CHAPTER IX.
HEALING THE WOUNDS.
“I see that what I have done does not suit you, Hungerford,” said Dick Birch, as the party entered the house.
“You never made a greater mistake in your life, Dick; I am delighted with it,” replied Eugene.
“Upon my word, you look delighted!” exclaimed Dick. “You took it all so coolly that I expected to be condemned for everything.”
“I could not have done so well myself, if I had been here, Dick. You do me injustice. I entirely approve of all your arrangements.”
Mrs. Hungerford was pleased with the house, and she expressed her satisfaction in her own matronly way. Julia was in ecstasies; and as they walked through the various apartments, she did not attempt to conceal her enthusiasm. Eugene’s thoughts were too busy with the affairs of Mary to permit him to be very deeply interested in the comforts, the luxuries, and the splendors of his new home; but a proper regard for the feelings of his friend, who had labored so diligently and faithfully in fitting up and furnishing the house, induced him to manifest an interest which he hardly felt. His taste in books, furniture, flowers, and pictures had been carefully regarded, and he was pleased with the devotion of Dick, if not greatly so with the work itself.
“I spent a fortnight in the bookstores of Boston and New York, and I have put all your favorite authors on the shelves. But I have only used up half the space, and you can complete the collection yourself,” said Dick, when the ladies had gone to their apartments.
“I see you have, Dick, and I am very grateful to you. Is Mary able to leave her room?”
“Yes; I believe she walks out. What do you think of those pictures, Hungerford?”
“They are entirely to my taste. You haven’t seen Mary you said?”
“No; she is almost a stranger to me, and I could hardly thrust myself into her presence under the circumstances.”
“Quite right, Dick.”
“Do the carpets suit you?”
“Entirely; they are beautiful styles. You said Mary had received a letter from Buckstone?”
“Yes; but I have no idea of its contents. I was in doubt whether to have those chairs in the drawing-room in plush or damask.”
“You did quite right, Dick. Your taste is unexceptionable. What does Ross say about Mary?”
“Very little to me. I have left room in the conservatory for the ladies to please themselves, you perceive.”
“You were very thoughtful, Dick, and I am sure they will appreciate your kindness as I do. How long has Mary been at her father’s, did you say?”
“About two weeks. I have three horses in the stable, besides the span for the carriage. Of course you can increase the number, if you wish.”
“Three, I think, will be quite sufficient for the present, Dick. I hope the family down on The Great Bell don’t want for money.”
“O, no! Ross has drawn all his salary for the year.”
“He might have drawn more.”
“I offered him all the money he wanted. He has repaired the old house, and made quite a change down there. By the way, Hungerford, here is a little business-office adjoining the library, which I haven’t shown you.”
“That shall be for your own use. Do you think Mary would see me, Dick?”
“I don’t know; but I don’t think it would be advisable for you to see her.”
“Why not?”
“I think it would not improve your present morbid state of mind.”
“Morbid?”
“Yes, morbid. You can think of nothing but her. When I speak, you answer me with never a word but ‘Mary.’ I have assured myself that everything was done that could be done for her comfort. If I haven’t accomplished enough, you can do more.”
“I am entirely satisfied, Dick.”
“Then why don’t you let her rest? The mischief has been done, and it cannot be helped. Of course she can be nothing more to you now.”
“No,” replied Eugene, vacantly.
“Then why do you keep dwelling upon her?”
“Dick, I feel that I am the cause of all her misfortunes.”
“Nonsense! What a stupid idea that is!” exclaimed Dick, impatiently, almost angrily.
“Don’t scold at me, Dick; I am as weak as a child.”
“Well, I won’t scold at you; but did ever mortal entertain such a ridiculous notion as that you just now expressed? Doubtless there are a dozen girls in the village who have been unfortunate. If you had proposed to them they might have been saved.”
“But I loved Mary.”
“That does not alter the case.”
“And she loved me.”
“It is all the same.”
“Dick, you told me yourself that I had been tardy; that I did not speak when I ought to have spoken.”
“Does that make you responsible for her misfortune? You meant right.”
“I do not accuse myself of any moral wrong in the matter; but if I had been less cautious she might have been saved.”
“It was your duty to be cautious. With two and a half millions of dollars depending upon your marriage, you would have been guilty, if you had not been cautious, Hungerford. Be a man; don’t reproach yourself, for you are no more responsible for what has happened than I am.”
“But it is terrible to think that I might have saved her, if I had spoken even a word.”
“No, it isn’t terrible. My dear fellow, this is all bosh. Dismiss the whole subject from your mind.”
“That is not so easily done.”
