CHAPTER XXIII.

JULIA HUNGERFORD.

“And this is the end of all my hopes!” exclaimed Dick Birch, as he rushed into his room in the Bell River House. He was gloomy, sad, and despondent. The brightest vision of life had eluded his grasp, for Julia Hungerford was already in the toils of Dr. Bilks. She had forgotten him. If she ever cherished a sentiment of regard for him, it had passed away. He was an outcast from her presence, while the demigod of Pine Hill was constantly with her. There was no difficulty in prophesying what the result would be. In a few months, perhaps a few weeks, she would become the wife of Dr. Bilks; and people would sentimentally add that the life he had saved was consecrated to him.

Eugene was blinded by his sense of obligation to the doctor. What he had seen before he could not see now; but Dick had given him a solemn warning, and he hoped that he would profit by it. The attentions of Dr. Bilks had been too marked to escape the notice of the gossips of Poppleton, and a marriage was confidently expected. Even Dick, now banished from Julia’s presence, accepted the reports; but he could not reconcile himself to such a union. He loved Julia, but he felt that he could conquer his own passion if the one who led her to the altar were worthy of her. To see her the wife of such a man as he believed Dr. Bilks to be was intolerable. He had uttered his warning; it had cost him a great sacrifice of pride to do it; but he had done it, and he could do no more.

Dick Birch had decided what to do; he had already said good by to Eugene, and he intended to leave Poppleton that night. He had not utterly despaired of doing justice to himself and justice to Dr. Bilks. If an angel from heaven had assured him that the doctor was a villain, he could not have been more confident of the fact; but his enemy was as cunning as he was unscrupulous. Thus far he had had his own way; thus far he had explained everything that tended to implicate him, even in a falsehood, and had fortified all his statements till they were plausible to the public mind.

Dr. Bilks was a popular man. He drank whiskey with the tap-room politicians; he talked slang with the fast young men; he breathed piety to the parsons, and gave twenty dollars for foreign missions; he ate the best of suppers at the Bell River House with the lawyers, sea captains, and mill agents; and as a physician, he made old women of both sexes believe they were dying, and then miraculously gave them a new lease of life. He talked and laughed with all men and all women, and compelled even the cavillers to be his friends. He planted an old woman’s corn and potatoes for her with his own hands, and somehow everybody in the place found out what a kind act he had done within twenty-four hours. He carried nice things to the sick rooms of the poor whenever there was a possibility of the fact being known. People did not wish to believe anything ill of such a man; and not wishing to do so, it would have been hard to convince them that the doctor was not a first-class angel.

On the other hand, Dick Birch was rather brusque in his manner. He never went out of his way to make a friend of any man. When he did good deeds, he did them in silence and darkness. If he liked a man, he manifested it; if he did not like him, he did not “toady” to him because he was one of the selectmen, the owner of a factory, or a member of Congress. Dick, therefore, was not a popular man, in the sense that Dr. Bilks had earned this distinction. He was a straightforward, blunt man; but being a gentleman by nature as well as by education, he treated all men with courtesy, and therefore he was not unpopular.

The people were more willing to believe that Dick Birch was a scoundrel than that the doctor even told a falsehood, to say nothing of the crime of perjury. Against such odds it was not easy to contend. Dick did not purpose to contend any longer at present in Poppleton; but he meant to inquire into the doctor’s antecedents. He wished to know whether the popular physician had always been what he appeared to be now. He had been intimate with Dr. Bilks for several months, and he had sufficient material upon which to base his investigations. He intended to follow the doctor from college down to his arrival at Poppleton.

Dick believed that Dr. Bilks had a purpose, though its nature was not readily fathomed. Why did the doctor labor so hard to prove that he, Dick, was with Buckstone on the night of the murder? Was it to conceal his own agency in the affair? Was it to bring him into bad repute with Hungerford, and thus drive him from Pine Hill, and from Julia, that he might woo and wed her himself? Dick would have been satisfied with this last suggestion if it had not involved a greater difficulty. Why was Dr. Bilks persuading Buckstone to marry Mary? In what manner did it concern him? Had all these events, including the murder, been contrived by him to accomplish the one purpose of winning the hand of Julia?

The more Dick thought of these things, the more confused they became. There was something which could not be explained,--a mystery too deep to be fathomed with his present means,--and he resolved to follow up the doctor until he obtained the clew. A purpose makes a man cheerful. Something to be done is a sovereign balm for all the ills of life, and Dick rose from his reflections with a vision of triumph crowning his thought. He left the hotel, and walked over to the bank building, where he had an office, and where, since his voluntary banishment from Pine Hill, he had kept the books and papers of his employer. He adjusted the former and arranged the latter. He drew the balance of his salary, and then carried all the valuables into the bank to be deposited in the safe. He left Eugene’s business in perfect order, as he had always kept it. He wrote a letter, explaining all the operations that needed explanation. His employer’s affairs could not suffer from his absence. He locked the office, left the key with the cashier, and returned to the hotel. His trunk was already packed. He did not wish to see Eugene again. The sight of his friend was almost painful to him, since he could not justify himself.

