest degree. Men whom she regarded as hisequals in these respects were not only at her feet but also facingthe enemy as her loyal knights. How pitiable a figure in her eyeshe must ever make compared with them!
But there is no gravitation like that of the heart. He felt thathe must see her again, and was ready to sue for even the privilegeof being tolerated in her drawing-room on terms little better thanthose formerly accorded him.
When he arrived in New York he had hesitated as to his course. Hisfirst impulse had been to adopt a life of severe and inexpensivesimplicity. 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 hisscrutiny, and after having learned more about her father from hislegal adviser, the impression grew upon him that he had lost hischance, and he was inclined to take refuge in a cold, proud reticenceand a line of conduct that would cause no surmises and questioningson the part of the world. He would take his natural position, andlive in such a way as to render curiosity impertinent.
He had inherited too much of his father's temperament to sit downin morbid brooding, and even were he disposed toward such weaknesshe felt that his words to Marian required that he should do allthat he was now free to perform in the advancement of the cause towhich she was devoted. She might look with something like contempton a phase of loyalty which gave only money when others were givingthemselves, but it was the best he could do. Whether she would everrecognize the truth or not, his own self-respect required that heshould keep his word and try to look at things from her point ofview, and, as far as possible, act accordingly. For a time he wasfully occupied with Mr. Bodoin in obtaining a fuller knowledge ofhis property and the nature of its investment. Having learned moredefinitely about his resources he next followed the impulse to aidthe cause for which he could not fight.
A few mornings after the interview between Marian and her fatherdescribed in the previous chapter, Mr. Vosburgh, looking over hispaper at the breakfast-table, laughed and said: "What do you thinkof this, Marian? Here is Merwyn's name down for a large donationto the Sanitary and Christian Commissions."
His daughter smiled satirically as she remarked, "Such heroismtakes away my breath."
"You are losing the power, Marian," said her mother, irritably,"of taking moderate, common-sense views of anything relating tothe war. If the cause is first in your thoughts why not recognizethe fact that Mr. Merwyn can do tenfold more with his money thanif he went to the front and 'stopped a bullet,' as your officerfriends express themselves? You are unfair, also. Instead of givingMr. 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 theinconvenience of writing two checks for amounts that he will missno more than I would five cents."
"Ask your father," resumed Mrs. Vosburgh, indignantly, "if themen who sustain these great charities and the government are notjust as useful as soldiers in the field. What would become of thesoldiers if business in the city should cease? Your ideas, carriedout fully, would lead your father to start to the front with amusket, instead of remaining where he can accomplish the most good."
"You are mistaken, mamma. My only fear is that he will incur toomany 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 ofthe cause, I would rather he should do as you suggest. I should beglad to have him give thousands and increase the volume of businessby millions; but if he gave all he has, he could not stand in myestimation with men who offer their lives and risk mutilation anduntold suffering from wounds. I know nothing of Mr. Merwyn's presentmotives, and they may be anything but patriotic. He may think it tohis advantage to win some reputation for loyalty, when it is wellknown that his mother has none at all. Those two gifts, paltryfor one of his means, count very little in these days of immenseself-sacrifice. I value, in times of danger, especially when greatprinciples are at stake, self-sacrifice and uncalculating heroismabove all things, and I prefer to choose my friends from amongthose who voluntarily exhibit these qualities. No man living couldwin my favor who took risks merely to please me. Mr. Merwyn isnothing to me, and if I should ever meet him again socially, whichis not probable, I should be the last one to suggest that he shouldgo to the war; but if he, or any one, wishes my regard, theremust be a compliance with the conditions on which I give it. I amcontent with the friends I have."
Mr. Vosburgh looked at his daughter for a moment as if she werefulfilling his ideal, and soon after departed for his office.A few days after, when the early shadows of the late autumn weregathering, he was interrupted in his preparations to return up townby 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 ofso 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 myselfor Marian in the slightest degree."
"Miss Vosburgh, no doubt, has told you of the character of our lastinterview," Merwyn began at last, plunging in medias res.
"My daughter is in the habit of giving me her confidence," was thequiet reply.
"Then, sir, you know how unworthy I am to make the request to whichI am nevertheless impelled. In justice I can hope for nothing. Ihave forfeited the privilege of meeting Miss Vosburgh again, and Ido not feel that it would be right for me to see her without yourpermission. The motives which first led me into her society were
utterly unworthy of a true man, and had she been the ordinarysociety girl that I supposed she was, the results might have beenequally deserving of condemnation. I will not plead in extenuationthat I had been unfortunate in my previous associations, and inthe influences that had developed such character as I had. Can youlisten to me patiently?"
