Three millions! or, The way of the world
projects for the future. No doubt they enjoyed the dinner, the sea
air having given them sharp appetites, and the conversation was very
interesting, for they were in full sympathy with each other. Dick
desired to know whether his friend had made any progress in his love
affair, and Eugene, fully believing that he had said enough to make an
impression upon the mind and heart of Mary, assured him that he had
taken his first step, and had accomplished all that could be expected
in one brief interview.
They returned to the cottage, and the evening was devoted to the
contemplated European tour, in which Eugene was to be accompanied by
his mother and sister. It was arranged that the family should depart
about the first of September. The next day, the young men tried the
trout in the brooks, and continued for a week to divide their time
between the sea and the land--riding and walking, fishing, gunning,
and sailing. Although it was vacation to the lawyer, and the hours
were given up to amusement, the future, with its stupendous projects,
could not be avoided; and when the week was ended, the details of
the enterprise before them had been so well elaborated that it only
remained to do what had been agreed upon.
During this period of relaxation, Eugene had twice been to The Great
Bell; but on both occasions he found Mr. Eliot Buckstone there, walking
on the beach with Mary. Now, Eugene, without any positive prejudice
against the artist, had but a very indifferent opinion of him. He did
not think Mr. Buckstone was a person who could be agreeable to Mary;
and so far from being disturbed by the intimacy which had grown up
between them, he rather pitied the fair girl because she was compelled
to endure so much of the painter’s society. He concluded that the
fellow, as he contemptuously called him, was taking advantage of the
service he had rendered to Mary, and was making the most of it, while
she, poor girl, was actually undergoing his persecution rather than
subject herself to the charge of ingratitude by declining to see him.
This week had been a stormy one in the dilapidated mansion on The Great
Bell. Though the artist had kept away from the house, he could not
conceal himself from the vengeance of Captain Kingman, who was drinking
even more deeply than usual. He saw that his daughter was meeting her
new-found friend every day in some part of the island, and the wretched
girl was consequently subjected to the severest and most brutal
treatment. He had even struck her; and human nature could endure no
more. On the day after the first visit of Mr. Buckstone at the house,
her brother Ross had sailed upon a fishing voyage, and she had no one
to stand between her and the wrath of her drunken father.
Captain Kingman was so incensed against her, that all his thoughts
seemed to be centred in wreaking his vengeance. He was maddened by the
demon of the cup, and there was no limit to his fury. On the night
which completed Dick Birch’s week of vacation with his friend, Mary had
retired at her usual hour. Her father was not in the house at the time;
he was carousing in a low groggery at the Port. It appeared that some
one, who had seen Mary with the artist on the beach that afternoon,
informed him of the fact. He was heard to swear that he would kill
her as soon as he got home; but those present at these drunken orgies
regarded the words only as a threat.
At midnight, Captain Kingman reached his miserable home. Whether
he intended to execute his threat or not, he went up stairs to the
chamber of his daughter. The door was fastened; but he broke it open,
and seizing the poor girl by the hair, he dragged her from the bed,
and with horrid imprecations repeated his threat. Mary was fearfully
alarmed; she screamed in mortal terror, and Mrs. Kingman came to her
assistance. His wife, by drawing the vengeance of the brute upon
herself, enabled Mary to escape. He pursued her, but in his present
condition, it was not difficult to avoid him. As soon as he had given
up the chase, she returned to her room, and dressed herself. She
suffered agonies which cannot be described. Her power of endurance had
reached its utmost limit.
Kneeling down by her bed, she prayed for strength and guidance. There
was no friend but God upon whom she could throw herself in her sorrow
and fear. She could no longer remain in the house, for her life was in
peril. Her father had threatened to kill her in his insane passion. It
would be tempting him and exposing herself to stay another hour; it
would be cruel to both of them. Packing up her scanty wardrobe in a
bundle, and taking the few valuables she possessed, including a small
sum of money, she crept softly down the stairs. She had decided to
leave her wretched home, never more to return while her father lived.
In the entry below she met Mrs. Kingman, who was hardly less terrified
than the daughter. The poor woman was suffering almost as much as
Mary--not as much, for her nature was less gentle and sensitive.
Without a word which might be overheard by the drunken father, they
left the house, and walked towards the landing-place.
“Where are you going to, Mary?” sobbed Mrs. Kingman, glancing uneasily
at the house in the gloom of the night.
“I hardly know, mother; I cannot spend another night in that house.”
“I don’t blame you, child; it ain’t in natur to stand sich treatment.
If it wan’t for the children, I’d go too.”
“I wish Ross were at home, mother; he could tell me what to do,” moaned
poor Mary, gazing vacantly at the stars, which looked so bright and
happy, while she was so sad and miserable.
“I wish he was. I don’t think I can stand it much longer; but the Lord
knows, what can I do?”
“I will tell you, mother. You must have him taken care of. It is
terrible, I know, and I have always struggled against the thought.”
“What do you mean, Mary?”
“You must have him arrested.”
