Three millions! or, The way of the world
“It is horrible to think of,” said Eugene, with a shudder “Such a
gentle, sensitive, angelic nature as Mary’s could endure everything
rather than this.”
“Then we will correct it.”
“You are treating this as a matter of business, Dick; just as you
bargain for my house and my horses.”
“No, Hungerford; I simply apply common sense to the case. I have a
remedy.”
“There is no remedy.”
“Yes, there is. You will not hear me.”
“Go on,” replied the stricken lover, impatiently and hopelessly.
“If Mary is not married, she shall be married. We will have the
ceremony performed by your own minister. This Buckstone shall face the
music--nay, Hungerford, don’t interrupt me. That will heal the worst
wound, and that will satisfy her. Now, as you have plenty of money, you
can insure her against want to the last day of her life. Settle twenty
thousand dollars upon her. Invest it in stocks; make Ross trustee, and
let him pay over to her the income. Let it go to her children at her
decease. This plan ought to make you perfectly easy; at least it ought
to atone for your fault, if you are guilty of any.”
“O, Dick! To think of healing her wounds with money!” said Eugene,
reproachfully.
“Nothing of the kind; we heal the wound with marriage, which is the
only balm for her sorrow.”
“Will Buckstone marry her?”
“He will; he shall have the alternative of marrying her, or standing a
criminal prosecution.”
“This is revolting, Dick. A villain to marry her in order to avoid a
criminal prosecution.”
“It will save her good name; it will make her a wife. When he has done
justice to her, he may go, if he pleases.”
“And leave her in her misery?”
“He will not go, Hungerford. He may be a very good fellow yet. Nothing
has been proved against him, except that he drinks too much.”
“For shame, Dick! Is it nothing that he tells her she is not his wife?”
“He was tipsy then,” replied Dick, rather tamely, for he could not
conceal from himself the fact that he was arguing the case as a lawyer
rather than as a just man. “Very likely the remark he made that she was
not his wife was only a petulant reply to a sharp question.”
“Mary used no sharp words.”
“But she reproached him for his neglect. As I understand it, Buckstone
is one of those periodical drunkards, who have a spree once or twice a
year.”
“Do you believe that Buckstone married her, Dick, in Providence?”
“To be honest, I do not believe he intended to do so; but the marriage
may be legal, if we can prove it. We will supply the omission.”
“Omission!” groaned Eugene. “You speak of it as though it were a
trifling offence, instead of the most monstrous crime of which a man
could be guilty.”
“I condemn the crime as strongly as you do. We will redeem him and
her as far as we can. Now, Buckstone has written to her; this proves
that he has not abandoned her. Probably he has got over his spree, and
desires to have her return to him. If so, he shall come to Poppleton,
and marry her in the church, so as to remove every doubt. Then you will
put her in the way of receiving an income of twelve hundred a year,
and the happy couple may go on their way rejoicing.”
“He will still be a drunkard; and he may still abuse and neglect her.”
“But she has the power in her own hands. With the twelve hundred a year
in her own right, she will be independent of him. If he leaves her for
a month or two, she will not suffer in his absence.”
“What a fate, to be joined to such a man!”
“That is her misfortune. She chose him, and she must abide her choice;
there is no help for that. You cannot make a bed of roses for her. She
accepted the man, and if she does not choose to live with him, she can
leave him.”
Eugene walked up and down the library, considering this plan. Though,
in his estimation, it offered Mary no immunity from the miseries of her
unfortunate union with Buckstone, it would partially mitigate them. He
doubted whether she would accept his bounty; but Dick was certain that
he could manage this part of the business through her brother. On the
whole, therefore, he was disposed to adopt this as the only method by
which he could do anything to smooth the rough path of the poor girl
whom he had so fondly loved, whose sweet face and gentle nature still
haunted his thoughts.
The more he considered the plan the stronger became his approval,
though he still regarded it only as a compromise. This method of
healing the wounds of poor Mary, unsatisfactory as it was, had an
immediate effect upon the spirits of Eugene. As soon as he had decided
to adopt it, he had something to think of--something to turn his
thoughts away from the morbid fancies that beset him.
“I like your plan very well, Dick; but only because it is the best
that can be done,” said he, seating himself in the luxurious arm-chair
before his friend.
“Hungerford, it is not only the best that can be done, but it is very
good in itself. It is noble and generous on your part, and Mary ought
to be happy.”
“She cannot be.”
“You prejudge the case. She has no claim upon you, but you are treating
her like a princess. She will go to New York with her husband, and
though she will have her trials, as all must, she will be better off
than half the wives in the world. But after all, Hungerford, I propose
this method for your sake rather than hers. It will heal your wounds,
as well as hers.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You are determined to be obstinate; to make your mother and sister
unhappy by moping over this thing.”
“No, Dick; for their sake, I will be cheerful and happy, if I can.”
“You can; you are not a weak-minded man; you can banish the whole thing
from your mind if you will.”
“I shall try.”
“Then you will succeed. There are other women in the world besides
Mary--girls as beautiful, as gentle, and as loving.”
“They are not Mary.”
