THE NORTH INVADED.
Merwyn could scarcely have believed that he had sunk so low
in Marian's estimation as her words at the close of the previous
chapter indicated, yet he guessed clearly the drift of her opinion
in regard to him, and he saw no way of righting himself. In the
solitude of his country home he considered and dismissed several
plans of action. He thought of offering his services to the Sanitary
Commission, but his pride prevented, for he knew that she and others
would ask why a man of his youth and strength sought a service in
which sisters of charity could be his equals in efficiency. He also
saw that joining a regiment of the city militia was but a half-way
measure that might soon lead to the violation of his oath, since
these regiments could be ordered to the South in case of an emergency.
The prospect before him was that of a thwarted, blighted life. He
might live till he was gray, but in every waking moment he would
remember that he had lost his chance for manly action, when such
action would have brought him self-respect, very possibly happiness,
and certainly the consciousness that he had served a cause which
now enlisted all his sympathies.
At last he wrote to his mother an impassioned appeal to be released
from his oath, assuring her that he would never have any part in
the Southern empire that was the dream of her life. He cherished
the hope that she, seeing how unalterable were his feelings and
purposes, would yield to him the right to follow his own convictions,
and with this kindling hope his mind grew calmer.
Then, as reason began to assert itself, he saw that he had been absent
from the city too long already. His pride counselled: "The world
has no concern with your affairs, disappointments, or sufferings.
Be your father's son, and maintain your position with dignity. In a
few short weeks you may be free. If not, your secret is your own,
and no living soul can gossip about your family affairs, or say
that you betrayed your word or your family interests. Meanwhile,
in following the example of thousands of other rich and patriotic
citizens, you can contribute more to the success of the Union cause
than if you were in the field."
He knew that this course might not secure him the favor of one for
whom he would face every danger in the world, but it might tend to
disarm criticism and give him the best chances for the future.
He at once carried out his new purposes, and early in June returned
to his city home. He now resolved no longer to shrink and hide, but
to keep his own counsel, and face the situation like one who had
a right to choose his own career. Mr. Bodoin, his legal adviser,
received the impression that he had been quietly looking after
his country property, and the lawyer rubbed his bloodless hands in
satisfaction over a youthful client so entirely to his mind.
Having learned more fully what his present resources were, Merwyn
next called on Mr. Vosburgh at his office. That gentleman greeted
the young man courteously, disguising his surprise and curiosity.
"I have just returned from my country place," Merwyn began, "and
shall not have to go there very soon again, Can I call upon you as
usual?"
"Certainly," replied Mr. Vosburgh; but there was no warmth in his
tone.
"I have also a favor to ask," resumed Merwyn, with a slight
deepening of color in his bronzed face. "I have not been able to
follow events very closely, but so far as I can judge there is a
prospect of severe battles and of sudden emergencies. If there is
need of money, such means as I have are at your disposal."
Even Mr. Vosburgh, at the moment, felt much of Marian's repulsion
as he looked at the tall youth, with his superb physique, who spoke
of severe battles and offered "money." "Truly," he thought, "she
must be right. This man will part with thousands rather than risk
one drop of blood."
But he was too good a patriot to reveal his impression, and said,
earnestly: "You are right, Mr. Merwyn. There will be heavy fighting
soon, and all the aid that you can give the Sanitary and Christian
Commissions will tend to save life and relieve suffering."
Under the circumstances he felt that he could not use any of the
young man's money, even as a temporary loan, although at times the
employment of a few extra hundreds might aid him greatly in his
work.
Merwyn went away chilled and saddened anew, yet feeling that his
reception had been all that he had a right to expect.
There had been no lack of politeness on Mr. Vosburgh's part, but
his manner had not been that of a friend.
"He has recognized that I am under some secret restraint," Merwyn
thought, "and distrusts me at last. He probably thinks, with his
daughter, that I am afraid to go. Oh that I had a chance to prove
that I am, at least, not a coward! In some way I shall prove it
before many weeks pass."
At dinner, that evening, Mr. Vosburgh smiled significantly at
Marian, and said, "Who do you think called on me to-day?"
"Mr. Merwyn," she said, promptly.
"You are right. He came to offer--"
"Money," contemptuously completing her father's sentence.
"You evidently think you understand him. Perhaps you do; and I admit
that I felt much as you do, to-day, when he offered his purse to
the cause. I fear, however, that we are growing a little morbid on
this subject, and inclined to judgments too severe. You and I have
become like so many in the South. This conflict and its results
are everything to us, and we forget that we are surrounded by
hundreds of thousands who are loyal, but are not ready for very
great sacrifices."
"We are also surrounded by millions that are, and I cast in my lot
with these. If this is to be morbid, we have plenty of company."
