Three millions! or, The way of the world
“It is not too late to try; I must do that. If I can find her, I will
tell her of my love now.”
“After she has been off with this fellow?”
“Dick, she is as pure as the angels of heaven. It is honorable marriage
with her, or it is nothing. She may be deceived; this is all I fear.
Come with me, Dick. Be my friend now, as you have always been.”
“Though I think it will be a bootless journey, I will go with you where
you will; or I will follow her without you.”
“No; I will go. If the villain has wronged and deceived her, I will
tear him in pieces. If I cannot be her husband, I will be her avenger,
if any wrong has been done to her.”
They landed. The intention to do something, in some measure, satisfied
the impetuous nature of Eugene, and he was tolerably calm, as they
walked up to Squire Perkins’s office. The deeds were signed and sealed,
and the tenants of the Irish house were warned to vacate the premises
on the next rent day, though with the assurance that better apartments
at the same price would soon be in readiness for them. While Eugene was
thus occupied, Dick Birch obtained, at the hotel where he lodged, all
the current information in regard to Mr. Buckstone. As Eugene’s friend
was obliged to go to Boston on the following day, in order to close up
his business affairs, he had arranged to go with him, and consult an
architect in the city in regard to the plan for his new residence. They
now purposed to take the noon train, and there was not much time to
spare.
At the railroad station they learned that Mr. Buckstone had taken
tickets for Boston, as they had before supposed. Our travellers
reached that city late in the afternoon. Dick immediately procured the
services of a skilful detective, who promptly traced the fugitives
to the Providence depot. The hackman who had driven them there had
followed Mr. Buckstone into the station-house to carry the baggage,
and had heard him call for a ticket for Providence. The last train for
that city had gone; but Eugene, not to be balked or delayed, chartered
a special train, and at half past eight in the evening they were
thundering on their way in quest of the runaways.
The detective went with them, and other assistance was obtained when
they reached Providence, at ten o’clock; but the hackmen, upon whom
they mainly relied for information, were scattered at this hour, though
at midnight the fact was clearly established that the fugitives had
taken the steamboat train for Stonington and New York at seven in the
evening. The lady and gentleman were in Providence about an hour; but
whether they were married or not during that time, it was impossible
to ascertain that night. They had proceeded, on their arrival, to the
house of an artist in Westminster Street. Whether a marriage ceremony
had been performed there or not, the occupants positively refused to
say; the parties had gone to New York, and must answer for themselves.
The fugitives could be followed no farther that night, if indeed it
was necessary to continue the search. The next morning Eugene and
Dick called at the house of the artist, which had been visited by Mr.
Buckstone and Mary. Eugene assured him he came as the friend of the
lady, and had no desire to injure her; all he wanted was information of
the facts.
“I haven’t a word to say, sir,” replied the artist. “Buckstone’s
affairs are not mine. I don’t know what the effect might be of telling
you that a marriage has or has not taken place in my house; therefore I
shall make no sign.”
“If Mr. Buckstone is married, I have nothing to say.”
“I don’t know, sir, anything about that. You are a stranger to me. How
do I know but you mean to attach the lady’s property, if she has any,
for Buckstone’s debts, if they are married? How do I know but you mean
to prevent the marriage if they are not married? You perceive, sir,
that I can say nothing at all about the matter.”
Eugene was suspicious; so was Dick; but it was impossible to induce
the obstinate artist to unseal his lips. The secret was safe with him.
During the day all the clergymen in the city were visited, but none of
them had performed the ceremony. It might have been done by some other
authorized person; but no such individual could be discovered who had
married the parties. Some inquiries into the character of the artist
in Westminster Street were not favorable to that gentleman, and it was
possible that he had been a party to one of those miserable deceptions
by which young females have been deluded into the belief that they
were legally married; but there was no evidence on this point, and the
pursuers continued on their way to New York.
It was two days before the present abode of Mr. Buckstone could be
discovered. At this house it appeared that he had taken rooms for
himself and _wife_.
“Is she his wife?” demanded Eugene, imperatively, of the landlady.
“Bless you! I suppose she is! If she isn’t, I don’t want them in
my house. But they got a telegraph message yesterday, and started
immediately for Philadelphia. Mr. Buckstone said they should return in
a few days.”
It was useless to pursue the fugitives any farther. It was more than
probable that the telegraph message had come from Providence, and Mr.
Buckstone was now fleeing from them. Eugene and Dick instituted a
thorough inquiry into the antecedents and character of Mr. Buckstone.
The result was not so unfavorable as it might have been, though it
appeared that the painter had been implicated in a disreputable affair,
affecting the honor of a married lady, as it had been reported in
Poppleton; but opinions varied in regard to his guilt. Some declared
that he was innocent of the charge, and was as honorable a man as any
in the city, while others were entirely satisfied of his guilt in the
particular case, and did not regard him as even a respectable man.
