Mark Gildersleeve: A Novel

by John S. Sauzade

It was not until the morrow that the Mumbie's discovered where their ward had taken refuge. By that time Mrs. Mumbie had recovered her presence of mind, and felt that she had sadly marred her plans by her hasty and intemperate conduct. So Mr. Mumbie was immediately despatched with a verbal apology, and instructions to smooth matters and induce the heiress to return. Mr. Mumbie felt himself rather an incompetent ambassador for such a mission, still he undertook it with zeal having a genuine affection for the daughter of his old friend, and sincerely and deeply regretting his wife's behavior towards her. With what seemed to him subtle policy, he put on sundry tokens Edna had given him, such as a seal ring, a scarf-pin, and a watch-chain which could not fail to open a spring of fond associations that would greatly facilitate his task. He augured well from his reception, for Edna appeared much pleased to see him, and held up her face to be kissed. But when, after a short disquisition on the weather, and some hemming and hawing, he ventured to announce the object of his mission, and, in alluding to Mrs. Mumbie's "peculiar temper," said she "mustn't mind it"—that nobody minded her "peculiar temper" (which was rather a stretch of veracity), as "she didn't mean anything by it," and that the best thing Edna could do was to put on her "things" and go right back with him—the young lady shook her head in a way that caused Mr. Mumbie to lose faith in his powers of persuasion. He tried to appeal to her feelings. "Why, Edna, you can't imagine how we miss you. You know we are a family of strong local attachments. I myself have carried this knife—this"—

He felt in his pockets, rummaged them, searched them over—the knife was gone! Consternation was imminent—when he suddenly recollected that he had, for the first time in his life, left this cherished companion at home. This shock, however, disturbed his ratiocination, and he floundered on rather feebly in his plea.

"As I was saying, Edna, we miss you awfully. If you had only seen us at breakfast this morning, you couldn't stay away a minute. We couldn't any of us eat hardly anything. All I took was a cup of tea and a roll. As for Bob, and you know what a hearty feeder he is, poor Bob couldn't go more than a couple of buckwheat cakes and a chop, and Ada, she just about touched an egg, and kept pointing with her fork at your vacant chair, and saying there's where she used to sit. Last night Will Hull called, and says he, 'Where's Edna?' and Ada didn't know what to say. Now this sort of thing won't do. You must forget and forgive."

"My dear guardian," replied Edna, firmly; "while I shall always retain the utmost respect and gratitude for the kindness you have invariably shown me, and shall always be very much pleased to see you, I never wish to see Mrs. Mumbie again. I could not endure to be reminded of the cruel attack I was subjected to from her."

"Come—come, Edna, you must not talk in that strain. She didn't mean anything by it. I've been through it myself. It's only her peculiar way, you know."

Edna pressed her lips tightly together, and shook her head, in a manner that signified a fixed resolution, and disheartened her guardian.

"Why, Edna, even Blanche has noticed that you have left the house, and goes whining about, and as for the canaries they are dumb and dull as owls," added Mr. Mumbie, at a loss for arguments. But even this touching allusion to the sorrows of the pet Italian grayhound and the singing-birds failed to soften the obdurate ward, and he was obliged to retire baffled.

Then Ada Mumbie came and tried her powers, but with no better success, and Edna's determination remained unshaken.

She stayed at her friend's house, pending the arrival of Mrs. Applegate, who was spending the winter in a distant western city, and with whom she intended to reside in the future.

The moment was a propitious one for the Count. He was aware that some disagreement had arisen between the Mumbies and Miss Heath, but of the nature of it he was in total ignorance. His curiosity was excited. He could learn nothing from the young lady. She of course was silent on the subject, and he had too much tact to appear inquisitive, but Bob—the guileless Bob, in a gush of confidence, inspired by a bottle of Burgundy at the club, imparted the story of his unrequited love, his declaration, and its sequel, to the feeling bosom of a friend, who in turn confided the tale to a dozen other confidential friends. In this way it reached the ears of the Count, who was not slow to perceive the great advantage Miss Heath's present position gave him in prosecuting his suit. Here was a young, inexperienced person, severed from life-long friends, and left almost alone in the world. Naturally she was ready to attach herself to the first sympathetic heart that presented itself in a suitable and engaging way. Craftily the Count played his cards. When Edna went to Philadelphia to reside with her aunt, he followed her there, and had the field to himself. He began by captivating Mrs. Applegate. She bore a striking resemblance to his cousin the Principessa Baldonachi, he said, and had the port and mien of those noble Venetian dames, that Titian loved to paint. He brought her flowers and escorted her to church. The good lady was flattered beyond measure at these unwonted attentions, and pronounced him the most polite gentleman she had ever known. At a favorable moment he took occasion to confide to her, his adoration of her niece—that truly noble young person—for, while he confessed, with a certain reluctance, that he belonged to one of the most illustrious houses of Europe, yet he deemed the only true nobility to be the nobility of the soul, such as Miss Heath possessed; and then, with a sigh, he regretted that the young lady was wealthy. He deeply deplored that. "If she were only a poor girl—if she were entirely destitute—how happy I should be. With what eager joy would I hasten to lay my heart, my title, my patrimony, everything at her feet, and beg of her to accept them. But now, alas! I cannot. No—no—it cannot be—it must not be. The world—the censorious world, would call me mercenary. No—I must suffer in silence. Be still, my poor heart! But you shall be my friend, will you not?"