  The huge battlemented villa on the cliff was a gloomy enough residence since the death of its owner. The remaining occupants, oppressed by their bereavement, moved about the silent rooms like shadows. Mrs. Applegate was of the opinion that a change of scene was absolutely necessary to dissipate Edna's excessive grief, and that a continued stay in their present habitation might tend to impair her health. Edna, however, seemed reluctant to leave her home, and it was only at the urgent solicitation of the Mumbies that she did so. Mr. Mumbie was one of the executors of Mr. Heath's will, and was also appointed Edna's guardian. Mr. Mumbie felt the loss of his old friend Rufus Heath deeply. His first impulse was to put his whole family in mourning, but on second thoughts he confined himself to delivering a eulogy on the character of the deceased to every one he met, prefacing it by the sage remark, solemnly delivered, that it was a very sudden death. As this was a proposition that did not admit of much controversy, the listener generally coincided. "Ah! sir, such is life," continued Mr. Mumbie, addressing Dr. Wattletop, who added, "And death." "Very true—and death," repeated Mr. Mumbie, pausing to reflect, as if this side of the axiom had never struck him before, "and death, as you very justly remark. Ah! sir, at a moment like the present, how hollow everything looks! What's money at a time like this? How transitory and vain are our pursuits—everything, in fact!" "Paper-mills, for instance," observed the doctor. "Yes, sir, every worldly matter; and the reflection will force itself upon us, that in the midst of life we are in death, and there's no use kicking against it. Now Mr. Heath was a very peculiar man; I knew him thoroughly. We had been much together from boyhood, and we were always like brothers—if anything, rather more intimate and affectionate than brothers. We began life together; to be sure, I had a little the start of him, but then our tastes and sympathies were exactly alike to a shade. Mr. Heath, sir (impressively), was a very remarkable man—very remarkable man, indeed. He was not only a scholar, and a Christian, but a gentleman as well. He was also, if I may be allowed the expression, a high-toned man—very high-toned indeed, sir. He was a man of wonderful abilities, wide scope (with a circular flourish to exemplify the scope), and great grasp (clenching his large fist)—great grasp of intellect. I will state to you, and I trust you will see the importance of not repeating it—I will state to you in confidence, that I was consulted in regard to a plan on foot—a plan in which our most eminent men were engaged: I am not at liberty to divulge names, but it is sufficient to say that they were our most super-eminent men; consulted, sir, in regard to a plan that would eventually have set Mr. Heath on the very pinnacle of greatness—the very pinnacle." "Rather an uncomfortable seat, I should fancy," commented the doctor. Mr. Mumbie stared with a puzzled expression at the physician. He never could understand him, and took refuge in repeating the eulogy in succession to Blanks the stationer, and to Snopple the photographer. Mr. Snopple acquiesced fully in Mr. Mumbie's estimate of Mr. Heath's character and virtues, and stated that any one could see with half an eye, by merely looking at a portrait of the defunct gentleman, that he was no ordinary mortal, but had a very instructive and superior physiognomy; and that, by the bye, reminded him that he had in his studio a very fine negative representing Mr. Heath in three-quarter face and characteristic pose, from which copies could be struck off, which he would agree to furnish colored, if preferred, in the highest style of art, for twenty dollars each, frame included; and which would be an ornament to any parlor, and one that no family in Belton should be without. Mr. Mumbie said he would see about it. Mr. Mumbie had no time to think of anything just then. He was overwhelmed with the responsibilities thrust upon him. "The fiduciary obligations imposed on me by the death of my friend Mr. Heath, are very great—very great indeed, and onerous (with a sigh). Still it is a duty I must perform; a sacred trust and burden I must accept. We must all bow to the decrees of Providence;" and Mr. Mumbie, to console himself, cast up mentally the fees the executorship was likely to bring him, which completed and perfected his reconcilement to the decrees of Providence. To do him justice, he was a faithful guardian and trustee; and as for his wife, she outdid herself in motherly solicitude for the young heiress, whom she immediately took under her protecting wing. Edna, Mrs. Mumbie insisted, must come and live with her. She must be removed at once from the painful associations connected with her old home, as Mrs. Applegate had very wisely advised, and her guardian's family was the place for her. Edna complied, and the Mumbies treated her like a favorite child. The best room in the house was allotted to her, and nothing was considered too good for dear Edna. So the stately dwelling of the late Mr. Heath was abandoned, and given over to the care of the gardener, as Mrs. Applegate, who had been handsomely provided for in her brother's will, departed to take up her residence in Philadelphia with an aged relative. Mrs. Mumbie had ulterior views in regard to Edna. The desirableness of securing that young lady as a helpmeet for her son Bob, had not escaped the attention of this sagacious and good mother, and she decided to bring it about. Let us add, too, that whatever Mrs. Mumbie determined to do she generally accomplished, as her husband had discovered at the outset of his connubial life. Mr. Mumbie had a very high