CHAPTER XXI.

THE DEMIGOD OF PINE HILL.

Dr. Bilks spent most of the day and all the night at Pine Hill. His presence inspired Mrs. Hungerford with courage and fortitude. He was regarded as a very skilful physician in Poppleton, and the heart distressed by doubts and fears clings to such a man, when the loved one lies low on the bed of disease and suffering, with a tenacity which no other relation can call forth. The physician seems to hold the issues of life and death in his hands. His mistake or his neglect is fatal.

Mrs. Hungerford was a religious woman; but while she trusted in God, she leaned also on the human arm of the physician. With God’s blessing, he might save her daughter from the yawning tomb. Whether by choice or accident he had come to the sick bed of Julia, he was the mother’s only earthly hope; he was the greatest among men in those hours of gloom and despondency; he was the appointed minister of God to ward off the shaft of death. Everything depended upon him. Ross Kingman, Mary, and Dick Birch were forgotten in the all-absorbing solicitude with which the fond mother hung over the sick daughter.

Eugene shared his mother’s feeling. Trifling and insignificant now appeared the issues which had so deeply moved him. If he could not entirely forget that Dr. Bilks was tricky and politic,--if he could not entirely banish from his mind the belief, which a few days before he had entertained, that the physician was a villain, conspiring against the reputation and happiness of his best friend,--if he could not forget these things, he forgave them, and it was painful to think of them. In the hands of Dr. Bilks was the precious life of Julia, and it seemed like sacrilege to doubt or suspect him.

Dick Birch went to Pine Hill again. It was like a tomb to him. He loved Julia; and for her sake he was content to let the shadows hang over himself. Even he, the wronged one, could forget that the doctor was a villain. Though he would have preferred that some other physician should attend the sick one in her perilous condition, he accepted the fact as he found it, and confided in Dr. Bilks’s skill and devotion, as others did.

A week wore slowly and painfully away, not in days or hours, but in moments; for each instant was burdened with its own doubts and fears. Dr. Bilks went to Pine Hill half a dozen times a day, and spent all his nights there. He seemed never to tire, never to need the boon of slumber. He had a room next to Julia’s, and hardly an hour passed without a visit to her bedside. He watched her as a mother watches her dying infant. He bent over her, and listened to her labored breathing, careful to detect the first symptoms of change for better or worse.

In the library and the drawing-room he never spoke of the events attending the murder; they seemed to be forgotten by all. As he crept with soft step to the sick room, it would have been difficult to believe that he was not an angel of mercy to that household; that a thought of cunning or malice ever crossed his mind. Mrs. Hungerford spoke kindly, tenderly of him, and even Eugene and Dick could not help calling to mind that nothing had been absolutely proved against the doctor.

Julia’s fever reached its crisis. She was liable to pass away at any moment, the doctor said. Those in the house hardly dared to breathe, hardly dared to move, lest a rude current or a grating sound should sever from the body the spirit that seemed only to be hesitating in its flight. Dr. Bilks sat by the bedside. The all-absorbing solicitude of the family was fully shared by him. He gave the medicines and restoratives with his own hand. Other patients, farther removed from the waiting tomb, were forgotten and neglected. All his thought and all his time, all his study and all his anxiety, were devoted to the fair patient whose loving soul seemed to be floating between heaven and earth, and knowing not whether to flee away to the mansions of the blessed, or linger yet longer with the loved ones below.

Mrs. Hungerford occasionally glanced at the doctor, to catch any expression of despondency or hope that might gather on his face. Though her frame was worn out with watching and care, she could not leave the room. Though the doctor had counselled her, as much for the sick one’s sake as for her own, to take the rest she needed, it was impossible for her to be absent even for an hour. Eugene was in the library, thinking only of Julia. Vain and unsatisfying were all worldly hopes; his treasures were only dross. Dick came to Pine Hill often, for he, too, was struggling with emotions he could not conceal. He came not as a comforter; he needed comfort himself; but it was a solace to both to think of her and to speak of her.

While Julia lay in this critical condition, Mary Kingman, forgetting her own wrongs and her own woes, visited the silent mansion. The sick one had been her friend, as no other of her sex had been. She begged the privilege of doing what she might at the bed of Julia. She was permitted to enter the chamber, for the sufferer had often spoken of her in her lucid moments, and expressed much anxiety for her future welfare. A smile on the pale face of the sick girl assured Mrs. Hungerford that her visitor’s presence was agreeable to her; and from that time Mary became a necessity in the sick room.

