Three millions_ _ or_ The way of the world Oliver Optic 26871 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Three millions!
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Three millions!
or, The way of the world

Author: Oliver Optic

Release date: July 23, 2025 [eBook #76553]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston, MA: Lee and Shepard Publishers, 1891

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76553

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE
MILLIONS! ***

TO
HIRAM CLAPP, ESQ.,
This Book
IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
BY HIS FRIEND
WILLIAM T. ADAMS.

DRIFTING TO SEA.

THREE MILLIONS!
OR

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

BY
WILLIAM T. ADAMS
(OLIVER OPTIC)
AUTHOR OF “LIVING TOO FAST,” “IN DOORS AND OUT,” “TAKEN BY THE ENEMY,”

“WITHIN THE ENEMY’S LINES,” “ON THE BLOCKADE,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

BOSTON MDCCCXCI
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS
10 MILK STREET NEXT “THE OLD SOUTH MEETING HOUSE”

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by

WILLIAM T. ADAMS,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

Copyright, 1894, by William T. Adams

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I. Three Millions. 7
II. Mr. Eliot Buckstone. 21
III. The Hungerford Family. 33
IV. Off the Great Bell. 45
V. The Kingman Family. 58
VI. A Strange Story. 71
VII. Poor Mary! 83
VIII. To Europe and Back. 96
IX. Healing the Wounds. 109
X. Ross Kingman. 122
XI. Doctor Bilks. 135
XII. Dick Birch. 144
XIII. Dick under a Shadow. 161
XIV. In the Library. 174
XV. Dr. Bilks on the Stand. 188
XVI. Dr. Bilks’s Baby. 203
XVII. The Settlement. 217
XVIII. Evidence Wanted. 231
XIX. The Rope and the Weight. 244
XX. The Shadow at Pine Hill. 256
XXI. The Demigod of Pine Hill. 269
XXII. Dick Birch’s Suggestion. 282
XXIII. Julia Hungerford. 296
XXIV. Poppleton Gospel. 309
XXV. Doctor Lynch. 321
XXVI. The Penitent Demigod. 335

XXVII. The Verdict. 349
XXVIII. The Doctor Himself again. 362
XXIX. Forgive and Forget. 374
XXX. The Rustic Bridge. 387
XXXI. A Homœopathic Dose. 400
XXXII. Criminal Carelessness. 412
XXXIII. Dick Birch and Lady. 425
XXXIV. Thirty Years Old. 438
XXXV. The Last of the Three Millions. 450

THE
WAY OF THE WORLD.

CHAPTER I.
THREE MILLIONS.
THREE million dollars! In round numbers, three million dollars, after the
legacies to individuals and the bequests to charitable institutions had been
paid!
Three million dollars! Suggestive of mighty air-castles, of untold grandeur,
of matchless liberality to the poor and needy! Suggestive, also, of long and
weary years of patient seeking after worldly wealth, of painful struggles
with adverse circumstances, and of parsimonious self-denial extending even
to the very necessities of life.
There had been three great epochs in the life of John Hungerford, the
Baltimore millionnaire, at each of which he had annexed a zero to the
number indicating his worldly wealth; and it must also be said that he was
continually adding zeros to the sum total of his moral and spiritual
possessions. When he commenced his business career, he had three
thousand dollars. Operating with care and prudence, it required twenty
years to annex the first zero, and he was forty-one when the first financial
cycle was completed. Another twenty years of care and toil annexed the
second zero, and John Hungerford was more than threescore. Then fortune,
always constant, became lavish, and the very skies seemed to rain down
wealth. His real estate doubled, tripled, and quadrupled, and ten years
placed the third and last zero against the accumulations of his lifetime.
Then, having passed his threescore years and ten, he retired from active
business with fear and trembling for the stupendous fortune he had made.
Only three years more of life were vouchsafed to him; but one with his
simple habits could not spend a tithe of his income, and another half million
was added, almost in spite of himself.
Wherefore had John Hungerford struggled so patiently with the tide of
fortune? Wherefore had he neglected his body and his soul for fifty long
years? Wherefore had he lived in a mean house, upon the coarsest fare, with
never a horse, and hardly a servant to ease his toilsome but successful
march up to the pinnacle of his worldly ambition? He had not a child to

inherit his hard-earned gains. He had no friends but those who had been
constant to him in business relations, and they never crossed the threshold
of his homely dwelling. Nothing but the love of wealth could have
sustained him in his fierce struggles for the mammon of the world.
Yet John Hungerford was not a bad man. He had cheated no one; had never
wronged the widow and the fatherless. He had no friends, because he
wanted none; his blood relations had long ago ceased to darken his doors,
feeling that they were not welcome guests. They were few in number,
including only the son and daughter of his only brother, for the Baltimore
millionnaire could boast of no long line of ancestors, and the family tree, so
far as his knowledge extended, had its root in the preceding generation.
John Hungerford, senior, had never known a father or a mother. He was, at
his earliest recollection, an inmate of an English workhouse, and he had at a
tender age been bound out to a farmer. From this humble beginning he had
bettered his condition until he was able to save a few pounds, when he
married. Prosperity smiled upon him in a small way, and about the year
1790 he had emigrated to America, bringing with him his wife and his four
children, the oldest of whom, John, junior, was nineteen years of age, while
the youngest, James, was twelve.
The whole family went to work in good earnest, and for a year were
prosperous and happy; but the angel of death swept through the contented
household during the following year. A malignant fever carried off first the
mother, then the two daughters, and finally the father, leaving only John and
James to mourn the wreck which death had made in their home. The old
man, who had learned industry and thrift in an English workhouse, left six
thousand dollars.
John was now twenty-one years of age, and, besides receiving the portion
that fell to him, he was appointed the guardian of his younger brother. Then
he commenced the career of which we have given the result at the
beginning of this chapter. James worked in a store till he was of age; and
then, with his three thousand dollars, which John promptly paid to him,
with interest, he went farther north, where he invested his little capital in a
cotton-mill, and obtained the situation of overseer in the factory.
James Hungerford had none of the genius for money getting which
distinguished his brother. He was content with his position in the cotton-

mill, and hardly doubled his capital in twenty years. At the age of thirty-
four he married a lady of twenty; but it was ten years later when his first
child, Eugene, was born, who was followed, four years after, by a daughter,
Julia.
When the patient, plodding father died at the age of fifty-four, he left only
the small cottage in which he lived, and the three thousand dollars in mill
stock, which had paid him dividends for over thirty years. Mrs. Hungerford
was a prudent and skilful woman, and she contrived to live very
comfortably with her little family on the income of the stock, still
occupying the small cottage which her husband had left. At this time John
Hungerford had added the second zero to the number which indicated his
wealth. For many years there had been no regular communication between
the families of John and James. Mrs. Hungerford had written to her brother-
in-law, whom she had never seen, the particulars of the death of her
husband. A prompt reply had been returned, in which the man of money
deplored the loss of the husband and father, and even intimated that, if any
assistance were required, it would be rendered. The widow was too high-
spirited and self-reliant to make any demands upon the wealthy brother, and
she replied that her family was in comfortable circumstances, and had no
occasion to trespass upon his liberality.
In the mean time John himself, at the age of fifty-three, had married a
widow who was the mother of a boy four years of age. Mrs. Lynch, who
became Mrs. Hungerford by this arrangement, was an ambitious woman,
who knew something of the extent of her husband’s possessions; but she
found that John had an iron will. He would not even move from the mean
dwelling he occupied to one better adapted to a man of his wealth. Few and
slight were the changes adopted in the household; indeed, they were little
more than the substitution of a wife for a housekeeper. The widow was
disappointed and indignant; but John was growing old, and she temporized
with the present that the future might yield a golden harvest.
The man of wealth, as before hinted, was not a bad nor a hard-hearted man,
and though Tom Lynch, his wife’s son, was not the most promising youth in
the world, John Hungerford derived a solid pleasure from his company, and
favors which the mother could not obtain were readily won by the son. Mrs.
Hungerford was delighted with these indications, and hoped and expected
that her boy would be the fortunate heir of the rich man. She kept the peace,

and submitted to her disappointments in the most exemplary manner,
believing that the day of her triumph was not far distant.
Tom Lynch, in due time, was sent to a Pennsylvania college by his
indulgent step-father, who had thus far obstinately refused to die, as his
loving wife wished; and when John Hungerford had closed up his
warehouses, and nominally retired from business, Tom had been graduated,
and was studying a profession in Philadelphia.
When his wife’s son had completed his collegiate course, a bright thought
entered the brain of the millionnaire. As sending Tom to college had not
ruined him, it occurred to him that he might make another venture of the
same kind. Having more time on his hands than ever before, having, in fact,
so closed up his business that he had little to do but collect and invest his
income, he had bestowed a thought upon the family of his brother James. In
six lines of a letter, penned with difficulty, he had informed the widow
Hungerford that he was tolerably well, and wished to know something
about her family. The answer assured him that all were well and happy; that
the children were growing finely, and in due time would doubtless ripen
into an excellent young man and an excellent young woman. Eugene, she
wrote, had particularly distinguished himself as a scholar, and a minister of
Poppleton had intimated that the young man ought to be sent to college;
but, the widow added, her means were utterly insufficient to enable her to
carry out such a magnificent project, though her son would be rejoiced to
continue his studies. She declared that Eugene was a noble boy, and
submitted without a murmur to his disappointment. In a few weeks he
would go into a store.
Whether the statement was intended as a hint or not, the uncle promptly
sent her a draft for two thousand dollars, which he thought would take the
boy through college handsomely. The letter of thanks in which this gift was
acknowledged was so warm and earnest, that the old man’s heart was
kindled to finer issues than he had ever before known. He wrote again,
insisting that Mrs. Hungerford and her two children should visit him in
Baltimore without delay. He was too old and feeble to go to them, and they
must come to him. Of course the widow could raise no objections to a
project so reasonable, and she immediately announced her intention to
accept the invitation. Though she was an independent and high-minded
woman, who would not thrust herself or her children upon the notice of her

wealthy brother-in-law, very likely she felt that it would be trifling with
Providence to neglect this opportunity to improve the relations subsisting
between them and the childless millionnaire.
John Hungerford told his wife what he had done, and announced the visit of
his relatives. She turned pale, and trembled for the future of her son. She
would have rebelled, if policy had not suggested a milder course, and she
only declared that the house was in no condition to receive guests. The only
practical result of the lady’s protest was, a few hundred dollars were spent
in “tidying” up the establishment.
Mrs. Hungerford and her children came. They were kindly welcomed by the
old man, and prudentially welcomed by the old man’s wife. It is true the
visitors were astonished to find that the man of millions dwelt in a mean,
poorly furnished house, without the slightest pretension to luxury or style;
but they made no comments. Uncle John was kind and attentive to them;
and this was all they could expect of him. Eugene was a fine, manly youth
of seventeen, gentle and winning in all his ways; and the fond mother could
hardly conceal her satisfaction, when, at the expiration of a week, she
realized that her boy was a decided favorite of the old man. The boy was
too artless to be mercenary; so he resorted to no tricks to win the regards of
his uncle.
John Hungerford was too keenly schooled in human nature to be deceived
by a false show of attention. He read his nephew’s noble nature; he
understood it perfectly; and day by day the old man’s wife became more
troubled and anxious about the prospects of her son. The visit was
terminated only when Eugene was obliged to return home to attend the
examination for admission to Harvard College. The uncle expressed his
desire that the visit should be repeated, and Mrs. Hungerford readily
promised to come again.
Tom Lynch went home to spend his vacation a few months after the
departure of the widow and her family. His mother imparted to him the
appalling intelligence that he was in danger of being supplanted in the
regards of her husband; but the young man was confident, and by every art
and device which his ingenuity could suggest, he labored to make himself
useful and agreeable to his step-father. His mother still dreaded the
impending evil. John Hungerford, so far as she knew, had made no will. As

the case now stood, the children of James Hungerford were his sole heirs.
Nothing but a wife’s portion could come to her, and her son would be
utterly excluded from the division. She did not dare to suggest the propriety
of his making a will; but she commenced upon a series of hints, and a
course of expedients, which were intended to effect her purpose. Thus
months and years wore away, and Eugene Hungerford was graduated at
Harvard; but the visit to Baltimore was not repeated.
Long and not very patiently had Mrs. Hungerford been waiting for the old
man to die. He was aged and feeble, and he would be better off in heaven
than upon the earth. It would be better for him to die, even though she
obtained no more than her legal share of his estates. More must be obtained
if possible, and while she was hinting and studying up expedients, which
the superannuated millionnaire persistently refused to notice, she died
herself: a violent attack of disease carried her off even before her son could
arrive to close her eyes in death.
John Hungerford was alone in the world again. Perhaps his experience of
wedded life had not been wholly satisfactory; at any rate, he bore his
bereavement with much calmness and resignation, and meekly submitted to
the necessity of supplying the place of the departed one by employing a
housekeeper. If this sudden death in his little family had no other influence
upon him, it forcibly reminded him of the uncertainty of life. For two whole
years he labored upon his will, elaborating whole pages of details, freely
consulting his business friends, before he instructed the lawyer to embody
his intentions in legal forms. Strange as it may seem, he did not send for his
brother’s family, as he had intimated he should, at least once a year. Mrs.
Hungerford wrote to him occasionally, and with business-like promptness
he answered her letters; but no invitation came for the family to repeat the
visit. After the death of his wife, his sister-in-law had even proposed to
move to Baltimore, and take care of him in his age and feebleness; but the
old man, evading a direct reply, continued to study upon the details of his
will, which document certainly promised to be the crowning work of his
life. He wrote that he was so much occupied, the visit must be deferred; and
he continued to postpone it, until one morning his housekeeper found him
dead in his bed.
Three staid, dignified, elderly merchants had been John Hungerford’s most
intimate friends—friends only in the worldly and business sense. They had

been his advisers, and during those two years of patient toil over his will—
the master-work of his career—they had been occasional visitors in the little
back parlor where the millionnaire now spent most of his time. They had
furnished him with all his information of the outer world, and assisted him,
so far as they could, in performing the task on which all his remaining
energies were concentrated. For two weeks the best lawyer in the city had
been closeted with John Hungerford during a portion of each day; and the
great deed which finally disposed of the old man’s immense property was
completed only a few days before his death. Perhaps he felt that he had
nothing more to live for; and permitting his energies to relax, this
suspension of his wonted activity had hastened his death.
The housekeeper sent for John’s trio of business friends as soon as she
discovered that the vital spark had fled. One after the other they came, and
when all had arrived, a solemn and dignified conference was held. There
were no friends to be sent for but the Hungerfords of Poppleton, and Tom
Lynch, who was attempting to establish himself as a physician in an interior
town of Ohio, though reports came to Baltimore that he was too unsteady to
achieve a success. Telegraph messages were immediately sent to Mrs.
Hungerford and Tom Lynch. The former, with her family, arrived in season
to attend the funeral, but the despatch did not promptly reach the young
physician, and he did not appear.
John Hungerford went to his grave in greater state than he had ever moved
in the flesh, for the three eminent merchants who managed the affair had a
high regard for the proprieties of the solemn occasion. A long procession of
carriages, occupied by men and women who were willing to join the
brilliant funeral cortége for the gloomy excitement of the scene, though
they had no interest in, and only a few had any acquaintance with, the
deceased, followed the plumed hearse to the cemetery, and the tomb closed
upon all that was mortal of the Baltimore millionnaire.
After the old man’s dust had been solemnly disposed of, there was an
intense curiosity to ascertain what disposition he had made of his princely
fortune. This was really the most interesting question connected with the
life or death of the departed. Few, if any, asked what he was; all, what he
had. Hardly one wanted to know what pleasant memories he had left behind
him; all, the sum total of his worldly possessions. None but fanatics asked
where the old man had gone; but every one, where his fortune was to go.

What John Hungerford had been doing in the little back parlor for the last
two years was to be made manifest. It had cost the old man fifty years of
severe struggles to get his three and a half millions; it had cost him two
years of diligent thought, and what struggles none could know,—it had cost
him two years of hard labor, more trying, perhaps, in his age and feebleness,
than the half century of toil in the vigor of his healthy life,—to give it away.
The will was read. There were present at the reading only the three eminent
merchants, the Hungerford family from Poppleton, and the housekeeper.
Mrs. Hungerford was quiet and self-possessed. The neglect to send for her,
as had been arranged with her brother-in-law, to pay the proposed annual
visits, had prepared her to expect nothing more than a simple remembrance.
Her son, Eugene, was calm and dignified, but there was something in the
expression of his manly face which indicated his dislike of the proceedings.
Like his mother, he was independent and self-reliant; and, very likely, he
felt that the position of the family before the lawyer and the merchants was
an exceedingly unpleasant one. They were to be regarded as expectants, if
not supplicants, before the still closed coffers of the dead man; but Eugene
repudiated the position. He asked nothing, expected nothing. He was deeply
grateful to his uncle for the means of obtaining his education, and he was
prepared to be entirely satisfied if this proved to be the total of his
indebtedness to the deceased.
Julia Hungerford was nineteen, and she was so fair to look upon that even
the dignified merchants stole frequent glances at her, as she sat annoyed and
embarrassed, like her brother and her mother, by the awkwardness of the
situation.
The lawyer read, and two mortal hours were consumed in the reading; and
more of John Hungerford’s life and thought was revealed than the world
had ever known before. No one had ever suspected the millionnaire of any
family ambition, or of any special affection for the name he bore; but this
posthumous document convinced the listeners that the old man regarded the
word “Hungerford” as the apple of his eye. The two years of hard reflection
had been employed in devising schemes to prevent the name of Hungerford
from being forgotten. He had labored to honor it and to perpetuate it.
The great disappointment of John Hungerford’s life, as the truth was educed
from the will, was, that no son had blessed his lot—no son to be called John

Hungerford, to live like a prince, and to keep the name alive. The testator,
however, was not to be wholly balked. He was strenuous for the whole
name of John Hungerford; and in spite of his disappointment, he
determined to have a representative in the future who should be known and
called as he had been known and called. It appeared that he had intended at
one time to make Tom Lynch change his name, and become the fortunate
owner of the appellation; but the young man had shown a disposition to
follow after strange gods, and was not therefore a suitable person to support
the honor and dignity of the Hungerford name, and the plan was discarded
for the one which was now shadowed forth in the will. But even this might
fail, and the old man, in this event, had finally resolved to satisfy himself by
rendering immortal and glorious the single name of Hungerford, though his
hopes and expectations still coupled it with the dearly beloved John.
To the end that his intentions might be clearly understood, the deceased had
compelled the unwilling lawyer to preface the will with the matter from
which the information we have given is derived; and it was estimated that
the word “Whereas” occurred two hundred and some odd number of times
in the folios devoted to this preliminary statement. But this story, in spite of
the legal verbiage with which it was encumbered, proved to be of the
deepest interest to all present, even including the eminent merchants, whose
ideas were generally expressed by figures.
The reader turned the folios for an hour before he came to the pith and
cream of the document, the masterpiece of John Hungerford’s labors.
“Imprimis” gave to John Lester, Edward Baker, and Loring Greene, the
eminent merchants, each the sum of fifty thousand dollars. These gentlemen
were John’s best friends, and he made them his executors and trustees for
the disposal of his property as “hereinafter mentioned.” To the widow of his
late brother James he gave twenty thousand dollars. To Julia Hungerford
and Thomas Lynch he gave a like sum. Then were mentioned twenty-eight
literary, scientific, and charitable associations, to each of which the testator
gave the sum of ten thousand dollars. John Hungerford must have been
terribly puzzled to find all these names, and without the assistance of the
eminent merchants he would certainly have neglected many of them. He
was impartial in his bequests, for without regard to the objects or the
magnitude of the enterprises to which he contributed, he gave to each the
same sum.

These bequests, with an allowance of ten thousand dollars for present
expenses of probate—there were no stamps then—used up only the half
million, which was but a kind of flourish on the end of John Hungerford’s
fortune, and which had accumulated since he retired from active pursuits.
The grand army of zeros, marshalled by its significant three, was yet in the
field, and the three eminent merchants actually gasped with anxiety to hear
the name of the residuary legatee. And now came John Hungerford’s dying
crotchet; now came the notable scheme by which John Hungerford, dead
and in his grave, was to be represented in the coming generation by a John
Hungerford, alive and glorious in the possession of a princely fortune; or,
failing the “John,” by which the name of Hungerford, simply, was to be
honorably sent down to remote ages.
The whole three millions was to be placed in the hands of the eminent
merchants, as trustees, who for their valuable services were to receive a
fixed sum per annum, the whole income of which, after deducting the
expenses, was to be paid to his “beloved nephew,” Eugene Hungerford.
Eugene did not faint when he heard that he was to be the recipient of one
hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year, but his mother absolutely
gasped for breath.
The lawyer proceeded. The eminent trustees were to retain possession of the
three millions, all safely and profitably invested at the present time, until
the before-mentioned beloved nephew, Eugene Hungerford, had attained the
age of thirty years; at which time, if the said Eugene was legally married,
and was the legal father of a legal son, then the said eminent trustees should
pay over to the said beloved nephew, Eugene Hungerford, the said legal
father of the said legal son, absolutely and irrevocably the said three
millions, now invested as aforesaid: provided that the name of John
Hungerford shall be unchangeably given by the said legal father to the said
legal son.
Eugene twisted uneasily in his chair. Mrs. Hungerford looked very
complacent, as though the conditions of the will, in her estimation, were not
very difficult to be complied with. Julia wanted to laugh, but the eminent
merchants, who continued to glance at her occasionally, were too solemn
and dignified to permit her to indulge in any levity.

The reading was not finished. If the said beloved nephew was not married
when he attained the said age of thirty; or, if married, and being the legal
father of a legal daughter or daughters only, and not being the said legal
father of a said legal son; or if the said son was called by any other than the
said name of “John Hungerford,”—then the three millions was to be
shattered and divided into six equal parts of half a million each; one part to
be paid to the said beloved nephew, Eugene Hungerford; one part to the
before-mentioned beloved niece, Julia Hungerford; one part to the son of
his late wife, Thomas Lynch; one part to the Hungerford Orphan Asylum;
one part to the Hungerford Institute for Aged Women; and one part to the
Hungerford Home for Aged Men.
Every provision of the will was carefully set forth, and nicely protected
from any possible misconstruction. John made things strong. It was duly
signed and sealed, and was witnessed by the twelve proprietors of the
twelve nearest stores; for though the testator knew that three witnesses were
enough, he insisted upon having an army of them, at least one half of whom
should not be over thirty years of age; so that if any trouble came, some of
them could be found, and not all of them would have died of old age.
The reading of the will was completed. The eminent merchants and the
sharp lawyer congratulated Eugene, his mother, and especially his sister.
They were astonishingly polite to the whole family. Eugene tried to be good
natured, but, with his peculiar temperament, he found it even more difficult
than if he had been cut off with a shilling. As Eugene is the hero of the
story, we will not attempt to use him up in the first chapter, or even to
indicate his views of the magnificent position to which he had suddenly
been elevated.
Tom Lynch had not yet been heard from, and Eugene, after listening to all
the trustees had to say, started for Poppleton with his mother and sister.

CHAPTER II.
MR. ELIOT BUCKSTONE.
THE view from Poppleton Point was very fine. A marine painter sat making
a sketch where the spray from the sea which beat upon the rocks below
spattered his patent leather boots. He was wholly absorbed in his work, and
one with a taste for the grand and beautiful, engaged in such a task, might
well be pardoned for knowing nothing else. The Point was the eastern
boundary of the northern coast line of the estuary into which Bell River
disembogued. At an average distance of half a mile from the shore lay two
islands, which had been named from their shape The Great Bell and The
Little Bell. Just above the latter, on the north side of the river, was Port
Poppleton, a village of four thousand inhabitants, who were principally
engaged in the coasting and fishing business.
Above its mouth Bell River made two turns, which gave it the form of the
letter S. The country was hilly and rocky, and the stream had been forced
into a tortuous way in its path to the sea. Two miles north of the Port was
another village, within the corporate limits of the town, which went by the
name of Poppleton Mills. The place was a live New England town, with
some farming, some fishing, some coasting, some ship-building, a great
deal of trade with Boston and Portland by land and by sea, but the principal
interest was the cotton factories.
The mouth of Bell River was surrounded by rocks, and the region to the
southward was rather noted for its fine scenery. The gunning and fishing in
the vicinity were first class. Not only were the finest cod, haddock, perch,
and tautog caught in the sea off the Port, but the finest pickerel and pouts
were taken in the river above the Mills, and the finest trout in the brooks
which flowed into it. It was therefore a paradise for sportsmen and summer
idlers, and two very comfortable hotels in the lower village were usually
well filled with visitors for four months in the year. Port Poppleton was
rapidly acquiring a reputation as a watering-place, on a small scale.
Mr. Eliot Buckstone, marine painter from the city of New York, sat on a
rock at the extremity of Poppleton Point. He had taken a room at the Bell

River House for a fortnight, and was just now at the height of earthly
felicity in the enjoyment of the luxuries of the place, not the least of which,
to his artistic soul, was the view from the Point. He watched the green
waves, as they rolled up from the sea, and broke themselves in flaky spray
upon the rocks of the Great Bell. This was the scene he was sketching. He
had already outlined the rocks, with the curling billows shattering
themselves upon them, and the dilapidated farm-house and barn which
occupied the highest part of the island.
“Help! help!”
Eliot Buckstone dropped his sketch-book and pencil, and sprang to his feet,
for the tones were those of a woman.
“Help! Help!”
It was the voice of a woman, but the accents were not so deeply burdened
with terror as the words would seem to indicate. Mr. Buckstone glanced in
the direction from which the appeal came, and discovered a small boat,
containing a female. She uttered no wild screams, she made no extravagant
gestures; and as her tones, gentle and supplicatory as they were, had before
informed him, she did not appear to be seriously alarmed. The strong tide
was bearing the boat swiftly through the narrow strait between the Great
Bell and the north shore.
Although the lady, standing up in the boat, did not seem to regard her
situation as a perilous one, the artist took a very different view of it. The
wind was blowing fresh from the south-west, and the frail craft, already
tossed by the great waves that rolled up from beyond the Point, was going
out to sea. The wind and the tide might force it miles from the shore, and
the lady, if not drowned, would be subjected to a long absence and a great
deal of suffering. She appealed to him for help, or, if not to him, to
somebody, for it was doubtful whether she had yet seen him. If there was no
danger, of course she would not ask for assistance. Mr. Eliot Buckstone was
an artist, and his imagination was strong and vivid. To him the lady’s
situation at once became desperate. Without his prompt decision, and his
strong arm, the interesting supplicant would be swallowed up by the
remorseless billows, ingulfed by the relentless tide, mangled upon the
pitiless rocks.

Mr. Buckstone threw off his coat the very instant he discovered the helpless
lady, for though all the matters we have mentioned were duly considered,
the thoughts flashed through his mind as thoughts always should flash
through the brain of a genius. Mr. Buckstone threw off his vest. He did not
take off either of these garments, for he was an impetuous young man, and a
lady was in mortal peril—he threw them off. Mr. Buckstone kicked off his
boots, though they were of patent leather, and snugly encased a pair of well-
formed feet; he did not pull them off by any of the slow and tedious
expedients known to the wearers of artistic boots—he kicked them off.
“Help! help!” again appealed the lone voyager, this time with a little more
emphasis, but hardly with more feeling or more terror.
Mr. Buckstone rushed down to the water, walked out upon a big flat rock,
and launched himself upon the stormy tide. The boat was coming within a
few rods of the Point, and having measured with his eye the base and
perpendicular of a triangle, the hypothenuse of which was the space
between himself and the boat, he struck out on the base line, leaving the
wayward craft to follow the perpendicular.
The artist swam well, and vigorously breasted the strong waves which beat
against him. It is hardly more than once in a lifetime that a young man has
an opportunity to become the hero of a romance, and Mr. Eliot Buckstone
seemed to be determined to make a rich investment on the present occasion.
It is hardly necessary to say that he intercepted the truant boat, as it was in
the act of passing the Point, for to a young man in his frame of mind, with a
helpless female before him rushing on to death and misery, failure was as
impossible as success to a less determined person. He grasped the gunwale
of the boat, and held on; he could do no more, for, short as was the distance
he had accomplished, the obstinate waves and the pitch of excitement to
which he had worked himself up, had completely exhausted him. He hung
on at the gunwale, puffing like a porpoise torn from his native element.
The imperilled female, now apparently in less peril than her gallant
deliverer, stood up in the stern of the boat, regarding with intense interest
and anxiety the amphibious gentleman who had so boldly battled the waves
in her behalf. While Mr. Eliot Buckstone recovers his breath, let us glance
at her who had unwittingly caused the enthusiastic artist all this trouble and
inconvenience.

She was rather tall; beautifully proportioned, and exceedingly graceful. Her
complexion was naturally fair, but it had been somewhat browned by the
summer sun. Her eye was large, soft, and blue; her nose Grecian; and her
lips had just curl enough to indicate firmness of purpose. Her face and form
would have attracted attention anywhere; but the more spiritual the nature,
the more elevated the taste, the higher the intellectual cultivation, of the
beholder, the more intense would have been his appreciation of the gentle
maiden, whom the wind and the waves were wafting to sea, when the artist
rushed to her assistance.
“I am very sorry to have caused you all this trouble, sir,” said the lady, in
tones so sweet and soothing, and withal so musical, that the marine painter
instantly lost all sense of fatigue, and felt whole volumes of fresh, pure air
pour into his empty lungs.
Eliot Buckstone was not sorry when he saw that face, beheld that graceful
form, and heard that musical voice. He was endowed with a highly sensitive
organization, and he may be pardoned for the raptures which were kindled
into being beneath his wet garments. I am inclined to think, knowing what
he felt in this moment of enthusiasm, that he was a fatalist; that he believed
fate or providence had at this time, and in this manner, brought him into the
presence of the tall maiden, who gazed in pity and gentleness upon him.
“No trouble at all, madam,” he replied, as with a vigorous movement he
climbed over the rail into the boat, to the imminent risk of swamping the
frail craft.
“I did not see you, sir, when I called for help,” she added, apologetically.
“I am glad you did not, if seeing me would have prevented you from
claiming my assistance,” answered Mr. Buckstone, as he shook the salt
water from his curly locks.
“I would not have had you expose yourself in this manner on any
consideration,” continued the lady, who had seated herself when the artist
climbed into the boat.
“Do not complain of me for what I have done, for I assure you it has been a
greater pleasure to me than to you.”
“You are very kind, sir, but I must regret that you adopted this method of
assisting me.”

“What other method could I have adopted?” asked Mr. Buckstone, not a
little puzzled by the protest of the rescued damsel.
He was a man of the world, and though he had been in the habit of hearing
ladies pretend to object to the trouble they might have caused, he felt that
they regarded any sacrifices of time or comfort as expressions of devotion,
highly flattering and complimentary to them. He believed that the
gentleman who incurred the greatest risk for a lady had the sincerest
admiration for her. In the present instance, Mr. Buckstone realized that the
lady actually regretted the annoyance and discomfort which she had caused
him.
“Gentlemen do not usually put to sea like seals and porpoises,” replied the
lady, with a soothing smile, the first he had seen, and which rendered his
case even more desperate than before.
“How do they put to sea?”
“In boats.”
“But I had no boat.”
“Perhaps you might have found one at the salt works beyond the Point.”
“Perhaps I might—who knows!” replied Mr. Buckstone with a rather vacant
expression on his handsome face, for the idea of resorting to a boat when a
lady was in peril, looked absolutely preposterous to him, especially if the
boat had to be searched for before it could be found.
“I beg you will not think I am ungrateful,” continued the lady, noticing the
shade of discontent that appeared on the face of the artist.
“By no means, madam.”
“I am really very grateful to you; and I was only sorry to have caused you
so much trouble and discomfort. I was not in great danger——”
“Not in great danger?” interposed Mr. Buckstone, puzzled by the lady’s
apparent intention to underrate his services.
“Did you think I was?”
“I certainly did.”

“Then I am all the more obliged to you for your kind exertions in my
favor.”
“Don’t mention it; but you will excuse me if I say I think you are the
coolest lady it was ever my good fortune to meet.”
“Indeed, you misunderstand me entirely,” protested she, a slight flush
mantling her cheeks, while she looked exceedingly troubled and annoyed.
“I am very, very grateful to you.”
“O, I do not doubt that.”
“You think that I am cool, but I assure you my heart is warm with
thankfulness. I am just as much obliged to you as though I had been in peril
of my life, and all the more so because you so regarded my situation.”
“I only meant that you were very cool in view of your danger. How a lady
could be as composed as you were, when alone in a boat drifting out to sea,
is more than I can comprehend. That was what I meant. I would not by any
means accuse you of undervaluing my poor service.”
“I am relieved,” added she, her smile meaning even more than her words. “I
do not think I am lessening the value of your efforts in my behalf when I
say that I should not have been very much alarmed if I had been sure of
going out to sea. It is now only the middle of the forenoon: I should have
been picked up by some boat or vessel bound in or out of the river.”
“I must say you have more courage and self-possession than I ever
happened to meet with in a lady before.”
“I am quite used to the water.”
“I see that you are,” laughed the artist, rising from his seat on the thwart,
where all this time he had been resting from his labors, while the boat
continued to drift out to sea.
“Have you any oars?” he asked, after he had glanced into the bottom of the
boat.
“I have not, unfortunately. If I had I should not have been here.”
“Then I am very thankful that you had none;” whereat the maiden blushed,
and looked troubled again.

“I lost the oars overboard,” she added, without noticing the pretty speech of
the gallant young man.
“I am glad you did, Miss——,” and he looked up into the fair face of the
lady.
“Miss Kingman; but I am very sorry I lost the oars, for you are as wet as a
fish, and you may take cold.”
“I never take cold; I am above such infirmities.”
“I hope you will not, but a cold bath is not comfortable on a chilly day like
this.”
“This is a beautiful day, and my heart is warm enough just now to generate
sufficient caloric for my whole body.”
Miss Kingman did not, perhaps, precisely comprehend this bold speech.
She glanced back at the Point, past which the boat had drifted, and was now
tossing about like a chip on the great waves of the open bay.
“You think we had better get back to the land,” continued Mr. Buckstone,
interpreting her glance at the shore to mean this.
“I am not at all frightened; my father is an old sailor, and I have always
lived on the sea shore.”
“Upon my word, I am heartily rejoiced that you are not alarmed at your
situation, for really I can’t see that I have done anything more by my swim,
than to give you a companion in your voyage out to sea,” replied the artist,
as he glanced over the boat again in search of something that would serve
as an oar.
The lady was silent; perhaps disliking to say what she may have believed—
that a companion like the young artist was more dangerous than the wind
and the waves.
Whether she thought so or not, it was true in this case, though by no fault
on his part; and it would have been better for her to be buried in the depth
of the ocean, with nothing but the wind and the waves to chant her requiem,
than to have met Eliot Buckstone.
“What shall I do? I have no oars, and the thwarts are all fastened into the
boat.”

“I don’t know, really,” she replied, “what you can do. I wondered, when I
saw you swimming out, what you intended.”
“I supposed you had oars,” answered Mr. Buckstone, stung by the implied,
but not intended, reproach for his thoughtless measures.
“If I had had oars, I should not have needed your assistance.”
“Then I am only an encumbrance to you. I suppose the boat would live
longer in a sea with one person in it than with two. I have actually added to
your peril, Miss Kingman, instead of removing you from it. What a
blunderer I am!”
“You wrong yourself. Whatever the practical result, you intended to do me
a great service, and I assure you I appreciate it as such.”
“I think it would be better for me now to leave you, and swim ashore.”
“Swim ashore!”
“And save you from my presence.”
“You wrong me now, sir.”
“I have come to the conclusion, that in your estimation, I have made a fool
of myself.”
“Far from it, sir,” protested she, earnestly.
“That you owe me thanks only for my good intentions, which have stupidly
increased your danger rather than diminished it.”
“I have no thought but gratitude.”
“For my good intentions, and contempt for my blundering work.”
“I hope I have not offended you. I did not mean to say anything unkind. I
am sure I owe you——”
“Nothing, Miss Kingman. We are not more than half a mile from the Point,
and I will swim ashore.”
“Not on any account. I shall never forgive myself for my careless words.”
“But when I get ashore, I will procure a boat, and come—or send some one
—to your relief.”

“You are vexed with me, sir. I did not mean to say a word which would
wound you.”
“Neither have you.”
“And I do not undervalue your kind exertions in my behalf. Do not attempt
to swim ashore in such a sea as this,” pleaded the lady, as she saw him look
significantly over the side.
“I can easily do so.”
“You are nearly exhausted by your efforts in swimming off to the boat.”
“That was only because I was so much alarmed for your safety.”
“How noble and kind you were! And how cruel and unkind I have been to
disparage your efforts; but I did not intend to disparage them,” protested
she, with an earnestness which entirely removed the feeling of chagrin that
lingered in the mind of the enthusiastic artist. “I hope you will forgive me,
sir.”
“With all my heart;” and it was with all his heart, for he could not resist the
eloquence of that soft eye, and those musical tones, albeit his vexation was
caused wholly by the feeling that the fair stranger did not appreciate him,
rather than his exertions in her behalf.
“I cannot express to you how grateful I am, and I would not have you think
me unkind for all the world.”
Mr. Buckstone was satisfied. How could he be otherwise after such liberal
concession on the part of the lady? He now occupied himself in an
examination of the interior structure of the boat. One of the narrow ceiling
boards was loose, and without asking to whom the craft belonged, he tore it
from its place. With his pocket-knife he soon fashioned it into something
that had a remote resemblance to an oar.
“Now, Miss Kingman, if you will permit me to sit in the stern of the boat, I
will try to scull her ashore,” said he, as he moved aft for this purpose.
“I am sure you will do all you intended,” replied she, as she rose from her
seat.
The artist took her hand to assist her to another seat. It was a delicate and
prettily shaped hand, and Mr. Buckstone, in spite of the emergency of the

moment, glanced at it with an artist’s eye. He was sufficiently enraptured by
the touch to press the hand, if he had dared to do so; but he prudently
refrained, and placed himself in the stern with the oar he had improvised.
Mr. Buckstone, in the pursuit of his art, had accustomed himself to marine
occupations. He succeeded in putting the boat’s head up to the wind, but
that was about all he succeeded in doing, for the pine board twisted and
behaved itself in a most unseamanlike manner; or Mr. Buckstone did, for
the fault lay somewhere between them; and as far as the boatman or the
lady could discover, no progress was made. Then he essayed to row the
stubborn craft; but she whirled around, and resolutely went to seaward with
the wind and tide. Miss Kingman hoped he would not wear himself out in
fruitless exertions; but Mr. Buckstone seemed to have “enlisted for the
war,” and to be determined to carry his point in spite of the obstinacy of the
boat, the treachery of the oar, and the adverse influence of the wind and
tide. Finally, after resorting to various expedients, he turned the craft
towards the lighthouse on The Great Bell, so that her intended course was
diagonal with the force of the breeze and the current, and pulled his oar on
the seaward side. By this strategy, with the utmost exertion at the pine
board, he realized that he was making a little progress through the water.
The labor was very great, and the headway very slight. It would be hours
before he could reach the lighthouse at this rate, and he was soon
discouraged by the prospect before him. But what added to his discomfort
and discouragement was the fact that his beautiful companion sat behind
him, and he could derive no inspiration in his arduous labors from the
contemplation of her sweet face and graceful form. Mr. Buckstone was
really in no haste to reach the shore, and nothing but a proper regard for
appearances and the proprieties of the occasion induced him to struggle so
hard to attain what he did not wish to attain. The marine painter was young,
sentimental, and susceptible. Never before in flesh and blood had he so
distinctly seen his ideal of a beautiful woman, as in the being who now sat
behind him in the boat. In spite of his wet garments, and in spite of the
terrors of the ocean upon which the boat was drifting, he found himself very
pleasantly situated, and not the least in a hurry to escape from the perils
which were as yet too far off to be dreaded. There was a greater peril nearer
at hand, of which neither of them was conscious.

“There comes a boat out of the river!” exclaimed the lady, just as Mr.
Buckstone had given up his useless labor, and turned round to gaze into the
speaking eyes of his lovely companion.
“I am sorry for it,” said he, incautiously; “that is, I am sorry it did not come
before.”
Miss Kingman was eighteen years old, and if she was deceived by the
change in his words, she was undeceived when she felt the earnest gaze of
admiration he bestowed upon her. The artist turned, and saw a sail boat dash
out from behind the point of The Great Bell, on which the lighthouse was
located.
“She makes good time, and you will soon be relieved of my presence, Miss
Kingman,” said he, with a sigh.
She hoped so, but it would have been cruel to say it.
“It is Mr. Hungerford,” continued Miss Kingman, when the sail boat had
come within hailing distance; and there was a smile of pleasure on her
countenance which did not escape the keen observation of the artist.
“And pray, who is Mr. Hungerford?” he asked.
“Haven’t you heard of him? Eugene Hungerford, the heir of the Baltimore
millionnaire?”
Mr. Buckstone had never heard of him; but he hailed the sail boat, and
begged the loan of a pair of oars.

CHAPTER III.
THE HUNGERFORD FAMILY.
THE Hungerford family, after uncle John had been solemnly and
ceremoniously committed to the tomb, returned to Poppleton. Everything
had a kind of unsubstantial look to them, as though they had been suddenly
lifted from the cares and trials of this sublunary sphere to a region of golden
clouds which were very beautiful to look upon, but which would not bear
the solid tramp of mortal feet. Whereas they had gone to Baltimore, ten
days before, in very moderate and even humble circumstances, now they
were rolling in wealth; at least the will of the late John Hungerford had so
declared them to be, though they found it exceedingly difficult to realize the
stupendous change which had come over them. They reached Poppleton
with all these doubts unsolved, and with these cloudy sensations still
hanging about them.
Mrs. Hungerford was the most practical person of the three. She was a well-
educated, well-informed lady, who knew something of books, and a great
deal of the world. She had brought up her little family on three hundred
dollars a year, and she had necessarily been a very practical person; but as
she journeyed home from Baltimore, she was troubled with a dread lest the
golden clouds should suddenly roll away, the misty curtain be lifted, and the
bright dream of ease, luxury, and happiness be dissipated even before she
had tasted its sweetness. Twenty thousand dollars had been left to her,
independently of all contingencies; and this to a woman of high aims, who
had been struggling all her life with the inconveniences of a small income,
was a fortune in itself. By degrees, as the train thundered along towards her
home, she reasoned herself into the belief that her own legacy and that of
her daughter were as real as the solid earth beneath them. Of the golden
clouds, the silver fountains, and the glittering mists from Pactolian streams,
that enveloped her son Eugene, she had not the courage to think. Her own
little fortune was large enough and suggestive enough to satisfy the highest
flights of her imagination.

