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Mark Gildersleeve: A Novel

by John S. Sauzade · English · Gutenberg #39772 · 445,286 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Mark Gildersleeve: A Novel

Author: John S. Sauzade


        
Release date: May 23, 2012 [eBook #39772]

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARK GILDERSLEEVE: A NOVEL ***




Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)





       *       *       *       *       *



                          MARK GILDERSLEEVE.

                               A Novel.

                         BY JOHN S. SAUZADE.


    NEW YORK:
    _G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers._
    LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.
    M.DCCC.LXXIII.

    Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
    JOHN S. SAUZADE,
    In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

    Stereotyped at the
    WOMEN'S PRINTING HOUSE,
    56, 58 and 60 Park Street,
    New York.




MARK GILDERSLEEVE.




I.


Although of much importance as a manufacturing place, Belton is noted
chiefly for the beautiful water-fall to which the town, in fact, owes
its existence.

Here the Passaic, interrupted in its placid flow by a rocky barrier,
takes an abrupt turn, and plunges in a narrow sheet of foam adown a deep
chasm, formed in one of Nature's throes ages ago, and then with wild
swirls rushes angrily over a rocky bed, until spent and quiet it skirts
the town, and winds away appeased and pellucid--despite the murky drain
of dye-houses--through woodlands, fields, and pastures green. Ere
reaching the cataract, however, the river is tapped by a canal which
serves to feed the flumes that run the many mills of Belton; and
through this race-way the diverted waters speed on their busy errand,
starting cumbersome overshot, undershot, breast, and turbine wheels into
action, that in their turn quicken into life the restless shuttle and
whirling spindle.

From the cliff, at the head of the cataract, one may completely overlook
the town, a cheerful hive, compactly built, and consisting chiefly of
long brick factories, with little belfries, and rows of small white
wooden dwellings. The whole is neat and bright; no canopy of coal-smoke
obscures the blue sky, and but an occasional tall chimney or jet of
vapor is seen, for here steam is dethroned, and the cheaper motor reigns
supreme.

The river side, the cliff, the falls, in short the water-power belongs
and has belonged for generations to the Obershaw family. In days of
yore, when Whitman Obershaw ran a saw-mill, and tilled a clearing
hereabout, his worldly possessions, it is safe to say, were not such as
to assimilate his chances of salvation to the facility with which a
camel can go through a needle's eye, and it was reserved for his son,
John Peter Obershaw, to reap the benefit of the accident that had put
his ancestors in possession of the site of Belton. And when you consider
the present magnitude of the place, its many mills, and the enormous
yearly rental of the water-power, you will not be surprised to learn
that the costly stone mansion on the cliff, with its imposing front, its
beautiful grounds, conservatories, and lodges, is the residence of the
Hon. Rufus Heath, son-in-law and heir of John Peter Obershaw, who built
it.

There is a mural tablet in the apse of St. Jude's, Belton, inscribed to
the memory of

            JOHN PETER OBERSHAW,
               OF THIS TOWN,
    _Through whose munificence this Church_
               WAS ERECTED,
                A.D. 1840.
   HIS CHRISTIAN VIRTUES ENDEARED HIM TO ALL.

An epitaph which bore out the proverbial reputation of its kind in being
essentially a lie--a lie in black and white, for old Obershaw had no
Christian or even Pagan virtues to speak of, and was rather disliked by
all for a selfish, avaricious, nonagenarian. Perhaps the only
commendable act of his life was the erection of the small, but handsome
church in question. Yet, even this was looked upon as but the placatory
offering of a prudent worldling, about to appear before the final
tribunal, and anxious to propitiate the great Judge. Moreover, those who
knew the most about it asserted that the church would never have been
built, nor a dollar spent towards it, had it not been for Rufus Heath,
who, during the last years of his father-in-law's life, had the entire
control of the estate, owing to the latter's age and incapacity.
Doubtless these assertions were true, for neither dread of God or demon
could ever have wrung an unremunerative stiver from old John Peter
Obershaw's clutching fist, as he belonged to the orthodox school of
misers--the class who live but to accumulate, and find all their
pleasure in that sound, wholesome vice which prolongs life, and betrays
not to a fool's paradise.

To the last he was steadfast to his idol. For years previous he was
confined to his room by paralysis, dead to all affections save love of
money, and vegetating in an easy chair stuffed literally with gold; for
the senile miser, like a magpie, slyly secreted coin in every nook and
corner of his chamber. In this second childhood, it was necessary to
quiet him by giving him money to toy with, and musty accounts and deeds,
which he pored over with the vacuity of an imbecile. To the end the
ruling passion swayed him. At the last moment, when the taper of life
was about giving its expiring flicker, he asked his attendant to bring
him a surveyor's map of his estate. "And, James, tell ... tell Mr. Heath
I want to see him ... see him at once. Must buy Van Slyke's farm if
he'll sell it right ... sell it right. But he wants too much ... too
much. No ... no ... can't give it. No ... no; haven't ... got the money.
Soon as I am well, well ... and strong, I'll go out and have a look at
it ... look at it. Soon as I am well, and go out ... go out. But can't
'ford to pay much. No ... no. Van Slyke's farm'll square the addition.
But, I can't pay much ... can't 'ford it;" and a nervous twitching of
his pale thin lips, as he mumbled to himself, showed teeth still sound,
though worn down like an old mastiff's. He was a man of large frame,
gaunt, bowed with age, and the dried yellow skin of his face resembled
wrinkled parchment. When the map was brought to him, he stared vacantly
at it with faded eyes that looked like dull agates, then relapsed into a
still slumber with the map gripped in his long, talon-like, bony
fingers, as if some one would steal it from him. Aroused by the entrance
of his son-in-law, he again mumbled--"Where's the map ... map? Heath,
see Van Slyke 'bout the farm and don't let him ... let him cheat me. I
ain't quite ... quite so strong now, and ... and they'll cheat me. Ah,
they're a close, sharp set.... Soon as I am well I'll go ... I'll
go...."

The last words were uttered in a faint whisper; no further sound came
from the moving lips; the death film crept over his eyes, and he was
gone. He had lasted well and long, for avarice is a powerful antiseptic.
The dry heart burns to the socket, and the selfish miser was blessed
with an euthanasia that a saint might have envied.

The nearest physician, Dr. Wattletop, was swiftly summoned, only to
return discomfited, as he expressed it, by that omnipotent leech who
carries his lancet at the end of a snath.

The fall of so heavily laden a body into the great ocean of eternity
created, to use a homely simile, an unusual splash, and occasioned no
little commotion in Belton.

"Why, sir," said Mr. Madison Mumbie, the eminent paper-maker, addressing
Dr. Wattletop, in the agitation of the moment, "Why, sir, Mr. Obershaw's
wealth is e-normous! Probably the richest man we had in the State. Yes,
sir" (with a sigh), "I regret to say it, we have lost a gentleman, and a
Christian, who leaves at least two millions of dollars. Yes, sir, two
millions at the lowest calculation--he leaves all of that!"

"Leaves!" repeated the doctor. "Aye, there's the rub. Now, if he could
only have taken the two millions with him, there would have been
something in it, wouldn't there?"

This view of the case did not strike Mr. Mumbie, who was himself rather
inclined to accumulate, as cheerful or encouraging, and he went his way
in a meditative mood.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Mook, the gentlemanly undertaker, in walking twenty rods from the
residence of the deceased, was accosted by not less than a dozen
anxious inquirers eager to learn the slightest particular relating to
the sorrowful event. To whom Mr. Mook, with that mingled air of
neatness, despatch, and meek resignation to the decrees of Providence,
which characterized him, replied in a serious and very proper way. The
information imparted was invariably received by the questioners with
expressions of deep interest and sympathy, as if they had lost a near
and dear friend. It is sad to add, though, that one individual, George
Gildersleeve, the noisiest quidnunc in Belton, was on the contrary
rather discourteous and disparaging in his inquiries and comments.
George is a man of substance, and proprietor of the Archimedes Works. A
burly fellow of middle age, with chest and loins like an ox, coarse
mouth, hale complexion, and sandy hair shorn close over an obstinate
head. Rich and purse-proud, he proclaims himself a plebeian, and in
keeping therewith is generally seen divested of coat and hands in
pockets. Thus he appeared in the doorway of his counting-room as Mr.
Mook came down the street, and passed the Archimedes Works. Decorous and
mournful Mook affected not to see Gildersleeve, dreading him as a bore
and button-holder; but the stratagem was futile, and bluff George,
hailing the undertaker as "Commodore," brought him--speaking
nautically--"to."

"First-class obsequies, sir, have been ordered. Most elegant rosewood
casket, new pattern silver handles. Everything in the most rekerchey and
approved style. Funeral on Wednesday," Mook replied, in a tone of mild
reproof, in answer to Gildersleeve's query as to when he was going to
put old Uncle John to bed with a shovel.

Mr. Mook took pride in his profession. He was the inventor and patentee
of a burial casket, that for "ease, elegance, and comfort," as he
admiringly described it, was equalled by few and surpassed by none.

"Well, well, Commodore"--it was a habit of Gildersleeve's to dub his
friends and acquaintances with incongruous titles, whether prompted
thereto by affectionate impulses or a peculiar sense of humor, we are
not prepared to decide; sufficient to say that the undertaker was
invariably addressed as "Commodore" by the master of the Archimedes
Works; similarly, Mr. McGoffin, the highly respectable, though
illiterate shoe-maker, was styled "Judge;" Dr. Wattletop, "Major,"
etc., etc.

"Well, well, Commodore," said Gildersleeve, leaving his door-step and
planting himself on the sidewalk so as to bar the way and hold the
undertaker to converse, "so we go. If the man with the pitchfork don't
get old Uncle John, what the deuce is the use of having a man with a
pitchfork, eh?"

Mr. Mook coughed behind his hand, and tried to look as if he hadn't
heard the remark, as he said, "Great loss to Belton, Mr. Gildersleeve."

"Great loss!" repeated Gildersleeve. "The old cuss! Why, confound him,
he drove his only son, Johnny Obershaw, to sea when he was but fourteen
years old, by his infernal meanness, and the little monkey was lost
overboard less than a month after; and now here's Rufe Heath, that I
recklect when he hadn't two coppers to jingle on a tombstone, slips in,
bags the whole pool, and puts on more airs than a French barber. Now
I'll tell you what it is, Joe Mook, you know me well enough, and you
know that I can show as lovely a little pile of rocks as the next man,
and you know, too, that I sweat for it. Yes, sir, by the hokey! on this
spot (with a flourish towards the works), where my grandfather shod
Gineral Washington's horse in a rickety old shanty that you could have
capsized with a kick, I began when I was knee-high, with a hide apron
on, swinging the sledge and paring hoofs late and early. Yes, sir! late
and early, warm or cold, I stuck to it, and no thanks to any one, until
you see what I've come to! And is there any airs about me? I think not;
and there's many a man in this place that's as proud as a peacock, that
I could buy and sell twice over. But I can say this, and you know it,
that I've always been, and always intend to be, as independent as a hog
on ice. That's me!"

And that _was_ he. For if Mr. George Washington Gildersleeve prided
himself on anything, it was on being free from "airs," and independent
as a hog on ice--a comparison, it must be confessed, not particularly
happy, and that conveyed an entirely unintended impression. However, it
came pat to him, and he flung it defiantly in the teeth of the world.
Mook had heard those sentiments before, hence he was not vividly
impressed by them, nor altogether pleased with the diatribe against his
present patrons. Still, he was not prepared for their sakes to
remonstrate, and perhaps offend a future customer, for the undertaker,
"thankful for past favors," as he stated in his advertisement in the
_Belton Sentinel_, "and soliciting a continuance of the same," seemed to
think himself exempt from the common lot of humanity, and set apart to
take under all Belton forever. So he gave a non-committal shake of the
head, as he contemplated the pavement, and then, profiting by a pause in
Gildersleeve's harangue to escape, glided with soft steps away to his
avocations.

       *       *       *       *       *

The funeral was an imposing one. Many of the mills were closed--all, in
fact, that could conveniently stop working. The Archimedes Works,
though, remained in full blast, as the proprietor, true to his
independence, did not feel himself any more called upon to close his
shops for old John Peter Obershaw's death, than for that of any other
mere acquaintance. Gildersleeve, however, as a concession, was at the
interment, with his coat on too, somewhat subdued, perhaps, in tone and
demeanor, but keeping up, nevertheless, an animated political
discussion with a fellow-citizen as they stood in the churchyard.
Nine-tenths of the population of the town gathered to witness the
funeral. There had not been so much excitement in the place since the
day of the "Grand Triumphal Entree" of "Peabody's Combination Menagerie
and Hippodrome." The people lined the streets through which the
procession passed, and filled St. Jude's, where the services were held.
No less than three ministers were in attendance, and a bishop extolled
the virtues and success of the decedent in a way to persuade the
auditors that they mourned a well-spent life. Then the church bell
tolled a requiem knell as to the family vault the corpse was borne
along, attended by pall-bearers, who had been consistently selected from
among the wealthiest acquaintances of the family. The Hon. Rufus Heath
followed as chief mourner, with his young daughter; then came his son
and daughter-in-law; and lastly, a multitude of relatives and friends.

       *       *       *       *       *

So passed away this old man, leaving behind a vast fortune, that had
brought him but the gambler's joy--but the arid pleasures of the gold
glutton, subsisting on the fumes of money; the odorless fumes whose cold
astringency withers the emotions, dries the heart, and leaves man with
but the instincts of the vulture and fox.

       *       *       *       *       *

John Peter Obershaw left no children to survive him. His only son, as
Gildersleeve had said, was lost at sea, and his daughter, Mrs. Heath,
had preceded her father on the long journey years before. As he owed
much of the augmentation of his wealth to the judgment, vigilance, and
superintendence of his son-in-law, it was not surprising that the estate
was found devised to him, the only being who had ever secured the favor
and entire confidence of the old miser. Town tattle hinted at "undue
influence" and "imbecility." There might have been more in this than
idle gossip, but as no one was interested other than the devisee's
children in making any investigations, he inherited without opposition.
A great accretion of wealth this to Rufus Heath, who stepped thus
quietly into the shoes of the late owner of Belton, for that town was in
reality little more than an appanage of the Obershaw family. The
evidences of this were patent on every side. A walk through the
principal street showed you Heath Hall, where political meetings to
distract, and balls and concerts to delight, the denizens took place;
Obershaw House, a tavern of dimensions vast, where the lodging and
dining rooms were too gorgeous to be comfortable, and only the bar
commodious and consolatory; the Belton Bank; the Passaic Insurance
Company; the Savings Institution, with its bee-hive sign--in all of
which Rufus Heath's claim of ownership, or sovereignty, gave further
indication of the wealth of the Obershaw estate. In short, you could not
turn without being reminded how fortunate and important a man was the
present heir, whilom a poor lawyer's clerk and now owner of the truly
Pactolian waters of the Falls of the Passaic.




II.


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 papillae; 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.




III.


The Hon. Rufus Heath, in requesting his son's attendance in the library
that morning, had reckoned without the "Horse-show." For that day was
the concluding one of the County Agricultural Fair, which, though held
ostensibly in honor of sundry overgrown vegetables and patchwork quilts,
derived its principal attraction from the "Grand Exhibition of Blood and
other Horses," which terminated it. The exhibition consisted in a number
of fast nags showing their points, and competing for prizes on a
race-course conveniently near the fair-grounds. To attend these "trials
of speed" was far more to John Peter Heath's taste, than to be immured
in his father's library copying tedious documents. Hence he did not
deliberate long over the paternal mandate, and was soon spinning away
comfortably behind his trotting mare to the fair. He stayed there the
greater part of the day; swaggering over the grounds with a knowing
air; noisily backing horses by bets with stable-men and blacklegs, and
losing some of his wife's money which rather soured him, for Jack had a
decided streak of stinginess in his character, and disliked extremely to
part with money that had not ministered to his selfish gratifications.
So, to console himself for his ill-luck, he repaired to a public-house
hard by, and cracked bottles of wine with boon companions until the
remembrance of his losses supervened, and he became obstreperous; swore
he had been cheated; grew abusive; drew off his coat to fight anybody,
and but for the interposition of the landlord, might have received a
severe pommelling. In this condition he mounted his vehicle to return
home. The spirited little mare, having been kept so long waiting at the
tavern door, had become restive, and it was with some difficulty that
she could be held by the hostler while Jack got into the wagon. He
gathered the reins, flung a dime to the man, and the mare released, sped
off like an arrow.

The sun was setting as Jack crossed the bridge over the Passaic at the
north end of town, and the toll-gatherer noticed that the driver was (as
he had often seen him before) in liquor. Jack Heath was not at any time
a very pleasing object to look at, and still less so when in his cups,
for his tipsiness bore an expression of defiant arrogance that boded no
good to intermeddlers. Thus, flown with insolence and wine, along he
went, lashing his horse and driving recklessly up the principal street
of the town, in utter disregard of the wayfarers, whom he roughly
ordered with an oath to get out of his way. Just at that moment a young
man, with a slight limp in his gait, was crossing the street, who seemed
in no haste to accelerate his pace at Jack Heath's bidding. A
well-dressed young fellow he was, of about twenty, with a dash of
pretension in his appearance, and a light in his eye that betokened a
spirit not likely to brook dictation. Jack, unfortunately, was not in a
condition to discriminate, and as he approached the pedestrian, yelled,
with a curse, "Ki-hi--cripple! Out of the way, or I'll run over you!" No
sooner were these words uttered, than the young man, pale with anger,
raised a light cane he carried, and struck fiercely at the horse's head.
The nervous animal, frightened at this sudden attack, sprang off
sideways, dashing the light jagger against the curb, and sending its
occupant headlong to the earth. Such an excitement in the quiet street!
The disaster occurred directly opposite McGoffin's "Shoe Emporium," and
that honest tradesman ran out, leaving Miss Winter (a highly respectable
maiden lady whom he was about measuring for bootees) to expose in her
agitation and stockings her somewhat large and bulbous feet to the
brutal gaze of a gathering crowd. The colored barber from over the way
hastened to the spot with a razor in his hand, followed by a half-shaved
client with lathered, face and bib on, and then in quick succession
loungers from the "Tanglefoot Saloon" and corner grocery. Meanwhile, the
cause of all this trouble, whom we may as well introduce to the reader
at once as Mark Gildersleeve, forgot his resentment on seeing the plight
of his insulter, and hurried off for a physician, under the impression
that; perhaps, Jack Heath was killed. There he lay in the kennel,
stunned, with a cut on his sconce and a contemplative crowd about him.
Discussions arose as to whether he was dead or dying, and a glass of
brandy was put to his lips as a test; it probably being deemed
conclusive that if he did not drink, or at least taste the beverage, he
must be very nearly in the former condition. As he did neither, his case
looked hopeless, and some one suggested removing him to the apothecary's
shop; but Mr. Snopple, the photographer, a little fat man who diffused
an aroma of collodion about him, protested strenuously, reminding the
by-standers that it would be a violation of the law, and render a person
liable to prosecution to disturb the body until the coroner came and an
inquest was held. Advice not altogether disinterested on the part of Mr.
Snopple, who, in his professional zeal, saw at once an excellent
opportunity for an effective picture, and did not wish the group
disturbed while he hastened off to his studio for a camera.
Unfortunately for the advancement of art, before he returned, George
Gildersleeve, the ubiquitous, appeared on the scene. Here was a man of
action. He took one hand out of its pocket, felt of Jack and pronounced
him "right enough," and then addressing the crowd said, "Lay hold here,
boys, some of you, and toss him into this cart and get him home. He's
hefty."