opinion of his spouse's ability, and no little dread of her temper. She came of one of the very first of the celebrated first-families of Virginia, the Skinners, and was connected, moreover, on her mother's side with the Yallabushas of Mississippi. Everybody had heard of her father, Colonel Roger Skinner, of Pokomoke, one of the first poker-players of his day, whose true Southern hospitality and peach-brandy were the themes of universal commendation. Mumbie met the fascinating Miss Sallie Skinner first at Saratoga, where he at once succumbed to the potent bewitchment of her raven hair and brilliant eyes. He ventured, after many misgivings, to propose, and was accepted, much to his surprise and delight, as he had hardly dared to hope that such a divinity would link herself with an ordinary mortal. Other people, who had heard the vivacious belle ridicule poor Mumbie's large ears and amorphous feet, marvelled too; but the truth was she had accepted him in a fit of spite at some recreant lover's desertion. Of course the marriage was considered a mÉsalliance in the aristocratic circles of Pokomoke, and the bride's relatives for a while treated the paper-maker rather contemptuously, but as poker and peach-brandy had seriously impaired the substance of the Skinner family, they gradually became reconciled to the match, and condescended to accept largess from the wealthy manufacturer. Mr. Mumbie had a heart corresponding in size to his ears and feet, and proved a perfect dove and treasure of a husband. Malicious tongues said he dared not be otherwise, for the first and only time he attempted to cross his wife, she simply flung herself on the carpet, and beat a tattoo with her heels, screeching terribly the while, until Mumbie, frightened and subjected, promised anything and everything to avoid a repetition of the scene. This, to be sure, was in the early period of their union. Now Mr. Mumbie, through long servitude, was so thoroughly broken to harness and under control, and Mrs. Mumbie had gained such undisputed and serene ascendancy, that stratagems were unnecessary, and she ruled through superior force of character. This was the energetic and ingenious lady who determined to direct the destiny of her husband's ward, and relieve her from the trouble and difficulty of selecting a husband. To gain her ends, she surrounded Edna with every attention, and was more than a mother to her in fact, pending the time when she would be one in law. The young heiress began to find herself installed as a being of immense importance, and was much surprised at the vast amount of consideration shown to her by her elders. She was shrewd enough to suspect that much of it was due to her wealth, and despised it accordingly; for there was too much good sense in the girl, and her character was too frank and independent to yield readily to the pernicious influence of parasitism. The correspondence which had been kept up with regularity between Edna and her soldier-lover was interrupted by the death of her father, Mark's intuitive delicacy forbidding him for a time from intruding on the grief of a mourning daughter, further than in sending a formal letter of condolence. It must be admitted, too, that Edna in her grief had but few thoughts to bestow on the suitor who was serving another mistress in the swamps of the Chickahominy. At length, to make amends for her negligence, she wrote him a long epistle, the superscription of which happened to meet Miss Ada Mumbie's eye. Notwithstanding the intimacy existing between the two young ladies, and contrary to the usual custom in such cases, Miss Heath had never confided her tender regard for Mark Gildersleeve to her friend Miss Mumbie. The latter, anxious to know if any such feeling existed, taxed Edna with it, and affected pique at her want of confidence. That young lady at once, with a blush, admitted the soft impeachment. Ada Mumbie was an outspoken young lady, and took after her mamma in respect to having an opinion of her own. She raised her eyebrows very significantly at Edna's confession, saying: "Why—Ed-na Heath, the i-dea! I declare, I am surprised beyond anything. I never would have thought it. He may be a very industrious, excellent young man, but so very much your inferior in every way. Why, he's not even a person you could flirt with, much less correspond. His brother is an exceedingly common man—exceedingly so. Why, what can you be thinking of?" Edna, nettled at this, bridled up and answered, "I don't know what you mean by so much my inferior. He's far cleverer than I am, or you either, Ada. He's very refined and polite and gentlemanly, I'm sure; and just as good as gold." "Mercy on us, Edna! I declare I didn't know you were so very much interested in him, or I wouldn't have ventured to say a word. To be sure, my acquaintance with the gentleman is so very slight that I am hardly competent to judge of him. I expressed myself as I did solely out of friendship for you. You know very well that the position you occupy in society, and your large fortune—" "Ada, you might have spared me that last remark," interrupted Edna in a vexed tone. "I hear so much about my fortune—my wealth, that I detest the very mention of it. Oblige me, please, by never again alluding to it in my presence." "Well, dear, don't let us quarrel over it. I'm sorry, and promise you I'll never say another word about it: there now;" said Miss Mumbie, and Edna kissed her friend in token of amity and restored concord. The friend intended to be a valuable auxiliary to her mamma in bringing about, in time, a match between her brother Bob and the young heiress; but she found she had made a misstep. Thus far, though attentive and agreeable in his clumsy way, Bob