Three millions! or, The way of the world
and neither Dick Birch nor himself had been off the place, the news had
not reached those who were most interested.
“Mr. Buckstone visited Mary last evening,” continued the doctor,
cautiously feeling his way, before he imparted the news.
“Buckstone!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it that which made Mary worse?”
“Not that alone. Her brother unfortunately saw him.”
“I feared it,” said Eugene, nervously. “I hope nothing serious
occurred.”
“Nothing more serious could have occurred.”
“Good Heaven! You don’t mean----”
Eugene paused and trembled.
“Ross is a terrible fellow in his anger,” added Dr. Bilks.
“What did he do?” demanded Eugene.
“He found Buckstone over by the cliff, and struck him a blow which
felled him to the ground.”
“Did it kill him?” asked Eugene, shuddering.
“Perhaps not; but Ross then threw him over the cliff into the river.”
“O Heaven! This is terrible! I ought not to have permitted Ross to
leave me after what he said.”
“Don’t reproach yourself, Hungerford. Of course you had no reason
to suppose Buckstone was within two hundred miles of Poppleton,”
interposed Dick Birch.
“Certainly there is no occasion to attach any blame to yourself, Mr.
Hungerford,” added Dr. Bilks.
“Poor Mary!” sighed Eugene. “This is another heavy weight added to her
burden. But how is she, doctor? How does she bear it?”
“Much better than I expected she would. Ross came for me about two
o’clock this morning. He told me what he had done, on the way to the
island.”
Dr. Bilks then narrated with great minuteness all the particulars
of his visit to Mary, and all that Ross had told him about the
circumstances attending the murder.
“I did not intend to say a word of the matter, but this morning I found
that the story was flying through the Port.”
“But who told it, if you did not?” demanded Dick Birch.
“I don’t know. The sheriff has arrested Ross, and taken him to the
county jail.”
“You say there was a man with Buckstone on the island?”
“So Ross told me.”
“Who was he?”
“That is what I would like to know,” replied the doctor. “Ross told me
that this person offered Buckstone a ‘consideration’ for marrying Mary.
Of course he was an interested party. I at once concluded that this
person was Mr. Birch.”
“Dick!” exclaimed Eugene.
“You remember the plan you mentioned to me, Mr. Birch, for making
everything all right with the poor girl?”
“I did speak to you about it; and I have spoken to Mr. Hungerford
about it since his return; but I never proposed to offer Buckstone
a consideration for marrying her. I would have hung him to the
nearest tree, before I would have given him a dollar,” replied Dick,
indignantly.
“Then you were not the person with Buckstone?” said Dr. Bilks.
“I was not! Most decidedly, I was not!” answered Dick, emphatically,
and rather disgusted with the doctor for entertaining such a thought,
even for an instant.
“I might have known that a gentleman of your lofty principles
and high sense of honor would not have done even this good deed
surreptitiously,” added Dr. Bilks, apologetically, “When I supposed
you were the person, I attributed to you none but the best of motives.”
“You do me no more than justice, doctor,” said Dick. “But who was this
person?”
“That’s a mystery to me. I know of no one, except Mary’s own friends,
who are interested in having justice done to her.”
“Poor Mary!” sighed Eugene. “She is a widow now.”
“If she was a wife, she is a widow,” added the doctor. “It appears
that Buckstone told her that he did not himself know whether they were
married or not. You are a lawyer, Mr. Birch; perhaps you can decide the
question.”
“Without evidence, I cannot. As at present informed, I do not think it
was a legal marriage.”
“I am no lawyer, but I differ from you,” said the doctor, with a smile.
“We will not discuss this question now,” interposed Eugene. “Let us do
what we can for Ross. Dick, you must get the best lawyer in the state
to defend him. Mary must be suffering terribly.”
“Yes; I shall visit her at once,” said the doctor.
Dick proposed that Dr. Bilks should be presented to the ladies, and
they went to the sitting-room for this purpose. The story of the murder
had to be told again; and Mrs. Hungerford and Julia were shocked at the
tale. They wept for poor Mary, tortured anew by this agonizing event,
and both of them anxiously studied the face of Eugene to discover the
effect upon him. He was calm, but he was paler than usual.
“But I must bid you good morning, ladies,” said Dr. Bilks. “My next
visit will be to Mary.”
“Mother, don’t you think I might do something for Mary? I suppose she
is alone,” added Julia.
“You might comfort her, Julia. It would be kind of you,” exclaimed
Eugene, before Mrs. Hungerford had time to answer the question.
“I think you would be of more service to her than I could,” continued
Dr. Bilks.
“We will both go, Julia,” said her mother.
“Her sickness is of the heart rather than the body, and kind friends
are better for her than medicines,” added Dr. Bilks. “But I think one
would be better than two.”
“I will go alone, mother. Mary and I were always good friends.”
“Very well, if Dr. Bilks thinks best.”
The doctor did think best, and gave his reasons for the opinion, which
were quite satisfactory to Mrs. Hungerford. The carriage was ordered
for Julia, and it was arranged that Dr. Bilks should join her at the
wharf, where they would take a boat for the island. While they were
considering the matter, the morning mail was brought in, and Eugene
glanced at his letters. He opened one of them.
“Mr. Lester is coming to Poppleton to spend a week with us,” said he.
“I wrote to him from London that I should expect him.”
