Part 22 (2/2)

”Thank you. You now give me your complete idea of my manhood. I request that these subjects be dismissed finally between us. I make another pledge,--I shall be silent whenever you broach them;” and with a bow he left the apartment.

Half an hour later he was climbing the nearest mountain, resolved on a few hours of solitude. From a lofty height he could see the little Vosburgh cottage, and, by the aid of a powerful gla.s.s, observed that the pony phaeton did not go out as usual, although the day was warm and beautiful after the storm.

The mists of pa.s.sion were pa.s.sing from his mind, and in strong reaction from his violent excitement he sunk, at first, into deep depression. So morbid was he that he cried aloud: ”O my father!

Would to G.o.d that you had lived! Where are you that you can give no counsel, no help?”

But he was too young to give way to utter despondency, and at last his mind rallied around the words he had spoken to Marian. ”I shall, hereafter, measure everything by the breadth of your woman's soul.”

As he reviewed the events of the summer in the light of recent experience, he saw how strong, unique, and n.o.ble her character was.

Faults she might have in plenty, but she was above meannesses and mercenary calculation. The men who had sought her society had been incited to manly action, and beneath all the light talk and badinage earnest and heroic purposes had been formed; he meanwhile, poor fool! had been too blinded by conceited arrogance to understand what was taking place. He had so misunderstood her as to imagine that after she had spent a summer in giving heroic impulses she would be ready to form an alliance that would stultify all her action, and lose her the esteem of men who were proving their regard in the most costly way. He wondered at himself, but thought:--

”I had heard so much about financial marriages abroad that I had gained the impression that no girl in these days would slight an offer like mine. Even her own mother was ready enough to meet my views. I wonder if she will ever forgive me, ever receive me again as a guest, so that I can make a different impression. I fear she will always think me a coward, hampered as I am by a restraint that I cannot break. Well, my only chance is to take up life from her point of view, and to do the best I can. There is something in my nature which forbids my ever yielding or giving up. So far as it is now possible I shall keep my word to her, and if she has a woman's heart she may, in time, so far relent as to give me a place among her friends. This is now my ambition, for, if I achieve this, I shall know I am winning such manhood as I can attain.”

When Merwyn appeared at dinner he was as quiet and courteous as if nothing had happened; but his mother was compelled to note that the boyishness had departed out of his face, and in its strong lines she recognized his growing resemblance to his father.

Two weeks later he accompanied his mother and sisters to England.

Before his departure he learned that Marian had been seriously ill, but was convalescent, and that her father had returned.

Meantime and during the voyage, with the differences natural to the relation of mother and son, his manner was so like that of his father towards her that she was continually reminded of the past, and was almost led to fear that she had made a grave error in the act she had deemed so essential. But her pride and her hopes for the future prevented all concession.

”When he is once more in society abroad this freak will pa.s.s away,”

she thought, ”and some English beauty will console him.”

But after they were well established in a pretty villa near congenial acquaintances, Merwyn said one morning, ”I shall return to New York next week.”

”Willard! how can you think of such a thing? I was planning to spend the latter part of the winter in Rome.”

”That you may easily do with your knowledge of the city and your wide circle of friends.”

”But we need you. We want you to be with us, and I think it most unnatural in you to leave us alone.”

”I have taken no oath to dawdle around Europe indefinitely. I propose to return to New York and go into business.”

”You have enough and more than enough already.”

”I certainly have had enough of idleness.”

”But I protest against it. I cannot consent.”

”Mamma,” he said, in the tone she so well remembered, ”is not my life even partially my own? What is your idea of a man whom both law and custom make his own master? Even as a woman you chose for yourself at the proper age. What strange infatuation do you cherish that you can imagine that a son of Willard Merwyn has no life of his own to live? It is now just as impossible for me to idle away my best years in a foreign land as it would be for me to return to my cradle. I shall look after your interests and comfort to the best of my ability, and, if you decide to return to New York, you shall be received with every courtesy.”

”I shall never return to New York. I would much prefer to go to my plantation and share the fortunes of my own people.”

”I supposed you would feel in that way, and I will do all in my power to further your wishes, whatever they may be. My wishes, in personal matters, are now equally ent.i.tled to respect. I shall carry them out;” and with a bow that precluded all further remonstrance he left the room.

A day or two later she asked, abruptly, ”Will you use your means and influence against the South?”

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