Mark Gildersleeve: A Novel

by John S. Sauzade

The clerk in attendance at the hotel, unaware that Mark had departed a short time before, replied, when questioned as to whether the colonel were staying there, in the affirmative; and taking Edna's note, flung it carelessly in an appropriate pigeon-hole. It lay there a day; and the next tenant of the room occupied by Mark received it, opened it without looking at the address, and discovering his mistake and the apparent unimportance of the epistle, unconcernedly threw it into the fire.

Accidents seemingly trivial shape our destinies; and this one separated two young hearts forever, and caused a material divergence in their future lives.

Edna, after sending the note, remained at home that evening. She had engaged to go to the opera; but plead indisposition, and grievously disappointed an admirer. She waited in expectation of a swift acknowledgment of her petition. The mask had fallen. If Mark could have seen her now, all his bitterness would have vanished. Old thoughts and recollections had resumed their sway, and her countenance beamed with the latent tenderness of a frank, generous nature. It was not the tristful expression of a love-lorn maiden, for her girlish passion for Mark was indeed gone; but there remained a sincere affection for her old friend and playmate. He came not, neither made he any sign; and Edna retired to her room that night disappointed, and perhaps a little nettled. This feeling very soon passed over; it lasted a day or so, and then with an appeased conscience, and serene conviction that she had made ample amends for her frigid reception of her old lover, she continued to mingle in the whirl of fashionable diversions.

Her wealth and beauty had installed her at once as the reigning belle of the season. Suitors she had without number. Noticeable among them, besides the Italian count, were: the still faithful Spooner, the former dog-fancier, now the Rev. F. Standish Spooner, in charge of a congregation at Roxbury, that he sadly neglected to wait upon Miss Heath, without, however, much hope of success, as his ineligibility as a partner in the dance put him at a woful disadvantage; the dashing stockbroker, Jobson, whom the belle rather disdained, in spite of his horses and yacht, as unrefined and inclined to low tastes; Herbert Hopper, a little fop, with immeasurably more money than brains; a pretty fellow, though, that scores of girls would gladly have taken up with; and last though not least, Percy Brocatelle, a famous leader of the German. Percy's means of livelihood were involved in mystery, and his antecedents humble. He had been a clerk at Stewart's, where his gentlemanly address and good looks had won him many friends and acquaintances from among the fashionable patronesses of that establishment. Under the auspices of the sagacious Sexton Brown, he had forsaken the glove-counter, and made his débût as a society-man, gradually rising to eminence in that arduous profession. Envious swells, to be sure, maligned him; sons of successful pork-merchants and stable-keepers blackballed him and refused him admission to their clubs; but Brocatelle rose triumphant over all these obstacles, and was found everywhere—that was anywhere—for who could so deftly tread the mazes of the German as he? Whose head was so round, or hair parted with such precision as his? And who else combined with all this, clothes so faultless, and a mustache so imposing? His taste, furthermore, in ladies' dress—in their laces, gloves, ribbons, and coiffures, was unimpeachable and invaluable. These qualities were not to be gainsaid; and Edna, for one, declared publicly, that she preferred dancing with him to any one else, and dreaded his criticism on her attire more than even that of the great Schmauder. Yet in spite of all these advantages, Percy could make no headway against the Count—the irresistible Count, surrounded with all the fascinating and terrible glories of the Borgia family, whose star was in the ascendant until a prince—a real Prince, came along. For it happened in those days that the son of a reigning monarch was making a tour of the States. His mother, who was, naturally enough, a queen, although a queen, bore as irreproachable a character as any matron in her dominions; and as such praiseworthy conduct on the part of a sovereign deserved encouragement, several estimable old citizens of the great metropolis deemed it their duty to manifest their approval of her good behavior, by giving a public ball to her son, out of respect for his august mother. This, to be sure, was but a left-handed compliment to the son, and when a committee of the reverend seignors waited on the prince to tender the proposed honor, he did not evince any lively sense of anticipated pleasure; and after the deputation had bowed themselves off (each one under the delightful delusion that he would be asked in return to drop in at the palace, in a friendly way, on his next visit to Europe) he turned to his mentor and discontentedly said, "Dammit, Grey, must I go to that ball, and be bored by those confounded snobs?"

"No help for it that I can see," replied my lord.

"Well, there will be lots of pretty girls there, I dare say. These Yankee girls are doosid pretty. If they'd only give me a chance to have my fling, and not insist on my leading out a lot of stupid old dowagers, I wouldn't mind it a bit," remarked H. R. H.

