Three millions! or, The way of the world
Ross Kingman, with the true instincts of a noble brother, had hastened
to her assistance. He did not despise her; he did not look coldly upon
her; the way of the world was not his way. Eugene was comforted by the
reflection that she had a friend in Ross, but he hoped the passionate
young man, justly roused to the highest pitch of indignation by his
sister’s wrongs, would not encounter Eliot Buckstone. There would be
blood shed if he did.
Long and weary to Eugene Hungerford were the days and the hours which
intervened between the receipt of the intelligence and the sailing of
the steamer in which he had engaged passage. Westminster Abbey and
Windsor Castle had lost their attractions to him; he was anxious to be
where he could assure himself that poor Mary was not still suffering.
Just as the tug-boat was leaving the landing stage in Liverpool, to
convey her passengers to the steamer, lying in the Mersey, the porter
of the Washington Hotel, where he had stopped, brought him a package of
letters, which had been forwarded by his banker from London. Eagerly he
tore them open, to obtain fresh tidings of her who was now always in
his thoughts. There was none from Ross Kingman, but Dick Birch wrote
that Mary was still in New York; that her brother was with her, and
would remain there until she could gain strength to bear the journey
to Poppleton. “If I had known what was in that letter of Kingman’s,
which I enclosed for you, I would not have sent it,” wrote Dick. “You
must be miserable if you have received it. Buckstone is a villain, but
everything we can do for poor Mary shall be done.”
Dick wrote page upon page about the new residence at Pine Hill, the
grounds around it, the model houses in the villages, and the receipts
from the trustees; but Eugene read them without interest. The agent had
completed the mansion, furnished it, employed a housekeeper, stocked
the conservatory, partially filled up the book shelves in the library;
indeed, he had put the place in complete readiness for occupancy.
His description was glowing and eloquent, and Eugene would not have
believed, a year ago, that he could look so coldly upon the realization
of his dreams of splendor and comfort. If Mary could have been at his
side to enter the new house with him, it would have been a fairy palace.
The steamer sped on her way over the ocean, and safely landed her
passengers in Boston. Eugene telegraphed his arrival to Dick Birch, and
took the first train for home. When the family reached the station at
Poppleton Mills, Dick was there.
“How are you, old fellow?” exclaimed the enthusiastic agent, as he
seized the hand of Eugene. “How pale you are!”
“I am very well, Dick. How are you?”
“Never better. Ah, Miss Hungerford, I welcome you home,” he added,
grasping the hand of Julia.
For some reason or other both of them blushed a little. Mrs. Hungerford
was greeted in her turn, which was after Julia.
“What’s the news in Poppleton, Dick?” asked Eugene.
“Nothing special; there was a man drowned to-day, off The Great Bell.”
“Who was he?” asked the returned wanderer, fearing that this might be
the preface to a story informing him that some friend had been lost.
“His name was Goodwin; he was a stranger--came down here gunning.”
“What a shock you gave me!” added Eugene, greatly relieved.
“This way, Hungerford,” continued Dick, leading the way to an elegant
carriage which stood by the platform, with the driver holding the open
door.
“Whose is this, Dick?” asked Eugene.
“Yours, of course. I purchased it for the use of the ladies.”
Avoiding as much as possible the greetings of friends and neighbors,
who had heard of his coming, and had collected at the station to
welcome him, Eugene got into the carriage with his mother and sister.
“Home,” said Dick to the driver, as he joined the party inside.
“Now, Dick, what news is there?” demanded Eugene. “You know what I
mean.”
“I hoped you would not say anything about that at present, for the news
is not pleasant.”
“My God!” groaned Eugene.
“No, no, Hungerford; it is not as bad as it might be. She is not dead.”
“That would be good news,--I had almost said. Where is she?”
“At home.”
“At her father’s?”
“Yes.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No; she is too ill; but she is improving.”
“What does her father say? Is he reconciled?”
“No; but he can’t help himself; he has been confined to his bed, for a
couple of months, with rheumatism.”
“Where is Ross?”
“At home. Your yacht lies in the river.”
“Never mind the yacht.”
“I have made Ross stay at home, and attend to the affairs of the
family.”
“I am glad you did. What does Mary say?”
“She suffers severely--not physically, perhaps.”
“I see. Do you know anything about Buckstone?”
“He is in New York, I suppose. Mary had a letter from him the other
day: what it was I don’t know.”
“Send for Ross. I must see him to-night.”
“Keep cool, Hungerford; the matter might be worse.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Eugene, as he settled back in the carriage.
From the window might be seen the improvements of Pine Hill. He did not
look at them. The carriage stopped in front of his elegant mansion. He
hardly glanced at it. They were nothing to him: Mary was all in all.
CHAPTER IX.
HEALING THE WOUNDS.
“I see that what I have done does not suit you, Hungerford,” said Dick
Birch, as the party entered the house.
“You never made a greater mistake in your life, Dick; I am delighted
with it,” replied Eugene.
“Upon my word, you look delighted!” exclaimed Dick. “You took it all so
coolly that I expected to be condemned for everything.”
“I could not have done so well myself, if I had been here, Dick. You do
me injustice. I entirely approve of all your arrangements.”
