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 pass 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 entitled 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?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Merwyn’s face became rigid, but nothing more was said.  When he bade her good-by there was an evident struggle in her heart, but she repressed all manifestations of feeling, and mother and son parted.

CHAPTER XVII.