Mark Gildersleeve Part 11

and preceded by the Belton bra.s.s-band ringing out "John Brown's march,"

while the people cheered l.u.s.tily. There was Mark with his cap bearing its insignia of crossed sabres set jauntily on one side of his head, marching proudly along, unmindful for the moment of his halting gait, which was more apparent than usual, as he kept step with the even ranks.

As his eyes wandered towards the throng on the sidewalks, he caught sight of the figure of a young girl closely wrapped in a dark shawl. It was Edna; and as she stealthily waved her handkerchief he colored to the temples, bowed an acknowledgment, and so they parted.

More leave-takings at the depot. Poor Mrs. Gildersleeve sobbing like a child, until her handkerchief was soaked in tears, and her husband, the bold captain of the "Home Guards," feeling probably almost as bad, but affecting an exaggerated bluffness, and proffering the rather un-military advice to Mark to "stand no nonsense and look out for number one." Then Dr. Wattletop had his good word of cheer and encouragement for young Rupert, as he called him; and the Rev. Mr. Sniffen said his kind say; and lastly, old Copp gave him a parting grip, whose intense heartiness nearly brought tears into his eyes.

All this solicitude shown in his behalf, and regret expressed at his departure by his friends caused Mark to feel as if he didn't deserve it at all, and was rather an ungrateful wretch in going away. "What shall I do to merit all this?" was his reflection as the train sped on that bore him off. "I must not disappoint them, and I shall not. No, I'll not enter Belton again if the war lasts until I can wear spread-eagles on my shoulder-straps, unless I am brought in on a stretcher," vowed he, thinking probably that in either event the expectations of his friends would be met and his condition a source of satisfaction to them.

Time pa.s.sed on with Edna, measured only by the intervals between the receipt of letters from Mark. These missives were of course frequent and fervid, and responded to in as nearly similar a strain as maidenly reserve would permit. There was nothing particularly novel or striking in Edna's letters, but Mark esteemed them as compositions of wonderful merit. He believed he saw in her well-balanced sentences, and neat, flowing penmans.h.i.+p a reflex of her natty ways and symmetric character.

These precious notes he always carried about him, and they were read and re-read until he knew their contents by heart. Edna, on her part, made as absorbing a study of her lover's correspondence.

Mark was with the Army of the Potomac in its memorable campaign in the Peninsula. Promotion was rapid among the volunteers, and he was soon advanced to a captaincy. By this time he had been in several engagements, and behaved with credit. Naturally, at his first experience of actual warfare, he was uncertain of himself, and dreaded lest his heart should fail him. The gravity of the commanders at the approach of battle; the sullen boom of distant cannon drawing nearer and nearer--the preliminary pause inspires the novice with dread and awe; but the first flutter of fear over, the sharp crack of rifles and smell of powder soon kindles the blood of a true soldier, and Mark found himself in his element, oblivious of danger, and das.h.i.+ng with the foremost into the fight.

He was chary of imparting his own exploits, but Edna heard of them occasionally through the public prints, which she diligently scanned every day for news from the ----th New Jersey Cavalry. Once she had a fearful fright, for she found Captain Mark Gildersleeve's name among the wounded. But, to her relief, a letter from him came soon after, which informed her that the injury he had received was but slight, and that he expected to be in the saddle again in a few days. The truth was, that our hero's career had come within an ace of an untimely close. While out on a reconnaissance, his troop had fallen in with a portion of Jeb Stuart's horse, and Mark, who had often longed for an opportunity for a hand-to-hand combat with some of the noted Southern troopers, drew his sabre and rode with reckless impetuosity into the midst of the enemy. He was about to single out an adversary, as if to engage in a joust, when he was instantly surrounded and a stroke dealt at him which only the stoutness of his leathern cap-visor prevented from terminating his existence. As it was, the gash he received was a serious one; but fortunately his companions had arrived in time to rescue him from further peril, and disperse the rebels. The wound soon healed, but it left a scar which, though it rather impaired his good looks, he deemed a favor for this reason: since he had been in the army he was often subjected to the query, suggested by his lameness, of where and how he had been wounded; the embarra.s.sment of an explanation and the recollections revived by it, were such as to cause him to accept with grat.i.tude the ugly seam that now disfigured him, but would thenceforth probably divert the attention of inquisitive persons from his other physical defect.

Mark wrote to Edna in a pleasant, jesting way concerning the embellishment his countenance had undergone. He promised to send her a likeness of his improved appearance at the first opportunity, and alluded to the wound he had received from the rebel trooper as a mere pin scratch in comparison with the one inflicted by her on his heart, with much more to the same purpose, and signed himself "Le Balafre."

Edna was pleased to find that he took it all in such good part, and replied beseeching him not to expose himself so rashly--she was certain he was rash and reckless, and for her sake to be cautious and prudent, ending with the hope that the war would soon end, and enable him to return home.

