Three millions! or, The way of the world
“Then you believe I am not your wife?” groaned Mary, to whom the fact
that she had been a mother without being a wife was the sum of all
miseries, outweighing all other sorrows combined.
“To be candid, Mary, I do not believe we were legally married.”
“Why have you not seen Mr. Dorning, and satisfied yourself? Is this a
matter of so little consequence that you can pass it by like a rejected
picture? O, Eliot, you have deceived me! You have robbed me of myself!
Why have you not seen Mr. Dorning?”
“I was afraid to see him; I preferred to be in doubt rather than to
know that I had done you this great wrong.”
“What will become of me?” sighed she.
“Let us bury the past, dear Mary; and in the future I will be the
fondest and truest of husbands,” pleaded Eliot. “We will be married
to-morrow--to-night, if you will.”
“I will consult my brother.”
“No, Mary; do not tell him I am here, till we are married.”
“He is my only friend. He will tell me what I should do. But, Eliot,
he is terribly incensed, and you must not meet him. You must go; it is
time for him to return now.”
“Where is Ross?”
“He has gone over to see Mr. Hungerford, who returned from Europe
to-day. Go now, Eliot; I will tell you to-morrow what I will do.”
“Tell me now, Mary. Let my conscience be at rest.”
“Go at once; if Ross should see you, I tremble to think what the
consequences might be.”
“I am not afraid of him.”
“But I am afraid. Don’t remain another moment.”
“Go with me, Mary. Let your minister marry us to-night.”
“No, no, Eliot. You must go now,” she continued, taking him by the arm,
and leading him to the door.
“Good night, Mary,” said he, taking her by the hand. “You will see me
to-morrow.”
“Do not come here. If Ross should see you----”
“I will come when he is away.”
“I will meet you on the beach.”
“When Ross leaves the island, hang your red shawl out this window, and
I will go to the beach at once.”
“I will. Now go as quick as you can.”
He left her, and Mary threw herself into a chair, and wept till she was
startled by the footstep of Ross in the entry. When her brother entered
the room, with a light in his hand, he could not help perceiving by her
agitated manner, and her tear-stained face, that something had occurred
to disturb the calm in which he had left her a few hours before. He
was her friend and confidant; and after he had promised not to be
angry, she told him that Eliot Buckstone had been there.
Ross sprang to his feet, and looked like a madman. He forgot his
promise. He had not expected this, and his nature was not proof against
the shock it gave him. But Mary, with her tears and her pleading,
calmed him down a little, and then he wrung from her a portion of what
had passed between herself and Buckstone.
“Are you his wife, Mary? Did he say anything about that?” demanded
Ross, struggling to keep down the stormy passions that labored in his
breast for expression.
“I am not his wife, Ross, but----”
“Not his wife! He told you so again!” exclaimed he; and he rushed from
the room without waiting to hear any more.
“Ross! Ross!” she cried, following him.
But Ross heeded her not. He burst from the house wild with rage. She
went to the outside door, but he was gone; and overcome by her emotions
and her fears, she sank fainting upon the floor. She was weak and
exhausted, and this new demand upon her strength was more than she
could endure. Mrs. Kingman heard her scream, and heard her fall. With
the assistance of her oldest daughter, Mary was borne to her room;
but it was long before she opened her eyes and remembered what had
transpired,--so long that The Great Bell sounded with a note of horror
before she knew that still she lived.
Eliot Buckstone left the house. Though he had no strong fears of Ross
Kingman, he did not care to meet him. He walked down the path to the
landing-place for a short distance, and then turned off towards the
beach, where he had been in the habit of meeting Mary in brighter days.
He reached the shelving rocks, below which the sandy shore extended.
“Well, Buckstone,” said a young man, seated on a rock there, “what did
you make out?”
On the beach below a boat was hauled partially out of the water, and it
was evident that the stranger had come over from the main shore with
Buckstone, and was waiting his return from the house.
“Everything works well,” replied Buckstone.
“Has Hungerford been here yet?”
“No; of course not. He did not get home till five o’clock.”
“He is fool enough to come even before he went into his own house.”
“He has not been here.”
“What does she say?”
“She will give me an answer to-morrow. I have no doubt what her answer
will be.”
“If she is not a bigger fool than Hungerford, of course she will let
you marry her.”
“She is crazy if she does not.”
“Do you really think, Buckstone, that she is not your wife?” demanded
the stranger.
“I told her I had my doubts,” laughed the artist, who certainly
appeared now to have none of the penitential thoughts which he had
expressed in the presence of poor Mary.
“You are not talking to her just now.”
“Well, then, I am perfectly satisfied that I was not married to her.”
“Did you _intend_ to marry her? for your intention makes all the
difference in the world,” added the stranger, who was evidently
acquainted with the law on this subject, if, indeed, he was not a
lawyer.
“I did, and I did not,” replied Buckstone, jocosely.
“Not both?”
“Yes, both. I’ll tell you how it was. When I went to Dorning’s house,
I intended to marry her. I told him what I wanted, and he laughed.
