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.