Three millions! or, The way of the world
were ushered into a large, square room, which in spite of the general
dilapidation of the building, was a comfortable apartment. The floor
was covered with a cheap carpet, and the furniture looked as though it
had been redeemed by patient care and labor from the wrecks of better
times, though here and there it was pieced out by sundry inexpensive
articles rendered necessary by the progress of the age.
Whatever the house, and whatever the other occupants thereof, Mary
Kingman was a lady. She moved with ease and grace, she spoke with
fluency, and her manners would have adorned a Fifth Avenue palace. It
was evident that she had risen above her social sphere. She was plainly
dressed, yet there was that in her personal appearance which indicated
a fine taste.
It was necessary that Mr. Buckstone should be introduced to the
kitchen, where the great wood fire, employed in getting dinner, would
extract the remaining moisture from his garments. An odor of fried fish
pervaded the house, which the artist declared was exceedingly grateful;
indeed, his prejudices, if he had any, against the humble abode and its
humble surroundings, seemed to be completely merged in his admiration
of Mary. If he was a stylish gentleman, as he doubtless claimed to be,
he was remarkably condescending; for he made himself quite at home,
and did not seem to notice the disagreeable things which could not be
concealed from the eye and the nostrils of the denizen of the city.
Mary introduced him to her mother, a plain, good-natured woman, without
any pretensions to polish. She was frying the fish over a wood fire
in a great, old-fashioned fireplace. She gave the artist a homely but
hearty welcome, placed him before the fire, and heaped on the wood till
the fire blazed up like a volcano, and the fish in the pan exhibited a
tendency to leap out of the hot fat in which it was immersed.
“Where is father?” asked Mary, in a low tone.
“He hain’t come home yit,” replied Mrs. Kingman, in the same low tone.
“Are you go’n’ to have all these folks to dinner? cause, if you be, I
must fry some more fish. I hain’t got nigh on to enough.”
“I don’t know; I will see.”
“I shall evaporate very soon at this rate,” said Mr. Buckstone, who was
turning himself round before the fire like a piece of meat on the spit.
“I hope you are more comfortable, sir,” replied Mary. “Will you excuse
me for a few moments?”
“Certainly,” answered the artist, though he would have preferred not to
do so, for he realized that the gentlemen in the “best parlor” were to
have the benefit of her society during those few moments.
As Mary passed along the entry, she saw Mr. Birch through the open,
front door, on a little eminence before the house, apparently enjoying
the view of the ocean and the surrounding scenery. I have no doubt he
was enjoying it, for he had a keen relish for the beauties of nature;
but at the same time, I cannot help thinking that his presence on the
knoll at that moment was a piece of strategy--a commonplace contrivance
to enable Eugene to see the lady alone for a brief period.
Mary went into the parlor, where she had left the two gentlemen. Eugene
sat in the rocking-chair, as cool, dignified, and self-possessed as
though he had not been under the same roof with the lady whom he
professed to love well enough to make her Mrs. Hungerford. A slight
flush mantled her cheek as she realized that she was alone with him.
“Has your friend so soon tired of our palace on the island?” said she.
“O, no; I was telling him what a fine view was to be obtained from that
knoll, and he could not postpone the enjoyment of it.”
“Of course you will stay to dinner with us, though we can give you only
fisherman’s fare.”
“No, I think not. We have our dinner on board the boat, and we shall
partake of it on the Ledge. We had no intention of trespassing upon
your hospitality to that extent. As Mr. Birch wished to see the island,
I thought we might as well walk up while we were at the landing.”
That was all--was it? He had not walked up to the house for the sake
of being in her presence a few moments longer. He did not look at her;
he did not smile like one whose heart yearned towards her. There was
little, if any, of the tenderness in his manner which the impressible
artist exhibited even after an acquaintance of a few hours. Mary was
sad at heart, and her smile was a struggle with her disappointment.
Yet Eugene did smile upon her; his heart did yearn towards her, and
gladly would he have told her his thought, and revealed to her his
soul; but Dick Birch’s prophecy was having a literal fulfilment. The
three millions rested upon his heart like an incubus, not closing, but
turning aside the channels of his affection; not drying up, but rolling
back the current of his love. Eugene did try to be tender towards her,
but it was an awkward and clumsy effort; it was a signal failure. He
judged himself by his intention rather than by his acts, and though
no sign was given, he fully believed he had taken his first step. He
was waiting now for a token of encouragement: of course none could be
given. Had he boldly looked his love,--had he taken her by the hand,
and glanced wistfully into her face,--it would have been well with him,
well with her. He knew not certainly that she loved him; to manifest
his own love, decidedly and unmistakably, would be to tempt her with
the three millions. He could not buy her with a price; he could not
sell himself at a price.
Mary went out to inform her mother that only Mr. Buckstone would dine
with them. Dick Birch still enjoyed the view, and she returned to the
parlor.
“Is your friend dry, Mary?” asked Eugene, when she came back.
“He is not my friend,” she replied, hastening to repudiate the
implication. “I never saw him till he came off to the boat.”
