EDNA.

These few words were immediately despatched to the colonel, who, Edna

had overheard Jobson say, was stopping at the "Albemarle," and strict

injunctions given the messenger to ascertain positively if this were so.

The clerk in attendance at the hotel, unaware that Mark had departed a

short time before, replied, when questioned as to whether the colonel

were staying there, in the affirmative; and taking Edna's note, flung it

carelessly in an appropriate pigeon-hole. It lay there a day; and the

next tenant of the room occupied by Mark received it, opened it without

looking at the address, and discovering his mistake and the apparent

unimportance of the epistle, unconcernedly threw it into the fire.

Accidents seemingly trivial shape our destinies; and this one separated

two young hearts forever, and caused a material divergence in their

future lives.

Edna, after sending the note, remained at home that evening. She had

engaged to go to the opera; but plead indisposition, and grievously

disappointed an admirer. She waited in expectation of a swift

acknowledgment of her petition. The mask had fallen. If Mark could have

seen her now, all his bitterness would have vanished. Old thoughts and

recollections had resumed their sway, and her countenance beamed with

the latent tenderness of a frank, generous nature. It was not the

tristful expression of a love-lorn maiden, for her girlish passion for

Mark was indeed gone; but there remained a sincere affection for her old

friend and playmate. He came not, neither made he any sign; and Edna

retired to her room that night disappointed, and perhaps a little

nettled. This feeling very soon passed over; it lasted a day or so, and

then with an appeased conscience, and serene conviction that she had

made ample amends for her frigid reception of her old lover, she

continued to mingle in the whirl of fashionable diversions.

Her wealth and beauty had installed her at once as the reigning belle

of the season. Suitors she had without number. Noticeable among them,

besides the Italian count, were: the still faithful Spooner, the former

dog-fancier, now the Rev. F. Standish Spooner, in charge of a

congregation at Roxbury, that he sadly neglected to wait upon Miss

Heath, without, however, much hope of success, as his ineligibility as a

partner in the dance put him at a woful disadvantage; the dashing

stockbroker, Jobson, whom the belle rather disdained, in spite of his

horses and yacht, as unrefined and inclined to low tastes; Herbert

Hopper, a little fop, with immeasurably more money than brains; a pretty

fellow, though, that scores of girls would gladly have taken up with;

and last though not least, Percy Brocatelle, a famous leader of the

German. Percy's means of livelihood were involved in mystery, and his

antecedents humble. He had been a clerk at Stewart's, where his

gentlemanly address and good looks had won him many friends and

acquaintances from among the fashionable patronesses of that

establishment. Under the auspices of the sagacious Sexton Brown, he had

forsaken the glove-counter, and made his debut as a society-man,

gradually rising to eminence in that arduous profession. Envious swells,

to be sure, maligned him; sons of successful pork-merchants and

stable-keepers blackballed him and refused him admission to their clubs;

but Brocatelle rose triumphant over all these obstacles, and was found

everywhere--that was anywhere--for who could so deftly tread the mazes

of the German as he? Whose head was so round, or hair parted with such

precision as his? And who else combined with all this, clothes so

faultless, and a mustache so imposing? His taste, furthermore, in

ladies' dress--in their laces, gloves, ribbons, and coiffures, was

unimpeachable and invaluable. These qualities were not to be gainsaid;

and Edna, for one, declared publicly, that she preferred dancing with

him to any one else, and dreaded his criticism on her attire more than

even that of the great Schmauder. Yet in spite of all these advantages,

Percy could make no headway against the Count--the irresistible Count,

surrounded with all the fascinating and terrible glories of the Borgia

family, whose star was in the ascendant until a prince--a real PRINCE,

came along. For it happened in those days that the son of a reigning

monarch was making a tour of the States. His mother, who was, naturally

enough, a queen, although a queen, bore as irreproachable a character as

any matron in her dominions; and as such praiseworthy conduct on the

part of a sovereign deserved encouragement, several estimable old

citizens of the great metropolis deemed it their duty to manifest their

approval of her good behavior, by giving a public ball to her son, out

of respect for his august mother. This, to be sure, was but a

left-handed compliment to the son, and when a committee of the reverend

seignors waited on the prince to tender the proposed honor, he did not

evince any lively sense of anticipated pleasure; and after the

deputation had bowed themselves off (each one under the delightful

delusion that he would be asked in return to drop in at the palace, in a

friendly way, on his next visit to Europe) he turned to his mentor and

discontentedly said, "Dammit, Grey, must I go to that ball, and be bored

by those confounded snobs?"

