Mr. Heath's condition excited the doctor's professional curiosity. It was an abstruse physiological problem, and spurred his zeal. By dint of patient investigation, and consultation with the family, he discovered the great interest Mr. Heath took in the pirate Klove. He questioned the groom and gardener in relation to the stranger who had been harbored by Mr. Heath, and by comparing their descriptions with others, came to the conclusion that the mysterious visitor and Klove were one and the same man. To satisfy himself clearly on that point and obtain a further clue to this singular affair, he proceeded to Freehold. Here he was not only confirmed in his conclusions, but learned, furthermore, that a gentleman, a stranger, answering closely to a description of Mr. Heath, had been noticed in attendance at the trial, and in frequent consultation with the prisoner's lawyer.
There was no longer any doubt in the doctor's mind of the existence of some connection or intimacy between the pirate and the patrician, which the mere fact of the former's having once lived in Belton would scarcely account for. He was inclined to suspect a secret tie of kinship, had it not been clearly established at the trial that Klove was born in Germany, and brought to the United States in childhood by his parents. Still cudgelling his brains for a plausible theory to account for Mr. Heath's singular proceedings, he was at length forced to refer them to some phase of hypochondria.
Mrs. Applegate was decidedly of the opinion, now, that her brother was going out of his mind. She had often heard of such cases, she informed Dr. Wattletop. Mr. Applegate had a friend who was taken so, though, to be sure, his trouble arose from the Millerite excitement, and fear of the world's coming to an end. "Of course Rufus has no dread of that kind or anything of the sort, but I do think and believe that it all grows out of his son's death, and nothing else."
"Do you really think that he is so much affected by his son's death?" asked the doctor, with an incredulous expression.
"I don't think he has been the same man since. To be sure he didn't take on so much at first, and didn't seem to realize it fully; but I believe he feels it more and more, and it is that that has made him so different from what he used to be. Poor Edna! dear me, she worries so about her father, and I'm very much afraid she'll fall sick if this continues. Her room is near his, and she says she hears him pacing the floor at all hours of the night."
"Insomnia, eh?"
"And he talks to himself so often; and then again, if you speak to him, or question him, he looks at you so vacantly without replying."
Precursory sign of cerebral disease, thought the doctor.
"It's dreadful—dreadful!" continued Mrs. Applegate. "I can't help but think sometimes that Rufus is losing his senses, and yet such a thing as insanity was never known in our family."
Dr. Wattletop had arrived at a somewhat similar conclusion. He believed Mr. Heath's disease was taking the form of monomania, brought about by the combined effects of disappointment and grief on an overwrought brain. In such a condition the distracted mind was not only readily affected by any striking or impressive event, but apt to identify itself therewith in some bizarre manner.
"It is very important in Mr. Heath's present state, Mrs. Applegate, that we should keep his mind as free as possible from any agitation. No exciting news should reach him. If it were possible to keep the newspapers from him, it would be well; but I presume that is out of the question. However, be careful and vigilant. I think he needs rest and tranquillity more than anything else now. If he would only consent to see me, and if I could only interrogate him a little, I might form a more intelligent opinion of his condition. At the last interview I had with him, we had an interchange of opinions on subjects connected with certain plans of his, and I don't think he was pleased with my comments on them; so I don't know how far my attendance on him would be acceptable now."
"He won't hear of any physician's being spoken to about him. I have tried my utmost, and Edna has pleaded; but he's as obstinate as can be, and won't listen to us," said Mrs. Applegate.
"Sorry. As it is, I am to a certain extent groping in the dark, and under the circumstances, as you can readily understand, it is very difficult to prescribe a course of treatment with any degree of confidence. I don't know what else I can say or recommend just now. As I said, prevent as far as possible any vexatious, exciting, or annoying news from reaching him. Note every symptom, and advise me."
Such commonplace advice was doubtless all that the physician could offer, as Mr. Heath stubbornly refused to see him or any other medical man, and indeed, had given himself up to such complete isolation, as to deny audience even to his business agent, and to the architect in charge of the construction of the Hospital and the Home, so that the building of those institutions was now perforce suspended. He even began to evince an aversion to the society of his family, and to avoid meeting them, took his meals by himself in his own apartments.
One Friday Klove was hanged.
The public prints of the following day were filled with details of the occurrence, and Mrs. Applegate, mindful of the doctor's injunctions, strove to keep her brother from reading them. A futile effort, though, for Mr. Heath, on finding that the newspapers were not brought to him at the usual time, rang the bell violently, and rated the servant soundly for the omission.
The magnifico was in his chamber, and looked as aged as a man of eighty. His hair and beard had turned white, his eyes were cavernous and feverishly bright. Roused momentarily by the incident just mentioned, he returned to his seat in an arm-chair near the fire, where, wrapped in a dressing-gown, he had probably passed the night, as his couch was undisturbed. He soon relapsed into a gloomy meditation, holding in his hands the folded newspaper, which he apparently hesitated and dreaded to read. Suddenly, with an effort, his fingers spread the sheet open, and he scanned the columns rapidly until his eyes rested on the account of Klove's execution. To an unusually long description of the horrible affair was appended what purported to be the confession of the malefactor, made to the clergyman in attendance, and reported verbatim. It ran thus:
CONFESSION OF KLOVE, THE PIRATE.When I was a boy I lived in Belton, in this State. My mother was a widow, for my father died the year after we came to this country from Germany. There were two of us children, me and a girl. My mother did washing for a living, and I worked for a man named Cook, who was very hard to get along with, and to him I lay all my troubles. I suppose I must forgive everybody now, as I hope to be forgiven myself, but it's mighty hard to let up on him. Now I ain't a-going to say that I didn't kill the men aboard the smack, and that I am unjustly sentenced to die; but I say this, and I believe, as I hope for mercy hereafter, that if it hadn't been for the unjust way in which I was treated when I was a boy, by that man, I wouldn't be here now. The way of it all was this: One day Cook sent me with some money to pay a bill at the store. I didn't know how much there was, but when the store-keeper counted it he said it ran short ten dollars. When I went back to Cook and told him, he got angry, and said he had given me the right sum, and I must have stolen the difference. Now he had a grudge against me, and I believe he never gave me the money, but wanted to get me into trouble. I knew I couldn't have lost it, and the shop-keeper counted it before my eyes, and he couldn't have taken it. Howsomever, Cook swore I stole the money, and they locked me up. They didn't keep me long, though, for they couldn't bring any proof, and was obliged to let me off. But I couldn't stay in Belton after that, for no one would employ me, and they all shunned me for a thief. So I left the place and went to New York, but as I was a stranger there, and didn't know any one, I couldn't find work. Then I shipped for a three years' cruise, for I thought by that time all would be forgot, and I could go back home. As bad luck would have it, my shipmates found out that I had been locked up for thieving, and when one of the crew had his chest broken open, and some things missing, they laid it to me. I was innocent, but they wouldn't believe it, and the character I had got went against me, and I wasn't spared a bit. The captain abused me, the mate rope's-ended me, and the men kicked me and called me jail-bird, until I was more miserable than a dog. My whole feelings were changed. I got bitter and revengeful, and if it hadn't been that I couldn't get away I would have knived some of my shipmates. When the vessel touched at the Sandwich Islands, I ran away and knocked about with the beach-combers, a wicked set of outcasts, until I became bad as any of them. I lived among the Islands several years. I shipped again, ran down to Valparaiso, and made several voyages up and down the coast. One day I got into a drunken row in a pulqueria, and stabbed a Chilian. This caused me to be sent to work in the mines as a convict. I got away from there after staying three years and shipped in a French ship to Bordeaux, and from there I got to New York. I hadn't been in the States for ten years, and all that time I hadn't heard anything from my folks. I had become so reckless as to have no wish to see any of them. When in New York I went one night to a dance-house in Cherry Street, and there among the women I found my sister. We didn't know each other at first, but I discovered her by a queer scar on her neck, which she got from a burn when a child. After questioning her, I found out that my mother took on so about me that she left Belton soon after I did, and went to New York. There she fell sick, and died in want, and there was my sister a degraded creature. What little good was left in me was turned by this sight into bad, and I swore to be even with a world that had been so unjust to me and mine. The old feeling of vengeance rose up in my breast—the devil got hold of me, and I thought of Cook. That night I started off to find him, and went to Belton. I hung around there till I found out he was dead and gone some years. If he had been living I would have killed him, sure. All that's wrong, I know, but I couldn't help it. Then I felt just like waging war on all the world. I went to California, and kept a drinking shop on what they called the Barbary coast, where I used to rob miners. Finally I shot one that showed fight, and the Vigilance Committee drove me off, and I came back to the States and went to New Orleans, staid awhile, and came north. I knocked around New York for a time, and finally shipped on the smack, where I committed the deed that's brought me here. The world has got the best of me at last, and it was very wrong and sinful for me to kill the men, and it is right that I should suffer for it and be hung; I ain't a-going to deny that; but I know this and repeat it, that if I had been treated right when a boy, if I hadn't been accused of stealing when I was innocent, I wouldn't be here now, and my sister wouldn't have been ruined. We might have been as happy and as good as any, so let Almighty God judge. Before I go I want to say this: that in the trial I was fairly treated, and I want to publicly thank all those people who were so kind to me. One gentleman has been very good to me, did all he could to help me, and I can't be too grateful to him. He happened just to have remembered me when I was a boy and lived in Belton, and to this kind and benevolent man, I say, may God bless him and reward him.