Now princeling was to a certain extent justified in his comments, for while the mass of the people had an honest curiosity to see a prince, and rushed to look at him as they would to a unicorn or any other rare sight, there was a select circle who worshipped him as the representative of power and pageantry, and hoped by surrounding him to shine resplendently in the reflected light of royalty. H. R. H. was not an astute lad, but he was probably sharp enough to perceive that all the toadying he was subjected to was due to his rank and trappings and not to him as an individual. That refined snobbery called loyalty has its redeeming side. One can understand the devotion of a good and wise royalist to an imbecile or wretched monarch, because the sentiment may be disinterested, and would still exist were the monarch an exiled mendicant, but the courtiership of republicans is purely selfish and debasing. Most of us, like Thackeray, would jump out of our skins for joy at walking arm-in-arm between two dukes, but it is painful to reflect that we should hardly toss a shilling to either of them the next day if stripped of their titles and reduced to beggary. So Mr. Mumbie, who was abject in the presence of the prince, and ready to prostrate his poor old brown wig in the dust before his royal highness would, in all likelihood, have but grudgingly lent him a dollar had he come in the guise of an impecunious plebeian. But H. R. H. was a good-natured boy and had a part to perform. So he duly attended the ball, was very complaisant, honored several ladies, old enough to be his grandmammas, with his august hand in the dance, and was then allowed to run at large among the younger beauties present. Miss Heath was among those who enjoyed the inestimable privilege of being selected as his partner. Moreover, he graciously flirted with her in the intervals of a galop. He told her that she was a "stunning girl." His Royal Highness had actually said that! Edna thrilled with pleasure. True he had paid the same compliment to the oysters of the country and its cocktails—true he was plain and an awkward dancer, but then he was a prince—a prince of the blood-royal, whatever that might be, and she, Edna Heath, in his princely estimation, was a stunning girl! Was there anything left to live for? Her happiness was complete, but alas and alack! the prince, as princes often do, fluttered away like a fickle butterfly, and she was left forlorn to mourn his disappearance.

Then by degrees the Count—the wily, persistent Count—temporarily eclipsed, arose again and reappeared in the zenith of her favor. At times, when she had leisure to think amid the excitement of her existence, she gave a passing thought to Mark, but she felt absolved from any duty towards him. She had done all that could be required of her, and had gone farther to retain his regard than she would to any other person than so old a friend. It is true she had had a girlish fancy for him, but it was at a time when she was barely more than a child and inexperienced. He could not possibly presume upon that now, especially after the long period in which he had neglected her, and when her letters had remained uncared for. Consequently she felt entirely justified in dismissing him thenceforth from her mind. It is not so certain but that the Count might have shared the same fate, had it not been for an occurrence that turned the scales in his favor.

Mrs. Mumbie, in her anxiety to secure the nobleman for a son-in-law, had watched with much dissatisfaction his marked preference for Edna. This, and the heiress' continued indifference to her son Bob's attentions, were more than her kind, motherly soul could bear. After a long delay and patient waiting, one day Bob ventured to propose. Edna listened with an air of mingled surprise and merriment that rather disconcerted him, and declined the proffered honor. The rejected postulant, chopfallen and sullen, repaired to his mother and related his unsuccess. Mrs. Mumbie could contain herself no longer. The blood of the Skinners was aroused, and her wrath knew no bounds. Rushing in unceremoniously upon the heiress, she overwhelmed her with vehement reproaches. Edna was at first bewildered, and recoiled from the storm of anger so unaccountably directed at her by the usually amiable matron, who raged away incoherently, until at length unburthening herself, the animus of all her fury was very disagreeably revealed. "So, Miss, you have seen fit to insult us—to insult your guardian—to insult the family to whom you owe so much, by refusing my son, who was good enough to honor you by an offer. You hussy! how dare you slight my son—how dare you treat us in this way? This is your gratitude, is it? After all the kindness we have shown you—after all our attention and devotion to you. You precious, artful piece! to think of your eating day after day at our table, sitting at our board with us, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, and all the while plotting against the happiness of our children. I don't see how you dare look at me! And the Count—this foreign adventurer whom Ada despises and whom you have encouraged with your advances—this Count has turned your silly head, and I'll no longer permit you to stay in this household."

Edna could listen no longer. With cheeks hot with indignation, and hands to her ears, she retreated into an adjoining room. Mrs. Mumbie, left alone, took to screaming, and throwing herself on the floor, drummed away with her heels in impotent ire. Edna meanwhile put on her hat and shawl, and swiftly leaving the house stood in the street. She drew her veil to hide her agitated countenance, and debated whither she should go. Within a few squares dwelt an intimate friend, a young lady, to whom she repaired and confided her trouble. This done, her pent-up grief could no longer be contained, and she gave way to a long cry. She was very sorrowful. The Mumbies had always been kind to her, and their home was the only one she had known since her father's death. This sudden severance, and Mrs. Mumbie's cruel attack, made her feel very lonely and miserable.