Part 8

"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."

"Why, don't you know? Why, it's Sarah Carver's cousin, Fred Spooner--isn't he splendid? He came all the way from Boston. He's quite smitten with Edna, and I know she admires him."

Mark's eavesdropping was sufficiently punished by this intelligence, but he was destined to suffer still further when he saw Edna dancing again with this admirer, who was a tall blooming fellow, all ease and grace. He felt a pang of jealousy when he saw them after the dance promenading together; Spooner chatting with animation and proud of his partner, while she looked at him evidently pleased and amused at his remarks. They came directly towards the window and took seats in the recess. Miss Hull and her companions had left the spot, and the young fellow probably desired to enjoy a _tête-à-tête_. He was pleading for a flower from Edna's nosegay. "I beg and beseech you to bestow upon me a bud from your beautiful bouquet."

"Dear me," said Edna, "what a quantity of B's!"

"Yes, quite a swarm, attracted by your excessive sweetness, of course," smirked Spooner, pleased at his effort at wit; while Mark, who had caught every word, thought it very silly, not to say impertinent.

Edna selected a rosebud, which she gave to her companion, who placed it in his button-hole. "I shall keep it forever, Miss Heath."

"Indeed, how long is your forever?"

"As long as memory holds a seat in this distracted brain, and longer. I'll take it home, and when it wilts I'll press it in my prayer-book."

"Where you are sure never to see it again," remarked Edna.

"Merciless Miss Heath!--Excessively warm, though, here, isn't it? Hadn't I better throw open the top blind?" and with that he pushed it open, causing Mark to shrink aside to avoid discovery, "Warm as a dog-day, isn't it? Talking of dogs, are you fond of 'em, Miss Heath? I've got just the smallest black-and-tan--well, he don't weigh over twenty-three ounces, and if you would only accept him, I'd be so delighted. I think the world of him, and to know that he was constantly near you, would make me the happiest feller in existence. To be sure his ears aren't cropped yet. Do you like cropped black-and-tans? Or if you'd prefer a Spitz? I've got a real nice Spitz, but he's snappish. Spitzes are apt to be snappish, haven't you noticed? But then he's just as good a ratter as any black-and-tan you ever saw. When you come to Boston, if you and Sarah Carver will only come to Roxbury--"

By this time, the Rev. Spencer Abbott, who was on his third round of inspection, came up with a graceful droop to the couple: "Reposing after the fatigue of the dance, I presume, Miss Edna? What a beautiful bouquet! Really, Miss Edna, I think you have the most beautiful bouquet of any young lady present. Miss Mumbie has an elegant one, but the blending of hues is hardly so artistic in hers. Yours, ah--presents to the eye of the observer such a--such an exquisite juxtaposition of colors. How fragrant, too! Roses--heliotrope--Dame Nature's jewels. What a singularly beautiful conceit and myth that was of the ancients, that roses sprang from the blood of Venus. Dear me, there's quite a draught here. Ah! I see--a window down--aren't you afraid of catching cold? Lovely as a Lapland night--a majestic one, truly! How forcibly is one reminded of Milton's noble lines:

"'How glows the firmament with living sapphires Hesperus that led--'"

Fortunately for Miss Heath, who feared the parson was about to favor her with a book or two of "Paradise Lost," Bob Mumbie came up to claim her for a redowa, and the Rev. Spencer Abbott sauntered off and betook himself to a critical examination, accompanied with poetical comments, of Mercedita Heath's fan. Mark noticed that Edna had left her handkerchief on the tripod near the window, and as Fred Spooner had darted away with Miss Mumbie and the coast was clear, a sudden and uncontrollable desire seized him to possess this handkerchief. Yielding to the impulse, and without further reflection, he raised the lower sash of the window, crouched under the tripod, snatched the coveted article, and frightened at his temerity, instantly withdrew. He hastened homeward, pressing the bit of cambric to his lips, and rhapsodizing as he went along like a demented Strephon. When he arrived home, he found his sister-in-law sitting up for him. She noticed that he looked somewhat flushed and disturbed, but as he seemed to avoid her scrutinizing eyes, she did not question him.