"No help for it that I can see," replied my lord.

"Well, there will be lots of pretty girls there, I dare say. These

Yankee girls are doosid pretty. If they'd only give me a chance to have

my fling, and not insist on my leading out a lot of stupid old dowagers,

I wouldn't mind it a bit," remarked H. R. H.

Now princeling was to a certain extent justified in his comments, for

while the mass of the people had an honest curiosity to see a prince,

and rushed to look at him as they would to a unicorn or any other rare

sight, there was a select circle who worshipped him as the

representative of power and pageantry, and hoped by surrounding him to

shine resplendently in the reflected light of royalty. H. R. H. was not

an astute lad, but he was probably sharp enough to perceive that all the

toadying he was subjected to was due to his rank and trappings and not

to him as an individual. That refined snobbery called loyalty has its

redeeming side. One can understand the devotion of a good and wise

royalist to an imbecile or wretched monarch, because the sentiment may

be disinterested, and would still exist were the monarch an exiled

mendicant, but the courtiership of republicans is purely selfish and

debasing. Most of us, like Thackeray, would jump out of our skins for

joy at walking arm-in-arm between two dukes, but it is painful to

reflect that we should hardly toss a shilling to either of them the next

day if stripped of their titles and reduced to beggary. So Mr. Mumbie,

who was abject in the presence of the prince, and ready to prostrate his

poor old brown wig in the dust before his royal highness would, in all

likelihood, have but grudgingly lent him a dollar had he come in the

guise of an impecunious plebeian. But H. R. H. was a good-natured boy

and had a part to perform. So he duly attended the ball, was very

complaisant, honored several ladies, old enough to be his grandmammas,

with his august hand in the dance, and was then allowed to run at large

among the younger beauties present. Miss Heath was among those who

enjoyed the inestimable privilege of being selected as his partner.

Moreover, he graciously flirted with her in the intervals of a galop. He

told her that she was a "stunning girl." His Royal Highness had actually

said that! Edna thrilled with pleasure. True he had paid the same

compliment to the oysters of the country and its cocktails--true he was

plain and an awkward dancer, but then he was a prince--a prince of the

blood-royal, whatever that might be, and she, Edna Heath, in his

princely estimation, was a stunning girl! Was there anything left to

live for? Her happiness was complete, but alas and alack! the prince, as

princes often do, fluttered away like a fickle butterfly, and she was

left forlorn to mourn his disappearance.

Then by degrees the Count--the wily, persistent Count--temporarily

eclipsed, arose again and reappeared in the zenith of her favor. At

times, when she had leisure to think amid the excitement of her

existence, she gave a passing thought to Mark, but she felt absolved

from any duty towards him. She had done all that could be required of

her, and had gone farther to retain his regard than she would to any

other person than so old a friend. It is true she had had a girlish

fancy for him, but it was at a time when she was barely more than a

child and inexperienced. He could not possibly presume upon that now,

especially after the long period in which he had neglected her, and when

her letters had remained uncared for. Consequently she felt entirely

justified in dismissing him thenceforth from her mind. It is not so

certain but that the Count might have shared the same fate, had it not

been for an occurrence that turned the scales in his favor.

Mrs. Mumbie, in her anxiety to secure the nobleman for a son-in-law, had

watched with much dissatisfaction his marked preference for Edna. This,

and the heiress' continued indifference to her son Bob's attentions,

were more than her kind, motherly soul could bear. After a long delay

and patient waiting, one day Bob ventured to propose. Edna listened with

an air of mingled surprise and merriment that rather disconcerted him,

and declined the proffered honor. The rejected postulant, chopfallen and

sullen, repaired to his mother and related his unsuccess. Mrs. Mumbie

could contain herself no longer. The blood of the Skinners was aroused,

and her wrath knew no bounds. Rushing in unceremoniously upon the

heiress, she overwhelmed her with vehement reproaches. Edna was at first

bewildered, and recoiled from the storm of anger so unaccountably

directed at her by the usually amiable matron, who raged away

incoherently, until at length unburthening herself, the animus of all

her fury was very disagreeably revealed. "So, Miss, you have seen fit

to insult us--to insult your guardian--to insult the family to whom you

owe so much, by refusing my son, who was good enough to honor you by an

offer. You hussy! how dare you slight my son--how dare you treat us in

this way? This is your gratitude, is it? After all the kindness we have

shown you--after all our attention and devotion to you. You precious,

artful piece! to think of your eating day after day at our table,

sitting at our board with us, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in your

mouth, and all the while plotting against the happiness of our children.