Mrs. Hungerford was pleased with the house, and she expressed her
satisfaction in her own matronly way. Julia was in ecstasies; and
as they walked through the various apartments, she did not attempt
to conceal her enthusiasm. Eugene’s thoughts were too busy with the
affairs of Mary to permit him to be very deeply interested in the
comforts, the luxuries, and the splendors of his new home; but a proper
regard for the feelings of his friend, who had labored so diligently
and faithfully in fitting up and furnishing the house, induced him
to manifest an interest which he hardly felt. His taste in books,
furniture, flowers, and pictures had been carefully regarded, and he
was pleased with the devotion of Dick, if not greatly so with the work
itself.
“I spent a fortnight in the bookstores of Boston and New York, and I
have put all your favorite authors on the shelves. But I have only used
up half the space, and you can complete the collection yourself,” said
Dick, when the ladies had gone to their apartments.
“I see you have, Dick, and I am very grateful to you. Is Mary able to
leave her room?”
“Yes; I believe she walks out. What do you think of those pictures,
Hungerford?”
“They are entirely to my taste. You haven’t seen Mary you said?”
“No; she is almost a stranger to me, and I could hardly thrust myself
into her presence under the circumstances.”
“Quite right, Dick.”
“Do the carpets suit you?”
“Entirely; they are beautiful styles. You said Mary had received a
letter from Buckstone?”
“Yes; but I have no idea of its contents. I was in doubt whether to
have those chairs in the drawing-room in plush or damask.”
“You did quite right, Dick. Your taste is unexceptionable. What does
Ross say about Mary?”
“Very little to me. I have left room in the conservatory for the ladies
to please themselves, you perceive.”
“You were very thoughtful, Dick, and I am sure they will appreciate
your kindness as I do. How long has Mary been at her father’s, did you
say?”
“About two weeks. I have three horses in the stable, besides the span
for the carriage. Of course you can increase the number, if you wish.”
“Three, I think, will be quite sufficient for the present, Dick. I hope
the family down on The Great Bell don’t want for money.”
“O, no! Ross has drawn all his salary for the year.”
“He might have drawn more.”
“I offered him all the money he wanted. He has repaired the old house,
and made quite a change down there. By the way, Hungerford, here is a
little business-office adjoining the library, which I haven’t shown
you.”
“That shall be for your own use. Do you think Mary would see me, Dick?”
“I don’t know; but I don’t think it would be advisable for you to see
her.”
“Why not?”
“I think it would not improve your present morbid state of mind.”
“Morbid?”
“Yes, morbid. You can think of nothing but her. When I speak, you
answer me with never a word but ‘Mary.’ I have assured myself that
everything was done that could be done for her comfort. If I haven’t
accomplished enough, you can do more.”
“I am entirely satisfied, Dick.”
“Then why don’t you let her rest? The mischief has been done, and it
cannot be helped. Of course she can be nothing more to you now.”
“No,” replied Eugene, vacantly.
“Then why do you keep dwelling upon her?”
“Dick, I feel that I am the cause of all her misfortunes.”
“Nonsense! What a stupid idea that is!” exclaimed Dick, impatiently,
almost angrily.
“Don’t scold at me, Dick; I am as weak as a child.”
“Well, I won’t scold at you; but did ever mortal entertain such a
ridiculous notion as that you just now expressed? Doubtless there are
a dozen girls in the village who have been unfortunate. If you had
proposed to them they might have been saved.”
“But I loved Mary.”
“That does not alter the case.”
“And she loved me.”
“It is all the same.”
“Dick, you told me yourself that I had been tardy; that I did not speak
when I ought to have spoken.”
“Does that make you responsible for her misfortune? You meant right.”
“I do not accuse myself of any moral wrong in the matter; but if I had
been less cautious she might have been saved.”
“It was your duty to be cautious. With two and a half millions of
dollars depending upon your marriage, you would have been guilty,
if you had not been cautious, Hungerford. Be a man; don’t reproach
yourself, for you are no more responsible for what has happened than I
am.”
“But it is terrible to think that I might have saved her, if I had
spoken even a word.”
“No, it isn’t terrible. My dear fellow, this is all bosh. Dismiss the
whole subject from your mind.”
“That is not so easily done.”
“But you are in duty bound to do it. You are making your mother and
your sister miserable by your vain repinings. You have everything to
make you happy, and you are resolved to luxuriate in your fancied woes.”
“What can I do, Dick?”
“Drive the whole subject out of your mind. She has been unfortunate in
her husband, if he is her husband----”
“My God!” groaned Eugene, refusing to be comforted.
“Come, Hungerford, you are absurd. Listen to me, and I will heal your
wounds and hers at the same time.”
“You cannot.”
“Yes, I can. What under the canopy do you wish to do? Do you intend to
marry the girl yourself, after what has happened?”
Eugene only looked at him, and his expression was so sad and painful
that Dick abandoned the “heroic” method of treatment which he had
pursued, and became as gentle as a woman.
“Of course you cannot undo what has been done. Now, Hungerford, if you
saw Mary happily situated, would that satisfy you?”
“Happily situated!” repeated Eugene. “How can she be happily situated,
after she has been so cruelly mocked and deceived?”
“No matter for that; if you could see her so situated, would you be
satisfied?”
“I would; but----”
“No buts about it, my dear fellow. Nay, hear me. All her misery grows
out of the fact that she has not been legally married.”