did not seem to make any appreciable progress in his suit. When his sister imparted the discovery she had made, to wit: that he had a rival, and one that Edna seemed to evince considerable partiality for, he redoubled his efforts to please. Unfortunately, Bob was not a being calculated to captivate the fair. His physical graces were few, and his mental less, and he only served to amuse Miss Heath until he succeeded in boring her. She, rightfully ascribing this increase of homage on the part of the enamored Bob to her ingenuous declaration to his sister, rather regretted it, especially as she feared having perhaps shown too much warmth in her defence of Mark Gildersleeve. Thenceforth by a tacit understanding, the subject was not again referred to between the two girls. Mrs. Mumbie, on learning of the danger to her son's prospects, determined to nip it in the bud. "I am really astonished," said she to her husband, "that so well-bred a girl could have allowed her thoughts to stray away so unguardedly. A machinist, dear me, how low! Working with a hammer—all over oil, and grease, and smoke. It's positively amazing what crazy notions girls will get in their heads. I suppose, though, it's all owing to his turning soldier. Of course, it's nothing but a mere girlish fancy, but it might grow unless checked. Change of scene and a new train of ideas will soon dissipate the foolish whim. A tour abroad is just the very thing—the very thing. Mr. Mumbie, we must go to Europe." "But, my dear, it's impossible to go now. I can't leave—" "Mr. Mumbie, we must go to Europe," was repeated with emphasis, "and the sooner the better. Speak to Edna on the subject at once—she needs the voyage. Ada needs it—so does Bob. It's time they saw something of the world, and it will improve their minds vastly." Mr. Mumbie did as he was bid. Edna was delighted at the idea of a trip to Europe, and readily assented to her guardian's proposal. At the same time he deemed it well to improve the opportunity, in view of what he had learnt respecting his ward's inclinations, by imparting some information which might tend to give her a better estimate of her worth and position in the world than she seemed to possess. "Edna, I believe I have never spoken a word to you about business matters. I thought it would be as well to get everything into shape before I said anything. Of course it is something that you don't know much about, and yet I suppose I ought to ascertain if you've any wishes in regard to the management of the estate, and so forth. If so, I am ready to take them into consideration," said Mr. Mumbie. "I have one wish, sir," said Edna. "Well, what is it?" "I should like to have father's intentions carried out in regard to building the Home and the Hospital, exactly as if he were alive," said Edna earnestly. "But, my child, that would cost a great deal of money, a very great deal, and—" "I don't care if it takes all the estate; I presume there is enough to do it," said Edna decidedly. "Of course there's enough and more than enough, but I should not be justified or permitted to use any funds in that way. So there's no use in saying anything more about it now. When you come of age, why then, we can talk it over again if you're of the same mind. Now, Edna," continued Mr. Mumbie, taking up a roll of paper, "I've got something to show you that will interest you. I have prepared and completed, after a great deal of labor, an inventory of your late lamented father's estate. The estimates are, if anything, in many cases below the real values. Here is the schedule—and what do you think it all foots up? What do you think it all amounts to in dollars and cents?" "I don't know," replied Edna. "A great deal, I've no doubt." "But guess—try and guess," insisted Mr. Mumbie with an air of triumph. "Please don't ask me; I'd rather not," said Edna seriously. "Rather not!" repeated Mr. Mumbie with astonishment; "why, bless me, why not? Don't you want to know how much you are worth?" "No—no—" said Edna quickly, and shaking her head. "Why—why not?" "Because—because—" said Edna, her eyes suddenly moistening, and sensitive mouth quivering. Mr. Mumbie looked perplexed. "Why, Edna, it is clearly your duty that you should gain some knowledge of the way in which the vast fortune you have inherited is invested. You must begin to learn something about it, and about taking care of it. It is very seldom that so young a person is so fortunate as to have such riches left them, and—" Edna burst into tears. "Oh, please, sir, don't say anything to me about it now. I suppose it's very wrong in me, but they all talk to me so about my wealth, that it makes me feel wretched. They appear to envy me—and to think I ought to be so happy in being rich, until it seems as if they thought I had profited by my poor—poor father's death. I wish I were poor and had nothing." This is very extraordinary indeed, thought Mr. Mumbie, who imagined he had prepared a pleasant surprise for his ward. "Well, well, Edna, dry your eyes, my child. We won't talk business if you don't like it. Mrs. Mumbie says she thinks the trip to Europe will do you good, and I've no doubt it will. So get ready and we'll all be off as soon as possible." In less than a fortnight after this conversation, Edna, and the Mumbie family with the exception of the youngest member, were at sea on their way to Liverpool. Before leaving, Edna wrote a letter to Mark, bidding him an affectionate farewell; promising that her absence would be but a short one, and reiterating her oft-expressed wish that the war would soon end and enable him to return home safe and famous. By the time this epistle reached its destination the one it was addressed to was a captive in the