So far as thought and feeling were concerned, the Hungerford family were
only one individual. I do not mean to say there was never any difference of
opinion among its members, for that would be saying they were all dolts
and fools, and that the cottage in which they dwelt was the dullest and most
insipid place in the world; but there was a rich harmony of thought and
feeling, even while thought and feeling ran in different channels. Simple-
minded, Christian people, of intelligence and cultivation, always remarked
what a beautiful family the Hungerfords were. The mother and her children
were unselfish; they lived for each other, and there was not a joy or a
sorrow for one that was not for all. It made no difference, therefore, what
members of the family had been mentioned in the will of John Hungerford
as the recipients of legacies, or which one as the residuary legatee; by the
ties of nature, what belonged to one belonged to all; and if the millionnaire
had known them better, he might have left his bounty to the whole, instead
of mentioning individuals.
Eugene Hungerford appeared to take his altered circumstances with the
utmost composure; but he only appeared to do so. While he was universally
acknowledged to be a generous, noble, and high-minded young man, he had
the reputation of being odd and strange. He never did things as other people
did them; not apparently for the sake of being odd and strange, but because
he had a will and a way of his own. As the train bore him north, he did not
seem to be elated: nor was he; for, like his mother and his sister, he was
troubled with that feeling of insecurity and unsubstantialness—the fear that
things would not work according to the programme laid down in John
Hungerford’s will. Perhaps the old man was crazy, and had made his
magnificent will without the means of doing a tithe of what the labored
document proposed to accomplish. He had heard of men making wills who
had not a dollar to leave behind them.
But in spite of this want of confidence in the reality of the golden era which
had dawned upon him, he could not help building castles in the air: certain
brilliant projects flitted through his mind, some relating to personal
comforts, luxuries, and enjoyments, and others to the reformation and
improvement of the world at large, but more especially to the world of
Poppleton society; though this, as being within the sphere of his knowledge
and experience, was only the representative of a general idea. “No pent-up
Utica” was to contract his powers, when he became the sole possessor of

the three millions. When he did! Eugene regarded the terms of the will as
contingent, rather than conditional. They were disagreeable to him. He did
not relish them. To have the holiest and dearest relations of life even
mentioned in connection with money was repulsive to him.
In a worldly point of view, he must marry as soon as practicable; otherwise
the contingency which would give him the three millions, absolutely, could
not occur. There was certainly a worldly inducement for him to make some
lady Mrs. Eugene Hungerford. He did not like it. Why should he marry, if
he did not wish to do so? Why should he be bribed to enter into the holy
state of matrimony? He could not very clearly define to himself his feelings
on this delicate point; but there was a certain sense of compulsion which
fretted and annoyed him, and which tempted him to be obstinate even
against his moral, social, and pecuniary interests. To be compelled to marry
in order to obtain the three millions, went exactly across the grain of his
sensitive and high-strung nature. If the question had been between the three
millions and taking to his bosom one whom he did not love, one to whom
he was indifferent, he would not have hesitated an instant in making a
decision, even if poverty and single blessedness had been the alternative.
But Eugene Hungerford was doomed to be rich in spite of himself. No
obstinacy or hardship could deprive him of his entire wealth—always
supposing that John Hungerford’s will was not a vision. He was to receive
the income of the three millions for seven years; and then, if the conditions
were not complied with, he was to have the sixth part of the whole sum. Let
him be as obdurate as he pleased, he could hardly help being a millionnaire;
let him be denied the blessed boon of a little John Hungerford in the future,
and then even a fortune of which he had never been extravagant enough to
dream, would still be coming to him. His position would not be a very hard
one, though he should choose to be ugly and uncompromising.
With this view he came back to the original question, Why should he marry
if he did not wish to marry? Why should he call his first born son John if it
did not suit him so to call him? But in this connection there came up before
him, unbidden, the image of a beautiful girl, upon whom he had long
looked with admiration, and to whose virtues and gentleness his heart had
yielded homage. She was all that he could ask for as the partner of his joys
and his sorrows in the pilgrimage of life, though never before had he
ventured to think of her as his wife. Though she was poor like himself,

though her family relations were overshadowed by griefs and sorrows, she
was so fair and so good, that crowds of suitors thronged her path. She could
choose from a score, if not a hundred, and perhaps her choice was already
made.
This beautiful girl was Mary Kingman, whom we left in the boat with Eliot
Buckstone. Though only twenty, she had taught the grammar school at
Poppleton Mills, and the one at the Port. Her last service had been in the
High School, and she had just resigned her situation there on account of
family troubles. She had been a pupil in this school with Eugene
Hungerford, where a strong friendship had grown up between them. It was
not love—they were too young. On his return from college, where, to save
expense, he had taken to the study of the law in the office of Squire Perkins
at the Port, he saw her only occasionally. The future had been too uncertain
to permit him to think of marriage; and though he still cherished his early
regard for her, he prudently refrained from committing himself or her to any
expression of the feeling which both evidently entertained. All this was
changed now; he could give her a home, a palace; he could crown her with
golden wreaths, and make her the queen of the county; but above all, he
could redeem her from the wasting bondage to which her domestic relations
subjected her.
Thus thought Eugene Hungerford as he travelled homeward, and in spite of
the vein of obstinacy in his nature, there was a fair prospect that the
expectations of the deceased uncle would be realized. Mary Kingman was
an angel of light in his future path, and he could not turn from the bright
vision, even to become a martyr to his high sense of duty, and thus wrong
himself out of the three millions.
In due time the family got out of the cars at Poppleton Mills, through which
the railroad from Boston passed, and took the stage, that made two trips a
day from the Port.
The marine village lay exactly two miles due south of the manufacturing
village, across the space included in the lower half of the S formed by the
winding of Bell River. The road was through a rocky, hilly region for the
first mile, abounding in glens and steeps which were beautifully
picturesque. One mile from the Port the great turnpike to the north-east,
over which the mail between Boston and Portland had been carried before

railroads were built, crossed the Mills road, forming an acute angle with it.
In this angle was the cottage of James Hungerford.
Twenty-four years ago, when the factory agent was about to build a cage for
the bird he had caught, he purchased all the land lying in the northern acute
angle formed by the two roads, extending to the river and a cross road from
the turnpike to the Mills. James Hungerford believed that Poppleton, with
its valuable water power, and its maritime advantages, would become a
great city, though it was then only in an embryo state. The tract of land he
had purchased appeared to be of no practical value, and he had given only
twelve hundred dollars for it. About fifty acres of it on the turnpike was
level enough for cultivation, though there were several eligible sites for
building on the Mills road. On one of these, at the forks of the roads, he had
built his house.
People of practical sense laughed at James when he bought this land; said
that “a fool and his money were soon parted,” and other sharp things, which
the purchaser was too independent to heed. When Poppleton was a city, his
harvest would come. He had leased it as a pasture for enough to pay his
taxes and keep the fences in repair; but four and twenty years had failed to
realize his hope. Poppleton had grown amazingly, but still his wild lands
were not in demand.
Pine Hill, as this rough territory was called, was a favorite resort of Eugene;
and when the vision of three millions dawned upon him, he could not help
thinking what a paradise money would make of it. He could not have found
a region in the whole state so admirably adapted to the improvements which
his taste coveted. He knew just where the mansion should be located on the
turnpike, just where the stable must be placed, just where certain roads
should be built, and just where certain summer houses and “lazy places”
were to be constructed, in order to bring into being the most splendid
domain the world had ever seen. But then there were the doubts in regard to
the reality of his present situation, and he permitted Pine Hill to bloom for
the present in its own wild grandeur.
“Home again, mother!” exclaimed he, as he assisted Mrs. Hungerford and
Julia to alight from the stage.
“Yes, and I am glad to get home.”

“So am I,” added Julia. “I am tired out.”
The neighbor’s wife who lived opposite saw them come, and hastened over
with the key of the cottage, for they had no servants to keep house for them
during their absence. The good woman at once made a fire, and began to get
tea for the weary travellers. Very likely she wished to know how much
money the Baltimore millionnaire had left to his poor relations, for the
newspapers had not yet blazoned to the world the provisions of the will; but
she asked no questions till the family sat down to tea. Mrs. Hungerford then
told her that she and Julia had each received a legacy of twenty thousand
dollars, which was magnificent enough to absorb the kind neighbor’s whole
attention; and she forgot to ask any more questions, being in haste to go out
and circulate the astounding intelligence that the Hungerfords had got forty
thousand dollars. Eugene, therefore, to his great satisfaction, escaped her
congratulations and her wondering exclamations. After tea he walked over
Pine Hill.
Everything went on as usual in the Hungerford family. Doubtless great
plans were laid, and great expectations were indulged; but nothing was
done, and people wondered that they did not dress in silks and satins, and
buy a carriage. In the course of a week, the papers had the news. Then
everybody looked upon Eugene Hungerford as a money prince, and treated
him with the utmost deference. The officers of the Poppleton Bank bowed
low to him, and both villages wondered what he would do with his money.
Eugene kept as cool as he could, and tried to be indifferent to the
excitement of which he was the cause and centre. The only extravagance in
which he had been known to indulge was the purchase of a beautiful sail
boat, which he had long coveted. Eugene was a man of large lungs, and it
required the whole atmosphere to inflate them. He was, therefore, devoted
to out-door exercise, and his keenest enjoyment was derived from the
ocean. This boat had been purchased partly with reference to the expected
visit of an old college friend, one Dick Birch, who had promised to spend a
week with him in July.
July came two months after the return of the family from Baltimore. Eugene
had become in a measure accustomed to his situation, and had come to
realize the full meaning of John Hungerford’s will. Two or three times he
had met Mary Kingman. He had blushed; she had blushed; but he was not
quite ready to say what he had to say to her. He was not sure that some less

prudent young man was not already wooing her. He could not ask if she was
still free; he could not ask her, or any other person, such a question; and so
he waited for the future to solve the problem, and open the way for him. But
each time he saw her, added to the intensity of his desire to possess her.
The stage stopped before the cottage door, and out jumped Dick Birch. A
small valise for clothes, and a large package of fishing rods, game bags, fish
baskets, two guns, and other sporting gear, were placed on the ground
before the arrival was discovered. Eugene, who was just returning from a
tramp over Pine Hill, rushed to the spot.
“Well, Dick, old boy, how are you? I am glad to see you.”
“Ah, Hungerford, I am rejoiced to meet you,” replied Dick, as he grasped
the extended hand of his friend. “But I was in some doubt about coming.”
“In doubt?”
“Yes.”
“Why so?”
“I have heard bad stories about you.”
“Do you mean so?”
“Upon my word I do. I heard some old fellow down in Baltimore had died,
and left you three millions, or something of that sort.”
“Such has been my misfortune, but not my fault. I didn’t die and leave all
that money to a graceless scamp; so I am not to blame.”
“Then it’s true.”
“Conditionally, it is all true; but, in any event, I have had at least a million
thrust upon me.”
“Poor fellow!” said Dick, with a mock sigh. “But how do you feel?”
“As I always did.”
“Is that so?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“A million is enough to spoil any fellow; three millions would ruin an
angel. I had my doubts about coming.”

“Why?”
“Didn’t know that you would care to see me now.”
“Dick, you don’t speak the truth. You had no doubts.”
“Three million dollars is a great deal of money; so is one million.”
“Did you think it would make me forget my friends?”
“No, I did not think so; but hang me if one can tell what effect money will
have on a man.”
“I can’t tell what effect it will have on me, but I do know that it will not
cheat me out of my friends. Dick, I am delighted to see you. I have been
anticipating your visit with the keenest satisfaction. I have something laid
out for every day. I have just bought a boat for your sake.”
“Well, I reckon you are the same old fellow, after all,” laughed Dick.
“I know I am. I want to talk with you about the future, too; about this
money, with which I am to be bored. You have a soul, Dick; and you can
understand me, if any fellow can. I want your advice.”
“I don’t belong to the breed of Solemons, but I won’t charge you anything
for my advice, though I am a lawyer.”
“Thank you, Dick. Now come into the house, and we will make you as
comfortable as we can. We don’t live like millionnaires, but a cheerful
welcome makes a soft couch.”
Eugene led the way into the sitting-room, and the guest was introduced to
Mrs. Hungerford, who gave him a kind and motherly greeting.
“Where is Julia, mother?” asked Eugene, when he saw that his sister was
not present.
“Gone to the post office; she will return presently.”
“Yes, where’s Julia?” laughed Dick Birch. “I want to see her. In fact, I don’t
know that I should have come if it hadn’t been for seeing her.”
“Yes, you would, Dick; tell the truth.”
“I wanted to see her, at any rate. Fellows don’t often speak of their sisters,
Mrs. Hungerford, as Eugene did when we were at college together.”

“Well, I think she deserves all that he may have said of her,” said the
matron.
“Come, Dick, I will show you your room;” and loaded with valise, guns,
fishing rods, and game bags, the young men went up stairs.
When they came down, Julia had returned, and she was formally introduced
to the guest, of whom she had heard encomiums before, bordering upon the
extravagant. Dick was not a handsome man, like Mr. Eliot Buckstone,
whom we left in the boat with Miss Kingman; neither was he ugly or ill
made. He had a sharp, bright eye, and his face was noble rather than
handsome. He looked like a man of intellect, of high purposes, and grand
ideas, rather than one of those masculine monstrosities whom some weak-
minded females call “pretty.” Bah! the idea is nauseating. To be pretty is the
prerogative of young ladies, though Heaven defend them if this be all they
have!
Julia was not very pretty, though none would have called her homely.
Perhaps she was a little disposed to be “strong-minded;” not in the offensive
sense, and only enough so to have a certain contempt for things weak and
effeminate. She was not afraid of spiders, or even of striped snakes. She had
actually read Locke and Bacon, as well as Scott and Dickens.
She had heard a great deal about Dick Birch, and was prepared to see a
miracle of all that is grand and noble in man. She blushed slightly when she
met the full gaze of his sharp eye, and took his offered hand.
“This is the great moment of my life, Miss Hungerford,” said the guest.
“You have been set forth to me as a princess among sisters.”
“And you to me as a prince among friends,” she replied. “When you are a
candidate for the presidency, I shall certainly vote for you if woman’s rights
are recognized by that time.”
“Thank you. I shall certainly be elected then; though, perhaps, you would
like to know my principles before you give me your suffrage.”
“Probably you will have none by that time.”
“I certainly shall, if, when I reach that bad eminence, I can make up my
mind beforehand which is to be the winning side. Do you take me for a
politician?”

“I hope you won’t quarrel in the beginning,” interposed Eugene.
“I hope not; but I forgot I had a letter for you, Eugene,” said Julia, as she
handed him a large envelope, post-marked Baltimore.
“Excuse me, Dick,” said he, as he opened the package.
It contained, among other papers, a draft for fifty thousand dollars,
forwarded by the eminent merchants, trustees under John Hungerford’s will.
It was the income which had accrued before and since the death of the
millionnaire There were two other drafts for the legacies due Mrs.
Hungerford and Julia.
“Fifty thousand dollars! That is more money than I ever saw,” exclaimed
Eugene.
“May Heaven be kind to you!” added Dick.
“After tea, you will tell me what to do with it, Dick.”
“I shrink from the task.”
Just before sunset the young men strolled over Pine Hill. Eugene pointed
out the spot on which he purposed to build his mansion. Dick approved it,
and an aquatic excursion for the next day was planned before they returned.

CHAPTER IV.
OFF THE GREAT BELL.
WE should delight to linger with our readers around the pleasant and happy
home of the Hungerfords; but scenes more exciting than the quiet of
domestic life lie before us, and we must hasten to them. After breakfast
Eugene and Dick, on their way to the boat, stopped at the Poppleton Bank,
in the Port, to leave the drafts, which were payable in Boston, for collection.
Eugene did the President, who happened to be there, the honor to inform
him that he should make the bank the place of deposit for his funds, and
desired the fifty thousand dollars to be placed to his credit. This was his
first actual transaction as a moneyed man, and what had before seemed to
be a vision was now an undoubted reality.
His income was fifteen thousand dollars a month, or five hundred dollars a
day, and he began to be conscious of the painful necessity of spending some
of it before the Poppleton Bank should be overwhelmed by the surplus. At
present he was going out in his boat, and could not afford the time to
consider the matter in detail; but he hoped, before many weeks elapsed, to
make his money fly with tolerable rapidity. He had schemes enough in his
head, but only time and thought could reduce them to practice.
“Upon my soul, Hungerford, I am afraid of you,” said Dick, as they left the
bank.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, all this money! My dear fellow, you are almost as badly off as John
Jacob Astor and Stephen Girard were!”
“Stop till we get into the boat before you begin. Let me tell you what I am
going to do.”
They reached the wharf at the foot of the main street, where the boat was
moored. As we are not writing a nautical romance, we will not trouble the
reader with a description of the boat, though she was a fine little craft. Both
Eugene and Richard were somewhat “salt” in their tendencies, and were

familiar with the science of boating. The breeze was fresh, and after running
by the point of The Little Bell, the boat went “wing and wing” down the
river.
“Now, Hungerford, what are you going to do?” asked Dick, as he settled
himself back in a comfortable position on the cushioned seat in the
standing-room.
“My ideas are rather crude, so far,” replied Eugene.
“You are going to get married, in the first place, or you are sure to lose the
three millions,” added Dick, to whom all the provisions of John
Hungerford’s will had been detailed on the preceding evening.
“Perhaps not, Dick; I don’t know yet;” and Eugene thought of Mary
Kingman.
“You don’t know!”
“I do not.”
“Come, come, Hungerford; don’t play off in that manner with me. Of
course you intend to marry as soon as the thing can be decently done.”
“I don’t intend any such thing. I shall take my own time, and do exactly the
same that I should have done if John Hungerford had died without making a
will.”
“Are you going to be mulish?”
“By no means. Marriage, in my estimation, is a very serious thing, and I
will not be driven into it, or driven out of it, by any purely selfish
considerations.”
“Certainly not.”
“Three million dollars will not induce me to trade myself off, like a swine
in the market, to any living woman and three millions shall not induce me
to purchase even the most fascinating creature that ever daintily trod this
footstool.”
“I understand that; but you are giving your uncle’s will a very narrow and
bigoted interpretation. The terms are liberal; you have four or five years
given you to become a Benedick; and you are not hampered by any

conditions in regard to the lady. Don’t attempt to make a martyr of
yourself.”
“I have no such thought.”
“But you have a little vein of obstinacy in your nature, which prompts you
to go against your own interest. I don’t mean your pecuniary interest, but
your moral, social, and domestic welfare. Hungerford, if an angel of light
should suddenly appear before you, and declare that you might go to heaven
by reading the fifth chapter of Matthew every morning during the rest of
your lifetime, I think you would be content to stay out of heaven rather than
comply with the conditions.”
“I certainly should?”
“You should?”
“Certainly.”
“Because you would deem it your duty to be on the off side.”
“No; if an angel made such a declaration as that to me, I should set him
down as a humbug, for I do not believe that heaven is to be purchased by
compliance with a form; if it were, it would not be worth having. I believe
in heaven, and I hope to reach it when I die. Your simile suits my argument
better than it does your own. I shall endeavor to live a true and good life,
not as the price which I am to pay for heaven, but because it is right that I
should so live—because God requires such a life of me. My prayer shall not
be the weary, toilsome, distasteful struggle of a doubting spirit, of which
heaven is the guerdon, but my heart-breathing to Him who made me, who
loves me, and to whom I am always grateful for his mercies. When I read
the fifth chapter of Matthew—which I shall often do, I hope—it will be
because the Saviour speaks there to my soul, and I love to hear his words.”
“Upon my word, Hungerford, you will be a parson yet.”
“No; but with all the means which God has placed in my hands, I hope to be
a minister of the gospel in my own way to the poor and needy ones of
earth.”
“Then you intend to set up as a philanthropist,” laughed Dick.

“I certainly do not intend to ‘set up’ as such; but you have run away from
the question. When I marry—if I do marry—it shall be as I go into heaven
—if I do go there; not by purchase, not by barter, trade, or compromise. If it
suits me to wed, I shall so do; if it does not suit me to do so, I shall not. I
only mean to say that, in a matter so serious and solemn, I shall do precisely
the same as though my uncle had sunk his three millions in the middle of
Chesapeake Bay. Is that obstinacy?”
“I think it is.”
“You don’t mean it, Dick.”
“I do.”
Dick bent down in the bottom of the boat, and lighted a cigar. It was plain
that he had something to say.
“Would you be bought into matrimony?” demanded Eugene, a little excited.
“Have a cigar, Hungerford?”
“No; thank you.”
“I would not be bought into matrimony. That is not the question. If your
uncle had not left you a single sou, you would, in the ordinary course of
events, have fallen in love, and would have married. Now, because two and
a half millions depend primarily upon your doing so, you have set your
teeth against it. I’m ashamed of you, Hungerford.”
“If you don’t argue a legal case better than you do a matrimonial one, you
will never succeed as a lawyer. You are all wrong, Dick.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I haven’t said I should not marry.”
“What you have said amounts about to that.”
“I have only said that I would not be dragooned into marriage.”
“But you mean to be obstinate; you mean to be on the off side.”
“I do not; I only mean not to be influenced in the slightest degree by this
price which has been set upon my marriage. Things shall take their natural
course.”

“Hungerford, if you see a pretty girl, with all wifely qualifications, you will
think of what you call the ‘price,’ and give her the cold shoulder.”
“No; and I have already seen the one whom you describe,” said Eugene,
glancing behind him at the wake of the boat, because he did not wish to
have his looks scrutinized, as he made this important declaration.
“Is it possible?”
“It is a fact, told in confidence, of course.”
“To be sure; but I am afraid you will give her the cold shoulder.”
“No.”
“The thought of the ‘price’ will make you a slow wooer. You will be so
fearful of selling yourself, as you call it, that you will be distant and
reserved, and permit the bird to fly away from you in disgust. You will think
she is going to smile upon you for your money, or you will take so much
time in satisfying yourself it is not so, that she will grow cold towards you.
The three millions will be like the turtle that swallowed its own head.”
“The matter must take its natural course.”
“You will not let it take its natural course. You cannot help being influenced
by the ‘price.’ Be a little more selfish, and you will be more just to yourself
and to the lady. By the way, who is she?”
Eugene pointed to the old worn-out farm-house, on The Great Bell, and told
him all he knew of Mary Kingman, which was more than the reader yet
knows.
“Now, Hungerford, I must do you the justice to say that I was wrong in my
estimate of your position,” continued Dick Birch, when the story was told.
“I think you don’t mean to avoid marriage on account of that condition in
your uncle’s will.”
“I do not.”
“But I fear that you will be so cramped by it, that the fair lady of your castle
on the isle may die an old maid for all you will do to save her. Mind, I don’t
say you will be so cramped and influenced; I only say, I fear it—fear it;
that’s all.”

“I hope not.”
“There is not a particle of danger that you will do anything from mercenary
motives; but you must study to avoid the other extreme—that of cheating
yourself out of a loving, beautiful, and accomplished wife, from the very
fear of taking her at a price. But, Hungerford, you haven’t told me what you
are going to do with your money, though you have hinted that you intend to
be a universal philanthropist.”
“I distinctly said that I had no intention of ‘setting up’ as a philanthropist.
Your knight errant of philanthropy is just as ridiculous to me as the veritable
hero of Salamanca. There are as many Don Quixotes among the reformers
of the age, as in any other class.”
“Good!”
“By a most astounding turn of events, I find myself in possession of an
enormous income. I shall be worth at least a million when I am thirty, and
possibly three millions.”
“Probably,” laughed Dick.
“Well, probably, then; but it will only increase my responsibility. I don’t
want to prate about even what I sincerely feel, but, in view of this immense
wealth, I regard myself as the almoner of God’s bounty. I say this to you in
the privacy of our friendship, Dick; I shouldn’t be willing to tell it, or to
have it told, in town meeting, or even in the church. You understand me,
Dick.”
“I do, my dear fellow;” and the idea was so lofty and grand, that Dick could
not help casting a glance of admiration at his friend.
“It is no affectation for me to say to you that I value this money only for the
good it will do to me and to others.”
“I know you well enough to believe it, Hungerford.”
“But I am not bigoted, Dick. I don’t intend to become a professional
philanthropist. I am going to be selfish enough to look out for myself first. I
am going to build as fine a house on Pine Hill as a man worth half a million
ought to live in; one, say, that will cost twenty-five or thirty thousand
dollars. Then I shall employ at least a hundred men for the next year upon
the Pine Hill grounds, which I shall transform into a kind of Central Park.

This will give employment to a small army of mechanics and laborers. This
is my first scheme of philanthropy.”
“It is a very sensible one.”
“I shall lay out this work, and then, while it is in progress, go to Europe for
six months or a year.”
“And leave your affairs to take care of themselves?”
“No; I shall have a business man to act for me.”
“I don’t know where you will find one who could do your dreaming for
you,” laughed Dick.
“I know of only one man who can think and feel for me, Dick; and that is
yourself.”
“I!”
“There will be a great deal of legal business to be done, and I must have a
lawyer. I will give you a salary of five thousand dollars—more if you say
so.”
“You are getting personal. There should be nothing mercenary between
friends. The salary is double what I should make at my profession in the
city.”
“But it is only a little more than two and a half per cent on the money you
will handle.”
“I accept the offer, because I think it is only a fair one.”
“I will give you ten thousand.”
“And sell me at your own price! No, I should not be your friend if I took
advantage of your liberality.”
“I should have said ten in the first place, but I feared you would think I
intended to patronize you, to make you a creature of my bounty, as the
novels say, which would be an insult to you. You have a soul, Dick. Now let
me talk to you as my business man.”
“Go on; I am all ears.”

The sea was quite rough outside The Great Bell, and for the purpose of
making the conversation easy and free, Eugene had put the boat about, and
she was now standing, close-hauled, up the river; otherwise Mary and the
artist would have been seen before.
“At the Port and at the Mills there is a population of at least four thousand
poor people,” continued Eugene.
“Now we come to the eleemosynary schemes,” laughed Dick.
“Don’t mistake me. I seek my own comfort and luxury first, for even these
help the poor indirectly. I attend to my own salvation first; and have no
opinion of those who neglect their own souls in running after the souls of
others. Not a dollar of charity shall be wrung from me. I repeat that I shall
not go prowling about the country on missions of benevolence. Your sickly
sentimental philanthropist, with long hair parted in the middle, who lives on
cold beans and warm water, is not my ideal of the man who reforms the
world and carries blessings to the poor and needy. I propose to do
something, but I don’t wish to make any noise about it. I had about as lief
be pointed at as a thief as a professional philanthropist.”
“Do you mean clergymen, missionaries, agents of charitable associations,
who collect money for the poor and the wronged?”
“By no means—God forbid! I refer to your bran-bread philosophers, who
ride hobbies about the country; men who have theories, who believe in
fantastic communities, free-love brothels, and other abominations; men who
strain at a gnat and swallow a camel; in a word, men who can do nothing
for the poor and needy until society is reformed—until our social and
political institutions have been remodelled. Dick, I propose to go to work in
my own sphere. I am not going to upset the world, and throw the machinery
of society out of gear. Now, to our four thousand poor in Poppleton. They
are not beggars. Most of them earn enough to live on. They work in the
factories, go to sea, and job about the two villages. A large portion of them
are vicious, immoral, and irreligious.”
“And you propose to build a church and establish a Sunday school for
them.”
“I don’t propose anything of the sort,” replied Eugene, impatiently.
The boat had been put about again, and was now off The Little Bell.

“What kind of an institution do you propose?”
“No institution whatever. These people live in poor, mean houses, crowded
together like sheep in a pen, surrounded by filth, and unvisited by the pure
air of heaven. These causes alone are quite sufficient to make them vicious
and immoral. I propose to strike at the root of the evil. In a word, my first
work shall be with the homes of the poor. I shall quietly purchase one or
two of these tumble-down old houses, clear them off, and build upon the
sites suitable dwellings for the poor—such as can be afforded at a cheap
rent.”
“Model houses, you mean.”
“I hate even the cant of calling them model houses. I don’t intend to let
them rent free, but to have the occupants independent while they are
comfortably lodged. When we return to the Port, I will show you where I
mean to begin.”
“I am all interest, Hungerford, but I see some difficulties. For instance, who
will collect these rents?”
“I should employ a man for that purpose.”
These difficulties were discussed at length, till the sail boat passed the light
on The Great Bell.
“Boat ahoy!” shouted Mr. Eliot Buckstone.
“There’s a craft in distress,” said Dick Birch. “There’s a woman in it.”
“I see there is,” replied Eugene, as he put the helm down. “Give the jib-
sheet a pull, Dick.”
The sail boat was now headed towards the disabled craft. Eugene tried to
make out the person who had appealed to him, but he was a stranger.
“Young and pretty,” said Dick, as the sail boat rounded to alongside the
other boat.
“It is Miss Kingman!” exclaimed Eugene, not a little puzzled to account for
the circumstances under which she happened to be in a boat with a stranger
at this distance from the shore.
“Who is Miss Kingman?”

“Her father lives in the house on The Great Bell.”
“Ah, indeed!”
“Could you oblige me with the use of a pair of oars?” asked Mr. Buckstone,
holding on to the sailing craft to keep the two boats together.
“Mary!” said Eugene to the lady. “You are making a long voyage for a
small boat.”
“It was an involuntary one,” she replied, blushing and looking troubled
when his gaze met her own. “I was crossing from the Port to the island,
when I lost my oars overboard. I was drifting out to sea, and this kind
gentleman swam off to my assistance.”
“But was unable to render any,” added Mr. Buckstone. “Could you spare me
a pair of oars, sir?”
“I can do better than that for you. I will land you at the Point, or wherever
you please. Mary, let me help you on board.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I would much rather pull ashore,” interposed Mr.
Buckstone. “I am wet and rather chilly, and I think the exercise would do
me good.”
The marine painter had already imagined how very pleasant and
exhilarating it would be to place the fair girl in the stern-sheets of the boat,
while he occupied the fore thwart, and sit gazing into her sweet face as he
leisurely pulled to the shore. He was not willing to abandon this delightful
prospect.
“It will be a long, hard pull against wind and tide; besides, I have a couple
of overcoats on board, which will make you quite comfortable.”
“I prefer the exercise; I think it would be better for me, if the lady does not
object.”
“I am afraid my friends on shore will think something has happened to me,
and I prefer to return as soon as possible,” added Mary, as she took
Eugene’s hand, and stepped into the sail boat.
“You shall have the oars with pleasure, sir, if you insist upon it,” continued
Eugene, as he handed Miss Kingman to a seat in the standing-room.

Mr. Buckstone did not insist any longer. He was evidently annoyed at the
decision of his charmer; but there was no appeal from it, and he went on
board of the sail boat. The rebellious craft, that would not go without sails
or oars, was taken in tow, and the little schooner was headed towards the
Point, for the artist expressed a desire to recover his coat, boots, and sketch-
book. On the passage the conversation was confined to the incidents of the
lady’s voyage, and her “rescue” by the marine painter, who had placed
himself in such a position that he could see the face of the fair one.
Dick Birch, who had no idea of what the artist was thinking about, amused
himself in watching the countenances of Eugene and Mary, to detect, if he
could, any silent indication of affection on the part of either. He was not
rewarded by a single sign or token. Eugene was dignified and reserved,
devoting his whole attention to the sailing of the boat. If Mary had any
thoughts or feelings which concerned the helmsman, they were a sealed
book to the observer.
Off the Point, Mr. Buckstone sculled the truant boat ashore, and procured
his clothing and his sketches. Mary had already invited him to go to her
father’s house on The Great Bell, and dry himself. He was very nearly dry
without the intervention of the good fire she promised him, but he accepted
the invitation; and on his return, the boat stood up the channel towards the
pier at the upper end of the island. It was but a short run, and on the way,
Mr. Buckstone, now assured that he should not be ruthlessly torn from the
beautiful girl, made himself wonderfully agreeable. He exhibited his
sketches, especially commenting on the one which included the view of The
Great Bell from the Point, and flattered Eugene by promising that his
schooner should have a place in the painting. The boat landed her party at
the pier in good order and condition.
“Will you go up to the house with us, Mr. Hungerford?” said Mary, as she
stepped on the pier.
“I think not, Mary. I agreed to take my friend down to the Ledges.”
“I should be happy to have you go,” she added.
“I would like to take a stroll on this island, Hungerford,” interposed Dick.
“Then you will go,” continued Mary, with a look which was more eloquent
than her words.

“Go,” said Dick, in a low tone.
There was certainly no reason why he should not go, especially as his friend
desired him to do so; and to the intense disgust of Mr. Eliot Buckstone, he
complied. Eugene placed himself by the side of Mary as they walked up the
hill, and the poor artist was obliged to follow with Dick Birch.
Eugene tried to be tender and gentle, tried to let his actions convey the first
impressions of what was going on in his heart; but in spite of himself,
though he was not conscious of it, he was rather stiff and reserved. He
wished to go just far enough to assure Mary that he was tenderly inclined,
and then, with the slightest encouragement, he would take another step; but
he was so fearful of going too far, that he altogether failed to produce the
least impression. To Dick he looked cold and reserved. To Mary he seemed
not at all like the free and generous boy he had been in the days when they
glanced at each other across the school-room.
“We don’t live in a palace,” said Mary, turning round to the two strangers
behind her, as they approached the dilapidated mansion of her father.
There was a blush on her cheek, and her lip quivered as she spoke, for there
was more to mortify her pride within the house than without.
“I am fond of old houses. I take an especial delight in them. I shall paint
this house, with the sea for a background,” replied Mr. Buckstone, as he
followed Mary into the dwelling.

CHAPTER V.
THE KINGMAN FAMILY.
MARY KINGMAN led the way into the house. As she had remarked, it
certainly was not a palace. It was a very old house, but it would have been a
very good one, if it had been kept in repair. The party 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 reached
is usually interpreted as being in love. She was enduring the miseries of that
incipient affection from which the slightest token of love on the part of

Eugene would have plunged her into irretrievable depths. That token had
not been given; it had been studiously withheld. His words were carefully
guarded, apparently with the intention of preventing her from
misunderstanding his purpose. He spoke as a friend, not as a lover; he
labored to make it plain to her that he was only a friend. He insisted upon
friendship; he had half a dozen times elaborately repudiated the very idea of
love. The spark that was wanting to kindle in the heart the flame of genuine
affection was not communicated to the waiting altar.
Mary Kingman was not lacking in decision. The little curl of her under lip
did not speak falsely of her character. Gladly, joyously, triumphantly, as she
would have thrown herself into the arms of Eugene Hungerford, and
permitted her heart to grow into and intwine itself upon him, he was a
mountain of ice to her. She felt that he had closed his heart against her. He
could be a good and true friend, but nothing more. With a desponding spirit
she turned from him, and the firmness of her character enabled her to
banish, once and for all, the pleasing illusion from her mind. Not all, not
many, could have done so; Mary did, and Mr. Eliot Buckstone, with his
new-born, but enthusiastic admiration, became tolerable to her.
“I hope I don’t intrude,” said the artist, significantly, as he entered the room.
“Not in the least, Mr. Buckstone,” replied Eugene, lightly, as though the
great event of his lifetime had not been pending during the interview; and
the very cheerfulness of his tones was full confirmation to Mary that no
thought deeper than friendship had crossed his mind. “How do you feel
after your bath?”
“Very nicely, thank you.”
“Well, Mary, my friend must have exhausted the island by this time, and we
will continue our voyage,” added Eugene, taking his hat, and moving
towards the door.
“Dinner’s all ready, Mr. Hungerford,” interposed Mrs. Kinsman, coming out
of the kitchen on the other side of the entry. “We hain’t got much, but
you’re welcome to’t such as ’tis.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kingman; I think we will not remain. We engaged to dine
on the Ledge.”

At this moment the door at the rear end of the entry was opened, and an
elderly man, considerably intoxicated, reeled towards the party. It was
Captain Kingman, the proprietor of the island and of the dilapidated
buildings; and the ruinous aspect of everything about the place was
sufficiently explained by his present condition.
Mary Kingman turned pale and turned red. She looked as though she would
sink through the floor, and hide the shame of being the daughter of a
drunkard. She had hoped he would not come home while her guests were
present, and the exposure of the family grief would be avoided.
“How d’ do, Mis’r Hung’ford,” said Captain Kingman, in very loud and
bluff tones, as he staggered up to Eugene and extended his hand.
“Very well; how do you do, Captain Kingman?”
“Only to’rable; I git a little touch of rheumatiz now’n then; but I’m to’rable.
’S dinner ready, mother?”
“Yes, and waitin’.”
“Come, Mis’r Hung’ford, set down, and take a bite with us.”
“I thank you, captain; I have a friend with me, and we intend to dine on the
Ledge.”
“Where’s the man? Tell him t’ come ’n take a bite with us.”
“You must excuse me, Captain Kingman; but we shall be too late for the
tide if we remain any longer.”
“See here, Mis’r Hung’ford,” reeling up to Eugene, and steadying himself
in a position directly before him, “they say you’re rich now. Your uncle’s
dead and gone, ’n left you all ’s money. But look here, Mis’r Hung’ford;
you mus’n’t come down here, put’n on airs. I knew your father, Mis’r
Hung’ford; he was a smarter man ’n any of ’s chil’n. Will you take sum’n to
drink, Mis’r Hung’ford?”
“Nothing at present; I’m obliged to you. I must go now.”
“Mr. Hung’ford, you go to——.”
For some reason or other the inebriated man was determined to be angry.
Eugene saw what was coming, for Captain Kingman, in his cups, was well

known to be a quarrelsome man, and he beat a retreat. Dick Birch, who had
stood like the statue of one of the martyrs on the knoll all this time, joined
him, and they hastened down to the boat, which was soon standing down
the river again.
“Who’s this man?” demanded Captain Kingman, glancing at Mr.
Buckstone.
“Your most obedient servant,” replied the artist, with abundant good nature.
“Captain Kingman, I’m happy to make your acquaintance;” and he stepped
forward, with extended hand, which the drunken man grasped, with a tipsy
grin on his face. “My name is Eliot Buckstone.”
“Mis’r Bucks’on, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you take sum-thin?”
“Thank you; I don’t care if I do,” replied the polite wooer.
“You’re the man for me, Mis’r Bucks’on. Won’t you take a bite with us?”
“Thank you; I had already accepted Mrs. Kingman’s invitation to dine.”
“Well, come; the dinner’ll be cold,” suggested the lady of the house,
nervously.
At the table Mr. Buckstone was introduced to another member of the family
—Ross Kingman, the only son of the captain. There were four girls, all
younger than Mary. The inebriate brought out a black bottle from his
chamber, adjoining the kitchen, and the artist, though evidently for the sole
purpose of keeping the peace, partook very sparingly with his host. Captain
Kingman drank, and the effect of this additional dram was soon apparent in
his manners. He was belligerent to a degree which made peace almost
impossible; and poor Mary and her mother endured tortures too keen for
description during the dinner hour.
“Mary,” said her father, sharply and sternly, as the family rose from the
table.
She looked at him, but she made no reply.
“Mary, that Hung’ford is a fool,” he continued, spicing the remarks, as he
did most of his conversation, with many oaths. “He’s a bad man. Don’t you
speak to him again. Mary, d’ye hear me?”

“I hear, sir,” she replied, as she conducted Mr. Buckstone to the parlor,
hoping to escape her father’s presence.
The artist had behaved in the most conciliatory manner, and by his tact had
several times appeased the anger of the inebriate; but it was plain to him
that home to Mary Kingman was little better than a hell upon earth. He
pitied the poor girl, and with admiration, love, and pity, his interest in her
was hourly increasing. Captain Kingman followed them into the parlor. He
was even more stormy and violent than at dinner, and Mr. Buckstone, in
spite of the peace policy he pursued, found it utterly impossible to prevent
the drunkard from pouring out the vials of his causeless wrath upon him.
“You pop’jays from the city think a sight of yourselves,” he added, after he
had broken with the artist because he declined to drink a second time. “You
ain’t no better ’n the law ’lows. You’ve been here long ’nough.”
“I’m going presently, Captain Kingman.”
“Want you to go now,” roared the inebriate. “And if you ain’t gone ’fore I
get my bitters, I’ll help you out.”
He left the room, and Mary wept like an infant. It was the artist’s duty to
comfort her, and he did so in the most tender and respectful manner. While
he was thus engaged, a scream from the kitchen startled both of them. It
was twice repeated, and Mary rushed out of the room, followed by Mr.
Buckstone. It appeared that Mrs. Kingman, fearful of the consequences of
further drains upon the bottle while there was company in the house, had
taken the liquor from the chamber and concealed it. She had attempted to
do this before, and her husband, promptly comprehending the trick, flew at
the poor woman with a ferocity which threatened her life.
Mr. Buckstone promptly interposed, and saved the wife from further peril,
but only to draw down upon himself the vengeance of the demon. He
defended himself with skill and decision, using no more violence than was
necessary to save himself from the wrath of his opponent. He was soon
joined by Ross Kingman, the son; and the old man, now overcome by the
liquor and the excitement, was borne to his bed.
Mary was weeping bitterly when the artist joined her; but for years had she
suffered as she was suffering now. Mr. Buckstone was all sympathy and
tenderness. He consoled her, and soothed her mortified pride, by telling her

that he had witnessed the same scenes in the house of his own father, and he
knew what it was. She felt his kindness, and later in the day, when he took
her hand, she did not resist. She was so wounded by disappointment, so
broken down by domestic sorrow, that it was sweet to have a friend near her
in such an hour.
Twenty years before, Captain Kingman had been what was called a “smart
man,” though even then, he was occasionally the worse for liquor. The
island was his farm, and at that time he had been the owner of a good
coasting schooner, which he sailed himself. But his bad habits increased
upon him. In coming into port, after he had drank too much, he ran his
schooner upon the Ledge, in a sharp blow, and she became a total wreck.
This event opened his eyes, and he was a comparatively steady man for
several years, and sailed in the employ of other owners.
Just before the wreck, he had lost his first wife, the mother of Mary and
Ross, an excellent, well-bred, refined woman, who sorrowed herself to
death as the wife of a drunkard. He married another, his present wife, an
easy, good-natured woman, of no force of character, though with a capacity
for suffering which was now tried to its utmost. Captain Kingman soon
relapsed into even a lower depth of vice. No one would trust him now with
the command of a vessel, for he had lost another schooner when there was
no excuse for him. He was poor, for he spent what little money he made in
drink. Without Ross and Mary, the family could not have been kept
together.
Mary had for several years received a salary as a teacher. Her position in the
High School had been a good one; but several times her father had come to
the school in a state of beastly intoxication, and abused her shamefully. Her
sensitive nature could not endure what she was unable to prevent, and she
had resigned her situation, with the intention of obtaining another place, at a
distance from home. She was waiting for such a position at the present time.
Ross Kingman was a good-hearted young man. He worked on the farm, at
the ship-yards on the other side of the river, and occasionally made a fishing
or a coasting voyage. All he earned was contributed to the support of the
family. The farm was mortgaged up to its full value; and guilty as his father
was, the pride of Ross would not permit the family to be broken up, for that
would send his parents to the almshouse. Mary was his own sister, and to

her he was wholly devoted. He had often advised her to seek a home
elsewhere; but thus far she had assisted in the support of the family, and had
borne her cross with what fortitude she could command.
Mr. Buckstone heard the substance of this story from the lips of Mary
herself. In her grief she was glad of a friend. She listened to his kind words
with gratitude; and now that Eugene Hungerford, as she fully believed,
could be no more to her, she hardly shrank from the attentions of the artist.
He went back to his hotel in the evening. He came the next day, and the
next, and the next,—every day,—till he returned to the city. Captain
Kingman, sober, remembered his interference in the quarrel, and savagely
drove him from the house; but Mary met him in other places.

