Three millions! or, The way of the world
reached is usually interpreted as being in love. She was enduring the
miseries of that incipient affection from which the slightest token of
love on the part of Eugene would have plunged her into irretrievable
depths. That token had not been given; it had been studiously withheld.
His words were carefully guarded, apparently with the intention of
preventing her from misunderstanding his purpose. He spoke as a
friend, not as a lover; he labored to make it plain to her that he
was only a friend. He insisted upon friendship; he had half a dozen
times elaborately repudiated the very idea of love. The spark that was
wanting to kindle in the heart the flame of genuine affection was not
communicated to the waiting altar.
Mary Kingman was not lacking in decision. The little curl of her
under lip did not speak falsely of her character. Gladly, joyously,
triumphantly, as she would have thrown herself into the arms of Eugene
Hungerford, and permitted her heart to grow into and intwine itself
upon him, he was a mountain of ice to her. She felt that he had closed
his heart against her. He could be a good and true friend, but nothing
more. With a desponding spirit she turned from him, and the firmness
of her character enabled her to banish, once and for all, the pleasing
illusion from her mind. Not all, not many, could have done so; Mary
did, and Mr. Eliot Buckstone, with his new-born, but enthusiastic
admiration, became tolerable to her.
“I hope I don’t intrude,” said the artist, significantly, as he entered
the room.
“Not in the least, Mr. Buckstone,” replied Eugene, lightly, as though
the great event of his lifetime had not been pending during the
interview; and the very cheerfulness of his tones was full confirmation
to Mary that no thought deeper than friendship had crossed his mind.
“How do you feel after your bath?”
“Very nicely, thank you.”
“Well, Mary, my friend must have exhausted the island by this time, and
we will continue our voyage,” added Eugene, taking his hat, and moving
towards the door.
“Dinner’s all ready, Mr. Hungerford,” interposed Mrs. Kinsman, coming
out of the kitchen on the other side of the entry. “We hain’t got much,
but you’re welcome to’t such as ’tis.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kingman; I think we will not remain. We engaged to
dine on the Ledge.”
At this moment the door at the rear end of the entry was opened, and an
elderly man, considerably intoxicated, reeled towards the party. It was
Captain Kingman, the proprietor of the island and of the dilapidated
buildings; and the ruinous aspect of everything about the place was
sufficiently explained by his present condition.
Mary Kingman turned pale and turned red. She looked as though she would
sink through the floor, and hide the shame of being the daughter of a
drunkard. She had hoped he would not come home while her guests were
present, and the exposure of the family grief would be avoided.
“How d’ do, Mis’r Hung’ford,” said Captain Kingman, in very loud and
bluff tones, as he staggered up to Eugene and extended his hand.
“Very well; how do you do, Captain Kingman?”
“Only to’rable; I git a little touch of rheumatiz now’n then; but I’m
to’rable. ’S dinner ready, mother?”
“Yes, and waitin’.”
“Come, Mis’r Hung’ford, set down, and take a bite with us.”
“I thank you, captain; I have a friend with me, and we intend to dine
on the Ledge.”
“Where’s the man? Tell him t’ come ’n take a bite with us.”
“You must excuse me, Captain Kingman; but we shall be too late for the
tide if we remain any longer.”
“See here, Mis’r Hung’ford,” reeling up to Eugene, and steadying
himself in a position directly before him, “they say you’re rich now.
Your uncle’s dead and gone, ’n left you all ’s money. But look here,
Mis’r Hung’ford; you mus’n’t come down here, put’n on airs. I knew your
father, Mis’r Hung’ford; he was a smarter man ’n any of ’s chil’n. Will
you take sum’n to drink, Mis’r Hung’ford?”
“Nothing at present; I’m obliged to you. I must go now.”
“Mr. Hung’ford, you go to----.”
For some reason or other the inebriated man was determined to be angry.
Eugene saw what was coming, for Captain Kingman, in his cups, was well
known to be a quarrelsome man, and he beat a retreat. Dick Birch, who
had stood like the statue of one of the martyrs on the knoll all this
time, joined him, and they hastened down to the boat, which was soon
standing down the river again.
“Who’s this man?” demanded Captain Kingman, glancing at Mr. Buckstone.
“Your most obedient servant,” replied the artist, with abundant good
nature. “Captain Kingman, I’m happy to make your acquaintance;” and he
stepped forward, with extended hand, which the drunken man grasped,
with a tipsy grin on his face. “My name is Eliot Buckstone.”
“Mis’r Bucks’on, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you take sum-thin?”
“Thank you; I don’t care if I do,” replied the polite wooer.
“You’re the man for me, Mis’r Bucks’on. Won’t you take a bite with us?”
“Thank you; I had already accepted Mrs. Kingman’s invitation to dine.”
“Well, come; the dinner’ll be cold,” suggested the lady of the house,
nervously.
At the table Mr. Buckstone was introduced to another member of the
family--Ross Kingman, the only son of the captain. There were four
girls, all younger than Mary. The inebriate brought out a black bottle
from his chamber, adjoining the kitchen, and the artist, though
evidently for the sole purpose of keeping the peace, partook very
sparingly with his host. Captain Kingman drank, and the effect of this
additional dram was soon apparent in his manners. He was belligerent
to a degree which made peace almost impossible; and poor Mary and her
mother endured tortures too keen for description during the dinner hour.
