The regiment to which Mark had been assigned recruited chiefly in Belton
from among the artisans, and sons of the neighboring farmers, and it was
not long before the complement was made up. As time was precious at this
juncture the regiment was directed to proceed without delay to
Washington, to join the corps forming under Kearney.
A parting surprise had been prepared for Mark by the men at the Works,
who had contributed to purchase a handsome sword, which was presented to
the young lieutenant a few days previous to his departure. Work was
suspended two hours before the usual time, and Knatchbull, foreman of
the machine-shop, and the oldest man at the Works, was deputed to make
the presentation speech. He was an Englishman, but heart and soul with
the country of his adoption. Unfortunately, to American ears, his
eloquence was marred somewhat by a strong Northumbrian burr.
Nevertheless, it was not ineffective, and Mark, who was totally
unprepared for such a manifestation, had his feelings so touched by this
exhibition of friendship for him by his late associates, that he was
unable to make a coherent reply. He thanked them with a full heart, and
one and all, big and little, shook hands with him; then shouted
themselves hoarse, until George Gildersleeve, who had become reconciled
to Mark's leaving, and even promised him the finest charger money could
buy, delivered his sentiments in the following pithy address:
"Mark Gildersleeve! remember the man whose horse wore that old shoe over
there (pointing to the fire-place in the counting-room), and remember
your grandfather who shod him just afore the great battle of Trenton,
and stand by the old flag, now and forever! That's all. Now boys we've
had enough chin-music; step upstairs and wet your whistles."
And up they all went into the loft, where the consumption of punch,
champagne, and sandwiches was wreathed about with the flowers of
patriotic song, and till long towards midnight the vale of Belton
resounded with the choric melodies of the "Star-Spangled Banner," and
"Rally round the Flag," whose stentorious strains were borne across the
Passaic to reverberate and die amid the distant Preakness hills.
* * * * *
The eve of departure was at hand. Mark had not had any interview or
communication with Miss Heath since her brother's death. He had seen her
several times, either at church or while she was riding, and exchanged
salutations, but had not attempted to visit her. But now, he could
forego it no longer. Clad in a bran-new uniform, that displayed his
square shoulders and sinewy waist to advantage, he went with palpitating
heart to the Cliff to take leave of Edna. He hoped to be fortunate
enough to see her alone. He had not long to wait in the vast
drawing-room, when light footsteps announced the young lady. She looked
slender in her black dress, and rather pale, but a light blush mantled
her features as she received him with a cordial smile. He colored in
response, and their looks spoke volumes to each other.
"I--I trust," said Mark, "the audacity of my avowal at our last meeting,
Edna, has already been forgiven, but I hope the avowal itself is not
forgotten?"
"You seem determined to remind me of it at all events," replied Edna,
parrying the question, and withdrawing her hand from his, as she
motioned him to a chair. She took a seat opposite to him on a sofa,
composing the folds of her dress in a nonchalant way, as if she feared
having betrayed too much gratification in her greeting. There was an
awkward pause for a moment. Then Mark, exchanging his seat for one
beside Edna, and arming himself with persuasive audacity, took up her
words. "Remind you, Edna? Oh! could I but impress you with a faint idea
of how intensely I adore you--how completely you control my wishes,
ambition, aspirations--my heart! Did you know how entirely the
remembrance of you is interwoven with every thought of my life, you
would not wonder at my cherishing jealously every kind glance and every
smile as a priceless boon."
Edna attempted to frame some coy reply, but the artless girl was unable
to carry on the coquettish play of a sued maiden against the resistless
ardor of such an impetuous wooer. She could only remain silent, with
lowered glance and burning cheek, while her daring suitor continued, "I
may be exceedingly presumptuous in aspiring to you, Edna. I have nothing
to offer, and I know you deserve all that earth can give, but all I ask
now, is to be permitted to hope, and meanwhile to worship, for no
divinity is too exalted to spurn the humblest devotee; but I need your
consent and encouragement; without that, the task I have undertaken will
be purposeless, and all honor I might win prove barren. I have come to
bid you farewell."
"Farewell," echoed Edna, raising her eyes to his.
"Yes," said Mark, "to-morrow morning I leave for Virginia, and I've come
to bid you farewell, and beg some token--some favor, Edna, which I know
you will not refuse me; and if it should be my fate never to return--"
"Oh, don't say that," exclaimed Edna in tones that betrayed her anxiety.
