The villa on the cliff would probably have excited but little attention
in any country where chateaux or palaces abound, but it was looked upon
by the simple people of Belton as a magnificent dwelling. After a
stranger or tourist had seen the falls, he was invariably driven by the
ciceroning hackman, desirous of lengthening the ride and increasing the
fare, to view Mr. Heath's residence, that being considered next in
importance as a noteworthy object. It was built of a gray stone, on a
site that commanded a fine prospect of the town and of a long stretch of
river. There was no attempt to preserve architectural unity in the
structure; in fact, it exhibited rather an incongruous medley of orders.
The front was partly Italian, with a circular portico supported by
slender Ionic columns. The rear was Elizabethan, pieced out with an
extension for a picture-gallery; on one side were oriel windows, and the
other was flanked by a keep, with turret and embattled parapet, which
gave the edifice rather a frowning appearance, as if the host were
prepared for any emergency, and could treat visitors with bountiful
hospitality, or a narrow cell in the donjon, as he saw fit and felt
disposed. The interior was in keeping with this pretentious exterior. A
stately staircase led up from a wide entrance hall tessellated with
marble tiles, on either side of which were dining and reception rooms.
These and the boudoirs and bedchambers were all resplendent with gilt
and elegant frescoes. The surrounding grounds, or "park," as they were
called, were spacious. There were terraces with marble urns, fountains,
velvet lawns, interspersed with brilliant beds of flowers, and rows of
shapely evergreens. In short, no expense had been spared to construct a
habitation capable of impressing an ordinary beholder with the wealth
and importance of the dwellers therein, and if corroborative evidence
were needed, the porter at the lodge would carry conviction by referring
to the elegant iron railing inclosing the grounds, which he asserted,
with emphatic pride, "cost more'n twenty thousand hard, ringing silver
dollars! a fortune for any one."
Do not suppose that old John Peter Obershaw was in any way responsible
for all this pomp and splendor. Spending money, much less extravagance
in any shape, was totally foreign to his habits or tastes; and he had
been led into the outlay requisite for all this grandeur insensibly and
unwittingly. We say insensibly and unwittingly the more positively, as
the aged invalid could not be said to have had any sense or wit of his
own, during the last years of his long life, and was completely under
the dominion of his son-in-law, who planned and built the villa in
accordance with his own ostentatious ideas.
The morning after the late owner of this princely residence had left it
for the narrow quarters of a churchyard vault, the new one arose early
and descended from his bedroom for a short walk in the fresh morning
air. A very handsome man of fifty or so, with a compact figure, keen
gray eyes, high receding forehead, slightly bald, and hair prematurely
silvered. Perceptible on the firm surface of his pale, close-shorn face,
were the lines of decision and shrewdness, and that seal of pride
conferred by the possession of wealth and authority--a chilling
expression commonly called aristocratic, and which is simply refined
vanity. Musing with downcast eyes, hands clasped behind his back, and
head uncovered, to and fro on the terrace paced Mr. Heath. Before
descending, he had opened the door of his father-in-law's room, and
looked in. The huge stuffed arm-chair was still there in its accustomed
place, but vacant; the padding ripped up--done to look for secreted
coin. His staff lay in one corner, a worn hickory stick, his companion
for years,--but the old man was gone. He had been for years but an inert
dweller, verging on imbecility, an incumbrance, and yet what a void he
had left! How silent and empty the chamber seemed! Mr. Heath closed the
door softly, and went gravely down the stairs. He was glad to breathe
the refreshing air and feel the sunshine. As he paced, he would
occasionally stop and glance over the sloping lawn, and towards the
river whose shining current bore thrift to the town and tribute to him.
