Three millions! or, The way of the world
by her mother, to whom there was no person in existence, out of her
own family, like Dr. Bilks. It would have been impossible for Julia,
thoughtful, kind-hearted as she was, to be unmoved by the attentions
bestowed upon her by the physician. He seemed to live for her recovery;
to be studying all the time how he could cast a ray of sunlight across
her path. In her chamber there was always something to remind her
of his devotion--a rare bouquet, a cluster of grapes, a toy, a game,
the newest book, the finest engraving. And all these things were only
the machinery of the physician’s art; only devices to cheat Death of
his intended victim; only offerings on the altar of Hygeia; so they
were interpreted by those who blessed the doctor for the boon of that
precious life.
Julia came down into the drawing-room; she resumed her place in the
family, and everything went on as before the shadow dropped down upon
Pine Hill. Mary Kingman had been the chamber companion of the invalid:
she could not be her drawing-room companion. She declined, not in so
many words, but by her actions, to join the family group gathered once
more in the brilliant apartment. She felt that she did not belong
there. She had come to heal the sick; she had no part or lot in the
joys of that reunited household; only in their sorrows. Her mission was
done.
“Julia, I must leave you to-day,” said she, on the morning of the day
after that on which the invalid had spent an hour in the drawing-room.
“Why must you leave me?”
“I think you do not need me any longer.”
“I shall always need you, Mary.”
“I have been away a month now.”
“But you are not needed at home. Your father is better.”
“I feel that I ought not to stay any longer, unless you need me.”
“I am not so selfish as to say that I absolutely need you, Mary. I
don’t know what mother would have done without you. She was almost worn
out. You have spent your days and nights over me when I could not help
myself. I am sure I shall miss you very much if you go.”
“You sleep well nights now, and I do not think I am really required.”
“I should be very glad to have you stay.”
“I know you would, Julia.”
“Mary, why didn’t you come down into the drawing-room yesterday?” asked
Julia. “Eugene inquired for you.”
Mary’s pale face flushed a little, and she was embarrassed. Her look
was the key to her conduct.
“I could not,” she replied, with some hesitation, for she fully
intended to avoid the topic to which Julia’s remark must inevitably
lead.
“Why not?”
“It was hardly proper for me to do so.”
“Why, Mary?”
“You will not ask me, Julia, to say anything more about it,” pleaded
Mary.
“After all you have done for me,--after the sleepless nights you have
spent at my bedside,--I think you ought to regard me as your friend,
Mary.”
“I do.”
“But you will not even permit me to be grateful to you. Why do you wish
to go?”
“I think it best,” stammered Mary. “I must go; for your sake, if not
for my own.”
“Not for my sake, Mary.”
“You do not know what your brother said to me yesterday,” added Mary,
with averted eyes.
“I can guess.”
“He asked me to be his wife.”
“Well, what if he did?” said Julia, with a smile. “He loves you.”
“Think what I am, Julia.”
“Pray don’t repeat that. Mary, do you love Eugene?”
“I will not answer. If I did love him, that would be the strongest
reason why I should avoid him--why I should refuse to let him
contaminate himself by contact with me.”
“Mary, I will not forgive you if you talk so.”
“But you understand what I mean. Are you willing that your brother
should become the husband of such as I am?”
“I am willing,” replied Julia, firmly.
“You cannot mean it!”
“I do mean it. If you had asked me the question before I was sick, I
might have answered it differently.”
“Your first thought was the truest. I have been with you so much, that
perhaps you have become reconciled to the idea, for Eugene says he told
you of it before.”
“He did; and, to be candid, both my mother and myself objected.”
“With good reason.”
“I know that Eugene never will be happy without you.”
“This is the reason why you have withdrawn your objection.”
Julia’s sickness had chastened her spirit. Worldly distinctions were
just now less clearly defined in her mind. What had seemed intolerable
before was now considered upon its own merits. Besides, Julia and her
mother had both been subjected to a powerful influence--that of Dr.
Bilks.
“Mary, my objections were unreasonable. I am thankful they are
removed,” continued Julia. “I understood the reason why you would
not visit the drawing-room yesterday. Now, let us be friends; let me
tell you exactly how we stand. Your being here during my sickness has
nothing whatever to do with our present views. By the way, Mary, do you
know that Dr. Bilks is one of your best friends?”
“He was very kind to me.”
“But he thinks there is no person in the world like you. He says you
are an angel, in spirit and in person. Think of that.”
“It isn’t worth thinking of. Perhaps I have not so high a regard for
Dr. Bilks’s opinion as you have.”
Julia blushed.
“He speaks as your friend. I believe, if it were not for crossing
Eugene’s path, he would make love to you himself.”
“There is no danger,” replied Mary, with a faint smile. “He seems to be
already very well occupied.”
Julia blushed again.
“You are getting quite facetious, Mary. But we were speaking of your
case, not mine.”
“Dr. Bilks is little likely to be turned aside from his present hope.”
“Do you think he looks upon me in any other view than that of a
patient--an interesting patient, if you please?”
“Certainly I do; and I am only sorry that he has not a prettier name to
give you. If you don’t love him, Julia, it is time for you to begin to
demonstrate in that direction.”
“Love him! I hadn’t thought of such a thing,” protested Julia.
