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An Original Belle, a novel by Edward Payson Roe |
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Chapter 21. Fears And Perplexities |
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_ CHAPTER XXI. 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:
"Sincerely and gratefully yours, "CHARLOTTE STRAHAN."
"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!" _ |
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