And "hefty" he was, sure enough, and it took some tugging from strong
arms to lift the dead weight of his bulky form into a grocer's cart
near at hand, for the racing jagger was badly broken, and the mare had
scampered off with the thills.

By this time Mark Gildersleeve had returned with Dr. Wattletop, and the
latter accompanied Jack to his home, where the fears of his relatives
were speedily allayed by his being pronounced not seriously injured, but
uncommonly drunk.

When Dr. Wattletop returned to his domicil he found Mark Gildersleeve
awaiting him. "How is he, doctor?" eagerly asked the young man.

"Oh bless you, he'll do. The devil takes care of his own. Born to be
hung, you know, and so forth. A simple contusion--plastered it up--he'll
be all right when he gets sober. He's just ugly enough, too, to appear
worse than he is, and frightened his sweet little sister out of her
wits. The others, though, didn't seem to mind it so much, and no wonder.
But what makes you so anxious about him? When you came after me, you
looked so pale and agitated hopes arose of a profitable patient. They're
not so plenty now as they might be, and I welcome them with joy and
gratitude," said the doctor, tapping Mark familiarly on the shoulder.

"I feel so relieved, doctor; I was afraid he might be seriously hurt. He
provoked me, and I retaliated. Had I noticed or known that he was drunk,
perhaps I would not have minded him. He fell so heavily that I feared he
might have broken his neck."

"He might, I grant, but he didn't. More's the pity, perhaps, for his
friends and family. Especially for that poor wife of his, whom he will
certainly kill in time, if he don't kill himself first. But, so you were
the one that caused all this row, eh? You didn't say anything about that
before. How dared you, rash youth, raise your ire against the
heir-apparent? Fear you not the wrath of the prince-regnant? Know ye not
that for thrift to follow it is as necessary now, as ever, to fawn to
wealth and position? Anchylosis, my boy, invariably affects the pocket,
mind that!"

"If it were not for--" began Mark, with a determined look, which he
suddenly checked, to add with a quiet smile, "No one knows better than
you, doctor, what little store I set by thrift, or any considerations of
that kind. I trust my ambition aims higher than that."

"Fresh and admirable adolescence! Roseate age, when the glistening
soap-bubble, Fame, hath more charms than substantial shekels! So be it,
and well it is so, for without those soft illusions the aridity of
existence would be insupportable, the world a desert and life a blank.
And now, my boy, while I wash my hands bring out the chess-board. I'll
give you a bishop to-night, and unless I am interrupted by some silly
biped seeking admittance to this sphere of trouble, or some still
sillier one reluctant to leave it, we'll have a snug hour or two of
enjoyment. So, votary of Caissa, to chess--to chess."

Soon the polished dome of the doctor's capacious head, and the curly
black pate of the young man, were bent in intense study over the
checkered field of mimic battle. In silence passed the moments until a
scratching at the door announced a visitor. "Ah, Dagon! Open the door,
Mark, and let him in, please," said the doctor.

The young man complied, and a large black Newfoundland dog walked
gravely in towards the doctor, and rested his head on his master's knee
to be caressed. "True friend--faithful heart! Mark, three winters ago
that dog saved my life. I was called out the night of the great
snowstorm to go to the Furnaces, and but for Dagon your most obedient
wouldn't be here. I've told it you before, I believe, so I'll not repeat
the circumstances, but I love to dwell on them. Last spring he drew a
child out of the canal; he would allow himself to be cut to pieces for
me, and yet they say he has no soul! The Turks say the same of women.
Are we any wiser? They say, too, he has no reason. Look at his
expressive, sagacious eye. The gibbering idiot has a soul, the vilest
miscreant reason; but this noble animal has neither, 'tis said, and
man's vanity invents instinct! O man--man, what a conceited fool thou
art! Check, eh? Ha! a bold move, my boy."

The doctor's speculations were cut short by a brilliant stroke on the
part of his adversary, and as the game is becoming more absorbing, and
the players less communicative, we will leave them, to digress a little.

Dr. Basil Wattletop had been an English army-surgeon, and as such had
spent much of his time in foreign parts. How he came to drift into
Belton, no one knew positively, although there was a legend that he had
stopped there one day, on his way from Canada, to view the cataract,
and had remained in the town ever since. Be this as it might, there he
was and had been for many years, enjoying a lucrative practice, as he
doubtless well deserved, for he was a skilful practitioner. An
odd-looking man he was, a bachelor of very uncertain age, yet hale and
vigorous; in person short and rotund, like the typical Briton of mature
years, with thin wisps of brown hair brushed around his bald crown, and
large searching dark eyes set in a long, grave, rubicund face. In attire
inclined to carelessness, but scrupulous as to polished shoes and
immaculate linen, wearing collars perilously starched over a throttling
black stock, the buckle and tag of which prominently ornamented his
nape. Partial indeed was he to this stock, despite the sway of fashion.
In moments of caprice he would replace it by swaddling his short neck in
a black cravat of many folds, the knot of which invariably slipped
around and under his ear, giving him a losel and dissipated air.

His benevolent disposition had made him popular with the people of
Belton, and many a poor body had reason to thank the good physician not
only for gratuitous attendance, but for the wherewithal to buy
indispensable remedies and comforts. We say had reason to thank him, for
they seldom ventured to do so, certainly not a second time, for the
doctor was exceedingly impatient of any manifestations of gratitude, and
generally received them with a cynical or tart comment.

One weakness the doctor had in common with many of his
countrymen--devotion to the social glass and flowing bowl, and when he
had indulged over freely he was a changed man. Then his ordinary
blandness forsook him, and he became pompous and choleric. He buttoned
his coat tightly over his chest, carried his cane under his arm, and
gave a defiant cock to his hat. Beware then how you contradicted him;
beware how you defended that absurd heresy, homoeopathy; and above all,
beware how you disparaged, even in the remotest degree, her Majesty of
England, God bless her! as he would add, reverently lifting his hat. His
loyalty and pomposity increased in proportion to the depths of his
potations, but, whether in rigid obedience to a self-imposed law, or
owing to the resistant power of his brain, he never appeared to exceed a
certain well-defined limit; and no one had ever seen the doctor
overcome, or known him to be in a worse state than that peculiar one
indicated by a highly burnished nose, tetchy dignity, and exaggerated
self-importance. The doctor was generally in this condition three
evenings in the week, beginning at about four o'clock post-meridian, and
so far from its being considered prejudicial to the exercise of his
professional duties by his patients, many of them religiously believed
that his sagacity was keener and skill greater at those times than at
others.

The doctor was an enigma to the Belton folk. While they all respected
him for his good qualities, many were offended at his sarcasm, puzzled
by his paradoxes, or displeased at his oracular utterances. A few even
pronounced him an "infidel" and an "atheist." Opinionated George
Gildersleeve objected to the doctor's opinionativeness, and rated him a
"pig-headed John Bull." As to the charge of atheism, who could have
believed it that had ever seen the doctor at service, as he stood
reverentially burying his red face in his stiff hat on Sundays in the
fifth pew from the chancel, in the middle aisle of St. Jude's?

"Atheist, bosh!" said the doctor; "the old Latin proverb, _Ubi tres
medici duo athei_, is simply nonsensical. Who comes so closely in
contact with the mysterious ways of God, and realizes so thoroughly his
own ignorance and impotence, as the physician? No--no, a corner of the
veil has been uplifted to us, and we stand appalled and humble."

Mark Gildersleeve was almost an adopted son of the old physician, who
had taken the youth in affection and proved an invaluable friend to him,
chiefly by directing a course of reading and study. A priceless benefit
this to Mark, whose advantages for instruction had been slight, for he
had lost his parents at an early age, and been left to the care of his
half-brother George, or rather to his half-brother's wife. It would have
been difficult to find more dissimilar beings than these two brothers.
George was the true son of Eben Gildersleeve, the tough old smith who
could forge the best horse-shoe in the county; while Mark inherited the
character and tastes of his mother, Eben Gildersleeve's second wife, a
woman of beauty and delicacy, a rustic Venus mated to a village Vulcan.
George was boisterous, given to bully and boast, and hid his
purse-pride in an affected contempt for the world's opinion. Mark, on
the contrary, was reserved, and rendered morbidly sensitive by a slight
lameness resulting from an injury received in childhood--a mere blemish,
though, in an otherwise well-knit and graceful form. For all his reserve
the lad had a resolute and ambitious spirit. Gifted with quick
perception, and a natural aptitude for mathematics, he had become,
although almost self-taught, proficient as a mechanical engineer. After
a common-school education, his brother, in accordance with the theory
that the only road to success was through a diligent use of the flexors
and extensors, set him to work in the shops, but it was not long before
he was found to be more useful in the draughting room. Young as he was,
Mark had introduced some valuable improvements in his brother's works,
although that independent fellow was not over-ready to acknowledge it.
On the contrary, he rather berated the young man behind his back, for a
fop who cared for nothing but dress, or a fool who was occupied with
dreams and poetry instead of devoting himself to his business. Mark, it
must be admitted, sinned a little in that way, although not to an
extent to justify his brother's railings. Full of enthusiasm and high
aspirations, he scorned mere money-making, and as he earned enough to
satisfy his wants he bestowed no further thought in that direction. This
was a source of displeasure to George. "Confound the fellow," he would
exclaim in the barber-shop, perhaps, or at Bird's livery stable,
"Confound the fellow! he's no slouch, but as smart as they make 'em, and
if he'd only stick to his work he'd be a rich man in time. I never had
much of a head for figures, but it comes nat'ral to him. If he's a mind
to, he can do more work than any other two men you can scare up, and if
he aint a-mind, you can't coax or drive him. He'll go off and jingle
away by the hour on a piano, like a girl, or play chess or read novels
half the night. Why, he's even got a banjo up in his room that he strums
away on like a nigger minstrel" (alluding to a Spanish guitar that Mark
had bought, probably with the romantic intention of practising
seguidillas). "Look at me," George would add as a clincher; "the only
music ever I made was with a riveting hammer on a boiler, or a sledge on
an anvil, and am I any the worse for it? Not much, I think, and here I
am, as independent as a hog on ice! Don't owe a man a dollar in the
world, and though I don't roost in as big a house as Rufe Heath or Pop
Mumbie up on the hill yonder, they'll take my note at the bank as quick
as either of theirs if I should ask it, which I don't, as I pays as I
goes; and what's more, I can dust any of 'em on the plank-road any day
of the week, with as pretty a pair o' flyers as there is in the State,
and if you don't believe it here's the soap to back it for any amount
from fifty to five thousand!"

And he would conclude customarily by drawing out a well-stuffed wallet,
and slapping it energetically, with a defiant look at the by-standers.
That wallet was George's _ultimo ratio_, and when pushed in an argument,
or at loss for a reply, he would flourish it at his opponent, with an
offer to wager any sum on the moot-point; a rebutter which, if it did
not carry conviction, enabled George to close the issue in a triumphant
manner. There was a story current to the effect that he had once
startled a tableful of Methodist clergymen, assembled to take tea at
Mrs. Gildersleeve's during a conference, by proffering to the decorous
men a bet on the correct interpretation of a disputed passage in St.
John; but this lacked confirmation, for George, if he had but little
respect for any one else, had a great deal for his wife, and as such an
act would have shocked her exceedingly, it is not at all likely that it
took place.

The sagacious reader has doubtless come to the conclusion that the
Gildersleeve family was composed of rather incongruous members, and yet,
for one comprising such opposite characters, its harmony was remarkable.
They occupied a small two-story dwelling with a flower-garden attached,
in a side street, not far from the Archimedes Works. A large, bright
brass door-plate bore in very loud letters the name: GILDERSLEEVE--as if
there were none other of that name in the universe, or as if this was
_the_ Gildersleeve _par excellence_ of all who were fortunate enough to
bear that honest patronymic. Aside from this, the residence presented a
very quiet and modest appearance. The interior was plainly furnished,
but neat as wax. In the little parlor were old-fashioned mahogany chairs
and sofas dark with age, but polished, and protected with snowy tidies.
In one corner was Mark's piano, and on either side of the
chimney-breast hung portraits in oil of Mr. and Mrs. Gildersleeve,
taken when they were first married, and looking wooden in port and flat
as to perspective, faced on the opposite side by photographic likenesses
of the same at a mature age. Then between the windows was a colored
photograph of Mr. Gildersleeve in his costume of foreman of a fire
company, with red shirt, leathern cap, and trumpet; and still another
representing him in his regalia as a Sir Knight of the Sancho Panza
Commandery of the Knights of the Golden Fleece. George had a passion for
counterfeit presentments of himself, and in the album on the
centre-table might have been found a number of others, taken in various
attitudes and in various expressions of obstinacy, by that distinguished
artist, Alonzo Snopple, Esq., who kept duplicates in his "studio" and
never failed to call visitors' attention to them as remarkable pictures
of a remarkable self-made man. "Fine head," he would say, "very fine
head--rare combination of intellect and force--especially force.
Strongly marked lineaments, well adapted for Rembrandt effects. Observe
the lights and shadows, that well-defined nose, etc.;" and George
seemingly was not indisposed to allow the public every opportunity to
familiarize itself with the representation of such a masterpiece of
nature in the way of a head. Besides his love of portraiture, he was
given to keeping fast trotters and game-cocks, and in the stables at the
Works were stalls devoted to a span of the speediest Morgans for the
owner's private use, and in the stable yard strutted a certain breed of
"orange-piles," whose pugnacious qualities were almost as well known as
those of the celebrated fowls of the Derby walk; the dauntless
game-cocks, that:

    "symbolize their lord."

These animals enabled George to indulge occasionally in a little
sportsmanlike relaxation, and spice his toil-earned wealth by a few
chance dollars won from fickle fortune.

Mrs. Gildersleeve was an industrious little housekeeper with an equable
temper, and an unbounded and unquestioning faith in her husband;
scarcely less so, too, in her brother-in-law Mark, whom she had brought
up from childhood and looked upon as a son--an affection reciprocated by
the young man, who loved her as if she were his mother, and with
reason, for she could not have been more devoted had she really stood in
that relation to him. The only thing that ever cast a shadow on her
uniform serenity and cheerfulness, was the remissness in their religious
duties of the two beings the nearest and dearest to her. She had more
than once mentioned this subject to the Rev. Samuel Sniffen, and this
good man had striven zealously to bring these wayward sheep into the
fold, but with small effect; for George Gildersleeve seemed flint, and
his brother quicksilver. Nevertheless, Mrs. Gildersleeve had gained
ground and progressed so far in her endeavors at reclamation, that her
husband invariably accompanied her to meeting every Sabbath morning and
afternoon, while Mark escorted her to the evening service, the mornings
and afternoons of that sacred day being devoted by the erratic youth to
St. Jude's. It was an edifying sight to behold George at meeting. The
stolidity with which he received the earnest and vivifying sermons of
the Rev. Samuel Sniffen--as if they imparted teachings which the rest of
the congregation would do well to heed, but which did not concern him in
the least--was the despair of the excellent minister. The hardened
sinner had even shown, on frequent occasions, a tendency to nap through
exhortations of the most vehement and fervid character. What was to be
done with such a soul? The only answer he would vouchsafe to the
friendliest and most persuasive counsel was, that his wife was good
enough for both of them, and he felt insured as to the future, as she no
doubt would have influence enough to "pull him through" in any event.
"She'll take care of me, you bet," he would add; "she's good enough to
save a half a dozen;" and in this conviction of security nothing could
shake him. Brother Sniffen then wisely concluded that as it seemed a
hopeless task for the patient to obtain sanctification through faith, he
would induce him to try the efficacy of good works, and in this laudable
endeavor called upon him constantly for contributions to the support and
propagation of the Methodist Episcopal persuasion, and as George always
responded liberally to all such requests, he stood well with the good
people of that sect, in spite of his stiff-neckedness.

Mark was more tractable. He was willing to do almost anything to please
his sister-in-law except, perhaps, giving up his attendance at St.
Jude's. And whence, it may be asked, arose this preference in the young
man for that particular temple of worship? Did he hunger after the
spiritual truth as dispensed by the rector, the Rev. Spencer Abbott?
Alas! we fear not. Did he deem his tenor voice an indispensable adjunct
to the church choir? Strict truth compels us to say nay. Mrs.
Gildersleeve, for her part, attributed his partiality for the Episcopal
service to Dr. Wattletop's influence; but the worthy lady's perspicuity
was entirely at fault, and the motive that impelled her brother-in-law
to such an assiduous attendance at St. Jude's was not any preference for
a liturgy, or leaning for the tenets of that church; in fact, we regret
to say, it was not any religious conviction whatever, but simply and
solely--love! Love for the sweetest profile ever imagined; the profile
that he was continually sketching on the draughting sheets or
tracing-paper; that distracted him while at work; that drew him to St.
Jude's, but drew his attention away from the excellent sermons of the
young and worthy rector. And the possessor of that profile was--Edna
Heath. She, of course, was attentive to the sermon as good girls always
are, and utterly unconscious of the glances directed at her from the
organ-loft, where Mark poured forth the pantings of his sighing soul in
song. Utterly unconscious, too, of the influence she exerted over that
youth's ideas and aspirations; how she had inspired him with vaulting
ambition, and given him a corresponding distaste for his calling; how,
for her sake, he desired to become famous, and, of all things, to be a
poet! In this frame of mind, this fervent exaltation, the church seemed
a haven of bliss to him, and his worshipping, we grieve to say, was
directed chiefly to the idol who sat in the double pew in the transept
nearest to the chancel. All his longing for fame was solely to lay it at
her feet, and win not only her favor, but her admiration. He scarcely
desired the one without the other; for once she had pitied him, and that
pity had left a sting which could only be healed by the salve of
admiration. How and when this uneffaced wound was received, we shall
divulge in the succeeding chapter.