CHAPTER VI.
A STRANGE STORY.
EUGENE and his friend dined on the Ledge, and discussed plans and
projects for the future. No doubt they enjoyed the dinner, the sea air having
given them sharp appetites, and the conversation was very interesting, for
they were in full sympathy with each other. Dick desired to know whether
his friend had made any progress in his love affair, and Eugene, fully
believing that he had said enough to make an impression upon the mind and
heart of Mary, assured him that he had taken his first step, and had
accomplished all that could be expected in one brief interview.
They returned to the cottage, and the evening was devoted to the
contemplated European tour, in which Eugene was to be accompanied by
his mother and sister. It was arranged that the family should depart about
the first of September. The next day, the young men tried the trout in the
brooks, and continued for a week to divide their time between the sea and
the land—riding and walking, fishing, gunning, and sailing. Although it was
vacation to the lawyer, and the hours were given up to amusement, the
future, with its stupendous projects, could not be avoided; and when the
week was ended, the details of the enterprise before them had been so well
elaborated that it only remained to do what had been agreed upon.
During this period of relaxation, Eugene had twice been to The Great Bell;
but on both occasions he found Mr. Eliot Buckstone there, walking on the
beach with Mary. Now, Eugene, without any positive prejudice against the
artist, had but a very indifferent opinion of him. He did not think Mr.
Buckstone was a person who could be agreeable to Mary; and so far from
being disturbed by the intimacy which had grown up between them, he
rather pitied the fair girl because she was compelled to endure so much of
the painter’s society. He concluded that the fellow, as he contemptuously
called him, was taking advantage of the service he had rendered to Mary,
and was making the most of it, while she, poor girl, was actually
undergoing his persecution rather than subject herself to the charge of
ingratitude by declining to see him.

This week had been a stormy one in the dilapidated mansion on The Great
Bell. Though the artist had kept away from the house, he could not conceal
himself from the vengeance of Captain Kingman, who was drinking even
more deeply than usual. He saw that his daughter was meeting her new-
found friend every day in some part of the island, and the wretched girl was
consequently subjected to the severest and most brutal treatment. He had
even struck her; and human nature could endure no more. On the day after
the first visit of Mr. Buckstone at the house, her brother Ross had sailed
upon a fishing voyage, and she had no one to stand between her and the
wrath of her drunken father.
Captain Kingman was so incensed against her, that all his thoughts seemed
to be centred in wreaking his vengeance. He was maddened by the demon
of the cup, and there was no limit to his fury. On the night which completed
Dick Birch’s week of vacation with his friend, Mary had retired at her usual
hour. Her father was not in the house at the time; he was carousing in a low
groggery at the Port. It appeared that some one, who had seen Mary with
the artist on the beach that afternoon, informed him of the fact. He was
heard to swear that he would kill her as soon as he got home; but those
present at these drunken orgies regarded the words only as a threat.
At midnight, Captain Kingman reached his miserable home. Whether he
intended to execute his threat or not, he went up stairs to the chamber of his
daughter. The door was fastened; but he broke it open, and seizing the poor
girl by the hair, he dragged her from the bed, and with horrid imprecations
repeated his threat. Mary was fearfully alarmed; she screamed in mortal
terror, and Mrs. Kingman came to her assistance. His wife, by drawing the
vengeance of the brute upon herself, enabled Mary to escape. He pursued
her, but in his present condition, it was not difficult to avoid him. As soon
as he had given up the chase, she returned to her room, and dressed herself.
She suffered agonies which cannot be described. Her power of endurance
had reached its utmost limit.
Kneeling down by her bed, she prayed for strength and guidance. There was
no friend but God upon whom she could throw herself in her sorrow and
fear. She could no longer remain in the house, for her life was in peril. Her
father had threatened to kill her in his insane passion. It would be tempting
him and exposing herself to stay another hour; it would be cruel to both of
them. Packing up her scanty wardrobe in a bundle, and taking the few

valuables she possessed, including a small sum of money, she crept softly
down the stairs. She had decided to leave her wretched home, never more to
return while her father lived.
In the entry below she met Mrs. Kingman, who was hardly less terrified
than the daughter. The poor woman was suffering almost as much as Mary
—not as much, for her nature was less gentle and sensitive. Without a word
which might be overheard by the drunken father, they left the house, and
walked towards the landing-place.
“Where are you going to, Mary?” sobbed Mrs. Kingman, glancing uneasily
at the house in the gloom of the night.
“I hardly know, mother; I cannot spend another night in that house.”
“I don’t blame you, child; it ain’t in natur to stand sich treatment. If it wan’t
for the children, I’d go too.”
“I wish Ross were at home, mother; he could tell me what to do,” moaned
poor Mary, gazing vacantly at the stars, which looked so bright and happy,
while she was so sad and miserable.
“I wish he was. I don’t think I can stand it much longer; but the Lord
knows, what can I do?”
“I will tell you, mother. You must have him taken care of. It is terrible, I
know, and I have always struggled against the thought.”
“What do you mean, Mary?”
“You must have him arrested.”
“Arrested! My gracious! It would be as much as my life is worth. I should
no more dare to do it than I should to cut my head off.”
“I’m sorry to leave you, mother; and I wouldn’t do so, if I didn’t think it
was best for you as well as for me. He is terribly incensed against me.”
“I know he is, child. Perhaps he will behave better if you go off for a
while.”
“I hope he will. I am willing to suffer if it will do any good; but my
presence here only makes him worse. I must go.”
“But where are you goin, child?”

“I don’t know, mother. I suppose I shall find a place.”
“Can’t you find some place to stop over to the Port?”
“Perhaps I can.”
“Well, God bless you, child. You’ve allus been a good gal, and deserve to
be well used.”
Mrs. Kingman, still weeping, returned to the house to pass the rest of the
night in terror and misery, as she had passed many a night before.
Mary walked to the landing-place, and sat down upon a rock by the shore.
The present and future were full of darkness and she knew not whither to
turn. She was a lone wanderer in the desert, and there was no friendly oasis
to welcome her. By turns she wept and prayed, but there seemed to be no
healing balm in her tears or her prayers. She knew not where to go. She had
friends, as the world calls them,—many friends, perhaps,—but none to
whom she felt like appealing in her present desperate condition. Her pride
revolted at the thought of becoming a supplicant before those with whom
she had walked as an equal, though there were hundreds in yonder
slumbering villages, who would gladly have taken her to their hearts, and
poured out of their plenty into her lap. There were hundreds who would
joyfully have given her a home, and protection from her wrathful parent,
beneath their roofs. Mary was too proud to ask favors of this kind. She was
capable and self-reliant, and loathed the thought of dependence.
The gloomy hours wore slowly away, and the daylight gleamed in the east.
She had determined to take the morning train for a large town, a few miles
distant from Poppleton, where she hoped to procure a situation as a teacher,
or at least as an employee in one of the factories.
As soon as it was light enough, she got into the boat, to row across the
channel to the village. She intended to carry her bundle to the house of a
poor woman, whom she had served in the past, and having purchased a
travelling-bag, pack her things in readiness for the journey. She could then
take the stage, and depart respectably, without exciting idle remarks among
her acquaintances, if she met any of them. Her pride was not conquered
even by her intense anguish.
She had not rowed half way across the channel which divides The Great
Bell from the main land, before she heard the voice of Mr. Buckstone. He

was an early riser during his vacation, if at no other time, and had taken a
boat for his morning exercise. Mary trembled when she recognized him.
Many times had she thought of him during her lonely vigil on the shore. He
had been a kind and tender friend, and he knew more of what happened at
her father’s house than any other person outside of the family. He had not
spoken to her so gently and so lovingly without producing in her heart an
impression—just the impression he intended to produce. But, in spite of the
interest, and even affection, with which she regarded the artist, she would
have preferred to leave Poppleton without his knowledge.
He had spoken of love to her; he had uttered the vows and protestations of
an enthusiastic admirer. He had pleaded with her, as a lover pleads, for her
heart and hand; but she had made him no definite answer. Though she was
not insensible to his love, though she was even deeply moved by his earnest
devotion, she did not feel that she yet loved him well enough to be his wife.
Eugene Hungerford, all hopeless and distant as he now was to her, could
not be wholly forgotten, though she had ceased to think of him as she had
thought before he so prudently proclaimed himself to be only her “friend.”
Mary was in that state of terror, doubt, and agony which rendered a near
and dear friend almost a necessity to her. Her sorrows were too weighty to
be borne alone. Under the smile of prosperity, with no boding clouds
threatening her, she might never have favored the suit of Eliot Buckstone.
As it was, she was disposed to do so; and now, as she was fleeing in grief
and misery from the home of her childhood, and from the wrath of him who
should have been her strongest friend, he stepped into her path. Not thus,
borne down by the shadow of all earth’s calamities, would she have met
him; not here and now would she have listened to his impassioned
eloquence, for her heart was weak with suffering, her strength was
exhausted by the pressure of misery; not thus would she have heard and
decided the question upon which hung all the issues of the unseen future.
She was weak in body, but weaker in spirit under the accumulated trials and
terrors that beset her.
“You are an early bird, Mary, as well as myself,” said Mr. Buckstone, as he
threw his skiff alongside her boat.
She made no reply, for her sorrows choked her utterance. Without
ceremony, he leaped into the boat, securing the skiff astern.

“Are you going to the Port, Mary?” he asked, as he gently took the oars
from her grasp, and assisted her to a seat farther aft.
“Yes.”
“You are up very early.”
She could not speak.
“What is the matter, Mary? You can tell me, you know, for I am familiar
with affairs over at the house,” he continued. “Something has happened,
Mary.”
His gentleness, his tenderness were more than she could bear, and she bent
down her head, and wept like a child.
“Won’t you tell me what it is, Mary?”
“I cannot, Mr. Buckstone,” she sobbed. “Don’t go to the village now. I
cannot be seen as I am.”
He turned the boat’s head towards the Point, and waited till the torrent of
her grief had spent itself.
“O, Mr. Buckstone!” exclaimed she, suddenly raising her head, and gazing
earnestly at him.
“What has happened, Mary? Won’t you tell me?”
“I cannot stay at home any longer. I shall not dare to enter my father’s
house again.”
“I feared it would come to this. Where are you going?”
“To Newington.”
“Have you friends there?”
“I shall find friends,” she answered, evasively.
Then she told him what had occurred during the night; and for an hour, until
the sun had risen far above the heaving waters, they talked of the past and
the present. There was a future which was still nearer to the thoughts of
Eliot Buckstone. What he had spoken before, he spoke again. Once more he
told his story of love, and begged her, in her present extremity, to give him
the legal right to become her friend and protector. Now he spoke to more

willing ears than ever before. Without saying that she loved him with her
whole heart and soul, she accepted his proffered love; and when she had
done so, the great black clouds seemed to be rolled back, and she smiled
upon him.
“Mine, mine, forever!” said the rapturous artist, as he seated himself by her
side in the boat, and passing his arm around her waist, he imprinted upon
her lips the first kiss.
“Will you always love me thus?” she replied, feeling that, if he did, he
would soon become to her more than all the world beside, if he was not
now.
“Always, Mary, always! There shall be no change, or suspicion of change,
in me—never, Mary! I have loved you with all my heart from the first
moment I saw you. When I looked into the boat, still struggling for breath, I
was almost petrified by the vision of loveliness which greeted me. Mary, I
had seen you thousands of times before.”
“Seen me before?”
“In my dreams of paradise! In my visions of the glorious and the beautiful
of earth! I have seen you on my canvas ere the pencil had traced a line, and
I would have given my life for the power to transfer my bright ideal upon
its waiting surface. But even fairer than the thought is the loving, breathing
being I press to my heart;” and he suited the action to the word.
“I am afraid this is too poetic to be real,” replied she, her confidence in the
man she had accepted not increased by the glowing strains in which he
spoke.
“It is all real. I see you; I touch you. Mary, you know not what I have felt,
what I have hoped and feared, how I have trembled for myself, since I first
saw you. Mary, let me live for you. I ask nothing better of this world; and if
I have you in the next, I can dream of no purer happiness.”
“But I am a wanderer and an outcast now,” she said, looking sad again.
“Not a wanderer, and you can never be an outcast from my heart, Mary.”
“I have no place to lay my head. Let us go to the village now. I would have
gone without your knowledge, but Providence has thrown you into my path.
Let us return now, Mr.——”

“Eliot,” he interposed.
“Eliot! I will go on my way rejoicing now. When I reach Newington, I will
write to you, and then——”
“No, Mary, you shall not go to Newington, or anywhere else, without me,”
protested Mr. Buckstone, earnestly. “I should be a villain if I permitted you,
in our present relations, to expose yourself to the perils and privations
which would surround you in a strange place, where you had none to care
for you.”
“But what shall I do? I cannot go home. My father would kill me if he knew
what has just transpired,” added she, as she glanced inquiringly into his
face.
“Neither go home, nor go to Newington alone,” he continued; and it was
evident from his look and his manner, that he had a proposition to make,
though there was some embarrassment about mentioning it.
“I must do something.”
“Of course you must, Mary.”
“What shall I do?”
“You shall be my wife before the sun goes down to-night, Mary!”
exclaimed he, rapturously.
She shrank from him, apparently offended, while her cheeks were redder
than the sun when he rose from his watery bed.
“Don’t shrink from me, Mary. I meant no harm.”
It was some time before he could restore her to her former self-possession.
“Mary, I love you with all my soul. I could die for you this moment, even
without possessing you for a single instant. You don’t think I would propose
anything which I did not believe was best for you?”
“No, Eliot, I do not.”
“If you had even the humblest home, I could wait without a murmur whole
years. But you are alone in the world, without a roof to cover you, without a
friend to comfort you. You are mine; but what can I do for you? I cannot

even give you a shelter. I cannot even conduct you to a place of safety,
without subjecting you to the breath of slander.”
It was kind of him, harsh and abrupt as the proposition had seemed. He
meant well, she thought, and she did not reproach him when he again
brought up the subject. Mr. Buckstone argued the question like a lawyer,
and in the end he overcame all her maidenly scruples. Her situation was a
desperate one, and if she was to be the wife of this man, it might as well be
to-day, as a year hence. She consented, unwillingly, shrinkingly, almost
revoltingly, but she consented.
“We shall reach Boston by half past two, and Providence by six. I have
friends there, and you shall be a bride before the sun goes down,” he added,
exultingly, pressing her to his bosom. “We have no time to spare;” and he
took up the oars, and pulled up the river again.
Landing, he carried her bundle to the hotel. A valise was purchased for her
use, and she was soon employed in packing it with her clothing. Her
breakfast was sent to her room. A private vehicle was procured, and they
hastened to the railroad station at Poppleton Mills. But they were seen
together; seen to depart together, with the valise and other baggage; seen
together at the hotel. If the whole truth was not known to the busybodies of
Poppleton, it was fully surmised.
And on this morning, as Eliot Buckstone and his intended bride were
speeding on their way to Providence, Eugene and his friend commenced the
work which they had planned during the week of vacation. All the laborers
that could be procured at the Port and at the Mills were employed upon the
projected roads through Pine Hill. A practical man had been engaged to
superintend the operations.
Eugene was not content with this beginning: he and Dick were hastening
down to the Port, intent upon purchasing a ruined mansion, in which
swarmed a dozen Irish families. There was no great difficulty in the way,
and the estate was at once secured. Half of one night during the preceding
week had been spent in perfecting a plan for the model house, and our
practical philanthropist was impatient to have the building in progress. The
parties next went to the office of Squire Perkins to have the deeds drawn.

“There is a strange story circulating through the place this morning, Mr.
Hungerford,” said the squire, after he had satisfactorily ridiculed the fancy
of his former student for purchasing Irish shanties.
“There are always strange stories circulating,” replied Eugene, indifferently,
for he was too intent upon the business before him to be moved by the
reports of the village gossips.
“They say that Mr. Buckstone, the artist, left town rather suddenly this
forenoon,” continued the squire.
“Indeed? Where has he gone?”
“Nobody knows. They say Captain Kingman’s oldest daughter has gone
with him.”
“Mary?” gasped Eugene, starting back with horror.
“So they say.”
“So they say! Who says so?” demanded Eugene, fiercely.
“Well, perhaps twenty people saw them go. Why, what’s the matter, Mr.
Hungerford?”
“Nothing, nothing,” replied he, struggling to recover his self-possession. “Is
that a fact?”
“I didn’t see them go; but that’s what they all say, and I suppose there can
be no doubt of it.”
Eugene felt giddy and sick. The story was too terrible and revolting for him
to believe, and while he struggled with the tumultuous emotions that rolled
up from his heart, he refused to credit it.
“They say this Buckstone isn’t any better than he ought to be,” proceeded
the matter-of-fact squire, opening the old deed by which he was to draw the
new one. “There was a gentleman from New York up here last week who
said he was a notorious rascal. I think he said Buckstone ran away with
another man’s wife, and there was——”
“My God!” groaned Eugene, rushing madly out of the office, followed by
Dick Birch.

“What’s the matter with him?” demanded the honest squire, with no little
perturbation, as he jumped out of his chair; and he had not a suspicion that
he was rending the very soul of Eugene by his words.
“He seemed to be struck up all in a heap,” replied the late owner of the
Milesian hovel.
“Bless me! now I think of it, Hungerford was rather fond of that Kingman
girl. I’m sorry,” continued the squire, rubbing his bald head vigorously.
“She was a nice girl, and it’s a pity any harm should come to her;” and
sadly worried by the shock he had given the young man, he turned again to
the deed.

CHAPTER VII.
POOR MARY!
“DON’T be disturbed, Hungerford; it is nothing but an idle story,” said
Dick Birch, taking the arm of his friend as he joined him in the street.
“Dick, I shall go mad!” exclaimed Eugene; and a cold shudder ran through
his frame.
“Never mind the story; it is only gossip.”
“Let us get out of sight, Dick,” continued Eugene, as he convulsively
clutched the arm of his friend, and dragged him down the street towards the
river. “I must go down to the island and learn the truth at once.”
“Keep cool, Hungerford.”
“How can I keep cool in the face of such a wretched rumor?”
“This is not like you.”
“I shall go mad, Dick!”
“No, you won’t do anything of the sort. What are you going mad for?” said
Dick, rather impatiently.
“Don’t mock me.”
“Then don’t make a fool of yourself. You are attracting attention now by
your furious pace. Slow down a little, and be reasonable.”
“You can’t understand it Dick,” groaned Eugene.
“Yes, I can understand it better than you do.”
“Let us get out of sight.”
“You won’t make much by getting out of sight, if you insist upon showing
yourself off to the people in the streets beforehand.”
Eugene reduced his pace, and labored to be calm; but it was utterly
impossible for him to control his emotions. It required all of Dick’s strategy

to prevent him from exposing his weakness to the people in the streets.
When they reached the river, the sail boat seemed to be the only available
resort, and Eugene threw himself on the cushions in the standing-room, the
very picture of despair and desolation. The conduct of Mary Kingman was
as mysterious as it was painful.
Dick hoisted the sails, and took charge of the boat, leaving his companion
to vent his sorrows by himself. The wind was very light, and the boat
slowly receded from the shore. Eugene did not speak, and his common-
sense friend watched the sails in silence, deeming it best to let the first
transports of grief spend themselves. At last the disappointed lover looked
up into the face of Dick, but the anguish of his heart was still visible in his
countenance.
“What shall I do, Dick?” he asked.
“Do nothing,” replied Dick, rather sternly.
“You don’t understand it.”
“I do, perfectly. I don’t want to say anything to hurt your feelings,
Hungerford, but I congratulate you upon this thing.”
“You are making sport of me.”
“On my soul, I am not! I mean what I say. It is fortunate for you that this
thing happened when it did, and as it did.”
“No, Dick!”
“I mean so.”
“You cannot be so barbarous.”
“Barbarous? We haven’t got the facts yet, but if this girl has run away with
a dissolute person, you are a lucky fellow to escape from further contact
with her.”
“You don’t know her, Dick.”
“I don’t want to know her if she is what she appears to be.”
“I will not believe she meditates anything wrong, Dick. Mary Kingman was
an angel!”

“All girls are, under certain circumstances.”
“No, no, Dick; you will not understand me.”
“Hungerford, I know you feel bad, and I am sorry for you; but I must speak
my mind, if I speak at all, whether you like it or not. It appears now that the
girl has run away with a man whose character is not above par.”
“Don’t, Dick!”
“Don’t what? I only state the fact.”
“You state it as offensively as possible.”
“I state it just as it is. Now, to take the mildest view of it: Miss Kingman did
not love you, or she would not have run away with another man. Is that
good logic?”
“I always thought she loved me.”
“You were mistaken.”
“I can’t think I was.”
“Confound it, Hungerford, what do you mean?” said Dick, impatiently.
“Don’t you see the thing has proved itself? If you thought chalk was cheese,
wouldn’t the taste convince you? The girl has gone off with another man,
either to be his wife, or——.”
“No, Dick!” shouted Eugene, springing to his feet. “Don’t say that, or you
will make me your enemy.”
“Hungerford, I don’t buy my friends, any more than you buy your wife. I
deem it my duty, as your friend, to open your eyes. I don’t wonder that you
feel bad, if you loved the girl.”
“If I loved her!” gasped Eugene.
“Well, I had my doubts whether or not you did. I must say you were the
coolest, most unimpassioned lover I ever saw in my life.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do. Why, man, you hardly looked at her! You were alone with her for half
an hour, the other day, and I’ll bet you talked politics with her, or discussed
the height of the mountains in the moon.”

“You are amusing yourself at my expense, Dick.”
“I was never more serious in my life, Hungerford. In my opinion you have
done the very thing I was afraid you would do, and warned you not to do.”
Dick prided himself on being a prophet.
“What was that?”
“I was afraid you would permit your fear of buying the lady to make you
seem cold, indifferent, reserved, and distant. When you came out of the
house the day we went there, I studied her expression very carefully. You
had been alone with her for half an hour; I expected to find a little glow
upon her face, to find some indication of pleasure in her eye, which would
assuredly have been visible, if you had given her reason even to suspect that
you loved her. Hungerford, she looked sad, disappointed, hopeless.”
“Do you mean to say that you could tell by her looks what her feelings
were?”
“No; but a lady of her age, and of her sensitive nature, could not conceal the
exultation of her first love, any more than she could conceal any other joy
that warmed her heart. I was looking for such a manifestation. I could not
find it. On the contrary, she looked sad and depressed.”
“Poor girl! she had enough, as you saw, that day, to make her sad and
depressed. It was just before her drunken father made his appearance.”
“It was not that. You did not take her by the hand, when we left; you did not
smile upon her. Your adieu to her was not different from that to her mother.
I watched her as you walked away. Her eye followed you, and it seemed to
me I could hear her reason speaking to her heart, and saying that you did
not love her, and that her heart must cease to beat for you. I think now that
she gave you up then. Very likely she thought that, as you were now a
millionnaire, she had no right to cherish the affection she had fostered when
you were both poor.”
“Perhaps she did,” said Eugene, musing; “but I did love her, and I intended
to assure her that I regarded her with deep interest.”
“Pray, what did you say to her?” demanded Dick, bluntly.

Eugene recalled the embarrassment under which he had labored on that
occasion; the difficulty he had experienced in attempting to say enough
without saying too much; and the fear which had haunted him lest he should
make her the wife of the three millions instead of himself. He had firmly
resolved not to permit himself to be influenced by the contingent fortune,
and this resolution had warped his judgment over to the opposite extreme.
He began to realize it now, under the sharp tuition of his common-sense
friend.
“I told her that we should always be friends,” he replied, in answer to
Dick’s blunt question.
“Did you, indeed?” And something like a sneer accompanied the words.
“I meant so.”
“It is quite possible you did. Are you sure you didn’t tell her you could
never be anything more than friends?”
“Of course, I did not. I didn’t mean that.”
“Miss Kingman would have been smarter than any lady I know of, if she
hadn’t believed that was what you meant. Did you tell her you were going
abroad?”
“I did.”
“Did you promise to write to her, or ask her to write you?”
“Not in so many words?”
“What did you say about it?”
“Well, I told her—I told her I should think of all my friends at home.”
“Excellent!”
“Of course I meant her.”
“And she, being gifted with the power to read your soul, even while you
were studiously attempting to hide it from her, readily understood that all
your friends at home meant herself! No, Hungerford, there was no hole in
that millstone. You cheated yourself, which is of no great consequence; you
cheated her, which, as the result shows, is a matter of very great
consequence both to you and to her.”

“Let us go to the island, and find out the facts,” said Eugene, uneasily; for,
as thousands of others have done when it was too late, he regretted his
excessive distrust, his overstrained prudence.
They went to the island; they saw Mrs. Kingman: her husband was still
sleeping off the effects of his midnight debauch. She told Eugene that Mary
had gone—where she knew not. The “strange story” that was circulating at
the Port had not yet reached the island. With tearful eyes she narrated to
him the events which had transpired in the house when Captain Kingman
came home in the middle of the night; that Mary had been driven from her
home by the fear of her father’s violence; that even her life was in peril if
she remained longer in the house.
Eugene was filled with anguish by the story of wrong and violence; and it
was some time before he could muster the courage to repeat to her the
rumor which was passing through the village. Mrs. Kingman listened
patiently to his slow and struggling utterance of the truth so terrible to him.
“I shouldn’t wonder, a mite,” said the woman.
“Then you think it is true that she has gone off with this man?” asked
Eugene.
“I shouldn’t be the least surprised. Mr. Buckstone was down here e’en
a’most all the time arter that day you were all here.”
“Was he?”
“That’s what made her father so desp’ate mad with her. He found ’em down
on the beach two or three times; and arter that it seemed to me the man was
possessed with the sperit of the evil one, and he pestered the poor gal all the
time.”
“What did you think of Mr. Buckstone yourself?” said Eugene, pierced to
the soul by every word the woman spoke.
“Well, he was a perlite body. He always looked like a nice sort o’ man to
me; but there’s no tellin what a body is by the looks. Cap’n Kingman stuck
to’t the man was a raskil; he told me that he had hearn some one said so that
knew him in New York.”
“Poor Mary!” sighed Eugene.

He had already passed from the selfish view of his own loss to an unselfish
consideration of the poor girl’s fate. The story was all told. What he had
been too blind to see, others had known for a week—that Mary had
encouraged the attentions of the artist. With a heart sadder than he had ever
known before, he walked down to the boat, where his friend had remained
while he went up to the house to make the inquiries. He repeated to Dick all
that he had learned.
“Poor girl! I pity her, if the fellow is the villain he is represented to me,”
said Dick, who, though sometimes sharp in his words and quick in his
conclusions, had a heart as warm and tender as that of a woman.
Eugene buried his face with his hands, and groaned in bitterness of spirit.
To his own grief at the loss of her who seemed to be more to him now than
ever before, was added the revolting fact that Mary Kingman had
unwittingly thrown herself into the arms of a reckless villain. To have
known that she had become the bride of an honest man, would have been
tolerable; to feel that she had thrown herself away upon an unprincipled
wretch, was insupportable.
“What shall I do, Dick?” he exclaimed, unable longer to conceal the tears
that flowed down his haggard face.
“You can do nothing but bear it. I pity you, Hungerford, as I pity her.”
“Can’t we follow her, and bring her back?”
“She would not come, if what you say be true. She loves this Buckstone.”
“Can you believe it?”
“We have no right to think she does not. When we saw them last on the
beach, I could not help thinking that she was favorably inclined towards
him. He is a splendid looking fellow. He is an artist, and probably as
romantic as a knight errant.”
“But Mary was not romantic,” protested Eugene.
“Perhaps not. Poor girl! I have ceased to blame her for what she has done.”
“Wasn’t it wrong for her to go off so suddenly with this man!”
“Undoubtedly he has promised to make her his wife at once. Here she was,
driven from her home in the dead of the night, with the fear of death by the

hand of her father if she returned; and, with too much pride to burden her
friends, whither could she turn?”
“Where, indeed!” groaned the disconsolate lover.
“Then this Buckstone, who has been pouring the tale of his love into her
ears all the time for a week, steps into her presence. He knows something
about her family relations, and she tells him what has happened. What more
natural than that she should listen to him? What more natural than his offer
to be her best and truest friend? Doubtless he proposed to make her his wife
without delay, and she, poor girl, not having a resting-place or a near friend
on earth, after weakly resisting the appeal for a time, yields the point.”
“Will he make her his wife?” whispered Eugene.
“Let us hope that he will. They may be man and wife before this time.”
“But they say he’s a villain.”
“They say so; but he may be an honest man, after all, though I confess that I
have my doubts.”
“He may deceive her.”
“He may.”
“Dick, I cannot endure this agony!” cried Eugene, springing to his feet, as
he had often done in his excitement. “I must do something to save her; at
least I must try to do something.”
“Nothing can be done.”
“Dick, I feel guilty. If I had spoken what was in my heart, this could not
have been.”
“We don’t know.”
“I know! If I had told her how I loved her; if I had whispered only a tithe of
what I felt then, and feel now, this could not have been.”
“It might.”
“No, Dick.”
“Don’t distress yourself. You meant right.”

“If Mary comes to harm, it will be my fault. If she is lost, I have destroyed
her,” cried Eugene, in his agony.
“Nothing of the kind, Hungerford.”
“If I had told her what I felt, she would not have countenanced this
Buckstone. When we found them in the boat, I saw that his presence was
distasteful, if not disagreeable, to her. I think she had begun to love me. As
you said before, Dick, my coldness robbed her of all hope, and she has
thrown herself away upon this wretch.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Hungerford. You did what you believed was right.”
“I am guilty, Dick! I must at least try to save her.”
“It is too late.”
“It is not too late to try; I must do that. If I can find her, I will tell her of my
love now.”
“After she has been off with this fellow?”
“Dick, she is as pure as the angels of heaven. It is honorable marriage with
her, or it is nothing. She may be deceived; this is all I fear. Come with me,
Dick. Be my friend now, as you have always been.”
“Though I think it will be a bootless journey, I will go with you where you
will; or I will follow her without you.”
“No; I will go. If the villain has wronged and deceived her, I will tear him
in pieces. If I cannot be her husband, I will be her avenger, if any wrong has
been done to her.”
They landed. The intention to do something, in some measure, satisfied the
impetuous nature of Eugene, and he was tolerably calm, as they walked up
to Squire Perkins’s office. The deeds were signed and sealed, and the
tenants of the Irish house were warned to vacate the premises on the next
rent day, though with the assurance that better apartments at the same price
would soon be in readiness for them. While Eugene was thus occupied,
Dick Birch obtained, at the hotel where he lodged, all the current
information in regard to Mr. Buckstone. As Eugene’s friend was obliged to
go to Boston on the following day, in order to close up his business affairs,
he had arranged to go with him, and consult an architect in the city in

regard to the plan for his new residence. They now purposed to take the
noon train, and there was not much time to spare.
At the railroad station they learned that Mr. Buckstone had taken tickets for
Boston, as they had before supposed. Our travellers reached that city late in
the afternoon. Dick immediately procured the services of a skilful detective,
who promptly traced the fugitives to the Providence depot. The hackman
who had driven them there had followed Mr. Buckstone into the station-
house to carry the baggage, and had heard him call for a ticket for
Providence. The last train for that city had gone; but Eugene, not to be
balked or delayed, chartered a special train, and at half past eight in the
evening they were thundering on their way in quest of the runaways.
The detective went with them, and other assistance was obtained when they
reached Providence, at ten o’clock; but the hackmen, upon whom they
mainly relied for information, were scattered at this hour, though at
midnight the fact was clearly established that the fugitives had taken the
steamboat train for Stonington and New York at seven in the evening. The
lady and gentleman were in Providence about an hour; but whether they
were married or not during that time, it was impossible to ascertain that
night. They had proceeded, on their arrival, to the house of an artist in
Westminster Street. Whether a marriage ceremony had been performed
there or not, the occupants positively refused to say; the parties had gone to
New York, and must answer for themselves.
The fugitives could be followed no farther that night, if indeed it was
necessary to continue the search. The next morning Eugene and Dick called
at the house of the artist, which had been visited by Mr. Buckstone and
Mary. Eugene assured him he came as the friend of the lady, and had no
desire to injure her; all he wanted was information of the facts.
“I haven’t a word to say, sir,” replied the artist. “Buckstone’s affairs are not
mine. I don’t know what the effect might be of telling you that a marriage
has or has not taken place in my house; therefore I shall make no sign.”
“If Mr. Buckstone is married, I have nothing to say.”
“I don’t know, sir, anything about that. You are a stranger to me. How do I
know but you mean to attach the lady’s property, if she has any, for
Buckstone’s debts, if they are married? How do I know but you mean to

prevent the marriage if they are not married? You perceive, sir, that I can
say nothing at all about the matter.”
Eugene was suspicious; so was Dick; but it was impossible to induce the
obstinate artist to unseal his lips. The secret was safe with him. During the
day all the clergymen in the city were visited, but none of them had
performed the ceremony. It might have been done by some other authorized
person; but no such individual could be discovered who had married the
parties. Some inquiries into the character of the artist in Westminster Street
were not favorable to that gentleman, and it was possible that he had been a
party to one of those miserable deceptions by which young females have
been deluded into the belief that they were legally married; but there was no
evidence on this point, and the pursuers continued on their way to New
York.
It was two days before the present abode of Mr. Buckstone could be
discovered. At this house it appeared that he had taken rooms for himself
and wife.
“Is she his wife?” demanded Eugene, imperatively, of the landlady.
“Bless you! I suppose she is! If she isn’t, I don’t want them in my house.
But they got a telegraph message yesterday, and started immediately for
Philadelphia. Mr. Buckstone said they should return in a few days.”
It was useless to pursue the fugitives any farther. It was more than probable
that the telegraph message had come from Providence, and Mr. Buckstone
was now fleeing from them. Eugene and Dick instituted a thorough inquiry
into the antecedents and character of Mr. Buckstone. The result was not so
unfavorable as it might have been, though it appeared that the painter had
been implicated in a disreputable affair, affecting the honor of a married
lady, as it had been reported in Poppleton; but opinions varied in regard to
his guilt. Some declared that he was innocent of the charge, and was as
honorable a man as any in the city, while others were entirely satisfied of
his guilt in the particular case, and did not regard him as even a respectable
man.
Mr. Buckstone could not be tried on the accusation, or on his general
character. Whether he was actually married or not, it was impossible to
ascertain. Be this as it might, Eugene was confident that Mary believed she

was legally the wife of the artist. This was all the result that could be
reached, and sadly and reluctantly he left the city, to forget, if he could, the
painful circumstances. Bitterly he reproached himself for concealing his
feelings from Mary. He felt guilty, even though his motives had been pure
and lofty. Mary could be no more to him, and he felt that there was not
another woman in the world who could take her place in his affections.
Dick Birch was a true comforter, a true friend; but Eugene’s was a sorrow
which could not be healed by human sympathy—hardly soothed by it. Even
the plans for the elegant mansion, the work on Pine Hill, and model houses,
seemed to have lost half their interest. The business in Boston was
completed, and Eugene returned to Poppleton. Dick soon followed him, and
they immediately plunged deep into the operations which had already been
commenced.

CHAPTER VIII.
TO EUROPE AND BACK.
THE city architect in due time completed his plans for the mansion at Pine
Hill, and the building was commenced. The improvements upon the
grounds were continued with unabated vigor. One model house at the Port
and two at the Mills were in process of erection. Eugene Hungerford’s
extensive operations kept business good in the place; his enterprise was
appreciated, and he was regarded with a respect bordering upon reverence.
Meanwhile, the preparations for the European tour were completed. Mrs.
Hungerford had always been “a home body,” and at her time of life was not
much inclined to go abroad. She dreaded the ocean voyage, but as Julia
desired to go, she preferred to join the party. It would be home wherever her
children were, and as she was still hale and healthy, she thought she could
enjoy life better with them, even at sea, than alone in the cottage at
Poppleton. Besides, she was greatly troubled by the melancholy which had
brooded over Eugene, since the flight of Mary Kingman. It worried her to
see him, with every worldly prospect so bright, become so moody and
depressed. She and Julia, as well as Dick Birch, did everything that could
be done to restore his former cheerfulness.
With these loved ones at home, Eugene talked freely of his sorrows; it was
all the solace he had. He could not banish from his mind the feeling that he
had indirectly been the cause of Mary’s misfortune, if, indeed, it was a
misfortune, which had not yet been demonstrated. Many were the tricks and
expedients to which his kind and loving friends resorted to overcome his
melancholy. Picnics and parties, visitings and merrymakings, were liberally
encouraged. Eugene, to please his mother and sister, attended them all; yet
the gloom still hung over him. Independent of his princely fortune, he was a
favorite with the ladies of Poppleton. He was a man of noble mien and
bearing, and the fairest would have been flattered by his attentions. And
now, the wealthiest man of all the region round, he was not only the object
of a vast amount of solicitude on the part of managing mothers, but the fair
ones, who would willingly have taken him without a “bonus,” fluttered

when he smiled, and blushed when he glanced at them. In vain they
fluttered, and in vain they blushed. Eugene treated them with the utmost
respect and deference, but his heart was away with Mary.
Even Mrs. Hungerford and Julia, with the kindest intentions, did not scruple
to bring him frequently into the presence of ladies whom they deemed
worthy of him, with the hope that he might be fascinated by some one of
them; but it was only to steal him away from the corroding care upon which
he fed, and win him from the dead thought to which he was still hopelessly
wedded. He was calm, and even cheerful most of the time; but the worm
still kept on gnawing. It was hoped by all at home that the tour in Europe
would produce a salutary effect upon him.
Just before Eugene’s departure, Ross Kingman returned from his fishing
cruise, and a letter for him, which had lain in the post office, was opened.
Carefully as the lover and his friends had striven to conceal his
disappointment, the village gossips made all the capital they could of it. The
postmaster had shown this letter to Eugene, who at once recognized Mary’s
handwriting, and he had impatiently awaited the brother’s return, in order to
learn what tidings it contained of the absent one. On the day of his arrival,
Eugene went to the island, and had a long interview with Ross, and the
letter was shown to him. It was written a month after her arrival at her new
home. She spoke of Eliot Buckstone as her husband, and simply assured her
brother that she was pleasantly situated; but Eugene, who was permitted to
read the letter, saw, or thought he saw, indications that she was not happy.
She alluded to her husband in the kindest terms, but she did not speak of
him as one of her gentle, loving nature would have spoken, if he had fully
realized her hopes and expectations.
The letter did not improve Eugene’s mental condition. He could not help
feeling that she was disappointed and unhappy, and he continued to charge
himself with the misfortunes which had fallen upon her. He frankly told her
brother his feelings in regard to her.
“Well, I always thought, Mr. Hungerford, that she was fond of you. She
always used to speak of you to me just as though it was a settled thing with
her, and, up to the time you got this money, I supposed you understood each
other perfectly,” said Ross.
“Nothing particular ever passed between us, Ross,” replied Eugene.

“I didn’t suppose there had; but anybody can see through a millstone when
there is a hole in it. I hadn’t much doubt as to how the thing would turn out.
I suppose everybody in the place had the same idea.”
“I was not aware of it.”
“In such matters, other folks sometimes know better what is going to
happen than you do yourself.”
“I seldom met her.”
“That didn’t seem to make much difference. When you went to school
together, the story was started. But you saw her once in a while, and I know
she used to be thinking of you all the time. Well, she didn’t say so, but I was
just as well satisfied as though she had told me with her own mouth that she
liked you. I hadn’t any doubts till the money came.”
“Did you think that would make any difference with me?” asked Eugene,
anxiously.
“Perhaps I didn’t exactly think so, but I was afraid it might make some
difference with you. I knew Mary liked you, and for her sake I couldn’t help
wishing things had got a little further along. I knew the money wouldn’t
break anything off with you, but I was afraid it would keep them from
going on. Besides, folks in the village had a good deal to say about it.”
“What did they say?”
“They didn’t talk of anything but you and your money for a week after the
news came. I didn’t ask any questions; I generally pay attention to my own
business; but it was said, that, according to your uncle’s will, you would
have to get married right off.”
“They did not know me, and they did not understand the provision of the
will,” added Eugene, petulantly.
“They said you wouldn’t marry Mary now; that you would find some lady
in the city! and such things as that. I didn’t pay much attention to what they
said. Mary did not talk about you to me, after that, as much as she used to
before. As near as I could make it out, she thought the money would come
between you and her.”
“Why should she have thought so?”

