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.