"I trust I shall return, Edna, and in a position to make me more worthy
of the interest you manifest in me. Dearest, the sweet confession I read
in your eyes--in your tell-tale blushes, nerves me for every danger,"
etc., etc.
Mark was getting along famously in the time-honored way, when, at this
tender stage of affairs, who should make her unwelcome appearance but
Aunt Applegate, fortunately a myopic matron, who underwent an
introduction to Mark, without seemingly noticing the confused looks of
the sentimental pair. A voluble dame luckily was Mrs. Applegate, who had
known Mark's mother and several of his dead and gone relatives, and
instantly resurrected many incidents and reminiscences connected with
the existence of those personages, thereby giving Edna time to assume a
properly demure countenance. Our budding warrior and lover, while
feigning an hypocritical interest in the conversation of the intruding
lady, would, we fear, have seen her led off to the rack or stake with
glee and gratitude. In happy unconsciousness of the kind feelings
towards her, Mrs. Applegate continued, touching upon the prevailing
topic: "So you are going to the war, Mr. Gildersleeve? Isn't it
dreadful? Dear me, I don't know how it will all end. Edna told me you
had joined the cavalry, and I think you are very sensible in doing so,
for you have a great advantage over the foot-soldiers, and if worst
comes to the worst, and matters become serious, you can, in case of
danger, always get away from it much faster. Edna said--I believe you
read it in the paper, didn't you, dear? Yes. So I thought--that you were
a lieutenant. Now I should think that was doing very well for so short a
time. Mrs. Mumbie is so worried about Decatur. He is at the Naval
School, you know, and she is afraid he may have to go and fight. She's a
Southerner, and all her sympathies are with the South," etc., etc.
Mrs. Applegate continued in this strain for some time, duly impressing
on Mark the necessity of keeping his feet dry upon all occasions, and
avoiding damp ground as a couch. She offered furthermore to present him
with a quart bottle of picra, a remedial agent of great virtue and
nastiness. "I prepared it myself, and am never without it, and wouldn't
be for anything. Mr. Applegate used to say, 'Now, Susan, if you'd only
advertise it, you'd make your fortune.' It's the very best thing in the
world to ward off chills and fever; and now I think of it, Mr.
Gildersleeve, if you could introduce it in the army, and induce the
soldiers to take it occasionally instead of their vile whiskey and
brandy, what a blessing it would be! I'm sure for my part nothing would
give me greater pleasure than to furnish the recipe. Now, if you'll bear
this in mind, and write me, I'll send it to you at any time."
Mark promised to do so; he would have promised anything, even to taking
a daily dose of picra for a month, if Mrs. Applegate would only have
allowed him a few minutes' longer _tete-a-tete_ with his sweetheart, but
it was not to be, and he was about to take his leave when Mrs. Applegate
requested him to stay to tea, an invitation which he gladly accepted.
The meal was rather a stiff and ceremonious affair, but Mark was
supremely happy as he sat next to Edna. Mr. Heath, who had returned from
his journey apparently not much improved in health, was rather mystified
at the young officer's presence, and stared somewhat at his
shoulder-straps. Mark noticed that the patrician had lost much of his
old rigid pride, and looked fatigued and care-worn. He appeared to take
but little interest in the momentous events of the day, and his one or
two listless questions betrayed a remarkable ignorance of what was going
on around him in relation to the war.
After tea they withdrew to the parlors, with the exception of Mr. Heath,
who retired to his room. Mrs. Applegate, complimenting Mark on his
voice, requested him to favor her with "Angels ever bright and fair;"
which the young fellow did, you may rest assured, to the very best of
his ability, as he sang to Edna's accompaniment. Then other visitors
came. First, the Rev. Spencer Abbott, somewhat amazed, and perhaps a
little displeased at Mark's presence, but too well bred to show it;
next, Bob Mumbie and his sister Ada, to whom Mark underwent an
introduction--an embarrassing ceremony where all the parties have known
each other from childhood, but tacitly agreed as they grew up to be as
strangers. However, the ice was soon broken. The young rector was
pleasant enough and had a batch of entirely new conundrums to offer. Bob
Mumbie, though rather doltish, was a good-natured, amusing fellow, while
Miss Ada chose to make herself unusually agreeable, succumbing, perhaps,
to the potent fascination of the lieutenant's blue coat and gilt
buttons. She was a rather pretty girl, with a clear brunette complexion;
but strongly marked brows knit over brilliant black eyes, and
disdainful lips, gave her an imperious expression. She attacked a
sonata of Beethoven, but it was evidently beyond the capacity of her
unpractised fingers, and it was a relief when her brother offered to
treat the company to "The Old Folks at Home." Bob Mumbie's forte was
Ethiopian minstrelsy, and he sang the simple lays of the plantation with
all the pathos of a professional. Led on by the general applause, Bob
followed it up with "Old Uncle Snow," then "Sally Come up," and
concluded with a "Walk round," after the manner of the celebrated Mr.
