Chapter 25. A Chained Will

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_ CHAPTER XXV. A CHAINED WILL

IN due time Strahan departed, hopeful and eager to enter on the duties pertaining to his higher rank. He felt that Marian's farewell had been more than she had ever given him any right to expect. Her manner had ever been too frank and friendly to awaken delusive hopes, and, after all, his regard for her was characterized more by boyish adoration than by the deep passion of manhood. To his sanguine spirit the excitement of camp and the responsibilities of his new position formed attractions which took all poignant regret from his leave-taking, and she was glad to recognize this truth. She had failed signally to carry out her self-sacrificing impulse, when he was so ill, to reward his heroism and supplement his life with her own; and she was much relieved to find that he appeared satisfied with the friendship she gave, and that there was no need of giving more. Indeed, he made it very clear that he was not a patriotic martyr in returning to the front, and his accounts of army life had shown that the semi-humorous journal, kept by himself and Blauvelt, was not altogether a generous effort to conceal from her a condition of dreary duty, hardship, and danger. Life in the field has ever had its fascinations to the masculine nature, and her friends were apparently finding an average enjoyment equal to her own. She liked them all the better for this, since, to her mind, it proved that that the knightly impulses of the past were unspent,--that, latent in the breasts of those who had seemed mere society fellows, dwelt the old virile forces.

"I shall prove," she assured herself, proudly, "that since true men are the same now as when they almost lived in armor, so ladies in their bowers have favors only for those to whom heroic action is second nature."

Blauvelt had maintained the journal during Strahan's absence, doing more with pencil than pen, and she had rewarded him abundantly by spicy little notes, full of cheer and appreciation. She had no scruples in maintaining this correspondence, for in it she had her father's sanction, and the letters were open to her parents' inspection when they cared to see them. Indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Vosburgh enjoyed the journal almost as much as Marian herself.

After Strahan's departure, life was unusually quiet in the young girl's home. Her father was busy, as usual, and at times anxious, for he was surrounded by elements hostile to the government. Aware, however, that the army of the Potomac was being largely reinforced, that General Hooker was reorganizing it with great success, and that he was infusing into it his own sanguine spirit, Mr. Vosburgh grew hopeful that, with more genial skies and firmer roads, a blow would be struck which would intimidate disloyalty at the North as well as in the South.

Marian shared in this hopefulness, although she dreaded to think how much this blow might cost her, as well as tens of thousands of other anxious hearts.

At present her mind was at rest in regard to Mr. Lane, for he had written that his regiment had returned from an expedition on which they had encountered little else than mud, sleet, and rain. The prospects now were that some monotonous picket-duty in a region little exposed to danger would be their chief service, and that they would be given time to rest and recruit.

This lull in the storm of war was Merwyn's opportunity. The inclement evenings often left Marian unoccupied, and she divided her time between her mother's sitting-room and her father's library, where she often found her quondam suitor, and not infrequently he spent an hour or two with her in the parlor. In a certain sense she had accepted her father's suggestions. She was studying the enigma with a lively curiosity, as she believed, and had to admit to herself that the puzzle daily became more interesting. Merwyn pleased her fastidious taste and interested her mind, and the possibilities suggested by her own and her father's words made him an object of peculiar and personal interest. The very uniqueness of their relations increased her disposition to think about him. It might be impossible that he should ever become even her friend; he might become her husband. Her father's remark, "I don't know how much it might cost you to dismiss him finally," had led to many questionings. Other young men she substantially understood. She could gauge their value, influence, and attractiveness almost at once; but what possibilities lurked in this reticent man who came so near her ideal, yet failed at a vital point? The wish, the effort to understand him, gave an increasing zest to their interviews. He had asked her to be his wife. She had understood him then, and had replied as she would again if he should approach her in a similar spirit. Again, at any hour he would ask her hand if she gave him sufficient encouragement, and she knew it. He would be humility itself in suing for the boon, and she knew this also, yet she did not understand him at all. His secret fascinated her, yet she feared it. It must be either some fatal flaw in his character, or else a powerful restraint imposed from without. If it was the former she would shrink from him at once; if the latter, it would indeed be a triumph, a proof of her power, to so influence him that he would make her the first consideration in the world.

Every day, however, increased her determination to exert this influence only by firmly maintaining her position. If he wished her friendship and an equal chance with others for more, he must prove himself the equal of others in all respects. By no words would she ever now hint that he should take their course; but she allowed herself to enhance his motives by permitting him to see her often, and by an alluring yet elusive courtesy, of which she was a perfect mistress.

This period was one of mingled pain and pleasure to Merwyn. Remembering his interview with Mr. Vosburgh, he felt that he had been treated with a degree of confidence that was even generous. But he knew that from Mr. Vosburgh he did not receive full trust,--that there were certain topics which each touched upon with restraint. Even with the father he was made to feel that he had reached the limit of their friendly relations. They could advance no farther unless the barrier of his reserve was broken down.

He believed that he was dissipating the prejudices of the daughter; that she was ceasing to dislike him personally. He exerted every faculty of his mind to interest her; he studied her tastes and views with careful analysis, that he might speak to her intelligently and acceptably. The kindling light in her eyes, and her animated tones, often proved that he succeeded. Was it the theme wholly that interested her? or was the speaker also gaining some place in her thoughts? He never could be quite certain as to these points, and yet the impression was growing stronger that if he came some day and said, quietly, "Good-by, Miss Vosburgh, I am going to face every danger which any man dare meet," she would give him both hands in friendly warmth, and that there would be an expression on her face which had never been turned towards him.