“It wasn’t very strange, I think. I talked with her the day I went away about
things in general. I asked her if you and she were good friends still; she said
you were, but she didn’t think you were quite as cordial—that’s the word
she used—as you were formerly.”
Eugene stamped his foot impatiently upon the ground. The analysis of his
conduct which Dick Birch had given him had assured him of this fact, and it
was now confirmed from Mary’s own mouth. He did not curse himself, for
he had meant well; but he severely blamed his own blindness, and
wondered that he had not been permitted to see what had been so plain to
others.
“I am sorry I did not understand her better.”
“I know that Mary was sorry any money had come to you. I’m sure she
liked you for yourself, Mr. Hungerford, and not for what you had.”
“Would that I had known it before!”
“I should think you might have known it. Mary did not keep things to
herself much.”
“I was wrong.”
“When I saw that she felt bad, and was disappointed, I could not help
feeling hard towards you, myself,” added Ross. “Still, as I looked at it
more, I concluded that it was hardly fair to expect a man with your money
would marry a poor girl like her, and with things in the family as they have
been with us.”
“That would have made no difference with me.”
“Well, I suppose it is of no use to cry for spilt milk. It’s done now, and can’t
be helped. I only hope the man she has married is the right sort of person,
though I didn’t think much of him the day I saw him here.”
Ross, though a quiet and well-behaved young man in the main, was
belligerent, like his father, upon provocation. Eugene did not dare to hint
even a suspicion that Mary had been deceived; that Mr. Buckstone was
capable of deluding an innocent maiden with the mockery of a fictitious
marriage; but he could not banish the idea from his own mind. At his
instigation, Dick had been engaged for a month past, through a legal friend
in Providence, in an investigation of the circumstances attending Mr.

Buckstone’s visit to that city with Mary. It had been ascertained that a
marriage, real or pretended, had taken place at the house of the artist; but
the legal gentleman having the matter in charge had been unable to find the
person who had performed the ceremony. The artist was reserved and
taciturn; the lawyer had coaxed and threatened him without effect. No
record of the marriage had been made, and the obstinacy of the artist, who
naturally dreaded a criminal prosecution, if anything was wrong, was a
suspicious circumstance. Eugene feared the worst.
“Ross, what are you going to do this fall and winter?” asked Eugene, as
they walked down to the landing-place.
“I don’t know yet; very likely I shall go a fishing once more.”
“I will give you a thousand dollars a year to work for me.”
“A thousand dollars!” exclaimed Ross; for the sum was twice as much as he
had ever earned before. “Of course I will take it.”
“Then the year shall commence to-day.”
“What am I to do?”
“I am going to build a yacht of a hundred tons. I have the model and
draughts all made. You shall superintend the work, and Mr. Birch will
employ you part of the time in taking charge of my houses at the Port and at
the Mills. While I am gone, he will keep you busy.”
“Thank you, sir; I am very much obliged to you.”
“When the yacht is done, you will have charge of her.”
Nothing could have suited Ross better, and he was Eugene’s friend for life.
Dick wanted such a person to assist him, and it had been decided, weeks
before, that Mary’s brother should be employed as soon as he returned.
“Ross,” said Eugene, as he stepped into his boat, “if you hear anything from
Mary, I want you to write me.”
“I will.”
“Give your letter to Mr. Birch, and he will forward it to me.”
“Yes, sir; I will. I hope she will do well. If her husband don’t do the right
thing by her,”—he paused, and looked what he meant,—“it will be all the

worse for him.”
“I hope he will be a good husband to her.”
“I hope so; but I wish she hadn’t gone off with him,” added Ross. “I
suppose I may as well go over and see Mr. Birch, and go to work to-day.”
“You need not commence till you are ready. You have just returned, and you
may wish to stay at home a few days.”
“There is nothing there I care for now,” he replied, sadly.
“How is your father now?”
“About the same; he don’t improve any. He is very hard on Mary, and if she
came home, I shouldn’t dare to have her go near him.”
Ross went up to the Port with Eugene, and reported to Dick Birch for duty.
He was a ship carpenter by trade, and worked at the business when there
was anything doing at the Port; and his natural tact and ingenuity, as well as
the miscellaneous occupations in which he had been engaged, rendered him
an exceedingly useful person to Eugene’s agent. He made the contract with
the builders for the yacht, and the keel was immediately laid down.
In the mean time, the eminent trustees in Baltimore continued to forward
the income of the three millions to Eugene, and there was no want of money
to carry on the operations which had been commenced. A general power of
attorney was given to Dick by his principal, to transact all business in his
absence. The agent moved from the cottage to the hotel, and the Hungerford
family started for Boston to embark for Europe on the first Wednesday in
September. It was observed that Dick Birch was a little shaken when he
took leave of Julia; that though he kept up a running fire of sharp words all
the time, he could hardly conceal a disposition to mope and to relapse into
moodiness.
“Good by, Dick; do for me as you would do for yourself, but remember that
only half a million, instead of three millions, is to come to me at the end of
the seven years,” said Eugene.
“That matter cannot be decided at present,” replied Dick. “You may bring a
wife home with you.”
“No!”

“Good by, Mr. Birch,” said Julia, taking his hand.
“Good by, Miss Hungerford. Don’t forget me while you are gone.”
“Forget you!” laughed she. “Of course I shall not forget you.”
“Thank you.”
“How strange you are!”
A new phase in Dick’s character seemed now to present itself, and she
blushed slightly in spite of herself. His words were strange; his look was
stranger. Perhaps before she had gone many miles, the look and the words
were more intelligible.
The train bore the family away from Poppleton, and it was nine months
before they saw it again. We do not purpose to follow the party across the
ocean, and in their wanderings through Europe. They went the grand
rounds, and beneath Italy’s sunny skies Eugene did think of all his friends at
home, and especially of Mary, though not as he had intended when his
unwitting coldness banished hope from her heart.
Every steamer bore a letter to him from Dick Birch, and one which reached
him in May, just before he sailed for home, enclosed another from Ross
Kingman. Eugene, with trembling eagerness, tore open the envelope of the
latter, for he knew to whom it alluded, and he had impatiently longed for
some intelligence of Mary for months; not that it could give him even a ray
of hope, but it might assure him that she was happy, and had not come to
harm. Ross Kingman’s letter contained a brief note from Mary to himself,
with a few lines which he had evidently penned in great haste, and under
the most intense excitement.
Mary’s letter, brief as it was, filled Eugene with grief and indignation. It
gave him a shock more terrible than any he had yet received, and only
confirmed the fears which had so long haunted him. Mary’s note was as
follows:—
New York, April 20, 1856
Dear Brother: Three days ago I became a mother, but my poor
baby died yesterday, and to-day they bore it from me. I have not
seen my husband for four weeks. I fear he has deserted me. He
has neglected me for some months. I reproached him for it; he

was very angry,—he had been drinking too much,—and told me
that I was not his wife. O Ross, I could have borne everything
but that! He has left me no money, and the people where I board
look very coldly upon me. Could you come to me, Ross?
Your affectionate sister,
Mary K. Buckstone.
Ross Kingman’s letter breathed nothing but vengeance, dire and terrible,
upon the man who had wronged his sister. He was about to take the train for
New York. Eugene was paralyzed by the intelligence contained in these
letters. Poor Mary! How terribly was she suffering for his indecision! He
could take no other view, and his anguish was pitiable. He gave the letters
to his mother, but even she had no power to console him.
Poor Mary! The miserable villain had even declared to her that she was not
his wife. The curse of the cup, from which she had escaped when she fled
from her home, had followed her, and stung her again. She had been a
mother, but not a wife! She had been deceived by the wretch; she had not
swerved a hair’s breadth from the law of purity and innocence in her heart,
but her good name was blasted. She was cast down and destroyed, with no
fault of her own, unless her hasty departure with the villain, when all earth
seemed to conspire against her, was a fault; her reputation was ruined; the
finger of scorn and contempt would point at her. It was the way of the
world.

“Poor Mary!” groaned Eugene, as in the silence of his chamber he thought
of the hard lot to which she had been reduced. It was not enough that she
had been wronged and deceived, cheated of her honorable name as a wife;
but to these were added poverty and neglect. The people in the house
looked coldly upon her. They regarded her as a despised creature, and
repudiated her with scorn and loathing.
“O God! that she should come to this! She whom I loved with all my soul,
whom I would have made my wife,” he moaned, as he paced his chamber.
“God pity her, and take her up, when others have cast her off!”
Ross Kingman, with the true instincts of a noble brother, had hastened to
her assistance. He did not despise her; he did not look coldly upon her; the
way of the world was not his way. Eugene was comforted by the reflection

that she had a friend in Ross, but he hoped the passionate young man, justly
roused to the highest pitch of indignation by his sister’s wrongs, would not
encounter Eliot Buckstone. There would be blood shed if he did.
Long and weary to Eugene Hungerford were the days and the hours which
intervened between the receipt of the intelligence and the sailing of the
steamer in which he had engaged passage. Westminster Abbey and Windsor
Castle had lost their attractions to him; he was anxious to be where he could
assure himself that poor Mary was not still suffering. Just as the tug-boat
was leaving the landing stage in Liverpool, to convey her passengers to the
steamer, lying in the Mersey, the porter of the Washington Hotel, where he
had stopped, brought him a package of letters, which had been forwarded
by his banker from London. Eagerly he tore them open, to obtain fresh
tidings of her who was now always in his thoughts. There was none from
Ross Kingman, but Dick Birch wrote that Mary was still in New York; that
her brother was with her, and would remain there until she could gain
strength to bear the journey to Poppleton. “If I had known what was in that
letter of Kingman’s, which I enclosed for you, I would not have sent it,”
wrote Dick. “You must be miserable if you have received it. Buckstone is a
villain, but everything we can do for poor Mary shall be done.”
Dick wrote page upon page about the new residence at Pine Hill, the
grounds around it, the model houses in the villages, and the receipts from
the trustees; but Eugene read them without interest. The agent had
completed the mansion, furnished it, employed a housekeeper, stocked the
conservatory, partially filled up the book shelves in the library; indeed, he
had put the place in complete readiness for occupancy. His description was
glowing and eloquent, and Eugene would not have believed, a year ago, that
he could look so coldly upon the realization of his dreams of splendor and
comfort. If Mary could have been at his side to enter the new house with
him, it would have been a fairy palace.
The steamer sped on her way over the ocean, and safely landed her
passengers in Boston. Eugene telegraphed his arrival to Dick Birch, and
took the first train for home. When the family reached the station at
Poppleton Mills, Dick was there.
“How are you, old fellow?” exclaimed the enthusiastic agent, as he seized
the hand of Eugene. “How pale you are!”

“I am very well, Dick. How are you?”
“Never better. Ah, Miss Hungerford, I welcome you home,” he added,
grasping the hand of Julia.
For some reason or other both of them blushed a little. Mrs. Hungerford
was greeted in her turn, which was after Julia.
“What’s the news in Poppleton, Dick?” asked Eugene.
“Nothing special; there was a man drowned to-day, off The Great Bell.”
“Who was he?” asked the returned wanderer, fearing that this might be the
preface to a story informing him that some friend had been lost.
“His name was Goodwin; he was a stranger—came down here gunning.”
“What a shock you gave me!” added Eugene, greatly relieved.
“This way, Hungerford,” continued Dick, leading the way to an elegant
carriage which stood by the platform, with the driver holding the open door.
“Whose is this, Dick?” asked Eugene.
“Yours, of course. I purchased it for the use of the ladies.”
Avoiding as much as possible the greetings of friends and neighbors, who
had heard of his coming, and had collected at the station to welcome him,
Eugene got into the carriage with his mother and sister.
“Home,” said Dick to the driver, as he joined the party inside.
“Now, Dick, what news is there?” demanded Eugene. “You know what I
mean.”
“I hoped you would not say anything about that at present, for the news is
not pleasant.”
“My God!” groaned Eugene.
“No, no, Hungerford; it is not as bad as it might be. She is not dead.”
“That would be good news,—I had almost said. Where is she?”
“At home.”
“At her father’s?”

“Yes.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No; she is too ill; but she is improving.”
“What does her father say? Is he reconciled?”
“No; but he can’t help himself; he has been confined to his bed, for a couple
of months, with rheumatism.”
“Where is Ross?”
“At home. Your yacht lies in the river.”
“Never mind the yacht.”
“I have made Ross stay at home, and attend to the affairs of the family.”
“I am glad you did. What does Mary say?”
“She suffers severely—not physically, perhaps.”
“I see. Do you know anything about Buckstone?”
“He is in New York, I suppose. Mary had a letter from him the other day:
what it was I don’t know.”
“Send for Ross. I must see him to-night.”
“Keep cool, Hungerford; the matter might be worse.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Eugene, as he settled back in the carriage.
From the window might be seen the improvements of Pine Hill. He did not
look at them. The carriage stopped in front of his elegant mansion. He
hardly glanced at it. They were nothing to him: Mary was all in all.

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.

CHAPTER X.
ROSS KINGMAN.
ROSS KINGMAN left Pine Hill at nine o’clock in the evening. Since
Mary’s return to Poppleton he had been almost constantly with her. When
he was sent for by Eugene Hungerford, she made no objection to his going.
She sat in her chamber as usual that evening. Though all her life since she
came to years of discretion had been full of cares and trials, though she had
endured much of the shame and mortification brought upon the family by
the conduct of her father, the past, in contrast with the present, seemed full
of joys and hopes. Only a few brief months before, her lot had been happy,
compared with her present condition.
She had been deceived, and she felt that henceforth she was to be an
outcast. Those who had been her friends would shun her now. The scorn of
the cold world would be heaped upon her, whatever the degree of her guilt.
Those terrible hours of the gloomy night when she had been driven from
her father’s house came to her mind; her meeting with Eliot Buckstone in
the morning, when, upon condition that she should become his wife before
the sun went down, she had consented to flee with him to find the comforts
of a home, if not the joys of a wife.
Her sun had set. Henceforth she must be content to be shunned and
despised. Her husband had deserted her, leaving her not even an honest
name before the world. She had been indiscreet, but she had not been guilty,
and God would forgive her, if man would not. Then, as many a time before
since sorrow darkened densely upon her, she would have welcomed the
angel of death as her best and truest friend. The night shadows gathered
over the face of nature, while she gazed from the window, as they gathered
over her troubled heart. The clock struck nine, but Ross did not return. She
wished to see him before she retired, for she was anxious to know what
Eugene said of her; whether he condemned and scorned her, as she was
assured all the rest of the world condemned and scorned her.
It was a very mild and soft night for May on the sea shore, and she still sat
at her open window. She shrank not from the night air, which might be

laden with disease and death, for life was no longer sweet to her, and she
dreaded not the grim messenger who must sooner or later summon her from
the misery to which she seemed to be doomed. She heard footsteps in the
path which led from the landing-place round to the front of the house. She
listened and looked, believing it was Ross; but the person, whose form she
could now indistinctly see in the darkness, did not move like her brother. He
came beneath her window, and stopped there.
“Mary.”
She was startled by the voice. It was not that of Ross, but the tones were
familiar.
“Mary,” repeated the speaker.
“Who is there?” she asked, quivering with emotion in every fibre of her
frame.
“It is I, Mary. May I see you?”
It was Eliot Buckstone.
She had many doubts whether to see him or not, but her first thought was,
that he who had called himself her husband, who was the father of her dead
child, was in mortal peril.
“Come up stairs,” said she, intent only upon warning him from the spot.
He entered at the front door, and was familiar enough with the house to find
his way up stairs. Mary conducted him from the entry to her room without
speaking a word, though her heart was almost bursting with agitation.
“Can you forgive me, Mary?” said he, as he closed the door behind him.
“Can you forgive yourself?” asked she, in tremulous tones.
“No, Mary, I cannot! I have sinned against Heaven and you, and I am no
more worthy of you,” continued Eliot, with apparent or real emotion.
“How could you desert me at such a time?”
“I did not mean to desert you. I knew not what I did; but how bitterly have I
repented!”
“Have you repented?”

“O, Mary! If you knew what I have suffered! If you could have seen my
tears! If you could have felt the throbs of my breaking heart!”
“You told me I was not your wife, Eliot. That was the most cruel of all,”
sobbed she.
“I was mad, Mary. I had been drinking; but I have sworn never to put the
cup to my lips again, and God help me, I never will!”
“Did you mean what you said when you told me I was not your wife?”
“I did not. Mary, I meant to make you my wife—God knows that I did!”
“Am I not your wife?”
“I do not know.”
“You do not know!” she gasped, for his words sounded like an
equivocation; and indeed all his promises and protestations had been much
too violent to seem real to her.
Now she had discovered that he was a drunkard, she had no confidence in
him. He had deceived her—he did not know whether or not she was his
wife!
“I do not know, Mary,” he repeated.
“You are not sincere now, Eliot.”
“God knows that I am sincere—that I love you with all my soul!”
“Were we married that evening in Providence, Eliot?” she demanded,
sternly.
“I do not know, Mary. If I intended to deceive you, I would not answer you
thus,” replied he, with much meekness in his tones and manner.
“How dare you tell me you do not know?” continued Mary, with energy.
“I do not know; but whether you are or are not my wife, Mary, you shall
be.”
“You mock me, Eliot.”
“Hear me, Mary, and you shall know the truth, just as it is. As God is my
judge, I would not deceive you for all the world.”

“You have done it already, if you do not know whether we were married or
not.”
“I intended to make you my wife. When we reached Providence, we went to
the house of my friend, Mr. Dorning.”
“The artist, you mean?”
“Yes; I acknowledge that he is not the best man in the world.”
“Then why did you take me there?”
“Because I had no other friend in Providence.”
“If he is a bad man, why is he your friend?”
“We studied art together. I was acquainted with him—perhaps he was not
my friend, in the truest sense of the word. We went to his house, and I told
him as much of our story as I could relate in five minutes. He laughed——”
“Why should he laugh?” demanded Mary, indignantly.
“Probably he took a wrong view of the matter, and did not suppose I wished
to be really married. He was mistaken; I intended to make you my wife—
God knows that I did!”
Mary wept bitterly. Eliot should have smote the man to the earth when he
laughed, for the laugh was an insult; it was trifling over the innocence and
purity of her he pretended to love. She lost hope, as he went on with his
story; her worst fears were gradually confirmed. His frequent use of the
sacred name of God to fortify his statements did not inspire her with
confidence. To her it was not the simple tale of truth.
“Go on, Eliot,” said Mary, in despair.
“In ten minutes Mr. Dorning appeared with the gentleman who married us:
whether he was a clergyman or not. I do not know to this day.”
“He pretended to be one?”
“And he may be, for aught I know.”
“What reason have you to suppose that he was not a clergyman, as he
assumed to be?”
“A remark which Dorning made to me, as we were leaving his house.”

“What was it?”
“It was to the effect that I was married or not, just as I chose to regard it.”
“O, Eliot! You knew it then, and you did not tell me.”
“I did not fully understand the meaning of the remark.”
“Why did you not make the marriage legal as soon as we reached New
York?”
“In my heart I meant right, Mary. I intended to see Dorning, and find out his
meaning. If we were not legally united, I intended that we should be.”
“But you were swift to tell me I was not your wife, when you were angry
with me.”
“I was mad then; I had drank too much wine.”
“I have lost confidence in you, Eliot.”
“Do not say that, Mary,” pleaded Buckstone.
“Have you seen Dorning since?”
“I have not. He telegraphed to me, you remember, that two gentlemen were
inquiring into the affair, and we went to Philadelphia.”
“Why, Eliot? If you meant right, why should you have run away?”
“To avoid a scene. I supposed then that it was your father who had made the
inquiries. I thought it best not to meet him. You were of the same opinion.”
“But it was not my father.”
“No; it was Mr. Hungerford. It was none of his business. Why should he
meddle with it?”
“Perhaps he suspected the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That you were deceiving me.”
“I was not deceiving you, Mary. If you were deceived, so was I.”
“Mr. Hungerford was my friend. It seems that he suspected, what never
occurred to me, that I had been cruelly duped.”

“Mary, you wrong me. I have come here to make you my wife, if you are
not so already. Your own clergyman shall marry us; and after I have done
justice to you, I will leave it with you to live with me or not.”
“Then you believe I am not your wife?” groaned Mary, to whom the fact
that she had been a mother without being a wife was the sum of all
miseries, outweighing all other sorrows combined.
“To be candid, Mary, I do not believe we were legally married.”
“Why have you not seen Mr. Dorning, and satisfied yourself? Is this a
matter of so little consequence that you can pass it by like a rejected
picture? O, Eliot, you have deceived me! You have robbed me of myself!
Why have you not seen Mr. Dorning?”
“I was afraid to see him; I preferred to be in doubt rather than to know that I
had done you this great wrong.”
“What will become of me?” sighed she.
“Let us bury the past, dear Mary; and in the future I will be the fondest and
truest of husbands,” pleaded Eliot. “We will be married to-morrow—to-
night, if you will.”
“I will consult my brother.”
“No, Mary; do not tell him I am here, till we are married.”
“He is my only friend. He will tell me what I should do. But, Eliot, he is
terribly incensed, and you must not meet him. You must go; it is time for
him to return now.”
“Where is Ross?”
“He has gone over to see Mr. Hungerford, who returned from Europe to-
day. Go now, Eliot; I will tell you to-morrow what I will do.”
“Tell me now, Mary. Let my conscience be at rest.”
“Go at once; if Ross should see you, I tremble to think what the
consequences might be.”
“I am not afraid of him.”
“But I am afraid. Don’t remain another moment.”

“Go with me, Mary. Let your minister marry us to-night.”
“No, no, Eliot. You must go now,” she continued, taking him by the arm,
and leading him to the door.
“Good night, Mary,” said he, taking her by the hand. “You will see me to-
morrow.”
“Do not come here. If Ross should see you——”
“I will come when he is away.”
“I will meet you on the beach.”
“When Ross leaves the island, hang your red shawl out this window, and I
will go to the beach at once.”
“I will. Now go as quick as you can.”
He left her, and Mary threw herself into a chair, and wept till she was
startled by the footstep of Ross in the entry. When her brother entered the
room, with a light in his hand, he could not help perceiving by her agitated
manner, and her tear-stained face, that something had occurred to disturb
the calm in which he had left her a few hours before. He was her friend and
confidant; and after he had promised not to be angry, she told him that Eliot
Buckstone had been there.
Ross sprang to his feet, and looked like a madman. He forgot his promise.
He had not expected this, and his nature was not proof against the shock it
gave him. But Mary, with her tears and her pleading, calmed him down a
little, and then he wrung from her a portion of what had passed between
herself and Buckstone.
“Are you his wife, Mary? Did he say anything about that?” demanded Ross,
struggling to keep down the stormy passions that labored in his breast for
expression.
“I am not his wife, Ross, but——”
“Not his wife! He told you so again!” exclaimed he; and he rushed from the
room without waiting to hear any more.
“Ross! Ross!” she cried, following him.

But Ross heeded her not. He burst from the house wild with rage. She went
to the outside door, but he was gone; and overcome by her emotions and her
fears, she sank fainting upon the floor. She was weak and exhausted, and
this new demand upon her strength was more than she could endure. Mrs.
Kingman heard her scream, and heard her fall. With the assistance of her
oldest daughter, Mary was borne to her room; but it was long before she
opened her eyes and remembered what had transpired,—so long that The
Great Bell sounded with a note of horror before she knew that still she
lived.
Eliot Buckstone left the house. Though he had no strong fears of Ross
Kingman, he did not care to meet him. He walked down the path to the
landing-place for a short distance, and then turned off towards the beach,
where he had been in the habit of meeting Mary in brighter days. He
reached the shelving rocks, below which the sandy shore extended.
“Well, Buckstone,” said a young man, seated on a rock there, “what did you
make out?”
On the beach below a boat was hauled partially out of the water, and it was
evident that the stranger had come over from the main shore with
Buckstone, and was waiting his return from the house.
“Everything works well,” replied Buckstone.
“Has Hungerford been here yet?”
“No; of course not. He did not get home till five o’clock.”
“He is fool enough to come even before he went into his own house.”
“He has not been here.”
“What does she say?”
“She will give me an answer to-morrow. I have no doubt what her answer
will be.”
“If she is not a bigger fool than Hungerford, of course she will let you
marry her.”
“She is crazy if she does not.”

“Do you really think, Buckstone, that she is not your wife?” demanded the
stranger.
“I told her I had my doubts,” laughed the artist, who certainly appeared now
to have none of the penitential thoughts which he had expressed in the
presence of poor Mary.
“You are not talking to her just now.”
“Well, then, I am perfectly satisfied that I was not married to her.”
“Did you intend to marry her? for your intention makes all the difference in
the world,” added the stranger, who was evidently acquainted with the law
on this subject, if, indeed, he was not a lawyer.
“I did, and I did not,” replied Buckstone, jocosely.
“Not both?”
“Yes, both. I’ll tell you how it was. When I went to Dorning’s house, I
intended to marry her. I told him what I wanted, and he laughed. That laugh
was clear enough to me. He understood me to mean that I wished to cheat
the girl—Dorning and I had been together a great deal, and understood each
other very well. Just then I thought it would be foolish and stupid for me to
throw myself away on one woman. I laughed then. Nothing was said, but
the affair was just as well arranged as though we had talked half a day about
it.”
“Then you did not intend to marry her when the ceremony took place.”
“No; I did not. I thought it was best not to put my head into a trap from
which I could not withdraw it, if I so desired.”
“Who performed the ceremony?”
“I don’t know; and I have kept out of Dorning’s way because I don’t want
to know.”
“Precisely so; then you must marry her at once.”
“For a consideration, I consent,” replied the heartless villain.
“The consideration shall be forthcoming,” said the stranger.
“I don’t exactly understand your position,” continued Buckstone.

“Never mind my position.”
“If you prevent Hungerford from marrying Mary, you cannot prevent him
from marrying some other lady.”
“I attend to only one thing at a time.”
“I don’t see why you should care whether he marries or not.”
“It is not for you to know,” replied the stranger, impatiently.
“As you please. When I do anything, I like to know something about it. If I
don’t understand it, somebody else might.”
“After your confession to me about the marriage, it would not be prudent
for you to say much,” added the principal, significantly.
“Perhaps parties on the other side would be more confiding.”
“Very likely they would. In due time, if you are patient, you shall
understand the whole matter.”
“I prefer to understand it now.”
“Very well, I will tell you now, if you insist, though it is not best for you to
know, at the present stage of the proceedings. After the marriage, I intended
to tell you the whole story. But as——”
“Hark!” interposed Buckstone. “Some one is coming. It is that fiery Ross
Kingman.”
“So much the better. Why not see him now, and tell him what you mean to
do?” whispered the stranger.
“He is as savage as an untamed tiger.”
“You are afraid of him?”
“No.”
“Then see him; it would help the matter along.”
“He is ugly.”
“Never mind, if you are afraid of him.”
“I’m not afraid of him. To prove that I am not, I will see him,” replied
Buckstone, who could not bear the imputation of cowardice.

“Very well; I will go down upon the beach, for I am afraid the boat will
float off.”
Ross Kingman, roused to the highest pitch of excitement and anger, was
approaching the spot where Buckstone stood. There was but one purpose in
his mind, and that was vengeance upon the man who had wronged his sister.
He knew nothing of prudence; he had no regard for consequences.
“Is that you, Ross,” said Buckstone.
“Villain!” cried the enraged brother, as he rushed forward upon the artist.

What became of the Artist.—Page 133.
Buckstone had discretion enough to run away, and he retreated before his
relentless enemy until he came to a high bluff, beneath which the sea beat
against the rocks.
“Stop a minute, Ross; I am going to make it all right to-morrow,” gasped
Buckstone, out of breath with running, as he found that his pursuer was
rapidly gaining upon him.
“I shall make it right to-night,” shouted Ross, as he sprang upon the hated
enemy.
“I am going to marry her to-morrow, Ross,” pleaded Buckstone, as the gripe
of the infuriate brother was fastened upon him.
Ross had a club in his hand, with which he struck Buckstone a heavy blow
on the head. The artist did not speak again; he sank down upon the ground,
stunned, if not killed, by the blow. Ross, unappeased by what he had done,
and apparently unmoved by the sight of the prostrate form before him,
seized the body with both hands, and, dragging it to the cliff, hurled it down
into the rolling waters beneath. There was a heavy splash, and then nothing
was heard but the monotonous roll of the waves, as they surged against the
rocks.
Ross gazed down the steep for a moment, as if to satisfy himself that his
work was done. He panted like a chafed wild beast. He muttered something
to himself, and then turned from the spot, walking towards the house. If
Mary was a wife before, she was a widow now. If she was not a wife, most
terribly had her wrongs been avenged.
The stranger, when Buckstone left him, pushed off the boat, and got into it.
Rowing leisurely down the shore, he came to the high rocks. His boat struck
against something. He got up to see what it was. Part of the object rested
upon a rock, and it was swaying up and down with the waves. It was a dead
body! It was the corpse of the man who had been drowned that day, for
which unavailing search had been made. It was a ghastly sight, for there
was light enough from the stars to enable him to see it. But he did not
tremble; did not flee in terror from the spot. He was accustomed to such
sights.

At this moment a heavy splash in the water, a few rods from the boat,
attracted his attention. He had heard the angry words spoken on the cliff
above, and he comprehended at once that a deed of violence had been done.
He was startled now, for his companion had been the victim; the bargain he
had made with him could not be consummated. He pulled towards the spot
where the splash had been heard. He discovered the inanimate form of
Buckstone, and dragged it into the boat. He pulled back to the beach, and
there examined the body.
“Dead!” exclaimed he, with more of disappointment than of horror in his
tones. “He will not marry her now.”
That was evident enough; but still the stranger, as if unwilling to abandon
the hope which had brought him to the island, continued to work over the
body.

CHAPTER XI.
DOCTOR BILKS.
ROSS KINGMAN walked back to the house. Not yet did he regret the deed
he had done. He felt that he had been the minister of God’s justice, as well
as of his own vengeance. He was calm, now that the excitement of the
assault was over, and he had no fears of the future. He did not tremble as he
thought of an arrest, a trial, and a penalty; he was ready to meet them.
“‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay,’ saith the Lord;” but this reflection did
not occur to him. “Vengeance is mine; I will repay,” saith the Law; and this
reflection did not occur to him.
He entered the house. Mary was recovering from her swoon. When she
remembered what had happened before she fell upon the floor, she asked
for Ross. He went to her. She saw that the storm had passed away from her
brother’s soul; but she could not see that the lightning of his wrath had
spent itself upon her betrayer.
“Where have you been, Ross?” she asked, distrusting the stern calmness of
his looks.
“Down to the shore, Mary.”
“Did you see him?”
“I did.”
“What passed between you, Ross?”
“Let us not speak of that to-night, Mary. You don’t feel very well, and it
won’t make you feel any better.”
“O, Ross! What have you done?”
“I will tell you all about it in the morning, Mary,” he replied, evading the
answer for her sake rather than his own.
“Tell me now! Let me know the worst.”
“I was very angry.”

“Tell me at once, Ross, or I will go down to the beach myself.”
“Be quiet, Mary. Don’t make yourself sick.”
“I know by your looks that you have done something, Ross. Don’t speak of
me at such a time, but tell me what happened.”
“I struck him,” replied he, rather doggedly. “I gave him the blow he
deserved.”
“Why did you, Ross?” said she, reproachfully, as she rose from the bed.
“You have struck me, as well as him.”
“Struck you, Mary? Don’t you hate the villain?”
“I do not hate him, Ross. I could forgive him. Have you told me all?”
He made no reply.
“You have struck him down, Ross, and he lies upon the beach now. He will
die there!” exclaimed she, springing from the bed.
“Be calm, Mary.”
“I will go to him.”
“No; you must not.”
“You have struck me harder than you struck him.”
“Do not say that, Mary. He is a villain. Think what he has done! He cast
you off like an unclean thing!”
“He lies on the beach, and he will die there,” continued she, rising and
taking a shawl. “I must go to him. I must undo what you have done, if I
can.”
“It is too late.”
“Ross! Ross!” cried she, in horror and anguish.
“I could not help it. It was for your sake I did it.”
“Where is he now?”
“What does it matter to you where he is, Mary? Be quiet now.”
“I must go and find him.”

“You cannot find him.”
“Ross, what have you done with him?”
“I struck him down; and then I heaved his vile carcass over the cliff into the
river! Now you know it all. I have avenged your wrongs, Mary.”
The poor girl sank back upon the bed with a groan, and her senses left her
again. She was too weak and feeble to endure the terrible blow. To her other
miseries was now added the revolting fact that her brother was a murderer.
Ross called Mrs. Kingman, and together they struggled to reclaim the life
which seemed to have fled. She opened her eyes at last, but by two o’clock
in the morning, her condition was such, that the watchers by her side were
greatly alarmed, and Ross started for the Port to procure the physician.
As he walked rapidly down to the landing, he began to fear that he had done
wrong; that his vengeance had fallen heavier upon his innocent sister than
upon the villain who had wronged her. He might have thought of this before
he struck the fatal blow, but he did not. The reflection impressed itself more
strongly upon his mind till he bitterly reproached himself for the crime.
With vigorous stroke he pulled across the channel, and hastened up to the
office of the doctor. To his great satisfaction he saw a light in the window,
and he gave the door bell a violent pull. Doctor Bilks came to the door
himself. He was a young man, of twenty-six. During the preceding autumn,
while Eugene Hungerford was in Europe, he had visited the place
ostensibly for gunning and fishing purposes, but the wise ones afterwards
came to the conclusion that it was in search of a good location to build up a
practice for himself. He hailed from Ohio.
Dr. Hobhed, the principal physician at the Port, had been growing
unpopular for several years. He was running after strange gods, and some
believed that he was crazy. He had been experimenting for years in
connection with a hobby which he called “The Chemical Theory,” which
seemed to afford him more satisfaction than the practice of his profession,
though he was regarded as a very skilful physician. As no man can serve
two masters, Dr. Hobhed’s practice began to scatter. People sent to the Mills
for the doctor there for a time; but now two or three young practitioners had
set up at the Port, and the old doctor was permitted to pursue his studies
without much interruption.

Dr. Bilks was a free and easy man. He had an abundance of tact—more tact
than professional knowledge. He knew human nature better than pathology
and therapeutics; consequently he was more successful in obtaining patients
than in healing them, though his knowledge and skill were fully up to the
average standard. He was a popular man in the Port. He knew how to make
acquaintances. If there was anything going on in the place, he was always
present in the heat of the excitement. He had a fast horse attached to a new
sulky, and every forenoon he was seen driving at a furious pace through the
principal streets, as though the life of a patient depended wholly upon the
speed of his horse. He commenced this strategy before he had been three
days in the place, and had kept it up ever since. It looked like business.
When Dr. Bilks went into company, he talked a great deal about his
profession. He was inclined to gape, even in the very teeth of decency and
good manners; but this gape was always the prelude to a narrative of the
hardships and privations of the physician’s life. He had been up all night,
attending to a desperate case, miles away, where the people were not
known. Dr. Bilks was an ill-used man in his own estimation, and patients
seemed to break their legs and arms, derange their stomachs, and disorder
their livers, solely to punish him. But the new doctor was a growing man.
Dr. Bilks had been seven months at the Port, and had made the acquaintance
of every man of consequence in the town. Dick Birch and the smart
physician were on the most intimate terms. The doctor was no quack or
charlatan; he was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, regularly
matriculated, and regularly graduated at the Jefferson Medical College in
the city of Philadelphia. There were so few persons of liberal culture in the
place, that Dick was glad to know him, and afforded all needful
encouragement to the acquaintance. Dr. Bilks had been a frequent visitor at
Pine Hill before the return of its owner, and, of course, Eugene did not
suffer at all in the descriptions which Dick gave of him. That the lord of
Pine Hill, on his return, should be a fast friend of the smart doctor, was
already a settled fact.
When Mary was brought home by her brother, sick and suffering, Dick had
advised Ross to call in Dr. Bilks, and he was attending her professionally at
the time of Eugene’s return, though his visits were now made only two or
three times a week. It was quite proper that Mary’s physician should know
all her story, and Dick had unreservedly confided in him, though the

narrative included the relations of Eugene, as well as those of Eliot
Buckstone. It is more than probable that the anxious friend depended much
upon the doctor for assistance in healing Hungerford’s wounds, as well as
Mary’s.
“Ah, Ross, is that you?” said the doctor, familiarly, as he recognized the
caller.
“Yes, sir; I want you to go over to the island with me right off. Mary is very
bad,” replied Ross, hurriedly.
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She’s nervous; she got frightened. Be as quick as you can, if you please,
doctor.”
“Well, this is rather hard on me. I have just come in from a bad case over
beyond the Point. I’ve hardly slept a wink for three nights. But of course I
will go, Ross.”
“That’s right; but be as quick as you can.”
Dr. Bilks put on his overcoat, and took the small trunk in which he carried
his medicines and instruments. Locking the door of the office, he joined
Ross, who had already gone into the street.
“I’ll carry your trunk, doctor.”
“Thank you, Ross. You said your sister was frightened—had a shock,” said
Dr. Bilks, as he drew on his gloves. “What frightened her?”
“I may as well tell you all about it, doctor,” replied Ross, quickening his
pace. “You will find it out to-morrow.”
“Has anything happened on the island?”
“Yes, sir; something has happened there; and I suppose no one knows any
more about it than I do. That Buckstone has been down there.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, sir; you know whom I mean—the man who pretended to be Mary’s
husband; who wronged and deceived her.”

“Yes. I understand. I have heard the whole story. You say he has been down
there.”
“He has; but he never will go away from there!”
“What do you mean, Ross?” demanded Dr. Bilks, stopping short in the
street.
“Don’t you understand me? But come along. We must be in a hurry.”
“You don’t mean to say you have—you have put him out of the way?”
“That is just what I mean to say.”
“Killed him?” gasped the doctor.
“I struck him on the head with a club, and then threw him overboard,”
answered Ross, in excited tones. “I gave the villain what he deserved.”
They walked along in silence for a moment, for the doctor seemed to be
paralyzed by the murderer’s confession. And yet there was something so
commonplace and formal in his expressions of horror and regret, that even
Ross was surprised at the coolness with which he received the intelligence.
“This is bad business, Ross,” continued the doctor. “Why did you tell me of
it? I am your friend, and I would not injure you for all the world.”
“I did what was right.”
“Do you think it is right to kill a man.”
“I think it was right to kill him.”
“But you have made a world of trouble for your friends.”
“I can’t help it. I don’t care what any one thinks but Mary. She feels bad
about it. I wouldn’t have done it if I had thought it would make her feel so.”
“But you will be arrested, Ross.”
“I can’t help it,” added Ross, doggedly. “If any jury will hang me for that, I
am willing to be hanged.”
“You will hang yourself! Why did you tell me?”
“I thought you had better know what ailed Mary.”
“You mus’n’t speak of it again. Who knows it now?”

“Only you and Mary.”
“Don’t speak of it to any one else,” said Dr. Bilks, earnestly, as they stepped
into the boat.
“I shall not be likely to talk much about it.”
“Perhaps the body will not be found. If it is not, you may never be
suspected.”
“I don’t care much what becomes of me.”
“For Mary’s sake you must keep still. I am afraid you have wronged her,
more than any one else, Ross.”
“How can that be?”
“I have no doubt that Buckstone was really her husband.”
“He told her he was not; and those words sealed his doom. When she told
me that, I didn’t wait to hear any more. I was so mad, I could not keep
still.”
“There is some mistake, Ross.”
“No; there isn’t.”
“If either Buckstone or Mary intended to be married, even if the man who
performed the ceremony was neither a clergyman nor a justice of the peace,
the marriage is legal. That is the law of the state,” replied Dr. Bilks, who
had evidently been reading the law books on this subject.
“He didn’t intend to marry her,” replied Ross, with an oath.
“Perhaps it may be proved that he did; if so, the marriage was legal.”
The boat had now reached the landing, and Ross and the doctor walked up
to the house. Mary was a little better; but Dr. Bilks prescribed for her.
Nothing was said about the murder, for the poor girl was trying to forget her
own woe in seeking the safety of her brother. The doctor was equally
prudent, and did not betray his knowledge of the terrible affair. He remained
an hour, and then Ross returned to the Port with him.
“You must be very cautious, Ross,” said Dr. Bilks, as they entered the boat.
“It might go hard with you, if this thing is found out.”

“It will be found out; it will be all over town by to-morrow morning,”
replied the murderer, indifferently.
“Not unless you tell of it. I will keep still, and I am sure Mary will. She did
not speak to me about it.”
“It cannot be covered up; I don’t care whether it is or not. If I have done
wrong, I am willing to suffer for it.”
“But think of Mary.”
“That is all that troubles me. If it wasn’t for her, I would go to the deputy
sheriff and give myself up. But it will all come out.”
“It need not. Only you and I know anything about it—except Mary.”
“Yes; there is another man who must know all about it.”
“Another!”
“There was somebody with Buckstone on the beach.”
“That’s bad; you didn’t tell me of this before.”
“I didn’t even think of it.”
“Who was the person?”
“I don’t know,” replied Ross, who seemed to feel no interest in this part of
this business. “I heard them talking.”
“Did you hear what they said?” demanded the doctor, sharply.
“I did hear something that was said, but not much. I didn’t expect the villain
was on the island then. I was going over to the Port to find him. I got into
my boat, and pulled out a little way; then I saw a boat on the beach, and
went back. I took the path over to the bluff, walking on the grass, so as not
to make a noise. When I got to the rocks above the beach, I heard them
talking.”
“What did they say?” asked the doctor, eagerly.
“I heard Buckstone say he intended to marry her, at first, and then he did
not. I didn’t want to hear any more. I went after a club then; I found one;
and when I came back, they were talking about a consideration for marrying
my sister. My God! how my blood boiled! I moved forward then;

Buckstone ran, and I followed him. I finished him, and pitched him over
into the channel.”
“But who was this other man?” asked the doctor, nervously.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes; but it was dark.”
“Couldn’t you tell anything about him?”
“No; he was a man about your size.”
Dr. Bilks was startled.
“What did he wear?”
“He wore an overcoat; it was too dark to see anything.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. I saw him go down to the boat. I don’t know where he went.”
“Ross, did you let this man go without finding out who or what he was?”
demanded Dr. Bilks, impressively.
“I did not care anything about him.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know; after I had done my work, I went back to the house, and
didn’t even think of the other man.”
“You say this man was hiring Buckstone to marry your sister.”
“I didn’t say so.”
“Yes, you did; you spoke of a consideration.”
“I don’t know who offered it, or what it meant. It was all Greek to me.”
“Perhaps it was Mr. Hungerford,” suggested Dr. Bilks.
“No, it was not!” replied Ross, decidedly.
“How do you know?”
“Do you think he would bribe Buckstone to marry my sister?”

