Mark Gildersleeve Part 15

"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 a.s.sailants. 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 const.i.tution 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.u.t.ton-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 cuc.u.mbers, 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 expensive _parures_ of 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 quant.i.ties 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 and _distingue_-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 ill.u.s.trious 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 a.s.sured 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 t.i.tle 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 n.o.ble brow and statuesque features; and then, O Constance, such eyes! such flas.h.i.+ng, 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.

XVIII.

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 h.o.m.oeopathic 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 unbia.s.sed. 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 a.s.sa.s.sin. 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 pa.s.sions 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 rect.i.tude and purity of heart for vicious tastes that embittered their future lives.

Time pa.s.sed. 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 pa.s.sed 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 sh.e.l.l 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 pa.s.sed 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 th.o.r.n.y a.s.sertions 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 s.p.a.ce 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 appet.i.te was not affected; and the quant.i.ty 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 favorite _Nocture_; 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 a.n.a.lyzing the motives that impelled him to its performance, he was obliged to confess that it was p.r.i.c.ked 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 wors.h.i.+p, each after his own little system, way, or fas.h.i.+on.

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 s.h.i.+rking 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?