IV.


Years before, when our young people were children, a juvenile party was
given one evening at Mr. Heath's, in honor of his son's birthday. The
children's schoolmates were invited, and Mark Gildersleeve among the
number. Miss Edna, in white with a big blue sash, was naturally enough
an object of much devotion to the young gallants in roundabouts and
pumps, who certainly evinced good taste, as the little belle was lovely
as delicate bloom, bright eyes, and rich curls could make her. Poor Mark
was dismal enough while the dancing was in progress, as his
sensitiveness in regard to his lameness, and his Methodist relative's
scruples had prevented him from learning that accomplishment; hence, he
would have passed but a dull evening, had it not been for Edna, whose
kind little heart prompted her to select him as her partner in "Come,
Philanders," "Oats, peas, beans, and barley," etc., when those games
came on the carpet. This partiality on the part of Miss Edna naturally
engendered much jealousy in the breasts of her numerous admirers; and
one, a malicious urchin, with the instincts of an Iago, plotted to make
Jack Heath his avenger. Jack, an overgrown, lubberly boy, swelling with
the importance of his position, and the possession of a gold watch and
tail-coat, was diverting himself by teasing the girls and playing tricks
on the younger lads. Young Iago suggested having some fun with Mark.
Said he, "I will go and get Willie Hull and Mortimer, and we'll all
hustle him, eh, Jack?"

"All right," said Jack; "he's a mean sneak, anyway. He thinks himself so
smart. He's no business here. Edna sent him an invitation; I wouldn't."

The boys surrounded Mark and jeered him. "Where are your gloves?"
inquired Iago, Junior, pointing to Mark's bare hands. The poor boy
colored, for the other lads wore white kids, while he had none--an
omission due, most likely, to his sister's ignorance of the requirements
of fashionable society.

"Oh, what a pooty cravat! Look here, ain't that a pooty one? Don't you
wish you had one like it? What lots of money it must have cost, eh?"
cried Jack, in affected admiration, as he pulled the boy's rather gaudy
neck-tie.

"Let me alone," said Mark, indignantly.

"Suppose I won't," continued Jack, "what are you going to do about it,
limpey?"

Stung by this cruel taunt, Mark's eyes flashed, and on the instant he
struck his insulter full in the face. Jack, for the moment, was
bewildered by this sudden and unexpected attack, but soon recovering
himself, rushed at Mark, threw him down, and fell on him. Over they
rolled in their struggles, but Jack, being older and heavier, soon had
the best of it, and kept the other under. The girls screamed, and
Professor Banghoffen sprang from the grand piano to separate the
combatants. This was no easy matter for a pursy man, and a kick in the
stomach from the writhing legs caused him to recoil, pant, and consider.
The colored domestic, however, soon came to his assistance, and between
them they succeeded, after much puffing on the part of the professor and
the fracture of his spectacles, in stopping the fight. The contestants
were not much hurt, but stood glaring at each other with rumpled hair
and flushed countenances. The children nearly all blamed Mark, but Edna,
greatly to his surprise, took his part with much warmth. She had
overheard the provocation, and now stood by him with a very indignant
and determined air.

"I've a good mind to tell father, Jack, how you have behaved; I think it
is real shameful. Mark is your guest, and it is very--very mean indeed,
and real wicked to tease him as you did; and you ought to be thankful in
your prayers that you are not lame as he is, and ought to pity him, and
be kind to him, instead of teasing him so unkindly."

"You seem very fond of him all of a sudden," sneered Jack; "Guess he
must be your beau. Better kiss him, hadn't you?"

At this sally the boys laughed, and Edna, covering her blushing face
with her hands, burst into tears and went away sobbing. "You ought (sob)
you ought (sob) ought to be ashamed. I'll (sob) I'll go (sob--sob--sob)
and tell father (sob, etc.)."

Mark felt as if he could have pitched into Jack with increased vigor;
but he refrained from any demonstration, and as this last incident
broke up the party, went home with a spark in his bosom that was
destined to kindle into a flame.

Mark arose early the next morning, and before going to school stopped to
see Dr. Wattletop.

The doctor was still abed, for he had been up nearly all the previous
night; nevertheless, he rose cheerfully at the call, broken rest having
become a second nature to him, drew on a dressing-gown, and went into
his consulting-room, where he found Mark waiting.

"Well, my lad, what is it?" inquired the doctor, who was unacquainted
with his visitor.

"Doctor, I am lame, and I want you to cure me," said Mark.

"Lame, eh? How long have you been so, and what caused it?"

"Ever since I was a child. I was knocked down by a runaway horse and run
over by a wagon. My ankle was broken, I believe."

"Hum--um. Take off your shoe and stocking. Lie down on that sofa, and
let me look at your ankle."

Mark did as he was bid, and the doctor drew up a chair and sat down by
him to examine the defective joint. The boy's black eyes were fixed
with a searching gaze on the doctor's face, as if to read his thoughts,
but there was nothing to be derived from the grave, sphinx-like
countenance. The eager, inquisitive look of the lad, however, did not
escape the physician's notice.

"What is your name, my boy?" inquired the doctor.

"Mark Gildersleeve, sir."

"Ah, you're Mr. Gildersleeve the iron-master's son, are you?"

"No, sir, his brother."

"His brother, eh! Who attended you when you received the injury?"

"Dr. Pokemore, sir."

"Dr. Pokemore, eh! He is your brother's family physician, is he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who sent you to me?"

"No one, sir. I came myself."

"Why did you not go to Dr. Pokemore?"

"Because he said I could not be cured."

The doctor after some reflection gave a doubtful nod, and said, "If
anything can be done it will only be after a painful operation."

"I'll stand anything, doctor, if you will only cure me. You may cut me,
or do anything you like, only make me walk like other boys."

The doctor took from a case of surgical instruments a bright bistoury,
which he caused to glitter before the boy's eyes, as he felt its edge.

A plucky little fellow, thought the doctor, (struck by the unflinching
look of determination in the boy's countenance,) and seems to be in
earnest. "You say that you have been this way from infancy; why are you
so anxious to be helped now?"

"Because--because--they worry me about it," replied Mark.

"Worry you--that's very unkind. Come, tell me all about it. I suspect
there's a little history behind this, and you must make me your
confidant."

Led on by the doctor's kind way, Mark exposed the wound his pride had
received; related the story of his fight with Jack Heath (omitting,
however, any mention of Edna's interference), and again begged the
doctor to remove the impediment in his walk, asserting his willingness
to submit to any operation, however painful, that might be deemed
necessary to effect the object. Pleased with the boy's frankness and
resolution, and desirous to help him, the doctor again examined the
maimed ankle. A slow, fixed pursing of his lips expressed doubt, and the
boy's countenance fell. There was a glimpse of hope, though, in the
doctor's words, who told Mark that although he could not say anything
encouraging now, he would talk the matter over with his (Mark's)
brother, "And if he is willing, I will take you to New York with me,
where we can consult the best skill, and if there be a probability of
helping you, it shall be done."

A fine head, thought the doctor, passing his hand over Mark's broad
forehead; there should be something there. "Stop a bit, Mark; what do
you intend to be when you grow up, my boy?"

"I don't know, sir."

"What would you like to be, then?"

"I'd like," replied Mark, after some hesitation, "I think--I'd like to
be a hero."

"A hero, eh! Come, that's modest and laudable. But what kind of a hero,
pray?"

"Like--like Jack Sheppard."

"Jack Sheppard, umph! Why so?" said the doctor, rather surprised at
this example and selection.

"Oh he was such a smart, brave fellow! They couldn't keep him in
prison," replied Mark, wagging his head in admiration.

"But didn't he drive his poor mother crazy by his conduct, or something
of that sort?" inquired the doctor. "That wasn't brave or smart, I take
it, but rather mean and contemptible for a hero, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that was mean and bad," echoed Mark, reflectively; "I think I'd
rather be a Crusader."

"Better, much better. But where did you hear of Jack Sheppard?"

"Jerry Cook lent me the book, and I am reading it."

"Fond of reading, Mark?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, tell me what you have read."

"I've read 'The Three Spaniards,' and 'Rinaldo Rinaldini,' 'Illustrious
Highwaymen,' 'Three-fingered Jack,' and--"

"I see--I see. Now, my boy, as you are fond of reading, I'll lend you a
book to read that's worth all the books that were ever written, except,
perhaps, the plays of Shakespeare. It is called 'The Adventures of the
Ingenious Knight, Don Quixote of La Mancha.' Now, after you have read
it, I'll lend you the plays of William Shakespeare, and after you have
read those, you will have read the very best product of human intellect
in the way of fiction. I do not expect that you will understand those
books fully; it may take you all your life to do that, but if you can
get but an idea of their contents, or rather, acquire but a taste for
them, it will be sufficient for the present."

Mark thanked the doctor, and trudged away, delighted, with the Don
Quixote under his arm. This was the beginning of an intimacy, and close
friendship between the two. As he had promised, Dr. Wattletop took the
boy, with his brother's consent, to New York, and consulted the best
chirurgical authority on his case; but, as the doctor had feared,
without being able to obtain any encouragement as to the possibility of
relieving him from the imperfection in his gait. Mark, for a time, was
greatly disappointed at this result; but finally this feeling wore away,
and grateful for all the kindness shown to him by the doctor, became
attached to him, and was never more happy than when able to reciprocate
with some slight service. The doctor's slender stock of literature was
soon devoured by the boy, but as the books were choice, they bore
re-reading and study. They consisted chiefly of poetry and a few
standard novels. Histories there were none, the doctor in regard to
these being of Walpole's opinion, "Lies, my boy, lies, mere records of
men's prejudices and self-glorification. Sound, wholesome truth is found
in a good poem or noble novel."

Thus did Mark imbibe his taste for the ideal, and thus was his mental
growth fashioned by the eccentric physician. His moral training, too,
was not overlooked by this teacher, but the code inculcated was a simple
one, and merely this: "Be just. There is but one virtue--justice,"
asserted Dr. Wattletop; "men resort to makeshifts, such as generosity,
or charity, but they are but confessions of their shortcomings in
respect to justice. If men were not unjust, there would be no need of
generosity, or charity, and forgiveness would be either uncalled for, or
a crime."

There was doubtless a deal of the stoic in these teachings, but it was
on such philosophy that Mark was nourished.

       *       *       *       *       *

As for his boyish passion for Edna Heath, that grew apace, but
accompanied with the bitter remembrance that the sympathy she had shown
him was prompted simply by commiseration. He was made none the less
unhappy also, by noticing that since the eventful party Edna was not as
cordial as formerly, but inclined to be distant; for the little beauty
thought, perhaps, that she had been too pointed in her sympathy and
desired, like older maidens, to set matters aright by an excess of
reserve in the future. Very soon after this, however, she was sent to a
seminary at Burlington, and during an interval of several years made but
short and infrequent visits home. In this way the intercourse between
the two gradually became less familiar, until now, Edna having attained
young lady-hood, it was formal, and restricted to what is called a
bowing acquaintance. Mark finally imagined he detected an intention on
her part to repel him, and met it by assuming an attitude of
corresponding hauteur. Still, the secret passion burned within his
breast with steady fervor. It was his greatest joy to see her, although
he never did so without those bitter words recurring to him: _You ought
to be thankful you are not lame as he is, and ought to pity him_. Each
word a thorn pressed to the quick! Meaning to be kind, how cruel she had
been! How much sharper those words had stung than the mean taunt of her
brother! _that_ he could forgive and forget, for it came from one he
despised, but could he ever forgive or forget the wound inflicted by her
expressions of pity? Nothing but a complete and voluntary retraction on
her part could compensate for that, and he resolved to toil with energy,
and patience--to strain nerve and brain--to undergo, and brave
everything until he had achieved distinction enough to excite her
admiration, and wonder that she could ever have deemed him an object of
compassion. Ridiculous, self-tormenting resolutions these will appear to
common sense; yet were they but the natural impulses of a proud,
sensitive, and we may add rather conceited youth, full of the illusions
of life, and pushing every sentiment to extremes.




V.


Now that the intelligent reader is better acquainted with our hero's
history and aspirations, he will at once conceive that Mark was rather
alarmed for more reasons than one at the possible consequences of his
second altercation with John Peter Heath, as related in a previous
chapter.

Dr. Wattletop had relieved his fears in relation to any serious injury's
resulting to the brother; but, reflected Mark, what will the sister
think of it, and how has the affair been represented to her? Most
likely, I am held up as a ruffian, who brutally and causelessly assailed
her brother. Shall I submit, and let the future explain, or had I better
seek an interview, and set myself right? I must do it, and I'll do it at
once, was his decision--a decision he arrived at the more readily, as it
afforded him an excellent pretext to see and converse with the object of
his secret and constant adoration. But, on consideration, fearing that
such a step might be misinterpreted, he concluded reluctantly to
address himself to her father, and offer a frank explanation of the
occurrence. It required an effort to come to this decision, for Mark
dreaded Mr. Heath's patronizing politeness, and invariably avoided
meeting him. But he conquered his repugnance on reflecting that that
gentleman was fortunate enough to be Edna's father, and, moreover, that
there was a likelihood of meeting and conversing with that young lady in
compensation. In view of the latter probability, he prepared himself by
making a more than usual neat and careful toilet, and by the time he was
ready to start, his thoughts were far more occupied with Miss Edna's
eyes, than with her brother's broken head. Off he started for the
"Cliff," but soon his courage failed him, as he imagined the reception
he was likely to meet with. Twice or thrice he stopped, hesitated, and
only continued after much cogitation. Resolutely he walked past the
gate-lodge, and up the avenue that led to the house. He rang the bell
with a thumping heart. It was the first time he had crossed that
threshold since he had been to Jack Heath's birthday party, and he
remembered the colored servant who now ushered him into a reception
room, as the same one--with a gray poll now, however--who had assisted
the pianist in stopping the fight on that memorable occasion. Mark sent
his name up to Mr. Heath, with the wish to be allowed a few moments'
conversation with him. That gentleman, evidently, was in no haste to see
his visitor, for he kept him waiting a long time. Meanwhile, Mark amused
himself by staring at the pictures on the wall, and looking over some
books that lay on the pier-table, when he heard light tripping footsteps
coming towards him, and, turning suddenly, beheld Edna standing in the
doorway in a startled attitude--a charming picture of a surprised
maiden, lithe figure poised forward, with slightly parted lips, and
fine, large eyes opened in full wonder. "Oh, I beg pardon--excuse me, I
thought it was father;" and advancing, she added in a frank, pleasant
way, "Why, this is Mark Gildersleeve."

All the blood in Mark's body rushed to his face as he bowed and
explained, rather awkwardly, that he had called to see her father.

"I'll go and call him," said Edna; but as she was about leaving the
room, Mark arrested her with an eager exclamation, "Stay, Miss Heath;
do not leave yet, I beseech you. One moment--I beg of you--Pray tell me,
is your brother severely hurt?"

"Not seriously so. He slept quite soundly last night. He very
fortunately escaped any great harm. His horse ran away with him--upset
the wagon he was riding in, and he fell--"

"I know it all, Miss Heath. It was my fault."

"Your fault," repeated Edna with surprise.

"My fault, I regret to say. But please forgive me. I came to explain and
apologize. Your brother provoked me, and I was carried away by anger.
Had the consequences been serious, I should never have forgiven myself.
I am sorry--very sorry, Miss Heath. You were so kind as to take my part
on a former occasion, when we were children. I have never forgotten it.
(Edna colored at the reminder.) Please do so again. I know you are too
just and too kind to blame me, if you knew all the circumstances."

Edna, who knew nothing of Mark's share in the misadventure, was much
mystified by his appeal, and rather confused by his demeanor; for
emboldened by the opportunity, the young man had advanced towards her
in a supplicatory attitude, while his gaze expressed far more of
admiration than contrition. She stood with a light blush tinting her
features, not knowing how to receive so demonstrative an address, when,
fortunately, the appearance of her father permitted her to withdraw, and
caused her admirer suddenly to subdue his rather dramatic manner.

"This is--Mr. George Gildersleeve's brother, if I am not mistaken,"
quoth Mr. Heath with, easy condescension, and extending a finger to
Mark.

"Yes, sir," replied the young man. "I came to inquire about your son,
feeling it my duty to do so."

"Better this morning--much better, in fact."

"So I was glad to learn from Miss Heath. It is but proper that I should
tell you, sir, that I was unfortunately the cause of the accident," said
Mark.

"Indeed--indeed," said Mr. Heath loftily, "I wasn't aware."

This was a fib, for he knew all about the affair, and that his son had
been the aggressor.

"I came," continued Mark, "to offer any explanation that might be
required, or to do anything in my power to--"

"None is needed, sir; none is needed. The matter is fortunately of no
consequence," interrupted Mr. Heath, who was not desirous of discussing
the unpleasant event, for he was vexed and somewhat ashamed at this
fresh exhibition of his son's misconduct. "I am obliged to you for
calling, and can safely say, that my son has no grave injury
whatever--none whatever."

Mr. Heath had not asked his visitor to be seated, and as he paused in a
significant way after every sentence he uttered, Mark took the hint and
his departure.

Seldom had Mark been so happy as after this visit. The effect of the
frigid, almost discourteous reception given him by the father, was
completely effaced by his short but delightful interview with the
daughter. To be near her, and to converse with her, was compensation
enough for any annoyance. Moreover, he had discovered to his joy, that
while he had fancied himself almost forgotten and unthought of, she had
on the contrary recognized him as an old friend, and even remembered the
occasion, long since passed, when she had assumed with childish
frankness the part of his ally and defender. The bitter side of that
incident faded away for the moment, and his happiness was unalloyed. He
cared little for the opinion of father or brother. Marriage with Miss
Heath had not yet entered the scope of his aspirations. His aim was to
acquire her close friendship, and above all her esteem and admiration.
For this he resolved to live and strive. A modest ambition truly, but
might not friendship, esteem, and admiration blossom into love? And to
that complexion also, were not Edna's feelings, insensibly perhaps,
tending? For it was not from any sense of displeasure that she withdrew
so summarily from Mark's presence; on the contrary, she carried away a
very agreeable impression of him; so much so, that his pleading face
involuntarily presented itself to her repeatedly during the day. "I
never before noticed," thought she, "how much better looking Mark
Gildersleeve has grown to be. He certainly has beautiful eyes--so very
expressive, and such pleasing manners, and there is something so
gentlemanly and refined about him too." Evidently, the hoodwinked
archer-boy had sped a shaft in her direction.