“He has plenty of money.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Perhaps he would. In my opinion, Ross, Mr. Hungerford was the man.”
“It was not! He is taller than this man.”
“It might have been Mr. Birch, acting for Hungerford.”
“It might have been; but I don’t believe it was.”
“I am satisfied that it was Mr. Birch. In fact, he told me that, as soon as Mr.
Hungerford came home, he should compel Buckstone to make your sister
an honest woman.”
“He told you so?”
“Yes; he acts from the best of motives, Ross. His only object was to save
your sister from disgrace.”
The boat had touched at the Port, and the conversation was interrupted. Dr.
Bilks seemed to be entirely satisfied that he had given a correct solution of
the problem in regard to the stranger on the island. Ross was still sceptical.
As the doctor walked up the street towards his office, the boatman pulled
back to the island.
Dr. Bilks entered his office. The bad case beyond the Port, which had kept
him up till two, as he had told Ross, and the case at the island, which had
then kept him up till four, had consumed nearly all the hours of the night,
and he must have been a very weary man. We must do him the justice to say
that he was tired on this occasion; that he even looked haggard and pale.
His bed was in the room in the rear of his office; but exhausted as he was,
he did not retire like a reasonable man. Throwing himself into an arm-chair,
he was soon buried in deep thought. But a murder was an exciting event,
and if his thoughts related to this startling affair, it was worth his attention.
About sunrise he threw himself on the bed, but he did not sleep; though, as
it is certain he did not commit the murder on The Great Bell, it was not the
ghost of the dead man which haunted the chambers of his soul. At eight
o’clock his horse was brought to the door, as usual, and the doctor started to
visit his patients. He drove down to the post office first, to receive his
letters.

“Good morning, doctor,” said the postmaster. “Anything new this
morning?”
“I heard a startling rumor just now,” replied Dr. Bilks.
“Indeed! What was it?”
“They say a man was murdered over on The Great Bell last night. Whether
there is any truth in it or not, I don’t know.”
“A man murdered!”
“So they say. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who killed him?”
“I didn’t hear any particulars. Hadn’t you heard of it?”
Of course he had not; neither had Dr. Bilks heard of it. This was the manner
in which he kept silence, and endeavored to save Ross Kingman from the
consequences of his crime.
The doctor went from house to house, where he had patients, and repeated
the startling rumor. In a couple of hours there was not a man, woman, or
child at the Port who had not heard that a man had been murdered on The
Great Bell. The deputy sheriff, the constables, the coroner, the selectmen
heard of it; but the rumor was so confused now, that no one could tell
whence it originated.
The sheriff and the coroner went down to the island. They could find no
murdered man. But they went to the house of Captain Kingman. They saw
Ross, and asked him what he knew about the horrid affair. He knew all
about it, and believing the stranger on the beach—probably Mr. Birch—had
charged him with the crime, he was not willing to add even a single
falsehood to his guilt. Ross Kingman was too manly to lie, though he could
slay the betrayer of his suffering sister. He told the whole truth, and
conducted the sheriff and the coroner to the place where the deed had been
done. Ross was arrested, and conveyed to the county jail.

Mary was almost stunned by this blow, though Ross had already taught her
to expect it. He told her that brothers and fathers, all over the county, would
applaud rather than condemn the deed, and that she need have no fears for
him. No jury would convict him. But the arrest had come sooner than even
Ross expected, and she was not prepared to have him borne from her
bedside so soon.
All the rest of that day men were dragging the channel, and searching on the
shores of the river, for the dead body of Eliot Buckstone. Nothing was
talked of in Poppleton but the murder. It was known that Mary had been
deserted by her husband as soon as she came home. Then it was whispered
that she had never been a wife. Evil-minded persons laughed, but most of
the people pitied Mary, and condemned the wretch who had deceived her.
They were prepared, therefore, for the final act of the tragedy, and the voice
that condemned Buckstone applauded Ross Kingman. Many stout-hearted
men declared that they would have done the same in defence of a
daughter’s or a sister’s honor, and that they would level the jail to the
ground rather than permit Ross to suffer for what he had done.
But they were law-abiding men, deeply as their feelings were stirred by the
wrongs of Mary; and after all, the people, in the persons of the twelve
jurymen, were to decide whether Ross was “guilty or not guilty.”

CHAPTER XII.
DICK BIRCH.
IF Ross Kingman was not the calmest man in Poppleton on the morning
following the murder of Eliot Buckstone, it was only because Mary was a
sufferer by his act of retribution. She seemed to be better as the morning
advanced. She nerved herself to bear everything, though it was terrible to
have her brother borne from her presence on such a grave charge, to spend
weeks or months in a cell of the common jail. She suffered, but she
endeavored to endure all her woes with patience and resignation; and when
Ross left her, she had become the comforter, and spoke words of
consolation and hope to him. For his sake she was calm and gentle.
Though from the first Ross had not intended to conceal what he had done,
yet in Mary’s feeble condition, he did not mean to proclaim his guilt. But in
the morning, when she was able to come down stairs, he was better
prepared for the arrest, than if she had lain helpless on her bed.
He asked the sheriff who had given the information of the murder of
Buckstone. The officer did not know; it had passed from mouth to mouth,
and the author of the story could not be identified. Ross did not suspect Dr.
Bilks, but concluded that the person who had been with the deceased had
started the rumor. It did not yet appear who this person was; but the fact that
Buckstone had a companion at the time of the murder was soon added to
the sum total of the information concerning the event, and circulated
through the Port. Ross freely told all he knew of the circumstances.
Eugene Hungerford rose early that morning, and walked through the Pine
Hill grounds. The improvements had all been made in accordance with the
plans, and though he ought to have been delighted with the appearance of
the place, he was as devoid of enthusiasm in the presence of his realized
ideal as though he had no part or lot in it. He was still thinking of Mary, and
considering the plan by which her wounds were to be healed. After
breakfast he was closeted in the office with Dick, who insisted that he
should examine his papers and accounts. Eugene glanced at the balance in
the Poppleton Bank, and at the total of his agent’s expenditures during his

absence. He manifested no interest in the model houses, and as soon as
possible changed the topic to the one which had occupied his thoughts all
the morning. At eleven o’clock, when Dr. Bilks drove up to the door, they
were still engaged in discussing this interesting question.
Dr. Bilks was admitted at once, and duly introduced to Eugene, who had
already been informed of the doctor’s kindness and care for poor Mary
during her illness. There was no better passport to the favor of the
disappointed lover than acts of this description.
“And how is your patient now, Dr. Bilks?” asked Eugene, after he had
cordially greeted the physician.
“She was not so well when I visited her this morning,” replied the doctor, in
a subdued and rather embarrassed tone, as though he was not willing to tell
the whole truth at once.
“Is she worse?” demanded Eugene.
“Not absolutely worse; but she was in a state of high nervous excitement,”
added Dr. Bilks, looking with apparent interest and sympathy at Eugene.
“Of course you must have heard what happened on The Great Bell last
night.”
“No; what was it?” asked Eugene, in breathless anxiety.
It may seem strange that, at this hour, he had not heard what had happened
on The Great Bell; but, as Pine Hill was a mile from the Port, and neither
Dick Birch nor himself had been off the place, the news had not reached
those who were most interested.
“Mr. Buckstone visited Mary last evening,” continued the doctor, cautiously
feeling his way, before he imparted the news.
“Buckstone!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it that which made Mary worse?”
“Not that alone. Her brother unfortunately saw him.”
“I feared it,” said Eugene, nervously. “I hope nothing serious occurred.”
“Nothing more serious could have occurred.”

“Good Heaven! You don’t mean——”
Eugene paused and trembled.
“Ross is a terrible fellow in his anger,” added Dr. Bilks.
“What did he do?” demanded Eugene.
“He found Buckstone over by the cliff, and struck him a blow which felled
him to the ground.”
“Did it kill him?” asked Eugene, shuddering.
“Perhaps not; but Ross then threw him over the cliff into the river.”
“O Heaven! This is terrible! I ought not to have permitted Ross to leave me
after what he said.”
“Don’t reproach yourself, Hungerford. Of course you had no reason to
suppose Buckstone was within two hundred miles of Poppleton,” interposed
Dick Birch.
“Certainly there is no occasion to attach any blame to yourself, Mr.
Hungerford,” added Dr. Bilks.
“Poor Mary!” sighed Eugene. “This is another heavy weight added to her
burden. But how is she, doctor? How does she bear it?”
“Much better than I expected she would. Ross came for me about two
o’clock this morning. He told me what he had done, on the way to the
island.”
Dr. Bilks then narrated with great minuteness all the particulars of his visit
to Mary, and all that Ross had told him about the circumstances attending
the murder.
“I did not intend to say a word of the matter, but this morning I found that
the story was flying through the Port.”
“But who told it, if you did not?” demanded Dick Birch.
“I don’t know. The sheriff has arrested Ross, and taken him to the county
jail.”
“You say there was a man with Buckstone on the island?”
“So Ross told me.”

“Who was he?”
“That is what I would like to know,” replied the doctor. “Ross told me that
this person offered Buckstone a ‘consideration’ for marrying Mary. Of
course he was an interested party. I at once concluded that this person was
Mr. Birch.”
“Dick!” exclaimed Eugene.
“You remember the plan you mentioned to me, Mr. Birch, for making
everything all right with the poor girl?”
“I did speak to you about it; and I have spoken to Mr. Hungerford about it
since his return; but I never proposed to offer Buckstone a consideration for
marrying her. I would have hung him to the nearest tree, before I would
have given him a dollar,” replied Dick, indignantly.
“Then you were not the person with Buckstone?” said Dr. Bilks.
“I was not! Most decidedly, I was not!” answered Dick, emphatically, and
rather disgusted with the doctor for entertaining such a thought, even for an
instant.
“I might have known that a gentleman of your lofty principles and high
sense of honor would not have done even this good deed surreptitiously,”
added Dr. Bilks, apologetically, “When I supposed you were the person, I
attributed to you none but the best of motives.”
“You do me no more than justice, doctor,” said Dick. “But who was this
person?”
“That’s a mystery to me. I know of no one, except Mary’s own friends, who
are interested in having justice done to her.”
“Poor Mary!” sighed Eugene. “She is a widow now.”
“If she was a wife, she is a widow,” added the doctor. “It appears that
Buckstone told her that he did not himself know whether they were married
or not. You are a lawyer, Mr. Birch; perhaps you can decide the question.”
“Without evidence, I cannot. As at present informed, I do not think it was a
legal marriage.”
“I am no lawyer, but I differ from you,” said the doctor, with a smile.

“We will not discuss this question now,” interposed Eugene. “Let us do
what we can for Ross. Dick, you must get the best lawyer in the state to
defend him. Mary must be suffering terribly.”
“Yes; I shall visit her at once,” said the doctor.
Dick proposed that Dr. Bilks should be presented to the ladies, and they
went to the sitting-room for this purpose. The story of the murder had to be
told again; and Mrs. Hungerford and Julia were shocked at the tale. They
wept for poor Mary, tortured anew by this agonizing event, and both of
them anxiously studied the face of Eugene to discover the effect upon him.
He was calm, but he was paler than usual.
“But I must bid you good morning, ladies,” said Dr. Bilks. “My next visit
will be to Mary.”
“Mother, don’t you think I might do something for Mary? I suppose she is
alone,” added Julia.
“You might comfort her, Julia. It would be kind of you,” exclaimed Eugene,
before Mrs. Hungerford had time to answer the question.
“I think you would be of more service to her than I could,” continued Dr.
Bilks.
“We will both go, Julia,” said her mother.
“Her sickness is of the heart rather than the body, and kind friends are better
for her than medicines,” added Dr. Bilks. “But I think one would be better
than two.”
“I will go alone, mother. Mary and I were always good friends.”
“Very well, if Dr. Bilks thinks best.”
The doctor did think best, and gave his reasons for the opinion, which were
quite satisfactory to Mrs. Hungerford. The carriage was ordered for Julia,
and it was arranged that Dr. Bilks should join her at the wharf, where they
would take a boat for the island. While they were considering the matter,
the morning mail was brought in, and Eugene glanced at his letters. He
opened one of them.
“Mr. Lester is coming to Poppleton to spend a week with us,” said he. “I
wrote to him from London that I should expect him.”

“We’ll give the old fellow a jolly time,” added Dick, lightly.
“Whom did you say?” asked Dr. Bilks.
“Mr. Lester; he is one of the trustees of my uncle’s will.”
“John Lester?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Not personally; I think he had a son in college with me. When does he
come?”
“Next week. He is an excellent man, doctor, and you must know him. You
must help us entertain him.”
“This is very unlucky for me,” replied Dr. Bilks, evidently much troubled.
“I must be absent from town next week.”
“O, no; you must be here when the old gentleman comes,” said Dick. “We
shall give him some big dinners.”
“Nothing would afford me more pleasure; but I have an imperative
engagement in New York. I am very sorry.”
Dr. Bilks was uneasy, and seemed to be thinking of some way by which he
could postpone his engagement, and have the pleasure of meeting the
eminent merchant from Baltimore. It was very unfortunate, but it could not
be helped; this was the conclusion he had reached, as the carriage for Julia
drew up at the front door. The doctor drove to the Port, and joined Julia on
the wharf. A boatman rowed them across the channel, and they walked up to
the house. Dr. Bilks was a gentleman of good taste, and of course he could
not fail to appreciate the beauty and grace of his charming companion. He
made himself very agreeable.
They found Mary in the parlor below, and alone there. She was calm,
though the evidences of her suffering were apparent in every line of her
countenance.
“I have brought you a new physician,” said the doctor, as they entered the
room.
“This is very kind of you, Julia,” replied Mary, taking the offered hand of
the visitor.

“I am very glad to see you. I hope you are better;” and Julia talked and
acted like a true friend.
The doctor gave his professional advice, and though he lingered much
longer than was necessary, paying more attention to the visitor than to the
patient, he departed at last, and left Julia to attempt the cure which he was
powerless to accomplish.
“I cannot help thinking how kind it is of you to come to me at such a time,
Julia,” said Mary, wiping away the tears called forth by the sympathy of her
early friend.
“I could not help coming, when I heard how much you were suffering.”
“None of my friends have been to see me before.”
“Indeed!”
“But I cannot blame them. What am I now?”
“You are the same good girl you always were!” replied Julia, with generous
earnestness.
“I am afraid not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No; I am an outcast now, scorned and despised. Julia glad as I am to see
you, I am sorry you have come.”
“Why should you be sorry?”
“I’m afraid it will injure you. You know why my friends desert me.”
“But I will not desert you. You have been wronged; but you are true and
good, as you always were. It was not your fault.”
“I’m afraid it was—partly, at least.”
“It would have been better if you had never met Mr. Buckstone, it is true;
but you are not to blame.”
“I wish I could feel that I had not done wrong.”
“You may have made a mistake, but you have done no wrong; and you shall
not be cast down for your misfortunes.”

“It is the way of the world, Julia; and I can never be to others what I was
before.”
“But you shall be, Mary. If all the rest of the world desert you, our family
will still adhere to you.”
“I am afraid you don’t understand it, Julia. Though I may not be guilty, I
shall be shunned as one contaminated; those whom I have known in
brighter days will no longer associate with me.”
“We shall see, Mary,” said Julia, proudly. “You shall come to our house.
You shall be our guest; and if other people dare to insult you by word or
look, they are not our friends!”
Julia, in her generous thoughts, regarded the position which wealth gave her
family in society as a blessing then. If the Hungerfords countenanced the
poor, betrayed girl, who should dare to cast her out? Julia was high-spirited
and magnanimous, but she knew not to what a trial her generosity was to be
subjected.
“I will not permit you to injure yourself for me, Julia. I am resigned to my
fate. You see how calm I am;” and she smiled faintly.
“It would not injure me.”
“And I am the sister of—of a murderer!” she added, with a perceptible
shudder.
“That is not your fault.”
“But it will add to my disgrace. No, Julia, you shall not wrong yourself by
associating with me. As soon as I am able, I will go away from Poppleton,
and hide myself from the world.”
“Indeed, you shall not! You shall have the best and truest friends here.
When Ross is acquitted, as all say he will be, you shall be happy again.”
“Never in this world, Julia. I have become what I dreaded more than all
other miseries combined.”
“You have not, Mary; you were married.”
“No, I was not; he told me so not an hour before he fell by Ross’s hand. I
shall not call myself Mary Buckstone again. Now you despise me.”

“I do not, Mary; you wrong me,” replied Julia; but it must be acknowledged
that she was struggling to overcome a certain sensation of dread and horror
which she could hardly define.
“Now you know what I am, you may leave me; and I will think kindly of
you, as one who wished to be my friend.”
“And I shall be your friend, whatever you are,” added Julia, resolutely; “and
I am sure my mother and my brother will be. Eugene has been—he has
been very sorry for you.”
She was not quite certain that she ought to say anything about Eugene, and
she suppressed the sentence she was about to utter, substituting another.
Mary was moody and thoughtful when Eugene’s name was mentioned, and
it did not require much skill on the part of Julia to discover the nature of her
reflections. But what had been could no longer be, and her brother had
ceased to think of the poor girl, except as a sympathizing friend. The
afternoon was passed away in these conversations, and Mary was much
consoled by the words, but perhaps more by the presence and the generous
indorsement, of Julia.
Just before sunset, Eugene’s small schooner touched at the landing-place on
The Great Bell. It contained three persons; and after Dick Birch had gone
up to the house for Julia, Dr. Bilks and Eugene walked over to the spot
where the murder had been committed. The island had been visited by
hundreds of curious persons during the afternoon, who desired to examine
the locality of the terrible affair. The deputy sheriff was there when they
arrived, making another visit to the spot for the purpose of obtaining further
information in regard to the circumstances. The sheriff was in possession of
all the facts imparted by Ross Kingman, and he was now examining the
beach, where the stranger was last seen by the prisoner.
“It’s a plain case,” said the official to Eugene, after they had shaken hands,
and spoken of the event in general terms. “Ross don’t cover up anything,
but he thinks it is not murder to kill such a man.”
“He was very much exasperated by the conduct of Buckstone. Has any new
discovery been made?”
“We have got a clew to the man who was with Buckstone,” replied the
sheriff.

“Ah! Have you?” said Dr. Bilks, nervously.
“We have found the boat in which Buckstone and the other man came over
to the island.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Over by the Point.”
“How do you know it was the boat in which they came over?”
“It was hauled up on the sand; there,” said he, pointing to the marks of the
boat, “you can see the prints of the lap streaks. That deep mark was made
by a ledge on the boat, nailed on to keep the bottom from chafing. I brought
the boat over here, and measured the distance between the keel and this
ledge, and it exactly corresponded with these prints.”
“What does this prove in regard to the man with Buckstone?”
“It proves that he landed there by the Point, for one thing. A handkerchief
and a cigar were found in the boat. Here they are,” he added, producing the
articles. “Do you know them?”
The handkerchief had the letters R. B. upon it.
“By Heaven! this is Dick Birch’s handkerchief!” exclaimed Eugene.
“Impossible!” ejaculated Dr. Bilks. “He declared that he was not the person,
you remember.”
“But he was the person,” added the sheriff, decidedly.
“Why do you say he was?” demanded Eugene, who would as readily have
believed Dick Birch guilty of the murder as of the duplicity and falsehood.
“Ross Kingman thought it was Mr. Birch.”
“Did he say so?”
“He did.”
“Did he say positively it was Mr. Birch?”
“Not positively.”
“Let me see the cigar. Dick smokes a peculiar brand,” continued Eugene,
excitedly.

The sheriff handed him the cigar, and it was carefully examined by Eugene
and the doctor.
“That’s Dick’s brand, without a doubt,” replied Eugene, bewildered by the
conclusion thus forced upon him.
“Here he comes; he will speak for himself,” added the doctor, as Dick and
Julia descended the rocks to the beach.
Julia had expressed a desire to see the spot where the murder was
committed, and Dick had taken her to the cliff for this purpose. Seeing
Eugene and Dr. Bilks on the beach, they joined them there.
“Where did you leave this handkerchief, Dick?” asked Eugene, as his friend
approached the spot.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” he answered, taking the handkerchief. “Where did
you find it?”
“Did you lose it, Dick?”
“I suppose I did, if you found it, though I hadn’t missed it. Did you find it
here?”
“No; it was not found here,” replied the sheriff.
“Is this one of your cigars, Dick?”
“Yes; you can’t find such cigars as that at any shop this side of Boston; and
I don’t think you can find them there now. That’s one of my brand. Did you
find it with the handkerchief?”
“It was found with the handkerchief,” said Eugene, averting his sad face.
“What does all this mean? What ails you, Hungerford?” demanded Dick,
astonished at the singular conduct of his friend.
“I suppose he doesn’t want to say much about it,” interposed the sheriff;
“and I will do the talking.”
“Will you? You will oblige me by doing it as speedily as possible,” replied
Dick, whose flushed and indignant face sufficiently explained his feelings.
“You are believed to be the person who was with Mr. Buckstone at the time
he was murdered, or just before the event.”

“Who believes me to be the person?” asked Dick, who seemed to grow an
inch taller, as his head was involuntarily thrown back by the impulse of his
natural pride.
“I do, for one,” answered the deputy sheriff.
“What reason have you for thinking so?”
“Because your handkerchief, and one of your cigars, which can only be
obtained in Boston, were found in the boat that made those marks on the
beach,” answered the official, pointing to the prints.
“They were found in that boat—were they?” said Dick, apparently as much
astonished as Eugene.
“They were; more than this, Ross Kingman, who thinks as much of you as
of any other man in the world,—unless it be Mr. Hungerford,—believes that
you were the man he saw with Mr. Buckstone.”
“I have nothing to say,” replied Dick.
“Speak, Dick! Tell me it is not so, and I will believe you before all the rest
of the world!” exclaimed Eugene.
“Not a word, Hungerford, to-night,” answered Dick, proudly. “I am not
prepared to speak yet.”
“Don’t be angry with me, Dick.”
“Certainly not, Hungerford. There is my hand,” said Dick. “Appearances
are against me. When I have cleared myself of the charge of falsehood, I
will come into your presence again, but not till then.”
“Come, Dick,” added Eugene, taking his hand; “this shall not part us even
for an hour.”
“It must; I told you and Dr. Bilks this morning that I was not the person.
You despise a liar; so do I. Good night, Hungerford;” and springing up the
rocks, he disappeared beyond the bluff, heeding not the calls of his friend.
Before the party could reach the landing-place, he was seen in a boat
crossing the channel towards the Port.

CHAPTER XIII.
DICK UNDER A SHADOW.
“WHAT does all this mean, Eugene?” asked Julia, perplexed and troubled
by the singular conduct of Dick Birch, as well as by the facts which had
been developed by the deputy sheriff.
“I don’t know, Julia; it is all as new to me as it is to you,” replied Eugene.
“With what is he charged?”
“With nothing, Miss Hungerford,” interposed the sheriff, wishing to remove
any wrong impression from her mind. “If Mr. Birch was with Mr.
Buckstone at the time of the murder, or just before, we should like to use
him as a witness.”
“Mr. Birch says he was not with him.”
“I see no reason why he should deny the fact, if it is a fact,” said Eugene.
“If he met Buckstone, he did so with the best of motives.”
“I have no doubt of it,” added Dr. Bilks, who had all this time been
watching the effect upon Julia. “Mr. Birch is one of the truest and noblest
men it was ever my good fortune to meet.”
“But the evidence goes to show that he was with Buckstone; that he was the
person whom Ross Kingman saw with him,” continued the sheriff. “I shall
be obliged to follow up Mr. Birch till he can give me a satisfactory account
of himself at the time of the murder.”
“Ross left me at nine o’clock last evening,” continued Eugene, recalling the
circumstances.
“Did you see Mr. Birch after that time?” asked the sheriff.
“I did.”
“Dick was with mother and me till we heard Ross leave the house,” said
Julia. “Then he went into the library, where you were; and we were so tired
that we went to bed immediately.”

“Mr. Birch joined me in the library just after Ross left me. I told him what
had passed between us, and that I feared, if Ross saw Buckstone, he would
do some rash deed; but he seemed to have no fears.”
“Did he say anything about Mr. Buckstone’s being in town?” asked the
sheriff.
“Not a word.”
“Did you have any conversation with him about Buckstone, after your
return yesterday?”
“I did; he proposed to send for Buckstone, and remove all doubts in regard
to Mary’s marriage, by having it performed over again.”
“Precisely so; then he had business with Buckstone,” said the sheriff. “What
time did you leave Mr. Birch?”
“He went into the office about half past nine; and being exhausted by my
journey, and the want of sleep on my voyage, I retired.”
“You left him in the office?”
“I did.”
“Did any of your servants see him after this time?”
“I don’t know.”
“I should like to question them before I see Mr. Birch again,” added the
officer, who seemed to be satisfied that he was making out a case.
“I will give you all the assistance in my power, but I am perfectly satisfied
that Mr. Birch will conceal nothing,” replied Eugene, confidently.
“I do not know that he has any reason to conceal anything.”
“It is possible that he intended to settle up this unpleasant affair of
Buckstone’s marriage—in which, for Mary’s sake, I have taken some
interest—without troubling me.”
“But he said distinctly that he was not with Buckstone,” interposed Dr.
Bilks; “and when Mr. Birch says a thing, he means it. In my opinion, he was
not with him. I will take his word for it against all the circumstances that
can combine against him.”

This was confiding, generous, and even magnanimous on the part of Dr.
Bilks, and Julia bestowed a smile of grateful acknowledgment upon him.
“I agree with you entirely, doctor; but it will be doing Dick a favor to
inquire into the matter.”
The sheriff had no further business on the island, and he accepted Eugene’s
invitation to accompany him to Pine Hill. Dr. Bilks was very attentive to
Julia, and while the other two gentlemen talked about the murder, he made
himself as agreeable as possible to her. He assured her that Dick was
incapable of deceit; if the handkerchief and cigar had been found in the
boat, some one else had placed them there. It was not possible that even the
suspicion of duplicity should rest upon him, and it would all be
satisfactorily cleared up within a few days, if not hours. The carriage was
waiting on the wharf when the boat arrived, and the whole party started for
Pine Hill. When they reached the mansion, the sheriff was conducted to the
library, and all the servants were sent for; but none of them had seen Mr.
Birch after Eugene retired for the night.
The man servant thought he heard him go out at the front door about half
past nine, but was not very sure. It was this man’s business to see that the
front door was locked, the windows fastened, and all the fires and lights
extinguished before he went to bed; and he had attended to this duty, as
usual, about ten o’clock.
“Was the front door locked?” asked the sheriff.
“No, sir.”
“Did you lock it?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because I thought Mr. Birch might be out.”
“Did you know he was out?”
“No; I only thought so, because I had heard the door open, as I said.”
“Are you sure you heard the door opened?”
“I’m not certain. There is a night lock on the door, so that it was fastened.”

“What time does Mr. Birch usually retire?”
“About ten or eleven.”
“Why didn’t you go to his room, and see whether he was in or not?” asked
the sheriff.
“Because I didn’t want to disturb him, if he had gone to bed.”
“Then you went to bed leaving the door unlocked?”
“It was fastened by the night lock.”
“How did you find it this morning?”
“Just as I left it last night.”
“Did you go to Mr. Birch’s room this morning?”
“I never go to his room; it isn’t my business.”
“Who makes the bed?”
“The chambermaid, of course.”
The chambermaid was called. Mr. Birch’s bed had been occupied. No one
knew that he had gone out, after half past nine; no one knew that he had
not. Parkinson, the man servant in the house, was a sharp, intelligent
mulatto, imported from the city. He was strongly attached to Dick, and did
not understand what the sheriff wished to make out of him. He did not
know whether it would serve Dick best to show that he had gone out, or that
he had not gone out, at the time specified; and he was one of those pliant
witnesses who can be bent to serve a friend. It is quite possible that, if he
had comprehended the case, he would not have “thought” that he heard the
door opened at half past nine. He was not certain of anything which was
important in the matter.
Though no evidence was obtained to show that Dick was not in the house at
the time when he was alleged to have been with Buckstone, the absence of
proof to establish the fact that he was there, was vexatious to his devoted
friends. Eugene desired to see Ross Kingman, and to hear his testimony on
this interesting point; and when the sheriff departed, it was with the promise
to accompany him to the jail for this purpose.

Dr. Bilks was invited to tea. His attentions to poor Mary had already made
Eugene his friend, while his devotion to the ladies had rendered him a
welcome guest, particularly to Julia, to whom his vigorous defence of Dick
was even more than satisfactory. It was quite true that no expressions of
love had passed between Julia and Dick Birch, but it was just as patent to
the rest of the family that they were interested in each other. So the doctor
made himself popular by espousing the cause of the absent friend.
After tea Eugene and the doctor went to the library to smoke. Though the
acquaintance between them had commenced in the forenoon of that day, Dr.
Bilks knew enough of his host’s relations with the Kingman family to make
himself a confidant, so far as these relations were concerned; and Eugene
did not scruple to speak unreservedly to him. Indeed, now that Dick was
under the shadow of a suspicion, and had withdrawn himself from the house
for a time, he congratulated himself upon having a person at hand to whom
he could speak. Eugene was not content to let Dick bear his burden alone;
and when the sheriff left, he had sent Parkinson with a note to The Bell
River House, where he concluded his friend had gone, entreating him to
come to Pine Hill. The servant had not yet returned.
“Before I can get rid of one trouble, another is cast upon me,” said Eugene,
as he lighted his cigar.
“That is often the way in this world,” replied the doctor.
“Perhaps you think I have no right to trouble myself about this murder; but
I assure you I regard it almost as a family affair. When Mary Kingman went
off with Buckstone, I was robbed of more than half I had to live for in this
world. I haven’t been myself since.”
“Perhaps I had no right to know anything of a matter so private as this
ought to be; but as the lady’s physician, Mr. Birch gave me full information
in regard to your relations with the poor girl. I sympathize with you. But
perhaps good may come out of all these evils.”
“What good can come out of them?”
“Pardon me, if I am blunt; do you still love the lady?”
“With all my soul!” replied Eugene, fervently.

“I had hoped your foreign travel would remove the impression from your
mind.”
“It was more than an impression, Dr. Bilks. I did not know how much I
loved her till I had lost her. In spite of all that has happened, she is the same
to me now that she was a year ago, before Buckstone came into the place.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Why unfortunate?” demanded Eugene, earnestly.
“Well, the circumstances have changed.”
“What circumstances?”
“Whatever the truth may be, it is generally understood that she has been a
mother without being a wife.”
“True.”
“As the world goes, her reputation is blasted, and she can no longer be
received in good society.”
“She shall be received in good society!” exclaimed Eugene, leaping out of
his chair, and pacing the room with violent strides.
“I say nothing of the merits of this case. I speak only of the way of the
world,” added Dr. Bilks, mildly apologizing for repeating what he would
not advance as his own individual thought.
“I understand you, doctor. You may as well know now what all the world
shall know one of these days. Mary is still mine!” said Eugene, with energy,
as he paused before the doctor’s chair. “All earth shall not rob me of her
again!”
“I can understand your feelings,” interposed Dr. Bilks, soothingly.
“I am no hypocrite; and I could hardly conceal the joy I felt when I heard of
this murder.”
“For God’s sake, Mr. Hungerford, don’t say that,” protested the doctor.
“I feel it; why should I not say it?”
“It would not be prudent. If you expressed such a thought, people would
suspect you of instigating Ross Kingman to the commission of the crime,”

said Dr. Bilks, whose solicitude for the good name of his new friend was
fully expressed in his face.
“I do not mean joy at the murder.”
“Of course not.”
“I only rejoiced that Mary was free again. I would not have injured
Buckstone. I made Ross promise not to harm him, if he met him, though I
had no suspicion that he was in Poppleton.”
“Certainly; I understand you. But you would not think of marrying Mary
now?”
“I will think of it now, and do it as soon as the circumstances will permit.
Of course I say this to you in confidence.”
“Of course; that is fully understood.”
“I will do it if she will consent.”
“She will, without doubt.”
“She married this Buckstone under the pressure of terrible circumstances. It
was all my fault that she did so; and I will atone for my error in the only
way open to me.”
“I am afraid the public voice will condemn you.”
“Let it condemn me.”
“What do your mother and sister say?”
“I have not spoken to them. They may regret, but they will not oppose my
decision. I believe that Mary loves me now, as I love her. To me she is as
pure as she was the day she was born. My friends will object, but I cannot
help it. She shall be my wife, if she will; and if she cannot be respected and
honored as such here, I will go with her to the farthest verge of the country
in search of a home. I do not ask whether she is a widow or a castaway. She
is to me now what she has been for years. What I say to you to-day, I shall
say to her to-morrow. Let the world condemn me, if it will. I shall live for
my own heart, not for the applause of the multitude.”
“A man with three millions can afford to be independent in such a matter.”

“I have no three millions; I may never have.”
“Your present decision points in that direction, as I have understood your
uncle’s will.”
“Thus far the three millions have been a curse to me. Mary would have
been mine before now, if the three millions had not made me fearful of
doing a mean thing. I act independently of this prospective fortune. I am
beginning to be disgusted with it.”
“Why so?”
“Because it seems to have caused all my troubles, to have cheated Mary out
of a true love, and made her brother a murderer,” replied Eugene, with
startling emphasis. “I will make Mary my wife, though, come what may.
Doctor, you do not say that I am wrong.”
“I do not think so. You have a soul; you were born for noble deeds. I would
do just what you intend to do. If I loved her as you do, she should be my
wife in a week.”
“I shall not use any unseemly haste.”
“The three millions may yet be yours.”
“Bah!”
“If the three millions are not yours, to whom will they go?”
“Half a million will be mine; the same amount will go to my sister, to a Dr.
Lynch, and to each of three charitable associations yet to be founded.”
“Half a million to your sister!” exclaimed Dr. Bilks.
“Yes; is there anything strange in that?” demanded Eugene.
“No; O, no! I was thinking of something; but I will not mention it. The
thought was a disagreeable one.”
“You need not fear to mention it.”
“Excuse me, I will not,” replied the doctor, blandly. “It was an unpleasant
suspicion, which does great injustice to a mutual friend. I will not mention
it, for I am sure it is utterly groundless.”
“What do you mean, doctor?”

“I am sorry I hinted it; but it flashed across my mind, and I spoke before I
thought of its meaning. I prefer to be silent.”
“You say it concerns a mutual friend—of course you mean Mr. Birch.”
“Really, Mr. Hungerford, you must pardon me. Mr. Birch is above
suspicion. If I did, for an instant, think what might be, I drove the idea from
my mind the next instant.”
“I have sent for Dick Birch, doctor. I hope he will come. You know that his
position is slightly in doubt just now. If you can say a word that will help
me to explain it, you will confer a favor upon me,” persisted Eugene.
“If you will answer me a few questions, Mr. Hungerford, perhaps the
thought which came to me may come to you, for I will not be guilty of
causing you to suspect so true a friend as Mr. Birch.”
“Two hours ago, I would have knocked the man down who dared to say as
much as that to me,” replied Eugene.
“Then I had better be silent,” said Dr. Bilks, with a significant smile. “He is
my friend as well as yours. I am grateful to him for what he has been to me,
and what he has done for me; I would cut my tongue out rather than utter a
word to his disparagement.”
“Ask your questions, Dr. Bilks,” continued Eugene, impatiently. “If Dick
were not your friend, I would not hear you.”
“He is my friend, and I love and respect him. I would rather injure myself
than injure him. If the thought which came to me does not come to you, I
shall rejoice to feel that I was mistaken. Indeed, I feel so now.”
“Go on, doctor. If I am blind, open my eyes.”
“According to Ross Kingman’s story, the man who was with Buckstone
offered a consideration to him if he would marry Mary, and thus remove all
legal doubts in regard to the union.”
“Ross told the sheriff the same story.”
“Do you know of any man in the world who has anything to gain by that
marriage?”

“I do not. If Dick Birch hired Buckstone to marry her, it was in order to
make her an honest woman. He proposed such a plan to me last night, and I
assented to it. For her sake I desired it. I loved her, and I would have done
anything to save her from even a day of misery.”
“Suppose, on further examination, the marriage had proved to be illegal and
void, and that Buckstone had wholly deserted and abandoned her. What
would you have done?” asked the doctor, looking sharply into the eye of
Eugene.
“I don’t know.”
“Would you have married her?”
“She would not have consented while Buckstone was alive.”
“Would you, if she consented?”
“I would.”
“So I supposed.”
“Why should you suppose so?”
“Before you returned, I had a conversation with Mr. Birch. We both agreed
that you would marry her, in spite of her position before the world.”
“I confess that such a thought occurred to me, even before I sailed from
Liverpool.”
“I did not know you personally, Mr. Hungerford; but from your friend’s
eloquent description of your noble, but—you will pardon me—slightly
eccentric character, I had no doubt that Mary would become Mrs.
Hungerford, if she could lawfully be your wife. Mr. Birch was equally, or
rather more, confident, from his better knowledge of you.”
“What was Dick’s opinion of such a marriage?”
“He condemned it with all his might, while I favored it. We discussed the
matter for hours together in this room.”
“Why did he condemn it?”
“Because it would lower you in the estimation of the world; because you
would be pointed at as the millionnaire who had married a—never mind

what he called her.”
“Did he dare——”
“No, no, Mr. Hungerford; it was nothing very bad; a castaway—that was
all.”
“But, after all, Dick was only thinking of my good name and reputation; it
was kind of him, even if he was mistaken.”
“Certainly it was; I honored him for his manly course, though I differed
from him.”
“Is this the thought which I was expected to divine?”
“No, by no means. Did you ever observe that Mr. Birch was attentive to
your sister?”
“Well, rather so; I think they are inclined to be fond of each other. I have
noticed it more since we returned than before,” replied Eugene, still
struggling to grasp the mysterious thought which had darkened the mind of
his companion.
“Mr. Birch was opposed to your marrying Mary; and he feared that you
would marry her.”
“Just so.”
“Naturally enough, he would prevent it.”
“Very likely; he openly proposed to me to compel Buckstone to marry her,
on penalty of a criminal prosecution. If he was the person with Buckstone
last night, there was nothing dishonorable or unfriendly in his conduct, for
his action was consistent with the course upon which we had agreed.”
“Did you authorize him to purchase Buckstone’s compliance?”
“No, I did not; but that does not materially affect the question.”
“It does not: I only wish to establish the point that Mr. Birch desired to
bring about the marriage of Mary with Buckstone.”
“We grant that.”
“Why did he desire it?”

“For Mary’s sake; for mine, too, if you please. Both considerations were
honorable and friendly towards me.”
“Entirely so, Mr. Hungerford,” said the doctor, warmly. “One more
question, if you please. Did you ever say anything to Mr. Birch about
marrying, when Mary was utterly lost to you? or could he, from his
thorough knowledge of your disposition and character, have formed a
correct idea as to whether you would or would not marry another?”
Dr. Bilks looked interested and anxious when he proposed the question.
“I told him in so many words, before I went to Europe, that I should not
marry at all, as Mary could not be mine; and he knew me well enough to
believe what I said. The last thing I said to him was to the effect that the
three millions could never be mine.”
“Exactly so; he told me, if you did not marry Mary, you would never marry.
If at the age of thirty you have no son, what becomes of the three millions,
did you say?”
“Half a million goes to me, half a million to my sister——”
“Did you intimate that you thought Mr. Birch and your sister were disposed
to be fond of each other?” interposed Dr. Bilks, in a kind of careless,
indifferent manner.
Eugene sprang to his feet. His face was deadly pale, and his lip quivered.
He had grasped the doctor’s mysterious thought. Dick Birch wished to
prevent the possibility of his marriage with Mary, that, with Julia, he might
obtain the fortune of half a million! It was a disgusting, revolting suspicion,
and he was sick at heart.

CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE LIBRARY.
“MR. HUNGERFORD, I beg you will not give this suggestion the slightest
thought or attention. I am entirely satisfied that there cannot be the least
ground for suspecting our friend Mr. Birch of unworthy motives,”
interposed Dr. Bilks, when he observed Eugene’s distress. “I am sure he has
been a true friend, and far above any selfish considerations.”
Eugene paced the room in violent agitation. He could not, he did not,
believe that Dick Birch was capable of double-dealing with anybody, and
especially not with him.
“You have compelled me to lead your mind in the direction which my own
travelled for an instant; you dragged my thought out of me; now I must
insist that you banish the idea from your mind, as I did from mine,”
continued the doctor, apparently much moved by the mischief he had been
forced to do.
“Can I have been deceived in Dick Birch!” mused Eugene, as he walked the
library.
“You have not been; he is the same true and tried friend he has always
been.”
“This money has cursed the whole of us!” exclaimed he.
“Not at all, Mr. Hungerford. You wrong him; you wrong yourself. Mr. Birch
is as true as steel.”
“Dick was poor, and in debt for his education, besides having a mother and
three sisters partially dependent upon him,” continued Eugene, who
appeared to be talking to himself rather than to the doctor. “It was a great
temptation.”
“Whatever the temptation, I am sure Mr. Birch has not yielded, and has
never cherished a selfish thought towards you or yours.”