I don't see how you dare look at me! And the Count--this foreign

adventurer whom Ada despises and whom you have encouraged with your

advances--this Count has turned your silly head, and I'll no longer

permit you to stay in this household."

Edna could listen no longer. With cheeks hot with indignation, and hands

to her ears, she retreated into an adjoining room. Mrs. Mumbie, left

alone, took to screaming, and throwing herself on the floor, drummed

away with her heels in impotent ire. Edna meanwhile put on her hat and

shawl, and swiftly leaving the house stood in the street. She drew her

veil to hide her agitated countenance, and debated whither she should

go. Within a few squares dwelt an intimate friend, a young lady, to whom

she repaired and confided her trouble. This done, her pent-up grief

could no longer be contained, and she gave way to a long cry. She was

very sorrowful. The Mumbies had always been kind to her, and their home

was the only one she had known since her father's death. This sudden

severance, and Mrs. Mumbie's cruel attack, made her feel very lonely and

miserable.

It was not until the morrow that the Mumbie's discovered where their

ward had taken refuge. By that time Mrs. Mumbie had recovered her

presence of mind, and felt that she had sadly marred her plans by her

hasty and intemperate conduct. So Mr. Mumbie was immediately despatched

with a verbal apology, and instructions to smooth matters and induce the

heiress to return. Mr. Mumbie felt himself rather an incompetent

ambassador for such a mission, still he undertook it with zeal having a

genuine affection for the daughter of his old friend, and sincerely and

deeply regretting his wife's behavior towards her. With what seemed to

him subtle policy, he put on sundry tokens Edna had given him, such as a

seal ring, a scarf-pin, and a watch-chain which could not fail to open a

spring of fond associations that would greatly facilitate his task. He

augured well from his reception, for Edna appeared much pleased to see

him, and held up her face to be kissed. But when, after a short

disquisition on the weather, and some hemming and hawing, he ventured to

announce the object of his mission, and, in alluding to Mrs. Mumbie's

"peculiar temper," said she "mustn't mind it"--that nobody minded her

"peculiar temper" (which was rather a stretch of veracity), as "she

didn't mean anything by it," and that the best thing Edna could do was

to put on her "things" and go right back with him--the young lady shook

her head in a way that caused Mr. Mumbie to lose faith in his powers of

persuasion. He tried to appeal to her feelings. "Why, Edna, you can't

imagine how we miss you. You know we are a family of strong local

attachments. I myself have carried this knife--this"--

He felt in his pockets, rummaged them, searched them over--the knife

was gone! Consternation was imminent--when he suddenly recollected that

he had, for the first time in his life, left this cherished companion at

home. This shock, however, disturbed his ratiocination, and he

floundered on rather feebly in his plea.

"As I was saying, Edna, we miss you awfully. If you had only seen us at

breakfast this morning, you couldn't stay away a minute. We couldn't any

of us eat hardly anything. All I took was a cup of tea and a roll. As

for Bob, and you know what a hearty feeder he is, poor Bob couldn't go

more than a couple of buckwheat cakes and a chop, and Ada, she just

about touched an egg, and kept pointing with her fork at your vacant

chair, and saying there's where she used to sit. Last night Will Hull

called, and says he, 'Where's Edna?' and Ada didn't know what to say.

Now this sort of thing won't do. You must forget and forgive."

"My dear guardian," replied Edna, firmly; "while I shall always retain

the utmost respect and gratitude for the kindness you have invariably

shown me, and shall always be very much pleased to see you, I never wish

to see Mrs. Mumbie again. I could not endure to be reminded of the

cruel attack I was subjected to from her."

"Come--come, Edna, you must not talk in that strain. She didn't mean

anything by it. I've been through it myself. It's only her peculiar way,

you know."

Edna pressed her lips tightly together, and shook her head, in a manner

that signified a fixed resolution, and disheartened her guardian.

"Why, Edna, even Blanche has noticed that you have left the house, and

goes whining about, and as for the canaries they are dumb and dull as

owls," added Mr. Mumbie, at a loss for arguments. But even this touching

allusion to the sorrows of the pet Italian grayhound and the

singing-birds failed to soften the obdurate ward, and he was obliged to

retire baffled.