Mark, certainly, had made the most of his opportunity. Casting aside all
his usual reserve, he had thrown as much eloquence and magnetism as he
could, in a pair of black eyes that proved to be not ineffective. At
least the ice was broken. But after the first moment of elation had
passed, came the disturbing idea of the obstacles he might have to
encounter in the way of future success. As has been mentioned, he only
desired such as he might win through personal distinction. Doubtless
there was a large share of vanity in this determination; but vanity was
the weak side of the Gildersleeves, half-redeemed, though, in Mark, as
it never manifested itself in any offensive way. In social standing, he
was not considered the equal of Miss Heath; for in our republic,
gradations in society are as sharply defined as elsewhere, with the
difference that with us wealth more frequently draws the line. Mark
understood this, but such was his contempt for mere money-getting, that
the enthusiastic youth, would even have preferred to resign any attempt
to gain Miss Heath's favor, if to accomplish it the acquisition of
wealth were necessary. His estimate of the young lady's character,
however, was too high to admit for a moment of the supposition that she
could in any way be influenced by mercenary motives. No money could buy
what he aspired to possess--to wit, her admiration. Fame alone could win
that; and were this the age of chivalry, how eagerly would he don
casque, mount the barbed steed, and tilt his way to death or
distinction! But in this prosaic age few paths are open to ambitious
youth. He was a draughtsman--an engineer. Howsoever eminent one might
become in that profession, it still remained a commonplace one. He did
not think Edna had any especial admiration for Brunel, or Stephenson, or
even Watt. In his calling genius itself could hardly efface the stains
of labor, and obtain the consideration accorded to mediocrity in the
genteel professions. In medicine, or law, one might with far more
facility attain celebrity; but he had no taste for those vocations. He
had dabbled with paint, and executed some very indifferent daubs, until
in disgust he had thrown away the palette and brush. Then the versatile
youth had coquetted with Euterpe, and practised on every instrument,
from the harmonica to the organ. In vocal music he was more successful;
but poesy, the art of all arts, was the one he longed to cultivate and
excel in. He loved the poets, and believed himself animated with a spark
of their celestial fire. If genius were patience, why might one not
become by constant effort, if not a Shakespeare, say a Keats, or a
Tennyson? Phrenologists taught that every faculty could be modified, and
its power increased by exercise. Knatchbull, a foreman in the Works, who
had been a Chartist in his own country, and possessed a remarkable head,
told him that he had succeeded, under the advice of a phrenologist, in
so changing his character that plaster casts of his cranium taken at
different periods showed corresponding modifications in the prominences.
This practical example of what persistence might do was encouraging; and
so Mark, stung by some stray bee from Mount Hymettus, wrote quires of
plain verses, which he thought very fine and destined to stir the world
of letters, but which were simply transpositions of ideas and similes of
the master poets with which his mind was saturated.

Could poets have been made other than by the hand of Nature, Mark would
certainly have become one, for he strove with an indefatigable ardor
that nothing could dampen to succeed; but the divine afflatus so charily
bestowed was lacking, and he thrummed the lyre without evoking strains
immortal. What phrenzy and foolscap were wasted--what moonlight walks
indulged in, and sylvan groves haunted, to meditate and seek
inspiration! How often he sauntered around the margin of the Passaic,
watching the leap of the cataract and rise of its snowy mist, as its low
thunder lulled him into delicious day dreams. Far into the night would
he linger reclining against the bole of some tree, gazing with straining
eyes towards Mr. Heath's villa, whose gray walls loomed in the moonlight
like a feudal castle, to catch, perhaps, a glimpse of a shadow that
might appear occasionally behind the curtains of a lighted room that he
knew to be Edna's. Often had the faint sound of music or mirth, that
reached him from the open drawing-room windows, filled him with envy and
jealousy, as he thought of the Rev. Spencer Abbott and young Mumbie, who
were constant visitors at the villa. Then, dismally homeward would he
wend his way, go to his room, and spend the silent watches of the night
racking his brains to commit his thoughts to paper. Quires, nay reams,
were covered with superfine tropes and metaphors, as he strove to coin
words that the world would not willingly let die. He ventured to show
his lucubrations to Dr. Wattletop, but the reception they met with was
neither flattering nor even encouraging. "My dear boy, drop all this,"
was the advice given. "Not only are you wasting precious time, but your
taste and mind are becoming vitiated by the namby-pamby trash of modern
rhymesters. If you must plagiarize, do it from Pope, or Milton, or Gray.
Study them, or the master Shakespeare. Remember, as Coleridge said,
poetry must be either music or sense, and I cannot say there is much of
either in your verses. Get at the kernel. But after all, the study for a
poetically inclined youth is medicine, singular as that may seem to you.
If the desire be to awaken sublime ideas, investigate the abstruse
problem of life. Follow the noblest calling, the art of healing, and
seek to penetrate the arcana of Nature. I wish I could induce you to
become one of us. Our profession greatly needs ardent and intelligent
recruits, else we shall be overrun with quacks in every shape. Look at
the frightful progress of that modern humbug, homoeopathy. There is no
error, however absurd, but will find supporters and disciples, and
nowhere can there be a nobler field for the exercise of the highest
talent than in combating and routing those egregious and pernicious
pretenders to science, who, with the absurd brocard, that 'like cures
like,' impose on the simple and gullible. Now I am anything but
illiberal--if anything, I err on the opposite side. Whatever my
convictions may be, I am willing to give a patient hearing and
investigation to any theory or system bearing a show of probability,
that is advanced in a truthful, earnest, and humble spirit. I do not
forget that alchemy was the mother of chemistry, and astrology of
astronomy; that Harvey met with bigoted opposition, and in short that it
becomes the seeker to be humble; but when I see a fellow like this Keene
here--this hatchet-faced Yankee from Connecticut, who probably a year
ago was peddling wooden clocks, going around Belton with his ridiculous
pellets, and presuming to be a physician, I am provoked beyond
endurance, and feel sometimes as if I could give the fellow a
horse-whipping. Well, well, the fools are not all dead yet."

"I hope, doctor, you don't class me among them," said crestfallen Mark,
with a feeble smile.

"No--no--my dear boy," replied the doctor, patting his _protege_
affectionately on the shoulder. "Not by any means. I was merely alluding
to the facility with which the generous public is gulled. As for you,
Mark, I think there is the stuff in you for something, if not for a
bard. I dislike to see you chasing jack-o'-lanterns. Think of it; there
are but a certain quantity of poetic ideas, and they have all been
thought out and put into English words long ago. Fresh attempts result
only in tricking them out in fantastic dresses, and with poor effect.
Modern critics may sneer at the old favorites, but what have your
rhymesters of to-day produced equal to the 'Universal Prayer,' 'Gray's
Elegy,' or 'The Deserted Village'? No, no, lad; love the old poets, from
Homer down, but don't attempt to soar with them to the empyrean. Stay
with us on _terra firma_; invent a new cut-off, or condenser, and let
anapest, dactyl, and trochee alone."

This advice was not relished by Mark, and like most distasteful advice,
was not followed; if anything, it proved a spur to his literary
exertions. Occasionally his effusions found their way into print, and
shone in the Literary column of the _Belton Sentinel_, accompanied by a
notice from the editor, who alluded to the talent of his young
fellow-townsman in terms of unmeasured praise. Said that influential
sheet on the appearance of _The Broken Abacus_:

     "In spite of a press of matter, we determined to make room, in our
     issue of to-day, for another poem from the pen of our gifted young
     poet, Mark Gildersleeve, which will be found on the third page. The
     favor with which the 'Withered Chaplet' and 'The Spear of Ithuriel'
     were received, encourage us to print the present verses. They are
     hexameters, and remind us in their flowing rhythm of the earlier
     efforts of Longfellow, while in gorgeousness of imagery and
     luxuriance of diction, they equal some of the finest passages in
     Keats. Altogether, we congratulate Mr. Gildersleeve on this
     exquisite production, whose symmetry and polished beauty can only
     be fitly compared to a capital of Pentelican marble from the chisel
     of Phidias."

Dr. Wattletop, though, said "Bosh" to this, when he read it, and it
could not be denied that he was a competent critic. He, also, had trod
the primrose path of literature in leisure moments, not as a poet, but
as an occasional contributor of essays to magazines and reviews. There
was a literary club in Belton, composed of young men who loved to
indulge in debates and other intellectual gymnastics. Mark, as might be
supposed, was an active member, and, indeed, at one time president of
this association. Besides deciding the momentous topics of "Whether men
of thought, or men of action, have done the most for civilization," or
"Whether the execution of Mary Queen of Scots was justifiable or not,"
and other questions of similar perplexity, the society gave lectures, or
rather lectures were given, to quote the posters, under their auspices,
during the winter months. At their solicitation, Dr. Wattletop was
induced to prepare and deliver a lecture on "Eccentricity," a theme
which he was well qualified, at least from experience, to treat of. He
diversified it with many humorous anecdotes of Porson and Abernethy, and
it met with much applause, and elicited very flattering encomiums from
the _Belton Sentinel_. So successful, indeed, was it, that efforts were
made to have the doctor repeat it in neighboring towns, but he excused
himself on the plea of want of time. Then proffers of money were made
to induce him to comply; this only served to incense him, and an
indignant refusal was the result. He was inclined to blame Mark a little
in his displeasure.

"Mark, you rascal, all this is your fault. I never would have given that
confounded lecture but for you. It ill becomes a man of my years and
profession to waste the time he owes to his patients, in relating stale
jests to a grinning audience. I don't know what I could have been
thinking of. In future, spin your nonsense as much as you like, my boy,
but don't ask me to join you--at my age, too! My remnant of life is too
short, and time has become too precious to me, to be squandered in that
way."

As well in that way, and better than in another he was prone to; and
unfortunately, he was getting rather too much on his hands, just then,
of the article he deemed so precious. For Keene, the hatchet-faced
homoeopath, had relieved the doctor of a vast deal of practice, and left
him with overmuch unemployed time on his hands. Dr. Wattletop explained
the increasing popularity of the heterodox practitioner in this wise:
"The infernal quack seduces the children with his sugar-plums, and the
mothers are silly enough to yield to their preferences; once introduced
in the family, of course it is pleasanter, if one needs physic, to
appease the conscience with a make-believe medicine than to take a
bitter though wholesome remedy. How are you to meet this folly and
weakness? Between these sugar-plums, and water-drenching, and
clairvoyant cures, the profession, I say, is going to the devil--yes,
sir, going to the devil! Come, Dagon, let's be off, old boy;" and with
his dog jogging beside him he would betake himself to a walk, which,
after a circuit of a mile or so, invariably terminated not to the
infernal regions, as one would naturally infer, but to what the Belton
"Band of Hope" would have designated as half way to it, viz.: "The
Shades." This was a little tavern at the far end of the town, kept by an
Englishman, and frequented solely by "old-country" people (of whom there
were many among the mill-hands), who resorted thither to indulge in
Welsh rarebits and old ale. You ascended a few steps, pushed open a
swing-door, and found yourself facing a little bar attached to a small
quiet room with a sanded floor. There were wire screens in the windows
on the street, and the walls were ornamented with fine engravings of the
All England Eleven, the Cambridgeshire Hunt, and portraits of Nelson,
Wellington, and Queen Victoria. The host was a "Brummagem" man,
suspected, from his blunted nose, of having been a pugilist, but as he
was a surly man of uncommunicative disposition, the suspicion had never
been verified. There were a half-dozen tables in the room, and at a
particular one in a corner Dr. Wattletop took his place, and Dagon his
(beneath the table), with undeviating method, about three days in the
week, unless prevented by professional duties. Mutely, then, the
blunt-nosed man brought a beaker of gin and sugar, and the _Albion_, or
_Illustrated London News_ to the doctor, who in silence consumed the gin
and perused the paper, his interest in the latter centring in the
"Gazette," whose announcement that Major Pipeclay was promoted, vice
Colonel Sabretasche retired, or that the ----th Foot were ordered to
Bermuda, or that some old chum had gone to his long home, recalled
recollections of by-gone days, and furnished food for reflection. After
the third beaker he laid aside the paper, and was now become intensely
grave and imposing, sitting bolt upright with his cane between his
knees, and gazing in a very uncompromising way into vacancy. The scot
settled without exchanging a word, the doctor buttoned his coat tightly,
grasped his cane firmly, and sternly began his return homeward. His way
led the length of Main Street, and seldom was any one bold enough to
accost him then.

Once, at such a time, Mr. Mumbie crossed his path (it was shortly after
the delivery of the doctor's lecture on Eccentricity), and ventured to
greet him with a smile and extended hand: "Good-day, doctor."

"Sir to you," replied the doctor, halting in a military attitude.

"Fine afternoon, doctor."

"Very fine indeed, sir. Ha! very fine."

"Doctor, you'd hardly believe it, but to-day is my birthday," said Mr.
Mumbie, assuming a triumphant air as if he were imparting a surprising
piece of news.

"I see no reason to doubt it," replied the doctor, curtly.

"Yes, sir, that is so," rejoined Mr. Mumbie with decision; "I'm a much
older man, let me tell you, than you take me for."

Dr. Wattletop looked as if he were prepared to take Mr. Mumbie for any
age whatever, for that gentleman presented what might be styled an
anachronistic appearance. He was a large man, offering at first view a
protuberant expanse of waistcoat, supported by somewhat unstable legs.
His head was an oblong one, covered with a curly glossy brown wig, that
contrasted singularly with thick gray eyebrows, and dyed whiskers on
flabby cheeks flanked by two large ears.

"Yes, sir," repeated Mr. Mumbie, "I'm a much older man than you take me
for. You know Mrs. Mumbie is much my junior, and that I never made up my
mind to marry until late in life--that accounts for it."

"Accounts for what?" inquired the doctor, beginning to be bored.

"Accounts for the--the discrepancy I spoke of. Now, here's a knife," and
Mr. Mumbie drew from his pocket a jack-knife, the bone-handle of which
was yellow with age, "here's a knife that I have carried about with me
since I was a boy. It was given to me as a birthday present. Just
notice the date I scratched on the handle--Nov. 16th, 1814. Just think
of that. I've carried it for going on fifty years--yes, sir, fifty
years. I doubt if there's many men, or in fact any man, can say as much;
and what changes have taken place since then! But I'm a man of strong
local attachments. I had an umbrella, doctor, when I was first married
that I had used steadily for twenty-six years--think of that! I suppose
I would have had it yet, but Mrs. Mumbie, unfortunately, was prejudiced
against that umbrella, and one day it disappeared. I never saw it
again." This was said solemnly, and Mr. Mumbie looked as if he were
about to pay the tribute of a tear to the manes of the departed
umbrella.

The doctor's patience becoming weary, he was about to turn on his heel
to leave, when Mr. Mumbie resumed:

"Doctor, I ought to thank you for the pleasure you afforded me the other
evening. I haven't had such a treat in a long time. 'Pears to me you
might make lots o' money going about delivering that lecture. It was
capital. You did get off some of the funniest anecdotes I ever heard,
and I assure you I was really very much entertained."

"Entertained, sir! Dammit, sir, do you take me for a mountebank?"
exclaimed the doctor, swelling with rising indignation.

It required very many apologies and explanations on Mr. Mumbie's part to
allay the ire of the physician, who continued, after parting with his
interlocutor, to mutter to himself as he went along: "Entertained him!
Am I, Basil Wattletop, a buffoon? Does he attempt to patronize me? The
insolence of these Yankee upstarts is really something perfectly
amazing! It's almost beyond belief." Unfortunately, his dignity that day
was destined to be subjected to further ruffling, for as he neared the
Archimedes Works he caught sight of the proprietor thereof, who was
lounging as usual on the door-step of his "office," with his hands in
his pockets. No man, we will venture to say, that kept his hands as
often pocketed, ever earned so much money as George Gildersleeve; but if
his hands were idle, his eyes were busy and everywhere. A more vigilant
pair of optics never lodged in a human head. "Now, that fellow,"
soliloquized the doctor, alluding to George, "has sense enough to know
that he springs from the lees. He don't attempt to ape his betters or to
patronize them, and his rudeness and ignorance are far less offensive
than the insufferable pretensions of that snob Mumbie--um--um."

"Hold up, Major," broke in George, hailing the doctor stentoriously.
"Step over here a moment. Foreman of my finishing-shop split his thumb
to-day in a lathe, and I want you to look at it."

The doctor was in doubts whether to respond to an appeal so
unceremoniously conveyed. He decided, however, after a short debate with
himself, to cross over to the counting-room and examine the injured man.
The hurt being dressed and pronounced but a slight affair, he was about
to leave when George Gildersleeve must needs engage him in a discussion,
which gradually drifted into the delicate subject of the comparative
merits of Englishmen and Americans. At this time there were sputterings
in Congress, and in the newspapers, in regard to a fresh "outrage"
perpetrated by the navy of Great Britain on our flag, and the general
expression was that we were not "going to stand it."

George for his part certainly was not, and said so plainly: "Look here,
Major, do you see that?" (pointing to an old horse-shoe nailed over the
fire-place.) "Right here was my grandfather's forge, and right about
here's where he shod Gineral Washington's horse just awhile afore he
fought the great battle of Trenton, and that's one of the cast-off
shoes, and I wouldn't take a thousand dollars for it. Well, sir, the man
that rode that horse that my grandfather shod, flaxed you Englishmen out
of your boots; and I tell you we've plenty more that can do it now, and
they'll do it again, if you Johnny Bulls don't behave yourselves; now
mind."

Dr. Wattletop, being in that condition when he was excessively
patriotic, prejudiced, and punctilious, was so utterly dumbfounded by
this tirade, that for a moment apoplexy was imminent. Luckily, contempt
supervened, and with a smile of scorn and withering irony, he repeated,
"Washington--Trenton--great battle of Trenton, I believe you said? Do
you seriously call that a battle? Why, my man, do you know what a battle
is? At the so-called battle of Trenton the total loss, according to your
historians, and their statements are evidently grossly exaggerated--the
total loss in killed on both sides amounted to five-and-twenty,
including a drummer, who received a black eye in the shindy;
five-and-twenty killed! all told--all told!"

