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.