Mark Gildersleeve: A Novel

by John S. Sauzade

Edna attempted to frame some coy reply, but the artless girl was unable to carry on the coquettish play of a sued maiden against the resistless ardor of such an impetuous wooer. She could only remain silent, with lowered glance and burning cheek, while her daring suitor continued, "I may be exceedingly presumptuous in aspiring to you, Edna. I have nothing to offer, and I know you deserve all that earth can give, but all I ask now, is to be permitted to hope, and meanwhile to worship, for no divinity is too exalted to spurn the humblest devotee; but I need your consent and encouragement; without that, the task I have undertaken will be purposeless, and all honor I might win prove barren. I have come to bid you farewell."

"Farewell," echoed Edna, raising her eyes to his.

"Yes," said Mark, "to-morrow morning I leave for Virginia, and I've come to bid you farewell, and beg some token—some favor, Edna, which I know you will not refuse me; and if it should be my fate never to return—"

"Oh, don't say that," exclaimed Edna in tones that betrayed her anxiety.

"I trust I shall return, Edna, and in a position to make me more worthy of the interest you manifest in me. Dearest, the sweet confession I read in your eyes—in your tell-tale blushes, nerves me for every danger," etc., etc.

Mark was getting along famously in the time-honored way, when, at this tender stage of affairs, who should make her unwelcome appearance but Aunt Applegate, fortunately a myopic matron, who underwent an introduction to Mark, without seemingly noticing the confused looks of the sentimental pair. A voluble dame luckily was Mrs. Applegate, who had known Mark's mother and several of his dead and gone relatives, and instantly resurrected many incidents and reminiscences connected with the existence of those personages, thereby giving Edna time to assume a properly demure countenance. Our budding warrior and lover, while feigning an hypocritical interest in the conversation of the intruding lady, would, we fear, have seen her led off to the rack or stake with glee and gratitude. In happy unconsciousness of the kind feelings towards her, Mrs. Applegate continued, touching upon the prevailing topic: "So you are going to the war, Mr. Gildersleeve? Isn't it dreadful? Dear me, I don't know how it will all end. Edna told me you had joined the cavalry, and I think you are very sensible in doing so, for you have a great advantage over the foot-soldiers, and if worst comes to the worst, and matters become serious, you can, in case of danger, always get away from it much faster. Edna said—I believe you read it in the paper, didn't you, dear? Yes. So I thought—that you were a lieutenant. Now I should think that was doing very well for so short a time. Mrs. Mumbie is so worried about Decatur. He is at the Naval School, you know, and she is afraid he may have to go and fight. She's a Southerner, and all her sympathies are with the South," etc., etc.

Mrs. Applegate continued in this strain for some time, duly impressing on Mark the necessity of keeping his feet dry upon all occasions, and avoiding damp ground as a couch. She offered furthermore to present him with a quart bottle of picra, a remedial agent of great virtue and nastiness. "I prepared it myself, and am never without it, and wouldn't be for anything. Mr. Applegate used to say, 'Now, Susan, if you'd only advertise it, you'd make your fortune.' It's the very best thing in the world to ward off chills and fever; and now I think of it, Mr. Gildersleeve, if you could introduce it in the army, and induce the soldiers to take it occasionally instead of their vile whiskey and brandy, what a blessing it would be! I'm sure for my part nothing would give me greater pleasure than to furnish the recipe. Now, if you'll bear this in mind, and write me, I'll send it to you at any time."

Mark promised to do so; he would have promised anything, even to taking a daily dose of picra for a month, if Mrs. Applegate would only have allowed him a few minutes' longer tête-à-tête with his sweetheart, but it was not to be, and he was about to take his leave when Mrs. Applegate requested him to stay to tea, an invitation which he gladly accepted. The meal was rather a stiff and ceremonious affair, but Mark was supremely happy as he sat next to Edna. Mr. Heath, who had returned from his journey apparently not much improved in health, was rather mystified at the young officer's presence, and stared somewhat at his shoulder-straps. Mark noticed that the patrician had lost much of his old rigid pride, and looked fatigued and care-worn. He appeared to take but little interest in the momentous events of the day, and his one or two listless questions betrayed a remarkable ignorance of what was going on around him in relation to the war.

After tea they withdrew to the parlors, with the exception of Mr. Heath, who retired to his room. Mrs. Applegate, complimenting Mark on his voice, requested him to favor her with "Angels ever bright and fair;" which the young fellow did, you may rest assured, to the very best of his ability, as he sang to Edna's accompaniment. Then other visitors came. First, the Rev. Spencer Abbott, somewhat amazed, and perhaps a little displeased at Mark's presence, but too well bred to show it; next, Bob Mumbie and his sister Ada, to whom Mark underwent an introduction—an embarrassing ceremony where all the parties have known each other from childhood, but tacitly agreed as they grew up to be as strangers. However, the ice was soon broken. The young rector was pleasant enough and had a batch of entirely new conundrums to offer. Bob Mumbie, though rather doltish, was a good-natured, amusing fellow, while Miss Ada chose to make herself unusually agreeable, succumbing, perhaps, to the potent fascination of the lieutenant's blue coat and gilt buttons. She was a rather pretty girl, with a clear brunette complexion; but strongly marked brows knit over brilliant black eyes, and disdainful lips, gave her an imperious expression. She attacked a sonata of Beethoven, but it was evidently beyond the capacity of her unpractised fingers, and it was a relief when her brother offered to treat the company to "The Old Folks at Home." Bob Mumbie's forte was Ethiopian minstrelsy, and he sang the simple lays of the plantation with all the pathos of a professional. Led on by the general applause, Bob followed it up with "Old Uncle Snow," then "Sally Come up," and concluded with a "Walk round," after the manner of the celebrated Mr. Bryant, to the intense amusement of Mrs. Applegate, whose capacious form shook with laughter, and of Edna, who enjoyed it scarcely less. All this was horridly unæsthetic, and Mark, the prig, only rewarded the performance with a condescending smile. Perhaps, was he jealous that his efforts had not met with equal success, or that Edna had requested a repetition of "Uncle Snow"? For all that, and in spite of it, he enjoyed himself, and passed a delightful evening; one that he often recalled as he smoked his corn-cob pipe and ruminated before the lonely bivouac-fires during the tedious Peninsular campaign.

Mark was grievously disappointed though, when about taking his leave that evening, to find Mrs. Applegate accompanying her niece to the door to press on his acceptance a large bottle of picra. He was fain to content himself with exchanging a lingering pressure of the hands and an eloquent look with Edna. She found means, however, to give him a small folded paper which of course contained, to his supreme delight, a tress of her bonny blond hair. Any one witnessing his behavior as he went home that night, stopping every moment to cover the precious keepsake with kisses, and then as he crossed the bridge to the town, to fling a bottle rather impatiently into the river, might reasonably have entertained doubts as to his sanity.