CONFESSION OF KLOVE, THE PIRATE.
When I was a boy I lived in Belton, in this State. My mother was a widow, for my father died the year after we came to this country from Germany. There were two of us children, me and a girl. My mother did washing for a living, and I worked for a man named Cook, who was very hard to get along with, and to him I lay all my troubles. I suppose I must forgive everybody now, as I hope to be forgiven myself, but it's mighty hard to let up on him. Now I ain't a-going to say that I didn't kill the men aboard the smack, and that I am unjustly sentenced to die; but I say this, and I believe, as I hope for mercy hereafter, that if it hadn't been for the unjust way in which I was treated when I was a boy, by that man, I wouldn't be here now. The way of it all was this: One day Cook sent me with some money to pay a bill at the store. I didn't know how much there was, but when the store-keeper counted it he said it ran short ten dollars. When I went back to Cook and told him, he got angry, and said he had given me the right sum, and I must have stolen the difference. Now he had a grudge against me, and I believe he never gave me the money, but wanted to get me into trouble. I knew I couldn't have lost it, and the shop-keeper counted it before my eyes, and he couldn't have taken it. Howsomever, Cook swore I stole the money, and they locked me up. They didn't keep me long, though, for they couldn't bring any proof, and was obliged to let me off. But I couldn't stay in Belton after that, for no one would employ me, and they all shunned me for a thief. So I left the place and went to New York, but as I was a stranger there, and didn't know any one, I couldn't find work. Then I shipped for a three years' cruise, for I thought by that time all would be forgot, and I could go back home. As bad luck would have it, my shipmates found out that I had been locked up for thieving, and when one of the crew had his chest broken open, and some things missing, they laid it to me. I was innocent, but they wouldn't believe it, and the character I had got went against me, and I wasn't spared a bit. The captain abused me, the mate rope's-ended me, and the men kicked me and called me jail-bird, until I was more miserable than a dog. My whole feelings were changed. I got bitter and revengeful, and if it hadn't been that I couldn't get away I would have knived some of my shipmates. When the vessel touched at the Sandwich Islands, I ran away and knocked about with the beach-combers, a wicked set of outcasts, until I became bad as any of them. I lived among the Islands several years. I shipped again, ran down to Valparaiso, and made several voyages up and down the coast. One day I got into a drunken row in a pulqueria, and stabbed a Chilian. This caused me to be sent to work in the mines as a convict. I got away from there after staying three years and shipped in a French ship to Bordeaux, and from there I got to New York. I hadn't been in the States for ten years, and all that time I hadn't heard anything from my folks. I had become so reckless as to have no wish to see any of them. When in New York I went one night to a dance-house in Cherry Street, and there among the women I found my sister. We didn't know each other at first, but I discovered her by a queer scar on her neck, which she got from a burn when a child. After questioning her, I found out that my mother took on so about me that she left Belton soon after I did, and went to New York. There she fell sick, and died in want, and there was my sister a degraded creature. What little good was left in me was turned by this sight into bad, and I swore to be even with a world that had been so unjust to me and mine. The old feeling of vengeance rose up in my breast—the devil got hold of me, and I thought of Cook. That night I started off to find him, and went to Belton. I hung around there till I found out he was dead and gone some years. If he had been living I would have killed him, sure. All that's wrong, I know, but I couldn't help it. Then I felt just like waging war on all the world. I went to California, and kept a drinking shop on what they called the Barbary coast, where I used to rob miners. Finally I shot one that showed fight, and the Vigilance Committee drove me off, and I came back to the States and went to New Orleans, staid awhile, and came north. I knocked around New York for a time, and finally shipped on the smack, where I committed the deed that's brought me here. The world has got the best of me at last, and it was very wrong and sinful for me to kill the men, and it is right that I should suffer for it and be hung; I ain't a-going to deny that; but I know this and repeat it, that if I had been treated right when a boy, if I hadn't been accused of stealing when I was innocent, I wouldn't be here now, and my sister wouldn't have been ruined. We might have been as happy and as good as any, so let Almighty God judge. Before I go I want to say this: that in the trial I was fairly treated, and I want to publicly thank all those people who were so kind to me. One gentleman has been very good to me, did all he could to help me, and I can't be too grateful to him. He happened just to have remembered me when I was a boy and lived in Belton, and to this kind and benevolent man, I say, may God bless him and reward him.
Rufus Heath read those lines with dilated eyes and shortened breath, like one undergoing the rack. When he had finished, he let the paper drop and uttered a deep groan. His head sank back on his chair, and he pressed his hands over his temples and brow as if to smother distracting thoughts. He remained thus for some time, until a light hand was placed on his shoulder, when he started as if it had been a blow.
The intruder was Edna, who, having knocked at the door and receiving no reply, had entered the room with some anxiety. "Father, dear father, how you frighten me! What ails you? Are you in pain?" exclaimed she, alarmed at his wild aspect. "Do tell me, please tell me, what is the matter?"
"Matter—matter," repeated Mr. Heath abstractedly, as he rose and walked towards the window. "No—no—nothing, child, nothing. Why do you—Ring the bell for James and leave me—leave me, I tell you. I have business to occupy me." He was rattling his fingers nervously on the window-panes as he spoke, and looking vacantly out. His daughter strove to draw him aside, and looking in his face asked anxiously if she might be permitted to send for a physician. "I'm sure there's something the matter with you—you look so very, very strange. Do please, father, may I?"
"No, no, no! Leave me, Edna, and do as I bid you." She obeyed, and Mr. Heath made a struggle to regain his self-possession. When the servant came, he directed him to bring a decanter of brandy. As soon as it was brought, with a trembling hand he poured out a tumblerful and gulped it down. It seemed to affect him no more than so much water, and pacing the room, he forced a laugh as he soliloquized: "Idiot, idiot, and threefold fool! What is it to me that this vagabond and ruffian has met his deserts? Nothing, surely nothing. Then why should I worry about it? Why should I be tormented and maddened by it? Those who murder must expect to be hung. A man is responsible only for his own crimes—the crimes he himself commits, and surely none other, none other. What a monstrous, cruel, wicked doctrine it would be that would hold men to account for the remote and indirect consequences of trivial and commonplace acts. Skilful lawyers cheat justice every day; thousands and thousands of villains have been rescued from the clutches of the law by their paid advocates, and set loose on society, to again plunder and kill. As well hold these advocates responsible for the crimes subsequently committed by their clients, as to tax me with—pshaw! it's too absurd to deserve a moment's thought. What a simpleton I am to quake like a puny child because a low ruffian meets his merited fate! How ridiculous—absurd—preposterous! No, no; I am getting old and childish—old and childish," he continued to croon, until interrupted by the entrance of a servant with luncheon, who was quickly bidden to withdraw.
The luncheon remained untouched.
Again in the arm-chair, and staring with a look of despair at the fire; again torturing thoughts seethe in his brain. The pirate Klove was hung yesterday for murder. What a blood-stained desperado he was, and what a life he had led! Where was his soul now? Who would exchange places with him to gain the whole world? And all this had arisen, he said, from the dishonesty of some one who had caused him to be unjustly accused of stealing a small sum of money. What a flimsy and shameless apology! What an atrocious attempt to shift the responsibility of hellish deeds to other shoulders; to drag some innocent person to everlasting perdition with him! Suppose Cook, his employer, had really given him the money, and had no intention of wrongfully accusing him—what then? Perhaps the money was lost, and if so, if any one had found it they would naturally have kept it. Of course, anybody would do that. It's a very common thing for persons to do. It is an everyday occurrence. No one but a fool would act otherwise. Ten dollars is but a trifle, and to attribute to the loss of a sum so paltry such terrible, awful consequences, is simply ridiculous. But the boy should not have been allowed to rest under the imputation of having stolen it. He should have been saved from arrest. They discharged him—yes, they discharged him. He was not long imprisoned. True, but he should have been cleared from suspicion at any cost—any cost! His innocence proclaimed in thunder tones far and wide! To omit that was wrong, fearfully, bitterly wrong! Not doing so, forced him to leave home in disgrace; made him an outcast, killed his mother, drove his sister to shame. Horror!... And he thanked the kind gentleman who had been so good to him, and with his dying breath, bade God bless and reward him! "O Christ, help—help me!"