“Dr. Bilks, do you believe that Mr. Birch was the person who was with
Buckstone last night?” demanded Eugene, stopping before the doctor’s
chair.
“I am hardly prepared to say, Mr. Hungerford.”
“You have heard all the evidence for and against him.”
“The evidence is very strong; but in the face of it all, Mr. Birch declares that
he was not the person. I am disposed to believe him, in spite of all the
testimony against him.”
“I thank you for those words; they are very comforting to me. If Dick’s
word produces so strong an impression upon you, who have known him but
for a few months, what effect should it produce upon me, who have been
his intimate friend for years!”
“Mr. Hungerford, without fear or favor, without regard to the friendships of
months or years, we wish to know the truth,” said the doctor, with a Brutus-
like integrity.
“Yes; you are right! If Dick has deceived me in the smallest particular, even
for my own good, I will cast him off; I will renounce the friendship which I
valued more than all the money in the world.”
“Let not your own integrity blind you on the one hand, or your friendship
on the other,” added the doctor, solemnly. “Be just.”
“I will, if possible. What were you about to suggest?” asked Eugene, whose
intuitive knowledge of the character of his companion assured him that this
flourish was only the preliminary to another suggestion.
“I confess that I feel a painful interest in this matter,” continued the doctor;
“and while nothing would afford me so much pleasure as to see our friend
Birch completely vindicated, I feel compelled to say that appearances are
very strong against him. I am exceedingly sorry to say that his conduct on
the beach to-night was not entirely satisfactory to me.”
“Why not?” demanded Eugene, abruptly.
“He did not deny the sheriff’s position. Three of his warmest friends,
including yourself, Mr. Hungerford, were present. He knew how painful to
us that attitude of suspicion must be. Why did he not explain to us, if not to

the sheriff, the facts alleged against him? Why did he hold up his head, and
walk away, when a word would have satisfied us? Why is he not here this
evening, to give us the assurance which we have the right to demand of
him?”
“You don’t know Dick,” said Eugene, impatiently.
“I certainly know nothing ill of him; but I cannot help thinking how much
better it would have been, if he had squarely faced this charge, instead of
leaving us to grope about among all these painful doubts.”
“Dick is a proud, high-spirited fellow. He believes that his friend has no
right even to suspect him of anything wrong, much less to believe him
capable of doing a wilful wrong. His view of friendship is too lofty to
permit him to defend himself from any charge or suspicion. He would
rather suffer in his honesty, than stoop to the littleness of buying his friend
with an argument.”
“I can hardly comprehend such a position.”
“If Dick’s friend suspects him, he is no friend. He believes in perfect
confidence. If that confidence is lost or impaired, it is not for him to restore
it, or to heal the breach. He will not tolerate a partial friendship.”
“It is rather a sentimental idea.”
“But it is the true one.”
“If my friend places himself in a suspicious position, I think he is bound to
explain.”
“In his estimation, a friend cannot place himself in a suspicious position.
Whatever attitude he may assume, his friend has no right to doubt his
integrity; no more than a wife has to suspect her husband, or a husband his
wife.”
“Are friends always perfect? are husbands and wives?” asked Dr. Bilks,
incredulously.
“No; never in action, but always in purpose. They may err in judgment
constantly, but never in intention. If your friend suspects you, he is not your
friend. If your wife does not trust in you, you are married, but not mated.
This is Dick’s view, and it is mine. If I have been mistaken in him, he is no

longer my friend. I would not injure him, but he is no more to me than a
neighbor and a brother man. No man is my friend in whom I cannot
perfectly confide. If, with good intentions towards me, he wronged me out
of all my money, and made me a knave before the world, I should still
cherish him, even while I lost all respect for his judgment and discretion.”
“Then you certainly have no fault to find with Mr. Birch.”
“None, if he has only erred in judgment. If he has deceived me, if he has
endeavored to make Mary the wife of Buckstone to prevent me from
marrying her, for his own ends, he is a knave!” said Eugene, emphatically.
“But it is not so, Mr. Hungerford. Mr. Birch, I am sure, had no selfish
motives.”
“Dick and I proposed to do the very thing which the person on the beach
was doing with Buckstone.”
“If it was not Mr. Birch, who was it? Who else could it have been?” asked
the doctor.
“I have no idea. There is not another man in the world who could by any
possibility have had the slightest interest in Mary’s marriage.”
“I think there is some mistake. We probably misunderstood Mr. Birch this
morning. He did not mean to say he was not the person. I am entirely
satisfied that he will say he was the man who accompanied Buckstone to
the island. He is honest and upright, and he will not deny it.”
“Mr. Birch,” said Parkinson, opening the door of the library.
“Mr. Birch!” exclaimed Dr. Bilks.
Eugene rushed to the entry, grasped the hand of his friend, and returned to
the library with him. Dick was rather cold, stiff, and formal in his manner.
“I have called up to see you on business, Hungerford,” said he.
“I am glad to see you on any terms,” replied Eugene, warmly.
“If Dr. Bilks will excuse you for a few moments, we will go into the office.
Or perhaps the doctor will join the ladies in the drawing-room for half an
hour,” added Dick; and there was a certain bitterness in his tones which did
not escape the keen ear of Dr. Bilks.

“Certainly, Mr. Birch; do not let me interrupt you for a moment. I must go
to my office,” replied the doctor.
“Dick, we have been talking about you and these affairs since tea. Dr. Bilks
knows all about the business.”
“If you desire his presence, it will not disturb me,” added Dick,
indifferently. “If I have been the subject of your conversation, it may be as
well that he remain.”
“Dick, don’t be so stiff.”
“I am under the shadow just now,” he replied. “I came to deliver the books
and papers to you.”
“No, no, Dick! Don’t begin in that strain.”
“I came on business only.”
Dick went to the office, opened the iron safe there, and took out the books
and papers, which he brought into the library.
“Here are the day-book and ledger, the latter posted to May,” he continued.
“I have kept them with the utmost care, and you will find them plain and
intelligible. They need no explanation. Here is your letter-book; it contains
a copy of every business letter I have sent; while every one I have received
is on file. Here is your check-book. Here is a record-book, containing a full
history of all I have done since I managed your affairs.”
“Dick, I will hear no more of this!” exclaimed Eugene. “Burn the books and
papers; and I am still satisfied with what you have done.”
“There was a time when you would have been—not three hours ago,”
replied Dick, as he carried the books and papers back to the office, restored
them to the safe, and, locking it, brought the key to Eugene. “Here is the
key, Hungerford. You will find everything straight and correct. To-morrow,
when you have had time to examine my personal account, I shall trouble
you to give me a check for the balance of my salary.”
Dick Birch, though his hand trembled, and his lip quivered, buttoned his
coat, and took up his hat, which lay on the library table.
“Dick, have you joined the conspiracy against me?” demanded Eugene.

“No.”
“You know how all this vexes me; how it wounds and crushes me.”
“I will leave you, then.”
He moved towards the door.
“Stop, Dick; you cannot mean to give me the cold shoulder now?”
“Hungerford, I am the sufferer, not you. You have nothing to lose; I,
everything. You banish me, and I go.”
“What do you mean by that? Sit down, Dick, and let us talk over this
matter.”
“No, Hungerford. I will not talk about it, even. If you believe me capable of
deceiving you, I have not a word to say.”
“Dick, will you answer me one question?” demanded Eugene, earnestly.
“I will.”
“Did you see Buckstone last night?”
“No.”
Eugene was staggered by this reply—a single, plain, unadorned negative.
“How is it possible?” continued he, “that——”
“I will answer no more questions,” interposed Dick, firmly. “You would not
believe me if I did; and my self-respect does not permit me to speak when
my truthfulness is suspected. To the sheriff, to the court, I can do this; to
you I cannot. If others do not believe me, I will not complain; they have no
reason to trust me.”
“I will believe you—I do believe you,” protested Eugene.
“You will try to do so, doubtless. Your conversation since tea, you told me
just now, related to me.”
“How could it relate to any other person or thing, after what occurred on the
beach to-night?”
“With the sheriff, you tried to prove that I left the house last night, after you
retired—so Parkinson tells me,” added Dick, bitterly.

“On the contrary, we tried to prove that you had not left the house.”
Perhaps the sheriff was trying to prove one thing while Eugene tried to
prove the opposite.
“It would be better to say we were trying to ascertain the truth,” added Dr.
Bilks.
Dick looked at the doctor, as though a word from him was out of place; but
he said nothing.
“Of what else do you suspect me, Hungerford?”
“I suspect you of nothing, Dick. It is cruel for you to put yourself in such an
attitude.”
“I am under suspicion: can you deny this, Hungerford?”
Eugene bit his lip. He could not equivocate. He was perplexed with many
doubts. It seemed impossible that any other person than Dick should have
been the man with Buckstone on the beach, and it was just as impossible
that his friend should utter a deliberate falsehood. The evidence of the
handkerchief and cigar, and the opinion of Ross Kingman, were hardly
needed, though everything was against Dick.
“You do not answer.”
“I cannot deny that I have believed you were the person, Dick.”
“That is quite enough, Hungerford. My relations with you and yours are too
delicate, too important, to be trifled with for an instant. If you can believe,
if you can suspect, that I was in treaty with Buckstone, as represented, it
follows that I was doing so from personal and selfish motives.”
“Not at all, Dick; there may have been a dozen reasons why you should
have conducted such a negotiation privately. I had no doubt of your
motives.”
“You must have doubted them; but I do not blame you, Hungerford. Dr.
Bilks had probably told you my views in regard to Mary. I was afraid you
would marry her.”
“We have been entirely free in this matter,” said Dr. Bilks, in silky,
apologetic tones.

“I do not complain. I must say one thing more, in confidence,” added Dick,
glancing at the door; and his face flushed as he spoke. “Though I have
never confessed it to you, much less to her, I love your sister Julia. I thank
God she knows nothing of it!”
“I think she does, Dick. A man’s looks and actions cannot be wholly
meaningless. I knew it; so did others.”
“So much the worse for me—and for her!” exclaimed Dick, sadly and
bitterly. “What is patent to us will be so to others. All the world will believe
that I was hiring Buckstone to marry Mary, at the time he was killed—
doing it in the dark—and for what? To prevent Eugene Hungerford from
marrying her! I confess this was half my thought, for I loved you too well,
Hungerford, to see you throw yourself away upon one who, in the eyes of
the world, was defiled. It was for your sake, as well as for hers, I made the
proposition last night, to which you assented. But what will the world say?”
“Never mind what the world says.”
“I must be above suspicion. What follows?”
“Never mind what follows, Dick. I understand you. Your motives were pure
and friendly. You meant to serve me. You were right; I would have made
Mary my wife, if the marriage with Buckstone had been illegal.”
“It was legal enough, if it could be proved; but there is no certificate, no
record, nothing even to prove that any ceremony was performed. Though
the man who married them were an impostor, the legality of the union is not
thereby affected; but we cannot prove that either of the parties consented, or
even that a mock ceremony was performed. If there was any marriage, it
was legal; but we can prove nothing, and Buckstone repudiated it—deserted
and abandoned the girl. For these reasons it was necessary that Mary should
be married again. I thought so, and felt so, and, with your knowledge and
consent, intended to have her married again, but not without.”
“It is all clear enough, Dick.”
“No, it is not. One thing follows another, until it appears that I am laboring
to prevent you from carrying out the provisions of your uncle’s will.
Hungerford, I know this has never occurred to you.”
Eugene was silent. Dr. Bilks opened a book.

“Such a thought never darkened your mind, Hungerford,” continued Dick;
“but others will say, if I should ever be seen with your sister again, that I”—
he struggled with the thought—“that I keep you a bachelor in order to
marry half a million with Julia.”
“Why should they think so?”
“Because it is natural that low-minded and selfish men should suspect the
motives of others. Such a thought never occurred to you, Hungerford, but it
has made my brain whirl with agony, since we parted on the beach. In what
a damnable position am I placed!”
Eugene was still silent, and Dr. Bilks did not seem to approve all Dick’s
statements and conclusions, for he occasionally turned and twisted in his
chair.
“If Julia thinks kindly of me now, she would spurn me as an unclean reptile,
if the thought came to her mind.”
“Dick, I must be candid: this thought has occurred to me, but only to be
rejected and cast out as a suggestion of the devil.”
Dr. Bilks winced.
“I need not wonder at it, though I did not think it. Now you understand me.
I must go.”
“No, Dick, you shall not go,” protested Eugene.
“I did not intend to speak of anything but business when I came. I will not
stand in a false position. I will not be suspected of marrying for money.”
“Now you have stepped upon my ground, Dick,” said Eugene, with a smile.
“I would not marry for three millions—only for love.”
“I know not that Julia would have consented—perhaps it was wrong for me
to mention her name. It is all past now.”
“Not at all. Nothing would have pleased me so well as such a marriage.”
“It cannot be now—at least not till you are married, and John Hungerford is
born.”
“You are cheating yourself, Dick.”

“I will not take a step where my motives can be suspected. I am not free
from suspicion, even in your partial eyes.”
“You are.”
“No—you have suspected me. I have not intended to utter a word to remove
your suspicion. We part, Hungerford.”
“No, Dick.”
“It must be so. I do not blame you. I am still your friend.”
“This is cruel.”
“More cruel to me than to any one else.”
“It is unnecessary.”
“Can I stand by you in these intimate relations while I am accused of base
and unworthy practices? No, Hungerford. If it be the will of God that I shall
be purged of this stain, we shall meet as friends again; if not, never. I will
speak a word to Julia as I go. Good night, Hungerford.”
“I shall see you to-morrow.”
“I am summoned as a witness at the examination of Ross to-morrow. We
may meet then.”
Dick Birch left the library, and entered the room where the ladies were. He
briefly stated that circumstances had occurred which rendered it necessary
for him to absent himself from the house. He shook hands with Mrs.
Hungerford and with Julia, neither of whom dared to ask him any questions.
He betrayed some emotion as he parted with Julia, and she could with
difficulty repress the tears that struggled in her eyes. Dick went forth from
the mansion he had reared and beautified, like the wanderers from Eden,
sad and disturbed.
“What do you think now, Dr. Bilks?” demanded Eugene in the library, as
the door closed behind the parting friend.
“I hardly know what to think,” replied the doctor.
“The thought which you suggested to me, you perceive, has already
occurred to him.”

“That was the worst feature in the interview. I was not entirely satisfied
with his appearance or his explanation.”
“You were not?” said Eugene, with much surprise.
“I am afraid he has had the thought about the half million too long in his
mind. It was the first thing, evidently, that came to him when the little cloud
of trouble appeared. I was pained to hear him mention his danger, for it
proved that he had been thinking of it.”
“You wrong him. A person of his noble nature is always sensitive.”
“If he had no thought of wrong, it would hardly have occurred to him when
the plan miscarried.”
“You have already condemned him.”
“No, far from it; I hope Mr. Birch will be able to make it apparent that he
had no selfish motives.”
Dr. Bilks spoke as a man disturbed by doubts and fears, but who was
sincerely anxious that those doubts and fears should be removed. He staid
till quite a late hour, and suggested various plans by which Dick could be
extricated from his unfortunate position; but Eugene had too much faith in
simple integrity to believe in any plans. When the doctor took his leave,
Julia came into the library with her mother. She was sad and gloomy, and
her looks sufficiently indicated her interest in Dick. Eugene told them
enough of what had transpired to explain the rupture with Dick, and assured
them it would soon be healed.
“I know he never had a thought of anything wrong,” said Julia.
“I do not think he had.”
“There is no reason why he should conceal his meeting with Mr. Buckstone
from you, if he did meet him.”
“None that we know of; but Dick says he was anxious to make Mary the
legal wife of Buckstone, to prevent me from marrying her.”
“To prevent you from marrying her!” exclaimed Mrs. Hungerford.
“Of course Eugene never had such a thought,” added Julia to her mother.

“I had no such thought before I came home,” said Eugene, who considered
this a good opportunity to inform his mother and sister of his purpose.
“Have you now?” demanded Mrs. Hungerford, full of motherly anxiety.
“I have, mother; I intend to make her my wife as soon as possible.”
“Eugene!”
“You cannot mean so!” ejaculated Julia.
“I am entirely in earnest.”
“Marry Mary Kingman!” exclaimed his mother.
“Why not?”
“Why not? Sure enough, why not!” said Mrs. Hungerford, more excited, if
not more indignant, than she was wont to be.
“Why not?” Eugene asked, quietly.
“How can you ask such a question?”
“Isn’t Mary a good girl?”
“Well, she was a good girl.”
“Isn’t she now?”
“I do not wish to say anything to hurt your feelings, Eugene; but you know
yourself that what has happened makes her notorious; and this terrible
murder will not improve her reputation. She has been town talk for months;
now she will be the talk of the whole state.”
“Is that her fault?”
“Perhaps not. We don’t even know that she was married to the man she
called her husband. Why, it’s shameful, Eugene! It would be a disgrace to
the whole family. We never should get over it.”
Eugene explained for two hours, but he failed to remove their objections.
“Promise me, Eugene, that you will not marry her,” pleaded Julia.
“I cannot.”

“I will do anything for her as she is. I will go and see her every week. I will
go into society with her; but don’t make her your wife.”
“I am the indirect cause of her wrongs, Julia; and I shall do what I can to
atone for them.”
“Anything, but do not marry her. I cannot explain why, but do not.”
“Julia, I must marry her, for your sake as well as my own and hers.”
“For my sake!” exclaimed she. “Why?”
“I cannot explain why; but I must.”
“Eugene, I hope you will think better of it. This is a rash resolve,”
interposed his mother.
“I will think of it, mother, as I ought; but I love her, and she must be mine.”
And a new grief was added to the lot of Julia and her mother.

CHAPTER XV.
DR. BILKS ON THE STAND.
TO Dick Birch had been assigned the duty of providing counsel for the
defence of Ross Kingman, and he had immediately secured the services of
Mr. Darling, an eminent legal gentleman, residing in Summerville, the
county town, where the examination was to take place. It had also been his
purpose to add his own strength to that of the distinguished lawyer’s; but
after the complications which the evening of the first day had produced, he
was disposed to abandon this idea. On his way from Pine Hill to the hotel,
while he was considering what had transpired in the library, he determined
to follow his original intention.
Early on the following morning he went to Summerville, and had an
interview with Mr. Darling, to whom he fully and unreservedly explained
his own position. He then went to the jail, where, as counsel for the
prisoner, he was readily admitted.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Birch,” said Ross, as he entered. “This is not a
pleasant place to live, but I suppose I must put up with it for some months
yet.”
“I’m afraid you must, Ross,” replied Dick, with more sympathy than a
lawyer might be supposed to feel, though Dick was more than a lawyer in
the present cause.
“I shall bear it as well as I can. How is Mary?”
“She was as well as usual when I heard from her last evening. She bears it
better than any one could have expected.”
“That is a great relief to me.”
“But, Ross, I came to talk with you about your defence.”
“Thank you, sir. I am afraid you have got a hard row to hoe,” added the
prisoner, with a smile.

“No, I think not; though I am rather sorry that you used your tongue so
freely.”
“I like to tell the truth. I had no more idea of denying what I had done, than
I had of disowning my own name. But I want you to understand that I am
not guilty of murder. I don’t feel any more like a murderer than you do, Mr.
Birch. I have said the same thing to Mary, to Dr. Bilks, and to the sheriff.”
“But it is a pity you acknowledged it in so many words.”
“I killed Buckstone, and I meant to do so,” said Ross, with dignified
firmness. “I am willing to say that to the jury; and then I want them to say
whether I am guilty of murder.”
“But you mus’n’t do anything of the sort. You must leave the whole matter
in the hands of your counsel, and be guided by their directions.”
“I will do so.”
The lawyer then proceeded to draw out of the prisoner all the facts relating
to the murder, and made memoranda of them.
“Ross, you say there was a man with Buckstone when you first saw him on
the rocks?” continued Dick Birch.
“Yes, I do; of course you know that better than I do,” replied Ross, with a
smile.
“Why should I know it?”
“Because you were the person.”
“Could you swear that I was the person, Ross?” asked Dick, with as much
indifference as he could assume.
“I could not. It was too dark to see plainly who it was; and I was busy with
another affair. I didn’t care who it was.”
“Now, Ross, I wish you to think of this matter. You cannot swear that I was
the person?”
“No, I cannot. Does it do you any harm to have it known that you were the
person with Buckstone?”

“Never mind that, just now, Ross. All we want here is the truth. When you
first saw the man with Buckstone, did you think who it was?”
“No, sir; I did not.”
“After you had done the deed, did you think who it was?”
“No.”
“Now, Ross, according to your statement, Buckstone and this man were
talking together, and you listened to them.”
“Yes, sir; I did.”
“Then you heard the stranger’s voice.”
“Certainly I did.”
“Could you tell by the voice whether it was any one you had heard speak
before?”
“Well, he didn’t say much. I heard him ask Buckstone if he intended to
marry Mary. Then, pretty soon, Buckstone told a long story about how it
was—that he did intend to marry her at first, and then he didn’t. This made
me so mad I didn’t want to hear any more, and I went off after a club. When
I came back, they were talking about a consideration for marrying my sister,
which didn’t make me feel any better. I heard what Buckstone said, and I
didn’t care a straw what the other man talked about; besides, he didn’t
speak very loud.”
“Then you could not tell from his voice who he was?”
“No, sir; I could not. I didn’t mind much about it; but I have thought since,
from the way he spoke about the marriage, that he was a lawyer.”
“Did you think, at the time, that he was a lawyer?”
“I didn’t think anything about it.”
“What did he say that made you think he was a lawyer?”
“He asked Buckstone if he intended to marry Mary, and said the intention
made all the difference in the world.”
“Just so; now, Ross, you did not think, at the time, who this stranger was,—
are you quite sure on this point?”

“Of course I am. When I had thrown Buckstone over the cliff, I began to
think of Mary, and I am sure I never thought a word of what took place
before the deed. I didn’t even think that any person was with Buckstone. In
fact, my mind was all in confusion. I wasn’t used to doing such a job, and I
felt all the time, before and afterwards, just as if I was living in some other
world. It didn’t seem as though there were any other persons in existence
but Mary and myself.”
“I can understand your feelings, Ross. When did it first occur to you that I
was the person with Buckstone on the rocks?”
“Not till I went over after Dr. Bilks for Mary.”
“Did you think of it while you were going after him, or while you were
returning?”
“Not till I saw Dr. Bilks. I told him all about what I had done to Buckstone,
before he saw Mary, so that he might understand what ailed her. I went back
with him to row him over the channel. Then I told him there was a man
with Buckstone—I didn’t even think of it till then.”
“What did Dr. Bilks say about it?” asked Dick, with an eagerness which he
could not wholly conceal.
“He said the stranger must be Mr. Hungerford.”
“Mr. Hungerford!” exclaimed the lawyer.
“Yes, sir; but I told him it was not; Mr. Hungerford was a good deal taller
than this man.”
“What then?” continued Dick, nervously.
“Then he asked if it wasn’t Mr. Birch. I told him it might be; but I didn’t
believe it was.”
“What did he say then?”
“He said he was satisfied the man was Mr. Birch. He told me you had said
something to him about making Buckstone marry Mary. He said you did it
from the best of motives; and I know you did, and I was very much obliged
to you.”
“This satisfied you that I was the person on the rocks with Buckstone?”

“Well, yes; that was enough to satisfy me—wasn’t it?” said Ross, not a little
puzzled by the troubled expression on the lawyer’s face. “I’m sure I feel
very grateful to you for all you have done. Of course, if I had known you
were the man with Buckstone, I shouldn’t have done what I did. You were
acting all the time for Mary’s good.”
“Did it seem reasonable to you that I should meet Buckstone in the dark,
and bribe him to marry your sister?” asked Dick, as quietly as he could.
“It didn’t seem exactly like you, I own; but, then, Buckstone is a slippery
character, and I didn’t understand your plans. I knew you wouldn’t do
anything that wasn’t right.”
“Where did you find Dr. Bilks, when you went after him that night, Ross?”
“In his office.”
“Was he abed?”
“No; he had just come in from making a visit.”
“Do you know where he had been?”
“He told me he had been over beyond the Point, where he had a bad case.
He said it was rather hard on him to have to go out again, for he had hardly
slept a wink for three nights, or something of that sort.”
After some further conference, Dick told the prisoner to keep his courage
up, and left him. He had another interview with Mr. Darling, and at ten
o’clock in the forenoon, all the parties met in the court-house, where the
examination was to take place. Eugene Hungerford, Dr. Bilks, and Mary
were there as witnesses. Eugene had attempted to see Ross; but Mr. Darling,
at Dick’s suggestion, had requested the sheriff to exclude all visitors.
The examination was conducted in the usual form, its object being simply
to establish the fact that a murder had been committed, and that there was
sufficient evidence to presume the guilt of the prisoner. It was not an easy
matter to prove that a murder had been committed, though no one doubted
the fact. The prosecution expected to establish it from the confession of the
prisoner to Dr. Bilks, and by Richard Birch, who was generally believed to
be the person who had accompanied the murdered man to The Great Bell.

The body of Buckstone had not been found. It might yet appear when the
chemical changes attending decomposition caused it to rise to the surface.
Neither had the body of Goodwin, the sportsman, who had been drowned
on the forenoon of the same day, been recovered. There was a kind of
tradition prevalent at Port Poppleton that the bodies of people drowned in
Bell River, between the islands and the main land, were seldom, if ever,
found. There was alleged to be something in the tidal current which carried
the corpses down, and so entangled them upon the jagged rocks of The
Great Bell, that they never rose to the surface. The water was ten fathoms
deep, even close up to the cliff. Old men at the Port told of this man and
that man who had been drowned many years before, whose bodies had
never been found. It was doubtful, therefore, in the light of the popular
superstition, whether Buckstone’s body would ever be discovered.
The examination commenced. Ross Kingman was firm, dignified, and even
noble, in his demeanor. Mary wept and trembled when he was brought in;
but Dr. Bilks, who had charged himself with the care of her, spoke some
consoling words, and she became calm. For the first time since her
departure from Poppleton with Buckstone, Eugene saw her. He took her by
the hand, and assured her all would be well. This was all he said to her in
the court-house, though he watched her with tender interest all day long.
Mary was called to the stand first, and, supported by Dr. Bilks, she took her
place. She had recovered her firmness, and related, in a tone loud enough to
be heard by all in the court-room, what had occurred between Buckstone
and herself before the murder. She was truthful, and did not attempt to
conceal the fact, so damaging, apparently, to her brother’s cause, that he had
acknowledged to her the killing of Buckstone.
“Your name?” was the first question put to her.
“Mary Kingman,” she replied, to the astonishment of all who heard her.
“Is that your name?”
“It is.”
“Is it the name by which you have called yourself, and by which you were
known in New York?”
“It is not.”

“By what name were you known?”
“Mary K. Buckstone.”
“Were you the wife of Mr. Buckstone?”
“I was not.”
“Were you not married to him?”
“I do not know that I was, or was not.”
“Was a ceremony performed?”
“There was; but Mr. Buckstone assured me I was not his wife.”
“You intended to marry him at the time the ceremony was performed?”
“I did.”
“And he intended to marry you?”
“I suppose he did not, as he repudiated the marriage, and declared that I was
not his wife.”
“It is important to know whether the man who was murdered was your
husband or not. The court will instruct you that you were legally the wife of
Buckstone, if any ceremony was performed, and you believed that it was
real; that the fictitious character of the marriage does not affect its legality.”
“Was the marriage otherwise legal?” asked the magistrate.
“I don’t know,” replied Mary.
“Have you any certificate—was there any record made of the marriage?”
“None, sir.”
“Is there any evidence that the marriage ceremony was performed?”
“I know of none.”
The magistrate did not presume to decide upon the validity or invalidity of
the marriage; it was sufficient for the present purpose that the witness did
not regard herself as the wife of the deceased.
Mary then gave her testimony, as already indicated. It is probable that she
was aware how much might depend upon her marriage; that Ross’s very life

might hang on this question, for it was one thing to kill his sister’s husband,
and quite another to kill her betrayer and seducer. The issue with the jury at
the trial must lie between these two points. She was a well-informed person;
had always read the newspapers; and understood the merits of the case as
well as any man who would sit upon the jury. Ross had told her that, while
he acknowledged the fact of the killing, it was not murder; the deed was a
justifiable one, and no jury would convict him. Her testimony, so far as it
could be without distorting the simple truth, was based upon this view.
Hence she called herself Mary Kingman, honestly believing that she was
not legally a wife; and hence she did not attempt to conceal or mitigate the
facts contained in her brother’s confession to her.
Dr. Bilks was called. He had been summoned to attend Mary Kingman—as
she chose to call herself—though he was still of the opinion that she was
Mrs. Buckstone—a legal venture which produced a smile on the almost
impassible face of the magistrate. Going to and returning from the residence
of his patient, he had been accompanied by the prisoner, who had told him
what he had done, substantially as related by the last witness; but with the
additional fact that Buckstone was not alone just before the murder.
“Who was the person with him?” asked the government attorney.
“I do not know who he was,” replied the doctor.
“Did the prisoner tell you who he was, or give you any description of him?”
“A meagre description—simply that he wore an overcoat, and was about
my size;” and the doctor smiled as he mentioned the last item.
“Did he say it was you?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, did he say who he was?”
“He did not; that is, he didn’t say in so many words who the person was.”
“Go on, Dr. Bilks.”
“I think I mentioned the names of several persons.”
“Whose names did you mention?” demanded the attorney, impatiently.
“I mentioned Mr. Hungerford’s first.”

“Well?”
Dr. Bilks was a slow witness. It was evident that he did not like to implicate
any person in the business of making a contract with Buckstone, which
must soon be apparent.
“The prisoner was positive that Mr. Hungerford was not the person,” added
the doctor.
“What other name did you mention?”
“I mentioned Mr. Birch’s;” and the doctor gave a very elaborate explanation
of the reasons which had led him to use Dick’s name in this connection,
which, of course, included the whole matter of the plan by which Buckstone
was to be induced to marry Mary in Poppleton. “For the reason that Mr.
Birch intended to do what the stranger on the island appeared to be doing, I
concluded the person must be Mr. Birch.”
“What did the person on the island appear to be doing?”
Dr. Bilks related what Ross had reported to him about the “intentions” of
Buckstone, and the “consideration” which the stranger offered.
It looked like a plain case, and everybody was fully satisfied that Dick
Birch was the mysterious personage who had gone to The Great Bell with
the murdered man.
“What did the prisoner say when you mentioned the name of Mr. Birch?”
continued the attorney.
“He was satisfied that Mr. Birch was the person;” which was quite true.
Other evidence of less importance was elicited from Dr. Bilks, and when
the “direct” was finished, he was turned over to the prisoner’s counsel for
cross-examination. The doctor had certainly behaved like an honest witness.
He had exhibited a great deal of delicacy and sensitiveness when compelled
to use the names of those who were understood to be his friends, and the
impression produced by him thus far was decidedly favorable. To the
surprise of many, and of none more than Dr. Bilks himself, Mr. Birch was
intrusted with the task of cross-examining him. Dick was courteous, and the
doctor was steady, so that the questions and answers flowed very smoothly
for some time, without disclosing anything new or startling.

“You were at home, Dr. Bilks, when the prisoner came for you to attend his
sister?” said Dick.
“I was.”
“What time was it?”
“About two o’clock in the morning, or a little later.”
“You were in bed then?”
“No, sir.”
“Were you up at that hour in the morning?”
“I was.”
“Do you usually sit up all night?” asked Dick, facetiously.
“Not usually.”
“Did you on this occasion?”
“I did—until about five o’clock.”
Dr. Bilks barely answered the questions proposed to him. He was a prudent
witness—careful not to prove too much.
“Why did you sit up on this particular night, if it is not your usual custom?”
“Professional duties required it,” replied the doctor, crisply; and though the
examination seemed to be of no possible moment, a close observer might
have detected a slight pallor in the face of the witness.
“Ah, you had been out professionally, when the prisoner called for you?”
“I had.”
“Where had you been?”
“Over beyond the Point.”
“Will you be a little more definite, if you please?” said Dick, in the blandest
of tones, and with the softest of smiles.
“I do not know that I can describe the locality; I believe it is within the
corporate limits of Poppleton,” replied Dr. Bilks, with a smile apologetic for
his ignorance of mere roads and boundaries.

“Who was sick?”
“It was an obstetric case.”
“By whom were you called?”
“By a man—I don’t know who he was. He was an Irishman.”
“Did he tell you where to go?”
“He did.”
“How did he describe the locality?”
“What has all this to do with the murder on the island?” demanded the
attorney for the government.
Mr. Birch, without precisely stating his object, made it appear that the
matter was proper—that it was not new matter, and that it was relevant.
“I do not remember what his description was,” replied the doctor, when the
question had been repeated.
“But you went to the place indicated—did you?”
“I did.”
“What was the name of the lady whom you attended?”
“I do not remember; I have forgotten the name. Possibly I have it in my
book;” and he examined his pockets, and produced his case-book; but the
name of the sick lady did not appear.
“Didn’t you put the name down?”
“I supposed I put the name down, but it appears that I did not,” replied Dr.
Bilks, who had now become quite pale.
“Are you not usually spoken to some weeks or months in advance, in such
cases?”
“Usually, but not in this instance.”
“Did you visit this patient yesterday, or this morning?”
“I did not.”
“Do you leave them with only one visit, in such cases?”

“Never!”
“Why have you not called upon this patient then?”
“I did not consider it as regularly a case of mine. The family were evidently
in very indigent circumstances; and I concluded, if there was any further
need of my attendance, I should be called.”
“Is this your custom with poor people?”
“It is not,” said the doctor, sweating like a day laborer under the cross-
examination, for it was evident to all in the court-room, that there was
something wrong, somewhere, though what or where it was, they could not
tell.
“Can you describe the house to which you went, Dr. Bilks?”
“I could not.”
“Did you find it readily when you went that night?”
“I did not, very readily.”
“Did you inquire?”
“I did not; the man who came for me gave me such directions as enabled
me to find the house.”
“Could you go to it again?”
“I doubt if I could.”
“Have you any intention of calling upon this patient again?”
“Not unless I am sent for.”
“How will you collect your bill?”
“I shall make no charge; I never do, when people appear to be as poor as
they were.”
The doctor looked magnanimous, and glanced languidly at the spectators,
as if for their approval of his professional generosity.
“What time did you start, Dr. Bilks?”
“About eleven, I think.”

“Where did you spend the early part of the evening?”
“I visited a patient at eight o’clock—shall I give you the name, and describe
the house?” asked the doctor.
“It is hardly necessary in this instance,” replied Dick, not at all moved by
the witty charge. “You visited a patient at eight o’clock: go on, if you
please.”
“I returned to my office at nine, and read till eleven. The book was ‘The
Lancet’—a medical periodical published monthly, in New York, at two
dollars a year. The article in which I was particularly interested was a——”
“Never mind the article, doctor,” interrupted the lawyer.
“I beg your pardon; I thought you wanted all the particulars.”
“I do in regard to the patient you visited beyond the Point. That is the only
case of yours in which the court is at all interested. You read ‘The Lancet’?”
“I did; and was about to retire at eleven, when the man came for me. I went
to the hotel stable for my horse, and started immediately.”
“What road did you take?”
“The road to the Point.”
“Describe your route till you reached the house where you found your
patient.”
“I drove down the Point Road, by the salt works.”
“Go on, if you please.”
“I came to the house, and went in.”
“Where was the house?”
“I cannot describe its locality,” replied Dr. Bilks, the cold sweat standing
visibly on his forehead.
“Did you go beyond the road leading from the Point Road to the Mills?”
“I think I did.”
“Did you pass any houses before you came to the one you wished to find?”
“Possibly I did; I don’t remember.”

“You stopped—did you?”
“Of course I did.”
“What induced you to stop?”
“The expectation of finding the patient to whom I had been called.”
“Did you get the right house the first time trying?”
“I did.”
“That was fortunate! What was the condition of the woman when you saw
her?”
Dr. Bilks described her condition.
“Was she an old woman or a young one?”
“About thirty, I should say.”
“At what time was the child born?”
“About half past one o’clock.”
“You were there two hours at least?”
“About two hours.”
“Was there a nurse?”
“There were a couple of women there.”
“Was the child a boy or a girl?”
“A girl.”
“I pray your honor’s judgment,” said the government attorney. “Mr. Birch
evidently intends to treat us to a complete view of obstetrical science.”
“I have done with the witness, may it please your honor,” interposed Dick.
Dr. Bilks stepped down from the stand so weak and exhausted, that his
condition excited the attention of the audience, especially of Eugene,
though none could imagine what it all meant.

CHAPTER XVI.
DR. BILKS’S BABY.
NO one suspected Dr. Bilks of anything; and if his memory had not been so
utterly treacherous respecting his obstetric patient “beyond the Point,” his
testimony would have been faultless. It would have added to his credit as a
man and as a physician; for while he spoke the whole truth, he was tender
of his friends, and he appeared to be unbiassed, just, and reasonable. No one
had said a word against the doctor; no one had whispered a breath of
suspicion upon his character. All the evidences against him were his bad
memory, and his condition as he came down from the stand.
Eugene Hungerford was called next. He confirmed all that Dr. Bilks had
said about the plan to procure the re-marriage of Mary, and explained Ross
Kingman’s state of mind just before the murder. His testimony simply
showed that, with others, he did not believe she was the wife of Buckstone.
Dick Birch was called after the deputy sheriff had been examined; and
when he took the stand there was a decided sensation in the court-room.
The audience whispered one to another, and there was a general expectation
that Dr. Bilks’s agency in the affair would be exposed; that the reason for
the severe cross-examination of the popular physician would be made
apparent. The government attorney had wondered, as much as others, why
the junior counsel for the defence had pressed the doctor so sharply on an
apparently unimportant point, and he hoped that the mystery would be
probed.
“Mr. Birch, you were intimate with the prisoner, and with all the parties
connected with the murder?” said the prosecuting attorney, when the usual
preliminary questions had been disposed of.
“I was; the prisoner, with myself, was in the employ of Mr. Hungerford,”
replied Dick.
“When did you see him last before the murder?”

“At the house of Mr. Hungerford, about nine o’clock on the evening of the
murder.”
“How did he appear?”
“As usual; I saw him but a moment, as he was leaving the house.”
“Did you see him after the murder?”
“Not till I saw him in the jail this morning, as one of his counsel.”
“You wished to procure the re-marriage of the prisoner’s sister?”
“I did.”
“You had made an arrangement for this purpose?”
“With Mr. Hungerford—I had.”
“Did you speak to the prisoner about it?”
“I did not.”
“Why did you wish to procure the re-marriage of the murdered man with
the prisoner’s sister?”
“For two reasons.”
Dr. Bilks had by this time recovered his self-possession and his bodily
strength. His seat in the court-room was near that of the government
attorney, and he was observed to be working his chair nearer and nearer to
the questioner. The doctor was nervous and uneasy. He realized the
awkwardness of his situation—to use the mildest term applicable to it, and
those who observed the movements he made concluded that he had some
suggestions to offer. When the attorney for the government put the last
question, Dr. Bilks, who was leaning over the table with a pen in his hand,
wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper. After the disagreeable impression he
had produced by his evident prevarication on the stand, it would be quite
natural for him to attempt to do something to redeem himself. It was
supposed that he was now engaged in this work.
The government attorney was in a confused state of mind, and was now
feeling his way. There was something covered up—something he could not
understand; and when he saw Dr. Bilks working towards him, he expected
some hint or suggestion which would enable him to find the truth.

“For two reasons, Mr. Birch. Name them, if you please.”
“I desired the marriage, first, for the lady’s sake. Her position was at least a
doubtful one; I desired to heal her wounds.”
“Very praiseworthy, no doubt, Mr. Birch. What was the other reason?”
“I was afraid Mr. Hungerford would marry her himself,” replied Dick,
desperately, for it required no little effort for him to say this in open court.
“Then Mr. Hungerford had been attached to this lady before her supposed
marriage with the deceased?”
“He had been.”
“Why did you suppose he would marry her, after her connection with
Buckstone?”
“Because his interest in her remains undiminished.”
“Did Mr. Hungerford ever mention such an intention in his letters to you
from Europe, or in conversation?”
“He did not.”
“Did you think you had good reasons for believing Mr. Hungerford would
take such a step?”
“I felt satisfied that he would, from my knowledge of the man, and of his
state of feeling, if the lady’s marriage with Buckstone was illegal, or if the
union could not be legally established.”
“Did you tell him so?”
“I did not.”
“You were his confidential friend and adviser—were you not?”
“I was.”
“And you did not speak to him of a matter so important?”
“I did not; I intended to do so at a proper time. He reached home from
Europe only a few hours before the murder.”
“But you deemed it your duty to prevent the marriage of Mr. Hungerford
with the prisoner’s sister, if such a marriage should prove to be possible?”

“I did; I proposed the plan to Mr. Hungerford at once.”
“Did you state to him both of your reasons for doing so?”
“I did not. I did not deem it advisable to do so at that time.”
“Mr. Hungerford assented to your plan?”
“He did.”
“Would he, in your opinion, have assented, if your fears that he would
marry the lady himself were well grounded?”
“I do not believe the thought of marrying her himself had yet occurred to
him.”
“May it please the court, Mr. Hungerford is not on trial,” interposed Mr.
Darling, “and the examination seems to be taking a very wide range.”
“What do you expect to prove by this witness, Mr. Lowe?” asked the
magistrate.
“Mr. Birch will presently testify that he was on the island with Mr.
Buckstone, just before the murder; and I wish to show the purpose for
which he was there,” replied Mr. Lowe.
Dick’s face was slightly flushed at this reply; but he did not interrupt the
proceedings.
“This examination is simply to ascertain whether there is sufficient
evidence to justify the holding of the prisoner in custody on the charge of
murder,” continued the magistrate. “It seems to me this point has already
been reached.”
“May it please the court, there is no evidence, except the partial
acknowledgments of the prisoner, which must be taken with great caution,
that a murder has been committed. As this witness was on the island at the
time of the murder, it is possible that he may have seen the deed done, or at
least seen the body of the deceased after it was done. This witness has thus
far been exceedingly reticent. It does not appear, though he knew what took
place on the island, that he gave information of the murder that night, or
even in the morning. I wish, therefore, to show his object in going upon The
Great Bell with Buckstone. I wish the court to understand what the

deceased was doing at the time he was killed. It can only be shown by this
witness.”
“Go on, Mr. Lowe.”
While the government attorney was making this explanation, Dr. Bilks,
unnoticed, had placed the paper he had written on the table before him, and
on the top of his notes, so that he could not fail to see it. Mr. Lowe, as he
resumed his seat, and glanced at his notes to discover where he had left off,
saw the paper Dr. Bilks had placed there. He read it, and appeared to
comprehend its meaning without explanation.
“Mr. Birch, you do not believe Mr. Hungerford had yet thought of marrying
the prisoner’s sister?”
“I do not believe he had—of course I do not know.”
“Mr. Birch, what are your relations in the Hungerford family?”
Dick explained them.
“Of course you are acquainted with Miss Julia Hungerford?”
“I am;” but Dick blushed, as well he might, when Julia was dragged into the
court.
“What were your relations with her?”
“I had no relations with her, except those of ordinary courtesy and
friendship,” answered Dick, indignantly.
“Did you correspond with her while she was in Europe?”
“I did.”
Mr. Darling objected very earnestly; but Mr. Lowe was able to show to the
satisfaction of the thick-headed magistrate that his course of examination
was absolutely essential to the prosecution.
“Mr. Birch, has Miss Julia Hungerford any fortune?”
“She has—twenty thousand dollars left her by her uncle.”
“Has she any expectations, real or contingent?”
“If her brother, at the age of thirty, has no son, named John, she will come
into possession of half a million.”