There was a schooner in the river which was ready to sail for Boston, and would leave at high tide. He intended to depart by this vessel if her captain would take a passenger, and he procured a wagon and driver at the stable to convey him down to the wharf. The captain of the schooner, without giving any reason, refused to take a passenger; probably on account of the popular prejudice against the applicant. He then decided to go as far as Summerville in the wagon. He was fearful that Eugene would follow him, for he knew that his friend would not abandon him, and would not permit him to depart without more remonstrances than he cared to hear. To avoid going by Pine Hill, he ordered his driver to take the Point Road.

He had proceeded but a short distance before he met Hubbard, the fisherman, coming up from his boat. The man hailed him, and expressed a strong desire to speak with him in private. Dick got out, directing his driver to wait for him, and followed Hubbard a short distance down the beach.

“Mr. Birch, I cal’late you think hard of me for what I said on the stand to-day over to Summerville,” Hubbard began.

“By no means; I think you said what you believed to be the truth.”

“I cal’late I did, Mr. Birch. I allus liked you. You did me two or three good turns, and I ain’t the man to forgit a favor.”

“I think you are an honest man, Hubbard; but I am in a hurry just now, and I hope this will satisfy you, so far as I am concerned.”

“I cal’late I’ve got sunthin that you want,” continued Hubbard, with an expressive grin.

“What have you got?”

“I don’t exactly know what it is. This has been a kind of a broken day to me, and I thought, when I got back from Summerville, I’d jest take a turn over to the rocks there on The Great Bell, and see if there was any lobsters there.”

“Did you get any?” asked Dick, with a smile, but rather impatiently, for, not being in the lobster trade, he was not particularly interested in the fisherman’s narrative.

“I cal’late I did get some nice ones; but I don’t reckon you keer much about the lobsters. I found sunthin else.”

“What, Hubbard?”

“I cal’late it’s a piece of paper. I don’t know as it’s good for anything,” continued Hubbard, as he took his greasy wallet from his pocket. “Clean up under the rocks there, beyond the cliff, I found this ’ere.” He took from the wallet a paper stained with dirt, and half pulverized by the action of the salt water. “I cal’late it has been there since the night of the murder. I see Buckstone’s name on it, and that made me think it might be we’th sunthin to you.”

Dick Birch eagerly took the paper. It was the letter he had written to Buckstone. It had been taken from the original envelope, and thrown away, while the letter written by Dr. Bilks for the occasion had been substituted, and replaced in the pocket of the murdered man, where it had been found. This was Dick’s explanation; it might be correct, and might not.

“I thought I would give this to you, Mr. Birch,” added Hubbard.

“You did quite right.”

“I cal’late it’s sunthin to do with the letter you told on in the court.”

“It is; I wrote this letter, but I did not write the one found on the body of Buckstone. Hubbard, Dr. Bilks would have given you a fifty-dollar bill for this letter.”

“Would he?” replied the fisherman, honestly.

“He would. Dr. Bilks is a villain. He sunk that body.”

“I cal’late you can’t make folks believe that,” said Hubbard, incredulously.

“I shall make them believe it, Hubbard, one of these days,” replied Dick, as he took a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket. “You shall lose nothing by bringing this letter to me instead of the doctor.”

“Go ’way, Mr. Birch,” said Hubbard, pushing aside the hand that offered him the bank note. “I don’t want none of your money. I don’t take nothin I hain’t earned.”

“But the doctor would have given you this--perhaps more.”

“I don’t keer for that; I cal’late I ain’t goin to take no fifty dollars for pickin up that letter.”

“But you have done me a very great favor, Hubbard.”

“So much the better for you, and me too. I’m glad on’t. When I earn any money, I allus take it.”

Hubbard positively refused to take the gift, and Dick determined, at some future time, that the honest fisherman should be fully compensated for the important service he had rendered. Hubbard was a simple-minded man, and it is probable that he would have given the note to Dr. Bilks as readily as to Dick if he had happened to meet him first. He did not pretend to know much about the apparent controversy between Mr. Birch and Dr. Bilks, and he was certainly free from any bias for or against either.