What a night of fever and torment he passed! The conflicting emotions that agitated him banished sleep. The delicate web he had filched lay under his burning cheek and throbbing temples; its subtle perfume intoxicated him, evoking ecstatic glamour and vivid visions of Edna's face radiant with joy and beauty. Then jealousy swept the chords of his sensitive nature, as he recalled the smiles bestowed on his presumed rival, and bitter curses on his defective foot followed, until, in the struggle between tumultuous passion and reason, his better sense triumphed, and tears bedewed his eyes--tears of vexation that he should be so childish, so vain, and envious. As he lay thus, his door was softly opened, and he heard the voice of his sister-in-law inquiring if he were indisposed?

"No, no, Sister Margaret, thank you. Please don't disturb yourself."

"I heard a noise, and feared you might be taken ill."

"No, thank you. Please leave me." His heart was stilled at this fresh evidence of tender solicitude on the part of one, who had been to him all that a mother could be. He contrasted her calm, cheerful ways and unselfishness with his egotism and discontent. Repentant, he prayed to be forgiven, and soon after fell asleep.

IX.

The next morning his jaded face told plainly of the mental struggle he had undergone. He took up Edna's handkerchief, pressed it to his lips reverentially, as if it had been a shred from the robe of a saint, and then reflected how he should return it to its owner without exciting suspicion or betraying his impertinent freak. "She's a seraph and I'm an idiot!" was his pithy conclusion, "An egregious and presumptuous idiot! If she knew all, what a laughing-stock I should be to her! I will not think of her again, but as one to worship. What am I, or what have I done to merit any favor from her? What could she ever possibly see in me? I must and shall try to forget her. No--I would be very ungrateful to do that. But I must only esteem, respect, and worship her at a distance; and if she prefers that tall, girlish, dancing-Jack, why--no, I have no right to think that. Well, I must return the handkerchief in some way, and then we shall be henceforth as strangers--not exactly strangers--but I will only think of her as an acquaintance."

He held to this resolution for at least a week, rigidly schooling his heart to submission; but alas, this resolve met the fate of its kind, for on the eighth day he accidentally saw the disturber of his peace, and away to the four winds of heaven went all humility and self-abnegation. And he met her of all places--in a workshop. Edna happened to be passing the Archimedes Works on her return from the stationer's, when the proprietor, who was looking out of the window of his counting-room, caught a glimpse of her, and going out accosted the young lady, much to her surprise, with a request to walk into his office a moment as he wanted to consult her. She good-naturedly complied, and went into the room, where the old book-keeper bustled about to dust a chair for her, and the junior clerks were rather distracted from their labors by the apparition of such a visitor.

"What I wanted was to ask your opinion of a new cart I've been getting, Miss Heath," said George Gildersleeve.

"A cart, Mr. Gildersleeve?" repeated Edna.

"Yes, a cart de visit."

"Oh, a photograph," said Edna.

"Yes. Mrs. Gildersleeve's sister, Mrs. Roberts, who lives in Trenton, hasn't got one of mine, and I promised to send her one; so I've been getting some struck off. Now here are the proofs of three different kinds. Snopple got 'em up; and as you're a young lady of taste, the thought struck me, as I saw you go by, that you'd be a capital judge and I want your opinion as to which is the best."

Edna, rather amused, scrutinized the pictures that represented George looking like a comely bulldog, and said that she thought they were all fair likenesses.

"But which is the best? This one's a new attitood for me. I never had one taken in that way before. Suppose you were picking one out for yourself, which would you choose?"

To please him, Edna gave the preference to one over the others.

"Well--I don't know but you're right," said George reflectively, as he admired the one selected. "I'll have a lot of these struck off, and when they're finished, I won't forget to send you one, unless you prefer one of these full faces."

