Three millions! or, The way of the world
“Well, she is improving. She walked out to-day, but she feels very bad.”
“Poor girl!” sighed Eugene.
“I have cried more within a month than I ever did in the same time when
I was a baby. You have no idea, Mr. Hungerford, how she took on when I
first saw her. I was afraid she would go crazy.”
“Poor Mary!” was all Eugene could say.
“I brought her home as soon as I could, and I have staid with her most
of the time since. She is my own sister, you know, and she sets a great
deal by me, and I do by her. She don’t like to have me away from her.”
“I will not keep you long, Ross.”
“O! she don’t mind a few hours at a time.”
“What does she say about Mr. Buckstone?”
“Nothing; not a word. Mary is a Christian, if there is one in the
world, and she won’t even let me abuse him.”
Ross clinched his fists and grated his teeth. He indulged in a few
expletives, which seemed to relieve his mind; but it was evident that
it would not be safe to let the outraged brother see the artist.
“Where is Mr. Buckstone, now?”
“I don’t know; it is lucky for him I do not,” replied Ross, fiercely.
“Don’t do anything rash, if you should meet him, Ross,” continued
Eugene, impressed by the savage tones and the mischievous looks of the
young man.
“Mr. Hungerford, it’s no use to talk to me about this matter; if I
should see the villain, I would tear him in pieces! I would pull out
his heart, if I had to be hanged for it the next minute!”
“Don’t you touch him, Ross.”
“If I saw him, I couldn’t help it. Why, the scoundrel did not even
marry her! He cheated her!”
“You are not sure of that.”
“I am sure of it.”
“What is your evidence?”
“He told her so himself.”
“He was intoxicated and angry then.”
“Why did he desert her, just as she was about to become a mother?”
“She has had a letter from him since she came to Poppleton, I learn.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did he say?”
“He pretends to be sorry for what he has done, promises never to drink
any more, and wants her to return.”
“Does he say anything about the marriage in the letter?”
“Not a word; but he says he shall come and see her soon. He had better
not,” added Ross, with compressed lips and gleaming eyes.
“Don’t harm him, Ross; perhaps the matter may be settled.”
“Settled!” exclaimed Ross, jumping out of his chair. “He can’t settle
this matter, but I can, if I get my hand upon him!”
“If you should assault him, or anything of that kind, you might injure
your sister more than you injured him.”
“I hope he will keep out of my way, Mr. Hungerford; but if I see him,
his doom is sealed.”
“We are going to do something for Mary, Ross; we are going to restore
her good name, at least. Now, you must not defeat our intentions by any
rashness on your part. Keep cool, Ross.”
“How can I keep cool, Mr. Hungerford, when my poor sister has been
ruined by a villain?”
Ross wept like a child, and Eugene felt that his own grief was not to
be compared with his. When they parted, he counselled him repeatedly
not to resort to any violence, if Mr. Buckstone should visit The Great
Bell.
CHAPTER X.
ROSS KINGMAN.
Ross Kingman left Pine Hill at nine o’clock in the evening. Since
Mary’s return to Poppleton he had been almost constantly with her.
When he was sent for by Eugene Hungerford, she made no objection to
his going. She sat in her chamber as usual that evening. Though all
her life since she came to years of discretion had been full of cares
and trials, though she had endured much of the shame and mortification
brought upon the family by the conduct of her father, the past, in
contrast with the present, seemed full of joys and hopes. Only a few
brief months before, her lot had been happy, compared with her present
condition.
She had been deceived, and she felt that henceforth she was to be an
outcast. Those who had been her friends would shun her now. The scorn
of the cold world would be heaped upon her, whatever the degree of
her guilt. Those terrible hours of the gloomy night when she had been
driven from her father’s house came to her mind; her meeting with Eliot
Buckstone in the morning, when, upon condition that she should become
his wife before the sun went down, she had consented to flee with him
to find the comforts of a home, if not the joys of a wife.
Her sun had set. Henceforth she must be content to be shunned and
despised. Her husband had deserted her, leaving her not even an honest
name before the world. She had been indiscreet, but she had not been
guilty, and God would forgive her, if man would not. Then, as many
a time before since sorrow darkened densely upon her, she would have
welcomed the angel of death as her best and truest friend. The night
shadows gathered over the face of nature, while she gazed from the
window, as they gathered over her troubled heart. The clock struck
nine, but Ross did not return. She wished to see him before she
retired, for she was anxious to know what Eugene said of her; whether
he condemned and scorned her, as she was assured all the rest of the
world condemned and scorned her.
It was a very mild and soft night for May on the sea shore, and she
still sat at her open window. She shrank not from the night air, which
might be laden with disease and death, for life was no longer sweet to
her, and she dreaded not the grim messenger who must sooner or later
summon her from the misery to which she seemed to be doomed. She heard
footsteps in the path which led from the landing-place round to the
front of the house. She listened and looked, believing it was Ross; but
the person, whose form she could now indistinctly see in the darkness,
did not move like her brother. He came beneath her window, and stopped
there.
“Mary.”
She was startled by the voice. It was not that of Ross, but the tones
were familiar.
“Mary,” repeated the speaker.
“Who is there?” she asked, quivering with emotion in every fibre of her
frame.