Beside her solicitude for Mark, the girl's thoughts were greatly occupied with her father's changed health and habits. Despite his cold, undemonstrative temperament, Mr. Heath was strongly attached to his child. If his manifestations of affection had been few and far between, on the other hand he had never chidden her, and she had been indulged in every way, and her lightest wishes gratified. The daughter more than reciprocated the love so charily bestowed, and her impressionable nature seemed to reflect her father's changeful moods. Now her intuition told her that he suffered. He had not been the same man since the death of his son. At times he shook off his despondency, and appeared to regain some of his former energy; but the effort was but momentary. His business matters were now entirely conducted by others, and he even grew neglectful of his personal appearance--a symptom that struck Edna with alarm. One morning when he breakfasted with the family in his dressing-gown and with an unshaven face, Edna, after he had left the table, remarked to her aunt on the great alteration in her father's habits: "I never knew him to do such a thing before. Yesterday afternoon I saw him go into the picture-gallery, and I went in very soon after. He was staring fixedly at that picture of the Sistine Madonna, and did not notice my coming in. When I went and spoke to him he started with such a pained expression that it made me feel dreadful."

"My dear child," said Mrs. Applegate in a rea.s.suring tone, "you must bear in mind that your father is getting old. You can't expect him always to remain smart and active. Years will tell on all of us.

Besides, everybody has something the matter with them; if it isn't one thing it's another. Now Mr. Applegate used to say that gout or rheumatism was more certain if not so desirable as riches, and I know that years before he died--"

"But, aunt," interrupted Edna, "father is not so very old. I do not think his condition is natural. I feel sure he suffers very much; I know it. Whenever I talk to him he don't seem to be aware of what I am saying. I often write letters to him as I used to, on some subject that I think will interest him, but he lays them aside without opening them.

I can always tell whenever anything ails him; and besides, his last trip did not do him a bit of good. He broods so constantly over Jack's death, and seems so very miserable, that it makes me feel dreadful to see him; and then, if I ask him if he feels ill, he seems so annoyed, that I dare not question him further. I am afraid that unless something is done his health will be seriously affected. Do send a note to Dr. Wattletop to come and see him."

"As you please, dear; but you know how strongly your father objects to having anything to do with doctors, and how angry he may be if he finds out we have taken such a step without consulting him. So we must expect a scolding."

"Never mind, aunt; I'll take all the blame on my shoulders," replied Edna. "I certainly feel it is our duty to ask some physician's advice.

Suppose you ask Dr. Wattletop to call; you might say you wished to consult him in case an excuse is needed. Then you could explain the matter to the doctor without alarming or annoying father in the least.

Wouldn't that do?"

"Well, my dear, perhaps it might. At all events, I'll send the doctor a note, and ask him what we had better do. There can be no harm in that."

Dr. Wattletop came as requested under pretext of prescribing for Mrs.

Applegate. He remained to dine, and was seated opposite Mr. Heath, who replied to the customary inquiries respecting his health with a curt and nervous, "Thank you, never better, never better." But he was so uneasy beneath the physician's big interrogative eyes so constantly directed toward him, that he feigned some excuse, and left the table before the end of the meal.

The physician was struck with the marked alteration in Mr. Heath's aspect. That energetic, refined aristocrat, had suddenly become a listless, peevish old man. His keen ice-gray eyes were dull, and the muscles of his once smooth, marble-like face were now flaccid, and covered with a growing unkempt beard. Slovenliness had replaced tidiness, and every part and action of the man denoted a great change in his physical and mental condition.

Dr. Wattletop was perplexed. He questioned Mrs. Applegate and Edna, but could elicit nothing to a.s.sist him in finding a clue to the cause of this sudden and extraordinary transformation in an individual the least likely to be affected by care or illness. "A man of brazen const.i.tution--heart idem--brain idem," cogitated the doctor, "on whom emotions and troubles would gnaw in vain, who was apparently not deeply moved by the loss of his son, now shows unmistakable signs of mental distress--for mental it is." Basil Wattletop, M.D., albeit an experienced leech, was nonplussed, and muttering something to the ladies about "splenetic affection," "torpid liver," and the like, took his leave, to await further developments.

A few days later the doctor was surprised to receive a message from Mr.

Heath, asking him to call at his earliest convenience, on business not of a professional character.

The doctor took the first opportunity to comply with the request, and on arriving at the Cliff was shown into the library, where Mr. Heath received his visitor, and motioned him to a chair, with something of his old courtliness of manner. The physician noticed that his host exhibited an improved appearance, and in particular that his toilet had been carefully attended to.

"When I wrote you that note, doctor," said Mr. Heath with a weak smile, "I did not expect so soon to have the pleasure of a visit from you. I believe I was careful to state that what I wanted to see you about was not of a professional nature."

"Precisely," said the doctor, nodding his head in acquiescence.

"Hence I trust it has not interfered with any of your engagements?"

"Not at all," replied the doctor.

It seemed as if Mr. Heath were reluctant to approach the object for which he had summoned Dr. Wattletop, for he remained a few moments in silence with his fingers to his forehead in meditation, while the other watched him curiously. At length he abruptly said, "You are a freethinker, I am told, doctor?"

The physician, somewhat taken aback by this unexpected question, replied: "Well, it depends altogether upon your definition of the term.