“No; they are Ellen, and Carrie, and Alice, and Emma. A rose by any
other name will smell as sweet. You will find one who will make you a
loving and accomplished wife.”
“Don’t speak of marriage to me, Dick. I am disgusted,” said Eugene,
petulantly.
“Just now you are, my dear fellow; but you will get over it, and within
the five years now left to accomplish your destiny, you will marry, and
at the age of thirty the three millions will drop into your coffers.”
“No, Dick; though I may possibly marry, I shall not do it so as to
comply with the conditions of my uncle’s will. I have even made up my
mind that it would be wrong for me to do so.”
“What do you mean, Hungerford? Are you crazy? Has this thing turned
your head?” demanded Dick, who, however, had long ago learned not to be
surprised at anything his friend should do.
“I am sane and reasonable, Dick. Look at it a moment. If I comply with
the conditions of the will, so far as I can do so, and if Providence
should bless me with a son, so that the three millions would be legally
mine, what would be the result?”
“The three millions would be the result, of course,” laughed Dick.
“What else?”
“Anything else you please; it will depend upon how you use your money.”
“By the conditions of the will, the three millions are to be divided
into six equal parts, if I have no son. One part would be mine, which
is all-sufficient for me. I ask for no more. I confess, if I was to
be left a poor man by it, I should not be so likely to entertain my
present views.”
“But the three millions were intended for you upon certain conditions,
and you ought to have the money.”
“If I have the three millions, I shall cheat my sister out of half a
million.”
“By no means: you can give her the half million if you choose.”
For some reason or other Dick seemed to be embarrassed when he had said
this, as though a selfish consideration was intruding itself upon him.
“But she is satisfied; and I hope you will not do it.”
“Beyond this, I should deprive the other contingent legatees of their
share.”
“Dr. ---- What is his name?”
“Tom Lynch.”
“Dr. Lynch; pray what possible claim can he have upon you, or upon your
uncle’s estate? By the way, there are some letters from the trustees
in the office. I did not deem them of importance enough to send to
you; but in one of them Mr. Lester says this Dr. Lynch is a miserable
reprobate, and has about run through the legacy your uncle left him.”
“That is not my affair. I do not wish to deprive him of what my uncle
was disposed to give him on a certain condition. Then, by the will, a
million and a half is to go to three great charitable enterprises. If I
could rob the individuals, I could not take from the poor of Baltimore
this great boon.”
“Your uncle did not leave them a single cent of what you mention. It
was not his wish that these institutions should be founded; if it had
been, he would have left the money unconditionally. It was his last and
most earnest desire that the three millions should be inherited by your
son, under the name of John Hungerford. This was his meaning; this was
his wish, his hope; and you have no right to set aside his intentions.
If you take any of his money, you are bound by every consideration of
respect, affection, and gratitude, to carry out his design, even if you
think it absurd to do so. What right have you to set yourself up as a
judge of your uncle’s purposes? The three millions belonged to him,
and he had the undoubted right to dispose of it as he pleased. If you
decline to do what he wished you to do, you have no moral right to take
any of his money.”
“Perhaps you are right, Dick.”
“I know I am. I am very clear that it is your duty to get married, and
carry out the intentions of your uncle by doing so.”
“I certainly shall not marry to obtain the three millions.”
“You certainly should not avoid matrimony in order to defeat your
uncle’s last wishes.”
“I will not. Let things take their course just as though no three
millions were pending.”
“If you will only do that, I will be satisfied. Be yourself; that
is all I ask of you. But tea is ready. Let me escort you to the
dining-room.”
Eugene joined his mother and sister at the table. He was more composed
and reasonable than when he first entered the house; and he began, in
some slight degree, to enjoy the comforts and luxuries of his new home.
The charge which Dick had made against him, of conspiring against the
peace and happiness of the other members of the family, had produced a
deep impression upon his mind, and he labored to be cheerful. But the
plan to mitigate the sorrows of poor Mary afforded him some comfort,
and his cheerfulness was not all a pretence.
A man had been sent for Ross Kingman, and before tea was over, the
skipper of the yacht arrived. Dick, after charging Eugene not to
mention to her brother the scheme for healing Mary’s wounds, went out
with Mrs. Hungerford and Julia to walk in the grounds around the house.
He preferred to manage this business himself, fearful that Eugene, in
his excited state of mind, might make some mistake, and thus defeat his
own kind intentions.
“I am glad to see you, Ross,” said Eugene.
“Thank you, Mr. Hungerford; it does me good to see your face once
more,” replied Ross, grasping the offered hand of Eugene. “The yacht is
finished, sir, and if you will take my word for it, she is a beauty.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“I have been out in her several times. She has made twelve knots with
the wind free, and nine close-hauled. She works as handy as a skiff,
and behaves like a lady, in a sea.”
“I dare say,” added Eugene, rather coldly.
“Mr. Birch attended to fitting up the cabins; and they are as handsome
as your parlor.”
“I have no doubt she is everything I could wish.”
“There was one thing you forgot, and that was, a name for her.”
“We will attend to that at another time. Ross, how is Mary?”