“It is I, Mary. May I see you?”
It was Eliot Buckstone.
She had many doubts whether to see him or not, but her first thought
was, that he who had called himself her husband, who was the father of
her dead child, was in mortal peril.
“Come up stairs,” said she, intent only upon warning him from the spot.
He entered at the front door, and was familiar enough with the house
to find his way up stairs. Mary conducted him from the entry to her
room without speaking a word, though her heart was almost bursting with
agitation.
“Can you forgive me, Mary?” said he, as he closed the door behind him.
“Can you forgive yourself?” asked she, in tremulous tones.
“No, Mary, I cannot! I have sinned against Heaven and you, and I am no
more worthy of you,” continued Eliot, with apparent or real emotion.
“How could you desert me at such a time?”
“I did not mean to desert you. I knew not what I did; but how bitterly
have I repented!”
“Have you repented?”
“O, Mary! If you knew what I have suffered! If you could have seen my
tears! If you could have felt the throbs of my breaking heart!”
“You told me I was not your wife, Eliot. That was the most cruel of
all,” sobbed she.
“I was mad, Mary. I had been drinking; but I have sworn never to put
the cup to my lips again, and God help me, I never will!”
“Did you mean what you said when you told me I was not your wife?”
“I did not. Mary, I meant to make you my wife--God knows that I did!”
“Am I not your wife?”
“I do not know.”
“You do not know!” she gasped, for his words sounded like an
equivocation; and indeed all his promises and protestations had been
much too violent to seem real to her.
Now she had discovered that he was a drunkard, she had no confidence in
him. He had deceived her--he did not know whether or not she was his
wife!
“I do not know, Mary,” he repeated.
“You are not sincere now, Eliot.”
“God knows that I am sincere--that I love you with all my soul!”
“Were we married that evening in Providence, Eliot?” she demanded,
sternly.
“I do not know, Mary. If I intended to deceive you, I would not answer
you thus,” replied he, with much meekness in his tones and manner.
“How dare you tell me you do not know?” continued Mary, with energy.
“I do not know; but whether you are or are not my wife, Mary, you shall
be.”
“You mock me, Eliot.”
“Hear me, Mary, and you shall know the truth, just as it is. As God is
my judge, I would not deceive you for all the world.”
“You have done it already, if you do not know whether we were married
or not.”
“I intended to make you my wife. When we reached Providence, we went to
the house of my friend, Mr. Dorning.”
“The artist, you mean?”
“Yes; I acknowledge that he is not the best man in the world.”
“Then why did you take me there?”
“Because I had no other friend in Providence.”
“If he is a bad man, why is he your friend?”
“We studied art together. I was acquainted with him--perhaps he was not
my friend, in the truest sense of the word. We went to his house, and
I told him as much of our story as I could relate in five minutes. He
laughed----”
“Why should he laugh?” demanded Mary, indignantly.
“Probably he took a wrong view of the matter, and did not suppose I
wished to be really married. He was mistaken; I intended to make you my
wife--God knows that I did!”
Mary wept bitterly. Eliot should have smote the man to the earth when
he laughed, for the laugh was an insult; it was trifling over the
innocence and purity of her he pretended to love. She lost hope, as he
went on with his story; her worst fears were gradually confirmed. His
frequent use of the sacred name of God to fortify his statements did
not inspire her with confidence. To her it was not the simple tale of
truth.
“Go on, Eliot,” said Mary, in despair.
“In ten minutes Mr. Dorning appeared with the gentleman who married us:
whether he was a clergyman or not. I do not know to this day.”
“He pretended to be one?”
“And he may be, for aught I know.”
“What reason have you to suppose that he was not a clergyman, as he
assumed to be?”
“A remark which Dorning made to me, as we were leaving his house.”
“What was it?”
“It was to the effect that I was married or not, just as I chose to
regard it.”
“O, Eliot! You knew it then, and you did not tell me.”
“I did not fully understand the meaning of the remark.”
“Why did you not make the marriage legal as soon as we reached New
York?”
“In my heart I meant right, Mary. I intended to see Dorning, and find
out his meaning. If we were not legally united, I intended that we
should be.”
“But you were swift to tell me I was not your wife, when you were angry
with me.”
“I was mad then; I had drank too much wine.”
“I have lost confidence in you, Eliot.”
“Do not say that, Mary,” pleaded Buckstone.
“Have you seen Dorning since?”
“I have not. He telegraphed to me, you remember, that two gentlemen
were inquiring into the affair, and we went to Philadelphia.”
“Why, Eliot? If you meant right, why should you have run away?”
“To avoid a scene. I supposed then that it was your father who had made
the inquiries. I thought it best not to meet him. You were of the same
opinion.”
“But it was not my father.”
“No; it was Mr. Hungerford. It was none of his business. Why should he
meddle with it?”
“Perhaps he suspected the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That you were deceiving me.”
“I was not deceiving you, Mary. If you were deceived, so was I.”
“Mr. Hungerford was my friend. It seems that he suspected, what never
occurred to me, that I had been cruelly duped.”
“Mary, you wrong me. I have come here to make you my wife, if you are
not so already. Your own clergyman shall marry us; and after I have
done justice to you, I will leave it with you to live with me or not.”