"YOU THINK ME A COWARD."
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.