The villa on the cliff would probably have excited but little attention in any country where chateaux or palaces abound, but it was looked upon by the simple people of Belton as a magnificent dwelling. After a stranger or tourist had seen the falls, he was invariably driven by the ciceroning hackman, desirous of lengthening the ride and increasing the fare, to view Mr. Heath's residence, that being considered next in importance as a noteworthy object. It was built of a gray stone, on a site that commanded a fine prospect of the town and of a long stretch of river. There was no attempt to preserve architectural unity in the structure; in fact, it exhibited rather an incongruous medley of orders. The front was partly Italian, with a circular portico supported by slender Ionic columns. The rear was Elizabethan, pieced out with an extension for a picture-gallery; on one side were oriel windows, and the other was flanked by a keep, with turret and embattled parapet, which gave the edifice rather a frowning appearance, as if the host were prepared for any emergency, and could treat visitors with bountiful hospitality, or a narrow cell in the donjon, as he saw fit and felt disposed. The interior was in keeping with this pretentious exterior. A stately staircase led up from a wide entrance hall tessellated with marble tiles, on either side of which were dining and reception rooms. These and the boudoirs and bedchambers were all resplendent with gilt and elegant frescoes. The surrounding grounds, or "park," as they were called, were spacious. There were terraces with marble urns, fountains, velvet lawns, interspersed with brilliant beds of flowers, and rows of shapely evergreens. In short, no expense had been spared to construct a habitation capable of impressing an ordinary beholder with the wealth and importance of the dwellers therein, and if corroborative evidence were needed, the porter at the lodge would carry conviction by referring to the elegant iron railing inclosing the grounds, which he asserted, with emphatic pride, "cost more'n twenty thousand hard, ringing silver dollars! a fortune for any one."

Do not suppose that old John Peter Obershaw was in any way responsible for all this pomp and splendor. Spending money, much less extravagance in any shape, was totally foreign to his habits or tastes; and he had been led into the outlay requisite for all this grandeur insensibly and unwittingly. We say insensibly and unwittingly the more positively, as the aged invalid could not be said to have had any sense or wit of his own, during the last years of his long life, and was completely under the dominion of his son-in-law, who planned and built the villa in accordance with his own ostentatious ideas.

The morning after the late owner of this princely residence had left it for the narrow quarters of a churchyard vault, the new one arose early and descended from his bedroom for a short walk in the fresh morning air. A very handsome man of fifty or so, with a compact figure, keen gray eyes, high receding forehead, slightly bald, and hair prematurely silvered. Perceptible on the firm surface of his pale, close-shorn face, were the lines of decision and shrewdness, and that seal of pride conferred by the possession of wealth and authority—a chilling expression commonly called aristocratic, and which is simply refined vanity. Musing with downcast eyes, hands clasped behind his back, and head uncovered, to and fro on the terrace paced Mr. Heath. Before descending, he had opened the door of his father-in-law's room, and looked in. The huge stuffed arm-chair was still there in its accustomed place, but vacant; the padding ripped up—done to look for secreted coin. His staff lay in one corner, a worn hickory stick, his companion for years,—but the old man was gone. He had been for years but an inert dweller, verging on imbecility, an incumbrance, and yet what a void he had left! How silent and empty the chamber seemed! Mr. Heath closed the door softly, and went gravely down the stairs. He was glad to breathe the refreshing air and feel the sunshine. As he paced, he would occasionally stop and glance over the sloping lawn, and towards the river whose shining current bore thrift to the town and tribute to him. All these possessions were now his, absolutely and entirely his. Without longing for it, he had expected and looked forward to this day. He remembered, when a poor clerk, how he had coveted the wealth of the proprietor of Belton Falls, as he watched him, meanly clad, haggling with some shop-keeper over a few coppers. He remembered his joy when a stroke of luck put him in possession of the capital necessary to carry out a scheme whose consummation had enabled him finally to attain his present position, first, by securing Mr. Obershaw's confidence, and eventually, a less difficult feat (favored as he was by an uncommon share of good looks), the hand and heart of his daughter. And now they were both gone, and he was left loaded with wealth; wealth unmeasured—wealth to flatter every wish and further every ambitious project. The fruit was ripe and had fallen. He bit it, but no luscious juice rushed to the bare papillÆ; the taste was insipid and dry as ashes! Every realization is but an after-taste, but this was almost bitter. The morning sun spangled the dewy grass, and darted brightly through the tree boughs. Birds carolled sweetly, and all nature rejoiced, but his spirits seemed to sink under the increased weight of riches, and he felt burdened. For an instant an unaccountable depression seized him, and he hardly heeded a gardener who approached to speak. The man noticed his master's pre-occupation, and waited patiently and respectfully until his attention was drawn towards him. He wanted to know if Mr. Heath would like to look at a beautiful exotic that had just bloomed that morning. Mr. Heath mechanically assented, and followed the gardener to the greenhouse. Usually he was much interested in the fine collection of plants in the conservatory, but now he listened dully to the man's enthusiastic praises of the rare flower, and looked at it with indifference. Without replying to the gardener, he walked away slowly, musing as he went on that sermon so often repeated but never heeded—the vanity of earthly possessions. "Dross, dross, it is so," he soliloquized, "but how long it takes to learn the lesson! How many envy me; how many whose first thought on seeing me, whose first wish, is to be as I am! What a supremely happy and blessed man I must be! Ah, the monks are wise.... But fame—the incense of popular applause—a name to live in future generations; something that the grave cannot extinguish, and death take away, that is the goal to strive for! Aye, ambition is the only passion worthy a master mind."