All these possessions were now his, absolutely and entirely his. Without
longing for it, he had expected and looked forward to this day. He
remembered, when a poor clerk, how he had coveted the wealth of the
proprietor of Belton Falls, as he watched him, meanly clad, haggling
with some shop-keeper over a few coppers. He remembered his joy when a
stroke of luck put him in possession of the capital necessary to carry
out a scheme whose consummation had enabled him finally to attain his
present position, first, by securing Mr. Obershaw's confidence, and
eventually, a less difficult feat (favored as he was by an uncommon
share of good looks), the hand and heart of his daughter. And now they
were both gone, and he was left loaded with wealth; wealth
unmeasured--wealth to flatter every wish and further every ambitious
project. The fruit was ripe and had fallen. He bit it, but no luscious
juice rushed to the bare papillae; the taste was insipid and dry as
ashes! Every realization is but an after-taste, but this was almost
bitter. The morning sun spangled the dewy grass, and darted brightly
through the tree boughs. Birds carolled sweetly, and all nature
rejoiced, but his spirits seemed to sink under the increased weight of
riches, and he felt burdened. For an instant an unaccountable depression
seized him, and he hardly heeded a gardener who approached to speak. The
man noticed his master's pre-occupation, and waited patiently and
respectfully until his attention was drawn towards him. He wanted to
know if Mr. Heath would like to look at a beautiful exotic that had just
bloomed that morning. Mr. Heath mechanically assented, and followed the
gardener to the greenhouse. Usually he was much interested in the fine
collection of plants in the conservatory, but now he listened dully to
the man's enthusiastic praises of the rare flower, and looked at it with
indifference. Without replying to the gardener, he walked away slowly,
musing as he went on that sermon so often repeated but never heeded--the
vanity of earthly possessions. "Dross, dross, it is so," he
soliloquized, "but how long it takes to learn the lesson! How many envy
me; how many whose first thought on seeing me, whose first wish, is to
be as I am! What a supremely happy and blessed man I must be! Ah, the
monks are wise.... But fame--the incense of popular applause--a name to
live in future generations; something that the grave cannot extinguish,
and death take away, that is the goal to strive for! Aye, ambition is
the only passion worthy a master mind."
He re-entered the house and went to his library. The sight of his
accustomed work-room seemed to banish the shadow on his countenance.
"Blessed--blessed labor, what a balm thou art!" he apostrophized as with
a sort of eagerness he threw himself in a chair, seized a pen, and
followed a new train of ideas.
A singular fit of despondency this in one basking in the smiles of
Fortune, and who had so steadily enjoyed her favors; for the capricious
dame had marked Rufus Heath for a favorite long ago by a significant
gift plainly indicative of her partiality. This gift, or stroke of luck,
was the winning at his start in life of a lottery prize, which sudden
affluence, judiciously invested, had led to the splendid culmination now
apparent.
* * * * *
Mr. Heath was in his library, a large room adjoining his bedchamber,
which also answered the purposes of a study, and was furnished with
leathern-covered chairs, and surrounded by closely filled book-cases of
polished walnut, surmounted at intervals with marble busts of the giants
of intellect. A long table in the centre of the room was covered with
maps, manuscripts, and works of reference. At one end Mr. Heath sat
intently writing. His early habits of industry he still carried almost
to excess. Idleness filched but few moments from him, and by a thorough
system he managed to perform an amount of labor that would have been
deemed prodigious in a close student. The work that engrossed the most
of his time, the opus magnus, was the preparation of a pandect wherein
the constitutions, statutes, and enactments of the various States of the
Union would be digested and reconciled into one harmonious code of laws.
The mere gathering and collating of material for this purpose involved a
formidable amount of labor, and when in addition to this we consider
that he supervised the accounts of the estate and kept up a voluminous
correspondence with statesmen and politicians in all parts of the
country, we may imagine that he had but few spare moments.
Behind him on the wall hung the symbol of his weakness--an illuminated
achievement intended to represent the arms of the Heath family. Should a
visitor's attention be attracted by this heraldic device, the host was
only too happy to explain the mystery of crest and quarterings, and to
dilate on his lineage, tracing its common origin with that of a
distinguished English ducal family. For Rufus Heath, in his heart of
hearts, despised a republic and had no faith in the stability of its
institutions. His ideal of a government was an oligarchy, with him and
his like as oligarchs. Outwardly he professed the stanchest
republicanism and devotion to equal rights.
So absorbed had Mr. Heath become in his occupation that he heeded not
his daughter as she came to ask him to breakfast. She entered the study
softly, and almost timidly, for she held her father in a certain awe and
dreaded to disturb him. It was only when she laid her hand lightly on
his shoulder that he discovered her presence. "Father, good-morning,"
said she, seeking to press her lips to his cheek.
"Ah! Miss Edna. Is that you?" he replied, impassively, and slowly
disengaging her arm from his neck. "Good-morning. Leave me, child; I
will be with you in an instant."
There was no unkindness in the tone, but there was no warmth. The few
words that had passed between them revealed enough to indicate to an
observant witness the history of a daughter's heart, eager for the
affection of a parent insulated from domestic ties by egotistic
worldliness.