These last words escaped from Mr. Heath in a lacerating cry. He pressed his hands to his face as if to shut out some horrifying sight, and remained so until he gradually fell into a dreamy stupor. The excited mind ceased to work, and became numb. Luminous images floated before his mental vision, and kaleidoscopic interminglings of uncouth objects and faces.
Then the wearied and distracted brain lapsed into a feverish slumber—a slumber alive with fearful visions. He dreamt he was in a prison-cell. It was night, and the grated door swung open to admit the jailer and hangman. They pinioned him, and led him out to the scaffold. At the foot of the gallows lay a coffin, containing the corpse of Klove, with horribly distorted features. The hangman was about pulling a cap over his face, when Mr. Heath awoke with trembling limbs, and a cold sweat starting from every pore.
It was evening, for he had lain in that stupor and sleep for hours. Again he resorted to the brandy to dissipate the lingering impressions of the frightful nightmare, and then rang the bell. The servant appeared, and desired to know what his master wanted. Nothing—nothing. Yes, to have light in the library—he would read. Did Mr. Heath wish to have dinner brought up to him? No, no; leave me—leave me. The man lit the gas in the library, replenished the grate, and left.
The library was the room adjoining Mr. Heath's, and thither he went. He took a volume from a shelf, and returned to his apartment; then resumed his seat and lethargic stare at the fire. The book fell unheeded from his grasp.
Hours passed, and again the coarse, distorted, purple features of Klove appeared—once the countenance of a timid boy, who stood falsely accused and cowering before a stern magistrate; thence driven by a storm of hisses, and flying from home, followed by a widowed mother and child-sister. And the brandTHIEFclings to the hapless lad, and enmeshes him in a web of misfortune; now reckless with despair, he plunges into vice and crime, until the law forces him to yield up his spotted soul on the gallows!
And how fared the real thief?
He, sly and sharp, in sudden glee at his trover, bought with it a lottery ticket that drew a prize. This windfall, shrewdly invested, brought him a fortune, then an heiress; and thus he waxed in wealth and station, until he became one whose possessions bred envy, and whose position commanded respect; while the innocent and wrongly accused boy became an outcast, a criminal—an assassin! Driven to perdition by the wealthy and respectable citizen!
"It's a dream—a dream. The foolish dream of an enfeebled man, whose reason and judgment are failing and wandering; who is frightened at shadows conjured by his imagination. My mind wanders. Why will those dreadful thoughts return? That sinking terror!"
"I must leave this room—this place—for the air is full of jibing imps!... I must go, for all this luxury mocks me. Away from this roof—from these ponderous walls, that are loaded with iniquity, or they will fall and crush me.... In some quiet, retired spot I may live in happiness and peace...."
Mr. Heath left his room, and with stealthy steps descended the stairs. It was late; the house was silent; all had retired for the night save he. With nimble fingers he opened the hall-door noiselessly, and went out on the lawn. He was bareheaded, and in his dressing-gown and slippers. The night was dark, gloomy, and rainy. The cold drops falling on his unprotected head seemed to soothe and refresh him.
"So, so—this is better," he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. "How dreadful was all that pomp and glitter! How fortunate I am to have escaped from those torturing, horrible riches! That wealth was consuming me like licking flames—that load of ill-gotten money crushing my poor brain—my poor brain. Now I am free, free! and will seek a home where poverty, and peace, and happiness abide."
With almost preternatural adroitness he picked his way, in spite of the obscurity, over his grounds and out at a postern gate to the open road. He walked along rapidly, and seemed intent on reaching the town. He changed his apparent intention, however, for he retraced his steps and turned abruptly into a by-path that led along the river-side. On he went towards the cliff, proceeding as unerringly as if in broad daylight, and without the slightest hesitation, guided, perhaps, by some instinct similar to the marvellous second-sight of the somnambulist. The least deviation might have brought him to the edge of the precipice. At length he reached the foot-bridge. It was a frail structure of wood spanning the chasm, with its ends resting on the lofty basaltic walls. Mr. Heath was about to cross this bridge, but stopped midway and gazed in the direction of the town only to be distinguished by the faint glimmer of a few lights. He seemed absorbed in reflection, and stood there in that wild, rainy night, unmindful of the cold and wet, and motionless amid the continual thunder of the falling waters, visible through the blackness in swiftly agitated scrolls of snowy foam. But his thoughts were elsewhere; back to the time when he was a young man beginning life, and had seen the boy Klove standing on that bridge with his little sister by him! The two children were staring in open-eyed awe at the appalling depth below them, and the boy held the girl tightly by the hand in precaution. It seemed but yesterday. He, Heath, then a clerk, was taking some papers to Mr. Obershaw, when he passed those two innocent children on the bridge. Better for them—far better, had he flung them both into the raging torrent below! Again he met the boy at old Van Slyke's store. There was a dispute about a missing bank-note, and the lad was in dismay at the loss. He, Heath, had seen the note fall on the floor, and put his foot on it. He could distinctly recall the feeling of gratification with which he slyly secured it, and the singular superstitious prompting that induced him to buy a lottery ticket with it. That bank-note had borne him luck, and proved the corner-stone of his opulence and grandeur; and its loss had entailed the destruction of two souls! What fearful, fatal results from so light a theft! How deeply had the boy fallen—a malefactor, a deeply-dyed murderer, and his sister—that helpless child! O Christ! that awful conscience-throe! Why had he not sent them both to eternity then? Better for them and for him. Mercy, mercy! that terrible lead-like load is coming again, and pressing—pressing so fearfully on the throbbing brain. Help—O God!... Easier now—and hark! A voice seems calling to him. No, it's but the sighing wind. Oh for rest, and forgetfulness, and peace! Rest and oblivion. Take all—all! and give me that. Cannot wealth buy it? It is there, though—down there! How quietly those black boulders sleep amid that boiling foam. One leap and I am free!
With a frantic toss of his arms Rufus Heath flung himself off the bridge. A form vanished into the dark abyss, and all was over. Sullenly and persistently, as before, the Passaic plunged over the steep, bearing in its rapid tide the magnifico of Belton, like a drifting log.
Early the next morning, as some artisans were going to their work and walking along the riversde, their attention was attracted by a partly submerged object near the bank. It was the body of Rufus Heath, kept to the surface by the swirl of an eddy. With the assistance of a boat, the corpse was drawn ashore, and kept there until the coroner could be summoned. Like wild-fire the news spread through Belton, and crowds hurried to see the drowned body of its chief citizen.
And then through the circle of gaping, curious spectators came a cry of anguish that separated them like the thrust of a sword; and they hustled aside as the daughter hastened with faltering steps to her dead father. With clasped hands, knit brows, and brimming eyes the poor child knelt to embrace the wet and bruised head. Her low quivering sobs awed them all, until George Gildersleeve, tenderly unclasping her clinging arms, raised her fainting form, and bore her away.
The huge battlemented villa on the cliff was a gloomy enough residence since the death of its owner. The remaining occupants, oppressed by their bereavement, moved about the silent rooms like shadows. Mrs. Applegate was of the opinion that a change of scene was absolutely necessary to dissipate Edna's excessive grief, and that a continued stay in their present habitation might tend to impair her health. Edna, however, seemed reluctant to leave her home, and it was only at the urgent solicitation of the Mumbies that she did so. Mr. Mumbie was one of the executors of Mr. Heath's will, and was also appointed Edna's guardian. Mr. Mumbie felt the loss of his old friend Rufus Heath deeply. His first impulse was to put his whole family in mourning, but on second thoughts he confined himself to delivering a eulogy on the character of the deceased to every one he met, prefacing it by the sage remark, solemnly delivered, that it was a very sudden death. As this was a proposition that did not admit of much controversy, the listener generally coincided. "Ah! sir, such is life," continued Mr. Mumbie, addressing Dr. Wattletop, who added, "And death."
"Very true—and death," repeated Mr. Mumbie, pausing to reflect, as if this side of the axiom had never struck him before, "and death, as you very justly remark. Ah! sir, at a moment like the present, how hollow everything looks! What's money at a time like this? How transitory and vain are our pursuits—everything, in fact!"