Then Ada Mumbie came and tried her powers, but with no better success,

and Edna's determination remained unshaken.

She stayed at her friend's house, pending the arrival of Mrs. Applegate,

who was spending the winter in a distant western city, and with whom she

intended to reside in the future.

The moment was a propitious one for the Count. He was aware that some

disagreement had arisen between the Mumbies and Miss Heath, but of the

nature of it he was in total ignorance. His curiosity was excited. He

could learn nothing from the young lady. She of course was silent on the

subject, and he had too much tact to appear inquisitive, but Bob--the

guileless Bob, in a gush of confidence, inspired by a bottle of Burgundy

at the club, imparted the story of his unrequited love, his declaration,

and its sequel, to the feeling bosom of a friend, who in turn confided

the tale to a dozen other confidential friends. In this way it reached

the ears of the Count, who was not slow to perceive the great advantage

Miss Heath's present position gave him in prosecuting his suit. Here was

a young, inexperienced person, severed from life-long friends, and left

almost alone in the world. Naturally she was ready to attach herself to

the first sympathetic heart that presented itself in a suitable and

engaging way. Craftily the Count played his cards. When Edna went to

Philadelphia to reside with her aunt, he followed her there, and had the

field to himself. He began by captivating Mrs. Applegate. She bore a

striking resemblance to his cousin the Principessa Baldonachi, he said,

and had the port and mien of those noble Venetian dames, that Titian

loved to paint. He brought her flowers and escorted her to church. The

good lady was flattered beyond measure at these unwonted attentions, and

pronounced him the most polite gentleman she had ever known. At a

favorable moment he took occasion to confide to her, his adoration of

her niece--that truly noble young person--for, while he confessed, with

a certain reluctance, that he belonged to one of the most illustrious

houses of Europe, yet he deemed the only true nobility to be the

nobility of the soul, such as Miss Heath possessed; and then, with a

sigh, he regretted that the young lady was wealthy. He deeply deplored

that. "If she were only a poor girl--if she were entirely destitute--how

happy I should be. With what eager joy would I hasten to lay my heart,

my title, my patrimony, everything at her feet, and beg of her to accept

them. But now, alas! I cannot. No--no--it cannot be--it must not be. The

world--the censorious world, would call me mercenary. No--I must suffer

in silence. Be still, my poor heart! But you shall be my friend, will

you not?"

His visible agitation and moistening eyes touched Mrs. Applegate, who

ventured a little consolatory advice. The Count's sentiments and conduct

in this manner did him great honor, she said, but she did not think he

was called upon to push his disinterestedness to such extremes. For her

part, she had always been of the opinion that no considerations of money

should be allowed to interfere, where true affection existed, and the

happiness of the parties was at stake. The worthy dame already saw

herself sweeping down the grand staircase of the Palazzo Baldonachi, on

the arm of her noble nephew-in-law.

The Count thanked her a thousand times, for her kind words. She had

lifted a load from his heart, he said, and raising her hand respectfully

to his lips, the gallant Italian closed the interview.

Having secured the aunt as an ally, the Count redoubled his efforts to

please the niece. He surrounded her with delicate attentions. He was

pliant, polite, deferential, and at length Edna yielded. What else could

she do? How could she, an inexperienced girl, who had never felt, until

now, the need of a protector, resist the persistent courtship of a man,

handsome, subtle, versed in the vulnerable points of feminine nature,

who plied her with ardent protestations of love and constancy. Her aunt

approved of it, too, and not long after the announcement was made

public, that a marriage had taken place between Count Borgia and Miss

Edna Heath, which, naturally enough, created no little excitement among

the numerous friends and admirers of the bride in the neighboring city

of New York. The match was very frankly discussed at the clubs, rather

unfavorably than otherwise, and Jobson freely offered the odds of two to

one, in sums to suit, that the Count would either poison or strangle his

wife within a year; and odds of ten to one that the extinguishment would

take place in less than six months, provided the husband could get a

will in his favor by that time--found no takers.

Colonel Mark Gildersleeve read of the marriage in a newspaper, just

before the final advance of our army on Richmond. Perhaps his rash

bravery on that occasion, when he rallied a broken column against a

battery as gallantly as Caulincourt at Borodino, may have been

stimulated by the conduct of one who had robbed existence of its charms,

and rendered all renown barren.