He re-entered the house and went to his library. The sight of his accustomed work-room seemed to banish the shadow on his countenance. "Blessed—blessed labor, what a balm thou art!" he apostrophized as with a sort of eagerness he threw himself in a chair, seized a pen, and followed a new train of ideas.

A singular fit of despondency this in one basking in the smiles of Fortune, and who had so steadily enjoyed her favors; for the capricious dame had marked Rufus Heath for a favorite long ago by a significant gift plainly indicative of her partiality. This gift, or stroke of luck, was the winning at his start in life of a lottery prize, which sudden affluence, judiciously invested, had led to the splendid culmination now apparent.

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Mr. Heath was in his library, a large room adjoining his bedchamber, which also answered the purposes of a study, and was furnished with leathern-covered chairs, and surrounded by closely filled book-cases of polished walnut, surmounted at intervals with marble busts of the giants of intellect. A long table in the centre of the room was covered with maps, manuscripts, and works of reference. At one end Mr. Heath sat intently writing. His early habits of industry he still carried almost to excess. Idleness filched but few moments from him, and by a thorough system he managed to perform an amount of labor that would have been deemed prodigious in a close student. The work that engrossed the most of his time, the opus magnus, was the preparation of a pandect wherein the constitutions, statutes, and enactments of the various States of the Union would be digested and reconciled into one harmonious code of laws. The mere gathering and collating of material for this purpose involved a formidable amount of labor, and when in addition to this we consider that he supervised the accounts of the estate and kept up a voluminous correspondence with statesmen and politicians in all parts of the country, we may imagine that he had but few spare moments.

Behind him on the wall hung the symbol of his weakness—an illuminated achievement intended to represent the arms of the Heath family. Should a visitor's attention be attracted by this heraldic device, the host was only too happy to explain the mystery of crest and quarterings, and to dilate on his lineage, tracing its common origin with that of a distinguished English ducal family. For Rufus Heath, in his heart of hearts, despised a republic and had no faith in the stability of its institutions. His ideal of a government was an oligarchy, with him and his like as oligarchs. Outwardly he professed the stanchest republicanism and devotion to equal rights.

So absorbed had Mr. Heath become in his occupation that he heeded not his daughter as she came to ask him to breakfast. She entered the study softly, and almost timidly, for she held her father in a certain awe and dreaded to disturb him. It was only when she laid her hand lightly on his shoulder that he discovered her presence. "Father, good-morning," said she, seeking to press her lips to his cheek.

"Ah! Miss Edna. Is that you?" he replied, impassively, and slowly disengaging her arm from his neck. "Good-morning. Leave me, child; I will be with you in an instant."

There was no unkindness in the tone, but there was no warmth. The few words that had passed between them revealed enough to indicate to an observant witness the history of a daughter's heart, eager for the affection of a parent insulated from domestic ties by egotistic worldliness.