Bryant, to the intense amusement of Mrs. Applegate, whose capacious form
shook with laughter, and of Edna, who enjoyed it scarcely less. All this
was horridly unaesthetic, and Mark, the prig, only rewarded the
performance with a condescending smile. Perhaps, was he jealous that his
efforts had not met with equal success, or that Edna had requested a
repetition of "Uncle Snow"? For all that, and in spite of it, he enjoyed
himself, and passed a delightful evening; one that he often recalled as
he smoked his corn-cob pipe and ruminated before the lonely
bivouac-fires during the tedious Peninsular campaign.
Mark was grievously disappointed though, when about taking his leave
that evening, to find Mrs. Applegate accompanying her niece to the door
to press on his acceptance a large bottle of picra. He was fain to
content himself with exchanging a lingering pressure of the hands and an
eloquent look with Edna. She found means, however, to give him a small
folded paper which of course contained, to his supreme delight, a tress
of her bonny blond hair. Any one witnessing his behavior as he went home
that night, stopping every moment to cover the precious keepsake with
kisses, and then as he crossed the bridge to the town, to fling a bottle
rather impatiently into the river, might reasonably have entertained
doubts as to his sanity.
And the sweet enchantress who had cast this spell? She was rather
startled when stopping at her father's room to bid him good-night, he
abruptly asked her what that young man had called for? Fortunately he
did not notice her deep color as she answered that he had merely come to
bid them good-by, and Aunt Susan had asked him to stay to tea.
"Ah! yes--going to the war, I see. Well, good-night, darling," was all
Mr. Heath remarked, and Edna was much relieved when she discovered her
father's curiosity extended no farther. But what a long serious
meditation she had after retiring to her room! How often she stopped and
reflected as she braided her hair for the night! She was now fairly in
love. This last step of Mark's had achieved her conquest. What young
lady with any kind of a heart could resist the fascination of a gallant
who was both a poet and soldier? And not only that, but who had the
finest black eyes and chiselled features conceivable? Even Ada Mumbie,
who had never condescended to notice him before, was now forced to admit
that he looked "splendid" in his uniform. Edna had read of Sidney, and
fancied Mark must be just such another individual as that model knight.
As for Fred Spooner, who wrote her such school-boy scrawls from Harvard,
what was there chivalrous about him? But Mark could only be compared to
one of those delightful mailed beaux of old who went ambling about the
world smiting every one who didn't instantly acknowledge that their own
particular lady-love was vastly superior to all other ladyloves in
existence; and she hadn't any doubt but that Mark was ready to enter the
lists at a moment's notice for such a purpose; and we may add that we do
not think she was much mistaken in her belief either. So she decided in
her mind that as soon as she was nineteen, and Mark became a general,
which would doubtless be contemporaneous events, they would be married.
Then a sad expression shadowed her face, as the thought crossed her mind
that perhaps he might fall in battle. When she knelt at her bedside in
her vestal robe, an appeal for the protection and safe return of the
young lieutenant was not omitted, we will venture to say.
* * * * *
The sun came out bright and encouragingly the next morning, when a clear
bugle-call roused the recruiting camp on the outskirts of Belton. The
men were under order to leave for Washington by an early train. It was a
memorable day for the town, and the citizens assembled to see the
gallant lads off. The cavalry-men were dismounted, lightly equipped with
blankets and haversacks, while their officers carried their sabres with
all the pride of veterans. They defiled through the principal streets
on their way to the railway-station, accompanied by the "Home Guard,"
and preceded by the Belton brass-band ringing out "John Brown's march,"
while the people cheered lustily. 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 passed 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 penmanship 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 dashing 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 embarrassment of an explanation and the
recollections revived by it, were such as to cause him to accept with
gratitude 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 reassuring 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 assist 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
constitution--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," ejaculated rather than spoke Mr. Heath, as a
shudder seemed to pass over his frame.
"Fearful? It's wicked, abominable, impious. To suppose that a beneficent
God 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 mass
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 circumstances: '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 assistance?"
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 ship."