Edna said no--that the first one mentioned would do, and thanked him. Noticing the horse-shoe over the fire-place, she inquired whether it were hung there to keep off witches, or for good-luck.

"Good-luck?--no, not exactly, although I shouldn't wonder if it had brought us good-luck. As for the witches, you see yourself it don't keep off the most dangerous kind--the young and beautiful ones," replied George, with an attempt to be gallant.

"Oh thank you, Mr. Gildersleeve; you're very flattering indeed," replied Edna with a smile.

"I wouldn't take five hundred dollars for that horse-shoe, Miss Heath," resumed George proudly.

"Indeed," said Edna.

"No, nor a thousand. That there shoe that you see there, came off Gineral George Washington's horse just afore he fought the great battle of Trenton. My grandfather shod him anew himself, and kept this old shoe. The forge was right here, and that chimney-stack was part of it. That's the story, Miss Heath; and at that time your great-grandfather, old Whitman Obershaw, ran a saw-mill just along by the head of the rapids, ten rods beyond the foot-bridge, and I've heard my father say often enough that the old man was a pretty hard case, and tight about half the time."

Edna, though nettled and confused for a moment at these free reflections on her maternal ancestor, could not refrain from smiling at the unconcerned way in which they were imparted.

"To think how you've grown lately, Miss Heath," continued the blunt iron-master; "why, it seems to me but last week that you and Ada Mumbie and Judge Hull's granddaughter, were little bits of things, stopping, as you came from school with your arms full of books, to peep in at the foundry, half-scared, with your eyes as big as saucers. Well, time passes, and things change, and the Works are different now from what they was then. We've enlarged them considerable. Have you been through them lately? No--well, would you like to go? Without bragging a great deal, I don't think we can be beat much in our line in the world." George's world, by the bye, was bounded by New York and Trenton, and consisted chiefly of Belton.

Edna said she had been in Mr. Mumbie's paper-mill, and had been much interested, and thought she would like to see the Works, if convenient.

The establishment was a model one of its kind. In extent and completeness it had no superior, if a rival, in the country, and the owner took a justifiable pride in showing it. It covered several acres, and the buildings were fine ones of brick, with slate roofs, and some pretensions to architectural beauty. Gildersleeve led Edna first to a detached room well lighted, neat, and quiet as a boudoir, with a vine trailing over the glass roof. This was the engine-room, where tireless monsters of polished steel and brass, with gigantic fly-wheels and darting pistons, worked noiselessly and exactly as a chronometer, and enabled the proprietor to be consistently independent of the water-power if he chose.

Then they went to the foundry--a fearful place, where begrimed men, hideous in the glare of furnace flames, ran dragging pots of molten iron like Cyclops, while the ground trembled beneath the titanic blows of trip-hammers; next to the boiler-shop, where Edna was almost deafened; and to the machine-shop, a long room filled with whirling shafts, gearing, and lathes innumerable, where she was greatly amazed at the wonderful planes that sliced off glossy ribbons of steel, and the powerful shears and punches that cut the tough metal like pasteboard. Edna was much impressed by what she saw. She was struck with the many evidences around her of human skill and power. The admirable adaptation and complete control of superhuman forces seemed to her sublime, and she wondered that the presiding genius of such a marvellous palace of art could be the ordinary mortal beside her. Had Edna been an older judge of human nature, she would have discovered that George Gildersleeve was anything but an ordinary man. True, he was uneducated, rough, overweeningly vain, without tact; his fibre coarse and vigorous as a buffalo's, but his tenacity of will, love of order, vigilance, and business shrewdness were remarkable, and capable of conquering success in almost any department of life. His vigilance and love of order had not escaped Edna's notice, for as they went along, she remarked that his searching glances were directed everywhere, and she was amused to see him pick up a nail from the floor, and at another time reprimand an apprentice severely because a small bit of cotton waste had been left on the bright oil-cloth of the engine-room.

"Who suggested the name of your Works, Mr. Gildersleeve?" said Edna.