Mr. Heath laid aside his pen, passed to his chamber, and arranged his toilet preparatory to the morning repast. He then descended the stairs as if a chamberlain preceded him; entered the breakfast-room with a stately nod to those present, and took his seat at the table gravely, and with an apology for his tardiness. After a scrutinizing glance around, a preparatory pause followed, and then, bending low his head, he invoked the Divine blessing. The meals in that family were not at any time those cheerful family gatherings that diversify existence so pleasantly, but serious proceedings, conducted with severe propriety, the head of the house being exceedingly punctilious on that score. On this morning, naturally enough, a greater solemnity prevailed, and the breakfast was passed almost in silence. Mrs. Applegate, a widow, and elder sister of Mr. Heath, presided. She had been installed housekeeper on the death of her brother's wife, and occupied the post at table that should have devolved upon young Mrs. Heath, but that lady was too indifferent, and disinclined to any exertion to fill it. She was a Creole by birth, the daughter of a Yankee machinist who had married the very wealthy widow of a Cuban planter. This machinist, Sam Wolvern, previous to going to the West Indies, had learned his trade in Belton, and after the death of his wife returned there to live. Dying soon after his arrival, he left Mr. Heath sole guardian of the person and fortune of his only child, Mercedita Wolvern. So well did the guardian manage his trust, that he succeeded, in due time, in transferring his ward and her fortune to the custody of his son. This occasioned some unfavorable tattle, but as Mercedita Wolvern, a pale, feeble girl, had no will of her own, it may have been justifiable in somebody else's having one for her, if matters had turned out well. Unfortunately they did not, for her husband, with all the arrogance and vanity, and none of the brains of his sire, was possessed of sundry vices, which rendered him anything but an agreeable life companion. A spoiled boy, indulged and toadied, he easily fell into the snares that beset rich men's sons, and grew up a worthless and dissipated man. His father designed him for the legal profession, but "living like a hermit and working like a horse," was not at all to the taste of young Hopeful. Hence, in the hope that an early marriage might reform him,—to say nothing of the pecuniary advantages of such a match,—his father had given him poor weak Mercedita, and her fortune, to wife. And a wretched connubial existence she had of it, for Jack Heath added drunkenness to his other unamiable traits, and was hardly sober from one day to another. This, of course, created much uneasiness in the father's mind, who naturally hoped that his son would at least perpetuate the family name with dignity, if he were incapable of shedding lustre on it.

"Where is John?" inquired Mr. Heath of his daughter-in-law, as he noticed his son's absence from the table.

"Sleeping, I presume, sir," replied the young wife; "I heard the clock strike one before he came in last night."

"What! again? And last night of all nights!" escaped from the father's lips. Ordinarily his pride prevented him from showing displeasure at his son's misconduct, in the presence of others, but that John should have so far forgotten himself as to indulge in a debauch on the very day of his grandfather's funeral; that he should have gone in his mourning clothes to the town bar-rooms, his usual haunts, and swaggered tipsily along the streets, a spectacle of shame, furnishing food for scandal for a month—for the Heath family were considered in the light of public personages, and every act of theirs was commented on by all Belton—this, all this, touched Mr. Heath keenly. His daughter, who was seated beside him, noticed his clouded brow, and asked him with anxiety, if anything ailed him?

"No, nothing, child," he replied, and turning to the colored servant in attendance bade him summon John at once. Edna, the daughter, had but just returned from boarding-school, where she had spent the greater part of three previous years; hence she knew but little of her brother's habits, and imagined that a lack of respect on his part was all that had disturbed her usually imperturbable father.

It's the old Obershaw blood in him—the coarse tastes which he inherits from his grandfather, reflected Mr. Heath with bitterness. The old man had the same propensity, but avarice smothered it in him. With a sigh he turned toward his daughter for consolation. His looks dwelt on her, and it seemed as if it were the first time he had ever noticed her beauty. How lovely she has grown, thought he. A true Heath—if she were only a boy! Still, why should she not aspire, and reflect honor on me? I shall be Governor of this State, next a foreign mission, an ambassadorship. All she would need is the opportunity. Did ever coronet grace a fairer brow? My daughter a countess or a marchioness—is there anything impossible or improbable in that?