If you mean by freethinker, one who exercises his reason in an independent way, I certainly am."

"Do you, for instance, doctor, believe in eternal punishment?"

"No, certainly not," said the doctor, very decidedly.

"It's a fearful thought," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed rather than spoke Mr. Heath, as a shudder seemed to pa.s.s over his frame.

"Fearful? It's wicked, abominable, impious. To suppose that a beneficent G.o.d would condemn a weak mortal to a doom cruel beyond conception, would punish in a way that even imperfect man would not, under any provocation, is simply monstrous. Fortunately there are but few who really believe in such a doctrine, and those who do, are, I find, perfectly satisfied that they will escape, even if the rest of the world is sent to perdition."

"Doctor," said Mr. Heath, "you will be very much surprised when I tell you that although I have been a communicant of the Episcopal Church for twenty years, and have conformed strictly to its forms and observances, I have no settled religious belief."

"Not a bit surprised, Mr. Heath, not a bit. In fact, I believe that fully three-quarters of the attendants at Church are in the same condition. Indeed, when I think of the indifference with which the most solemn and important truths are received, the mechanical piety of so-called devotees, and the facility with which they are swayed by trivial weaknesses, foibles, and vanities, I believe I am understating the proportion of practical unbelievers to the earnest and consistent professors. I have found this as my experience of men, that while all dread falling below what we may call the average of morality, the ma.s.s are indifferent about rising above it. In other words, while no one desires to be worse than his neighbor, no one cares about being any better. This accounts for the force of example, and the frequency of the tu-quoque style of argument. It is true there are exceptions, earnest men and women full of enthusiastic zeal, but if anything, these exceptions prove the rule."

"Mr. Abbott explains this indifference and the present low state of morality to a want of spirituality in the Church," remarked Mr. Heath.

"Want of fiddlesticks," replied the doctor. "Want of consistency is the trouble. Example--example is the great teacher, and in fact the only teacher. If you and I are inconsistent or unjust, we infect the rest and the contagion spreads, and no doctrinal exposition can countervail."

"Permit me, doctor, to offer you some refreshment," said Mr. Heath, rising to ring the bell, perhaps to change the topic of conversation, which now diverged into commonplaces.

Presently a domestic returned bearing a liqueur case.

"Will you please help yourself, doctor. Here is some Sherry--or if you prefer it, Monongahela."

While the doctor was dealing himself a liberal allowance of the whiskey, Mr. Heath resumed his seat and his meditative expression. Finally he drew himself closer to the doctor's chair, as if to beseech his attention, and said, "You and I, doctor, have arrived at that stage of existence when the illusions of youth have vanished--when all the feverish ambitions and vanities have lost their sway over us, and when we can look calmly at the approach of death. I will confess to you, doctor, that until lately I have not realized the insufficiency of this life; never until the loss of my son. As I stood beside his grave I recalled the words of Burke under similar circ.u.mstances: 'What shadows we are and what shadows we pursue!' This sense of disgust--of intense _ennui_ of existence is dreadful--unbearable.... What is coming? Where can I get light as to the future? Where lean for a.s.sistance?"

This apostrophe was interjected, and as if called forth by the speaker's sorrow.

A pause, and he resumed:

"Doctor, as one of my own age, and as a man in whose intellect, judgment, and heart I have the fullest confidence, I desire to make you my father-confessor. I crave sympathy and counsel. Perhaps I should apologize for burthening you with my trials and sorrows, but pity me--pity me!" He laid his hand on the physician's knee with such an appealing look, that the latter was touched. "Whom else can I consult with--whom turn to? I am at sea yawing like a rudderless s.h.i.+p."

The doctor, who had been not a little surprised at the tenor of his host's conversation, expressed his condolence, and proffered his a.s.sistance in any way that it might be found serviceable. Mr. Heath looked for a moment as if he were about to confide something--then checked himself, and rising leaned on the mantle-piece in a pensive att.i.tude. Dr. Wattletop took this for an indication that the conference was at an end, but the Monongahela being excellent, he lingered to refill his gla.s.s. Meanwhile Mr. Heath again sat down and addressed him:

"You say, doctor, that you do not believe in eternal punishment, because, as I understand you, it is irreconcilable with reason."

"Because it is irreconcilable with the attributes of the Almighty.

Again, where is the sense or harmony, or even necessity of it? I can understand temporary punishment, but not everlasting punishment; that would resolve itself simply into revenge, a feeling that the Creator is incapable of harboring. No, sir, I believe there is a punishment for sin, but not an everlasting one. I believe in the harmony of Nature, and that its laws are inexorable. They cannot be infringed without suffering. I do not believe in the forgiveness of sins."

"Do not believe in the forgiveness of sins! Have you no faith, doctor?"

"Faith, Mr. Heath, is in the first place a matter of cerebral organization, and secondly of accident. Had you and I been born with crania of a certain conformation, of either Jewish, Mohammedan, or Calvinistic parents, we would have remained in the faith we were born in, whether Jewish, Mohammedan, or Calvinistic, to the end of our days.