"Oh! that was Mark's notion. When we rebuilt them, I wanted to name them the George Washington Works, but I concluded that that would be too personal, so I let Mark have his own way, and he named them after Archy Medes. This Archy Medes was an engineer of ancient times, who discovered something in a bath-tub, I don't exactly remember what, but Mark can tell you if you want to know. There he is over there. See him, Miss Heath?"

They were in the finishing-shop at the time, and George pointed to the farther end, where Mark was, but with his back towards them so that Edna had not recognized the young man. He was standing with his coat off and a plan in his hand, giving directions to a group of workmen.

"He's setting up an improved lathe for driving wheels--a new idea of his own," explained George.

Edna stood watching Mark. He was very intently occupied moving hither and thither, now stooping and scrutinizing, then, with rolled-up sleeves, dexterously wielding hammer and chisel. His dark, delicate features reflected the keen concentrated play of the faculties, and revealed an expression of intellectual beauty that Edna had not before noticed. She thought she had never seen so handsome a young man. Mark unconsciously had made a more favorable impression in his homely guise than he ever could have done in a ball-room. At length he perceived her, and could not repress a look of confusion. Giving a few orders to the workmen, he drew on his coat and came forward to meet Edna with an embarrassed air.

"An unexpected pleasure, Miss Heath," he said, with a feeble attempt to be distant in accordance with the noble resolves he had recorded.

"The pleasure is with me, I'm certain, for I've been very much delighted and instructed. I know all about locomotives, and steam, and boilers, and I am indebted for it all to your brother, who was kind enough to invite me to see the Works, and explain everything. But I am very much afraid that I have interrupted you."

"A very pleasant interruption; for it's so seldom we are favored with the presence of ladies here, that we appreciate their visits correspondingly," replied Mark gallantly. Her pleasant, winning way had disarmed him completely, and he was at her mercy at once. Edna then bid the brothers good-by, remarking that she had tarried too long and must return home.

Of course Mark begged to be permitted to escort her, as evening was approaching, to which request she graciously assented. The most attractive trait, perhaps, in our heroine's character was her frankness of speech and manner proceeding from a nature singularly free from affectation. We say singularly, as it is well known that the best of our young ladies are not entirely exempt from little artificial airs and graces especially, if like the subject of these remarks, they occupy a position in society somewhat analogous to that of a duke's daughter among gentry. This artlessness was the more remarkable in the child of a family noted for its intense pride and pretensions. Edna was the exception; simple in her tastes, and ignoring the deference conceded to wealth to an extent that would have amazed her father, could he have spared enough attention from state affairs to study his daughter's character. Naturally, when a young lady of position remains unimpressed by people's purses, and is as courteous to the poor as to the rich, she cannot fail to become a favorite with all; and it is no wonder that the master of the Archimedes Works remarked to Gregg, the old book-keeper, after she was gone, that if he were a young man seeking a wife, she'd be just the girl he'd pick out, and that Gregg said she would be his choice too; nor that Knatchbull, the foreman, concurred, and added, that she was a "natty lass," to which George said, "That's so, and thorough-bred," and told Gregg to make a minute to remind him to send one of his "carts," a three-quarter face, to the young lady, as he had promised, and wouldn't disappoint her for the world.

Meanwhile Mark and Edna were walking on in silence towards the street that led to the latter's home; Mark, in his elation, scarcely knowing how to broach the conversation. Finally he recollected that it would be in order to thank Edna for the invitation she had sent him, and he did so, expressing his great regret at not having been able to avail himself of it, and his appreciation of the intended compliment.

"I think you would have enjoyed yourself," said Edna, "for I believe they all did. There were quite a number of charming young ladies present. Some of them, I think, you would have been pleased to meet."

"Name them, if you please?"

"Well--Miss Carver, from Boston, for one; pretty, accomplished--"

"And wealthy?"

"Pray, why do you ask such a question?"

"Is not that the supreme attraction?"