"Paper-mills, for instance," observed the doctor.
"Yes, sir, every worldly matter; and the reflection will force itself upon us, that in the midst of life we are in death, and there's no use kicking against it. Now Mr. Heath was a very peculiar man; I knew him thoroughly. We had been much together from boyhood, and we were always like brothers—if anything, rather more intimate and affectionate than brothers. We began life together; to be sure, I had a little the start of him, but then our tastes and sympathies were exactly alike to a shade. Mr. Heath, sir (impressively), was a very remarkable man—very remarkable man, indeed. He was not only a scholar, and a Christian, but a gentleman as well. He was also, if I may be allowed the expression, a high-toned man—very high-toned indeed, sir. He was a man of wonderful abilities, wide scope (with a circular flourish to exemplify the scope), and great grasp (clenching his large fist)—great grasp of intellect. I will state to you, and I trust you will see the importance of not repeating it—I will state to you in confidence, that I was consulted in regard to a plan on foot—a plan in which our most eminent men were engaged: I am not at liberty to divulge names, but it is sufficient to say that they were our most super-eminent men; consulted, sir, in regard to a plan that would eventually have set Mr. Heath on the very pinnacle of greatness—the very pinnacle."
"Rather an uncomfortable seat, I should fancy," commented the doctor.
Mr. Mumbie stared with a puzzled expression at the physician. He never could understand him, and took refuge in repeating the eulogy in succession to Blanks the stationer, and to Snopple the photographer. Mr. Snopple acquiesced fully in Mr. Mumbie's estimate of Mr. Heath's character and virtues, and stated that any one could see with half an eye, by merely looking at a portrait of the defunct gentleman, that he was no ordinary mortal, but had a very instructive and superior physiognomy; and that, by the bye, reminded him that he had in his studio a very fine negative representing Mr. Heath in three-quarter face and characteristic pose, from which copies could be struck off, which he would agree to furnish colored, if preferred, in the highest style of art, for twenty dollars each, frame included; and which would be an ornament to any parlor, and one that no family in Belton should be without.
Mr. Mumbie said he would see about it. Mr. Mumbie had no time to think of anything just then. He was overwhelmed with the responsibilities thrust upon him.
"The fiduciary obligations imposed on me by the death of my friend Mr. Heath, are very great—very great indeed, and onerous (with a sigh). Still it is a duty I must perform; a sacred trust and burden I must accept. We must all bow to the decrees of Providence;" and Mr. Mumbie, to console himself, cast up mentally the fees the executorship was likely to bring him, which completed and perfected his reconcilement to the decrees of Providence.
To do him justice, he was a faithful guardian and trustee; and as for his wife, she outdid herself in motherly solicitude for the young heiress, whom she immediately took under her protecting wing.
Edna, Mrs. Mumbie insisted, must come and live with her. She must be removed at once from the painful associations connected with her old home, as Mrs. Applegate had very wisely advised, and her guardian's family was the place for her. Edna complied, and the Mumbies treated her like a favorite child. The best room in the house was allotted to her, and nothing was considered too good for dear Edna. So the stately dwelling of the late Mr. Heath was abandoned, and given over to the care of the gardener, as Mrs. Applegate, who had been handsomely provided for in her brother's will, departed to take up her residence in Philadelphia with an aged relative.
Mrs. Mumbie had ulterior views in regard to Edna. The desirableness of securing that young lady as a helpmeet for her son Bob, had not escaped the attention of this sagacious and good mother, and she decided to bring it about. Let us add, too, that whatever Mrs. Mumbie determined to do she generally accomplished, as her husband had discovered at the outset of his connubial life. Mr. Mumbie had a very high opinion of his spouse's ability, and no little dread of her temper. She came of one of the very first of the celebrated first-families of Virginia, the Skinners, and was connected, moreover, on her mother's side with the Yallabushas of Mississippi. Everybody had heard of her father, Colonel Roger Skinner, of Pokomoke, one of the first poker-players of his day, whose true Southern hospitality and peach-brandy were the themes of universal commendation. Mumbie met the fascinating Miss Sallie Skinner first at Saratoga, where he at once succumbed to the potent bewitchment of her raven hair and brilliant eyes. He ventured, after many misgivings, to propose, and was accepted, much to his surprise and delight, as he had hardly dared to hope that such a divinity would link herself with an ordinary mortal. Other people, who had heard the vivacious belle ridicule poor Mumbie's large ears and amorphous feet, marvelled too; but the truth was she had accepted him in a fit of spite at some recreant lover's desertion. Of course the marriage was considered amésalliancein the aristocratic circles of Pokomoke, and the bride's relatives for a while treated the paper-maker rather contemptuously, but as poker and peach-brandy had seriously impaired the substance of the Skinner family, they gradually became reconciled to the match, and condescended to accept largess from the wealthy manufacturer. Mr. Mumbie had a heart corresponding in size to his ears and feet, and proved a perfect dove and treasure of a husband. Malicious tongues said he dared not be otherwise, for the first and only time he attempted to cross his wife, she simply flung herself on the carpet, and beat a tattoo with her heels, screeching terribly the while, until Mumbie, frightened and subjected, promised anything and everything to avoid a repetition of the scene. This, to be sure, was in the early period of their union. Now Mr. Mumbie, through long servitude, was so thoroughly broken to harness and under control, and Mrs. Mumbie had gained such undisputed and serene ascendancy, that stratagems were unnecessary, and she ruled through superior force of character.
This was the energetic and ingenious lady who determined to direct the destiny of her husband's ward, and relieve her from the trouble and difficulty of selecting a husband. To gain her ends, she surrounded Edna with every attention, and was more than a mother to her in fact, pending the time when she would be one in law. The young heiress began to find herself installed as a being of immense importance, and was much surprised at the vast amount of consideration shown to her by her elders. She was shrewd enough to suspect that much of it was due to her wealth, and despised it accordingly; for there was too much good sense in the girl, and her character was too frank and independent to yield readily to the pernicious influence of parasitism.
The correspondence which had been kept up with regularity between Edna and her soldier-lover was interrupted by the death of her father, Mark's intuitive delicacy forbidding him for a time from intruding on the grief of a mourning daughter, further than in sending a formal letter of condolence. It must be admitted, too, that Edna in her grief had but few thoughts to bestow on the suitor who was serving another mistress in the swamps of the Chickahominy. At length, to make amends for her negligence, she wrote him a long epistle, the superscription of which happened to meet Miss Ada Mumbie's eye. Notwithstanding the intimacy existing between the two young ladies, and contrary to the usual custom in such cases, Miss Heath had never confided her tender regard for Mark Gildersleeve to her friend Miss Mumbie. The latter, anxious to know if any such feeling existed, taxed Edna with it, and affected pique at her want of confidence. That young lady at once, with a blush, admitted the soft impeachment. Ada Mumbie was an outspoken young lady, and took after her mamma in respect to having an opinion of her own. She raised her eyebrows very significantly at Edna's confession, saying: "Why—Ed-na Heath, the i-dea! I declare, I am surprised beyond anything. I never would have thought it. He may be a very industrious, excellent young man, butsovery much your inferior in every way. Why, he's not even a person you could flirt with, much less correspond. His brother is an exceedingly common man—exceedingly so. Why, what can you be thinking of?"
Edna, nettled at this, bridled up and answered, "I don't know what you mean by so much my inferior. He's far cleverer than I am, or you either, Ada. He's very refined and polite and gentlemanly, I'm sure; and just as good as gold."
"Mercy on us, Edna! I declare I didn't know you were so very much interested in him, or I wouldn't have ventured to say a word. To be sure, my acquaintance with the gentleman is so very slight that I am hardly competent to judge of him. I expressed myself as I did solely out of friendship for you. You know very well that the position you occupy in society, and your large fortune—"
"Ada, you might have spared me that last remark," interrupted Edna in a vexed tone. "I hear so much about my fortune—my wealth, that I detest the very mention of it. Oblige me, please, by never again alluding to it in my presence."
"Well, dear, don't let us quarrel over it. I'm sorry, and promise you I'll never say another word about it: there now;" said Miss Mumbie, and Edna kissed her friend in token of amity and restored concord. The friend intended to be a valuable auxiliary to her mamma in bringing about, in time, a match between her brother Bob and the young heiress; but she found she had made a misstep. Thus far, though attentive and agreeable in his clumsy way, Bob did not seem to make any appreciable progress in his suit. When his sister imparted the discovery she had made, to wit: that he had a rival, and one that Edna seemed to evince considerable partiality for, he redoubled his efforts to please. Unfortunately, Bob was not a being calculated to captivate the fair. His physical graces were few, and his mental less, and he only served to amuse Miss Heath until he succeeded in boring her. She, rightfully ascribing this increase of homage on the part of the enamored Bob to her ingenuous declaration to his sister, rather regretted it, especially as she feared having perhaps shown too much warmth in her defence of Mark Gildersleeve. Thenceforth by a tacit understanding, the subject was not again referred to between the two girls.