Mr. Buckstone could not be tried on the accusation, or on his general
character. Whether he was actually married or not, it was impossible
to ascertain. Be this as it might, Eugene was confident that Mary
believed she was legally the wife of the artist. This was all the
result that could be reached, and sadly and reluctantly he left the
city, to forget, if he could, the painful circumstances. Bitterly he
reproached himself for concealing his feelings from Mary. He felt
guilty, even though his motives had been pure and lofty. Mary could be
no more to him, and he felt that there was not another woman in the
world who could take her place in his affections.
Dick Birch was a true comforter, a true friend; but Eugene’s was a
sorrow which could not be healed by human sympathy--hardly soothed by
it. Even the plans for the elegant mansion, the work on Pine Hill, and
model houses, seemed to have lost half their interest. The business
in Boston was completed, and Eugene returned to Poppleton. Dick soon
followed him, and they immediately plunged deep into the operations
which had already been commenced.
CHAPTER VIII.
TO EUROPE AND BACK.
The city architect in due time completed his plans for the mansion at
Pine Hill, and the building was commenced. The improvements upon the
grounds were continued with unabated vigor. One model house at the Port
and two at the Mills were in process of erection. Eugene Hungerford’s
extensive operations kept business good in the place; his enterprise
was appreciated, and he was regarded with a respect bordering upon
reverence.
Meanwhile, the preparations for the European tour were completed. Mrs.
Hungerford had always been “a home body,” and at her time of life was
not much inclined to go abroad. She dreaded the ocean voyage, but as
Julia desired to go, she preferred to join the party. It would be home
wherever her children were, and as she was still hale and healthy,
she thought she could enjoy life better with them, even at sea, than
alone in the cottage at Poppleton. Besides, she was greatly troubled
by the melancholy which had brooded over Eugene, since the flight of
Mary Kingman. It worried her to see him, with every worldly prospect
so bright, become so moody and depressed. She and Julia, as well as
Dick Birch, did everything that could be done to restore his former
cheerfulness.
With these loved ones at home, Eugene talked freely of his sorrows;
it was all the solace he had. He could not banish from his mind the
feeling that he had indirectly been the cause of Mary’s misfortune, if,
indeed, it was a misfortune, which had not yet been demonstrated. Many
were the tricks and expedients to which his kind and loving friends
resorted to overcome his melancholy. Picnics and parties, visitings
and merrymakings, were liberally encouraged. Eugene, to please his
mother and sister, attended them all; yet the gloom still hung over
him. Independent of his princely fortune, he was a favorite with the
ladies of Poppleton. He was a man of noble mien and bearing, and the
fairest would have been flattered by his attentions. And now, the
wealthiest man of all the region round, he was not only the object
of a vast amount of solicitude on the part of managing mothers, but
the fair ones, who would willingly have taken him without a “bonus,”
fluttered when he smiled, and blushed when he glanced at them. In vain
they fluttered, and in vain they blushed. Eugene treated them with the
utmost respect and deference, but his heart was away with Mary.
Even Mrs. Hungerford and Julia, with the kindest intentions, did not
scruple to bring him frequently into the presence of ladies whom they
deemed worthy of him, with the hope that he might be fascinated by some
one of them; but it was only to steal him away from the corroding care
upon which he fed, and win him from the dead thought to which he was
still hopelessly wedded. He was calm, and even cheerful most of the
time; but the worm still kept on gnawing. It was hoped by all at home
that the tour in Europe would produce a salutary effect upon him.
Just before Eugene’s departure, Ross Kingman returned from his fishing
cruise, and a letter for him, which had lain in the post office, was
opened. Carefully as the lover and his friends had striven to conceal
his disappointment, the village gossips made all the capital they
could of it. The postmaster had shown this letter to Eugene, who at
once recognized Mary’s handwriting, and he had impatiently awaited the
brother’s return, in order to learn what tidings it contained of the
absent one. On the day of his arrival, Eugene went to the island, and
had a long interview with Ross, and the letter was shown to him. It was
written a month after her arrival at her new home. She spoke of Eliot
Buckstone as her husband, and simply assured her brother that she was
pleasantly situated; but Eugene, who was permitted to read the letter,
saw, or thought he saw, indications that she was not happy. She alluded
to her husband in the kindest terms, but she did not speak of him as
one of her gentle, loving nature would have spoken, if he had fully
realized her hopes and expectations.
The letter did not improve Eugene’s mental condition. He could not
help feeling that she was disappointed and unhappy, and he continued
to charge himself with the misfortunes which had fallen upon her. He
frankly told her brother his feelings in regard to her.
“Well, I always thought, Mr. Hungerford, that she was fond of you.
She always used to speak of you to me just as though it was a settled
thing with her, and, up to the time you got this money, I supposed you
understood each other perfectly,” said Ross.
“Nothing particular ever passed between us, Ross,” replied Eugene.
“I didn’t suppose there had; but anybody can see through a millstone
when there is a hole in it. I hadn’t much doubt as to how the thing
would turn out. I suppose everybody in the place had the same idea.”