On one of these days, when a breath would have wafted the spirit of Julia from its earthly tabernacle, was appointed the examination of Richard Birch as accessory, after the fact, to the murder of Buckstone; but there was influence enough to postpone it, and hardly a thought was bestowed upon the matter.

A few more days dragged heavily away, and Dr. Bilks began to speak hesitatingly, and with many qualifications, words of meagre hope; then more decidedly, but still doubtfully. Hardly sleeping an hour at a time, he continued his untiring vigil at the couch of the fair patient. Still mother and brother, friends and servants, watched his countenance, burdened with anxiety, for tidings of weal or woe. Sunday came, and Julia had lain a fortnight upon her bed, which had for many days seemed like the triumphal car upon which the Christian conqueror was to be borne to the courts above to receive her crown immortal. On this day passed away the shadow which had enveloped Pine Hill. Dr. Bilks, no longer doubtful and hesitating, declared that the crisis had been safely passed. Julia was out of danger, and there was nothing to dread but the possible relapse incident to the malady. The pale and haggard ones, who day and night had crept like spectres through the lofty rooms of the Pine Hill mansion, smiled upon each other; and from those hearts which now began to beat again went up a pæan of thanksgiving and praise to Him who had mercifully rolled away the shadow.

Mrs. Hungerford slept now, and Mary Kingman kept vigil at the bedside of the sufferer. The human sympathy which the sad condition of poor Mary had kindled in the heart of the invalid was even more than “twice blessed,” for the kindness and devotion of the nurse were too real to be undervalued. No selfish thought, no calculating policy, entered into the mind of Mary. Julia had come to her when all others forsook her; this was her reflection; and she would gladly wear out her feeble frame in the service of such a friend. She did not see Eugene at all, except as she met him occasionally in the halls while in the discharge of her duties; and then she lingered only long enough to speak a word of Julia.

The invalid continued to improve. She needed nothing now but patient, skilful nursing. Dr. Bilks still devoted his most earnest attention to the patient, though he spent less time in her presence. He not only prescribed costly wines, rare grapes, and other delicacies, but he procured them himself. The sweetest flowers that grew in the greenhouses near the great cities were every day placed in her chamber by his hand. There was nothing which ingenious thought could devise that was not done by him to promote her convalescence. And all this time Dick Birch could not even enter the room of the invalid. As she grew better his visits at Pine Hill became less frequent, and when she was able to leave her room they ceased altogether.

The days of the sunny summer had come. Dr. Bilks directed that his patient should ride out, and he went with her every day. He still spoke of the dreaded relapse, and watched the effect of the gentle exercise he ordered. But no relapse came; and that it did not come was ascribed to the skill and watchful care of the devoted physician. There was none in the house who did not believe that Dr. Bilks was the savior of Julia Hungerford; that if he had been less skilful or less devoted, she could not then have been numbered among the living. Dr. Bilks therefore was not only an honored guest at Pine Hill, but he was regarded with a kind of reverence akin to worship.

Julia herself shared the common feeling. What was outside of her own knowledge and experience was faithfully and enthusiastically delineated 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?”

“I believed it was. When I heard you spoken of as the wealthiest man in this part of the country, I did not despair. It was only when you were cold to me, when you told me we could be only _friends_, that my heart gave up its guest. I did not blame you. I was not a fit mate for one like you. I was not then; still less am I now.”

Mary wept.

“I did not say we could be only friends, Mary.”

“That was what you meant,” sobbed she.

“Far from it.”

“I thought so. This, and being driven from my father’s house, made me listen to Mr. Buckstone. He loved me--at first; at least, I supposed he did.”

“Mary, I am the author of all your miseries and misfortunes.”

“O, no, Mr. Hungerford!”

“I am; if I had spoken the thought that was in my heart, all this could not have happened. Let me atone for my fault by making you mine now.”

“Never, Mr. Hungerford! I should despise myself if I could be so selfish. You know what I am,” said she, bitterly.

“Mary, I love you still.”

“Nay, you cannot love me now.”

“With all my soul. I could have wished that nothing had come between you and me; but I still love you. Why should we be separated?”

“I can hear no more, Mr. Hungerford;” and she started to leave the arbor.

“Do you hate me now because I did not speak when I should have spoken?”

“I never blamed you for turning away from me when your position in society was so changed.”

“It was not changed, Mary. I ask nothing now. Perhaps it was wrong for me to speak of these things at the present time, but my heart would not be silent.”

“Mr. Hungerford, this subject is painful to me. May I ask you not to speak of it again?”

“Never?”

“After my brother’s trial, I will give you a final answer.”

“I am satisfied, Mary.”

They walked back to the house together; and that afternoon Mary returned to The Great Bell.