The gentleman bowed.
"I eventually learned to comprehend Miss Vosburgh's superiority insome degree, and was so fascinated by her that I offered marriagein perfect good faith; but the proposal was made in a complacentand condescending spirit that was so perfectly absurd that now Iwonder at my folly. Her reply was severe, but not so severe as Ideserved, and she led me to see myself at last in a true light. Itis little I can now ask or hope. My questions narrow down to these:Is Miss Vosburgh disposed to give me only justice? Have I offendedher so deeply that she cannot meet me again? Had my final words noweight with her? She has inspired in me the earnest wish to achievesuch character as I am capable of,--such as circumstances permit.During the summer I saw her influence over others. She was thefirst one in the world who awakened in my own breast the desireto be different. I cannot hope that she will soon, if ever, lookupon me as a friend; but if she can even tolerate me with some degreeof kindliness and good-will, I feel that I should be the betterand happier for meeting her occasionally. If this is impossible,please say to her that the pledge implied among the last wordsuttered 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 whilethe young man's sentences had been a little formal and studied,evidently the result of much consideration; they had neverthelessthe impress of truth. The gentleman's thought was: "If Mr. Merwynmakes good his words by deeds this affair has not yet ended. Mylittle girl has been much too angry and severe not to be in dangerof a reaction."
After a moment of silence he said: "Mr. Merwyn, I can only speak formyself in this matter. Of course, I naturally felt all a father'sresentment at your earlier attentions to my daughter. Since youhave condemned them unsparingly I need not refer to them again. Irespect your disposition to atone for the past and to enter on alife of manly duty. You have my hearty sympathy, whatever may be theresult. I also thank you for your frank words to me. Nevertheless,Miss Vosburgh must answer the questions you have asked. She issupreme in her drawing-room, and alone can decide whom she willreceive there. I know she will not welcome any one whom she believesto 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 withsome degree of charity. May I call on you to-morrow and learn MissVosburgh's decision?"
"Certainly, at any hour convenient to you."
Merwyn bowed and retired. When alone he said, with a deep sigh ofrelief: "Well, I have done all in my power at present. If she hasa woman's heart she won't be implacable."
"What kept you so late?" Mrs. Vosburgh asked, as her husband camedown 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 somemusic to-night."
A few hours later they were at the Academy, occupying balconyseats. Marian was glancing over the house, between the acts, withher glass, when she suddenly arrested its motion, and fixed it ona lonely occupant of an expensive box. After a moment she handedthe lorgnette to her father, and directed him whither to look. Hesmiled and said, "He appears rather pensive and preoccupied, doesn'the?"
"I don't fancy pensive, preoccupied men in these times. Why didn'the 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 spokeof at dinner?" resumed Mr. Vosburgh, in a low tone.
"Was it Mr. Merwyn that called so late?" she asked, with a suddenintelligence in her eyes.
Her father nodded, while the suggestion of a smile hovered abouthis mouth.
"Just think of it, Marian!" said Mrs. Vosburgh. "We all might nowbe 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 someevidences of suppressed excitement in Marian, and saw that shemanaged to get a glimpse of that box more than once. Long beforethe 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 demandedmy hand with the condition that you stop the war, and inform thepoliticians that this is their quarrel, and that they must fightit out with toothpicks?"
"No; his request was more modest than that."
"You think I am dying with curiosity, but I can wait until we gethome."
When they returned, Mr. Vosburgh went to his library, for he wassomewhat owlish in his habits.
Marian soon joined him, and said: "You must retire as soon as youhave finished that cigar. Even the momentous Mr. Merwyn shall notkeep us up a second longer. Indeed, I am so sleepy already that I mayask 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 herepeated the substance of Merwyn's words.
She heard him with a perplexed little frown. "What do you think Iought 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 thenbecame your ambition to make the most and best of men over whomyou had influence, if they were worth the effort. Merwyn has beenfaulty and unmanly, as he fully admits himself, but he has provedapparently that he is not commonplace. You must take your choice,either to resent the past, or to help him carry out his betterpurposes. He does not ask much, although no doubt he hopes for farmore. In granting his request you do not commit yourself to hishopes in the least."
"Well, papa, he said that I couldn't possess a woman's heart andcast him off in utter contempt, so I think I shall have to put himon probation. But he must be careful not to presume again. I canbe friendly to many, but a friend to very few. Before he suggeststhat relation he must prove himself the peer of other friends."
CHAPTER XX.
"YOU THINK ME A COWARD."
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