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 Balafré."