Dick requested the fisherman not to mention to any person the fact that he had found the letter, and Hubbard promised not to do so when assured that he might himself be injured. Returning to the wagon he proceeded on his journey to Summerville. He had enough to think of now; though the finding of the letter on the beach, while it confirmed what he had publicly stated, did not add much to his own knowledge. It was passing strange that Dr. Bilks should throw this letter away; it was more remarkable that it should have been preserved so long. Hubbard had volunteered the opinion that the paper had been rolled around a stone and thrown into the water; that the stone had fallen out, and the letter, all crumpled up, had floated, and been driven by the wind under the sheltering rocks, where he had found it. It was certainly more prudent to sink the letter with a stone, than to tear it up, and throw the pieces away, for some of them might be found.

Why had not the letter been burned? Dr. Bilks must have written the forged letter in his office. Did he go over to the island with this letter in his pocket? or did he return to prepare it after Buckstone was killed? Dick adopted the latter theory as the more reasonable; but he made very little progress in his investigation, for the facts were too meagre to enable him to establish a single point. He reached Summerville, discharged his team, and procured another to convey him to Newington, where he intended to take the morning train, and where Eugene would not be likely to follow him. Dick went his way; went to Boston; went to New York; went to Philadelphia; went to Ohio; but we will leave him to pursue his inquiries, and return to Pine Hill.

* * * * *

“Marry Dr. Bilks,” repeated Eugene, as he drove home. Certainly the doctor’s frequent visits--all of which could not be regarded as professional--pointed in this direction. He was more than a physician to her, and yet Eugene had hardly thought of the possibility of such an event as his sister becoming Mrs. Bilks. He had hoped and believed that Dick would be his brother-in-law; but his friend’s sensitiveness had driven him from the field, leaving it open to the doctor.

As Eugene did not wish to believe that Dr. Bilks had artfully conspired to expel Dick from Pine Hill, he found evidence enough in his memory to convince him that such had not been the fact. He was laboring to satisfy himself that both the doctor and Dick were honest and true men, and he finally came to the conclusion that his friend was jealous--that the green-eyed monster was the cause of all his troubles. He would return to the hotel, see Dick again, and persuade him not to leave Poppleton.

“Well, Eugene, what was the result of the examination?” asked Julia, as he entered the sitting-room.

“Dick was discharged.”

“O, I am so glad!” exclaimed she.

“Dick is sorry.”

“How can that be?”

“He thinks his character has not been vindicated.”

“Poor fellow! He is too sensitive.”

“I know he is. Julia, what do you think of Dr. Bilks?” demanded Eugene, abruptly.

“You know what I think of him, Eugene,” she replied, coloring slightly, as though she feared that the gossips’ story was to be rehearsed by her brother.

“Do you think he is an honest man?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Do you think Dick Birch is an honest man?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Both of them cannot be.”

“I am sure they are.”

“Dr. Bilks says he saw Dick on the Point Road the night of the murder; Dick says he was in his chamber.”

“The doctor may be mistaken.”

“He swears, in court, with no qualification whatever, that he saw him with Buckstone. Dick swears to the contrary. One of them has perjured himself. Which is it?”

“Neither; there is some mistake.”

“Julia, do you love Dr. Bilks?”

“What a question!”

“This is a very serious matter; let us consider it before it is too late. Will you answer me? Do you love him?”

“I never thought of such a thing!” exclaimed she.

“Do you love Dick Birch?”

“I never thought of such a thing!” she replied, laughing in her confusion.

“Do you like either of them?”

“Both.”

“Be candid with me, Julia.”

“I am, entirely so.”

“You evade my questions.”

“Indeed, I do not! I like them both.”

“Do you love either of them?”

“No.”

“If either of them had sincerely offered you his hand and heart, would you have accepted him?”

“How should I know?” laughed Julia, to whom these interrogatories were exceedingly distasteful.

“You know that Dick loved you.”

“I ought to know it; he made oath that he did on the stand in court.”

“I am very serious, Julia; and you treat the matter too lightly.”

“As neither Dr. Bilks nor Dick ever spoke a word to me on the subject to which you allude, how can I answer you?”

“Could you have loved Dick well enough to accept him?”

“I could; but I did not.”

“Can you love Dr. Bilks well enough to accept him?”

“I can; but I don’t,” laughed Julia.

“Do you regard his present attentions as merely professional?”

“Friendly, as well as professional.”

“You are not blind, Julia.”

“I am not.”

“You can see what the doctor means.”

“I do not know that he means anything.”

“You must be satisfied that he loves you. Why, he spent seven eighths of his time at Pine Hill, when you were sickest! I don’t think he slept an hour a night for a fortnight. The whole town began to cry out against him because he neglected other patients for you. When you were out of danger, he still came six times where he need have come but once. He has sent special messengers to Boston after grapes and flowers for you. Does all this mean nothing?”