While Mr. Heath was in the midst of his fanciful cogitations, the object of them was eating in a matter-of-fact way, and in utter unconsciousness of the ambitious views she had awakened. Nevertheless, there was everything to justify her father's pride and hopes; for Edna, a girl of seventeen, had a graceful figure, a cheek as delicate as a rose-petal, soft steel-blue eyes with dark lashes and brows, hair the hue of ripe wheat, and that indescribable sweetness of expression in which American maidens surpass all others. Her plain, black dress, relieved only by a white collar and wristbands, did not in the least detract from her appearance, but, on the contrary, enhanced her clear complexion to brilliancy. So her father thought, and his heart swelled with new-born pride in the possession of such a child. There was an unusual tenderness in his voice when he questioned her, "Edna, what are you going to do this morning?"

It was a purposeless question, meant simply to attract her attention towards him.

Edna turned her face towards her father with an inquiring look, for the query was a very unusual one. "I intend to call on Ada Mumbie; I left my crochet-work there on Monday, and am going after it. Have you any errand for me, sir?"

"No, daughter. Crochet-work is certainly important business, and should not be neglected," replied her father with a smile. "I hope, however, you have other and better ways of employing your time."

"I trust so, sir," said Edna.

"I wish, my child, you would adopt the plan of writing me a letter every day, or every other day will do. It matters not how short it may be—a few sentences will suffice. But I want it done as well as you know how, and have you bestow thought upon it. Let it consist of a criticism on some book you have read, or some picture you have seen. For instance, you might begin to write criticisms on the pictures in the gallery in succession, varying them, however, with such opinions of other matters, persons, or objects as may strike your fancy. But what I want are your ideas and none other, expressed in the best language you are capable of. You will do so, will you not?"

"Certainly, father, if it pleases you."

"Well, but I don't want you to do it solely because it pleases me. I want you to acquire a taste for such employment. I was looking over some of your letters from school the other day, and I was very well pleased with the style, but I noticed a lack of thought. True, you are still young, and can hardly be expected to evince much of that, but I want to cultivate your mind in that respect, and now is the time to begin. Bear in mind, skill in epistolary writing is a great accomplishment; especially so in a woman," continued Mr. Heath; then turning to his daughter-in-law he said, "Mercedita, I have an appointment at the bank at ten. I shall be back at eleven. Tell John I shall expect to find him in the library waiting for me at that hour. I have business for him. I want some copying done. Mr. Frisbee has more than he can attend to now;" and Mr. Heath rose to leave. As he opened the door to go out he stopped for a moment, reflectively, with his hand on the knob, "Edna."

"Yes, father," replied the young girl, rising and going towards him.

"When you return from your visit, come up into the library. I shall select some works I wish you to read. Don't fail, my dear;" and Mr. Heath, before leaving, imprinted a light kiss on his daughter's forehead. She received it with an expression of pleased surprise. It was the first time he had ever favored her in that way. So unwonted a demonstration of tenderness on the part of her brother even caused Mrs. Applegate to pause in the act of pouring out her fourth cup of tea, and stare at the scene. "Edna seems to be in favor this morning," she remarked when Mr. Heath had left, "but John, I am afraid, Mercedita, has greatly offended his father, and is very much in disfavor."

"O Mercedita!" added Edna, "do beg him to apologize to father at once, and try and make amends. Just think how troubled father must be at grandfather's death, and that Jack should add to his grief is too bad. Do, please, entreat him, Mercedita, to—"

"I do not pretend to have any influence whatever over John. I might have, if he had any consideration for my feelings; but as I am sure he has never shown the slightest, of what use would my remonstrances or pleadings be? He may follow the path he has chosen without any interference from me," answered the young wife with an affected indifference.

"Father expects him at eleven," said Edna, "and I hope Jack will be punctual. I wouldn't have father continue angry at him for the world. I wonder if James has told him? I'll go and see;" and she hurried off, in her anxiety to reconcile her father and brother.

"I think, Mercedita, if you took John in the right way," said Mrs. Applegate, "you might do a good deal with him. He is as good-hearted a person as ever lived. He's whimsical, to be sure, and perhaps we all indulged him a little too much when he was a boy. I'll not deny that. But then, you know, a little coaxing will go a great ways."