Mr. Heath laid aside his pen, passed to his chamber, and arranged his
toilet preparatory to the morning repast. He then descended the stairs
as if a chamberlain preceded him; entered the breakfast-room with a
stately nod to those present, and took his seat at the table gravely,
and with an apology for his tardiness. After a scrutinizing glance
around, a preparatory pause followed, and then, bending low his head, he
invoked the Divine blessing. The meals in that family were not at any
time those cheerful family gatherings that diversify existence so
pleasantly, but serious proceedings, conducted with severe propriety,
the head of the house being exceedingly punctilious on that score. On
this morning, naturally enough, a greater solemnity prevailed, and the
breakfast was passed almost in silence. Mrs. Applegate, a widow, and
elder sister of Mr. Heath, presided. She had been installed housekeeper
on the death of her brother's wife, and occupied the post at table that
should have devolved upon young Mrs. Heath, but that lady was too
indifferent, and disinclined to any exertion to fill it. She was a
Creole by birth, the daughter of a Yankee machinist who had married the
very wealthy widow of a Cuban planter. This machinist, Sam Wolvern,
previous to going to the West Indies, had learned his trade in Belton,
and after the death of his wife returned there to live. Dying soon after
his arrival, he left Mr. Heath sole guardian of the person and fortune
of his only child, Mercedita Wolvern. So well did the guardian manage
his trust, that he succeeded, in due time, in transferring his ward and
her fortune to the custody of his son. This occasioned some unfavorable
tattle, but as Mercedita Wolvern, a pale, feeble girl, had no will of
her own, it may have been justifiable in somebody else's having one for
her, if matters had turned out well. Unfortunately they did not, for her
husband, with all the arrogance and vanity, and none of the brains of
his sire, was possessed of sundry vices, which rendered him anything but
an agreeable life companion. A spoiled boy, indulged and toadied, he
easily fell into the snares that beset rich men's sons, and grew up a
worthless and dissipated man. His father designed him for the legal
profession, but "living like a hermit and working like a horse," was
not at all to the taste of young Hopeful. Hence, in the hope that an
early marriage might reform him,--to say nothing of the pecuniary
advantages of such a match,--his father had given him poor weak
Mercedita, and her fortune, to wife. And a wretched connubial existence
she had of it, for Jack Heath added drunkenness to his other unamiable
traits, and was hardly sober from one day to another. This, of course,
created much uneasiness in the father's mind, who naturally hoped that
his son would at least perpetuate the family name with dignity, if he
were incapable of shedding lustre on it.
"Where is John?" inquired Mr. Heath of his daughter-in-law, as he
noticed his son's absence from the table.
"Sleeping, I presume, sir," replied the young wife; "I heard the clock
strike one before he came in last night."
"What! again? And last night of all nights!" escaped from the father's
lips. Ordinarily his pride prevented him from showing displeasure at his
son's misconduct, in the presence of others, but that John should have
so far forgotten himself as to indulge in a debauch on the very day of
his grandfather's funeral; that he should have gone in his mourning
clothes to the town bar-rooms, his usual haunts, and swaggered tipsily
along the streets, a spectacle of shame, furnishing food for scandal for
a month--for the Heath family were considered in the light of public
personages, and every act of theirs was commented on by all
Belton--this, all this, touched Mr. Heath keenly. His daughter, who was
seated beside him, noticed his clouded brow, and asked him with anxiety,
if anything ailed him?
"No, nothing, child," he replied, and turning to the colored servant in
attendance bade him summon John at once. Edna, the daughter, had but
just returned from boarding-school, where she had spent the greater part
of three previous years; hence she knew but little of her brother's
habits, and imagined that a lack of respect on his part was all that had
disturbed her usually imperturbable father.
It's the old Obershaw blood in him--the coarse tastes which he inherits
from his grandfather, reflected Mr. Heath with bitterness. The old man
had the same propensity, but avarice smothered it in him. With a sigh
he turned toward his daughter for consolation. His looks dwelt on her,
and it seemed as if it were the first time he had ever noticed her
beauty. How lovely she has grown, thought he. A true Heath--if she were
only a boy! Still, why should she not aspire, and reflect honor on me? I
shall be Governor of this State, next a foreign mission, an
ambassadorship. All she would need is the opportunity. Did ever coronet
grace a fairer brow? My daughter a countess or a marchioness--is there
anything impossible or improbable in that?
