FEARS AND PERPLEXITIES.
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,
"CHARLOTTE STRAHAN."
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!"