"What I mean is, that we may be too hard upon those who do not
feel, and perhaps are not capable of feeling, as we do."
"O papa! you know the reason why Mr. Merwyn takes the course he
does."
"I know what you think to be the reason, and you may be right. Your
explanation struck me with more force than ever to-day; and yet,
looking into the young fellow's face, it seems impossible. He
impresses me strangely, and awakens much curiosity as to his future
course. He asked if he could call as usual, and I, with ordinary
politeness, said, 'Certainly.' Indeed, there was a dignity about
the fellow that almost compelled the word. I don't know that we
have any occasion to regret it. He has done nothing to forfeit mere
courtesy on our part."
"Oh, no," said Marian, discontentedly; "but he irritates me. I wish
I had never known him, and that I might never meet him again. I am
more and more convinced that my theory about him is correct, and
while I pity him sincerely, the ever-present consciousness of his
fatal defect is more distressing--perhaps I should say, annoying--than if
he presented some strong physical deformity. He is such a superb
and mocking semblance of a man that I cannot even think of him
without exasperation."
"Well, my dear, perhaps this is one of the minor sacrifices that
we must make for the cause. Until Merwyn can explain for himself,
he has no right to expect from us more than politeness. While I
would not take from him a loan for my individual work, I can induce
him to give much material help. In aiding Strahan, and in other
ways, he has done a great deal, and he is willing to do more. The
prospects are that everything will be needed, and I do not feel
like alienating one dollar or one bit of influence. According to
your theory his course is due to infirmity rather than to fault,
and so he should be tolerated, since he is doing the best he can.
Politeness to him will not compromise either our principles or
ourselves."
"Well, papa, I will do my best; but if he had a particle of my
intuition he would know how I feel. Indeed, I believe he does know
in some degree, and it seems to me that, if I were a man, I couldn't
face a woman while she entertained such an opinion."
"Perhaps the knowledge that you are wrong enables him to face you."
"If that were true he wouldn't be twenty-four hours in proving it."
"Well," said her father, with a grim laugh, and in a low voice,
"he may soon have a chance to show his mettle without going to
the front. Marian, I wish you would join your mother. The city is
fairly trembling with suppressed disloyalty. If Lee marches northward
I shall fear an explosion at any time."
"Leave the city!" said the young girl, hotly. "That would prove
that I possess the same traits that repel me so strongly in Mr.
Merwyn. No, I shall not leave your side this summer, unless you
compel me to almost by force. Have we not recently heard of two
Southern girls who cheered on their friends in battle with bullets
flying around them? After witnessing that scene, I should make
a pitiable figure in Captain Lane's eyes should I seek safety in
flight at the mere thought of danger. I should die with shame."
"It is well Captain Lane does not hear you, or the surgeon would
have fever to contend with, as well as wounds."
"O dear!" cried the girl. "I wish we could hear from him."
Mr. Vosburgh had nearly reached the conclusion that if the captain
survived the vicissitudes of the war he would not plead a second
time in vain.
A few evenings later Merwyn called. Mr. Vosburgh was out, and others
were in the drawing-room. Marian did not have much to say to him,
but treated him with her old, distant politeness. He felt her manner,
and saw the gulf that lay between them, but no one unacquainted with
the past would have recognized any lack of courtesy on her part.
Among the exciting topics broached was the possibility
of a counter-revolution at the North. Merwyn noticed that Marian
was reticent in regard to her father and his opinions, but he was
startled to hear her say that she would not be surprised if violent
outbreaks of disloyalty took place any hour, and he recognized her
courage in remaining in the city. One of the callers, an officer
in the Seventh Regiment, also spoke of the possibility of all the
militia being ordered away to aid in repelling invasion.
Merwyn listened attentively, but did not take a very active part in
the conversation, and went away with the words "counter-revolution"
and "invasion" ringing in his ears.
He became a close student of the progress of events, and, with his
sensitiveness in regard to the Vosburghs, adopted a measure that
taxed his courage. A day or two later he called on Mr. Vosburgh at
his office, and asked him out to lunch, saying that he was desirous
of obtaining some information.
Mr. Vosburgh complied readily, for he wished to give the young
man every chance to right himself, and he could not disguise the
fact that he felt a peculiar interest in the problem presented by
his daughter's unfortunate suitor. Merwyn was rather maladroit in
accounting for his questions in regard to the results of a counter
revolution, and gave the impression that he was solicitous about
his property.
Convinced that his entertainer was loyal from conviction and
feeling, as well as from the nature of his pecuniary interests,
Mr. Vosburgh spoke quite freely of the dangerous elements rapidly
developing at the North, and warned his host that, in his opinion,
the critical period of the struggle was approaching. Merwyn's grave,
troubled face and extreme reticence in respect to his own course
made an unfavorable impression, yet he was acting characteristically.