Mrs. Mumbie, on learning of the danger to her son's prospects, determined to nip it in the bud. "I am really astonished," said she to her husband, "that so well-bred a girl could have allowed her thoughts to stray away so unguardedly. A machinist, dear me, how low! Working with a hammer—all over oil, and grease, and smoke. It's positively amazing what crazy notions girls will get in their heads. I suppose, though, it's all owing to his turning soldier. Of course, it's nothing but a mere girlish fancy, but it might grow unless checked. Change of scene and a new train of ideas will soon dissipate the foolish whim. A tour abroad is just the very thing—the very thing. Mr. Mumbie, we must go to Europe."
"But, my dear, it's impossible to go now. I can't leave—"
"Mr. Mumbie, we must go to Europe," was repeated with emphasis, "and the sooner the better. Speak to Edna on the subject at once—she needs the voyage. Ada needs it—so does Bob. It's time they saw something of the world, and it will improve their minds vastly."
Mr. Mumbie did as he was bid. Edna was delighted at the idea of a trip to Europe, and readily assented to her guardian's proposal. At the same time he deemed it well to improve the opportunity, in view of what he had learnt respecting his ward's inclinations, by imparting some information which might tend to give her a better estimate of her worth and position in the world than she seemed to possess.
"Edna, I believe I have never spoken a word to you about business matters. I thought it would be as well to get everything into shape before I said anything. Of course it is something that you don't know much about, and yet I suppose I ought to ascertain if you've any wishes in regard to the management of the estate, and so forth. If so, I am ready to take them into consideration," said Mr. Mumbie.
"I have one wish, sir," said Edna.
"Well, what is it?"
"I should like to have father's intentions carried out in regard to building the Home and the Hospital, exactly as if he were alive," said Edna earnestly.
"But, my child, that would cost a great deal of money, a very great deal, and—"
"I don't care if it takes all the estate; I presume there is enough to do it," said Edna decidedly.
"Of course there's enough and more than enough, but I should not be justified or permitted to use any funds in that way. So there's no use in saying anything more about it now. When you come of age, why then, we can talk it over again if you're of the same mind. Now, Edna," continued Mr. Mumbie, taking up a roll of paper, "I've got something to show you that will interest you. I have prepared and completed, after a great deal of labor, an inventory of your late lamented father's estate. The estimates are, if anything, in many cases below the real values. Here is the schedule—and what do you think it all foots up? What do you think it all amounts to in dollars and cents?"
"I don't know," replied Edna. "A great deal, I've no doubt."
"But guess—try and guess," insisted Mr. Mumbie with an air of triumph.
"Please don't ask me; I'd rather not," said Edna seriously.
"Rather not!" repeated Mr. Mumbie with astonishment; "why, bless me, why not? Don't you want to know how much you are worth?"
"No—no—" said Edna quickly, and shaking her head.
"Why—why not?"
"Because—because—" said Edna, her eyes suddenly moistening, and sensitive mouth quivering.
Mr. Mumbie looked perplexed. "Why, Edna, it is clearly your duty that you should gain some knowledge of the way in which the vast fortune you have inherited is invested. You must begin to learn something about it, and about taking care of it. It is very seldom that so young a person is so fortunate as to have such riches left them, and—"
Edna burst into tears. "Oh, please, sir, don't say anything to me about it now. I suppose it's very wrong in me, but they all talk to me so about my wealth, that it makes me feel wretched. They appear to envy me—and to think I ought to be so happy in being rich, until it seems as if they thought I had profited by my poor—poor father's death. I wish I were poor and had nothing."
This is very extraordinary indeed, thought Mr. Mumbie, who imagined he had prepared a pleasant surprise for his ward. "Well, well, Edna, dry your eyes, my child. We won't talk business if you don't like it. Mrs. Mumbie says she thinks the trip to Europe will do you good, and I've no doubt it will. So get ready and we'll all be off as soon as possible."
In less than a fortnight after this conversation, Edna, and the Mumbie family with the exception of the youngest member, were at sea on their way to Liverpool. Before leaving, Edna wrote a letter to Mark, bidding him an affectionate farewell; promising that her absence would be but a short one, and reiterating her oft-expressed wish that the war would soon end and enable him to return home safe and famous. By the time this epistle reached its destination the one it was addressed to was a captive in the hands of the enemy. An expedition had been planned to make a dash into the capital of the Confederacy and rescue the prisoners confined on Belle Isle. Mark Gildersleeve took part in this hazardous undertaking, which through lack of support failed, and he with a few others as rashly venturesome, were surrounded and captured; not, however, until after a gallant struggle in which several were killed and a number wounded. Among the latter Mark, who received on that occasion a carbine bullet in his bridle-arm, which he repaid by lodging the contents of his revolver into two of his assailants. Another shot, however, disabled his horse, and he was made prisoner. He suffered severely from his wound, owing to a want of proper medical attendance; but fortunately the ball, which had taken an erratic course, was easily extracted, and his vigorous constitution did the rest. He spent some five weary months in Castle Thunder and was then exchanged. On his return to his regiment he found the letter from Edna, announcing her departure for Europe, awaiting him. He had written to her several times during his captivity, without receiving any reply; now her silence was explained. His letters had probably not been forwarded properly, or if forwarded had not reached her. He had had an almost irresistible inclination to revisit Belton, but now that it was bereft of its chief attraction the desire vanished, and he returned to his duty, with an increased determination to carve his way to distinction at whatever cost.
Meanwhile Miss Heath and her friends had arrived in Europe. It was her first visit there, and she found so much that was novel and pleasing that her mind was constantly occupied and diverted. Some time was spent travelling through England and Scotland; then they proceeded on the usual tour through the Continent, making a lengthened stay in Paris. The following summer was passed in Switzerland and at the German watering-places. In the former country they met some pleasant English people, and among them a party of Cambridge students. One of the Cantabs was very attentive to the young ladies, and Edna declared he was the most entertaining and agreeable young gentleman she had ever met. He was handsome withal, judging from a description of him given in a letter of Edna's to her friend Constance Hull, in which she said: "His complexion is just lilies and roses—in fact it exactly matches the blush-rose in his button-hole; and his large, limpid irids are of forget-me-not blue—suggestive hue! Everything's 'awful jolly' with him, and he makes the nicest beverages with sherry and claret, and sliced cucumbers, called 'claret-cup,' or something of that sort, but at any rate, it's perfectly delicious; and he's just as full of fun as he can be, and always ready for some frolic or other." Such delightful walks and excursions as they enjoyed together, and how sorry they all were to part with him. Even Mrs. Mumbie seemed to regret the separation, perhaps because he was the nephew of a lord, and had paid some attention to Ada, who certainly was smitten with him. As for Edna, she was suspiciously quiet for a few days after his departure, and we fear that during that time her thoughts seldom reverted to her absent suitor, the striving Union volunteer. But his image arose again to reproach her, as she reflected that she had not written a line to him in a very long while. To be sure he had not replied to her last epistle; in fact, she had written three or four without receiving any response, and had half made up her mind not to write again until she had received an acknowledgment of her letters. Perhaps, thought she, they may not have reached him. Still he might write to me at all events. Poor fellow! who knows, he may be sick, or wounded, or in prison. Dear me, I've been so distracted with all I've seen and heard, that I'm afraid I don't think as often of him as I ought to. I'll sit down at once and write him a good, kind, long letter to make amends. And she did so, but it met a fate similar to the previous ones, bearing the same superscription, that she had sent, and found its way, we regret to say, into the hands of Mrs. Madison Mumbie, who consigned the tender lines to congenial flames, after having cynically perused them. While in Paris, Edna, in recognition of the kindness shown her by her guardian's family, had presented the mother and the daughter with expensiveparuresof diamonds. The one selected for Mrs. Mumbie was in particular composed of the finest and most costly stones. Mrs. Mumbie was profuse and almost abject in her acknowledgments and thanks to dear Edna. Could that generous young heart have known that this velvety woman had been treacherously intercepting her correspondence—rifling the depositaries of her secret thoughts, she would have shrunk from her as from a reptile. But to youthful innocence baseness such as this exists not.