“I think he likes me--loves me, if you please,” replied Julia, more seriously than she had before spoken.

“And you encourage him?”

“He is my physician; I cannot very well discourage him. He has never spoken a word to me of love. I cannot refuse his flowers, or decline to ride or walk with him, without giving him pain. I am very grateful to him for what he has done. What can I do, Eugene?”

“If you do not love him, you ought not to encourage him.”

“I do not dislike him; and I cannot decline his attentions. If he asks me to walk, it is for my health; if he asks me to ride, it is because a ride will benefit my health. He has done nothing which any one might not do for a sick friend.”

“Of course you expect him to make some progress.”

“What do you think I am, Eugene?” demanded she, impatiently. “I expect nothing. I do not dislike him; that is all I can say.”

“Julia, Dick Birch says that Dr. Bilks is an artful, cunning villain.”

“I do not think any better of Dick for saying so,” replied Julia, indignantly.

“Dick honestly believes it.”

“He must not expect me to believe it.”

“You used to think that what Dick said was law and gospel.”

“He did not use to say such things as that.”

“Julia, Dick is going to leave Poppleton--never to return, he says.”

“Of course he has good reasons for going.”

“Do you condemn him, Julia?”

“Far from it! I am sorry for him. I should not think he would go away while everybody doubts his integrity.”

“Julia, have you lost all your regard for Dick?”

“No, Eugene.”

“Which do you like best--him or Dr. Bilks?”

“I cannot answer such questions. I don’t know. I always liked Dick very much. I looked upon him as my best friend, as well as yours. After his confessions on the stand, I thought it best that we should be less intimate. It seems that Dick thought so himself, for I have not seen him since.”

“The best evidence in the world of his noble and generous nature! He loved you too well even to subject you to any invidious remark. He suffers himself to save you from annoyance.”

“Poor fellow!”

“Dr. Bilks is near you all the time, while Dick is self-banished from your presence. But, Julia, you must not encourage Dr. Bilks.”

“Must not?”

“Of course I mean you ought not to do so--at least for the present.”

“I do not mean to encourage him. I am not a beau-hunter.”

“Do not commit yourself, either in word or deed, until this mystery has been solved; until we know whether Dick or the doctor, or both, or neither, is the scoundrel. There is something wrong somewhere. I do not know where. I am completely befogged and bewildered. Like yourself, I cannot condemn either of them. Both are my friends; but one of them must be wrong.”

“Which, Eugene?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have an opinion.”

“There is much that I cannot explain on both sides. Let us wait.”

“Certainly we shall wait; we cannot do otherwise.”

“But, Julia, you must check the doctor.”

“I see nothing to check.”

Julia could not even answer to herself whether she loved Dr. Bilks or Dick. Both of them were friendly, both agreeable. In a comparison of the characters of the two gentlemen, the advantage was in Dick’s favor; but her gratitude to the doctor for his kindness and devotion during her sickness more than offset the other’s advantage. She did not think of a husband, save in the abstract; if she had, perhaps she would have considered one as eligible as the other, and would have been prepared to accept him who spoke first. She did not yet love either, though both were lovable. With one so fair, so young, so accomplished, love could not exist without its complement. A loving look, a sweet word, a pressure of the hand, would have developed the treasures of her affection. She waited, unconsciously, for these tokens; if Dick had given them, probably he would have been accepted; and the same was true of Dr. Bilks.

Julia made no promises; they seemed unnecessary to her. Perhaps she knew less of her own heart than others knew of it. She was not hungering and thirsting for a husband. Fortune had been over lavish to her, and she was too much enamoured of Pine Hill, too much devoted to her mother and her brother, to think of leaving them without the strongest of provocations. Probably she expected to be a wife some time; but she regarded a husband as she did the airs of heaven, that came unbought and unsought. She thought that he who was to be her all-in-all must be the gift of God, in some special manner, and she floated on the tide, a creature of fate and circumstances. She could not possibly marry one she did not love, and she waited unresistingly for her heart to speak her destiny.

Eugene drove down to the Port again, after he had, as he believed, made a proper use of Dick’s solemn warning. He was very nervous, uneasy, perplexed, and anxious, as a man in prison when life and hope are without its walls. He wanted the truth, which should enable him to decide between his two friends, now doubly necessary for Julia’s sake as well as his own. If he could not satisfy himself, he might comfort Dick, and enable him to wait with patience till the final judgment could be pronounced.

He drove up to the hotel. Dick had gone--had taken his trunk, and left with no present intention of returning. Where he had gone no one knew; the man who had driven him to Summerville had not yet returned. When he did return, Eugene hastened to pursue his friend, and win him back. Late in the evening he returned to Pine Hill. Dick was fleeing even from him.