hands of the enemy. An expedition had been planned to make a dash into the capital of the Confederacy and rescue the prisoners confined on Belle Isle. Mark Gildersleeve took part in this hazardous undertaking, which through lack of support failed, and he with a few others as rashly venturesome, were surrounded and captured; not, however, until after a gallant struggle in which several were killed and a number wounded. Among the latter Mark, who received on that occasion a carbine bullet in his bridle-arm, which he repaid by lodging the contents of his revolver into two of his assailants. Another shot, however, disabled his horse, and he was made prisoner. He suffered severely from his wound, owing to a want of proper medical attendance; but fortunately the ball, which had taken an erratic course, was easily extracted, and his vigorous constitution did the rest. He spent some five weary months in Castle Thunder and was then exchanged. On his return to his regiment he found the letter from Edna, announcing her departure for Europe, awaiting him. He had written to her several times during his captivity, without receiving any reply; now her silence was explained. His letters had probably not been forwarded properly, or if forwarded had not reached her. He had had an almost irresistible inclination to revisit Belton, but now that it was bereft of its chief attraction the desire vanished, and he returned to his duty, with an increased determination to carve his way to distinction at whatever cost. Meanwhile Miss Heath and her friends had arrived in Europe. It was her first visit there, and she found so much that was novel and pleasing that her mind was constantly occupied and diverted. Some time was spent travelling through England and Scotland; then they proceeded on the usual tour through the Continent, making a lengthened stay in Paris. The following summer was passed in Switzerland and at the German watering-places. In the former country they met some pleasant English people, and among them a party of Cambridge students. One of the Cantabs was very attentive to the young ladies, and Edna declared he was the most entertaining and agreeable young gentleman she had ever met. He was handsome withal, judging from a description of him given in a letter of Edna's to her friend Constance Hull, in which she said: "His complexion is just lilies and roses—in fact it exactly matches the blush-rose in his button-hole; and his large, limpid irids are of forget-me-not blue—suggestive hue! Everything's 'awful jolly' with him, and he makes the nicest beverages with sherry and claret, and sliced cucumbers, called 'claret-cup,' or something of that sort, but at any rate, it's perfectly delicious; and he's just as full of fun as he can be, and always ready for some frolic or other." Such delightful walks and excursions as they enjoyed together, and how sorry they all were to part with him. Even Mrs. Mumbie seemed to regret the separation, perhaps because he was the nephew of a lord, and had paid some attention to Ada, who certainly was smitten with him. As for Edna, she was suspiciously quiet for a few days after his departure, and we fear that during that time her thoughts seldom reverted to her absent suitor, the striving Union volunteer. But his image arose again to reproach her, as she reflected that she had not written a line to him in a very long while. To be sure he had not replied to her last epistle; in fact, she had written three or four without receiving any response, and had half made up her mind not to write again until she had received an acknowledgment of her letters. Perhaps, thought she, they may not have reached him. Still he might write to me at all events. Poor fellow! who knows, he may be sick, or wounded, or in prison. Dear me, I've been so distracted with all I've seen and heard, that I'm afraid I don't think as often of him as I ought to. I'll sit down at once and write him a good, kind, long letter to make amends. And she did so, but it met a fate similar to the previous ones, bearing the same superscription, that she had sent, and found its way, we regret to say, into the hands of Mrs. Madison Mumbie, who consigned the tender lines to congenial flames, after having cynically perused them. While in Paris, Edna, in recognition of the kindness shown her by her guardian's family, had presented the mother and the daughter with expensive parures of diamonds. The one selected for Mrs. Mumbie was in particular composed of the finest and most costly stones. Mrs. Mumbie was profuse and almost abject in her acknowledgments and thanks to dear Edna. Could that generous young heart have known that this velvety woman had been treacherously intercepting her correspondence—rifling the depositaries of her secret thoughts, she would have shrunk from her as from a reptile. But to youthful innocence baseness such as this exists not. The next winter was spent in Italy, chiefly in Rome. Edna's enthusiasm for the glorious old city knew no bounds. Between sight-seeing and shopping she had not an idle moment. The quantities of silken sashes and jewels of coral and mosaic she bought for presents, and the money she spent and flung away to lazzaroni, would have driven her grandfather Obershaw as wild as Shylock was at Jessica's extravagance. She created a great sensation among the artists. The sculptors wanted to model her lips and chin, and the painters raved about her hair and complexion; altogether, between the studios, the ruins, the Carnival, and what not, she was having, as she expressed it in her correspondence with Miss Hull, "a splendid time." There was a long postscript to that letter to this effect:
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