The next winter was spent in Italy, chiefly in Rome. Edna's enthusiasm for the glorious old city knew no bounds. Between sight-seeing and shopping she had not an idle moment. The quantities of silken sashes and jewels of coral and mosaic she bought for presents, and the money she spent and flung away to lazzaroni, would have driven her grandfather Obershaw as wild as Shylock was at Jessica's extravagance. She created a great sensation among the artists. The sculptors wanted to model her lips and chin, and the painters raved about her hair and complexion; altogether, between the studios, the ruins, the Carnival, and what not, she was having, as she expressed it in her correspondence with Miss Hull, "a splendid time." There was a long postscript to that letter to this effect:
P.S. You remember I mentioned in my last, that we had engaged a new courier in Paris, a handsome Italian named Luigi, who was so very refined anddistingué-looking, and such an excellent linguist. Well the secret is out! He is a Count, and his name is Borgia, Count Gasparone Alessandro Borgia, a scion of the illustrious family of that name—just think of it! He betrayed himself to Ada in an unguarded moment. He was stripped of his patrimony by confiscation, and adopted his present vocation the better to elude the malignity of his enemies, who are continually seeking to persecute him. Who those enemies are, I do not clearly understand. Sometimes he says they are the Jesuits, and at other times he accuses Mazzini and the red-republicans. He hints also at hereditary foes of his house, the Orsini and Sforzi. Evidently he shrinks with intuitive delicacy from speaking of himself and his misfortunes, and feels his position keenly. Ada caught him in tears once or twice mourning the decadence of his house. He assured her, on his word of honor, that all the stories that were in circulation respecting the poisoning propensities of his family are malicious falsehoods, and is very indignant at the outrageous way in which the dramatists have treated his distinguished ancestress—and I don't wonder at his anger. I think he says she was his great-great-grand-aunt; but I won't be certain. Since we have learned his title and rank, we have all felt a delicacy in treating him as a courier. Mr. Mumbie almost insisted on his taking his meals with us, but he firmly, and dignifiedly refused, which I think was very honorable in him, don't you? I flatter myself not a little on my sagacity and knowledge of people that I felt certain the moment I saw him that he was no ordinary person. The seal of high birth is unmistakably set on his noble brow and statuesque features; and then, O Constance, such eyes! such flashing, melting orbs!...The Fosters leave for home next week. I intrusted them with a present for you which they kindly consented to deliver. It's a turquoise set, and I hope it will suit you. I'm sure it will be becoming. I did intend to surprise you with it myself, but it's so uncertain when we shall return that I thought I would avail of the opportunity to send it at once. Please accept the set with the best love ofEver yours,Edna.
P.S. You remember I mentioned in my last, that we had engaged a new courier in Paris, a handsome Italian named Luigi, who was so very refined anddistingué-looking, and such an excellent linguist. Well the secret is out! He is a Count, and his name is Borgia, Count Gasparone Alessandro Borgia, a scion of the illustrious family of that name—just think of it! He betrayed himself to Ada in an unguarded moment. He was stripped of his patrimony by confiscation, and adopted his present vocation the better to elude the malignity of his enemies, who are continually seeking to persecute him. Who those enemies are, I do not clearly understand. Sometimes he says they are the Jesuits, and at other times he accuses Mazzini and the red-republicans. He hints also at hereditary foes of his house, the Orsini and Sforzi. Evidently he shrinks with intuitive delicacy from speaking of himself and his misfortunes, and feels his position keenly. Ada caught him in tears once or twice mourning the decadence of his house. He assured her, on his word of honor, that all the stories that were in circulation respecting the poisoning propensities of his family are malicious falsehoods, and is very indignant at the outrageous way in which the dramatists have treated his distinguished ancestress—and I don't wonder at his anger. I think he says she was his great-great-grand-aunt; but I won't be certain. Since we have learned his title and rank, we have all felt a delicacy in treating him as a courier. Mr. Mumbie almost insisted on his taking his meals with us, but he firmly, and dignifiedly refused, which I think was very honorable in him, don't you? I flatter myself not a little on my sagacity and knowledge of people that I felt certain the moment I saw him that he was no ordinary person. The seal of high birth is unmistakably set on his noble brow and statuesque features; and then, O Constance, such eyes! such flashing, melting orbs!...
The Fosters leave for home next week. I intrusted them with a present for you which they kindly consented to deliver. It's a turquoise set, and I hope it will suit you. I'm sure it will be becoming. I did intend to surprise you with it myself, but it's so uncertain when we shall return that I thought I would avail of the opportunity to send it at once. Please accept the set with the best love of
Ever yours,Edna.
It is not our purpose to follow Mark closely in his career during the war. Suffice it to say, that after his exchange he had rejoined his corps, and taken part in the memorable battle of Gettysburg, where the legions of the South, flushed with victory, were checked in their advance on Northern soil, and driven back by the Union soldiers. With steady courage he perseveringly sought laurels. His gallant bearing on several occasions attracted the notice of his superior officers, and his noteworthy conduct in leading an attack on the forces of General Imboden on the Cashtown road, whereby a large number of rebels were cut off and captured, won him the grade of major. The young fellow, as we mentioned, started in life with an unusual stock of vanity, fortunately counter-balanced by a chivalrous spirit and scorn of the mean. Much of this vanity had been eliminated, probably on the homoeopathic principle of like curing Life, for his profession was one decidedly calculated to foster that weakness. He was sensible enough, however, to avoid the arrogance engendered by the possession of authority of which he saw so many examples, and better still to preserve his soul from that callousness and ferocity which are the worst fruits of horrid war. He felt the insidious approaches of the baleful influences, but resisted. Bearing in mind, also, his old friend's injunction to beware of the sway of prejudice over reason, he strove to be just and unbiassed. There was some of the old paladin spirit in Mark. He recognized among the enemy many who were as earnest and sincere in their cause as he was in his; perhaps he was frequently led to think that the advantage in that respect was on their side, as he saw with inexpressible disgust the host of mercenaries whose sole thought was how to turn their country's misfortunes to profit, and, worse than all, lukewarm, disobedient generals, sacrificing their soldiers' lives to gratify some pique or partisan feeling. His blood boiled, too, at the unmentioned cruelties practised on the unfortunate race who had been the innocent cause of the fratricidal strife. This sympathy very nearly led him into serious trouble on one occasion. Among the regiments in the Army of the Potomac were several recruited from the dregs of the large cities of the North. Many of these men were without respect for their flag, and capable of any deed, or ready for any adventure that promised plunder or diversion. It was a common practice with them to shoot at any negro they found astray, in the vicinity of their camp. Mark, while away by himself one day in Virginia, came across a party of these fellows on some marauding expedition. Presently one of them espied a negro standing at the door of his cabin, near the edge of a wood, and without more ado, raised his musket and shot him dead. So enraged was Mark at this wanton murder, that, unable to contain himself, he drew his revolver and sent a bullet into the assassin. He fell, seriously wounded. His companions were about to retaliate, but intimidated by the major's bearing, and somewhat by his rank, hesitated, and concluded to report him at headquarters. The matter resulted in a court-martial, but Mark was acquitted with a reprimand.
War either makes or mars a man. The soul is drawn so completely out of the commonplace grooves of ordinary life, so far from the shrinking influences of wealth-seeking, and into an arena where emotions and passions contend so fiercely for mastery, that it comes out of the ordeal either sensibly debased or refined. Fortunately for Mark, it had purified his character; had given him a broader view of the aim and scope of life, enabling his will to crush out all vain hopes and envious desires, and find his pleasure in the performance of his duty and the approbation of his conscience. In short, he had become a true man. To how many, however, did the campaign prove a curse—how many contracted indolence, and habits that unfitted them for the avocations of peace, or exchanged their rectitude and purity of heart for vicious tastes that embittered their future lives.