George Gildersleeve shook his head incredulously at this statement, and
the doctor continued: "Now, if you will take the trouble to instruct
yourself a bit, you will find out what Englishmen can do. Read, for
instance, an account of the battle of Waterloo. Talk of Homeric heroes!
What's Achilles and the well-greaved Greeks to the Iron Duke and the
Guards?--what's Ajax Telamon to Shaw the Life-guardsman? tell me
that--tell me that?" Shaw the Life-guardsman was the doctor's favorite
hero, and he never failed, when the occasion offered, to bring him in as
the compeer of all the paladins of old, from Hector to Roland.

"Ah! there was fighting such as the world ne'er saw before," continued
the doctor, kindling with enthusiasm. "Not the famous Macedonian phalanx
nor the Roman legion held their ground so stoutly as the squares of
British linesmen when the steel-clad squadrons of cuirassiers broke
against them in vain."

"That was all very well when you fought them Frenchmen and Greeks. But
when you tackled us, you found a different sort of people to deal with,
I reckon. Old Put, and Jackson, and Gineral Scott, were too much for
you, old man," returned George, with a shake of the head that ought to
have settled matters.

Dr. Wattletop's nose glowed with a fiercer heat, and if looks could have
scorched a man, Gildersleeve would have shrivelled on the spot; but the
chances are that even the glances of that pleasant dame Medusa would
have fallen harmless on the pachydermatous master of the Archimedes
Works.

"Why, confound it, man, you talk like an ass. Should her Gracious
Majesty, the Queen of England, ever deign to notice the vaporings of
your politicians, and take it into her head to resent them, she'd send
the Channel fleet over here and knock your blasted country into flinders
in no time, and dammit, I wish she would!" and with that volley the
doctor turned on his heel, and left abruptly, to work off his choler by
an additional tramp of a mile or two.

"How are you to convince a pig-headed, obstinate man like that?" said
George, turning to his book-keeper. "He's so prejudiced that he won't
listen to reason, and must have his own way."




VI.


While all the efforts of man, long-repeated, to change the baser metals
into gold have proved futile, it is no less certain that gold, in
revenge, has been successful in transmuting man. The power of its moral
alchemy is seen in individuals like Rufus Heath. Poor, he would have
remained a fawning toady, but wealth transformed him into a haughty,
arrogant aristocrat at heart. No Somerset or Rohan was ever more so.
Starting in life without other capital than a moderate education, tact,
and industry, his first aim was to acquire wealth. His tastes were
luxurious and refined, and to gratify them wealth was necessary. So to
succeed he was plastic and serviceable to his employers, and assiduous
in courting useful friends. A good name is a great stepping-stone, and
to secure this he was correct and respectable in his conduct and
demeanor. "Correctness," in fact, was his religion and code of morality.
Of course, right and wrong were relative terms, and it was not to be
expected that any one should live up to the exact letter of the law. A
margin was allowable.

Nevertheless, decorum and all outward observances were due to society,
and indispensable. Acting on this principle, there was no more popular
and respected young man at twenty-one, in Belton, than Rufus Heath, nor
one with brighter prospects. Counsellor Hull, his patron, declared that
the young lawyer promised to be an ornament to the profession; and when
the Counsellor was called to the bench, Rufus Heath succeeded to his
practice. Exempt from gross vices, and gifted with an elastic
conscience, the thriving lawyer successfully pursued his calling, until
his marriage with Miss Obershaw crowned his pecuniary prosperity. Now
the influence of riches made itself manifest, and it almost seemed as if
the precious metals had been injected into his veins. He stiffened,
became cold and imperturbable, laid aside his urbanity, and his
ill-concealed pride and contempt for the less prosperous betrayed
itself. And now that he had tasted all the joys that affluence can give,
and tasted them unto satiety, he craved the flattering unction of
distinction. Ambition was now his god. He was a politician, but a
successful one only so far as he had been assisted by his wealth and
family connections. He owed it to these powerful auxiliaries that he had
spent a term in Congress. But he had gained no prominence there. He
lacked oratorical ability, and without it, it is scarcely possible to
attain eminence in a republic. His daintiness, moreover, caused him to
recoil from contact with the masses, and though he strove to overcome
this repugnance when the occasion called for it, he had never entirely
succeeded. Perseverance, intrigue, and a lavish expenditure of money,
were the means he relied on to ascend the first steps of political
preferment. Once fairly launched as a public man, he doubted not his
ability to make his way and mark as a statesman or a diplomat. To become
Governor of his State was his present aim, and he had laid his plans to
secure the nomination from his party as a candidate at the next
election. To this end a host of emissaries, with money at command, were
at work throughout the State. The _Belton Sentinel_, the organ in the
county of Mr. Heath's party, advocated his interest with tremendous
energy, persistency, and abundance of adjectives. Finnegass, the
editor, was a poor printer, whose shop, presses, types, and all were
mortgaged to Rufus Heath. This well-known fact furnished an unfailing
quantity of sarcasm to the _Passaic County Argus_, the opposition sheet,
that invariably alluded to Finnegass as the "minion" or "serf," either
"pampered" or "truckling," of the "aristocrat on the cliff." These
amenities were treated by the editor of the _Sentinel_ with complete
indifference, until once (stung into retorting by some particularly
sharp gibe) he referred to the _Argus_ as an "obscure sheet of no
circulation, edited by a low, ignorant felon." Obscurity and "no
circulation" were accusations too atrocious to be borne, and the editor
of the _Argus_ flung them back, with indignation, in the teeth of his
defamer. This brought out sworn statements of copies issued by the two
presses, and much evidence on both sides was published; for the rival
editors were ready to go to any lengths to exculpate their respective
papers from so heinous a charge as obscurity or want of "circulation."
As for the personalities, they were treated as mild banter, tending to
enliven the canvass, and stimulate partisans.

At this time, to quote the after-words of the _Belton Sentinel_, "the
horizon of political affairs was darkening, and the clouds that confined
the storm destined to shake the fabric of our Union to its foundation,
were gathering ominously." The different parties were in a ferment. The
Whigs no longer existed--they had given way to an organization
originated by the Free-Soilers, and styling themselves Republicans.
There were, however, a large number of old Whigs wedded to their
prejudices, with a distaste for affiliation with the Democrats and a
greater repugnance to a party tainted in any degree with Abolitionism,
who looked upon the new movement as an ephemeral ebullition. These
individuals, calling themselves "Conservatives," imagined that it
required but an effort on their part to still the waters of political
strife, and decided to constitute themselves "bulwarks," and "arks of
safety." Among these was the Hon. Rufus Heath. Like all men of his
stamp, he was utterly opposed to any disturbance of the established
order of things. He was perfectly well satisfied with them as they were.
As for radicals or reformers, he hated their very name. Such people
sprang from the vulgar herd, and were only bent on mischief. His ideal
of a proper government was a constitutional monarchy supported by an
oligarchy of wealth, and to this form he believed the republic was
gradually tending. He was not unobservant of the increasing prestige of
birth. Position in the army, navy, or state was gradually tending to
perpetuate itself in certain families. The bearers of historic names
wielded a certain influence, which increased with time, and would
eventually and under certain circumstances crystallize into decided
power. Here were the germs of an oligarchy, which needed but a law of
entail to perfect itself and institute a class of hereditary
legislators, or house of peers--the bulwark indispensable against the
agrarianism inherent in a democratic form of government.

       *       *       *       *       *

In order to exchange views on the condition of the body-politic, and
devise means to combat the evil influences then prevailing (to say
nothing of advancing his own personal plans), Mr. Heath took advantage
of the presence in the vicinity of a statesman who had occupied a very
exalted position in the commonwealth, to ask him to meet at dinner
sundry other influential and distinguished citizens, and confer on the
important subjects in question.

The preliminary step was to send for Mr. Mumbie. Mr. Heath had an
imperial way of summoning people to him, and his mandates were generally
obeyed with alacrity--always so when addressed to his good old neighbor
and toady, Mumbie; who, although suffering from an attack of rheumatic
gout, hobbled as quickly as his swollen feet would permit him, in prompt
response to the call.

"Mumbie," said Mr. Heath, "I suppose you have heard that there is a
great deal of talk about my running for Governor at the next election?"

Mr. Mumbie had not heard of it, nor had any one else; but he looked and
nodded as if it were a familiar and constant topic of conversation with
everybody.

"Well, I have not yet made up my mind whether I will consent to run or
not. However, that is neither here nor there at present, nor what I
wanted to see and talk with you about. Senator Rangle is your brother's
wife's cousin, I believe, and you are on a familiar footing with him,
are you not?"

"Yes, sir," said Mumbie, listening attentively.

"So I thought. Now Rangle and I are not on the very best of terms. He
accuses me, I believe, of having used my influence against him in the
Legislature, when he sought a renomination--said I wanted the place
myself, and so forth. He is mistaken in that. However, I am willing to
pass it over, as this is a time when personal feeling should not
interfere to prevent men from acting in accord on vital questions of
state. Here is the point. I have asked ex-President ---- to meet Judge
Hull at dinner Thursday week. Several other prominent gentlemen will be
present, and matters of importance may be discussed. Now, Mumbie, you
can assist me in this way: call on Rangle, state to him that as my
friend you regret that there should be any divergence of opinion between
us; that from your personal knowledge I have never held any but the
highest opinion of him; and so on. You might then introduce the subject
of the proposed dinner, and state that you know that I would be pleased
to have him make one of the company. On your report, if everything is
satisfactory, I can forward him a formal invitation. Now, my dear
Mumbie, you will help me in this little matter, and I can rely on your
discretion, I know."

"Certainly, Mr. Heath, certainly. I shall be delighted to undertake the
job;" and Mr. Mumbie hastened off, big with the importance of his
mission, and happy as if he had received an order for ten thousand reams
of foolscap, paid for in advance. His task was an easy one. The senator
was flattered by Mr. Heath's advances, and in no way averse to partake
of his dinners, whose celebrity had reached him; moreover, in no way
disinclined to forego the opportunity of meeting ex-President ----,
whose political star seemed to glimmer forth again in the ascendant.

It is almost superfluous to mention, that the dinner was all that could
be expected, for whatever Mr. Heath's other qualities may have been,
good taste he unquestionably possessed, and in the important matter of
dinner-giving he was behind no one. And when it is considered how
important a part that art has displayed in diplomacy, it could not be
denied that his aspirations to shine in that career were not by any
means presumptuous. An opinion, it is safe to say, that would have been
heartily indorsed by all who were fortunate enough to partake of the
memorable repast. Perhaps a little less starched ceremony on the part of
the host would not have been amiss; still, that was more than
compensated by the quality of the _menu_. As usual on such extraordinary
occasions, an eminent _chef_ from the metropolis directed the culinary
operations, and many bottles of old South Side Madeira and choice
Hermitage, that had lain for years in dusty racks, were brought to
light, and decanted for the delectation of appreciative palates; such a
palate, for instance, as a Chief Justice of great legal acumen and good
digestion, or a portly ex-Federal dignitary possesses, or even that of a
dainty young High-Church ecclesiastic full of zeal and sentiment, like
Spencer Abbott. What a fine dinner it was, to be sure! Rather formal and
cold, it is true, in the drawing-rooms as the host was receiving his
guests. Mrs. Applegate was flushed and fidgety amid such illustrious
visitors, and Mr. Mumbie was ill at ease in his capacious white
waistcoat, tight gloves, and freshly dyed whiskers. Such grand company
impressed him immensely, and for fear of lapsus linguae, he restricted
himself to monosyllabic replies. The Chief Justice, being hungry, was
somewhat surly until dinner was announced, when he ponderously and
feebly toddled into the dining-room in advance of the other guests, and
regardless of Mr. Heath's intention to have him lead Mrs. Applegate in.
This duty therefore devolved on the ex-Federal dignitary, who did it
with much courtly grace. How well the host presided, and how elegant he
appeared! His stately white neck-tie and glossy gray locks were arranged
with a precision that was mathematical, and with his small elegant white
hands he looked as if he were descended from a long line of
partridge-fed ancestors. A worthy pendant, indeed, to the ex-Federal
dignitary, whose proudest boast was that he had been complimented by a
queen as the most elegant American gentleman she had ever seen. What a
contrast the two presented to Judge Hull, with his fell of white hair
streaming over his massive head and bent shoulders, his beetling sable
brows shading a pair of cavernous eyes, and who always looked as if he
were on the bench administering inexorable justice. He certainly did to
the dinner, and it was with difficulty that he could be drawn out by the
host, and made to enlighten the company with bits of prodigious wisdom.
Finnegass, the editor of the _Sentinel_, who occupied a seat at the
farther end of the table, and expected to gather material for a
brilliant leader from the table-talk of the assembled sages, was greatly
disappointed at the commonplace style of the conversation.

"Heath, this soup's not so bad," quoth the Judge during a short
breathing spell; "I'll take another plateful. What do you call it?
_Potage a la Reine._ Ha--queen-pottage, eh? Well-named, verily. A man
might well sell his birthright for a mess of such, and not be a fool
either."

"Touching the late proceedings in Congress, Judge," edged in Mr. Heath,
"you cannot have failed to notice how the breach is gradually widening.
There seems to be a disposition on the part of certain members to push
matters to extremes, and bring about a rupture at any cost. Don't you
think, that an expression of opinion--a decided expression on the part
of the higher classes--the respectable and influential part of the
community, would go far to--to--"

"This can be arranged and must be," replied the Judge, addressing his
plate dogmatically. "The hot-heads of both parties must be made to
listen to reason, and the conservative element of the country should at
once take the reins. By the bye, this white Burgundy is the same I've
tasted here before, is it not? Yquem, you said? A good wine--a very good
wine. The field has been left entirely too much to the fanatics of the
East and the fire-eaters of the South, and to stop the current of
demagogism which threatens to overwhelm us, we need the best efforts of
sound sagacious statesmen like our friend here."

The friend referred to by the Judge's fork was the ex-Federal dignitary,
who bowed an acknowledgment of the flattering allusion, and with a
little deprecatory wave of the hand replied, "No doubt--no doubt, Judge,
you are quite right. All that is necessary is to bring the best men of
the country together to concerted action, and the matter can be settled
without any difficulty. But if we hold aloof--if the great legal lights,
such gentlemen as yourself or our friend Mr. Heath; or the heads of
finance, as represented by our friend on my left, Mr. Bawbee; or the
masterminds of the manufacturing and industrial interests, such as our
friend Mr. Mumbie; in short, if the intellect and wealth and
respectability of the nation do not interfere, and continue to permit
men like Sumner and Seward to persist in their incendiary leadership, we
may--I say it without hesitation and with great regret--we may expect
any catastrophe."

Mr. Mumbie, who had been listening with awe and attention to the words
of the great men in whose presence he was, reddened with modest
confusion on being designated as a master-mind. He had never taken
exactly that view of himself, but on reflection, concluded it to be an
eminently fit and proper one, and felt that the world had much to answer
for in having so greatly underrated him hitherto. "I quite agree with
you. I do indeed, sir. Your remarks are very correct, sir; very correct
indeed, I assure you, sir," spoke he, feeling that he ought to say
something to keep up his reputation of a master-mind.

Finnegass, the editor, emboldened by generous wine, ventured to remark:
"In my article in last Monday's _Sentinel_, I alluded to this very
subject, and put it in rather forcible terms to the--" But he was cut
short by the Judge, who, being at leisure between courses, resumed his
harangue: "The proper way to settle this trouble is very simple. It can
be arranged with very little difficulty. I am quite confident of that,
and speak advisedly. All that is necessary is a conference of the
patriotic intellects from all sections North and South, East and West,
to restore harmony to the councils of our country. Of course,
forbearance is indispensable, and a spirit of conciliation should
preside over all deliberations, and--this _pate_ has the appearance of
being very fine--very fine. I'll take some more of the truffles."

"I wrote an article which created--" again attempted Finnegass.

"Mr. Bawbee, a glass of wine with you, if you please," said the host,
adroitly checking the editor, and nodding gracefully to the financier.
Mr. Bawbee was a Western banker, of Scotch birth, who had made no end of
pelf by starting banks and issuing paper money. He took the floor,
figuratively speaking, and predicted the dismemberment of the Union. Mr.
Bawbee being a shrewd, hard-headed Scot, had an opinion of his own.
"It'll never do in the world, Judge. The matter has gone too far. Mark
my words, gentlemen, you'll see the States divided into three
confederacies, and that within two years. I know the sentiments and
temper of the Western people, and if the South secedes, which it
doubtless will, the West will sever their connection with the East. In
my section they deem their interests more closely identified with those
of the South, than with the manufacturing East, and will never permit
the mouth of the Mississippi, their great natural highway, to pass into
the control of a foreign people, hence it is not improbable that in
certain eventualities they would join hands with the South; but I am
inclined to believe, as I mentioned at first, that the upshot will be a
division into three confederations, and perhaps, as the Pacific States
grow in importance, into four."

"Tut--tut, Mr. Bawbee," interrupted Mr. Justice Hull, "all those minor
differences and territorial jealousies can be reconciled. As I have
before stated, a well-selected conference could settle the vexed
question in a short time. Get the right men together, and I have, no
doubt as to the result."

The Judge was inclined to be impatient of other people's opinions when
they clashed with his own, and was always the Sir Oracle of his circle.

The Rev. Spencer Abbott, who was not greatly interested in the questions
of state discussed by the other guests, diverted himself in dulcet
small-talk with his fair neighbor, the daughter of the house. In spite
of an evident desire to please, he was apparently unsuccessful, for Miss
Edna showed signs of weariness by an occasional pouting of her delicate
lips, and seemed much relieved when the cloth being drawn, enabled her
and her aunt, who were the only ladies present, to retire to the
drawing-room. Poor Abbott would gladly have joined them, for he was
dreadfully bored by Finnegass, who, exalted by wine and in default of
any other listener, attached himself to the clergyman, and treated him
to choice extracts from stirring leaders, until it was only by steady
sips of coffee and a supreme effort of will, that Abbott refrained from
lapsing into slumber.

At length Rangle came to the rescue, and merriment prevailed; for that
eminent senator, ignoring the weighty topics under discussion, proved a
perfect cornucopia of jokes and funny anecdotes, and actually drew a
smile from the grim old Judge.