Dick knew what was coming, and he braced himself for the issue.
“Mr. Birch, have you intended, expected, or desired to marry Miss
Hungerford?”
“I object, your honor,” protested Mr. Darling, with as much violence as
respect for the bullet-headed magistrate would permit.
Again Mr. Lowe explained that this evidence was essential to establish the
fact of, and the provocation for, the murder; and again the blockhead on the
bench permitted him to proceed. He repeated his question.
“I neither intended nor expected—I desired.”
“Have you not acknowledged that you were attached to her?”
“In the confidence of friendship, I did,” he replied, glancing at Dr. Bilks,
who was now having his revenge for the severe cross-examination to which
he had been subjected, and under which he had been so terribly exercised.
“Was there anything to prevent your marriage with Miss Hungerford—are
you aware of any impediment?”
“I am not.”
“Would her mother or her brother have objected?”
“I think not.”
“The marriage, then, was possible, and even probable?”
“It was possible.”
“Was it not probable?”
“I am not capable of judging.”
“You were attached to the lady, and you are aware of no impediment. Did
you not, therefore, expect to marry her?”
“I hoped to do so—I hardly expected it.”
“You intended to marry her—did you not, Mr. Birch?”
“I could not intend to do what it was not possible for me to do alone,”
replied Dick, with entire self-possession.

“On your own part, then, you intended to marry her, and you knew of no
impediment? Was this your position?”
“It was then, but it is not now?”
“Why not now?”
“These events have made it impossible.”
Even the magistrate, who sat, wood upon wood, on the bench, did not think
“this line” was competent, and Mr. Lowe began to draw nearer to the real
question; but in the course of his explanation to the court, he artfully
reviewed the point he had apparently established—that the witness wished
to prevent Hungerford’s marriage with the prisoner’s sister, in order that the
contingent half million of dollars might come into her (Julia’s) possession,
and thence into his own hands, when she became his wife; thus showing the
strong motives which Dick had for meeting Buckstone privately.
“Mr. Birch, were you with the deceased on The Great Bell, just before the
murder?”
“I was not.”
“You were not?” demanded Mr. Lowe, apparently confounded by the
answer.
“I was not.”
“When did you last see Buckstone?”
“On The Great Bell, nearly a year ago.”
“Haven’t you seen him recently?”
“I have not.”
“On your oath, do you say you were not with him on the night of the
murder?”
“On my oath, I do say so.”
“Where were you at that time?”
“In Mr. Hungerford’s house, at Pine Hill.”
“What time did you retire that night?”

“At about ten o’clock.”
“Did you go out of the house that night?”
“As I was going up stairs, I opened the front door, and stepped out to see
what the weather was.”
“Did you put on your hat?”
“I did not.”
“Did you go out again?”
“I did not.”
The handkerchief and cigar were handed to him, and he identified them as
his own.
“You heard the testimony of the deputy sheriff. These articles were found in
the boat, which must have been the one in which Buckstone and the other
person went over to the island. You say they are yours.”
“I do—they are mine.”
“How came they in the boat?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can’t you explain this singular circumstance, Mr. Birch?”
“I cannot; perhaps Dr. Bilks, who went down upon the Point that night,
can.”
The doctor looked like an injured man, and there was a suppressed chuckle
all over the court-room at his expense.
“I am afraid these articles, in their assumed relations, are as unsubstantial as
Dr. Bilks’s baby,” said Mr. Darling.
The doctor had the good sense to appreciate this palpable joke, though his
smile was rather ghastly and unreal.
Mr. Lowe pressed the witness to the utmost; but he steadily and firmly
denied that he had visited the island with Buckstone, or that he had seen
him since his assumed marriage. He tried him on every tack his ingenuity
could suggest; but Dick did not vary the breadth of a hair in his statements,
and the attorney was compelled to give up in despair. “Truth is mighty, and

must prevail.” Truth was Dick’s god, and his devotion was so sincere, that it
impressed itself upon all who heard him. It is doubtful if there was a single
person in the court-room who did not believe every word he said. There is
that in the truth which conquers interest and prejudice; and he who adheres
to it cannot help manifesting himself to all who hear him.
Dick Birch was not on the island that night. He had not seen Buckstone for
nearly a year. Eugene Hungerford scorned himself for the doubts which had
grieved his friend; but they were only momentary doubts. This was
Eugene’s triumph. He rejoiced in it, even while he was annoyed and
disgusted by the heartless exhibition of his family relations.
Other witnesses were examined, and Ross Kingman was fully committed to
await the action of the grand jury. No one expected any other result; indeed,
Mr. Darling intended to waive the examination, and would have done so, if
Dick had not protested so strongly against such a course; for he desired the
privilege of cross-examining Dr. Bilks. Of course he had a theory, but it had
not appeared at the examination.
Ross Kingman was borne away to the jail again, and the curious crowd
followed the officers out of the court-room. Eugene remained, anxious to
take Dick by the hand, and have every dark shadow removed from his path.
Dr. Bilks took charge of Mary Kingman, and conducted her to his chaise.
“Dick,” said Eugene, as soon as the lawyer was disengaged.
“Ah, Hungerford!”
“You have made me ashamed of myself.”
“Don’t mention it. I don’t blame you.”
“If I had a doubt, it was only for a moment. I never had a real, substantial
doubt—certainly not a suspicion—of you, Dick.”
“But I am more under the shadow than ever before.”
“Not with me—not with anybody. My dear fellow, will you forgive me?”
“With all my heart—there is nothing to forgive.”
“Dick, you are all—you are more to me than ever before. I believe every
word you have said. Come, go home with me, and——”

“I cannot do that, Hungerford.”
“Why not?”
“You heard what was dragged out of me.”
“What of that?”
“I have acknowledged the two reasons which induced me to propose the
plan for Mary’s marriage to Buckstone. One was for her sake; the other still
leaves me open to the charge of acting from interested motives.”
“Dick, you never had a selfish thought in your relations with me. I believe
in you as I would in my own mother.”
“Enough, Hungerford!” exclaimed Dick, grasping his hand. “If there has
been any breach, it is healed.”
“Good! that sounds like you, old fellow!”
“I have never wronged you or yours, Hungerford, in word or thought.”
“I know it,” said Eugene, warmly.
“If you had turned me out of your house, I would still have served you, and
thought kindly of you.”
“I have never thought unkindly of you for a moment, Dick. We are the same
now as ever; so come home with me, and we will talk this matter over.”
“No, Hungerford, I cannot do that.”
“Why not?”
“I should not dare to look Julia in the face after this exposure of my
thoughts. I cannot go, Hungerford, and I will not.”
“This is obstinacy.”
“I can’t help it. She must not even think that I have mercenary motives; and
she can’t help thinking it now. I will not go, Hungerford; I will not even see
her.”
“But you punish her more than yourself.”
“I think not.”
“Why should you punish her, or yourself?”

“It cannot be helped. My self-respect will not permit me to go into her
presence with such an infernal suspicion attached to me.”
This was entirely a matter of feeling with Dick, and he could not be moved
from his position. Eugene unwillingly assented to his view for the present.
“Now, where is Mary?” asked Dick.
“She has gone back to Poppleton, with Dr. Bilks.”
“With Dr. Bilks!” exclaimed the lawyer, with something like contempt in
his words and looks. “But I must leave you now, Hungerford. You can see
Ross if you like.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Poppleton.”
“We will go together.”
“I do not go direct,” replied Dick. “I shall return by the way of the Point.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to look for Dr. Bilks’s baby. I am determined that this baby
shall be named after the doctor.”
“Dick, what does all this mean?” demanded Eugene.
“I can’t stop to explain now, Hungerford. I must find that baby before Dr.
Bilks has time to do so.”
“I will go with you.”
“Very well.”
There was a great deal of laughing and sly joking about Dr. Bilks’s baby, in
the vicinity of the court-house, and the expression was destined to become a
by-word throughout the county, though as yet no one knew what it meant.
Hungerford had ridden over to Summerville in his buggy, and while Dick
went for the team, Eugene paid a brief visit to Ross in his cell. He spoke
words of comfort and consolation to him, and promised to provide the best
lawyer in the state for his defence when the trial took place. Ross was
cheerful, and had no fears, except in relation to Mary; but Eugene told him

that Julia had spent the afternoon of the previous day with her, and assured
him she should not want for friends.
Dick came with the team, and Hungerford took leave of the prisoner,
promising to see him frequently. The relations between our “Damon and
Pythias” were now fully and completely restored. If possible, the sympathy
and confidence of each were increased, though Dick was still firm in his
purpose not to visit Pine Hill, or see Julia for the present.
“Now, Dick, what induced you to grind Dr. Bilks so unmercifully when he
was on the stand?” asked Hungerford, as he drove away from the jail.
“Before I answer the question, what was your impression of him?”
“If it had been any other man, I should have said he was lying.”
“But, as it was Dr. Bilks, you think he was not lying.”
“On the contrary, I think he was, though I should not care to say so of him
in so many words.”
“I think that was the general impression,” replied Dick, quietly.
“In a word, you meant to make it appear that the baby was a myth?”
“Precisely so. He was not called from his office at eleven o’clock; he was
not in his office at eleven o’clock; he did not go to any house beyond the
Point; and no baby was born under his charge that night.”
“You are very positive.”
“No, I am not; in fact, I know nothing at all about the business, except that
which I derived from what the doctor did say, and what he didn’t say. In a
word, I know no more of where he was, or what he was about, at the time
mentioned, than you do.”
“But you certainly had some reason for driving him to the wall as you did;
of twisting him down till the cold sweat ran out of him.”
“I did have a reason. When I went into your library last night, and found
you there with Dr. Bilks, I knew, before you told me, of what you had been
speaking. He suggested things to you of which you would never have
thought without help. I didn’t like the looks of Dr. Bilks last night. He

seemed to be stepping between you and me. He had a hang-dog look that
was suspicious.”
“I didn’t notice it.”
“I saw him wince once or twice, when certain things were said. This
forenoon I went to see Ross. It was Dr. Bilks who gave him the idea that I
was the person on the island with Buckstone.”
“But after what you had said to him, it was not strange that he should think
so.”
“It was strange to me.”
“But he mentioned my name to Ross first.”
“Perhaps I wrong him; but I did suspect that all was not right. I can hardly
tell what it was that first made me suspicious. It was his general appearance,
rather than any particular thing. The handkerchief and the cigar expanded
my vision a little. Dr. Bilks smokes my cigars, and I have spent hours in his
office. I may have dropped my handkerchief there. At any rate, my theory
was, that the doctor put the handkerchief and cigar into the boat.”
“Why should he do so?”
“I don’t know; I intend to find out. I have been his friend. I know of no
reason why he should turn this thing upon me.”
“But, Dick, who was the person on the island with Buckstone?”
“Who was he,” repeated Dick, removing his cigar, and glancing at
Hungerford.
“Yes, who was he? That hasn’t come out yet.”
“I don’t think you are as sharp as usual. Who was it?”
“I certainly have no idea.”
“It was Dr. Bilks.”
“Impossible!”
“Who else was it?”
“I don’t know; but what possible motive could Dr. Bilks have had in hiring
Buckstone to renew his marriage obligations?”

“I don’t know; I can’t imagine.”
This point was discussed, not very satisfactorily, till they reached what was
called the “Settlement,” the alleged birthplace of Dr. Bilks’s baby.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE SETTLEMENT.
THE Settlement was a knot of small, poor houses, occupied by thriftless
farmers, luckless fishermen, and laborers in the salt works. It was hardly
half a mile from the sea shore, and the land was very sandy and barren.
The locality looked like a suitable field for the operations of Mr. Eugene
Hungerford, when he should commence, in earnest, his philanthropic
endeavors to improve the material condition of the race, and thus reach and
stimulate the moral and spiritual nature. But with the exception of the
laborers in the salt works, who lived here for convenience, the people were
most unpromising subjects for the missionary of human progress. There
was work enough in the villages if they chose to do it; but they were mostly
idlers and vagabonds, who took their subsistence by stealth from the sea
and the air; who followed no steady occupation, and had no definite aims,
any more than they had any definite principles. If the lobster-pots of a Port
fisherman were meddled with; if an orchard on the turnpike was robbed; if
timber, iron, or cordage mysteriously disappeared from the ship-yards, or
from a vessel,—the mischief was promptly charged upon some of the
vagabonds of the Settlement, and, nine times out of ten, justly so charged.
Eugene Hungerford was not bent upon an expedition philanthropic on the
present occasion. Nothing sublunary agitated him, when, as he turned his
horse from the Mills Road, and actually penetrated the bounds of the
Settlement, he discovered a chaise approaching them. The vehicle contained
a lady and gentleman, and was drawn by a high-spirited black horse,
familiar to Dick Birch, if not to Hungerford.
“We are too late!” exclaimed Dick, with ever so much disgust and
dissatisfaction evident in his tones.
“Why so?”
“There’s Dr. Bilks. He has got here before me. I didn’t think he would take
Mary with him to visit a patient. I am sorry I waited a moment in
Summerville.”

“What difference can that make? The doctor will point out to you the house
in which his patient lives,” laughed Eugene.
“I dare say he can by this time. I suppose Dr. Bilks has declared war upon
me now, if he did not before.”
“I should not suppose he would love you, after the scorching you gave him
on the stand.”
By this time the chaise was within a few rods of the buggy, and Engene
turned out of the road to let it pass; but Dr. Bilks drew up his horse, and
came to a dead halt within talking distance of the two gentlemen.
“How are you again?” said the doctor, in his usual easy, good-natured tones,
and apparently not at all disturbed by the events which had transpired in the
court-room. “If you are not in a hurry, I want to tell you a story,” continued
Dr. Bilks, chuckling, as though he had something “rich” to relate; and,
without waiting to learn whether the gentlemen were in a hurry or not, he
proceeded: “A rather miserly man, out in Columbus, Ohio, where I came
from, who was worth his hundred thousand, at least, was seen, one day,
searching very diligently on the plank sidewalk, in one of the streets. The
search was continued so long that the attention of the people was attracted,
and some one asked him what he was looking for. After some hesitation he
replied that he was looking for a cent he had lost. Of course the bystanders
laughed heartily at the idea of a man worth a hundred thousand dollars
searching half an hour or more for a single miserable copper. ‘O! it isn’t so
much the cent I want,’ added the man, stung by the laugh, ‘but I wanted to
know where the derned thing had gone to.’”
Eugene was polite enough to laugh at the story, but he was impatient for the
application.
“Mr. Birch,” continued the doctor, blandly, “you rather had me on the hip
this morning. Now, it isn’t so much the baby that I care for; but I wanted to
know where the ‘derned’ thing was. In a word, Mr. Birch, I came down here
to find that baby.”
“As you seem to be remarkably good natured about it, I suppose you found
it,” replied Dick, rather coldly.
“On the contrary, I did not. It seems the poor baby died, and the mother has
gone away.”

“Gone away?” exclaimed Dick. “Why, the child was born only night before
last!”
“Bless me, I have known a woman to do her washing the day after,”
laughed the doctor. “Out in Columbus, Ohio, where I came from, I knew an
Irish woman who started for Cincinnati about two hours afterwards, and
carried her baby with her. That isn’t the rule with our people, though it
happens so sometimes.”
Mary, who sat by the doctor’s side, did not relish this conversation, and she
turned away her head.
“Of course you found the house, doctor,” added Dick.
“I did, though I inquired half a dozen times. When I found it, the direction
of the man who called me came up to my mind. The fact is, Mr. Birch, I
have so many of these directions in my head, that I ought not to be expected
to remember them. More than this, I did ask the parties for the name; but as
the matter wasn’t all right with them, my question was evaded by suddenly
turning my attention to the patient. It is the last house on the left-hand side
of the road. Good morning, gentlemen;” and the doctor gave the reins to his
spirited horse, and away he went.
“We are too late, Hungerford,” said Dick, impatiently. “He has fixed the
matter to suit his own purposes; told them what to say, and paid them for
saying it.”
“But if there is anything out of the way, we will probe it. I will send for one
of those detectives, skilled in working up affairs of this sort.”
“We will go to the house, and see what we can make of it,” said Dick.
Eugene drove to the last house on the left, and both of the gentlemen went
in. The dwelling, which was one of the meanest in the Settlement, was
occupied by one Sandy McGuire, an Irishman, who had married an
American woman at least ten years his senior. The character of both was
“below par;” or, rather, they had nothing that could pass for character
among decent people. Sandy lived by his wits—that is, by stealing and
depredating upon exposed property. His wife had been a nurse before her
ill-assorted marriage; but then and now she drank more liquor than a
woman or a man should drink, and had fallen into disrepute before she
became Mrs. McGuire, and had continued in disrepute since.

Hungerford knew something about the couple, and gave what information
he possessed to Dick, who observed that Dr. Bilks had well chosen his
subjects. They went in, and found Mr. and Mrs. McGuire on better terms
with each other than they usually were, according to the speech of people.
“Take a sate, gintlemin,” said Sandy, with the utmost suavity in his tone and
manner. “The likes of me don’t often say sich fine gintlemin in me own
house.”
“We come on business,” added Dick.
“What bishness could the likes o’ you have wid the likes o’ me? Isn’t
Misther Hungerford the richest man in the wurld?”
“Was there a child born in this house night before last?” demanded Dick,
impatiently.
“Troth there was, thin! And the poor babby died just afther the docther
go’n,” replied Sandy, promptly.
“Was it your child?”
“Ish’t me! ’Pon me life it wasn’t thin.”
“Whose was it?”
“Faix, yous may well ax that; but it’s a better man nor me that can answer
yous.”
“Who was the mother?”
“Sorra one bit o’ me can tell yous, thin. It’s Mistress McGuire that can tell
yous all about it. I’m a poor man, your honor, and whin I gits a shance to
make an honist pinny, it isn’t the likes o’ me that can turn me bachk upon
it.”
“Did you know the mother of the child?” demanded Dick, turning to Mrs.
McGuire, who, out of respect to her liege lord, had been silent thus far.
“Well, no, sir, I can’t say I did know her. Accordin to my notion, she didn’t
mean nobody should know her.”
“How came she in your house?”

“I’ll tell you all about it if you want me to; though I didn’t think there was
go’n to be any fuss about it.”
“No fuss at all, Mrs. McGuire. If the woman was a stranger to you, how
came she in your house?”
“I’ll tell you. I used to be a nuss over to Newington, and some folks there
know I keep house over here. Well, about a week ago a man come over here
to know if I would take in a woman that was goin to be sick, and not say
anything about it, for a pooty good price. Well, we are poor folks, and don’t
make much, nohow; so I wan’t much behindhand makin a bargain. The
woman come with another woman, and both on ’em staid here till this
forenoon. The child was born night afore last. We didn’t cal’late to have no
doctor, but the woman was awful sick, and I sent my husband over to the
Port arter Dr. Bilks. He got here about half arter ’leven, and staid till nigh
on to two o’clock in the mornin.”
“Where is the child now?”
“The child died before mornin, and I reckon the mother wan’t very sorry;
for she spunked up right off, and got smart enough to go off this forenoon.”
“The child died—did it?”
“Why, yes; that’s what I said.”
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
“A boy,” replied Mrs. McGuire, with some hesitation.
“You are sure it was a boy?” asked Dick, quietly.
“Well, I don’t just know whether it was a boy or not. I wan’t round much. I
was seein’ to things in the kitchen.”
“You think it was a boy—do you?”
“I shouldn’t want to say I do think so: it may ’a been a gal; I ain’t sure it
wan’t a gal. The fact on’t is, the child wan’t much account. Of course I
know’d all the time that things wan’t right.”
“The child died, you say,” continued Dick.
“Yes; I cal’late the child was dead afore Dr. Bilks got back to the Port.”

“Very likely. What did you do with the body?”
“That’s where the shoe pinches,” said the woman, with a sickly smile.
Dick Birch was of the opinion that the shoe might pinch here, if anywhere.
“Can’t you tell?”
“I can, but I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve come here to git us into trouble.”
“I have not, Mrs. McGuire.”
“If we say anything you will git us into a scrape.”
“Don’t say the firsht woord about it, Mistress McGuire,” interposed her
husband, solemnly.
“I don’t see that I can say anything,” added the wife.
“Of course the body was buried.”
“Av coorse,” replied Sandy, who seemed to be disposed to manage the
difficult part of the case himself.
“And you buried it?”
“Ish’t me? Sorra one woord I’ll say about it.”
“How much did you get for this business?” asked Dick, finding that the
man would be obstinate.
“A hundr’d dollars,” replied the woman.
“Have you the money?”
“To be sure I have,” said Sandy.
“How much did Dr. Bilks give you for telling this story?” demanded Dick,
sharply.
“Dr. Bilks!” repeated Mrs. McGuire. “Not a cent.”
“Are you willing to go into court and swear to all you have stated?”

“Ivery word of it!” exclaimed Sandy, emphatically; and, whether true or
false, there was no doubt he would do so.
Eugene proposed, in a whisper, that the man should be arrested for not
reporting the birth and death of the child; but Dick assured him that a
householder was not liable under six months for the penalty, which was
only five dollars. As Dr. Bilks was the real manager of the case, it was best
to fight the enemy with his own weapons.
“McGuire,” said Hungerford, “I will give you five hundred dollars if you
will show me where you buried the child.”
The man was indignant, and positively refused. Eugene then offered him
the same sum if he would tell the whole truth. He was tempted, shaken, but
finally refused, evidently from fear of consequences.
“I will leave the offer open to you, McGuire. Dr. Bilks has probably given
you one hundred dollars to tell this story. No woman has been here, no child
has been born; it is all humbug.”
“D’ yous mane to say I lied to yous?” said McGuire, indignantly.
“That is what I mean; but you were paid for it,” replied Eugene. “We care
nothing about the child or the woman. If you wish to make five hundred
dollars, you have only to tell the truth.”
“That’s just what I’ve been doin’, your honor.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
It was not probable that he would change his mind till he had seen Dr.
Bilks, who would give him the five hundred dollars rather than have his
scheme exposed. McGuire was shaken and tempted by the large offer; and
Dick saw it.
“McGuire, I will give you a thousand dollars for the truth,” continued
Eugene, at Dick’s suggestion.
“A tousand dollars!” exclaimed the wretch, who had never seen so much
money.
“Yes; five thousand,” added the millionnaire, without any prompting this
time.

Dick laughed. Dick enjoyed a joke.
“O modther o’ Mary!” ejaculated the bewildered miscreant.
“Five thousand!” repeated Eugene, laughing heartily, as he glanced at his
friend.
“Sure, you don’t mane so! You’re makin shport uv a poor man.”
“I’m in earnest. I will make my offer in writing,” added Eugene; and he
took from his pocket a piece of paper on which he wrote in pencil, “I agree
to give Sandy McGuire five thousand dollars for the whole truth in regard
to the child alleged to have been born at his house on Monday night last.”
He dated and signed it.
“Let me witness it,” said Dick, laughing.
It was duly witnessed, though, being written in pencil and without a seal, it
was hardly a legal document, yet the two gentlemen had no doubt it would
prove to be a valuable instrument in the hands of its possessor.
“I’ll see your honor to-morrow,” said Sandy.
“After you have consulted Dr. Bilks,” laughed Dick.
“What would I want wid Dr. Bilks?” replied he, a gleam of caution
evidently streaming through his mind. “I only want to think what the trudth
is.”
“It is that for which you can get the most money,” said Dick, facetiously, as
he walked out of the house.

The Offer in Writing.—Page 224.
Eugene was intensely amused as he got into the buggy. Five thousand
dollars was a large sum of money; but he seemed to be delighted with the
idea of parting with it, if he had such an idea.
“I’m rather sorry you didn’t make it ten thousand,” chuckled Dick, as he
joined Hungerford.
“Well, I will go in and change the paper.”
“Never mind; it will do just as well as it is. I don’t think Dr. Bilks can
afford to pay out more than five thousand.”
“Has he much money?”
“He seems to be pretty well supplied with the article. He has several
thousand dollars in the Poppleton Bank.”
“Good! We can find out at the bank whether he pays Sandy his price. I am
rather sorry I did not make it ten thousand. If Dr. Bilks wants to dance, he
ought to pay the fiddler,” laughed Eugene.
“It may turn out that you will be called upon to pay it yourself.”

“There is no possibility of such a contingency. His reputation is now in the
hands of Sandy McGuire, and the rascal will have no more mercy upon him
than upon the eel he skins for his dinner.”
“I hope he will skin him close. If I had reached the Settlement half an hour
before the doctor, I should have headed him off.”
“Then you fully believe that he bargained with McGuire and his wife to tell
this story?”
“I have no doubt of it. He was the person with Buckstone that night; and I
shall not leave a stone unturned till I prove it.”
“But, Dick, you have no case. You are lame in the first and most essential
point; you cannot prove his motive in being there.”
“If we prove the fact, the motive may be apparent.”
“There is no earthly reason why Dr. Bilks should have had anything to do
with Buckstone.”
“There is a reason, though you may not see it.”
“Do you see it?”
“I have a theory.”
“What is it, Dick?”
“I say, as I have said before, that I know nothing about it, any more than
yourself. The anxiety of Dr. Bilks to make it appear that I was the stranger
assured me he had a motive for doing so. The doctor and myself have been
quite intimate for the last six months. Of course, my very occupation, as
your agent, led us to talk a great deal about you, and I think by this time he
knows you very well. Still, I never told him anything about your affair with
Mary until I was in a manner forced to do so, after Ross brought her home
from New York. Of course, I spoke to him in confidence, though what I told
him was little more than was known by everybody in town. I did tell him
that you were still deeply interested in Mary’s welfare, and that I intended
to do something to heal her wounds. I made him my confidant in this
matter, because, as her physician, he could help me in the execution of my
plan.”
“There was no harm in this, Dick.”

“There was not then.”
“Nor is there now.”
“Let us see. I told Dr. Bilks what I should propose to you in regard to Mary,
and remarked that you would give her ten, twenty, fifty thousand dollars, if
it would make her happy and contented.”
“That was true, Dick; and if you had said a hundred thousand, it would have
been just as true,” added Eugene. “If she could not be my wife, I would not
weigh money against her happiness as the wife of somebody else, for I still
believe that I am the author of her misfortunes.”
“I told him so.”
“What did he say?”
“He added that you were a remarkable man. He was sure that Buckstone
would marry her, for the money, if for nothing else. If the twenty thousand
dollars which I named were in Mary’s hands, he could still have the benefit
of it.”
“But you don’t show any motive, on the part of the doctor, for meeting
Buckstone.”
“It is a mere surmise; but, as I view it now, Dr. Bilks sent for Buckstone
himself.”
“Why should he do so, if he did?”
“I may as well out with it first as last. I think he and Buckstone together
intended to pluck you,” replied Dick, desperately.
“But the money for Mary’s benefit was to be placed in the hands of Ross, as
trustee.”
“I did not tell the doctor of that. It was an afterthought of mine.”
“It may possibly be,” said Eugene, musing.
“Let us look at it. Bilks writes to Buckstone, who comes to Poppleton
privately, as he is directed to do. Bilks says, ‘If you marry Mary, you shall
have twenty thousand dollars, but half of it shall be mine.’ Bilks makes it
appear that it is through his agency that the money is to be obtained, and
that without him it cannot be obtained. I don’t mean to say I am satisfied

with this theory, Hungerford; but it is the only explanation of his conduct I
can offer.”
“I think we must search farther for a solution.”
“It is evident the doctor intends to prove that I was the stranger on the
island. I know I was not the person. Who put my handkerchief and my cigar
into the boat on the Point?” demanded Dick.
“There is no evidence that it was Dr. Bilks.”
“He is the only man who knows anything about my cigars. Any one else
would have used a common cigar. I tell you he was the man, whether we
can prove it or not.”
“I am willing to believe it myself; but I think we had better not say much
about it.”
“Not a word shall be said till the proof comes. In the mean time, we will
treat him as usual, and watch him closely. He is a man of tricks and
subterfuges.”
“You have already declared war against him.”
“He will not so regard it. He hasn’t soul enough to be indignant, and he will
be your best friend, you may depend.”
“I cannot treat such a man as a friend.”
“You need only tolerate him. If you or any of the family are sick, send for
him. I think he is a good doctor.”
“I will be as tolerant as possible; but, after all, it may turn out that he is an
honest and true man.”
“It may, but it will not,” laughed Dick. “I shall have plenty to do in
searching into this matter.”
“I hope you will get at the truth. Dick, I want to go over to the island. I have
not seen Mary, except in the court-room, since my return. Perhaps she may
know what the doctor did at the Settlement.”
“Don’t mention the matter to her. Have you any particular business there?”
asked Dick.

“I have; very important business.”
“Hungerford, I remember what you said last night.”
“What?”
“That you would marry Mary if she were not the legal wife of Buckstone.”
“I did say so; I meant so. As the author of her miseries and misfortunes, it is
my duty, as well as my desire, to give her back the good name of which the
way of the world would deprive her.”
“If she was ever a wife, she is a widow now,” said Dick, suggestively.
“Speak out, Dick, if you have anything to say.”
“Hungerford, do you mean to marry her?”
“I do.”
Dick shook his head.
“I love her, and to me she is the same she always was. I believe she married
Buckstone, without true love, in a frenzy of despair, when she was driven
from her father’s house.”
“But think what she is.”
“You know what she is, Dick. She has violated no law of God or man. She
has not sinned; she has been sinned against. There is no contamination of
impurity about her; if there were, I should spurn her.”
“Without any sin, with nothing worse, at most, than indiscretion, she has
become notorious in connection with these disgusting events.”
“Dick, I would have counted myself happy if I could have married her at
the sacrifice of every dollar of my fortune, real and prospective, before
these events. This was not to be. I have spent months of misery under the
blow. I cannot have her as she was; I will take her as she is: and a thousand
times better to me as she as she is than any other could be as she was.”
“Hungerford, I have much to say to you about this matter. Don’t be rash or
hasty.”
“I will not.”

“I will ask only one favor of you to-day: do not commit yourself if you see
her.”
“Dick, I have already told my mother and sister what I intended to do.”
“What did they say?”
“They are of your opinion.”
“Then, for their sake, do not be hasty.”
“Dr. Bilks knows my intention.”
“What did he say?”
“He was of my opinion.”
“Of course!”
“Dick, one thing more. When I am married, your position will be changed.”
“My position?”
“You certainly could not be suspected——”
“Bah!” exclaimed Dick, turning red. “I should not be suspected if you had a
wife. Hungerford, I am unalterably opposed to your marriage with Mary,
whatever may be the result to me. My hopes were exposed to-day in the
court-room, which shows that what did not occur to me till last night filled
the thoughts of everybody else. My duty to Julia requires me to keep away
from her. I shall do so. Never mind me, Hungerford. Don’t commit yourself
to-day.”
“I will remember your wish; but I will not promise.”
They parted at the pier, and Eugene, sending his horse up to the stable by
Dick, pulled over to The Great Bell.

CHAPTER XVIII.
EVIDENCE WANTED.
MR. RICHARD BIRCH was not a philosopher in the worldly sense of the
term. He was too sensitive and high-spirited to be a philosopher.
Undoubtedly he would have been more comfortable and contented if he had
been. The suspicions of Eugene Hungerford had annoyed him almost
beyond endurance; and although common sense assured him that his friend
was still a friend, and that there was abundant cause for doubt, he was not
willing to accept the alternative; he was not willing that any one should
think it possible for him to have selfish motives, and to be acting an
underhanded part.
Mr. Birch, therefore, was not satisfied. Though Eugene had been convicted
of his error, though he had banished every suspicion that haunted his mind,
Mr. Birch felt that he had not yet made the triumphant vindication of the
integrity of his purpose which his sensitiveness demanded. Not only in the
partial eyes of his friend, but in those of all the world, must he be spotless
and unsuspected. If Mr. Richard Birch had been a philosopher, he might
have been content to believe himself that he was without reproach, and
leave to time and circumstances the work of removing the stain which
rested upon his good name.
He drove Eugene’s horse up to the hotel stable, and left him there. He was
thinking what evidence he could procure to establish the two facts that he
was not the person with Buckstone just before the murder, and that Dr.
Bilks was the person. These two points were as clear in his own mind as
though all the solid men of the county had sworn to them in open court. It
would be very tedious to follow Mr. Birch in his patient and laborious
search after facts during the remainder of that day, and all of that evening,
because he spoke with more than a hundred persons, and examined every
foot of the shore from the Port to the Point.
If Mr. Richard Birch was not a philosopher, he was sometimes a logician,
and he had a prejudice in favor of beginning at the root of a matter. It was
evident to his discerning and logical mind, that Mr. Buckstone must have

come into Poppleton before he was murdered within its territorial limits;
and if he did come into the town, somebody saw him, or ought to have seen
him there. Thus far no such individual had been seen or heard from. Ross
Kingman and Mary appeared to be the only persons—besides the stranger
—to whom the murdered man had manifested himself. The diligent and
interested inquirer into the truth was not willing to accept this conclusion,
which is another proof that he was not a philosopher.
Buckstone had boarded at the Bell River House during his former visit to
Poppleton. He would be likely to go there on the present occasion. The
landlord, the clerk, the chambermaids, the hall girls, the porter, the hostlers
—all knew Mr. Buckstone; but not one of them had seen him on the day of
the murder. Those who had the means of knowing were very sure he had
not entered the hotel. It was probable that the murdered man had arrived at
the Mills by the afternoon train—the same in which the Hungerford family
had come; but no one had seen him. The station agent knew him, but he was
no wiser than others.
Mr. Buckstone and the stranger had gone over to The Great Bell in a boat—
it was not possible to go in any other way, for, though some of the
enthusiasts, who believed Poppleton would, at some indefinite future time,
rival New York in commercial grandeur, when every foot of land would be
wanted, islands included, thought that a bridge over the channel was
practicable, the structure had not yet even been proposed; therefore Mr.
Buckstone and the stranger must have gone over to The Great Bell in a
boat. This was a logical conclusion, and Mr. Birch believed in it with all his
might. Then, as it was one of the customs of society that boats should be
owned by somebody, it followed, by a course of reasoning equally accurate
and logical, that the boat in which Buckstone and the stranger had crossed
to the island, belonged to somebody.
Fortunately the problem of the ownership of this boat had already been
solved, and it only remained for Mr. Birch to see the owner. He did see him;
but the proprietor of the small craft was as lamentably ignorant as the rest
of the world. He kept his boat on the beach about half way between the
Point and the Port. He had not even missed it, for he seldom used it, until
the sheriff had spoken to him about the matter. The boat contained two
fifty-six pound weights, used as ballast, one of which was missing; and the
painter, a piece of whale line, sixty feet in length, had been cut from the

stem, and taken away; but he had not seen Mr. Buckstone, and did not even
know him by sight.
“When did you use your boat last?” asked Mr. Birch, who had made a
memorandum of the missing fifty-six and the sixty feet of whale line.
“I used it looking after the body of Goodwin the afternoon before the
murder,” replied the owner.
“What time did you go home?”
“I hauled up the boat just before dark.”
“Did you leave the sail in the boat?”
“No; I always carry that up to the house.”
“Where do you keep the oars?”
“They are not worth much; I always leave them in the boat.”
“Don’t you suppose the fifty-six was stolen by some loafer from the
Settlement?”
“I don’t know but it was; but it seems to me, if any one stole it, the thief
would have taken the other one. He might as well be hung for an old sheep
as a lamb.”
Though the sheriff had been informed of the loss of the rope and the weight,
nothing could be made of the fact, and no significance was attached to it.
Mr. Birch felt that he had gained something, though he knew not what. He
left the owner of the boat, and examined the shore. There might be some
person who had been on the beach between nine and ten on the night of the
murder; some one who had been a fishing that day, and returned late; some
one whose boat needed attention, or some uneasy individual whose wife did
not allow him to smoke in the house. There was a current rumor in the Port
that somebody had seen two persons get into a boat, and push off about nine
o’clock in the evening; but Mr. Birch did not find this person till nine
o’clock. It was a man who caught fish for the hotels, and often came in late
at night. His name was Josiah Hubbard, and the patient inquirer was quite
sure this man would give him a clew to the mysterious stranger.
“Hubbard, they say you were on the beach here the night of the murder,”
began the lawyer.

“Yes, sir; that’s so. I was there, and I told Dr. Bilks I was there,” replied the
man, who apparently did not mean to have it appear that he had attempted
to conceal his knowledge.
“Did you, indeed!” exclaimed Birch, disgusted with this acknowledgment.
“I did; and I was ready to go on the stand and tell ’em all I knowed about it.
’Twan’t much; but I don’t want to keep nothin’ back. I did see them men,
and I jest as lief tell you on’t as the next man.”
“What time was it?”
“Well, it was hard on to nine o’clock, I should say.”
“Did you know either of the men?”
“I cal’late I did.”
“Was either of them Mr. Buckstone? Did you know Mr. Buckstone?”
“I cal’late I did; he went down a fishing with me times enough for me to
know him.”
“Was either of them Mr. Buckstone?” asked Birch, with no little eagerness.
“I cal’late one on ’em was Mr. Buckstone.”
“Could you swear to it?”
“I cal’late I shouldn’t want to swear to it, exactly; but I hain’t much more
doubt on’t than I had o’ t’other man—Mr. Birch. I don’t reckon you’ll want
me to swear to’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, Mr. Birch, you ’n’ I hes allers been good friends. When you boarded
to the Bell River, you did me one or two good turns, and I ain’t the man to
forgit a favor. I kind o’ kept out of the way, and didn’t say much about what
I’d seen, ’cause I thought ’twouldn’t do you no good.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I cal’late you know what I mean, Mr. Birch,” said Hubbard, with an
expressive grin.
“Who was the man with Buckstone?” asked Birch, as a matter of form, for
he knew what the answer would be, and was satisfied that Dr. Bilks had

already tampered with the man.
“I cal’late ’twas you, Mr. Birch.”
“You saw me?”
The man “cal’lated” that he did see him; that he knew him; was perfectly
satisfied, at the time, that Mr. Birch was the person with Buckstone. It was
not an afterthought; it was not something which Dr. Bilks had put into his
head; he “knowed it all along.”
“Hubbard, has Dr. Bilks given you any money?”
“Not the first cent!”
“If he has, I am willing to give you twice as much more.”
“Do you think I would lie for money, Mr. Birch?” demanded the fisherman,
indignantly.
“I don’t believe you would, Hubbard. I want the truth. If you know anything
which you haven’t told, you ought to let it out. If any one has paid you to
keep back the truth, or any part of it——”
“No one has paid me a red cent, Mr. Birch,” protested Hubbard, who
doubtless intended to tell the truth.
Mr. Richard Birch believed in the truth; but he was willing to neutralize the
cupidity of base men by paying more for the truth than his enemies would
for lies. So far he was content to “fight the devil with his own weapons”—
no farther. He knew that testimony thus obtained was worth nothing in a
court of justice; but he hoped thereby to obtain a clew which would enable
him to unravel the tangled skein, and obtain reliable evidence.
He questioned Hubbard with the utmost minuteness in regard to his
interview with Dr. Bilks; but the fisherman still persisted that he knew the
stranger was Mr. Birch before the doctor said a word to him. It was
possible. They were both of the same height. Both wore light spring
overcoats in the evening and on cool days. Hubbard might be perfectly
honest, but it was more than probable that his opinion had been fortified by
Dr. Bilks’s carefully-made suggestions.
Mr. Birch left the fisherman, almost prepared to believe that he was himself
the “stranger;” that he had been with Buckstone just before the murder. The

man was very positive, but he hoped Mr. Birch would not be injured by the
truth. He didn’t want any man’s money when he did not earn it. If Mr. Birch
had got into any “scrape,” he was sorry for it, and was willing to do
anything he could to help him out, but he wouldn’t lie on the stand.
Hubbard was a hard customer, in popular parlance. What he believed, he
believed with all his might. He would do anything in reason to help a friend
out of trouble; but his “nateral” conscience would not let him go on the
stand and tell what was not true. Dick Birch left him with a higher respect
for his integrity than he had ever entertained before, though it was none the
less evident that the fisherman was mistaken. He was not willing to swear
that the stranger was Mr. Birch, but to the best of his knowledge and belief
such was the fact.
As the lawyer walked through the principal street of the Port, he saw a light
in the office of Dr. Bilks. He had done all he could do that night on the
beach, and round the streets, and he was disposed to look into the eye of the
doctor, and to hear what he had to say. He entered without the preliminary
of ringing or knocking. Dr. Bilks sat in his easy chair reading, not The
Lancet, but the last new novel. He jumped out of his chair when Mr. Birch
entered, and walked towards him with extended hand.
“I am glad to see you, Birch,” exclaimed he, heartily. “I was afraid I
shouldn’t see you again.”
“Why were you afraid of that?” demanded Dick, coldly enough, but as
warmly as he could speak to such a man.
“Because, for some inexplicable reason, you seem to have raised your back
against me,” replied the doctor, with an injured air. “But I am glad to see
you. Have a cigar? they are not your favorite brand, but they are the best I
have.”
“I was not aware that I had raised my back against you in any manner to
which you could take exception,” answered Dick, as he lighted the cigar.
“But what an infernal scorching you gave me in the court this morning!”
exclaimed the doctor, laughing.
“That was merely professional. The blue pill you gave me a month ago was
not pleasant to take, but I didn’t blame you.”

