Mark Gildersleeve Part 4

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 circ.u.mstances."

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 att.i.tude, 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 pa.s.sed, when she had a.s.sumed 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 friends.h.i.+p, and above all her esteem and admiration.

For this he resolved to live and strive. A modest ambition truly, but might not friends.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sed, 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 Pa.s.saic, 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 n.o.blest 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, h.o.m.oeopathy. There is no error, however absurd, but will find supporters and disciples, and nowhere can there be a n.o.bler 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 cla.s.s 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 quant.i.ty 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 pa.s.sages 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 a.s.sociation. 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 p.r.o.ne 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 h.o.m.oeopath, 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 pract.i.tioner 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 Cambridges.h.i.+re 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 _Ill.u.s.trated 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 b.u.t.toned 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 att.i.tude.

"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, a.s.suming 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 a.s.sure 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 sn.o.b Mumbie--um--um."

"Hold up, Major," broke in George, hailing the doctor stentoriously.