By this time Mr. Mumbie had recovered his self-possession, and grown
bold and garrulous. He ventured to occupy a vacant chair next to the
ex-President (that had been set apart for John Heath who had not
condescended to appear), and informed that dignitary that he (Mumbie)
was a much older man than any one would take him for. As the
ex-President, on being asked, failed to guess Mr. Mumbie's age, Mr.
Mumbie imparted the information, triumphantly adding that Mrs. Mumbie
was very much his junior, as he had married late in life. "Here's a
knife," continued he, drawing forth the bone-handled jack-knife, "that I
have carried steadily, sir, steadily for over fifty years. Now I don't
think there are many such instances on record. My local attachments are
very strong. It's a peculiarity in our family which--"

"Between ourselves, and what is said here will of course go no farther,"
said Mr. Heath, with a sharp glance at Mr. Mumbie, "had we not better
take some preliminary steps at once, in regard to the matter we have
been discussing? I think we are all of one opinion on the subject. With
your permission, Judge, I would suggest that you and Senator Rangle
should by all means go as delegates from this State. Our friend Mr. ----
ought of course to represent New York. Then I have thought that perhaps
Crittenden would be of all men the most proper to lead the delegation
from his section. In fact, I have already written him on the subject,
and will send for a copy of my letter and read it to you."

"Not now, Heath; I'll listen to it some other time," said Judge Hull.

"Very well, I merely wished to show that I have approached him in a
cautious way, and in a manner that I do not doubt will meet with your
approval. Now, how does the selection of delegates strike you? I mean,
of course, as far as I have gone?"

"Well--well. I'll think of it--what liqueur is that?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Judge did think of it, and the conference was held, as we all know.
The Judge, the ex-Federal dignitary, and Senator Rangle, were all
there, and in company with other conservative gentlemen tried to stop
the Niagara flood of progress with bulrushes. But the tide that was
destined to sweep away the last relic of barbarism in our country, was
rising fast, and the conservative brooms that were striving to stem it
were flourished in vain.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile Judge Hull took another _chasse-cafe_ of cognac, to fortify
himself against the night air, and looking at his watch, directed his
carriage to be called, and rather unceremoniously departed. The Rev.
Spencer Abbott slipped away to join the ladies in the drawing-room,
while the other guests accompanied the host to the picture-gallery.
After the ex-Federal dignitary, Senator Rangle, and Mr. Bawbee had
retired to their respective bedchambers for the night, Mr. Heath
remained closeted with Finnegass in the library, while the former
concocted an article (the editor being incapacitated by the dinner from
any intellectual effort for the time being), to appear in the next issue
of the _Belton Sentinel_, and which he expected would create a marked
sensation. This article, a lengthy and portentous leader, was prefaced
by the following:

     "We are gratified to announce that a movement of very great and
     general importance to the public, in relation to the present crisis
     of political affairs, is in progress; the particulars of which
     having been communicated to us in confidence, we do not feel at
     liberty to impart."

This statement having stimulated the reader's curiosity and attention to
a proper degree, the writer, after a few paragraphs, relented from his
stoical secrecy, and with generous confidence divulged the fact that he
had been invited to be present--

     "at an informal meeting of distinguished citizens, among whom were
     ex-President ----, Senator Rangle, Chief Justice Hull, Andrew
     Bawbee, Esq., the wealthy and influential Western banker, M.
     Mumbie, Esq., and several other gentlemen scarcely less eminent,
     held at the residence of our esteemed fellow-townsman, Hon. Rufus
     Heath, to deliberate and take into consideration the critical
     situation of our country. This assemblage, comprising, as it did,
     some of the greatest minds of the country, and men conspicuous for
     their ability in all the higher walks of life--the bench, the bar,
     the clergy, statecraft, finance, and the manufacturing interest
     being all represented--were enabled to bring to the consideration
     of the topic before them that mature reflection, and careful,
     dispassionate deliberation, which are the fruits only of rare
     sagacity and profound wisdom. Good faith forbids us to say more,
     and we have no desire to be premature, but we think we may venture
     to add, that it was decided to hold, at an early day, a grand
     National council, to sit at some central point, and to be composed
     of delegates from every section of the Union. We will not pursue
     the subject further at present, but we cannot refrain from
     observing that, the fact that these gentlemen, whose names are
     synonyms for all that is great, wise, and patriotic, should devote
     their energies to devise means to avert the storm that threatens
     the safety of the ship of state, is one of the most hopeful signs
     that an era of concord is at hand, when sectionalism, radicalism,
     and demagogism in every shape and form, will meet a merited doom,
     and be banished forever from the Legislative halls of a free,
     united, and prosperous people.

     "It is but just to state that the idea and inception of this
     proposed National conference, which will doubtless mark an epoch in
     our country's history, is due to our fellow-citizen, Hon. Rufus
     Heath, whom the spontaneous and united voice of the people has
     designated as the next occupant of the gubernatorial chair of this
     State. When we see such evidences of enlightened patriotism, such
     an unselfish love of country on the part of a gentleman whose
     wealth and position are a sufficient guarantee that he is actuated
     by no desire for personal aggrandizement or ambitious motive, we do
     not wonder that his countrymen, without distinction of party, turn
     instinctively towards him as the proper leader and councillor in
     this hour of trial, when, if ever, sound statesmanship and
     disinterested devotion to the welfare of the whole country are
     needed. And while we know that it will be no easy matter to prevail
     upon Mr. Heath to run for the office, and that he would, with
     extreme reluctance, give up his retirement and important
     occupations, and could only be moved by a strong sense of duty to
     again enter the arena of public life, we feel that the people have
     the right to ask him, in this exigency, to so far sacrifice his
     personal interests and inclinations, and yield to their wishes, by
     accepting a post which he, of all others, is best fitted, to
     fill--that of GOVERNOR OF THE STATE OF NEW JERSEY."

This article had the good fortune to attract the notice of the
metropolitan sheets, who commented on the purposes of the ex-Federal
dignitary and his friends in various terms. The radical press poked
facetiousness at the venerable statesmen; called them fossils; and
compared them to the famous tailors of Tooley Street; but whose fault
was it that the great Peace Congress resulted in unsuccess, and that the
well-meant efforts of its members were fruitless? Whose, but that of
those perverse spirits who would not recognize the fact that "Canaan was
cursed," and that it was flying in the face of Providence and against
Holy Writ, to meddle with his cursedness in any way?




VII.


Mr. Heath was very well satisfied with the result of his dinner-party.
It had enabled him to appear in the light of a leading and prominent
public man. He could in the future refer to the views he had propounded
on that occasion, as the origin of the memorable "Peace Congress,"
whereby the demon of discord was banished forever from the councils of
the nation, and the North and South were reconciled to remain
perpetually locked in a fraternal embrace. Then the opportune time would
follow when his great work, the "Federal Code," would be accepted by an
admiring people as a complement to the Constitution, and an additional
band to unite indissolubly the fasces of the Union. The prospect was
brilliant and flattering, and dizzy eminences of fame bewildered him.
But there was much to be done. It was the hour for action, and with
fervent enthusiasm he set to work. He opened a correspondence with
every prominent public man in the country, every prominent conservative
man of course, on the necessity of casting aloof from old organizations
and framing one better adapted to meet the exigencies of the period.

The crisis was imminent, and prompt measures to avert the peril were
imperative. A movement had been inaugurated, of which ex-President ----
was at the head, which required the adhesion of every true lover of his
country, etc., etc. This was about the burden of every despatch, and Mr.
Frisbee, Mr. Heath's secretary, was almost distracted with the increased
amount of writing and multiplicity of letters. Meanwhile Mr. Heath did
not slacken in his efforts to obtain the candidature for Governor. He
wrote numerous articles for the _Sentinel_, of like tenor to the one we
have quoted, in advocacy of his claim to the nomination, and wherein,
likewise, he showed no desire to emulate the violet. Senator Rangle, who
had been much flattered by Mr. Heath's advances, was appealed to and
promised his aid. John Peter, whose peculiar temperament was decidedly
antipathetic to labors at the desk, was made serviceable in a different
way. He was the go-between at primary elections and nominating
convention, to fee agents and distribute largess. His chief mission,
however, was to court popularity in Belton and the adjoining towns; for
it will be remembered that the Hon. Rufus Heath, despite many munificent
benefactions and public-spirited acts, was anything but a favorite with
his neighbors. No amount of generosity on his part could countervail the
effects of his ill-concealed airs of superiority, and patronizing
suavity towards them, and wounded self-esteem never forgets nor
forgives. Mr. Heath was unaware of the prevalence of this feeling
against him, and his instructions to his son were intended simply to
placate his open and avowed opponents. In particular was he anxious to
conciliate George Gildersleeve. That individual, to be sure, was, as he
expressed it, a "dyed-in-the-wool" Democrat, but Mr. Heath argued that
at the forthcoming election old issues would be in a great measure
abandoned, and he hoped, if not able to obtain Gildersleeve's support,
to at least secure his neutrality. George, in truth, would have been a
powerful auxiliary, for apart from the large number of men in his
employment, who all liked him as a fair and liberal "boss," his bluff,
hail-fellow ways won the hearts of the hard-handed everywhere; and he
could control more votes than any other man in the county. No wonder,
then, that John Peter suddenly became very deferential to him when he
met him at Hank Bird's livery stable; no wonder that he solicited
George's opinion on the merits of a new trotter, and even came down to
the Archimedes Works for a social chat, where, meeting Mark, he actually
shook hands with him, offered a cigar, and inquired in a pleasant way
how he was "getting along." So astounded was Mark at these unexpected
amenities, that he did not know how to take them; but his surprise over,
he replied with equal friendliness, not being one to harbor resentment
when a show of placation was made--especially when it came from Edna
Heath's brother. So the two young men had a pleasant smoke together,
recalled reminiscences of their school days; of old Pugwash, who kept
the academy, and of the great conspiracy in which Jack was the
ringleader, to thrash old Pugwash, when the boys signed a round-robin
(an awful compact), with red ink in lieu of blood, that fluid--although
the proper one to have used under the circumstances--not being readily
procurable; and how old Pugwash, getting hold of the round-robin, turned
the tables on the conspirators by flogging them one and all soundly.
These and many similar incidents were talked over until all constraint
wore off, and when they separated, Mark felt convinced that he had
greatly misjudged Jack Heath, and was much pleased at the
reconciliation. He told his sister-in-law that evening, when relating
the circumstance of their meeting, that Jack was as good-hearted a
fellow at bottom as ever lived, the only trouble with him being his
inclination to drink.

"Dear, dear, what a pity!" said Mrs. Gildersleeve, whose sympathies were
instantly aroused. "I've noticed signs of it for some time, and feel so
sorry for him. He has grown so fleshy for a young man, and his face is
always so flaming red. Such a beautiful complexion as he used to have,
too, when a boy--and to think that it is all owing to this dreadful,
dreadful habit of drinking! If he would only consent to join our Band of
Hope. Don't you think, Mark, you might persuade him to join? or do you
think it would be better to have Brother Close speak to him on the
subject first?"

Mark shook his head dubiously at these suggestions, as if he mistrusted
his ability or that of the entire Band of Hope, to say nothing of
Brother Close, to induce Jack Heath to falter in his devotion to strong
waters.

"I'm afraid it's inherited, sister Margaret," said he. "They say he had
a grand-uncle who died from the effects of drink, and that his
grandfather, old Mr. Obershaw, had a great propensity that way, and that
the only thing that saved him was his stinginess. Much as he loved
liquor, he loved money more, and seldom drank it except at somebody
else's expense."

"Well, my child, let us not judge lest we be judged. Old Mr. Obershaw no
doubt did a great many good deeds that we know nothing about, and as he
is now in the hands of One who is all-wise and merciful, it does not
become us to pass judgment on his memory. I don't see why it is that
people are so censorious; I should think that after all the money that
Mr. Obershaw spent in building that church and endowing it, that every
sensible person would be convinced that he was a Christian, and I'm
sure no one could find fault with the way in which the money he saved is
being used, for there is not an institution, or a society, or object of
any kind, that the Heaths don't give to."

"That may all be, sister Margaret, and it's very praiseworthy, no doubt.
All I said, or meant to say, was that I didn't think Jack Heath was so
much to blame for drinking, as he inherited the propensity from his
grandfather, who they say had the reputation of being a hard drinker."

"Well, I suppose we shall all have to answer for ourselves," replied
Mrs. Gildersleeve, reflectively. "And very likely it's his misfortune
and not his fault."

The worthy lady's capacity for forgiveness and charity was unbounded;
far more ready, too, to defend than to censure, and she doubtless would
have had a good word for Satan himself, had his sable majesty been
captured and arraigned for judgment.




VIII.


Month after month passed away, and Mark had not dared to repeat his
visit at the Cliff. Gladly would he have done so, however, could he have
found any plausible pretext. One important point, however, was gained.
He had learned that Edna Heath was not the inaccessible princess he had
imagined; and moreover, enjoyed the extreme gratification of knowing, or
rather feeling, that she was aware of his existence--that she actually
remembered, and even noticed him, when he met her at the church-porch on
Sundays. These opportunities were almost the only ones he had of seeing
her, but the smile and bow with which she recognized him were enough to
fill his heart with pleasure during the intervening week. Occasionally
when at work he would hear the well-known din of the Heath equipage
dashing up Main Street in all the pomp of its domestics in drab
liveries, and Dalmatian dogs, and his pulse would quicken, if through
his window he caught a momentary glimpse of Edna among the occupants of
the vehicle. He failed not to take his evening strolls towards the
Cliff; to pass and repass the huge iron gates that seemed to bar him
from his dearest hopes; and to linger about, indulging in all those
absurd, preposterous fancies that addle the pates of all true lovers.

Summer came, and Edna went off with the Mumbies on a long tour through
the White Mountains and Canada. During her absence, how desolate and
dreary the world seemed to Mark! Belton became unbearable, and he
wandered about its streets in a frame of mind compared to which Marius'
feelings amid the ruins of Carthage were bliss. It was in one of these
melancholy fits that he composed his elegiac stanzas, entitled _Love's
Coronach_, and commencing with these lugubrious lines:

    Shadows from the plumed pall,
    Enwrap my soul in woe,
    My life, my hope, my all
    Is gone! And every poignant throe
          etc.,  etc.,  etc.

But when she returned, the world seemed to recover its glory, life its
spice, and he was happy in being near her, even if he did not see her.
When autumn came, and the grove near the Falls and the maples along the
river road were gorgeous with brilliant hues, Mark took long walks along
the Passaic-side, chiefly to meet Miss Heath, who rode often on
horseback, and went dashing along at a pace that the groom in attendance
had difficulty in keeping up with. She always found time, however, to
acknowledge Mark's salute, as he stood staring in respectful admiration
at the lithe, graceful figure, so smart in dark riding habit, small
white collar and blue silk cravat. He was selfish enough to wish at
those times that her horse would bolt over the bank into the river, or
do something that would give him a chance to rescue her life at the
peril of his own, and so prove his devotion. Fortunately, perhaps, for
the young lady, no such opportunity occurred, and our hero was obliged
to content himself with less demonstrative worship and vent his passion
in scribbling poetic numbers.

The shortened days and inclement weather of winter curtailed Mark's
rambles, and his evenings were spent with his piano and books at home,
or with his briar-wood pipe and chess at Dr. Wattletop's.

One evening as he sat down to tea in the little basement dining-room,
his sister-in-law, with a significant smile, laid an elegant envelope by
the side of his plate. "There, Mark," said she, "there is something that
will please you, I've no doubt."

He opened the envelope with a little trepidation, and found it to
contain, as he had half-suspected, an engraved request from Miss Heath,
for the pleasure of his company at "The Cliff," on a certain evening.

"When it came this afternoon," said Mrs. Gildersleeve, "I was in such a
flutter. Bridget was out to see her sick sister, and I was washing the
dinner things when the bell rang. I just took time to dry my hands and
ran to the door, for I expected as much as could be that it was one of
the men from the Works that your brother said he would send to fix the
grate, and I was so confused when I saw it was a stranger--the young man
with a cockade on his hat that follows Miss Heath when she goes out
horseback riding--I don't know whether you have ever noticed him or
not?"

Mark said he thought he had; and his brother remarked that it was
another of those English liveried flunkeys that that old aristocrat,
Rufe Heath, had imported to demoralize our democratic institutions.

"George," said Mrs. Gildersleeve, reproachfully, "you shouldn't talk in
that way, my dear. Mr. Heath does a great deal of good--a great deal;
and as for the young man, I'm sure he was very respectful and
well-behaved, indeed. I don't know, though, what he must have thought,
for I must have looked very untidy, and I was so confused and flushed
that I never once thought of asking him whether he would walk in and sit
down, which wasn't a bit polite or hospitable on my part. I hope, Mark,
you will accept this invitation, for you should certainly go out in
society more than you do. I do wish you had been with us the other
evening at Mrs. Sniffen's tea-party. I don't know when I have had such a
delightful time. Bishop White was there, and the new minister who has
been stationed lately at the Furnaces--the Rev. Mr. Rousemup. His wife
has a beautiful voice, and she sang 'Plunged in a Gulf of Dark Despair'
so sweetly, that I'm sure there couldn't have been a dry eye present. I
know you would have enjoyed it. But lately you have taken to staying in
your room too much; you seem to have given up the Debating Society
altogether and never go anywhere, except it is to Dr. Wattletop's, and I
must confess that I don't half like it. The doctor, to be sure, is one
of the kindest and best souls in the world, but he has such very queer
notions. They even go so far as to say that he is a freethinker. Now I
would be very sorry to believe that of any one; but he says such very
strange things, if the reports are true, and Brother Close told me that
Mrs. Slocum told him, that her nephew, James Cudlipp, said that when he
lived at old Mrs. Bradbury's, and her brother died, he heard the doctor
with his own ears say at the funeral, that when people became more
civilized, they would burn the remains of the dead and preserve their
ashes in marble urns, instead of burying them in the earth. Now, I do
think such an idea as that is shocking and perfectly dreadful."

"Well, Maggie," put in her husband, as he buttered a fresh biscuit,
"every man to his trade. Dr. Wattletop ain't no dominie, and don't
pretend to be, but his head's level on physic, and he's no slouch of a
sawbones, either. When he cut off Sammy Tooker's leg I timed him, and he
had it all done clean in ten minutes and fourteen seconds by my
stop-watch, and Sammy's brother said it was the best job of the kind he
ever saw done; and he ought to know, being a butcher himself. Why,
Pokemore, that you think is the greatest doctor in the world, I'll bet
would have taken hours to do it, and made a botch of it after all. The
only fault I have to find with Wattletop is, that he's such a pig-headed
John Bull."

Mark ventured a few words in defence of his friend the doctor, and
endeavored to allay the rising apprehensions of Mrs. Gildersleeve in
regard to his imbibing any unwholesome opinions from the eccentric
physician.