“But you are in duty bound to do it. You are making your mother and your sister miserable by your vain repinings. You have everything to make you happy, and you are resolved to luxuriate in your fancied woes.”
“What can I do, Dick?”
“Drive the whole subject out of your mind. She has been unfortunate in her husband, if he is her husband----”
“My God!” groaned Eugene, refusing to be comforted.
“Come, Hungerford, you are absurd. Listen to me, and I will heal your wounds and hers at the same time.”
“You cannot.”
“Yes, I can. What under the canopy do you wish to do? Do you intend to marry the girl yourself, after what has happened?”
Eugene only looked at him, and his expression was so sad and painful that Dick abandoned the “heroic” method of treatment which he had pursued, and became as gentle as a woman.
“Of course you cannot undo what has been done. Now, Hungerford, if you saw Mary happily situated, would that satisfy you?”
“Happily situated!” repeated Eugene. “How can she be happily situated, after she has been so cruelly mocked and deceived?”
“No matter for that; if you could see her so situated, would you be satisfied?”
“I would; but----”
“No buts about it, my dear fellow. Nay, hear me. All her misery grows out of the fact that she has not been legally married.”
“It is horrible to think of,” said Eugene, with a shudder “Such a gentle, sensitive, angelic nature as Mary’s could endure everything rather than this.”
“Then we will correct it.”
“You are treating this as a matter of business, Dick; just as you bargain for my house and my horses.”
“No, Hungerford; I simply apply common sense to the case. I have a remedy.”
“There is no remedy.”
“Yes, there is. You will not hear me.”
“Go on,” replied the stricken lover, impatiently and hopelessly.
“If Mary is not married, she shall be married. We will have the ceremony performed by your own minister. This Buckstone shall face the music--nay, Hungerford, don’t interrupt me. That will heal the worst wound, and that will satisfy her. Now, as you have plenty of money, you can insure her against want to the last day of her life. Settle twenty thousand dollars upon her. Invest it in stocks; make Ross trustee, and let him pay over to her the income. Let it go to her children at her decease. This plan ought to make you perfectly easy; at least it ought to atone for your fault, if you are guilty of any.”
“O, Dick! To think of healing her wounds with money!” said Eugene, reproachfully.
“Nothing of the kind; we heal the wound with marriage, which is the only balm for her sorrow.”
“Will Buckstone marry her?”
“He will; he shall have the alternative of marrying her, or standing a criminal prosecution.”
“This is revolting, Dick. A villain to marry her in order to avoid a criminal prosecution.”
“It will save her good name; it will make her a wife. When he has done justice to her, he may go, if he pleases.”
“And leave her in her misery?”
“He will not go, Hungerford. He may be a very good fellow yet. Nothing has been proved against him, except that he drinks too much.”
“For shame, Dick! Is it nothing that he tells her she is not his wife?”
“He was tipsy then,” replied Dick, rather tamely, for he could not conceal from himself the fact that he was arguing the case as a lawyer rather than as a just man. “Very likely the remark he made that she was not his wife was only a petulant reply to a sharp question.”
“Mary used no sharp words.”
“But she reproached him for his neglect. As I understand it, Buckstone is one of those periodical drunkards, who have a spree once or twice a year.”
“Do you believe that Buckstone married her, Dick, in Providence?”
“To be honest, I do not believe he intended to do so; but the marriage may be legal, if we can prove it. We will supply the omission.”
“Omission!” groaned Eugene. “You speak of it as though it were a trifling offence, instead of the most monstrous crime of which a man could be guilty.”
“I condemn the crime as strongly as you do. We will redeem him and her as far as we can. Now, Buckstone has written to her; this proves that he has not abandoned her. Probably he has got over his spree, and desires to have her return to him. If so, he shall come to Poppleton, and marry her in the church, so as to remove every doubt. Then you will put her in the way of receiving an income of twelve hundred a year, and the happy couple may go on their way rejoicing.”
“He will still be a drunkard; and he may still abuse and neglect her.”
“But she has the power in her own hands. With the twelve hundred a year in her own right, she will be independent of him. If he leaves her for a month or two, she will not suffer in his absence.”
“What a fate, to be joined to such a man!”
“That is her misfortune. She chose him, and she must abide her choice; there is no help for that. You cannot make a bed of roses for her. She accepted the man, and if she does not choose to live with him, she can leave him.”
Eugene walked up and down the library, considering this plan. Though, in his estimation, it offered Mary no immunity from the miseries of her unfortunate union with Buckstone, it would partially mitigate them. He doubted whether she would accept his bounty; but Dick was certain that he could manage this part of the business through her brother. On the whole, therefore, he was disposed to adopt this as the only method by which he could do anything to smooth the rough path of the poor girl whom he had so fondly loved, whose sweet face and gentle nature still haunted his thoughts.