“Mary,” said her father, sharply and sternly, as the family rose from
the table.
She looked at him, but she made no reply.
“Mary, that Hung’ford is a fool,” he continued, spicing the remarks,
as he did most of his conversation, with many oaths. “He’s a bad man.
Don’t you speak to him again. Mary, d’ye hear me?”
“I hear, sir,” she replied, as she conducted Mr. Buckstone to the
parlor, hoping to escape her father’s presence.
The artist had behaved in the most conciliatory manner, and by his
tact had several times appeased the anger of the inebriate; but it
was plain to him that home to Mary Kingman was little better than a
hell upon earth. He pitied the poor girl, and with admiration, love,
and pity, his interest in her was hourly increasing. Captain Kingman
followed them into the parlor. He was even more stormy and violent than
at dinner, and Mr. Buckstone, in spite of the peace policy he pursued,
found it utterly impossible to prevent the drunkard from pouring out
the vials of his causeless wrath upon him.
“You pop’jays from the city think a sight of yourselves,” he added,
after he had broken with the artist because he declined to drink a
second time. “You ain’t no better ’n the law ’lows. You’ve been here
long ’nough.”
“I’m going presently, Captain Kingman.”
“Want you to go now,” roared the inebriate. “And if you ain’t gone
’fore I get my bitters, I’ll help you out.”
He left the room, and Mary wept like an infant. It was the artist’s
duty to comfort her, and he did so in the most tender and respectful
manner. While he was thus engaged, a scream from the kitchen startled
both of them. It was twice repeated, and Mary rushed out of the room,
followed by Mr. Buckstone. It appeared that Mrs. Kingman, fearful
of the consequences of further drains upon the bottle while there
was company in the house, had taken the liquor from the chamber and
concealed it. She had attempted to do this before, and her husband,
promptly comprehending the trick, flew at the poor woman with a
ferocity which threatened her life.
Mr. Buckstone promptly interposed, and saved the wife from further
peril, but only to draw down upon himself the vengeance of the demon.
He defended himself with skill and decision, using no more violence
than was necessary to save himself from the wrath of his opponent. He
was soon joined by Ross Kingman, the son; and the old man, now overcome
by the liquor and the excitement, was borne to his bed.
Mary was weeping bitterly when the artist joined her; but for years had
she suffered as she was suffering now. Mr. Buckstone was all sympathy
and tenderness. He consoled her, and soothed her mortified pride, by
telling her that he had witnessed the same scenes in the house of his
own father, and he knew what it was. She felt his kindness, and later
in the day, when he took her hand, she did not resist. She was so
wounded by disappointment, so broken down by domestic sorrow, that it
was sweet to have a friend near her in such an hour.
Twenty years before, Captain Kingman had been what was called a “smart
man,” though even then, he was occasionally the worse for liquor.
The island was his farm, and at that time he had been the owner of a
good coasting schooner, which he sailed himself. But his bad habits
increased upon him. In coming into port, after he had drank too much,
he ran his schooner upon the Ledge, in a sharp blow, and she became a
total wreck. This event opened his eyes, and he was a comparatively
steady man for several years, and sailed in the employ of other owners.
Just before the wreck, he had lost his first wife, the mother of Mary
and Ross, an excellent, well-bred, refined woman, who sorrowed herself
to death as the wife of a drunkard. He married another, his present
wife, an easy, good-natured woman, of no force of character, though
with a capacity for suffering which was now tried to its utmost.
Captain Kingman soon relapsed into even a lower depth of vice. No one
would trust him now with the command of a vessel, for he had lost
another schooner when there was no excuse for him. He was poor, for he
spent what little money he made in drink. Without Ross and Mary, the
family could not have been kept together.
Mary had for several years received a salary as a teacher. Her position
in the High School had been a good one; but several times her father
had come to the school in a state of beastly intoxication, and abused
her shamefully. Her sensitive nature could not endure what she was
unable to prevent, and she had resigned her situation, with the
intention of obtaining another place, at a distance from home. She was
waiting for such a position at the present time.
Ross Kingman was a good-hearted young man. He worked on the farm, at
the ship-yards on the other side of the river, and occasionally made
a fishing or a coasting voyage. All he earned was contributed to the
support of the family. The farm was mortgaged up to its full value; and
guilty as his father was, the pride of Ross would not permit the family
to be broken up, for that would send his parents to the almshouse. Mary
was his own sister, and to her he was wholly devoted. He had often
advised her to seek a home elsewhere; but thus far she had assisted in
the support of the family, and had borne her cross with what fortitude
she could command.
Mr. Buckstone heard the substance of this story from the lips of Mary
herself. In her grief she was glad of a friend. She listened to his
kind words with gratitude; and now that Eugene Hungerford, as she
fully believed, could be no more to her, she hardly shrank from the
attentions of the artist.
He went back to his hotel in the evening. He came the next day, and
the next, and the next,--every day,--till he returned to the city.
Captain Kingman, sober, remembered his interference in the quarrel, and
savagely drove him from the house; but Mary met him in other places.
CHAPTER VI.
A STRANGE STORY.
Eugene and his friend dined on the Ledge, and discussed plans and