While Mr. Heath was in the midst of his fanciful cogitations, the object
of them was eating in a matter-of-fact way, and in utter unconsciousness
of the ambitious views she had awakened. Nevertheless, there was
everything to justify her father's pride and hopes; for Edna, a girl of
seventeen, had a graceful figure, a cheek as delicate as a rose-petal,
soft steel-blue eyes with dark lashes and brows, hair the hue of ripe
wheat, and that indescribable sweetness of expression in which American
maidens surpass all others. Her plain, black dress, relieved only by a
white collar and wristbands, did not in the least detract from her
appearance, but, on the contrary, enhanced her clear complexion to
brilliancy. So her father thought, and his heart swelled with new-born
pride in the possession of such a child. There was an unusual tenderness
in his voice when he questioned her, "Edna, what are you going to do
this morning?"
It was a purposeless question, meant simply to attract her attention
towards him.
Edna turned her face towards her father with an inquiring look, for the
query was a very unusual one. "I intend to call on Ada Mumbie; I left my
crochet-work there on Monday, and am going after it. Have you any errand
for me, sir?"
"No, daughter. Crochet-work is certainly important business, and should
not be neglected," replied her father with a smile. "I hope, however,
you have other and better ways of employing your time."
"I trust so, sir," said Edna.
"I wish, my child, you would adopt the plan of writing me a letter every
day, or every other day will do. It matters not how short it may be--a
few sentences will suffice. But I want it done as well as you know how,
and have you bestow thought upon it. Let it consist of a criticism on
some book you have read, or some picture you have seen. For instance,
you might begin to write criticisms on the pictures in the gallery in
succession, varying them, however, with such opinions of other matters,
persons, or objects as may strike your fancy. But what I want are your
ideas and none other, expressed in the best language you are capable of.
You will do so, will you not?"
"Certainly, father, if it pleases you."
"Well, but I don't want you to do it solely because it pleases me. I
want you to acquire a taste for such employment. I was looking over some
of your letters from school the other day, and I was very well pleased
with the style, but I noticed a lack of thought. True, you are still
young, and can hardly be expected to evince much of that, but I want to
cultivate your mind in that respect, and now is the time to begin. Bear
in mind, skill in epistolary writing is a great accomplishment;
especially so in a woman," continued Mr. Heath; then turning to his
daughter-in-law he said, "Mercedita, I have an appointment at the bank
at ten. I shall be back at eleven. Tell John I shall expect to find him
in the library waiting for me at that hour. I have business for him. I
want some copying done. Mr. Frisbee has more than he can attend to now;"
and Mr. Heath rose to leave. As he opened the door to go out he stopped
for a moment, reflectively, with his hand on the knob, "Edna."
"Yes, father," replied the young girl, rising and going towards him.
"When you return from your visit, come up into the library. I shall
select some works I wish you to read. Don't fail, my dear;" and Mr.
Heath, before leaving, imprinted a light kiss on his daughter's
forehead. She received it with an expression of pleased surprise. It was
the first time he had ever favored her in that way. So unwonted a
demonstration of tenderness on the part of her brother even caused Mrs.
Applegate to pause in the act of pouring out her fourth cup of tea, and
stare at the scene. "Edna seems to be in favor this morning," she
remarked when Mr. Heath had left, "but John, I am afraid, Mercedita, has
greatly offended his father, and is very much in disfavor."
"O Mercedita!" added Edna, "do beg him to apologize to father at once,
and try and make amends. Just think how troubled father must be at
grandfather's death, and that Jack should add to his grief is too bad.
Do, please, entreat him, Mercedita, to--"
"I do not pretend to have any influence whatever over John. I might
have, if he had any consideration for my feelings; but as I am sure he
has never shown the slightest, of what use would my remonstrances or
pleadings be? He may follow the path he has chosen without any
interference from me," answered the young wife with an affected
indifference.
"Father expects him at eleven," said Edna, "and I hope Jack will be
punctual. I wouldn't have father continue angry at him for the world. I
wonder if James has told him? I'll go and see;" and she hurried off, in
her anxiety to reconcile her father and brother.
"I think, Mercedita, if you took John in the right way," said Mrs.
Applegate, "you might do a good deal with him. He is as good-hearted a
person as ever lived. He's whimsical, to be sure, and perhaps we all
indulged him a little too much when he was a boy. I'll not deny that.
