"Very likely; but the doctor made such a ridiculous speech about it in court. Spoke about animals having reason and souls, and that some men were inferior animals to the brutes; and accused the clergy of cowardice in shirking the question of the connection and duty of man to his fellow-animals, and a lot more of such stuff. To be sure he was under great excitement. Mr. Sniffen thinks the doctor got those perverted notions from living so long in India among the heathen. Since that time the doctor has not been the same man. He never touches a drop of anything, and he is always grave. He has failed, too, very much. Poor man! I feel so distressed about him, and was so rejoiced to see him join with us this evening in prayer. It is certainly very hard for a man of his years, for he must be eighty, to be left without any one, away from relatives. I should so like to help him if I knew how to approach him without offending him. He is such a very peculiar person."
"It is his own fault," said George. "I offered to run him for coroner, or put him in as county physician, if he'd get naturalized and become a citizen; but the pig-headed old duffer got as indignant as if I'd insulted him; talked about his sovereign and her Gracious Majesty, until I shut him up. So he's no one to blame but himself. Ten o'clock, eh? I'm off to bed. I suppose you and Maggie will talk here for three hours yet;" and George retired with a stretch and a yawn.
When they were alone, Mrs. Gildersleeve touched on the topic nearest to her brother-in-law's heart. It was done in the light of an apology. She said: "In one of my letters, I am ashamed to say, I spoke censoriously and unjustly of Miss Heath, and I wish to take it all back; but it shows how particular we ought to be not to judge hastily. Miss Heath, I suppose you know, has come into her property, and her first thought and care is to carry out her father's intentions about building those charitable institutions. It will cost ever so much. I believe Mr. Mumbie tried to prevent or rather persuade her not to lay out so much money, but she wouldn't listen to it; and they say is even going to spend more; but that's just like Edna Heath."
How intensely the colonel's heart indorsed that opinion. "Where is she now?" he inquired.
"She's living in New York, with the Mumbies. You must certainly pay her a visit, and renew your old acquaintance. Mr. Mumbie sold out his paper-mill, and has retired from business."
An hour or more of such conversation and Mark withdrew, to find himself again in his little bedroom. Nothing was disturbed. There was his bookcase with its narrow desk, where he had passed so many hours in brain-racking devotions to the immortal Nine; and as he glanced over the turgid lines of some uncompleted poem in the portfolio, his smile justified the belief that time brought its own severe criticism to poetasters. There lay in their accustomed places his guitar and zithern, and over his bed-head hung, as of yore, the engraving of Carlo Dolce's Mater Dolorosa, whose exquisite mouth and chin were but counterparts of Edna's. It was so natural to lie in the bed where he had slept since childhood; and he seemed to breathe such an atmosphere of peace and quietude, that the tremendous events he had passed through during three years, seemed like a hiatus in his life, or a dream. Did the war exist? Here, all was tranquillity undisturbed by alarms; but away on the banks of the Appomattox, his brethren in arms slept in suspense; the vigilant picket watched the wily foe; the bursting shell tore the limbs of some sleeping soldier, and starving conscripts, in butternut rags, were flying from the rebel trenches to hospitable imprisonment within the Union lines. Such thoughts filled Mark's mind as he tossed uneasily on his downy couch and soft fringed pillow, until, to court slumber, he was obliged to wrap himself in a blanket, and seek repose on the hard floor.
The next morning, in his impatience to see Edna, he would have started at once for the metropolis, but there were his old associates at the Works, who could not be neglected. He went there, and shook hands with them all, from Knatchbull to the youngest apprentice. How they all crowded around and questioned him, and seemed to be as much interested in him as if he belonged to them, while his brother stood by with an approving look, as if the colonel were entirely the product of his care and training. Mark found the Works still further enlarged; for his brother's business had increased prodigiously, and George, while alluding to this, did not fail to remark to the colonel, with a spice of malice, that if he had remained at home and accepted the partnership, he would by this time have possessed a small fortune. "A clear hundred thousand were the profits last year—a clear hundred thousand. What do you think of that, old man?" But the old man, as he affectionately called him, did not seem to think much about it, for he merely replied, "Glad to hear of it for your sake," and seemed as indifferent as ever to such favors. George then said, as a consolatory offset, "Whenever you want to come back, you're welcome. Your old place is waiting for you, and it will pay you better than soldiering in the end."
Then there was the visit to the Falls. No true Beltonian returning from a long absence ever failed to pay his devoirs at that shrine. It seemed as if the old legend of the Indians, that the Great Spirit abided there, had perpetuated itself, and found believers among their white successors. Mark passed an hour of the fine January fore-noon in pleasant contemplation near the cataract. It was an old friend. Its roar, its crags, its emerald waters were familiar to him from childhood, when he spent holidays around the pebbly shores seeking flint arrow-heads, or in older years when he resorted thither to derive inspiration and metaphorically court the nymphs and dryads. The torrent that sped on in sublime and unceasing monotone had measured his existence like a clepsydra.
Mark extended his walk to the cliff—to the villa that had seemed to him a very palace of enchantment, and around which so many blissful associations clustered. Here was the spot where he had made his first avowal of love, and he could almost recall the novel, delicious thrill with which he pressed Edna's hand to his lips. Now the gates were chained and locked, and their lamps broken by vagrant boys; the lodge was tenantless; the marble basin of the fountain choked with dead leaves, and its spouting swans decapitated; the grounds neglected, and the windows of the imposing structure blinded. How sad and deserted an aspect! How changed the place—once the abode of "elegant Eunomia," the goddess of his dreams! He remembered his surreptitious visit and eavesdropping the night of Edna's party. Where were all that youth and beauty now? The sweeping wind answered with a dismal sigh. Was there any omen in this?