"Now, Mark," continued Mrs. Gildersleeve, "I do hope you will spruce up,
and make yourself as agreeable as possible at Miss Heath's party. I'll
say this for her, that there isn't a nicer, sweeter, or more charitable
girl in all Belton than she is. Mrs. Sniffen says that she never calls
upon her for any contribution for any object whatever, but what she
gets all and more than she asks for; and I do believe she supplies every
sick person and funeral in the town with hot-house grapes and flowers.
Then she's so very lady-like too. Dear me, if I were a young man--well,
I should think you'd feel very much pleased at this invitation,
especially as you never took any pains to make yourself agreeable to the
family. But then, to be sure, Edna Heath is kind to every one, and I do
believe that every man, woman, and child in Belton loves her."

Mark felt as if he could not see the necessity for that, and, if it were
so, as if the population of the town had audaciously conspired to
infringe on his province.

His brother, as he rose from table, also proffered advice on the
subject, "If you can hang up your hat in that house, Mark, you're made
for life. She'll have more dollars than you can shake a stick at, or
know what to do with. Never mind the old man; there's a good deal of
nonsense in Rufe Heath's airs, and he's mild as milk if he finds you
aint anyway awed. Keep a stiff upper lip--don't be cowed, and you're
bound to win. Whatever you do, though, be independent--independent as a
hog on ice, and they'll like you all the better for it. That's my
advice. Time I was off to the Lodge."

Mrs. Gildersleeve did not entirely approve of her husband's way of
putting it, and observed, "As to what your brother says, Mark, about
Miss Heath's fortune, or her father's fortune, I know you never would be
actuated by any motives in regard to that. Miss Heath, I'm sure, will be
a treasure and prize to any man even if she never has a penny in the
world."

"Very likely," said Mark, affecting indifference. "Miss Heath is
certainly a very pleasant and refined young lady."

"Indeed, she is," said Mrs. Gildersleeve, emphatically, "and more than
that, a very good young lady."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mark's gratification at receiving the invitation was instantly dampened,
when he reflected that he could not avail of it without exposing himself
to unfavorable comparison in the eyes of one whom he was most desirous
of pleasing. The old feeling of false shame, the morbid sensitiveness
in regard to his lameness, revived; and he dreaded to challenge
criticism in an assemblage where he longed to shine. Hence it was with a
sharp pang of mortified vanity and disappointment that he set about
writing a "regret," alleging as an excuse for not being able to accept
Miss Heath's invitation, the conventional fib, a prior engagement. Twice
he wrote such a missive, and each time tore it up when in the struggle
between sense and self-love the former gained the ascendancy; but in the
end that exaggerated self-importance which leads us to believe the rest
of the world vastly interested in our haps and mishaps, our appearance
and position--this infatuation triumphed, and the "regret" was
despatched.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, Mark," said Mrs. Gildersleeve on the appointed evening, "Miss
Heath's party comes off to-night, don't it? From all I hear it's going
to be a grand affair. They say there have been I don't know how many
hundred invitations sent out, and some are coming even from New York."

"So much the better, then, for I don't think I shall be missed," said
Mark with a forced smile.

Mrs. Gildersleeve dropped her work and looked at him in surprise.
"Missed! You don't mean to say that you are not going?"

Mark looked rather confused. "I do mean to say so. I--I don't feel like
it."

"Dear me, you're not sick, I hope?" inquired Mrs. Gildersleeve with a
look of concern.

"No, sister, no--but I'm not in the humor to go."

"Why, really, I'm so surprised and sorry. I thought you would certainly
take advantage of such an invitation, for I know you would enjoy it very
much if you went. There is nothing ails you, is there, Mark?" said Mrs.
Gildersleeve, repeating her inquiry.

"No, sister Margaret, no," replied Mark with a little impatience, and to
escape his sister-in-law's inquisitive solicitude, he withdrew to his
room. He took up his guitar and tried to thrum the _Jota Aragonesa_, but
there was no melody there to soothe his troubled breast. He skimmed over
a page or two of Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy," that Dr. Wattletop
had recommended him to read, but his feelings were too much in
consonance with the subject treated of to be diverted by it, and he
threw the book aside, filled his briar-wood pipe, and sought
consolation in Killikinnick. Even that resource failed him, and the fire
in the bowl died away unheeded. Then to shake off the tristful thoughts
he paced his room, but the old wound inflicted by Edna's cruel
commiseration seemed to bleed afresh, and the remembrance of that bitter
pity unceasingly returned, until chagrin gave place to anger vented in
fierce execrations on his halting foot, alternated with lamentations on
his unfortunate condition. He believed he could have borne almost any
other bodily infirmity better, and would gladly have given his right arm
to walk as other men. What an effort it had cost him to deny himself the
inestimable pleasure of beholding the object of his adoration in all the
pride of her beauty! And yet, why had he done so? Although imperfect in
a trivial degree, would he, after all, suffer much in comparison with
others? Byron, the splendid Byron, was lame, and so was Walter Scott,
and were they not the idols of society? Would her glance fall that
evening on a handsomer face? He stopped before a mirror, that reflected
eyes full of superb fire, and a brow as fine as any that ever adorned
child of Hellas, and he smiled with gratified vanity, like a brainless
coquette. But instantly ashamed of his weakness, he turned away, drew on
his overcoat, and sought the streets to distract him from unwholesome
reveries. Unwittingly his feet followed the accustomed path, and he was
half way to the Cliff before he discovered his absence of mind. He would
have retraced his steps and gone in another direction, but an
irresistible impulse urged him on.

It was a fine frosty night in February. There was no moon, but the
myriad of stars that studded the dark sky glinted like gems, and the
atmosphere was bracing and exhilarating. Mr. Heath's residence presented
a brilliant scene. The lamps on the gate-posts, those hanging in the
porch, and the many illuminated windows shed rays that tinted to
brilliance the snow covering the lawn and flecking the dark evergreens;
while here and there a pendant icicle or the rime-covered bough of a
tree coruscated like a crystal prism. Mark stood for some time in
contemplation. He heard the sound of rippling music, the muffled patter
of hoofs and creaking of wheels over the crisp snow as carriage after
carriage deposited its burden at the porch. At length, as if drawn by
some invisible magnet, he went stealthily up the avenue, slinking behind
the evergreens, and endeavored to gain a position whence to look
unobserved through the drawing-room windows. He felt like a spy, and
started at every sound with fear of being discovered, but the temptation
to see Edna was too powerful, and curiosity overcame his scruples.
Climbing on the ledge of a conservatory, he could, by placing his feet
on the chamfered stone-work of the building, reach the level of a large
bay-window at one end of the drawing-room. An inside sash was partly
open, so that he could both see and hear through the blinds and remain
unperceived. He now witnessed a sight that soon banished his melancholy,
for joy in its fellows has a contagious influence over youth difficult
to resist, and he regretted the foolish resolve he had made to abstain
from joining the party. They were nearly all young people; among them,
however, many strangers to Belton. Mrs. Applegate, who matronized them,
rustled about in a voluminous dress of moire-antique, and young Mrs.
Heath sat in an easy-chair in one corner, resplendent with diamonds and
languidly rattling a Spanish fan, while her lord stood leaning in a
doorway looking sulky, bored, and uncomfortable as he fumbled away at a
pair of tight gloves. The Rev. Spencer Abbott, in the neatest of
clerical attire, was sauntering leisurely from group to group, with his
hands behind his back and an air of mild benignity on his pallid
countenance. Present, too, were Will Hull and his sister Constance, the
Judge's grandchildren, and the Mumbies; Ada, Bob, and the younger
brother, Decatur, a sprig from the Naval Academy, evidently under the
effects of his gilt buttons and embroidered foul-anchors. Mark was not
long in discovering Edna. Her fair face was heightened in color, and
beaming with joy. His eyes followed her eagerly amid the couples that
whirled swiftly by, and he caught glimpses of her satin-shod feet,
arched like an Arab maid's. The music ceased, and the confused chatter
of many voices arose. Close by him came a group of girls prattling
together, and discussing their partners with the frankness of guileless
maidenhood. Scraps of their conversation reached him. One of the girls
was Constance Hull. Said she, "I do so like to dance with Alfred, he
keeps such excellent time."

"But then he parts his hair in the middle, Constance, and I think that
is so horrid. Did you notice his malachite sleeve-buttons and topaz
studs? Wretched taste, isn't it? They say he is engaged too--dear me! I
don't see how any one could marry a person with so little idea of what
is becoming. Do tell me who that gentleman is that was dancing with
Edna? I do think he is too handsome for anything."

"Why, don't you know? Why, it's Sarah Carver's cousin, Fred
Spooner--isn't he splendid? He came all the way from Boston. He's quite
smitten with Edna, and I know she admires him."

Mark's eavesdropping was sufficiently punished by this intelligence, but
he was destined to suffer still further when he saw Edna dancing again
with this admirer, who was a tall blooming fellow, all ease and grace.
He felt a pang of jealousy when he saw them after the dance promenading
together; Spooner chatting with animation and proud of his partner,
while she looked at him evidently pleased and amused at his remarks.
They came directly towards the window and took seats in the recess.
Miss Hull and her companions had left the spot, and the young fellow
probably desired to enjoy a _tete-a-tete_. He was pleading for a flower
from Edna's nosegay. "I beg and beseech you to bestow upon me a bud from
your beautiful bouquet."

"Dear me," said Edna, "what a quantity of B's!"

"Yes, quite a swarm, attracted by your excessive sweetness, of course,"
smirked Spooner, pleased at his effort at wit; while Mark, who had
caught every word, thought it very silly, not to say impertinent.

Edna selected a rosebud, which she gave to her companion, who placed it
in his button-hole. "I shall keep it forever, Miss Heath."

"Indeed, how long is your forever?"

"As long as memory holds a seat in this distracted brain, and longer.
I'll take it home, and when it wilts I'll press it in my prayer-book."

"Where you are sure never to see it again," remarked Edna.

"Merciless Miss Heath!--Excessively warm, though, here, isn't it? Hadn't
I better throw open the top blind?" and with that he pushed it open,
causing Mark to shrink aside to avoid discovery, "Warm as a dog-day,
isn't it? Talking of dogs, are you fond of 'em, Miss Heath? I've got
just the smallest black-and-tan--well, he don't weigh over twenty-three
ounces, and if you would only accept him, I'd be so delighted. I think
the world of him, and to know that he was constantly near you, would
make me the happiest feller in existence. To be sure his ears aren't
cropped yet. Do you like cropped black-and-tans? Or if you'd prefer a
Spitz? I've got a real nice Spitz, but he's snappish. Spitzes are apt to
be snappish, haven't you noticed? But then he's just as good a ratter as
any black-and-tan you ever saw. When you come to Boston, if you and
Sarah Carver will only come to Roxbury--"

By this time, the Rev. Spencer Abbott, who was on his third round of
inspection, came up with a graceful droop to the couple: "Reposing after
the fatigue of the dance, I presume, Miss Edna? What a beautiful
bouquet! Really, Miss Edna, I think you have the most beautiful bouquet
of any young lady present. Miss Mumbie has an elegant one, but the
blending of hues is hardly so artistic in hers. Yours, ah--presents to
the eye of the observer such a--such an exquisite juxtaposition of
colors. How fragrant, too! Roses--heliotrope--Dame Nature's jewels. What
a singularly beautiful conceit and myth that was of the ancients, that
roses sprang from the blood of Venus. Dear me, there's quite a draught
here. Ah! I see--a window down--aren't you afraid of catching cold?
Lovely as a Lapland night--a majestic one, truly! How forcibly is one
reminded of Milton's noble lines:

    "'How glows the firmament with living sapphires
    Hesperus that led--'"

Fortunately for Miss Heath, who feared the parson was about to favor her
with a book or two of "Paradise Lost," Bob Mumbie came up to claim her
for a redowa, and the Rev. Spencer Abbott sauntered off and betook
himself to a critical examination, accompanied with poetical comments,
of Mercedita Heath's fan. Mark noticed that Edna had left her
handkerchief on the tripod near the window, and as Fred Spooner had
darted away with Miss Mumbie and the coast was clear, a sudden and
uncontrollable desire seized him to possess this handkerchief. Yielding
to the impulse, and without further reflection, he raised the lower sash
of the window, crouched under the tripod, snatched the coveted article,
and frightened at his temerity, instantly withdrew. He hastened
homeward, pressing the bit of cambric to his lips, and rhapsodizing as
he went along like a demented Strephon. When he arrived home, he found
his sister-in-law sitting up for him. She noticed that he looked
somewhat flushed and disturbed, but as he seemed to avoid her
scrutinizing eyes, she did not question him.

What a night of fever and torment he passed! The conflicting emotions
that agitated him banished sleep. The delicate web he had filched lay
under his burning cheek and throbbing temples; its subtle perfume
intoxicated him, evoking ecstatic glamour and vivid visions of Edna's
face radiant with joy and beauty. Then jealousy swept the chords of his
sensitive nature, as he recalled the smiles bestowed on his presumed
rival, and bitter curses on his defective foot followed, until, in the
struggle between tumultuous passion and reason, his better sense
triumphed, and tears bedewed his eyes--tears of vexation that he should
be so childish, so vain, and envious. As he lay thus, his door was
softly opened, and he heard the voice of his sister-in-law inquiring if
he were indisposed?

"No, no, Sister Margaret, thank you. Please don't disturb yourself."

"I heard a noise, and feared you might be taken ill."

"No, thank you. Please leave me." His heart was stilled at this fresh
evidence of tender solicitude on the part of one, who had been to him
all that a mother could be. He contrasted her calm, cheerful ways and
unselfishness with his egotism and discontent. Repentant, he prayed to
be forgiven, and soon after fell asleep.




IX.


The next morning his jaded face told plainly of the mental struggle he
had undergone. He took up Edna's handkerchief, pressed it to his lips
reverentially, as if it had been a shred from the robe of a saint, and
then reflected how he should return it to its owner without exciting
suspicion or betraying his impertinent freak. "She's a seraph and I'm an
idiot!" was his pithy conclusion, "An egregious and presumptuous idiot!
If she knew all, what a laughing-stock I should be to her! I will not
think of her again, but as one to worship. What am I, or what have I
done to merit any favor from her? What could she ever possibly see in
me? I must and shall try to forget her. No--I would be very ungrateful
to do that. But I must only esteem, respect, and worship her at a
distance; and if she prefers that tall, girlish, dancing-Jack, why--no,
I have no right to think that. Well, I must return the handkerchief in
some way, and then we shall be henceforth as strangers--not exactly
strangers--but I will only think of her as an acquaintance."

He held to this resolution for at least a week, rigidly schooling his
heart to submission; but alas, this resolve met the fate of its kind,
for on the eighth day he accidentally saw the disturber of his peace,
and away to the four winds of heaven went all humility and
self-abnegation. And he met her of all places--in a workshop. Edna
happened to be passing the Archimedes Works on her return from the
stationer's, when the proprietor, who was looking out of the window of
his counting-room, caught a glimpse of her, and going out accosted the
young lady, much to her surprise, with a request to walk into his office
a moment as he wanted to consult her. She good-naturedly complied, and
went into the room, where the old book-keeper bustled about to dust a
chair for her, and the junior clerks were rather distracted from their
labors by the apparition of such a visitor.

"What I wanted was to ask your opinion of a new cart I've been getting,
Miss Heath," said George Gildersleeve.

"A cart, Mr. Gildersleeve?" repeated Edna.

"Yes, a cart de visit."

"Oh, a photograph," said Edna.

"Yes. Mrs. Gildersleeve's sister, Mrs. Roberts, who lives in Trenton,
hasn't got one of mine, and I promised to send her one; so I've been
getting some struck off. Now here are the proofs of three different
kinds. Snopple got 'em up; and as you're a young lady of taste, the
thought struck me, as I saw you go by, that you'd be a capital judge and
I want your opinion as to which is the best."

Edna, rather amused, scrutinized the pictures that represented George
looking like a comely bulldog, and said that she thought they were all
fair likenesses.

"But which is the best? This one's a new attitood for me. I never had
one taken in that way before. Suppose you were picking one out for
yourself, which would you choose?"

To please him, Edna gave the preference to one over the others.

"Well--I don't know but you're right," said George reflectively, as he
admired the one selected. "I'll have a lot of these struck off, and when
they're finished, I won't forget to send you one, unless you prefer one
of these full faces."

Edna said no--that the first one mentioned would do, and thanked him.
Noticing the horse-shoe over the fire-place, she inquired whether it
were hung there to keep off witches, or for good-luck.

"Good-luck?--no, not exactly, although I shouldn't wonder if it had
brought us good-luck. As for the witches, you see yourself it don't keep
off the most dangerous kind--the young and beautiful ones," replied
George, with an attempt to be gallant.

"Oh thank you, Mr. Gildersleeve; you're very flattering indeed," replied
Edna with a smile.

"I wouldn't take five hundred dollars for that horse-shoe, Miss Heath,"
resumed George proudly.

"Indeed," said Edna.

"No, nor a thousand. That there shoe that you see there, came off
Gineral George Washington's horse just afore he fought the great battle
of Trenton. My grandfather shod him anew himself, and kept this old
shoe. The forge was right here, and that chimney-stack was part of it.
That's the story, Miss Heath; and at that time your great-grandfather,
old Whitman Obershaw, ran a saw-mill just along by the head of the
rapids, ten rods beyond the foot-bridge, and I've heard my father say
often enough that the old man was a pretty hard case, and tight about
half the time."

Edna, though nettled and confused for a moment at these free reflections
on her maternal ancestor, could not refrain from smiling at the
unconcerned way in which they were imparted.

"To think how you've grown lately, Miss Heath," continued the blunt
iron-master; "why, it seems to me but last week that you and Ada Mumbie
and Judge Hull's granddaughter, were little bits of things, stopping, as
you came from school with your arms full of books, to peep in at the
foundry, half-scared, with your eyes as big as saucers. Well, time
passes, and things change, and the Works are different now from what
they was then. We've enlarged them considerable. Have you been through
them lately? No--well, would you like to go? Without bragging a great
deal, I don't think we can be beat much in our line in the world."
George's world, by the bye, was bounded by New York and Trenton, and
consisted chiefly of Belton.

Edna said she had been in Mr. Mumbie's paper-mill, and had been much
interested, and thought she would like to see the Works, if convenient.