Trammelled as he was, he could not speak according to his natural
impulses. He felt that brave words, not enforced by corresponding
action, would be in wretched taste, and his hope was that by deeds
he could soon redeem himself. If there was a counter-revolution he
could soon find a post of danger without wearing the uniform of a
soldier or stepping on Southern soil, but he was not one to boast
of what he would do should such and such events take place. Moreover,
before the month elapsed he had reason to believe that he would
receive a letter from his mother giving him freedom. Therefore,
Mr. Vosburgh was left with all his old doubts and perplexities
unrelieved, and Marian's sinister theory was confirmed rather than
weakened.
Merwyn, however, was no longer despondent. The swift march of events
might give him the opportunities he craved. He was too young not to
seize on the faintest hope offered by the future, and the present
period was one of reaction from the deep dejection that, for a
time, had almost paralyzed him in the country.
Even as a boy he had been a sportsman, and a good shot with gun,
rifle, and pistol, but now he began to perfect himself in the use
of the last-named weapon. He arranged the basement of his house in
such a way that he could practise with his revolvers, and he soon
became very proficient in the accuracy and quickness of his aim.
According to the press despatches of the day, there was much
uncertainty in regard to General Lee's movements and plans. Mr.
Vosburgh's means of information led him to believe that the rebel
army was coming North, and many others shared the fear; but as
late as June 15, so skilfully had the Confederate leader masked
his purposes, that, according to the latest published news, the
indications were that he intended to cross the Rappahannock near
Culpepper and inaugurate a campaign similar to the one that had
proved so disastrous to the Union cause the preceding summer.
On the morning of the 16th, however, the head-lines of the leading
journals startled the people through the North. The rebel advance
had occupied Chambersburg, Pa. The invasion was an accomplished
fact. The same journals contained a call from the President for
100,000 militia, of which the State of New York was to furnish
20,000. The excitement in Pennsylvania was intense, for not only
her capital, but her principal towns and cities were endangered.
The thick-flying rumors of the past few days received terrible
confirmation, and, while Lee's plans were still shrouded in mystery,
enough was known to awaken apprehension, while the very uncertainty
proved the prolific source of the most exaggerated and direful
stories. There was immense activity at the various armories, and
many regiments of the city militia expected orders to depart at
any hour. The metropolis was rocking with excitement, and wherever
men congregated there were eager faces and excited tones.
Behind his impassive manner, when he appeared in the street, no
one disguised deeper feeling, more eager hope, more sickening fear,
than Willard Merwyn. When would his mother's letter come? If this
crisis should pass and he take no part in it he feared that he
himself would be lost.
Since his last call upon Marian he felt that he could not see her
again until he could take some decided course; but if there were
blows to be struck by citizens at the North, or if his mother's
letter acceded to his wish, however grudgingly, he could act at
once, and on each new day he awoke with the hope that he might be
unchained before its close.
The 17th of June was a memorable day. The morning press brought
confirmation of Lee's northward advance. The men of the Quaker
City were turning out en masse, either to carry the musket or for
labor on fortifications, and it was announced that twelve regiments
of the New-York militia were under marching orders. The invasion
was the one topic of conversation. There was an immense revival
of patriotism, and recruiting at the armories went on rapidly. At
this outburst of popular feeling disloyalty shrunk out of sight for
a time, and apparently the invaders who had come north as allies
of the peace party created an uprising, as they had expected, but
it was hostile to them.
The people were reminded of the threats of the Southern leaders.
The speech of Jeff Davis in the winter of 1860-61 was quoted: "If
war should result from secession, it will not be our fields that
will witness its ravages, but those of the North."
The fact that this prediction was already fulfilled stung even the
half-hearted into action, and nerved the loyalty of others, and
when it became known that the gallant Seventh Regiment would march
down Broadway en route for Pennsylvania at noon, multitudes lined
the thoroughfare and greeted their defenders with acclamations.
Merwyn knew that Marian would witness the departure, and he watched
in the distance till he saw her emerge from her home and go to a
building on Broadway in which her father had secured her a place.
She was attended by an officer clad in the uniform of a service
so dear to her, but which HE had sworn never to wear. He hastily
secured a point of observation in a building opposite, for while
the vision of the young girl awakened almost desperate revolt at
his lot, he could not resist a lover's impulse to see her. Pale,
silent, absorbed, he saw her wave her handkerchief and smile at
her friends as they passed; he saw a white-haired old lady reach
out her hands in yearning love, an eloquent pantomime that indicated
that her sons were marching under her eyes, and then she sank back
into Marian's arms.
"Oh," groaned Merwyn, "if that were my mother I could give her a
love that would be almost worship."