“We’ll give the old fellow a jolly time,” added Dick, lightly.
“Whom did you say?” asked Dr. Bilks.
“Mr. Lester; he is one of the trustees of my uncle’s will.”
“John Lester?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Not personally; I think he had a son in college with me. When does he
come?”
“Next week. He is an excellent man, doctor, and you must know him. You
must help us entertain him.”
“This is very unlucky for me,” replied Dr. Bilks, evidently much
troubled. “I must be absent from town next week.”
“O, no; you must be here when the old gentleman comes,” said Dick. “We
shall give him some big dinners.”
“Nothing would afford me more pleasure; but I have an imperative
engagement in New York. I am very sorry.”
Dr. Bilks was uneasy, and seemed to be thinking of some way by which
he could postpone his engagement, and have the pleasure of meeting the
eminent merchant from Baltimore. It was very unfortunate, but it could
not be helped; this was the conclusion he had reached, as the carriage
for Julia drew up at the front door. The doctor drove to the Port, and
joined Julia on the wharf. A boatman rowed them across the channel, and
they walked up to the house. Dr. Bilks was a gentleman of good taste,
and of course he could not fail to appreciate the beauty and grace of
his charming companion. He made himself very agreeable.
They found Mary in the parlor below, and alone there. She was calm,
though the evidences of her suffering were apparent in every line of
her countenance.
“I have brought you a new physician,” said the doctor, as they entered
the room.
“This is very kind of you, Julia,” replied Mary, taking the offered
hand of the visitor.
“I am very glad to see you. I hope you are better;” and Julia talked
and acted like a true friend.
The doctor gave his professional advice, and though he lingered much
longer than was necessary, paying more attention to the visitor than to
the patient, he departed at last, and left Julia to attempt the cure
which he was powerless to accomplish.
“I cannot help thinking how kind it is of you to come to me at such
a time, Julia,” said Mary, wiping away the tears called forth by the
sympathy of her early friend.
“I could not help coming, when I heard how much you were suffering.”
“None of my friends have been to see me before.”
“Indeed!”
“But I cannot blame them. What am I now?”
“You are the same good girl you always were!” replied Julia, with
generous earnestness.
“I am afraid not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No; I am an outcast now, scorned and despised. Julia glad as I am to
see you, I am sorry you have come.”
“Why should you be sorry?”
“I’m afraid it will injure you. You know why my friends desert me.”
“But I will not desert you. You have been wronged; but you are true and
good, as you always were. It was not your fault.”
“I’m afraid it was--partly, at least.”
“It would have been better if you had never met Mr. Buckstone, it is
true; but you are not to blame.”
“I wish I could feel that I had not done wrong.”
“You may have made a mistake, but you have done no wrong; and you shall
not be cast down for your misfortunes.”
“It is the way of the world, Julia; and I can never be to others what I
was before.”
“But you shall be, Mary. If all the rest of the world desert you, our
family will still adhere to you.”
“I am afraid you don’t understand it, Julia. Though I may not be
guilty, I shall be shunned as one contaminated; those whom I have known
in brighter days will no longer associate with me.”
“We shall see, Mary,” said Julia, proudly. “You shall come to our
house. You shall be our guest; and if other people dare to insult you
by word or look, they are not our friends!”
Julia, in her generous thoughts, regarded the position which wealth
gave her family in society as a blessing then. If the Hungerfords
countenanced the poor, betrayed girl, who should dare to cast her out?
Julia was high-spirited and magnanimous, but she knew not to what a
trial her generosity was to be subjected.
“I will not permit you to injure yourself for me, Julia. I am resigned
to my fate. You see how calm I am;” and she smiled faintly.
“It would not injure me.”
“And I am the sister of--of a murderer!” she added, with a perceptible
shudder.
“That is not your fault.”
“But it will add to my disgrace. No, Julia, you shall not wrong
yourself by associating with me. As soon as I am able, I will go away
from Poppleton, and hide myself from the world.”
“Indeed, you shall not! You shall have the best and truest friends
here. When Ross is acquitted, as all say he will be, you shall be happy
again.”
“Never in this world, Julia. I have become what I dreaded more than all
other miseries combined.”
“You have not, Mary; you were married.”
“No, I was not; he told me so not an hour before he fell by Ross’s
hand. I shall not call myself Mary Buckstone again. Now you despise me.”
“I do not, Mary; you wrong me,” replied Julia; but it must be
acknowledged that she was struggling to overcome a certain sensation of
dread and horror which she could hardly define.
“Now you know what I am, you may leave me; and I will think kindly of
you, as one who wished to be my friend.”
“And I shall be your friend, whatever you are,” added Julia,
resolutely; “and I am sure my mother and my brother will be. Eugene has
been--he has been very sorry for you.”
She was not quite certain that she ought to say anything about Eugene,
and she suppressed the sentence she was about to utter, substituting
another.
Mary was moody and thoughtful when Eugene’s name was mentioned, and it
did not require much skill on the part of Julia to discover the nature
of her reflections. But what had been could no longer be, and her
brother had ceased to think of the poor girl, except as a sympathizing
friend. The afternoon was passed away in these conversations, and Mary
was much consoled by the words, but perhaps more by the presence and
the generous indorsement, of Julia.
Just before sunset, Eugene’s small schooner touched at the