The establishment was a model one of its kind. In extent and
completeness it had no superior, if a rival, in the country, and the
owner took a justifiable pride in showing it. It covered several acres,
and the buildings were fine ones of brick, with slate roofs, and some
pretensions to architectural beauty. Gildersleeve led Edna first to a
detached room well lighted, neat, and quiet as a boudoir, with a vine
trailing over the glass roof. This was the engine-room, where tireless
monsters of polished steel and brass, with gigantic fly-wheels and
darting pistons, worked noiselessly and exactly as a chronometer, and
enabled the proprietor to be consistently independent of the water-power
if he chose.

Then they went to the foundry--a fearful place, where begrimed men,
hideous in the glare of furnace flames, ran dragging pots of molten iron
like Cyclops, while the ground trembled beneath the titanic blows of
trip-hammers; next to the boiler-shop, where Edna was almost deafened;
and to the machine-shop, a long room filled with whirling shafts,
gearing, and lathes innumerable, where she was greatly amazed at the
wonderful planes that sliced off glossy ribbons of steel, and the
powerful shears and punches that cut the tough metal like pasteboard.
Edna was much impressed by what she saw. She was struck with the many
evidences around her of human skill and power. The admirable adaptation
and complete control of superhuman forces seemed to her sublime, and she
wondered that the presiding genius of such a marvellous palace of art
could be the ordinary mortal beside her. Had Edna been an older judge of
human nature, she would have discovered that George Gildersleeve was
anything but an ordinary man. True, he was uneducated, rough,
overweeningly vain, without tact; his fibre coarse and vigorous as a
buffalo's, but his tenacity of will, love of order, vigilance, and
business shrewdness were remarkable, and capable of conquering success
in almost any department of life. His vigilance and love of order had
not escaped Edna's notice, for as they went along, she remarked that his
searching glances were directed everywhere, and she was amused to see
him pick up a nail from the floor, and at another time reprimand an
apprentice severely because a small bit of cotton waste had been left on
the bright oil-cloth of the engine-room.

"Who suggested the name of your Works, Mr. Gildersleeve?" said Edna.

"Oh! that was Mark's notion. When we rebuilt them, I wanted to name them
the George Washington Works, but I concluded that that would be too
personal, so I let Mark have his own way, and he named them after Archy
Medes. This Archy Medes was an engineer of ancient times, who discovered
something in a bath-tub, I don't exactly remember what, but Mark can
tell you if you want to know. There he is over there. See him, Miss
Heath?"

They were in the finishing-shop at the time, and George pointed to the
farther end, where Mark was, but with his back towards them so that Edna
had not recognized the young man. He was standing with his coat off and
a plan in his hand, giving directions to a group of workmen.

"He's setting up an improved lathe for driving wheels--a new idea of his
own," explained George.

Edna stood watching Mark. He was very intently occupied moving hither
and thither, now stooping and scrutinizing, then, with rolled-up
sleeves, dexterously wielding hammer and chisel. His dark, delicate
features reflected the keen concentrated play of the faculties, and
revealed an expression of intellectual beauty that Edna had not before
noticed. She thought she had never seen so handsome a young man. Mark
unconsciously had made a more favorable impression in his homely guise
than he ever could have done in a ball-room. At length he perceived her,
and could not repress a look of confusion. Giving a few orders to the
workmen, he drew on his coat and came forward to meet Edna with an
embarrassed air.

"An unexpected pleasure, Miss Heath," he said, with a feeble attempt to
be distant in accordance with the noble resolves he had recorded.

"The pleasure is with me, I'm certain, for I've been very much delighted
and instructed. I know all about locomotives, and steam, and boilers,
and I am indebted for it all to your brother, who was kind enough to
invite me to see the Works, and explain everything. But I am very much
afraid that I have interrupted you."

"A very pleasant interruption; for it's so seldom we are favored with
the presence of ladies here, that we appreciate their visits
correspondingly," replied Mark gallantly. Her pleasant, winning way had
disarmed him completely, and he was at her mercy at once. Edna then bid
the brothers good-by, remarking that she had tarried too long and must
return home.

Of course Mark begged to be permitted to escort her, as evening was
approaching, to which request she graciously assented. The most
attractive trait, perhaps, in our heroine's character was her frankness
of speech and manner proceeding from a nature singularly free from
affectation. We say singularly, as it is well known that the best of our
young ladies are not entirely exempt from little artificial airs and
graces especially, if like the subject of these remarks, they occupy a
position in society somewhat analogous to that of a duke's daughter
among gentry. This artlessness was the more remarkable in the child of
a family noted for its intense pride and pretensions. Edna was the
exception; simple in her tastes, and ignoring the deference conceded to
wealth to an extent that would have amazed her father, could he have
spared enough attention from state affairs to study his daughter's
character. Naturally, when a young lady of position remains unimpressed
by people's purses, and is as courteous to the poor as to the rich, she
cannot fail to become a favorite with all; and it is no wonder that the
master of the Archimedes Works remarked to Gregg, the old book-keeper,
after she was gone, that if he were a young man seeking a wife, she'd be
just the girl he'd pick out, and that Gregg said she would be his choice
too; nor that Knatchbull, the foreman, concurred, and added, that she
was a "natty lass," to which George said, "That's so, and
thorough-bred," and told Gregg to make a minute to remind him to send
one of his "carts," a three-quarter face, to the young lady, as he had
promised, and wouldn't disappoint her for the world.

Meanwhile Mark and Edna were walking on in silence towards the street
that led to the latter's home; Mark, in his elation, scarcely knowing
how to broach the conversation. Finally he recollected that it would be
in order to thank Edna for the invitation she had sent him, and he did
so, expressing his great regret at not having been able to avail himself
of it, and his appreciation of the intended compliment.

"I think you would have enjoyed yourself," said Edna, "for I believe
they all did. There were quite a number of charming young ladies
present. Some of them, I think, you would have been pleased to meet."

"Name them, if you please?"

"Well--Miss Carver, from Boston, for one; pretty, accomplished--"

"And wealthy?"

"Pray, why do you ask such a question?"

"Is not that the supreme attraction?"

"What a sentiment for a poet! Do you know, Mr. Gildersleeve; that I
never fail to read your verses in the _Sentinel_?"

"Do you, really? You are a true friend, indeed, Miss Heath, to sacrifice
yourself to that extent. What an exertion it must be!"

"Indeed, I think some of them very nice. Mr. Abbott, who prides himself
on his literary taste, endeavored to be very witty criticising some of
your poetry, but Aunt Susan--that's Mrs. Applegate--Mercedita, and I
defended you with our utmost ability, and we three decided that it was
very nice indeed," said Edna earnestly.

Mark thought that "very nice indeed" was not exactly the verdict he
craved, nor were Aunt Susan and Mercedita critics whose judgment would
likely bias public opinion, and be considered final. Edna's good opinion
was certainly worth having, however; and as for the Rev. Mr. Abbott's
attempts at facetiousness, they were undoubtedly prompted by jealousy,
and to say the least of it, were very unbecoming in one of his
profession, and a disgrace to the cloth.

"Mr. Abbott, though, is a very fine reader," continued Edna, "but I must
say I have not a very great opinion of his taste. Would you believe it,
he is forever reciting 'Airy, fairy Lillian,' and says it's the finest
thing Tennyson ever wrote? Now I think it's very flat, don't you?"

Mark agreed with her, and said it was very flat, very flat indeed. She
certainly has taste, thought he, great critical acumen, but I wish she
wouldn't call my verses nice.

"You must know," said Edna, who talked on unreservedly, "I'm a very
romantic girl in spite of my matter-of-fact way, and read every bit of
poetry I come across. In saying that I don't mean to disparage your
productions, for as I said, I think some of them real nice and pretty.
It may be that my opinion is not worth much, but one piece I read lately
struck me as being full of beautiful ideas and similes. I mean those
lines addressed to 'Eunomia,' the 'violet-engarlanded' person in 'purple
cincture,' who, 'enthroned in the propylon of the temple of Fate, sweeps
the lyre with skilful plectrum.' I believe that's the image, is it not?"

"I am afraid you are disposed to amuse yourself by ridiculing my poor
efforts," said Mark, puzzled to know whether she were in earnest or not.

"Oh dear me, no. I haven't wit enough to be ironical, and am therefore
always compelled to be downright and blunt. Do you know, too, that my
ignorance is such that I had to look in the dictionary to find out what
plectrum and propylon meant. Do, please, the next time you use such hard
words, add explanatory notes at the foot, and oblige all such unlearned
people as I."

She said this with a bantering smile that again perplexed Mark and set
him reflecting. Now the shortest way to the Cliff was to turn off at
Mill Street, which led to the foot-bridge over the falls; but when they
came to the corner of that street, instead of turning off Edna kept on,
taking the longer way home, and thus prolonging the walk, from which
circumstance Mark augured favorably. At least, thought he, she is not
tired of my company as yet. Their promenade took them across the public
square, a pretentious little triangle of grass-plats inclosed by posts
and chains. At one end of this park fronted a fine large old mansion,
whose low eaves, broad heavily-panelled door, and ponderous brass
knocker denoted work of the last century. It was the homestead of the
Hull family, and on the door-jambs were still visible hacks made by the
sabres of Knyphausen's Hessians. Mark and his companion had just passed
the house when the old Judge came out on the porch to look at the
thermometer hanging by the side of his door. How could he fail to notice
the youthful couple? Old as he was, and long past the age of frivolity,
they interested him, and he stood contemplating the pair until they
were out of his sight. As he turned to reenter the house he gave a sigh
of regret. How barren seemed all his fame and honors! He would have
bartered them all for the return of one hour of the sweet hallucinations
of youth so irrevocably passed away. Meanwhile our young people
continued their discussion on poetry in general, and Mark's productions
in particular, until the young man, assuming a serious expression, said,
"You were speaking about the lines to Eunomia. As regards the spirit or
intention in which they are composed, I must certainly be credited at
least with sincerity. Every line, every thought is an exponent of the
author's feelings. They may be awkward, inelegant, or halting, but the
words are nevertheless the earnest utterances of the heart."

All this was said fervently, and Edna replied: "I haven't any doubt of
it at all. You poets all have some ideal lady-love, I believe, gifted
with every possible quality; some ethereal paragon whom you never permit
to touch the earth; consequently, I presume you are very much
dissatisfied with young ladies as you find them."

"Permit me to say you are much mistaken. My verses were addressed to no
imaginary being. Eunomia lives and breathes."

"Indeed! why, now that you have so excited my curiosity, I am afraid I
shall not rest satisfied until I learn who this interesting damsel
is--this purple-cinctured Eunomia."

"I can gratify you in that respect very readily, if you wish it."

"Well--but--I wouldn't for the world be indiscreet. If it's perfectly
permissible. Otherwise, let me remain in ignorance, please." She said
this hesitatingly, as if perhaps she had gone too far; or was it Mark's
admiring gaze that embarrassed her? For the young man seemed to be
oblivious of all but the being beside him, and who could blame him? for
Edna, animated by the walk and conversation, looked more beautiful than
ever. She wore a round hat wreathed about with a blue veil which
contrasted charmingly with her fair complexion, and the satin sheen of
her lustrous blonde hair. Mark watched the blithe face, and endeavored
to analyze, and impress its beauty indelibly on his memory. What charmed
him most was the virginal grace of lips and chin, the pure cheek, and
the exquisite contour of the slender white throat. So absorbed was he in
his admiration, that the promenade seemed to him incredibly short, in
spite of the circuit they had made, for the entrance to Mr. Heath's
residence was now near at hand. It was time to part. "I am
hesitating," said he, "whether to reveal--if you will not think me
presumptuous--after all, no one is better entitled to know the name of
the one addressed as 'Eunomia,' than you."

"No one better entitled to know than I?" repeated Edna, as a sudden
enlightenment suffused her face with a blush.

"No one; for Eunomia is but another name for Edna. Forgive me, if in
seeking for inspiration from your beauty and goodness, I have been too
bold in my admiration; but Edna," he added, taking her hand and gazing
at her with appealing ardor, "I have loved you so long and earnestly!"

She lowered her eyes at this declaration, but her hand lingered in his.
There was nobody near; he pressed her hand gently to his lips, when she
quickly withdrew it, and with a bow, disappeared through the gateway.
Mark stood for a moment as if amazed at his audacity, and then, joyful
and happy, walked away as if treading on air, bewitched by the
delightful anticipations of newly implanted hope. Sweet anticipation!
How full art thou of brilliant illusions and blissful glamour! And yet,
without thee, what an insupportable burden would life become! Precious
Jack-o'-lantern, that transports the lover, nerves the warrior, cheers
the student, and inspires poet and painter!




X.


"Bet you hundred to eighty--hundred dollars to eighty--eighty--old man's
'lected!" were Jack Heath's exclamations, as he stood rather unsteadily
in the bar-room of the Obershaw House, thumping his fist on the counter.
It was the night before election day, and of course the bar-room of the
Obershaw House, the headquarters of Mr. Heath's party, was thronged with
politicians and loungers, drinking, smoking, and discussing the chances
of the candidates for office; for we should state that the Hon. Rufus
Heath had succeeded in his efforts to obtain the nomination for the
governorship, as the numerous posters on the dead walls of Belton,
headed "CONSERVATIVE UNION NOMINATIONS," staringly announced.

Jack Heath had been for a week on what he called a "tare," and had but
just "brought up" at the hotel. He was still a little "sprung," as the
bar-tender qualified it, but had an eye to business nevertheless, as he
seemed anxious to secure bets on his father's election. "A hundred to
eighty--bet any man hundred to eighty old man's 'lected. Come, I'll make
it hundred to fifty--fifty, who'll take that?"

"I will--just for a flyer," responded a short red-whiskered man, who
kept a livery stable in the town; "I'll take it."

"Put up the ducats, Hank--put 'em up! Here, Bangs, old fel, hold stakes,
will you? All right--hundred to fifty more! Who's next man?"

"Here you are," said another individual. "Going to vote for the old man
too, but I'll take your offer for the fun o' the thing."

Jack fumbled away at his pocket-book, drawing out the bank-notes and
laying them in Bangs the landlord's hand with drunken solemnity and
slowness. He found no lack of takers, and soon stripped himself of money
to back his father's chances. Then a little contention arose about the
count, and Jack indulged in a good deal of abuse and swearing. However,
the party being in good humor, coaxed him, and vowed he was the best
fellow alive; so Jack, mollified, ordered a basket of champagne to be
opened, and "Here's to our next Governor, Rufus Heath!" was drunk with
three times three and a "tiger." Then Jack, a little more inebriated,
withdrew to play billiards, at which game he was an adept, and in spite
of his condition he made some excellent caroms, better than many sober
players could achieve; but he also missed some easy shots, and his anger
rising at that, he dashed his cue savagely at the table, ripping up the
green cloth so that Bangs had it down on the bill against him in no
time. Then Jack ordered more wine, telling Bangs to charge it to the old
man's account for "'lection spenshes," and again the company were called
upon to toast the future Governor of the "Jersey Blues," which they did
vociferously.

Now Jack, pulling out his watch, stared at it stupidly for some time,
until a dim notion coming to him that he was too tipsy to discriminate
between the hands, he requested somebody to tell him the time. "Pas'
twelve, eh? Time I was home--mus' go home early--got work to do
to-morrow morning--old man's 'lection day."

"Better stay here to-night, Mr. Heath," said the hotel-keeper, who was
familiar with Jack's habits. "We'll take good care of you. I've got a
nice room all ready and comfortable for you, and you'll be fresh and
fine for to-morrow's work."

"All right, Tommy Bangs, old fel. Let's have night-caps all round 'fore
we turns in, eh? Whiskey-skins, Bangsey. Stiff, and not too sweet.
Charge old man 'lection spenshes."

The whiskey-skins being disposed of, Mr. Bangs and his bar-tender led
Jack tenderly up the stairs, and put him away comfortably to bed.

About the time he awoke the next morning the election was in full blast.
The population were entirely given over to the business, and Belton was
emblazoned with multi-colored placards, calling upon the citizens to
"awake," to "arouse," and above all to "rally." Wagons decorated with
long muslin strips bearing the name of a prominent candidate, and some
watchword of uncertain application, such as "No monopoly,"
"Working-men's Rights," and the like, were driven about gathering
voters, who were stimulated to exercise the right of suffrage in the
right direction by the stirring notes of a fish-horn, blown by an active
partisan alongside of the driver.

The polls were surrounded by a motley crowd of fellow-citizens, who
beset the wayfarer with importunities to vote for this or that
candidate; and as each wagon drove up and deposited its load of voters
the new-comers were received with hurrahs and friendly hustlings. The
master of the Archimedes Works was conspicuous and ubiquitous,
shouldering his burly frame through the thickest crowds, jeering his
opponents, joking with his friends, and airing his wallet on the
slightest provocation. Jack Heath, owing to his exertions on the
previous evening, did not make his appearance on the scene of action
until mid-day, but his presence infused new vigor in the contest. A
crowd of henchmen were at his heels, and the bar of the Obershaw House
dispensed strong waters and tobacco, galore and gratuitous, to all the
supporters of the "Heath ticket" who chose to partake. And as many so
chose, the bar-tender and his assistants had their hands full, you may
depend, for the thirst of people who appease it at another's expense is
sufficient to appall the stoutest stomach.

As the day waned, the fellow-citizens merry with potations deep
disported themselves with antics gay. Individuals were bonneted;
ballots, those executors of the freeman's will, were scattered to the
winds; and the ticket-distributors who were unlucky enough to be caught
in their boxes found themselves suddenly in a topsy-turvy position,
heels in the air, and kicking wildly to extricate themselves, to the
intense enjoyment of the hilarious and playful electors. At sunset the
polls closed, and the citizens who had rallied so nobly repaired to
their homes, with the exception of some zealous politicians who remained
to learn the result of the voting. The bar-rooms were still tumultuous
with the wrangling of excited partisans, and Jack Heath lorded it at the
Obershaw House, but he soon succumbed to the fatigues of the day, and
was kindly put to bed by considerate Mr. Bangs at an early hour.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Hon. Rufus Heath remained at home during the eventful day. He had no
doubt as to the result of the election, and felt certain that he would
carry it. Candidates always feel so. The amazing self-conceit that
induces every ticket-holder in a lottery to expect a prize would permit
no other supposition than one of success. Still, being a cautious man,
he was anxious to have his belief corroborated. Meanwhile so confident
was he of the issue, that he employed himself in preparing a draught of
his inaugural address, and revolving in his mind a proper disposition of
his affairs preparatory to a removal of his home to the capital of the
State. H

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