Three millions! or, The way of the world
happened that he was rarely alone with her; never, except in the house
or the garden. If the doctor proposed a ride, she instantly ordered
the carriage, and either Eugene or her mother was always sure to be
invited. If they could not go, Julia did not feel like riding. She did
not discourage his attentions; she only checked them. There was no
unkindness on her part, and apparently no undue caution. By some of
those expedients always within the reach of a woman, the doctor was
invariably repressed, the decisive moment was deferred, and he was not
permitted to speak of the love which warmed his heart. But the doctor
still hoped. He had only been checked, not defeated. Day after day he
resolved to “propose,”--and he did not lack the courage to do it,--but
these provoking impediments always prevented him from taking the
important step.
Dr. Bilks had no reason to suppose that obstacles were intentionally
thrown in his way. Julia was always kind. As she had said herself, she
did not dislike him; and without the warning she had received, she
would have permitted events to take their natural course. Julia was
herself. She practised no arts, stooped to no hypocrisy. What she felt
she did not wholly conceal. As Dick Birch came no more to Pine Hill, as
she hardly heard from him, she had come to look upon the doctor as the
man of her choice, though a man deferred simply for prudential reasons.
He was unexceptionable to her; and if the current of love had not begun
to flow, it was only because it was dammed up in the parent fountain.
Dick Birch was absent, but not forgotten; and she could not help
comparing the characters and manners of the two men who loved her. She
did not absolutely love either of them; for one seemed to be a check
upon the other. Her strong mind asserted itself.
Eugene now managed his own business; and it gave him sufficient
occupation to save him from the pangs of _ennui_. About once a week
he went to The Great Bell; but he spoke not of love to Mary Kingman,
though his heart still longed to have all restraint removed. He saw
her as often as he called, and she always blushed and smiled in his
presence.
Captain Kingman was still confined to the house, and hobbled on
crutches every day from his room to the kitchen. He was feeble and
helpless. The family had no means of support, and debt pressed heavily
upon them. Eugene, as a pretence, paid Ross’s salary to Mrs. Kingman
every month, which was sufficient to keep the family comfortable. The
farm was mortgaged; and as no interest was paid, the creditor became
importunate for his dues. He threatened to take possession. Mrs.
Kingman told Eugene of this, with tears in her eyes; for the threat
implied ruin to her. He paid the principal and the interest; indeed, he
discharged every debt he could find against the Kingmans.
Captain Kingman did nothing but moan and groan from morning to night.
He was paying the penalty of his transgressions. He did not concern
himself about family affairs. He had nothing to say about Ross or the
murder; nothing about his debts; nothing about Mary. He was stupefied
by his pains and his misfortunes. He had lost all interest in his
family and his business. Years of dissipation had made him an imbecile.
Mrs. Kingman told him nothing of what Eugene had done; and as far as
possible, at his request, she kept it from Mary, whose sensitive nature
was outraged by dependence.
But, poor girl! she knew that Eugene paid the expenses of the family
without any equivalent, and she had struggled to resist this accepting
of his charity. She was helpless at first; but when her strength
was fully restored, she determined that the family should no longer
live upon his bounty, however freely and gladly it was bestowed.
She procured from her step-mother a full account of all sums Eugene
had expended, so far as Mrs. Kingman knew them, and imposed it upon
herself, as a solemn obligation, to pay back every dollar.
Undoubtedly this resolution gave her some comfort, and partially
satisfied the promptings of her pride. She fully intended to carry
out this design, and believed that, in time, she could earn money
enough to do so. She was not content merely to have a purpose, but she
immediately set about its execution. There was a vacancy in one of the
schools, and she attempted to obtain the situation. She applied for the
place; and one of the committee, knowing her to be a superior teacher,
gave her considerable encouragement. His associates were ministers of
the gospel. They were horrified at the very suggestion of appointing
“such a person.”
Mary was repulsed. She called upon her minister to aid her. He was
willing to do so, if he could. He could not. He did not believe she
ought to think of teaching school; it was not proper for her to do so.
She had made a mistake; she must suffer for it, as all must. Society
must protect itself even from the appearance of sin. It was right that
it should do so. It was hard for her, who had really done no wrong,
to be banished from the presence of the good and the upright; but it
was necessary. She must submit. It was the way of the world. Even bad
men frowned upon a woman’s sin, and turned from her, in society, when
the stain of suspicion hung about her. It was well; for virtue was to
her the pearl of great price, and it must be guarded even by men’s
prejudices.
Mary was terrified by her own sin. She fled from her minister almost
with the feeling that God had ceased to love her; that the demons had
taken possession of her soul. She examined her own heart; she prayed
for wisdom and for strength; but with all her searching, she could not
believe she was so lost and depraved as the fiat of the prudential
committee, and even of her own minister, had declared her to be. But
her own clergyman had not accused her of sin or wrong; he had only said
that society must protect itself at her expense. She had been deceived,
mocked, cruelly wronged. At the worst, she had only been imprudent,
she reflected; but she had always been true to her womanly instinct of
purity. Why should she be spurned? It was hard; but it was the way of
the world, and she could not resist it.
