Soon after their marriage, the Count and Countess Borgia sailed for
Europe. The latter, before leaving, found use for some of her wealth in
liquidating her husband's debts. Not a few of them were incurred at the
gaming-table. The Count was in favor of repudiating these, but as the
holders of his obligations made application to his wife, she insisted
upon paying them. The fact that he proposed to cheat his gambling
associates shocked her far more than the knowledge that he had indulged
so deeply in the vice. But she was destined to a series of shocks.
Having secured the coveted prize, the Count had no longer any object in
playing the hypocrite. His true character revealed itself. He was
faithless and tyrannous. He attempted no violence towards her, as Jobson
had predicted, but his acrimonious temper and bursts of vicious anger,
alternating with fits of feigned tenderness, of spurious fawning
affection, and his utter dishonesty soon dissipated the little love she
had for him; aversion succeeded, and ere the first year of their union
had closed, separation took place.
She lives now in Paris, consoling herself in the care of an infant son
for the lingering bitterness resulting from disillusion, and the
conviction that she was the dupe of a designing knave; while he spends
his time between Hombourg, Monaco, and other gambling resorts,
squandering the handsome allowance he receives from his wife on
condition of never appearing within fifty miles of where she is
residing.
* * * * *
Mark Gildersleeve, at the close of the war, applied for and received a
commission as captain in the regular service. The Government, when
granting it, were pleased to convey their appreciation of the efficient
and invaluable services he had rendered.
While in Washington, shortly after the receipt of his commission, he met
at Willard's, Miss Hull, who had accompanied her grandfather, the Judge,
to the capital. Mark had never been intimate with her, but ventured
nevertheless to accost her and renew the acquaintance. She received him
pleasantly, and he spent several very agreeable evenings in her society.
She was not a comely young woman, rather plain, in fact--small, pale,
and wearing shell-glasses, but she possessed a fund of good sense and a
cultivated mind that were very engaging. Mark discovered that, and found
that his wounded heart was now healing, so fast, indeed, that it rather
amazed him. "Strange," thought he, "I never noticed how much there was
in Miss Hull. I always had an idea that she was a commonplace, in fact,
rather insignificant girl. How blind boys are! Upon the whole, I think
she's the cleverest and most charming young lady I ever saw; after all,
how much more potent are the fascinations of the mind--the graces of
intellect, than those of mere physical beauty."
The sequel can be foreseen. Mark's bankrupt heart was now solvent. He
fell in love with Constance Hull, and proposed to her. She did not
reject him absolutely, but made her acceptance conditional on not being
required to leave her grandfather. Here was a quandary. Mark was
contented with his profession. He could not bear the thought of resuming
his old calling, which he would have to do, in case he returned to live
in Belton. One thing was clear: he should have to throw up his
commission and leave the army. The alternative was a hard one. Resign
his claim to Miss Hull, he could and would not. In this dilemma, and
while seeking some way out of it, an event occurred which settled the
matter in an unexpected way. Death, the great intermeddler, stepped in
and removed the old Judge, and after a proper period had elapsed,
Constance Hull consigned her fortunes to the care of Mark Gildersleeve.
The latter is now stationed at one of the frontier forts, and he and his
wife are as happy as mutual affection and esteem can make them.
Our ecclesiastical friend, the Reverend Spencer Abbott, has also taken
unto himself a wife, and is married to Miss Angela Gogglemush, second
daughter of the distinguished inventor of the Terpsichorean Ointment.
The wedding was the most brilliant affair of the kind that ever took
place in Belton, to quote the language of the "Sentinel," and was "got
up in a style of Oriental magnificence--the bishop officiated--six
bridesmaids--ushers--two thousand invitations--presents
innumerable--sixty-two silver tea sets--ten gross butter-knives--one
hundred and forty-three salt-cellars--sixty-two bronze
card-receivers--diamonds, rubies, pearls, beryls," etc., etc.
Angela is an excellent spouse, and her husband is still in charge of St.
Jude's. Not long since, learning that Dr. Wattletop was seriously ill,
he went to see him. He found the old physician on his death-bed, and
remained with him until the last moment. The rector hinted at repentance
and "making his peace with God," but the moribund was apparently as firm
in his stoical opinions as ever. To the rector's kind entreaties he
shook his head, and replied feebly, "Useless ... useless.... Nothing I
say now can cancel one wrong I have committed or any evil done.... The
future cannot be at the mercy of chance or opportunity.... Justice,
impartial and inexorable, of the Creator. How weary ... weary ...
weary.... Death comes so slowly ..."
And the old philosopher felt his own pulse as the current of life was
ebbing fast, until like one going to sleep he passed away.
* * * * *
The Mumbies still reside in New York. Ada is not married yet, and Mrs.
Mumbie says she rejoices at it when she considers the dangers to which
eligible girls are exposed by designing fortune-hunters, and, as a case
in point, never fails to cite that of Edna Heath, that "poor unfortunate
person," as Mrs. Mumbie calls her, when she expatiates to a friend on
the fate of her husband's ward, and relates how her motherly affection
was repaid by base ingratitude. "We did all we could," she never omits
to add, "to warn her against the intrigues of that foreigner. We
expostulated with her, we besought and implored her, but all in vain,
and now see the result. I am told, (lowering her voice to a whisper, and
with a slight shiver of horror as she bends to the ear of the
confidant)--I am told that from the very day they were married he beat
her, and on one occasion tried to poison her; she recovered from the
effects of it, but her system is a wreck--a complete wreck, and she now
drags out a miserable existence, and Mr. Mumbie has actually to pay her
husband money to keep him away from her."
* * * * *
The master of the Archimedes Works is now mayor of Belton. The town
having attained the dignity of incorporation some two years since,
George was chosen its chief magistrate by his grateful and admiring
fellow-citizens. He is in no way spoiled by the honor thrust upon him,
but, if possible, is more independent than ever; in fact, it would
probably, to put it mildly, now require the combined efforts of a drove
of hogs on the _Mer de Glace_ to exemplify his extreme independence. He
and his wife still occupy the small house on Mill Street; and the
latter's chief delight is in the periodical visits she receives from her
brother-in-law and adopted son, Captain Mark, and his wife, as he never
fails to spend the furloughs accorded him in his old home and with his
adopted mother.
* * * * *
Our little story is ended. What will probably strike the reader as the
most improbable incident in it, will be very likely the one where truth
has been the most faithfully followed. We allude to the cause of Mr.
Heath's death. The traveller who speeds over one of the railways
radiating from the city of New York, may be attracted, when a short
distance out from the suburbs, by a fine stone villa surrounded by
beautiful grounds and conservatories. It was evidently designed and
built by some one of taste and wealth. Some years ago, to the
astonishment of all, the owner perished by the act of his own hand. What
led him to it was unknown, except to a few. It was remorse created by
the discovery that an apparently trivial act of dishonesty on his part,
long years gone, had caused the ruin of an innocent boy suspected of the
offence. Moral law vindicated itself and became its own executioner.
* * * * *
Before parting with the reader, it is meet that we should apologize for
having in one instance decked our hero in borrowed plumage. That is, in
attributing to him the feat of unspiking the siege-gun. The honor of
that exploit belonged to John Stray, a private in the First Regiment N.
Y. V. E., and occurred before Fort Wagner. It was done precisely as
narrated, and, as an act of nerve and cool courage under circumstances
of extreme peril, has but few parallels in our late civil war.