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                          MARK GILDERSLEEVE.

                               A Novel.

                         BY JOHN S. SAUZADE.


    NEW YORK:
    _G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers._
    LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.
    M.DCCC.LXXIII.

    Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
    JOHN S. SAUZADE,
    In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

    Stereotyped at the
    WOMEN'S PRINTING HOUSE,
    56, 58 and 60 Park Street,
    New York.




MARK GILDERSLEEVE.




I.


Although of much importance as a manufacturing place, Belton is noted
chiefly for the beautiful water-fall to which the town, in fact, owes
its existence.

Here the Passaic, interrupted in its placid flow by a rocky barrier,
takes an abrupt turn, and plunges in a narrow sheet of foam adown a deep
chasm, formed in one of Nature's throes ages ago, and then with wild
swirls rushes angrily over a rocky bed, until spent and quiet it skirts
the town, and winds away appeased and pellucid--despite the murky drain
of dye-houses--through woodlands, fields, and pastures green. Ere
reaching the cataract, however, the river is tapped by a canal which
serves to feed the flumes that run the many mills of Belton; and
through this race-way the diverted waters speed on their busy errand,
starting cumbersome overshot, undershot, breast, and turbine wheels into
action, that in their turn quicken into life the restless shuttle and
whirling spindle.

From the cliff, at the head of the cataract, one may completely overlook
the town, a cheerful hive, compactly built, and consisting chiefly of
long brick factories, with little belfries, and rows of small white
wooden dwellings. The whole is neat and bright; no canopy of coal-smoke
obscures the blue sky, and but an occasional tall chimney or jet of
vapor is seen, for here steam is dethroned, and the cheaper motor reigns
supreme.

The river side, the cliff, the falls, in short the water-power belongs
and has belonged for generations to the Obershaw family. In days of
yore, when Whitman Obershaw ran a saw-mill, and tilled a clearing
hereabout, his worldly possessions, it is safe to say, were not such as
to assimilate his chances of salvation to the facility with which a
camel can go through a needle's eye, and it was reserved for his son,
John Peter Obershaw, to reap the benefit of the accident that had put
his ancestors in possession of the site of Belton. And when you consider
the present magnitude of the place, its many mills, and the enormous
yearly rental of the water-power, you will not be surprised to learn
that the costly stone mansion on the cliff, with its imposing front, its
beautiful grounds, conservatories, and lodges, is the residence of the
Hon. Rufus Heath, son-in-law and heir of John Peter Obershaw, who built
it.

There is a mural tablet in the apse of St. Jude's, Belton, inscribed to
the memory of

            JOHN PETER OBERSHAW,
               OF THIS TOWN,
    _Through whose munificence this Church_
               WAS ERECTED,
                A.D. 1840.
   HIS CHRISTIAN VIRTUES ENDEARED HIM TO ALL.

An epitaph which bore out the proverbial reputation of its kind in being
essentially a lie--a lie in black and white, for old Obershaw had no
Christian or even Pagan virtues to speak of, and was rather disliked by
all for a selfish, avaricious, nonagenarian. Perhaps the only
commendable act of his life was the erection of the small, but handsome
church in question. Yet, even this was looked upon as but the placatory
offering of a prudent worldling, about to appear before the final
tribunal, and anxious to propitiate the great Judge. Moreover, those who
knew the most about it asserted that the church would never have been
built, nor a dollar spent towards it, had it not been for Rufus Heath,
who, during the last years of his father-in-law's life, had the entire
control of the estate, owing to the latter's age and incapacity.
Doubtless these assertions were true, for neither dread of God or demon
could ever have wrung an unremunerative stiver from old John Peter
Obershaw's clutching fist, as he belonged to the orthodox school of
misers--the class who live but to accumulate, and find all their
pleasure in that sound, wholesome vice which prolongs life, and betrays
not to a fool's paradise.

To the last he was steadfast to his idol. For years previous he was
confined to his room by paralysis, dead to all affections save love of
money, and vegetating in an easy chair stuffed literally with gold; for
the senile miser, like a magpie, slyly secreted coin in every nook and
corner of his chamber. In this second childhood, it was necessary to
quiet him by giving him money to toy with, and musty accounts and deeds,
which he pored over with the vacuity of an imbecile. To the end the
ruling passion swayed him. At the last moment, when the taper of life
was about giving its expiring flicker, he asked his attendant to bring
him a surveyor's map of his estate. "And, James, tell... tell Mr. Heath
I want to see him... see him at once. Must buy Van Slyke's farm if
he'll sell it right... sell it right. But he wants too much... too
much. No... no... can't give it. No... no; haven't... got the money.
Soon as I am well, well... and strong, I'll go out and have a look at
it... look at it. Soon as I am well, and go out... go out. But can't
'ford to pay much. No... no. Van Slyke's farm'll square the addition.
But, I can't pay much... can't 'ford it;" and a nervous twitching of
his pale thin lips, as he mumbled to himself, showed teeth still sound,
though worn down like an old mastiff's. He was a man of large frame,
gaunt, bowed with age, and the dried yellow skin of his face resembled
wrinkled parchment. When the map was brought to him, he stared vacantly
at it with faded eyes that looked like dull agates, then relapsed into a
still slumber with the map gripped in his long, talon-like, bony
fingers, as if some one would steal it from him. Aroused by the entrance
of his son-in-law, he again mumbled--"Where's the map... map? Heath,
see Van Slyke 'bout the farm and don't let him... let him cheat me. I
ain't quite... quite so strong now, and... and they'll cheat me. Ah,
they're a close, sharp set