Mark Gildersleeve: A Novel

by John S. Sauzade

"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."