But then, you know, a little coaxing will go a great ways."
A shrug of the shoulders was the only reply the young wife deigned to
make to this advice, and Mrs. Applegate continued: "Now, I've had a good
deal of experience in these matters, and I recollect very distinctly,
when Mr. Applegate and I were first married, he was as full of whims and
notions as could be, and naturally it was a source of trouble in more
ways than one to me. Mr. Applegate utterly detested cats for one
thing--couldn't bear 'em; indeed, he had such a great detestation of
them, that I verily believe it actually affected his system; though, to
be sure, he was consumptive, and subject to constant attacks of
dyspepsia. I've heard of many such cases. Not long ago I read in the
papers an account of some distinguished person--I forget the name, now,
though it's a familiar one--let me see, I think it was Alexander the
Great, or it might have been Luther, I won't be certain which; but at
all events it was some well-known and distinguished person who was
thrown into convulsions every time he saw a black rabbit--no, not a
black rabbit, but a drawn sword. It was another well-known person who
was affected in a similar way by a black rabbit. Now this goes to
show--"
What this went to show we are unable to say, for at this point, Mrs.
Applegate's instructive, though somewhat irrelevant discourse, was
interrupted by the entrance of Jack Heath, who was evidently in no
amiable frame of mind, and under the influence, probably, of the
whimsical state alluded to by his kinswoman. He took his seat in sulky
silence, and then began to scold the waiter. He found fault with
everything--the steak was too cold, the eggs too hard, the tea too hot,
the toast too dry, etc. The two ladies looked on without venturing a
remark. From the dull, sodden look of his eyes, and his carelessly
brushed hair, Jack's rest and peace of mind had evidently been badly
disturbed. He was large and unduly corpulent for so young a man, being
barely two-and-twenty, although he might have passed for ten years
older; and on his fat face the freshness of youth had given place to the
inflamed flush of the toper. After a few mouthfuls he could contain
himself no longer, and vented his spleen in a grumbling tirade. "Seems
to me there's a devil of a row here about nothing. Can't have a bit of
comfort in this house. Come home tired and want to have my sleep out,
and along comes James drumming away at my door as if the house was on
fire; says the old man sent him--then Edna, she must come bothering me
to get up. Confound it, some of you women are at the bottom of it all,
I'll bet. Been complaining to the old man, have you?"
This last was directed with a scowl to his wife, who, without
condescending to reply, arose from her chair and wrapping her shawl
close about her, swept out of the room indignant, leaving Mrs. Applegate
to confront Jack's temper alone.
"A young feller's a fool that gets married," continued Jack, addressing
no one in particular.
Mrs. Applegate, feeling this apothegm to be rather a reflection on her
sex, and one which ought not to pass unchallenged, ventured a mild
qualification. "Well, John, it depends very much whether the fellow, as
you call him, is of a domestic disposition or not. Now, there is great
difference in people, and especially in married couples. There was Mr.
Applegate, for instance; I'm sure no one could have led a happier life,
and he often used to say to me, 'My dear--'"
"I say," repeated the nephew, dogmatically, "that a young feller's a
fool that gets married. That's all. And he'll find it out sooner or
later, I'll bet he does. To have a woman always tied to you, that goes
whining around and complaining if a feller comes in late, or has been on
a little jamboree with a friend and gets a little set up. I'd rather be
hung and be done with it."
"Dear me, John, I wouldn't go on so about it," said his aunt,
placatingly. "To be sure I don't ever remember of Mr. Applegate's going
on a jam--jamboree, as you call it, as he was always afraid of dampness
and night air; but then you must admit that it isn't the pleasantest
thing in the world to be wakened out of a sound sleep, or to sit up
waiting for some one to come home, particularly if you are anyway
delicate; and young people should bear in mind that the easiest way is
always the best."
Mrs. Applegate added a few more mollifying sentences of the same general
application, until Jack, having by this time finished his breakfast,
seemed to be appeased, and remarked in rather more peaceful tones, that
he "was off his feed," a statement which might well cause an onlooker
to wonder how much provender Jack consumed when he was "on his feed."
Then pulling out a case, he struck a match and lit a cigar, remarking as
he did so to his aunt: "Old man wants me in the library punctually at
eleven, does he? Think I see myself. Not to-day, thank you. If I'm there
I guess he'll know it. As the Frenchman said, 'I've got to fry some
fish,'" and off he lounged to the stables.