That laugh was clear enough to me. He understood me to mean that I
wished to cheat the girl--Dorning and I had been together a great deal,
and understood each other very well. Just then I thought it would be
foolish and stupid for me to throw myself away on one woman. I laughed
then. Nothing was said, but the affair was just as well arranged as
though we had talked half a day about it.”
“Then you did not intend to marry her when the ceremony took place.”
“No; I did not. I thought it was best not to put my head into a trap
from which I could not withdraw it, if I so desired.”
“Who performed the ceremony?”
“I don’t know; and I have kept out of Dorning’s way because I don’t
want to know.”
“Precisely so; then you must marry her at once.”
“For a consideration, I consent,” replied the heartless villain.
“The consideration shall be forthcoming,” said the stranger.
“I don’t exactly understand your position,” continued Buckstone.
“Never mind my position.”
“If you prevent Hungerford from marrying Mary, you cannot prevent him
from marrying some other lady.”
“I attend to only one thing at a time.”
“I don’t see why you should care whether he marries or not.”
“It is not for you to know,” replied the stranger, impatiently.
“As you please. When I do anything, I like to know something about it.
If I don’t understand it, somebody else might.”
“After your confession to me about the marriage, it would not be
prudent for you to say much,” added the principal, significantly.
“Perhaps parties on the other side would be more confiding.”
“Very likely they would. In due time, if you are patient, you shall
understand the whole matter.”
“I prefer to understand it now.”
“Very well, I will tell you now, if you insist, though it is not best
for you to know, at the present stage of the proceedings. After the
marriage, I intended to tell you the whole story. But as----”
“Hark!” interposed Buckstone. “Some one is coming. It is that fiery
Ross Kingman.”
“So much the better. Why not see him now, and tell him what you mean to
do?” whispered the stranger.
“He is as savage as an untamed tiger.”
“You are afraid of him?”
“No.”
“Then see him; it would help the matter along.”
“He is ugly.”
“Never mind, if you are afraid of him.”
“I’m not afraid of him. To prove that I am not, I will see him,”
replied Buckstone, who could not bear the imputation of cowardice.
“Very well; I will go down upon the beach, for I am afraid the boat
will float off.”
Ross Kingman, roused to the highest pitch of excitement and anger, was
approaching the spot where Buckstone stood. There was but one purpose
in his mind, and that was vengeance upon the man who had wronged his
sister. He knew nothing of prudence; he had no regard for consequences.
“Is that you, Ross,” said Buckstone.
“Villain!” cried the enraged brother, as he rushed forward upon the
artist.
Buckstone had discretion enough to run away, and he retreated before
his relentless enemy until he came to a high bluff, beneath which the
sea beat against the rocks.
“Stop a minute, Ross; I am going to make it all right to-morrow,”
gasped Buckstone, out of breath with running, as he found that his
pursuer was rapidly gaining upon him.
“I shall make it right to-night,” shouted Ross, as he sprang upon the
hated enemy.
“I am going to marry her to-morrow, Ross,” pleaded Buckstone, as the
gripe of the infuriate brother was fastened upon him.
Ross had a club in his hand, with which he struck Buckstone a heavy
blow on the head. The artist did not speak again; he sank down upon
the ground, stunned, if not killed, by the blow. Ross, unappeased by
what he had done, and apparently unmoved by the sight of the prostrate
form before him, seized the body with both hands, and, dragging it to
the cliff, hurled it down into the rolling waters beneath. There was a
heavy splash, and then nothing was heard but the monotonous roll of the
waves, as they surged against the rocks.
Ross gazed down the steep for a moment, as if to satisfy himself that
his work was done. He panted like a chafed wild beast. He muttered
something to himself, and then turned from the spot, walking towards
the house. If Mary was a wife before, she was a widow now. If she was
not a wife, most terribly had her wrongs been avenged.
The stranger, when Buckstone left him, pushed off the boat, and got
into it. Rowing leisurely down the shore, he came to the high rocks.
His boat struck against something. He got up to see what it was. Part
of the object rested upon a rock, and it was swaying up and down with
the waves. It was a dead body! It was the corpse of the man who had
been drowned that day, for which unavailing search had been made. It
was a ghastly sight, for there was light enough from the stars to
enable him to see it. But he did not tremble; did not flee in terror
from the spot. He was accustomed to such sights.
At this moment a heavy splash in the water, a few rods from the boat,
attracted his attention. He had heard the angry words spoken on the
cliff above, and he comprehended at once that a deed of violence had
been done. He was startled now, for his companion had been the victim;
the bargain he had made with him could not be consummated. He pulled
towards the spot where the splash had been heard. He discovered the
inanimate form of Buckstone, and dragged it into the boat. He pulled
back to the beach, and there examined the body.
“Dead!” exclaimed he, with more of disappointment than of horror in his
tones. “He will not marry her now.”
That was evident enough; but still the stranger, as if unwilling to
abandon the hope which had brought him to the island, continued to work
over the body.
CHAPTER XI.
DOCTOR BILKS.
Ross Kingman walked back to the house. Not yet did he regret the deed
he had done. He felt that he had been the minister of God’s justice,
as well as of his own vengeance. He was calm, now that the excitement
of the assault was over, and he had no fears of the future. He did
not tremble as he thought of an arrest, a trial, and a penalty; he