OMINOUS.
SUBORDINATE only to her father and two chief friends, in Marian's
thoughts, was her enemy, for as such she now regarded Willard Merwyn.
She had felt his attentions to be humiliating from the first. They
had presented her former life, in which her own amusement and pleasure
had been her chief thought, in another and a very disagreeable
light. These facts alone would have been sufficient to awaken a
vindictive feeling, for she was no saint. In addition, she bitterly
resented his indifference to a cause made so dear by her father's
devotion and her friends' brave self-sacrifice. Whatever his
motive might be, she felt that he was cold-blooded, cowardly, or
disloyal, and such courtesy as she showed him was due to little else
than the hope of inflicting upon him some degree of humiliation.
She had seen too many manifestations of honest interest and ardent
love to credit him with any such emotion, and she had no scruples
in wounding his pride to the utmost.
Meanwhile events in the bloody drama of the war were culminating.
The Union officers were thought to have neither the wisdom to fight
at the right time nor the discretion to retreat when fighting was
worse than useless. In consequence thousands of brave men were
believed by many to have died in vain once more on the ill-fated
field of Bull Run.
One morning, the last of August, Strahan galloped to the Vosburgh
cottage and said to Marian, who met him at the door: "Orders have
come. I have but a few minutes in which to say good-by. Things
have gone wrong in Virginia, and every available man is wanted in
Washington."
His flushed face was almost as fair as her own, and gave him a boyish
aspect in spite of his military dress, but unhesitating resolution
and courage beamed from his eyes.
"Oh, that I were a man!" Marian cried, "and you would have company.
All those who are most to me will soon be perilling their lives."
"Guess who has decided to go with me almost at the last moment."
"Mr. Blauvelt?"
"Yes; I told him that he was too high-toned to carry a musket,
but he said he would rather go as a private than as an officer. He
wishes no responsibility, he says, and, beyond mere routine duty,
intends to give all his time and thoughts to art. I am satisfied
that I have you to thank for this recruit."
"Indeed, I have never asked him to take part in the war."
"No need of your asking any one in set terms. A man would have to
be either a coward, or else a rebel at heart, like Merwyn, to resist
your influence. Indeed, I think it is all the stronger because
you do not use it openly and carelessly. Every one who comes here
knows that your heart is in the cause, and that you would have been
almost a veteran by this time were you of our sex. Others, besides
Blauvelt, obtained the impulse in your presence which decided them.
Indeed, your drawing-room has been greatly thinned, and it almost
looks as if few would be left to haunt it except Merwyn."
"I do not think he will haunt it much longer, and I should prefer
solitude to his society."
"Well," laughed Strahan, "I think you will have a chance to put
one rebel to rout before I do. I don't blame you, remembering your
feeling, but Merwyn probably saved my life, and I gave him my
hand in a final truce. Friends we cannot be while he maintains his
present cold reserve. As you told me, he said he would have done
as much for any one, and his manner since has chilled any grateful
regard on my part. Yet I am under deep obligations, and hereafter
will never do or say anything to his injury."
"Don't trouble yourself about Mr. Merwyn, Arthur. I have my own
personal score to settle with him. He has made a good foil for
you and my other friends, and I have learned to appreciate you the
more. YOU have won my entire esteem and respect, and have taught me
how quickly a noble, self-sacrificing purpose can develop manhood.
O Arthur, Heaven grant that we may all meet again! How proud I
shall then be of my veteran friends! and of you most of all. You
are triumphing over yourself, and you have won the respect of every
one in this community."
"If I ever become anything, or do anything, just enter half the
credit in your little note-book," he said, flushing with pleasure.
"I shall not need a note-book to keep in mind anything that relates
to you. Your courage has made me a braver, truer girl. Arthur,
please, you won't get reckless in camp? I want to think of you
always as I think of you now. When time hangs heavy on your hands,
would it give you any satisfaction to write to me?"
"Indeed it will," cried the young officer. "Let me make a suggestion.
I will keep a rough journal of what occurs and of the scenes we
pass through, and Blauvelt will illustrate it. How should you like
that? It will do us both good, and will be the next best thing to
running in of an evening as we have done here."
Marian was more than pleased with the idea. When at last Strahan
said farewell, he went away with every manly impulse strengthened,
and his heart warmed by the evidences of her genuine regard.
In the afternoon Blauvelt called, and, with Marian and her mother,
drove to the station to take part in an ovation to Captain Strahan
and his company. The artist had affairs to arrange in the city
before enlisting, and proposed to enter the service at Washington.
The young officer bore up bravely, but when he left his mother and
sisters in tears, his face was stern with effort. Marian observed,
however, that his last glance from the platform of the cars rested
upon herself. She returned home depressed and nervously excited,
and there found additional cause for solicitude in a letter from
her father informing her of the great disaster to Union arms which
poor generalship had invited. This, as she then felt, would have
been bad enough, but in a few tender, closing words, he told her that
they might not hear from him in some time, as he had been ordered
on a service that required secrecy and involved some danger. Mrs.