“Arrested! My gracious! It would be as much as my life is worth. I
should no more dare to do it than I should to cut my head off.”
“I’m sorry to leave you, mother; and I wouldn’t do so, if I didn’t
think it was best for you as well as for me. He is terribly incensed
against me.”
“I know he is, child. Perhaps he will behave better if you go off for a
while.”
“I hope he will. I am willing to suffer if it will do any good; but my
presence here only makes him worse. I must go.”
“But where are you goin, child?”
“I don’t know, mother. I suppose I shall find a place.”
“Can’t you find some place to stop over to the Port?”
“Perhaps I can.”
“Well, God bless you, child. You’ve allus been a good gal, and deserve
to be well used.”
Mrs. Kingman, still weeping, returned to the house to pass the rest of
the night in terror and misery, as she had passed many a night before.
Mary walked to the landing-place, and sat down upon a rock by the
shore. The present and future were full of darkness and she knew not
whither to turn. She was a lone wanderer in the desert, and there was
no friendly oasis to welcome her. By turns she wept and prayed, but
there seemed to be no healing balm in her tears or her prayers. She
knew not where to go. She had friends, as the world calls them,--many
friends, perhaps,--but none to whom she felt like appealing in her
present desperate condition. Her pride revolted at the thought of
becoming a supplicant before those with whom she had walked as an
equal, though there were hundreds in yonder slumbering villages, who
would gladly have taken her to their hearts, and poured out of their
plenty into her lap. There were hundreds who would joyfully have given
her a home, and protection from her wrathful parent, beneath their
roofs. Mary was too proud to ask favors of this kind. She was capable
and self-reliant, and loathed the thought of dependence.
The gloomy hours wore slowly away, and the daylight gleamed in the
east. She had determined to take the morning train for a large town,
a few miles distant from Poppleton, where she hoped to procure a
situation as a teacher, or at least as an employee in one of the
factories.
As soon as it was light enough, she got into the boat, to row across
the channel to the village. She intended to carry her bundle to the
house of a poor woman, whom she had served in the past, and having
purchased a travelling-bag, pack her things in readiness for the
journey. She could then take the stage, and depart respectably, without
exciting idle remarks among her acquaintances, if she met any of them.
Her pride was not conquered even by her intense anguish.
She had not rowed half way across the channel which divides The Great
Bell from the main land, before she heard the voice of Mr. Buckstone.
He was an early riser during his vacation, if at no other time, and
had taken a boat for his morning exercise. Mary trembled when she
recognized him. Many times had she thought of him during her lonely
vigil on the shore. He had been a kind and tender friend, and he
knew more of what happened at her father’s house than any other
person outside of the family. He had not spoken to her so gently and
so lovingly without producing in her heart an impression--just the
impression he intended to produce. But, in spite of the interest, and
even affection, with which she regarded the artist, she would have
preferred to leave Poppleton without his knowledge.
He had spoken of love to her; he had uttered the vows and protestations
of an enthusiastic admirer. He had pleaded with her, as a lover pleads,
for her heart and hand; but she had made him no definite answer. Though
she was not insensible to his love, though she was even deeply moved
by his earnest devotion, she did not feel that she yet loved him well
enough to be his wife. Eugene Hungerford, all hopeless and distant as
he now was to her, could not be wholly forgotten, though she had ceased
to think of him as she had thought before he so prudently proclaimed
himself to be only her “friend.”
Mary was in that state of terror, doubt, and agony which rendered a
near and dear friend almost a necessity to her. Her sorrows were too
weighty to be borne alone. Under the smile of prosperity, with no
boding clouds threatening her, she might never have favored the suit
of Eliot Buckstone. As it was, she was disposed to do so; and now, as
she was fleeing in grief and misery from the home of her childhood,
and from the wrath of him who should have been her strongest friend,
he stepped into her path. Not thus, borne down by the shadow of all
earth’s calamities, would she have met him; not here and now would she
have listened to his impassioned eloquence, for her heart was weak with
suffering, her strength was exhausted by the pressure of misery; not
thus would she have heard and decided the question upon which hung all
the issues of the unseen future. She was weak in body, but weaker in
spirit under the accumulated trials and terrors that beset her.
“You are an early bird, Mary, as well as myself,” said Mr. Buckstone,
as he threw his skiff alongside her boat.
She made no reply, for her sorrows choked her utterance. Without
ceremony, he leaped into the boat, securing the skiff astern.
“Are you going to the Port, Mary?” he asked, as he gently took the oars
from her grasp, and assisted her to a seat farther aft.
“Yes.”
“You are up very early.”
She could not speak.
“What is the matter, Mary? You can tell me, you know, for I am familiar
with affairs over at the house,” he continued. “Something has happened,
Mary.”
His gentleness, his tenderness were more than she could bear, and she
bent down her head, and wept like a child.
“Won’t you tell me what it is, Mary?”
“I cannot, Mr. Buckstone,” she sobbed. “Don’t go to the village now. I
cannot be seen as I am.”