“Still he served you well enough to be your friend.”
“I am very grateful to him for his kind intentions, though it would
have been better for him, and better for me, if he had confined his
attention to his sketch of The Great Bell.”
“He is evidently a man of genius; and what is more, perhaps, to a lady,
he is an exceedingly handsome man.”
“He is certainly handsome, but that is saying very little for him.”
“Not many ladies would grant as much.”
“We have been friends for a long time, Mr. Hungerford,”--she generally
called him Eugene,--“and you know me well enough to believe what I say.”
“I know you set but a small value upon mere beauty; but Mr. Buckstone
is more than handsome. He is an artist; he has an excellent reputation
as a marine painter in the city.”
Why did he persist in talking about Mr. Buckstone?
“I suppose you will not remain in Poppleton now, Mr. Hungerford,” she
continued, boldly changing the topic.
“Why should I not?”
“All the world knows that you are a _millionnaire_ now,” she added,
with a languid smile, as though that were the knell of any hopes she
might have cherished.
“Would that change me?”
“I think it has changed you,” she answered, with some spirit.
“In what respect?”
“You seem more distant and dignified than you used to be.”
“Do I?”
“You know we used to be excellent friends when we went to school
together, and even while you were in college, and since your return.”
“Are we not now?” he asked, with a look more earnest than any he had
yet bestowed upon her, and beneath which a slight flush came to her
cheeks.
“I don’t think you are so cordial as you used to be.”
“I am sure my friendship has suffered no diminution: on the contrary, I
regard you with more--more respect than ever before.”
Respect! what a word to use at such a time and in such a presence! He
meant to say something warmer than this when he began, but the ghost of
the three millions suddenly obtruded itself between him and her, and he
made a botch of it.
“Without being very sentimental, Mr. Hungerford, I cannot help setting
a high value on these early friendships.”
“So do I; and, Mary, I am sure we shall always be _friends_,” said he,
cheerfully, and even earnestly; but he placed a mysterious emphasis
upon the word “friends,” which seemed to imply that they could never be
anything more than friends.
“It would not be strange, Mr. Hungerford,”--she still persisted
in calling him so, notwithstanding the example he set her in this
respect,--“if you should forget some of the friends of your early
years, in your altered circumstances.”
“Mary, it would be very strange if I should forget such a friend as you
have been to me.”
This was at least progressive.
“I could not complain of you if you did. I certainly have no claim upon
your friendly regard.”
“Indeed you have, Mary. I may forget many associates, but I shall
never cease to remember you as one for whom I have always felt a
strong----esteem.”
Was that all? Mary felt that it was. Her heart was yearning for his
love--not for his three millions. What she felt now, she had felt
before John Hungerford died, when Eugene was a humble law student in
the office of Squire Perkins. These carefully guarded expressions
seemed to shut the door against her, and to pile up a mountain between
them. Yet he thought he had said a great deal. He believed that she
understood him. He was tempted to take her hand as they stood by the
window looking out at Dick Birch on the knoll, and give it a gentle
pressure--just enough to assure her that he meant all he said; but this
would be committing himself just a trifle too far; it would be offering
her a bounty of three millions for her love. He must have some slight
expression on her part; he must have some assurance that she loved him
independently of his fortune.
“I have no doubt of your present esteem, but the excitements of
your new position will drive many old thoughts from your mind,” she
continued, perhaps wondering whether he had ever thought of her with
any more feeling than that of cold friendship.
“It may; but, Mary, you will never be driven from my thoughts; that is
to say, I shall always think of you as the kindest and best of friends.”
The first clause was too warm, the second too cold; and Eugene began to
struggle for the happy medium.
“Mary, I don’t know that any definite expressions of affection ever
passed between us,” he continued; “still there was a certain sympathy
of thought and feeling when--when--we went to school together,
which made us unusually good friends. While I was at the head on
the boys’ side, you were at the head on the girls’ side. All this
has gone by; but friendship between boys and girls has a tendency
to be a progressive sentiment which has ripened or will ripen into
something”--up came the three millions again--“will ripen into the
friendship of the man and the woman.”
“I hope so,” replied Mary; but it was with a sigh which she turned away
to conceal.
“Mary, I am going to Europe in a month or two--as soon as I can make my
arrangements. As I wander among the ruins of Greece and Rome, and sun
myself under pure Italian skies, about which we used to have something
to say at school, I shall think of--”--the three millions!--“I shall
think of--of my friends at home.”
All of them, of course! Eugene had a large heart, and it could include
within its embrace all Poppleton, not excepting the four thousand of
the perishing classes, who were to be blessed by his bounty. Mary was
hardly satisfied with the cold, studied, embarrassed termination of
Eugene’s rapturous speech. One moment he made her heart glow, and the
next he chilled it. It is impossible to say what point he might have
reached, if Mr. Buckstone, now thoroughly dried and comfortable, had
not entered the room and disturbed the unsatisfactory conference.
Mary could hardly be said to be in love, though the phase she had