The doctor, who had been not a little surprised at the tenor of his
host's conversation, expressed his condolence, and proffered his
assistance 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
attitude. Dr. Wattletop took this for an indication that the conference
was at an end, but the Monongahela being excellent, he lingered to
refill his glass. 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.
Had John Knox, for instance, been born a Hindoo, in Benares, he would
have become the fiercest fakir of them all. The mass of mankind dislike
the trouble of thinking, and follow the paths traced out for them in
infancy. Take your friend Mumbie, as an illustration. Here is a man of
average respectability, who goes to church because it is the correct
thing. What are his views, think you, on the hypostatic union? It is
immaterial to him whether the minister preaches from the Zendavesta or
the Koran; a certain number of hours have to be spent listening to him,
and then he jogs along day after day, in the same grooves, satisfied if
he keeps up to the average of respectability. Faith, Mr. Heath, as
connected with dogmas and formulas, is of little consequence, in my
estimation. Who do you think is the better man,--the one who believes in
consubstantiation, or the one who believes in transubstantiation? My
good mother, who was a pious woman, brought me up in the tenets of the
Established Church--hence youthful predilections and associations attach
me to that fold. At one time the perusal of Paley's Natural Theology,
the Bridgewater treatises, and works of that character, shook my faith,
and left me a sceptic. Such works, although intended to strengthen
faith, serve but to stimulate inquiry. Possessing an analytic mind, the
subtle problems of Nature had a wonderful fascination for me, and in
trying to solve them, I became for a time a proselyte to the
unsatisfactory theories of materialistic philosophy, until, fortunately,
I found in the teachings of Descartes a solid foundation for belief. No
logic can successfully assail the faith that springs from intuition.
Now, like Kant, I never cease to wonder at the starry heavens, but far
more at the intuitive knowledge of God and the Moral Law."
"The Moral Law," echoed Mr. Heath, abstractedly. After a few moments he
returned, "Does not charity cover a multitude of sins?"
"It's a convenient mantle, surely. As I said before, I do not believe
sins are ever forgiven, but bring their own punishment inevitably. Here
in this world they certainly do, for all sages agree on this: that
happiness is only attainable through the practice of virtue, and if this
be so, the converse must necessarily be true, and those who do not
practise it must be unhappy. As the physical health is governed by
certain hygienic laws whose infraction inevitably produces disease, so
is the spiritual health governed by the moral law, whose infraction also
as certainly brings suffering. To be good is to be spiritually
healthy--wickedness is deformity or disease of the soul."
"Then you are not a believer in total depravity?"
"No. The thing that reconciles us to ourselves and our fellow-beings, is
the knowledge that the evil we commit proceeds more from unwisdom than
from depravity. Man is far more of a fool than knave."
"I must ask your indulgence, doctor, and pardon for the liberty I have
taken in thus catechising you; but as I said, I am emboldened to do so
by the great esteem in which I hold you, and respect I entertain for
your opinions and judgment. One more question: If this idea of duty,
this Moral Law, as you term it, is from God, why is it not the same in
all men? A savage can slay treacherously and sleep peacefully
afterwards. Is not the moral law the creation of intellect?"
"No, intellect merely unfolds and develops it. The sway of the moral law
is in proportion to the quality of the soul and the degree of reason.
Its power is diminished in beings of limited reason or imperfect souls;
hence, in a savage or a troglodyte it is naturally less than in an
enlightened man--and still less in a horse, with its deficient reason
and incipient soul," explained the doctor.
Mr. Heath again rose from his seat, paced across the room, and for the
first time helped himself to a glass of spirits; then turning to the
doctor, expressed, with forced lightness, his thanks for the instructive
exposition he had been favored with. At this intimation the doctor took
his departure, muttering to himself as he descended the staircase, "Very
odd--I wonder what the deuce he wanted to see me for? Wished me to be
his father-confessor. Egad! I think he assumed that _role_ himself. If
he had but asked me to feel his pulse or look at his tongue, I might
have clapped a fee down against him. As it is, I have had all my
trouble for nothing. That whiskey, though, was excellent--excellent."
Edna had been waiting below to see the doctor, and as he was about
opening the street-door to leave, she approached with a look of concern:
"Don't you think, doctor, that father is better--don't you see an
improvement in him?"
"Yes," replied Dr. Wattletop, cautiously, as he drew on his gloves;
"Yes--I think, I--he looks better--rather better."
"Oh thank you, doctor; I'm ever so much obliged to you," replied Edna,
joyfully.
"Still, it will be just as well, in case you notice any change in him or
new peculiarity, to advise me of it. Good-by."