“It certainly lies between him and Mr. Birch.”
“Poor Dick!” said Julia. “I would give the world to see him out of
his troubles. After what he said in court, I hardly dare to look at
him--indeed, I haven’t had the opportunity, for he never comes to Pine
Hill now. Poor fellow! I am sorry for him! But we are away from the
subject; I was speaking of you and Eugene. The doctor has converted my
mother.”
“Converted her?”
“When Dr. Bilks came to see me, day before yesterday, we had a long
talk about Eugene and yourself. My brother has made no secret of his
intention. He had even told Dr. Bilks and Dick of it a month ago.
Mother did not like it, as I said; but the doctor argued the matter so
prettily, that she even became anxious to have the marriage take place.
So, you see, it is a settled thing.”
“I think not, Julia.”
“If you consent, it is.”
“I do not consent.”
“Why should you be obstinate? Do you love Eugene?”
“I will not permit him to disgrace himself.”
“Disgrace!” exclaimed Julia, petulantly. “If his friends do not object,
why should you?”
“You have been argued into this position--converted to it. I am much
obliged to Dr. Bilks for the trouble he has taken on my account; but I
wish he had not spoken. Dr. Bilks is a demigod at Pine Hill now.”
“But, Mary, Eugene loves you; he will be miserable without you.”
The poor girl trembled with emotion. She knew what a joy it would be to
be taken to the heart of him she had so long loved; to be plucked from
the shame and disgrace to which she had been innocently doomed, and
folded in the loving arms of one who would cherish only her. But while
she would be raised up from immeasurable depths, he would be brought
down; and she felt that it would be mean and selfish in her to consent
to the base equilibrium, though his descent were infinitely less than
her elevation. It was a trying ordeal: she would not consent.
Julia reasoned with all the eloquence of gratitude and friendship, with
all the force of a strong will and a woman’s logic. Dr. Bilks, often
quoted, declared that Mary was an angel; that she was more beautiful
in person, more gifted in mind, more varied in accomplishments, but,
above all, more richly endowed in the higher graces of a lofty soul and
a loving heart, than any other woman--“present company excepted”--whom
he had ever met; and a physician is always in society, and sees women
as they are. Dr. Bilks was very kind to say all this, but Mary was
not especially pleased with it. It was too fulsome, and looked like
a special plea. It was not surprising that Mrs. Hungerford and Julia
should be converted by arguments so well put, particularly as they
came from the mouth of the demigod of Pine Hill; but the fact that any
argument at all was needed to remove acknowledged objections, was the
best reason that Mary could think of for withholding her consent.
Dr. Bilks came upon his morning professional visit--all his visits
were regarded as professional. Julia endeavored to persuade her friend
to accompany her to the drawing-room, but Mary could not be prevailed
upon even to encounter the earnest gaze of Eugene, after the offer he
had made. She had never walked in the Pine Hill grounds--had seen them
only from the window. While the family were in the drawing-room, she
would have an opportunity to walk an hour, and explore the premises.
She went out at the side door, so that her exit could not be observed,
and perambulated the grounds down to the river, admired the fine taste
displayed, and enjoyed the cool breeze which fanned her cheek, as
she sat in the elevated summer-house. On her return, when the hour
had nearly expired, to her great annoyance she discovered Eugene
approaching. Hoping he had not seen her, she stepped into an arbor
concealed in a group of pines.
“Why do you shun me, Mary?” said Eugene, as he presented himself before
her.
He had seen her; he had come out to find her, when he learned that she
was not in the house.
“After what you said to me yesterday, it is better that I should avoid
you, Mr. Hungerford,” she replied, hardly able to speak, so violent was
the emotion that agitated her.
“Have I become offensive to you?”
“You know it is not that.”
“Why should you avoid me? Mary, I have not ceased to love you since we
went to school together.”
“Do not speak of those things, Mr. Hungerford.”
“Mary, I love you! It is treason to my own heart to be silent.”
“Let me go, now.”
“Go, if you will, Mary; but I shall love you the same.”
She looked up into his face. It was more eloquent than his words. The
expression of love which lighted up his noble countenance seemed to
chain her to the spot. Her will was to go, but she could not. In his
presence she was powerless.
“Did you ever love me, Mary?” he asked.
“I must not answer.”
“You did; if it were not so, you would answer me.”
“I did love you, Mr. Hungerford; but that was when we were children.”
“Have you ceased to love me?”
“I was the wife of another--I believed I was--I had no right then to
think of you.”
“Did you love your husband?” he asked, solemnly.
“If I answer you, it is only to excuse my own rashness and folly. If I
did not love him when we were married, I knew that his devotion would
soon conquer what was in my heart.”
“What?”
“I did love you--once; I will not deny it. When I stood on the shore
without a friend in the world, I yielded to the importunity of Mr.
Buckstone. I could not have done so, if I had not been so poor and
helpless; if I had had even my father’s poor roof to cover me. You know
it all, Mr. Hungerford.”
“I knew it all before. I surmised it all--I believed it all. If you
loved me, Mary, why did you accept him?”
“I endeavored to banish the feeling from my heart; I thought I had done
so.”
“Why did you try to banish it?”
“Because it was hopeless.”
“Was it hopeless?”