A shrug of the shoulders was the only reply the young wife deigned to make to this advice, and Mrs. Applegate continued: "Now, I've had a good deal of experience in these matters, and I recollect very distinctly, when Mr. Applegate and I were first married, he was as full of whims and notions as could be, and naturally it was a source of trouble in more ways than one to me. Mr. Applegate utterly detested cats for one thing—couldn't bear 'em; indeed, he had such a great detestation of them, that I verily believe it actually affected his system; though, to be sure, he was consumptive, and subject to constant attacks of dyspepsia. I've heard of many such cases. Not long ago I read in the papers an account of some distinguished person—I forget the name, now, though it's a familiar one—let me see, I think it was Alexander the Great, or it might have been Luther, I won't be certain which; but at all events it was some well-known and distinguished person who was thrown into convulsions every time he saw a black rabbit—no, not a black rabbit, but a drawn sword. It was another well-known person who was affected in a similar way by a black rabbit. Now this goes to show—"

What this went to show we are unable to say, for at this point, Mrs. Applegate's instructive, though somewhat irrelevant discourse, was interrupted by the entrance of Jack Heath, who was evidently in no amiable frame of mind, and under the influence, probably, of the whimsical state alluded to by his kinswoman. He took his seat in sulky silence, and then began to scold the waiter. He found fault with everything—the steak was too cold, the eggs too hard, the tea too hot, the toast too dry, etc. The two ladies looked on without venturing a remark. From the dull, sodden look of his eyes, and his carelessly brushed hair, Jack's rest and peace of mind had evidently been badly disturbed. He was large and unduly corpulent for so young a man, being barely two-and-twenty, although he might have passed for ten years older; and on his fat face the freshness of youth had given place to the inflamed flush of the toper. After a few mouthfuls he could contain himself no longer, and vented his spleen in a grumbling tirade. "Seems to me there's a devil of a row here about nothing. Can't have a bit of comfort in this house. Come home tired and want to have my sleep out, and along comes James drumming away at my door as if the house was on fire; says the old man sent him—then Edna, she must come bothering me to get up. Confound it, some of you women are at the bottom of it all, I'll bet. Been complaining to the old man, have you?"

This last was directed with a scowl to his wife, who, without condescending to reply, arose from her chair and wrapping her shawl close about her, swept out of the room indignant, leaving Mrs. Applegate to confront Jack's temper alone.

"A young feller's a fool that gets married," continued Jack, addressing no one in particular.

Mrs. Applegate, feeling this apothegm to be rather a reflection on her sex, and one which ought not to pass unchallenged, ventured a mild qualification. "Well, John, it depends very much whether the fellow, as you call him, is of a domestic disposition or not. Now, there is great difference in people, and especially in married couples. There was Mr. Applegate, for instance; I'm sure no one could have led a happier life, and he often used to say to me, 'My dear—'"

"I say," repeated the nephew, dogmatically, "that a young feller's a fool that gets married. That's all. And he'll find it out sooner or later, I'll bet he does. To have a woman always tied to you, that goes whining around and complaining if a feller comes in late, or has been on a little jamboree with a friend and gets a little set up. I'd rather be hung and be done with it."

"Dear me, John, I wouldn't go on so about it," said his aunt, placatingly. "To be sure I don't ever remember of Mr. Applegate's going on a jam—jamboree, as you call it, as he was always afraid of dampness and night air; but then you must admit that it isn't the pleasantest thing in the world to be wakened out of a sound sleep, or to sit up waiting for some one to come home, particularly if you are anyway delicate; and young people should bear in mind that the easiest way is always the best."

Mrs. Applegate added a few more mollifying sentences of the same general application, until Jack, having by this time finished his breakfast, seemed to be appeased, and remarked in rather more peaceful tones, that he "was off his feed," a statement which might well cause an onlooker to wonder how much provender Jack consumed when he was "on his feed." Then pulling out a case, he struck a match and lit a cigar, remarking as he did so to his aunt: "Old man wants me in the library punctually at eleven, does he? Think I see myself. Not to-day, thank you. If I'm there I guess he'll know it. As the Frenchman said, 'I've got to fry some fish,'" and off he lounged to the stables.

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