A stormy day, not far from the middle of April, ended in a stormier evening. Marian had not been able to go out, and had suffered a little from ennui. Her mother had a headache, Mr. Vosburgh had gone to keep an appointment, and the evening promised to be an interminable one to the young girl. She unconsciously wished that Merwyn would come, and half-smilingly wondered whether he would brave the storm to see her.

She was not kept long in suspense, for he soon appeared with a book which he wished to return, he said.

"Papa is out," Marian began, affably, "and you will have to be content with seeing me. You have a morbidly acute conscience, Mr. Merwyn, to return a book on a night like this."

"My conscience certainly is very troublesome."

Almost before she was aware of it the trite saying slipped out, "Honest confession is good for the soul."

"To some souls it is denied, Miss Vosburgh;" and there was a trace of bitterness in his tones. Then, with resolute promptness, he resumed their usual impersonal conversation.

While they talked, the desire to penetrate his secret grew strong upon the young girl. It was almost certain that they would not be interrupted, and this knowledge led her to yield to her mood. She felt a strange relenting towards him. A woman to her finger-tips, she could not constantly face this embodied mystery without an increasing desire to solve it. Cold curiosity, however, was not the chief inspiration of her impulse. The youth who sat on the opposite side of the glowing grate had grown old by months as if they were years. His secret was evidently not only a restraint, but a wearing burden. By leading her companion to reveal so much of his trouble as would give opportunity for her womanly ministry, might she not, in a degree yet unequalled, carry out her scheme of life to make the "most and best of those over whom she had influence"?

"Many brood over an infirmity, a fault, or an obligation till they grow morbid," she thought. "I might not be able to show him what was best and right, but papa could if we only knew."

Therefore her words and tones were kinder than usual, and she made slight and delicate references to herself, that he might be led to speak of himself. At last she hit upon domestic affairs as a safe, natural ground of approach, and gave a humorous account of some of her recent efforts to learn the mysteries of housekeeping, and she did not fail to observe his wistful and deeply-interested expression.

Suddenly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she remarked: "I do not see how you manage to keep house in that great, empty mansion of yours."

"You know, then, where I live?"

"Oh, yes. I saw you descend the steps of a house on Madison Avenue one morning last fall, and supposed it was your home."

"You were undoubtedly right. I can tell you just how I manage, or rather, how everything IS managed, for I have little to do with the matter. An old family servant looks after everything and provides me with my meals. She makes out my daily menu according to her 'own will,' which is 'sweet' if not crossed."

"Indeed! Are you so indifferent? I thought men gave much attention to their dinners."

"I do to mine, after it is provided. Were I fastidious, old Cynthy would give me no cause for complaint. Then I have a man who looks after the fires and the horses, etc. I am too good a republican to keep a valet. So you see that my domestic arrangements are simple in the extreme."

"And do those two people constitute your whole household?" she asked, wondering at a frankness which seemed complete.

"Yes. The ghosts and I have the house practically to ourselves most of the time."

"Are there ghosts?" she asked, laughing, but with cheeks that began to burn in her kindling interest.

"There are ghosts in every house where people have lived and died; that is, if you knew and cared for the people. My father is with me very often!"

"Mr. Merwyn, I don't understand you!" she exclaimed, without trying to disguise her astonishment. The conversation was so utterly unlike anything that had occurred between them before that she wondered whither it was leading. "I fear you are growing morbid," she added.

"I hope not. Nor will you think so when I explain. Of course nothing like gross superstition is in my mind. I remember my father very well, and have heard much about him since he died. Therefore he has become to me a distinct presence which I can summon at will. The same is true of others with whom the apartments are associated. If I wish I can summon them."

"I am at a loss to know which is the greater, your will or your imagination."

"My imagination is the greater."

"It must be great, indeed," she said, smiling alluringly, "for I never knew of one who seemed more untrammelled in circumstances than you are, or more under the dominion of his own will."

"Untrammelled!" he repeated, in a low, almost desperate tone.

"Yes," she replied, warmly,--"free to carry out every generous and noble impulse of manhood. I tell you frankly that you have led me to believe that you have such impulses."

His face became ashen in its hue, and he trembled visibly. He seemed about to speak some words as if they were wrung from him, then he became almost rigid in his self-control as he said, "There are limitations of which you cannot dream;" and he introduced a topic wholly remote from himself.

A chill benumbed her very heart, and she scarcely sought to prevent it from tingeing her words and manner. A few moments later the postman left a letter. She saw Lane's handwriting and said, "Will you pardon me a moment, that I may learn that my FRIEND is well?"

Glancing at the opening words, her eyes flashed with excitement as she exclaimed: "The campaign has opened! They are on the march this stormy night."

"May I ask if your letter is from Strahan?" Merwyn faltered.

"It is not from Mr. Strahan," she replied, quietly.

He arose and stood before her as erect and cold as herself. "Will you kindly give Mr. Vosburgh that book?" he said.

"Certainly."

"Will you also please say that I shall probably go to my country place in a day or two, and therefore may not see him again very soon."

She was both disappointed and angry, for she had meant kindly by him. The very consciousness that she had unbent so greatly, and had made what appeared to her pride an unwonted advance, incensed her, and she replied, in cold irony: "I will give papa your message. It will seem most natural to him, now that spring has come, that you should vary your mercantile with agricultural pursuits."

He appeared stung to the very soul by her words, and his hands clinched in his desperate effort to restrain himself. His white lips moved as he looked at her from eyes full of the agony of a wounded spirit. Suddenly his tense form became limp, and, with a slight despairing gesture, he said, wearily: "It is of no use. Good-by." _

Read next: Chapter 26. Marian's Interpretation Of Merwyn

Read previous: Chapter 24. A Father's Forethought

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