Time passed. Mark became attached to General H——'s staff, and spent many months before Petersburg. It was there he performed an exploit which has remained legendary in the annals of the war. During a night attack on one of our batteries, the rebels had succeeded in spiking a siege-gun which commanded their position, while it protected our working parties of sappers. As soon as the piece was rendered useless, the enemy's sharp-shooters, swarming in rifle-pits close to our lines, seriously impeded further progress on our part. Vexed at this interruption, the commander called for volunteers to unspike the gun; but as this involved getting on the breech, and becoming a target for the foe while the work lasted, no one seemed willing to undertake it. In this dilemma, Mark, being known as a skilled machinist, was consulted; and after an examination, he reported in favor of the practicability of the job, while admitting the extreme peril attending it. Perhaps any intention of executing it would have been abandoned, had not a comment, made by one of the men to another, to the effect that it was easy for officers to set tasks for privates which they were not willing to do themselves, been accidentally overheard by Mark, which stung him immediately into offering to accomplish the hazardous feat. Armed with several well-tempered bits and a brace, he went forth at nightfall on his perilous errand. Straddling the breech of the monstrous cannon, and crouching as low as possible, with the brace against his chest, he plied the drill vigorously. Scarcely had he begun to work, when he was perceived by the vigilant rebel marksmen, who immediately opened fire. He could see the long rifle-pit, not a hundred yards distant, ablaze with the flash of fifty rifles, and feel the wind of their bullets as they whistled past him. Fortunately, favored somewhat by the obscurity, but far more by good luck, he remained unscathed, save by a skin-grazing touch. In fifteen minutes (it seemed to him an hour) the vent was clear; a primer and lanyard were then passed up to him, and these affixed, he slipped off the cannon as quick as possible. Seeing him drop, the rebels imagined they had shot him, and sent up a yell of exultation, which was suddenly checked as a discharge of grape from the liberated gun scattered death among them. Mark was not destined to escape entirely uninjured, for in his haste to get off the gun, and anxiety to avoid any danger from its recoil, he fell heavily, and was picked up with a dislocated shoulder. This accident, however, entailed but a short confinement, and he was soon able to be on duty again. Needless to add, that Mark received full meed of praise for his daring achievement, which furthermore earned him the grade of colonel.
In this his hour of triumph and full flush of gratified vanity, one thought was constant and uppermost. How would Edna receive the news of his renown? If she felt but one momentary responsive throb of pride, he was repaid, and repaid a hundred-fold, for all he had risked and undergone. But would she hear of him? Where was she? Although he had written her several letters he had received none from her, since the one announcing her departure for Europe. Her silence was unaccountable. So long a time had elapsed that he began to despond. "Well, well," thought he, "it's inexplicable, and useless to indulge in conjectures. I'll not do her the injustice to believe that it is intentional neglect on her part. We'll see what it all means when she returns. Meanwhile I must console myself by re-reading her old epistles."
He occasionally received a communication from his sister-in-law, who kept him advised of all the Belton gossip—births, deaths, marriages, and so forth. At length one came, conveying the welcome intelligence that the Mumbies and their fair charge had returned home. Mrs. Gildersleeve stated that she had seen Miss Heath, and that she was looking remarkably well, but exceedingly grand and dignified; adding, "You would hardly know your old sweetheart, now, Mark. She holds her head as high as a queen, and goes sweeping through the streets as if the earth were not good enough for her to tread on. I do not think, I am sorry to say, that travelling has improved her a bit." This was uncommonly severe criticism to come from the worthy lady, and amazed Mark; but perhaps her opinion was somewhat colored by the fact that Miss Heath had, unintentionally or otherwise, neglected to return Mrs. Gildersleeve's bow; an omission certainly sufficient to bias the judgment of the least prejudiced woman who respects herself.
There was a lull in the conflict. The shock of arms and bruit of war gave place to the patient, silent work of the engineer. Inch by inch, the Union army advanced its lines of investment, and slowly the constricting circle was closing. Dull monotony succeeded, broken only by the occasional bursting of a shell over the trenches, or the crack of a sharp-shooter's rifle and ping of bullet, startling some too venturesome spectator. Apart from this, all was inaction or weary routine. Deeming it a favorable time to apply for leave of absence, and longing to see Edna, Mark sought and obtained a furlough, and was speedily on his way north.
It would be difficult to describe the Colonel's feelings as he approached his home. The anticipated delight of meeting his friends, relatives, and above all, Edna, was mingled with a vague sense of apprehension—a premonition of some disappointment that he could not shake off. He had been away full three years. It seemed to him at least ten; and he dreaded to be confronted by unpleasant changes. Belton, at least, was still the same, and in its usual quiet mood. Contrary to the expectations of many of its inhabitants it had not as yet been invaded by the Rebels; still, as untiring vigilance was the price of liberty and safety the "Home Guard" kept up its organization and weekly drills, under the patriotic supervision of Captain George Gildersleeve. The first thing that attracted Mark's attention, as he passed up Main Street, was a full-length colored photograph in Snopple's show-case, of his brother, in all his panoply, figuring conspicuously in company with portraits of Generals Grant and Sherman.
Mark had hardly been in the town five minutes, before the fact was known from one end of it to the other; and Dr. Wattletop devoted himself to informing everybody he met, that Mark Gildersleeve had returned from the "wars, bearing his blushing honors thick upon him."
Of course the fatted calf was figuratively killed by Mrs. Gildersleeve, and the doctor took tea at her table that evening, and a joyful meal it was. The colonel noticed a marked change in his old friend. Age was shrinking his once rotund form, and his countenance wore the expression of one seeking rest after a strife with life. His disputative spirit was apparently quenched, as he evinced no disposition to take up several thorny assertions on the part of the doughty captain of the "Home Guards," who monopolized the conversation. This martinet criticised very severely the dilatory and bungling way in which the war was carried on, and set forth a plan of operations of his own, which, he was ready to back with any amount of money, would, if carried out by the commander-in-chief, bring the rebels to terms in the short space of time limited to three shakes of a sheep's tail. No one had a stronger belief in himself than George Gildersleeve. It was a faith, too, that increased with his years and prosperity, and perhaps had contributed not a little to the latter.
As for the young colonel, he was singularly taciturn. Perhaps a little disappointed in finding that his lady-love had left the town, albeit it did not mitigate in any great degree the pleasure he felt in being once more in his old home. Certainly his appetite was not affected; and the quantity of clover-honey, of preserves, both quince and crab-apple, of stewed oysters, of Sally Lunn, and waffles he consumed, were sufficient to give an able-bodied ostrich a gastric derangement.
After the meal they sat in the little parlor. Mark opened his long-neglected piano and tried a few bars of a favoriteNocture; but his stiff fingers made poor work of it. It was pleasanter to sit beside his second mother. There were a few more silver threads in her smooth hair, but her serene, loving face seemed to him as young as ever. Presently the Reverend Samuel and Mrs. Sniffen dropped in, for whom the colonel had to fight his battles o'er again.
"And how about that exploit of yours, unspiking the cannon? We've all heard of it, colonel," said the minister. "Mrs. Bradbury's son, who was there at the time, wrote a full account of it home, but we want to listen to it from your lips."
"Yes, yes, Hotspur, out with it," added the doctor. The red shone through Mark's gypsy cheek, as he gave a confused and stammering recital of the incident; and he felt decidedly relieved, when he had concluded, at his brother's blunt remark that he deserved to have been shot for his pains, as no one but a fool or a crazy man would have attempted such a job.
"Mercy, George, don't say that!" said Mrs. Gildersleeve, who had been listening, pale and with a shudder, to Mark's narrative.
"George is right," replied Mark; "it was nothing but a foolhardy freak, done on the spur of the moment; and I would not have attempted it if I had taken time to reflect."
The colonel was rather anxious to slur the feat; for, on analyzing the motives that impelled him to its performance, he was obliged to confess that it was pricked vanity and the desire to win Edna's admiration, rather than any stern sense of duty or devotion to his flag.
"You never wrote me a word of all this, Mark," said his sister-in-law, reproachfully. "However, perhaps it is just as well;" and addressing Mr. Sniffen, who was about taking his departure, she asked him if he would, before leaving, kindly lead in prayer, so that they might all return thanks for the safe return and preservation of Mark from so many dangers. "You will join us, will you not, doctor?"
"Most certainly, my dear lady," was the reply; and the old materialist, who had sought with a scalpel for the soul in a cadaver, the stoic, the Pythagorean, knelt and united in sincere devotion to the Father of all, whom we worship, each after his own little system, way, or fashion.
After the departure of the guests, the circle around the grate-fire was still further narrowed, and Mrs. Gildersleeve opened her budget of news. She first inquired of Mark if he did not think the doctor had greatly changed? "Very much," replied Mark.
"Poor man," continued Mrs. Gildersleeve, "I feel so sorry and anxious about him. He has lost a great deal of his practice—almost all the paying part of it. He has still a host of patients, but they are mostly among the poor, from whom he gets little or no pay. I believe if he had all the money due him he would be rich; but he never tries to collect anything. About six months ago his dog died—that large black one, that was always with him; and he cried like a child, said he had lost his best friend, and wrote a very singular obituary, that was published in the paper. After that he took to drinking very freely; and one day while under the influence he struck with his cane a teamster who was beating a horse; and the man had him arrested, and if it hadn't been for your brother, the doctor would have been put in jail."
"I think he served the teamster right," remarked her husband, "only he didn't give him half enough."