She applied for a school in a neighboring town. One laughed; another
frowned; all refused. The minister was right, in point of fact:
society would protect itself at her expense. She could not obtain a
situation to teach. She gave up the point in despair. She asked for
work in one of the factories. It was given to her simply because the
agent, who was anxious to conciliate Eugene, dared not refuse her. The
operatives, with one voice, protested. Some of them were sinners; but
these protested louder than the others. It was a shame to admit “such a
person” into the mills with respectable girls. They threatened to stop
work; and Mary fled in terror from the tempest she had created.
Eugene heard of all these things, and he asked if there was a God in
heaven. He was indignant, almost furious. He went to Mary; and in a
tumult of woe, she told him the truth. Then, more than ever before, he
wished to fold her in his arms, make her his own, and bravely breast
the storm of worldliness that would beat against them both. He went to
the mill agent, and reproached him for permitting Mary to be driven
from the factory by a mere prejudice. She had done no wrong; she was
more free from stain than half who had fled from her presence. The
agent knew it. He could not help it. If Mary would stay, he would
protect her. There was a principle at stake, and Mary went back to
the mill. The girls withdrew in a body. Eugene paid the damages of
the suspension. Other girls came, and there was a tempest. Society
was protecting itself. Money, for once, fought the battle of the
oppressed. It conquered in the end. Half the girls returned. They could
not contend against money. Indignant fathers and brothers threatened
to break down the dam, to burn the mill, to disable the wheel; and
the great building was guarded day and night like an arsenal in
revolutionary days. Again the factory worked all its spindles.
Those in the mill who came in contact with Mary began to love her. She
was a true Christian; not after the forms of the church alone, but
after the law of God and Christ, which she had transcribed upon her own
heart. One who worked by her side was taken down with a violent fever.
She was far away from home; and Mary tended the loom all day, and
watched all night with the sick one.
“Truly, this girl with a bad reputation is better than any of us,” said
the girls in the mill.
Mary became pale and feeble herself. Eugene heard of it. She had lived
down her bad name. Those who knew her loved her; and there was not an
evil-minded man that dared look disrespectfully upon her. She visited
the sick and the sorrowing; she spoke true and holy words to the
erring; she was the friend of all who needed a friend.
Eugene went to her. He insisted that she should leave the mill, and
nurse the sick girl, if she could not trust this sacred duty to another.
“Mary, you shall be a missionary among the poor and suffering. I shall
build a chapel for the poor, where they may go without money and
without price. John Porter, whom I knew and loved in college, shall
come and preach to them; and you shall help gather his flock. I shall
pay him and you a salary. Will you take the position?”
“I cannot take money from you.”
“False pride!” replied he. “I shall pay another, if not you.”
“Better another than me.”
“I know of no one who will do so well as you.”
Long and faithfully he pleaded with her to become his missionary before
she would accept a salaried position; but she consented. The chapel was
commenced; but the harvest, ripe for the reapers, did not wait for a
building. John Porter came--came to preach practical Christianity. Both
he and Mary visited the poor with provisions, clothing, and fuel in
their train. More cheap tenement houses were built. The poor were well
lodged, well clothed, well fed; the chapel was filled with attentive
hearers; but more than all,--for it is the foundation of all true
self-respect,--the poor were taught to be independent. It was found
that the model houses were good, paying property, and prudent men, for
their own interest, helped to carry out Eugene’s idea. Men and women,
who had received gifts from the chapel treasury, insisted upon paying
their full value; for with well-filled stomachs and well-covered bodies
came a self-respect and a self-reliance which refused charity.
But, in spite of all that was done, Eugene did not dream of founding
a Utopia. He did not succeed in building up a colony of saints and
heroes. There were still hundreds of men and women who could hardly be
anything but vagabonds. The foreign population, though much improved in
condition, still obstinately clung to dirt, and rags, and bad whiskey;
paradise and Poppleton were still dissimilar.
When Eugene had bought the land, and staked out the chapel, Father
McCafferty, the Catholic priest of the Mills, called upon him in high
dudgeon, and squarely accused him of attempting to convert his flock to
the “abominable religion.”
“Not at all, Father McCafferty,” replied Eugene, calmly.
“You are building a chapel for them,” added the indignant priest. “Of
what use is it to them if you build houses for the poor, feed, and
clothe, and warm them, if you steal away their souls?”
“I assure you, sir, I have no designs upon their souls.”
“What else can it mean? The chapel is for the poor; and that means my
people. Sure you have done everything for them, and you are stealing
them away from me.”
“I have no desire to convert them from anything but dirt, rags, and
vile liquor.”
“God bless you for that; if you will only stop there. But your chapel