The more he considered the plan the stronger became his approval, though he still regarded it only as a compromise. This method of healing the wounds of poor Mary, unsatisfactory as it was, had an immediate effect upon the spirits of Eugene. As soon as he had decided to adopt it, he had something to think of--something to turn his thoughts away from the morbid fancies that beset him.
“I like your plan very well, Dick; but only because it is the best that can be done,” said he, seating himself in the luxurious arm-chair before his friend.
“Hungerford, it is not only the best that can be done, but it is very good in itself. It is noble and generous on your part, and Mary ought to be happy.”
“She cannot be.”
“You prejudge the case. She has no claim upon you, but you are treating her like a princess. She will go to New York with her husband, and though she will have her trials, as all must, she will be better off than half the wives in the world. But after all, Hungerford, I propose this method for your sake rather than hers. It will heal your wounds, as well as hers.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You are determined to be obstinate; to make your mother and sister unhappy by moping over this thing.”
“No, Dick; for their sake, I will be cheerful and happy, if I can.”
“You can; you are not a weak-minded man; you can banish the whole thing from your mind if you will.”
“I shall try.”
“Then you will succeed. There are other women in the world besides Mary--girls as beautiful, as gentle, and as loving.”
“They are not Mary.”
“No; they are Ellen, and Carrie, and Alice, and Emma. A rose by any other name will smell as sweet. You will find one who will make you a loving and accomplished wife.”
“Don’t speak of marriage to me, Dick. I am disgusted,” said Eugene, petulantly.
“Just now you are, my dear fellow; but you will get over it, and within the five years now left to accomplish your destiny, you will marry, and at the age of thirty the three millions will drop into your coffers.”
“No, Dick; though I may possibly marry, I shall not do it so as to comply with the conditions of my uncle’s will. I have even made up my mind that it would be wrong for me to do so.”
“What do you mean, Hungerford? Are you crazy? Has this thing turned your head?” demanded Dick, who, however, had long ago learned not to be surprised at anything his friend should do.
“I am sane and reasonable, Dick. Look at it a moment. If I comply with the conditions of the will, so far as I can do so, and if Providence should bless me with a son, so that the three millions would be legally mine, what would be the result?”
“The three millions would be the result, of course,” laughed Dick.
“What else?”
“Anything else you please; it will depend upon how you use your money.”
“By the conditions of the will, the three millions are to be divided into six equal parts, if I have no son. One part would be mine, which is all-sufficient for me. I ask for no more. I confess, if I was to be left a poor man by it, I should not be so likely to entertain my present views.”
“But the three millions were intended for you upon certain conditions, and you ought to have the money.”
“If I have the three millions, I shall cheat my sister out of half a million.”
“By no means: you can give her the half million if you choose.”
For some reason or other Dick seemed to be embarrassed when he had said this, as though a selfish consideration was intruding itself upon him.
“But she is satisfied; and I hope you will not do it.”
“Beyond this, I should deprive the other contingent legatees of their share.”
“Dr. ---- What is his name?”
“Tom Lynch.”
“Dr. Lynch; pray what possible claim can he have upon you, or upon your uncle’s estate? By the way, there are some letters from the trustees in the office. I did not deem them of importance enough to send to you; but in one of them Mr. Lester says this Dr. Lynch is a miserable reprobate, and has about run through the legacy your uncle left him.”
“That is not my affair. I do not wish to deprive him of what my uncle was disposed to give him on a certain condition. Then, by the will, a million and a half is to go to three great charitable enterprises. If I could rob the individuals, I could not take from the poor of Baltimore this great boon.”
“Your uncle did not leave them a single cent of what you mention. It was not his wish that these institutions should be founded; if it had been, he would have left the money unconditionally. It was his last and most earnest desire that the three millions should be inherited by your son, under the name of John Hungerford. This was his meaning; this was his wish, his hope; and you have no right to set aside his intentions. If you take any of his money, you are bound by every consideration of respect, affection, and gratitude, to carry out his design, even if you think it absurd to do so. What right have you to set yourself up as a judge of your uncle’s purposes? The three millions belonged to him, and he had the undoubted right to dispose of it as he pleased. If you decline to do what he wished you to do, you have no moral right to take any of his money.”
“Perhaps you are right, Dick.”
“I know I am. I am very clear that it is your duty to get married, and carry out the intentions of your uncle by doing so.”
“I certainly shall not marry to obtain the three millions.”