Vosburgh was profuse in her lamentations and protests against her
husband's course, but Marian went to her room and sobbed until
almost exhausted.
Her nature, however, was too strong, positive, and unchastened to
find relief in tears, or to submit resignedly. Her heart was full
of bitterness and revolt, and her partisanship was becoming almost
as intense as that of Mrs. Merwyn.
The afternoon closed with a dismal rain-storm, which added to her
depression, while relieving her from the fear of callers. "O dear!"
she exclaimed, as she rose from the mere form of supper, "I have
both head-ache and heart-ache. I am going to try to get through
the rest of this dismal day in sleep."
"Marian, do, at least, sit an hour or two with me. Some one may
come and divert your thoughts."
"No one can divert me to-night. It seems as if an age had passed
since we came here in June."
"Your father knows how alone we are in the world, with no near
relatives to call upon. I think he owes his first duty to us."
"The men of the North, who are right, should be as ready to
sacrifice everything as the men of the South, who are wrong; and so
also should Northern women. I am proud of the fact that my father
is employed and trusted by his government. The wrong rests with
those who caused the war."
"Every man can't go and should not go. The business of the country
must be carried on just the same, and rich business men are
as important as soldiers. I only wish that, in our loneliness and
with the future so full of uncertainty, you would give sensible
encouragement to one abundantly able to give you wealth and the
highest position."
"Mr. Merwyn?"
"Yes, Mr. Merwyn," continued her mother, with an emphasis somewhat
irritable. "He is not an old, worn-out millionnaire, like Mr.
Lanniere. He is young, exceedingly handsome, so high-born that he
is received as an equal in the houses of the titled abroad. He has
come to me like an honorable man, and asked for the privilege of
paying his addresses. He would have asked your father had he been
in town. He was frank about his affairs, and has just received,
in his own name, a very large property, which he proposes to double
by entering upon business in New York."
"What does his mother think of his intentions toward me?" the young
girl asked, so quietly, that Mrs. Vosburgh was really encouraged.
"He says that he and his mother differ on many points, and will
differ on this one, and that is all he seemed inclined to say,
except to remark significantly that he had attained his majority."
"It was he whom you meant, when you said that some one might come
who would divert my thoughts?"
"I think he would have come, had it not been for the storm."
"Mamma, you have not given him any encouragement? You have not
compromised yourself, or me?"
Mrs. Vosburgh bridled with the beginnings of resentment, and said,
"Marian, you should know me too well--"
"There, there, mamma, I was wrong to think of such a thing; I ask
your pardon."
"I may have my sensible wishes and preferences," resumed the lady,
complacently, "but I have never yet acted the role of the anxious,
angling mamma. I cannot help wishing, however, that you would
consider favorably an offer like this one, and I certainly could
not treat Mr. Merwyn otherwise than with courtesy."
"That was right and natural of you, mamma. You have no controversy
with Mr. Merwyn; I have. I hate and detest him. Well, since he may
come, I shall dress and be prepared."
"O Marian! you are so quixotic!"
"Dear mamma, you are mistaken. Do not think me inconsiderate of
you. Some day I will prove I am not by my marriage, if I marry;"
and she went to her mother and kissed her tenderly.
Then by a sudden transition she drew herself up with the dark,
inscrutable expression that was becoming characteristic since deeper
experiences had entered into her life, and said, firmly:--
"Should I do as you suggest, I should be false to those true friends
who have gone to fight, perhaps to die; false to my father; false
to all that's good and true in my own soul. As to my heart," she
concluded, with a contemptuous shrug, "that has nothing to do with
the affair. Mamma, you must promise me one thing. I do not wish
you to meet Mr. Merwyn to-night. Please excuse yourself if he asks
for you. I will see him."
"Mark my words, Marian, you will marry a poor man."
"Oh, I have no objection to millionnaires," replied the girl,
with a short, unmirthful laugh, "but they must begin their suit in
a manner differing from that of two who have favored me;" and she
went to her room.
As Merwyn resembled his deceased parent, so Marian had inherited
not a little of her father's spirit and character. Until within
the last few months her mother's influence had been predominant,
and the young girl had reflected the social conventionalities to
which she was accustomed. No new traits had since been created. Her
increasing maturity had rendered her capable of revealing qualities
inherent in her nature, should circumstances evoke them. The flower,
as it expands, the plant as it grows, is apparently very different,
yet the same. The stern, beautiful woman who is arraying herself
before her mirror, as a soldier assumes his arms and equipments, is
the same with the thoughtless, pleasure-loving girl whom we first
met in her drawing-room in June; but months of deep and almost
tragic experience have called into activity latent forces received
from her father's soul,--his power of sustained action, of resolute
purpose, of cherishing high ideals, and of white, quiet anger.
Her toilet was scarcely completed when Willard Merwyn was announced.