"Very likely; but the doctor made such a ridiculous speech about it in court. Spoke about animals having reason and souls, and that some men were inferior animals to the brutes; and accused the clergy of cowardice in shirking the question of the connection and duty of man to his fellow-animals, and a lot more of such stuff. To be sure he was under great excitement. Mr. Sniffen thinks the doctor got those perverted notions from living so long in India among the heathen. Since that time the doctor has not been the same man. He never touches a drop of anything, and he is always grave. He has failed, too, very much. Poor man! I feel so distressed about him, and was so rejoiced to see him join with us this evening in prayer. It is certainly very hard for a man of his years, for he must be eighty, to be left without any one, away from relatives. I should so like to help him if I knew how to approach him without offending him. He is such a very peculiar person."
"It is his own fault," said George. "I offered to run him for coroner, or put him in as county physician, if he'd get naturalized and become a citizen; but the pig-headed old duffer got as indignant as if I'd insulted him; talked about his sovereign and her Gracious Majesty, until I shut him up. So he's no one to blame but himself. Ten o'clock, eh? I'm off to bed. I suppose you and Maggie will talk here for three hours yet;" and George retired with a stretch and a yawn.
When they were alone, Mrs. Gildersleeve touched on the topic nearest to her brother-in-law's heart. It was done in the light of an apology. She said: "In one of my letters, I am ashamed to say, I spoke censoriously and unjustly of Miss Heath, and I wish to take it all back; but it shows how particular we ought to be not to judge hastily. Miss Heath, I suppose you know, has come into her property, and her first thought and care is to carry out her father's intentions about building those charitable institutions. It will cost ever so much. I believe Mr. Mumbie tried to prevent or rather persuade her not to lay out so much money, but she wouldn't listen to it; and they say is even going to spend more; but that's just like Edna Heath."
How intensely the colonel's heart indorsed that opinion. "Where is she now?" he inquired.
"She's living in New York, with the Mumbies. You must certainly pay her a visit, and renew your old acquaintance. Mr. Mumbie sold out his paper-mill, and has retired from business."
An hour or more of such conversation and Mark withdrew, to find himself again in his little bedroom. Nothing was disturbed. There was his bookcase with its narrow desk, where he had passed so many hours in brain-racking devotions to the immortal Nine; and as he glanced over the turgid lines of some uncompleted poem in the portfolio, his smile justified the belief that time brought its own severe criticism to poetasters. There lay in their accustomed places his guitar and zithern, and over his bed-head hung, as of yore, the engraving of Carlo Dolce'sMater Dolorosa, whose exquisite mouth and chin were but counterparts of Edna's. It was so natural to lie in the bed where he had slept since childhood; and he seemed to breathe such an atmosphere of peace and quietude, that the tremendous events he had passed through during three years, seemed like a hiatus in his life, or a dream. Did the war exist? Here, all was tranquillity undisturbed by alarms; but away on the banks of the Appomattox, his brethren in arms slept in suspense; the vigilant picket watched the wily foe; the bursting shell tore the limbs of some sleeping soldier, and starving conscripts, in butternut rags, were flying from the rebel trenches to hospitable imprisonment within the Union lines. Such thoughts filled Mark's mind as he tossed uneasily on his downy couch and soft fringed pillow, until, to court slumber, he was obliged to wrap himself in a blanket, and seek repose on the hard floor.
The next morning, in his impatience to see Edna, he would have started at once for the metropolis, but there were his old associates at the Works, who could not be neglected. He went there, and shook hands with them all, from Knatchbull to the youngest apprentice. How they all crowded around and questioned him, and seemed to be as much interested in him as if he belonged to them, while his brother stood by with an approving look, as if the colonel were entirely the product of his care and training. Mark found the Works still further enlarged; for his brother's business had increased prodigiously, and George, while alluding to this, did not fail to remark to the colonel, with a spice of malice, that if he had remained at home and accepted the partnership, he would by this time have possessed a small fortune. "A clear hundred thousand were the profits last year—a clear hundred thousand. What do you think of that, old man?" But the old man, as he affectionately called him, did not seem to think much about it, for he merely replied, "Glad to hear of it for your sake," and seemed as indifferent as ever to such favors. George then said, as a consolatory offset, "Whenever you want to come back, you're welcome. Your old place is waiting for you, and it will pay you better than soldiering in the end."
Then there was the visit to the Falls. No true Beltonian returning from a long absence ever failed to pay his devoirs at that shrine. It seemed as if the old legend of the Indians, that the Great Spirit abided there, had perpetuated itself, and found believers among their white successors. Mark passed an hour of the fine January fore-noon in pleasant contemplation near the cataract. It was an old friend. Its roar, its crags, its emerald waters were familiar to him from childhood, when he spent holidays around the pebbly shores seeking flint arrow-heads, or in older years when he resorted thither to derive inspiration and metaphorically court the nymphs and dryads. The torrent that sped on in sublime and unceasing monotone had measured his existence like a clepsydra.
Mark extended his walk to the cliff—to the villa that had seemed to him a very palace of enchantment, and around which so many blissful associations clustered. Here was the spot where he had made his first avowal of love, and he could almost recall the novel, delicious thrill with which he pressed Edna's hand to his lips. Now the gates were chained and locked, and their lamps broken by vagrant boys; the lodge was tenantless; the marble basin of the fountain choked with dead leaves, and its spouting swans decapitated; the grounds neglected, and the windows of the imposing structure blinded. How sad and deserted an aspect! How changed the place—once the abode of "elegant Eunomia," the goddess of his dreams! He remembered his surreptitious visit and eavesdropping the night of Edna's party. Where were all that youth and beauty now? The sweeping wind answered with a dismal sigh. Was there any omen in this?
His reverie was cut short by the patter of horses' hoofs behind him. It was the four-in-hand of Mr. Nehemiah Gogglemush, a new-comer in Belton, who saluted him with a stare. This man, who seemed ambitious to succeed to the position of the late magnifico, was the inventor of the world-famous "Terpsichorean Ointment," a corn-salve of marvellous virtue, that had brought him a fortune correspondingly marvellous. He had purchased a site on the cliff and reared a gorgeous pile, all turrets, gilt Tudor-flowers and weathercocks, which completely overshadowed Mr. Mumbie's dwelling. Gogglemush seemed to have no end of money and actually dared to set up a drag, while his wife and daughters made shameful exhibitions of themselves in diamonds, point-lace, India shawls; and deported themselves generally in a way that no person in their station, and connected with corn-salve, who had any regard for public opinion, would venture to. Moreover, at church the Misses Adela and Angela Gogglemush, in all their odious finery, monopolized the attention of the congregation, and even the rector was reported to be not indifferent to the attractions of the younger of the two.
Of course it was impossible for the Mumbies to live in constant proximity to such vulgarity, and especially as there was absolutely no one now in the place, except Judge Hull's family, with whom they could associate, as Mrs. Mumbie said, they had been forced to remove to New York.
On his return Mark stopped for a moment at St. Jude's. The sexton wanted to show him the beautiful memorial windows, presented by Miss Heath in honor of her father and mother. Mark peopled the edifice with its old frequenters—with handsome, refined Mr. Heath, dignifiedly condescending, as if he were willing to meet his Maker half way; with Edna's sweet, uplifted, attentive profile; devout, slow-winking Mrs. Applegate, and in the opposite pew, pompous Mr. Mumbie, who occupied one corner with such upright, unvarying exactitude, that he served as a sundial to Mark to measure the service, when the purple ray from a lancet-window moved over the capacious white waistcoat of the portly paper-maker. The new-comers had taken possession of that pew now, for Mark saw in it several richly bound octavo prayer-books, stamped with the name Gogglemush, hideous in Gothic text.
Mark now proceeded to call on Dr. Wattletop. The information in regard to the latter's pecuniary condition, imparted by Mrs. Gildersleeve, troubled her brother-in-law, and he was anxious to offer any assistance that the physician was likely to accept; but when the colonel, after much hesitation and circumlocution, hinted at his desire, Dr. Wattletop cut him short with a "Thanks—thanks, my dear boy, I'm quite easy. You must know that Miss Heath has requested me to accept, at a handsome salary, the position of physician-in-chief to the hospital she is erecting for the county. Noble girl, that—though I don't know after all that she's doing any more than her duty," he hastened to add, fearing that he might have been betrayed into admiration or approval of generosity. "The world, though, is so constituted, so warped from all ideas of justice, that the mere performance of a single act of duty is greeted with applause. Sad commentary, that. Pokemore is associated with me in the management. There was an effort made to foist this humbug Keene upon us. But Pokemore and I at once declared that we would not listen to it, and should consider it an insult and resign at once if this ignoramus and quack were attached in any way to the institution. We carried our point, of course."