“You certainly should not avoid matrimony in order to defeat your uncle’s last wishes.”
“I will not. Let things take their course just as though no three millions were pending.”
“If you will only do that, I will be satisfied. Be yourself; that is all I ask of you. But tea is ready. Let me escort you to the dining-room.”
Eugene joined his mother and sister at the table. He was more composed and reasonable than when he first entered the house; and he began, in some slight degree, to enjoy the comforts and luxuries of his new home. The charge which Dick had made against him, of conspiring against the peace and happiness of the other members of the family, had produced a deep impression upon his mind, and he labored to be cheerful. But the plan to mitigate the sorrows of poor Mary afforded him some comfort, and his cheerfulness was not all a pretence.
A man had been sent for Ross Kingman, and before tea was over, the skipper of the yacht arrived. Dick, after charging Eugene not to mention to her brother the scheme for healing Mary’s wounds, went out with Mrs. Hungerford and Julia to walk in the grounds around the house. He preferred to manage this business himself, fearful that Eugene, in his excited state of mind, might make some mistake, and thus defeat his own kind intentions.
“I am glad to see you, Ross,” said Eugene.
“Thank you, Mr. Hungerford; it does me good to see your face once more,” replied Ross, grasping the offered hand of Eugene. “The yacht is finished, sir, and if you will take my word for it, she is a beauty.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“I have been out in her several times. She has made twelve knots with the wind free, and nine close-hauled. She works as handy as a skiff, and behaves like a lady, in a sea.”
“I dare say,” added Eugene, rather coldly.
“Mr. Birch attended to fitting up the cabins; and they are as handsome as your parlor.”
“I have no doubt she is everything I could wish.”
“There was one thing you forgot, and that was, a name for her.”
“We will attend to that at another time. Ross, how is Mary?”
“Well, she is improving. She walked out to-day, but she feels very bad.”
“Poor girl!” sighed Eugene.
“I have cried more within a month than I ever did in the same time when I was a baby. You have no idea, Mr. Hungerford, how she took on when I first saw her. I was afraid she would go crazy.”
“Poor Mary!” was all Eugene could say.
“I brought her home as soon as I could, and I have staid with her most of the time since. She is my own sister, you know, and she sets a great deal by me, and I do by her. She don’t like to have me away from her.”
“I will not keep you long, Ross.”
“O! she don’t mind a few hours at a time.”
“What does she say about Mr. Buckstone?”
“Nothing; not a word. Mary is a Christian, if there is one in the world, and she won’t even let me abuse him.”
Ross clinched his fists and grated his teeth. He indulged in a few expletives, which seemed to relieve his mind; but it was evident that it would not be safe to let the outraged brother see the artist.
“Where is Mr. Buckstone, now?”
“I don’t know; it is lucky for him I do not,” replied Ross, fiercely.
“Don’t do anything rash, if you should meet him, Ross,” continued Eugene, impressed by the savage tones and the mischievous looks of the young man.
“Mr. Hungerford, it’s no use to talk to me about this matter; if I should see the villain, I would tear him in pieces! I would pull out his heart, if I had to be hanged for it the next minute!”
“Don’t you touch him, Ross.”
“If I saw him, I couldn’t help it. Why, the scoundrel did not even marry her! He cheated her!”
“You are not sure of that.”
“I am sure of it.”
“What is your evidence?”
“He told her so himself.”
“He was intoxicated and angry then.”
“Why did he desert her, just as she was about to become a mother?”
“She has had a letter from him since she came to Poppleton, I learn.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did he say?”
“He pretends to be sorry for what he has done, promises never to drink any more, and wants her to return.”
“Does he say anything about the marriage in the letter?”
“Not a word; but he says he shall come and see her soon. He had better not,” added Ross, with compressed lips and gleaming eyes.
“Don’t harm him, Ross; perhaps the matter may be settled.”
“Settled!” exclaimed Ross, jumping out of his chair. “He can’t settle this matter, but I can, if I get my hand upon him!”
“If you should assault him, or anything of that kind, you might injure your sister more than you injured him.”
“I hope he will keep out of my way, Mr. Hungerford; but if I see him, his doom is sealed.”
“We are going to do something for Mary, Ross; we are going to restore her good name, at least. Now, you must not defeat our intentions by any rashness on your part. Keep cool, Ross.”
“How can I keep cool, Mr. Hungerford, when my poor sister has been ruined by a villain?”
Ross wept like a child, and Eugene felt that his own grief was not to be compared with his. When they parted, he counselled him repeatedly not to resort to any violence, if Mr. Buckstone should visit The Great Bell.