“But the point on which you drove me to the wall was of no importance. I
never felt so bad before in my life. I had forgotten all about this affair at the
Settlement, and to save my life, I couldn’t call up a single circumstance,
except what was strictly professional. You placed me in an awkward
position; and I came very near fainting away under it.”
“I am sorry you suffered so much, doctor.”
“I did suffer a great deal. When a man means to tell the whole truth, and is
trying to do it, it is hard to be driven up on points of no consequence.”
“I did not regard the point as of no consequence.”
“Birch, you and I have been the best of friends since I came to Poppleton.
Your influence gave me a position at once, and I am very grateful to you for
all you did. But, Birch, you placed me in the ugliest situation I ever was in,
to-day. I don’t think it was the least matter to you or to the court who or
what my patient was. I feel aggrieved by what you did. You made me
appear ridiculous, if not untruthful.”
Dr. Bilks looked hurt and indignant. He acted like a man who had been
injured by his best friend.
“Doctor, I have only one face. We will not quarrel,” said Dick.
“We will not; but I think it is no more that just that you should explain your
extraordinary conduct. Let us be frank and candid, as between friend and
friend.”
“I will, with all my heart,” said Birch, who found it practically impossible
to conceal himself, even from the man he regarded as his enemy.
“I assure you that no amount of candor would offend me. Keep nothing
back, Birch!”
“I shall not. Dr. Bilks; you have taken a great deal of pains to make it
appear that I am the person who was with Blackstone on the night he was
murdered.”
“I deny it; I have taken no pains to do so.”
“You mentioned my name to Ross.”
“I did.”

“And to Hubbard.”
“I did not. He was sure you were the person.”
“Was he sure without any suggestion from you?”
“He was; his first remark to me was to the effect that the person with
Buckstone looked like Mr. Birch.”
“Did you do anything to lead him away from this conclusion?”
“I did not. I will be as candid as I wish you to be. I could not do anything to
lead him away from such a conclusion, Birch. I believe you were the
person.”
“You do!”
“Just as firmly and conscientiously as I believe that Ross killed Buckstone.”
“Do you wish to believe it?”
“No; I have tried with all my might to believe you were not the person. The
evidence is too strong for my mind. Ross and Hubbard are confident; and
your reasons for being there are sufficiently apparent. There was not a man
in Poppleton who had any business with Buckstone, except Mr. Hungerford
and yourself,” said the doctor, earnestly.
“But I have sworn that I was not the person.”
“That is where you made the greatest mistake of your life.”
“Then you believe me guilty of perjury,” added Dick, calmly.
“I have nothing to say about that. My belief is not a matter of choice. I
believe that Bell River runs down hill; and I believe it because I can’t help
it.”
“In your eye I am perjured?”
“Don’t worry me with hard names; don’t ask me to condemn you. I will not.
I cannot see why you should be so anxious to conceal your interview with
Buckstone.”
“Do you think I helped murder him?”
“God forbid! Of course I do not.”

“Can you conceive of any motive I should have for concealing the fact, if it
were a fact, that I was with Buckstone?”
“I cannot.”
“If you believe I was the person now popularly known as the ‘stranger,’ you
must think I have some strong motive for denying what you believe.”
“There must be some motive: it is not apparent yet. I believe in the truth;
and I am confident that the truth will come out. It will be proved that you
were with Buckstone, and your motive for denying it will also be proved. I
am satisfied on this point. Now, Mr. Birch, I claim to be your friend. You
will do me the justice to say that I have not been forward in bringing out
anything to your disadvantage.”
“Did you suggest to Hungerford that I might be trying to get half a million
with Julia by preventing his marriage?”
“Such a thought occurred to me; and you virtually owned up on the stand
this forenoon.”
“I think not,” replied Dick, indignantly.
“Be that as it may, you will readily perceive that the thought which came to
my mind was a general opinion in the community; otherwise, it would not
have occurred to Mr. Lowe.”
Dick Birch had no suspicion of what had been written on the paper passed
to Mr. Lowe during the examination. Dr. Bilks had reclaimed the paper, and
suggested to the attorney that his position might be compromised by this
honest endeavor on his part to have the whole naked truth presented to the
court. Mr. Lowe saw the point, and promised to be silent.
“Never mind that, doctor,” said Birch. “What would you, as a friend, advise
me to do?”
“Tell the truth, by all means.”
“Acknowledge that I was on the island, whether I was or was not.”
“I think there can be no doubt that you were there.”
“I still deny the fact; but grant that I was there, as you say you believe.”

“I trust you do not believe me capable of any insincerity. I do believe you
were there.”
“Never mind that—pass the minor points. You advise me to acknowledge
that I was with Buckstone.”
“Certainly.”
“What then?”
“You are a lawyer; you know best. My impression was, and still is, that you
were on The Great Bell that night for a good purpose. As you did not give
information to the authorities of the murder, as you did not seem to know
that a murder had been committed,—for I carried the first intelligence to
Pine Hill,—I concluded that, when Buckstone went up to see Ross, you
pulled over the channel, and went home.”
“And left Buckstone to be murdered by Mary’s savage brother, or at least to
remain on the island all night?” said Dick, with a sneer.
“I confess it did not look reasonable that you would do so.”
“No man would do so.”
“You know best.”
“In your opinion, I went home, leaving my companion to take care of
himself, and not even asking a question about him until eleven o’clock the
next day!”
“Of course I know nothing of particulars. I know only what is proved.”
“It would be more reasonable to suppose that I remained; that I saw the
murder; that I saw Buckstone hurled over the cliff into the sea; that I knew
it all, and then held my tongue.”
“Ross was your friend—perhaps for his sake you did so; you know best. If
you did, it was a mistaken policy. I advise you, if this was the case, to tell
the whole truth.”
“It might be made to appear that I was an accessory, either before or after
the fact.”
“If you would tell me the whole truth, I could advise you better what to do.
If your complicity in the affair endangers you, I should recommend you as a

friend, though not as a stern lover of justice, to leave Poppleton—leave the
country.”
“I do not ask for any advice. I only desired to obtain your views.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Birch, that you are more deeply implicated than any one
yet suspects—you know best. If I can do anything to serve you, I will do it
with pleasure.”
“I thank you for your exalted opinion of my character!”
“I regard you as a first-rate fellow, and the worst I fear is, that your zeal to
serve your friend Hungerford has led you into a blunder, if nothing worse.”
“Thank you, doctor. Let me say once more that I was not the stranger.”
“I am sorry you still think it necessary to deny the fact.”
“Dr. Bilks,” said Dick Birch, jumping out of his chair, and throwing away
his cigar, “you are either the most deeply injured man in the world, or you
are the most infernal scoundrel that goes unhung.”
“Then I have been more deeply injured, in your estimation, than I supposed
I had,” replied the doctor, meekly.
“Do you expect to prove that I was the stranger?”
“I think it will be proved—my general belief in the omnipotence of truth
leads me to this conclusion.”
“Now, doctor, suppose we change the issue: my general belief in the
omnipotence of truth leads me to the conclusion that you will be proved to
be the stranger.”
Even the slight change which came over the face of Dr. Bilks was not
unnoticed by Birch. He smiled, looked injured, and pronounced the
conclusion a most unwarrantable one.
“Will you be as candid with me as I have been with you? On what grounds
do you charge me?”
“Can you prove to me where you were from nine till two on that night?”
“I have already testified on that point.”

“And your testimony was not worth a brass farthing Do you expect me, or
any one, to believe this ridiculous story about the baby?”
“I certainly do.”
“What became of the baby?”
“How should I know?”
“Did you report its birth and death to the town clerk?”
“I did—you will find the record of a still-born infant, if you look; though
this is no part of my duty by law. I knew the child would not live when I left
it.”
“Could you induce Sandy McGuire to point out the place where the child
was buried?”
“Undoubtedly I could, and I will do so.”
“Do you know?”
“I do not. Sandy McGuire is an ignorant man, and is probably afraid that he
has done something wrong. I am not surprised that he would not tell you.”
It was midnight when Mr. Birch left the doctor’s office, satisfied that he had
not made a single point. Even in the matter of Dr. Bilks’s baby, it certainly
looked as though the author of the myth would be able to establish the truth
of all he said. Dick was discouraged. He did not sleep any that night; he lay
tossing upon his bed, thinking of his own doubtful position before the
community.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE ROPE AND THE WEIGHT.
TO say that Mr. Richard Birch was unhappy as he tossed upon his bed that
night, would not appropriately express his mental condition. He was not
unhappy; he was vexed, perplexed, annoyed. He had devoted his first spare
time since the murder to an investigation of the circumstances attending the
event. The result of his inquiries was only evidence against himself.
But Dick was not unhappy—not troubled in spirit—only perplexed in mind.
The Beatitudes have blessings for all but the wicked; and he who suffers
most, being still innocent and pure, has most blessings. In spite of all the
appearances, real and constructive, which were arrayed against him, his
spirit did not falter. If what was external and beyond himself discouraged
him, there was no loss of power in his soul. He had faith in the truth, and
was satisfied that even his good name would be vindicated.
He tossed upon his bed all night long—not in misery and self-reproach, but
as he who invents a machine, and is troubled to make one part harmonize
with another. He did some tremendous thinking. He was struggling to solve
a problem: to read the meagre hieroglyphical facts which the murder case
presented. Twenty times, during the five hours he lay upon his bed, he drew
up before him the naked facts, divesting them, as well as he could, of the
opinions and prejudices with which they had been clothed. They bore
fearfully upon himself. He could not invest the myth of Dr. Bilks’s baby
with even the semblance of reality. The story of the child and the mother
was too flimsy to be believed. If he could ascertain beyond the possibility
of a doubt where the doctor had spent the hours between nine and two on
the night of the murder, the case would be almost made out. But the people
of Poppleton usually slept after nine o’clock, and no one had yet been found
except Hubbard, who was out at the time.
The rope and the weight did not at first appear to possess much significance
to him. Buckstone might have used them as cable and anchor to moor the
boat, and lost them overboard. They might have been employed for another
purpose, which suggested itself to the thinker. When he rose in the morning,

even before the sun was up, he hastened to the house of Mr. Bangs, the
deputy sheriff. The official was not up, but anything relating to the murder
was enough to draw him from his bed, even in the middle of the night.
“You are up early, Mr. Birch,” said the deputy sheriff, as he joined the
visitor in the parlor.
“I did not sleep a wink last night,” replied Dick.
“I am sorry for that.”
“No doubt I shall sleep better when this business assumes a more definite
shape.”
“We were all a good deal surprised, Mr. Birch, when you swore that you
were not with Buckstone that night.”
“I know of no good reason why you should have been surprised. I can only
say now, as I said then, I am not the person who was with Buckstone.”
“I hope for your sake you were not. If you hadn’t denied it, nobody would
have thought it was not all right.”
“You are entitled to the benefit of your own opinion, Mr. Bangs. So far as I
appear to be implicated in anything which I deny, I am willing to wait till
the truth comes out.”
“That’s all any of us can do.”
“I intend to inquire into this matter till I get at the truth, either with or
without your assistance.”
“O, I am ready to do anything which will help uncover the matter.”
“That’s my business with you just now. You found the boat in which the
two men went over to the island?”
“I did, as everybody knows.”
“You ascertained to whom the boat belonged.”
“Yes; it was Brown’s boat.”
“Of course you were informed that some articles were missing from the
boat.”
“The painter and one fifty-six.”

“Have you found these articles?”
“No.”
“Have you looked for them?”
“Not particularly. We have looked for everything we could find.”
“Have you any idea of the use to which the rope and the weight were
applied?”
“Not the least in the world.”
“Perhaps these articles, if found, might throw some light upon the subject.”
“Very true. I will search the shore again.”
“Of course you will not find them on the shore. If you please, I will assist in
the search.”
The deputy sheriff looked as though he wanted to say that, if any man knew
where to search for the rope and weight, Mr. Birch was the person; but he
was polite enough not to say that, and it was agreed that the investigation
should be commenced immediately after breakfast. Dick started for the
hotel. On the way he passed the house of the town clerk. That functionary
was at work in his garden, and the inquirer stopped to satisfy himself in
regard to the record of the birth and death of Dr. Bilks’s baby. The official
was communicative, and gave him all the information he required, verifying
his statements by taking the early visitor into his office, and exhibiting the
books.
Dr. Bilks either had such a case as he represented, at the Settlement, or he
had left no stone unturned to establish the apparent truth of what he
asserted. Though the story was too ridiculous to be believed, Dick could not
help thinking, once in a while, in the course of his investigations, that it was
possible the doctor might be honest and conscientious.
Dick’s relations with the cashier of the Poppleton Bank were in the highest
degree pleasant and intimate. As the business man of Eugene Hungerford,
Mr. Birch might make or unmake the bank. Some of the progressive and
enterprising people of the Mills had already agitated the question of
establishing a bank in the other village. Mr. Hungerford’s agent had
influence enough with his employer to induce him to favor the new

institution; therefore Mr. Birch was treated with profound deference and
respect by the officials of the Poppleton Bank. Dick called at the house of
the cashier, after he left that of the town clerk. It was mean and low to
inquire impertinently into any man’s personal and private affairs, and
nothing but the ends of justice could permit Dick to ask, or the cashier to
answer, any questions in relation to Dr. Bilks’s balance at the bank.
Dick Birch did ask, and the cashier did answer, such questions, solely in the
interests of justice. The balance was between nine and ten thousand dollars.
The cashier promised to inform Birch if this balance was reduced by the
payment of any check greater than one thousand dollars. Dick left the
cashier with the feeling that, if Sandy McGuire suddenly became a rich
man, he should be promptly notified of the fact. But even now, Dick was
not quite satisfied with what he had done, and he employed a smart young
fellow, in whom he could place confidence, to watch Sandy McGuire, and
follow him wherever he went. Having done all these things, he ate his
breakfast and went down to the river. The sheriff was there, with three men
whom he had employed for the occasion, and in two small boats they
embarked for The Great Bell. These men were provided with grapnels,
boat-hooks, eel-spears, and other apparatus, to be used in ascertaining what
was upon the bottom of the channel in the vicinity of the cliff from which
Buckstone had been precipitated into the water.
Though the sheriff was the commanding presence of the occasion, Dick
Birch furnished all the theories and suggestions. They were fishing for the
rope and the weight, and the position and condition in which they might be
found were expected to add another link in the testimony either for or
against the identity of the stranger with Birch. Two men in one boat with
the sheriff dragged a grapnel; Dick and another man, in the other boat, used
eel-spears, with which they expected to fasten upon the rope. It was a
tedious operation; and there was nothing which was in the slightest degree
romantic or interesting about it. All they hoped to find was the rope and
weight, and there was nothing even horrible about these articles.
“I’ve got sunthin,” said Hubbard, the fisherman, who occupied the boat
with Dick.
“So have I,” replied Birch, who had too often been disappointed during the
morning to be very hopeful.

“I’ve got hold of sunthin heavy,” continued Hubbard, as he tugged away at
the eel-spear.
Dick hauled up a large, heavy piece of kelp at the same moment, as he had
done fifty times before. It was nearly noon, and he was almost discouraged.
The channel had been dragged, and there was little hope of finding
anything. They were now at work directly under the cliff from which
Buckstone had been thrown.
“Pull it up, and see what you have,” said Dick, as he disengaged the kelp
from his spear.
“I cal’late I’ve got hold of sunthin heavier than a devil’s apron this time,”
continued Hubbard, as Dick turned his attention to the operations of his
companion.
“Pull away.”
“I’m a little afeard it will give way, Mr. Birch. Jest you take that long-
handled boat-hook, and kinder stidy it, when I pull. I cal’late I got hold of
sunthin this time.”
Dick was interested, though not very hopeful, and he thrust the boat-hook
down till he grappled the object to which Hubbard had fastened with the
spear.
“You’ve got it, Mr. Birch. I can feel it ease up when you pull. Don’t yank it,
Mr. Birch; pull kinder stidy. That’s it! Now it gives.”
“Pull away!” said Dick, beginning to be a little excited by the prospect of
something, which from the feeling could not be kelp.
“Don’t be in a hurry, Mr. Birch; if we lose it, we might fish all day without
gittin hold on’t agin. I cal’late we’ve got hold of sunthin this time; and
don’t le’s lose it,” said the cautious fisherman. “Stidy, now. There it comes.
It’s a rope as sure as you’re alive!”
“Take hold of it with your hands,” added Dick, when the rope came in sight.
“There’s something tied to the end of it. There it comes.”
“It’s nothing but a stone.”

The rope was drawn into the boat. There was a stone attached to it, which
was taken in. As they pulled on the line, it was observed that the boat
moved towards the middle of the channel, drawn in that direction by some
heavier weight attached to the other end of the rope.
“There ’tis,” said Hubbard, triumphantly. “I cal’late we’ve got the rope, if
that’s what you want.”
“But there is something attached to the other end of it,” replied Dick, as he
pulled on the line.
“I cal’late there is; the fifty-six is hitched to that end. Though what in natur
the stone is for, I don’t know,” said Hubbard. “Don’t yank it, Mr. Birch; you
may twitch it off. I cal’late we’d better tell the sheriff, and let him see to the
rest on’t.”
Mr. Bangs, already satisfied by the appearances in Dick’s boat that
something had transpired, ordered his men to pull in that direction.
“We have found the rope, Mr. Bangs,” said Dick.
“Have you? Are you sure it is the one?”
“It is a whale line, answering to the description of the one that was lost. We
have got only one end of it; the other end seems to hang to the bottom.”
“What’s that stone for?” asked the sheriff, as his boat was hauled up
alongside of the other.
“I don’t know; probably to sink this end; but let us pull it up, and ascertain
what there is at the other end.”
Two men took hold of the whale line and pulled. The weight attached to the
other end was very heavy. It was more than a fifty-six pound weight, and
every one was intensely excited as fathom after fathom was hauled into the
boat.
“I cal’late we’ve got sunthin’,” said Hubbard, who would have choked to
death if he could not speak. “Stidy! stidy! don’t yank.”
The object could now be seen, and the men turned pale, and looked
horrified. Even the stout-hearted sheriff wore an expression of painful
anxiety upon his face, as though he wished some other person might have

been called upon to perform this disagreeable duty. Birch was sick, and
turned in disgust from the horrible sight.
It was horrible—it was a human body!
It was a headless trunk!
“Stop!” said Mr. Bangs. “We will not haul it into the boat. Secure it at the
stern, and we will tow it to the beach.”
The men obeyed in silence, and both boats pulled to the beach. When the
corpse touched upon the sand, it was dragged to the shore. The whale line
had been passed around the middle of the body, and through the ring of the
fifty-six, evidently so that the weight would keep the corpse in a horizontal
position on the bottom of the channel.
The head was gone, and the flesh had been gnawed away by the fishes. It
was a hideous object to look upon, and heart and flesh crept with horror as
the eyes gazed upon it. The sheriff sent two of the men for the coroner, and
covering the body with a sail from one of the boats, retired from the
loathsome object, to await the arrival of the proper official.
“This appears to alter the whole aspect of the case,” said Dick Birch, as
they walked away from the corpse.
“Yes,” replied Bangs, rather curtly.
“Do you know whose body it is?”
“Buckstone’s, of course.”
“It may be Goodwin’s.”
“In my opinion it is Buckstone’s. The man who was with him the night he
was killed did all this work.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I hope he didn’t cut the head off,” added Bangs, with a look of horror and
disgust.
“I hope not.”
“What we have found out to-day will make it all the worse for the man who
was with Buckstone.”

“That is plain enough.”
The sheriff glanced at Dick with a look of mingled pity and astonishment.
“I am sorry for you, Mr. Birch,” said Bangs, apparently unable to conceal
his thoughts any longer.
“Why for me?”
“Isn’t it clear to you that the person who came down here with Buckstone
helped to murder him?”
“It looks like it. And you mean to add, that you think I am the person?”
“I certainly think so.”
“Do you believe, if I had known where this body was, that I would have
asked you to come down here, and bring it up from the bottom before my
very eyes?”
“Mr. Birch, I don’t wish to say much about the matter just now; but it looks
very bad. It may suit your purpose to have this body found now. All I’ve got
to say is, that the man who was with Buckstone helped to do the job,”
replied Bangs, walking away from him.
It seemed to Dick Birch, just then, that every thing he did to bring out the
truth in regard to the murder more deeply involved himself. The very
finding of the body by his agency was construed to his disadvantage.
The coroner came with a jury, with constables, with doctors, with witnesses.
It required a whole squadron of boats to bring over the little army of
interested persons, who flocked to see the loathsome object which had been
dragged from its resting-place in the channel. Dr. Bilks, Dr. Hobhed, and
Dr. White were summoned to view the body, and procure the medical
testimony in regard to the death of the deceased. Only one of all this
multitude attracted the attention of Dick Birch—Dr. Bilks. He watched him
with the most intense interest. But the doctor presented nothing very
noticeable in his looks and manners, except a disposition to be rather more
jovial than seemed proper on such an occasion. He was a little paler than
usual, though he smiled whenever he spoke, and manifested little or no
feeling in the presence of the dead; but he was a doctor, and was familiar
with such scenes.

The corpse was viewed by the doctors first. They looked for bruises and
marks; but they found none. The head, upon which the fatal blow had been
struck, was gone. The medical gentlemen were perfectly satisfied that the
head had been removed with a knife, and by a person who had some
knowledge of anatomy. The clothes were then examined by the sheriff and
coroner. The deceased wore snuff-colored pants, and vest, and a sporting
coat, with peculiar buttons. On the little finger of each hand there was a
ring, one of which was identified by the clerk of the Bell River House as
belonging to Mr. Buckstone. His watch was recognized by two or three
witnesses, who had been brought over for the purpose.
The coat, vest, and cravat were removed, and sent up to Mary, who
identified them as Mr. Buckstone’s. The linen had the initials E. B. upon it.
The contents of the pockets were various. A porte-monnaie and a pocket-
book, both of which contained the name of the deceased, established the
identity of Mr. Buckstone. But the most interesting and conclusive
testimony obtained upon the headless trunk consisted of a couple of letters.
They were soaked with water, but their contents were still legible after they
had been dried in the sun.
The coroner’s jury, having “viewed the body” in due form of law, went over
to the Town Hall to hear the case, and make up their verdict, while the
remains were placed in the care of an undertaker. When the inquest was
opened, the doctors were first called upon for their testimony. What was
purely surgical we have already given. Dr. Bilks added to his evidence some
portions of the conversation which had taken place between Dick Birch and
himself the preceding evening. He had advised Mr. Birch to tell the whole
truth, which Mr. Birch declined to do. Mr. Birch had asked his advice in
regard to his future course, and he (Dr. Bilks), having, of course, no idea
that he was implicated in the murder, had advised him to leave Poppleton.
“Did Mr. Birch deny that he was the person with the deceased?” asked the
coroner.
“He did, but not with so much energy as formerly,” replied the doctor.
“What was your impression, derived from this interview?”
“I am not willing to give my impressions; they might injure Mr. Birch, who
has been, and still is, my friend; but I told him I was afraid he was more

deeply implicated than any one yet suspected.”
“And you advised him to leave town—did you?” continued the coroner.
“I did; but, as I said before, I did not suspect him of complicity in the
murder.”
Dick Birch was almost stunned by this evidence, so glaringly false, his real
words so purposely twisted to meet the villain’s ends. By this time Eugene
Hungerford had arrived. He was summoned to the stand the moment he
entered the room. He testified as at the examination.
“Mr. Hungerford, you were afraid Ross Kingman would kill Buckstone if
he met him?”
“I was; but I had no suspicion that Buckstone was in Poppleton, then.”
“Did you mention your fears to Mr. Birch?”
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing of any consequence.”
The letters were produced. They were directed to “Mr. Eliot Buckstone,
New York City,” and one of them bore the post-mark of Poppleton; the
other was from Providence. The Poppleton letter was opened and read by
the coroner. The last part of it was as follows:—
If you will marry the girl again, I will insure you five thousand
dollars, and possibly you may have double that sum. Come and
see me, at all events. Leave the train at Newington, and come
over privately—after dark. Don’t fail to come.
Yours truly,
Richard Birch.
Hungerford was shocked, stunned, overwhelmed. This letter had been taken
from the pocket of the dead man by the sheriff.
“I did not write that letter, Hungerford,” said Dick, calmly, as he was called
to the stand.

“You are a lawyer, sir; I need not tell you that you are not bound to
criminate yourself,” said the coroner.
“You need not,” replied Dick, significantly.
“Did you write this letter?”
“I did not.”
“It bears your signature.”
“Will you let me look at it?”
It was handed to him.
“This is not my writing.”
“Did you ever write a letter to Mr. Buckstone?”
“I did.”
“More than one?”
“Only one.”
“What was it about?”
“I wrote it at Ross Kingman’s request. I threatened Buckstone with a
criminal prosecution.”
“Did you look at the envelope of this letter?”
“The superscription is in my handwriting. The date in the post-mark is not
legible; but I have no doubt this envelope is the one in which I sent the only
letter I ever wrote to Mr. Buckstone. This is not my writing, though it looks
something like it, and the paper is different from that I always use.”
Dr. Bilks gave a sudden start, as though he had thought of something
forgotten or neglected. Hungerford saw him, and without signifying his
intention to any one, left the hall. Dr. Bilks soon followed him.
The evidence was all heard, and the jury began to consider their verdict.
The body was that of Eliot Buckstone; he had been killed by Ross
Kingman. So far they had no doubt. One of the six men suggested that the
verdict should include the name of Richard Birch, who aided and abetted in
the murder. The others would not agree to it; the evidence did not justify
such a verdict. Birch might be an accessory after the fact, for he must have

aided in mutilating and concealing the body. Another intimated that Birch
had gone over to the island, and induced Buckstone to meet Ross Kinsman,
believing that he would murder him. Birch left the hall before the verdict
was made up, confident that he should be arrested within a few hours.

CHAPTER XX.
THE SHADOW AT PINE HILL.
EUGENE HUNGERFORD went to the office of Dr. Bilks when he left the
town hall. Even the tremendous assaults made there upon his faith in Dick
Birch had not shaken the citadel. The testimony of his friend in regard to
the letter was suggestive to him, and he determined to act without delay.
The look and the start of Dr. Bilks had not escaped his notice.
Dr. Bilks’s office was not closed; for he kept a boy to take care of his
rooms, run of errands, and receive messages during his absence. Eugene
walked in, went to the desk, and taking a half quire of paper from a shelf,
proceeded to write a note to Julia; not that he had anything to say to her, but
simply for the purpose of obtaining a sheet of the paper for future use.
While he was thus engaged, Dr. Bilks, who had left the town hall a moment
later, entered the office.
“Ah, Mr. Hungerford!” exclaimed the doctor.
“How do you do, doctor? I have taken the liberty to use your desk for a
moment, in writing a note to my sister.”
“Certainly; but I am afraid you find no proper materials for writing.”
“O, yes. Here is a whole ream of paper on this shelf,” replied Hungerford.
“But that is very poor paper. Let me provide you with some better.”
Dr. Bilks had half a ream in his hand, which he had just purchased. He
opened the package, and insisted that his unwelcome visitor should use
some of it.
“That is very good paper, doctor; but I like this better,” replied Eugene, as
he folded up his note, which included an extra sheet, and hastily thrust it
into an envelope.
“Do me the favor to use some of this paper. It is a whim of mine; but you
will indulge me,” added the doctor, whose ill-concealed emotion did not
escape the keen glance of the visitor.

“This paper exactly suits my purpose, doctor. I am very much obliged to
you; but it is my whim to send the note just as I have written it.”
Dr. Bilks would probably have said a great deal more if Parkinson had not
at that moment entered the office, and interrupted the conversation.
“I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Hungerford,” said the man. “Mrs.
Hungerford sent me down to tell you that Mr. Lester, from Baltimore, had
just arrived.”
“Mr. Lester!” exclaimed Dr. Bilks, apparently very much annoyed at the
intelligence.
“Do you know Mr. Lester, Dr. Bilks?” asked Eugene.
“I do not. I am acquainted with his son, who was in college with me, as I
told you.”
“I will return soon,” said Eugene to the servant.
Dr. Bilks had thrown himself into a chair, and looked like a man who was
discouraged—like a man who had purchased half a ream of paper, which
could be of no earthly service to him.
Hungerford had accomplished his mission at the doctor’s office. As he went
out, he saw Sandy McGuire going in.
“Do you wish to see me, Sandy?”
“No, your honor.”
“You are not ready to tell the truth yet.”
“I am, faix! Sure, it’s nothin but the blessed truth I been tellin your honor
from the big’nin.”
Eugene left him. Sandy had not yet seen the doctor, who, in Hungerford’s
opinion, would give one half of all he had in the bank for the paper on
which the note to Julia had been written, and the other half to keep Sandy’s
tongue still.
Dick Birch was just coming out of the town hall, when Eugene joined him.
“Where are those letters, Dick?” demanded Hungerford.
“The coroner has them.”

“I must see him.”
“Hungerford, I shall be arrested before night,” said Dick, with wonderful
calmness.
“Arrested!” exclaimed Eugene, to whose mind such a proceeding had not
yet presented itself.
“The sheriff, the coroner, and the jury, in my opinion, think I had a hand in
the murder. Hungerford, the shadow darkens over me. I am the man who
cut off Buckstone’s head after he was killed, and I sank the body in the
channel.”
“You!”
“They think so.”
“Dick, there is my hand; my heart is in it. You understand me.”
“I do!” exclaimed Birch, as he grasped the offered hand. “One such friend
is all I ask.”
Dick was more deeply moved than Hungerford had ever observed him to be
before.
The coroner’s jury were still engaged in discussing the verdict. Hungerford
saw the sheriff, and procured the Poppleton letter. The paper was the same
as that on which Eugene had just written the note to his sister. The quality,
ruling, and stamp were identical, and there was room to believe that the
letter to Buckstone had been written in Dr. Bilks’s office. Several notes
written by Mr. Birch were found. They were not written upon this paper.
In half an hour Dr. Bilks appeared again. He was apparently desperate. The
case was not working right, and he had come to look after it. He heard what
was said about the paper. He laughed at it. Probably Mr. Birch had written
the letter in his office; he was often there; and Mr. Birch would not deny
that he had frequently written letters at his desk. If it did not look exactly
like Mr. Birch’s usual handwriting, it was probably because he had used a
pen to which he was not accustomed. No one could say that the stained and
hardly legible letter was not written by Mr. Birch.
“Mr. Sheriff,” said Dr. Bilks, when he had disposed of the letter to his own
satisfaction, “I came here for another purpose. I have come to acknowledge

that I made a great mistake.”
Everybody looked at the doctor.
“If not too late, I should like to add something to my testimony—something
of the utmost importance.”
The coroner was informed of the fact, and the case was reopened. Dr. Bilks
was put upon the stand.
“I am obliged to leave town early in the morning, for New York. I shall
return in a week. Before I go, I wish to set myself right with God and man;
for I have done wrong.”
People thought that the doctor was very conscientious, and wondered what
could rest so heavily upon his mind.
“You wish to correct your testimony?” said the coroner.
“Not to correct it—to add to it. Mr. Birch has been my best friend in
Poppleton.”
Everybody knew this to be true.
“I am very grateful to him for his kindness to me. My feeling has been that I
would rather die than injure him. That was my feeling when I stood on the
stand. I have not told the whole truth. I confess it with shame; but it was
only to save my friend from disagreeable consequences. On the night of the
murder, I saw Mr. Birch, as I drove along the Point Road, with Buckstone. I
have kept this back before.”
“Why did you keep it back?”
“Because I preferred that Mr. Birch’s connection with Buckstone, since he
denied it, should be proved by others.”
But even this strong evidence did not create much sensation. It only added
another grain of testimony to what everybody believed before.
“Do you know when Mr. Birch returned from The Great Bell?”
“I do not.”
Dr. Bilks had conquered. Dick Birch was arrested, and hurried off to the
Summerville jail, to the great grief and indignation of Eugene, who could

not even bail him out until morning. The men of power in Poppleton were
stern and inflexible, even to superstition, in the discharge of their official
duties. But the people, among whom Dick had not been very popular, were
prepared for this result. He was a villain of the first water now, who had
been plotting to obtain half a million of Hungerford’s expected fortune. It
was a righteous retribution upon him; and pious men and women went to
bed that night more than ever convinced that the way of the transgressor is
hard, and that the evil man shall not prosper in his way.
Eugene Hungerford went home to Pine Hill, and told the eminent merchant
from Baltimore what had happened to his friend. Mr. Lester made a great
many sage reflections, advised his host carefully to examine all his books
and papers, assuring him that he would find some startling defalcation, and
severely censured him for placing so much confidence even in his best
friend.
“All men are human, Mr. Hungerford—all men are human,” said the
eminent trustee, shaking his head.
“But I believe Mr. Birch is an honest man. I know he is!” protested Eugene.
“You delude yourself. You have tempted this Birch as no man ever was
tempted before. It would have been strange if he had not fallen. I am afraid
you are to blame. I never quite liked Mr. Birch’s manner of doing business.
When I return to Baltimore, I will send you a precise account of all the
drafts I have forwarded to him and to you. In my opinion, you will yet have
an action for embezzlement against him. As you grow older, you will grow
wiser. You will learn to trust no man.”
“But he is not charged with wronging me.”
“It is all the same, Mr. Hungerford. In my opinion, he is guilty.”
Eugene was out of patience with the eminent trustee, who was a cold-
blooded man of business.
Julia was terribly distressed on account of Dick’s misfortunes: and as she
listened to Mr. Lester’s comments upon him, she was sick at heart. She
knew not what to believe, or what to disbelieve. Later in the evening, Mr.
Lester resumed the subject, deeming it his duty to fortify the young
millionnaire against the sin of trusting others, fully believing that Eugene
was in danger of being swindled out of all he had and all he would have. He

did his duty faithfully, and there was not much left of Dick Birch when he
had finished his wordy harangue.
Mr. Lester had listened to all the evidence on both sides; and when Eugene
ventured to suggest that Dr. Bilks was a villain, the eminent trustee warmly
defended him.
The next day, Eugene, contrary to Mr. Lester’s advice, and to his great
disgust, bailed Dick, who was discharged from custody. Dr. Bilks had left
by the morning train for New York. After dinner the eminent merchant went
to sleep, and Eugene hastened down to the Port to see Dick. He found him
at the hotel, rather blue, but not hopeless.
“Has anything new come out?” asked Eugene.
“Dr. Bilks drew five thousand dollars from the bank last night.”
The bank opened at all hours in Poppleton.
“Of course, then, Sandy McGuire is a rich man by this time.”
“No doubt of it.”
“I think we had better go and see Sandy now.”
They went; but Sandy McGuire had left town.
He had hired one of his neighbors to convey himself and wife to Newington
the evening before. Eugene sent the shrewdest man he could find in
Poppleton to follow him. The messenger returned in a week with no tidings
of him. When it was too late, Eugene blamed himself for not acting more
decisively. Dr. Bilks had effectually cut off the only means by which his
presence at Sandy’s house on the night of the murder could be proved or
disproved.
“Hungerford,” said Dick, on their return from the settlement, “Dr. Bilks is
too great a villain for me. I have been weak. I did not strike when I should
have struck; and when I struck, I did not strike hard enough.”
“Never mind, Dick; it will all come out right.”
“I have never doubted that; but for the present I stand in a very bad
situation. Everything I have done thus far has made the doctor stronger, and
me weaker.”

“By no means, Dick. Dr. Bilks will yet hang himself.”
“I do not doubt it, Hungerford. I have followed these developments far
enough to know their bearing. Can you tell me of what I am accused?”
“Simply of being an accessory after the fact.”
“But what is the theory in men’s minds? What motives do they attribute to
me?”
“I have heard all that has been urged against you. The theory is, that you
went with Buckstone to the island to procure the re-marriage of Mary and
himself. You are a justice of the peace. Some say you went to marry the
parties if Mary consented.”
“That is a new idea to me.”
“It is a mere supposition. While you were there, Buckstone was killed.
Some think you were in the confidence of Ross, and helped do the deed.”
“Then, of course, if I wanted to kill him, my designs upon Julia and her half
million fall to the ground.”
“Only a few take this view; and these the most ignorant and unreflecting.
The general opinion is, that you sunk the body to conceal the crime of Ross,
and without his knowledge. The justice who issued the warrant for your
arrest takes this view.”
“Including the diabolical idea that I chopped off the head of the dead man,”
added Birch, with a shudder.
“No one pretends to explain that.”
“I might have done all the rest, in a good cause, but I couldn’t have done
that. It makes me sick to think of it.”
“Then don’t think of it.”
“What shall be done, Hungerford?”
“I hardly know. We can do nothing but wait. If you feel uncomfortable here,
you can leave town for a week. The examination cannot take place till Dr.
Bilks returns.”

“I will not leave town. I will not shrink. I shall show myself every day to
the people.”
“Then attend to business as usual. Come up to Pine Hill——”
“No, Hungerford!”
“Attend to my affairs as usual. I shall build two more houses at the Port.”
Dick would not dodge, even under the pressure to which he was subjected.
Nothing could be done but wait the progress of events; and he devoted
himself to the model houses, and other operations of Eugene.
Dr. Bilks was absent a week. On the day before his return, Mr. Lester
departed, thus depriving himself of the pleasure of meeting the man who
loved justice better than he loved his friend; for this was the flourish with
which Mr. Lester described him. During this week, Eugene had devoted
himself principally to his guest, driving him to all the towns within ten
miles of Poppleton, showing him the factories, the ship-yards, and the salt
works, and taking him on the large yacht as far out to sea as Mr. Lester’s
susceptible stomach would permit.
The eminent trustee was pleased with his visit, and delighted with the
Hungerford family. It is true he feared that Eugene was not quite so shrewd
as he should be to possess such immense wealth. He was too sentimental;
too willing to believe that human nature was not corrupt and wholly
irreclaimable; too much disposed to trust men who assumed to be his
friends. But the wise and worldly old gentleman was hopeful, and believed
that he would put away childish things in due time. He counselled him to
shake off “that Birch,” whom the whole town, with one voice, condemned
as a worthless, designing fellow. He saw no objection now to Eugene’s
helping him out of his troubles, and even being his friend, until he could
decently get rid of him.
But the one thing which troubled Mr. Lester more than all others, more than
even his confiding friendship for “that Birch,” was his relation to Mary
Kingman. The solid man of Baltimore was terribly severe upon this
proposed connection; it was so disgraceful that he could not tolerate it. He
pitied the poor girl; he would give her money, get her a situation; do
anything for her, except make her his wife.

Eugene heard all this with what patience he could command, and did not
weep when the old gentleman, with many stately compliments, departed for
Baltimore. Mr. Lester was an old-fashioned man of the world. He never
went against the popular current; he never stood by his friends after the rest
of the world had deserted them; and he never made war upon the people’s
prejudices. He was gone and Eugene escaped his daily lecture on worldly
wisdom.
All that had been said about Mary by Mr. Lester, by Mrs. Hungerford and
Julia, and by Dick Birch, had not cured Eugene of his love. The vision
which had haunted his imagination for long years was still present in his
mind, and not a day, hardly an hour, passed in which he did not think of her.
He could not deny, even to himself, that she was not what she had been; but
she was not contaminated, she was not deprived of any virtue he had prized;
she was still an angel. She had bestowed on another the caresses which
should have been only his; for this he was grieved—for this only. But she
was still Mary, still the being he had loved; and even with the knowledge
that she had been in other arms than his own, she was more to him than any
other could be.
He had seen her but once since the examination of her brother—on the
afternoon of that day. He had talked only commonplaces then. He said
nothing of his love, nothing of his intentions. The conversation related
mostly to Ross and his trial. Julia had visited her several times; on the last
occasion she had taken a violent cold, and on the day before Mr. Lester’s
departure, she had been confined to her room, threatened with a fever.
Eugene heard from Mary often, therefore; for during his guest’s stay, he had
no opportunity to repeat his own visit.
Julia grew worse. Her mother began to be alarmed about her, and sent for
Dr. White, a young practitioner, who had charge of Dr. Bilks’s patients
during his absence. Her symptoms did not yield to the usual remedies, and
Mrs. Hungerford was not satisfied with the physician. On the morning after
Mr. Lester’s departure, the indications were still less hopeful. Julia had been
delirious during the night, and in the morning she was stupid and wandering
in her mind.
“We must have another physician, Eugene,” said Mrs. Hungerford, at
breakfast time. “Dr. White does not understand the case.”

“Certainly, mother; but whom shall we have?”
“Could you get Dr. Hobhed?”
“I will try.”
Eugene hastened to the dilapidated mansion of the author of the “Chemical
Theory.” He was in his library, and the visitor was shown into the
apartment.
“Good morning, Dr. Hobhed,” said Eugene.
The philosopher did not raise his head from his book. Eugene spoke again,
and touched his shoulder.
“O, Mr. Hungerford!” said he, rather vacantly. “I am glad you have come.
Sit down, and I will explain the chemical theory to you.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Hobhed. My sister is very sick.”
“You are aware that certain sea shells have been found in coal mines——”
“Excuse me, Mr. Hobhed,” interrupted Eugene. “Will you go and see my
sister?”
“These sea shells prove that the salt water——”
“I cannot stay to listen to your theory now. My sister is very sick.”
“Salt water is the principle from which all minerals have been created.”
“Will you go and see my sister?”
“All minerals exist in salt water. Gold and silver can be extracted from salt
water, when——”
Eugene interrupted him again. It was impossible to get an idea into his head
outside of the “chemical theory,” and the visitor departed. There was no
other physician at the Port, and Eugene returned to Pine Hill. There were
two doctors at the Mills, and while they were considering which of them
should be called, Dr. Bilks drove up to the door. It was evident that he had
just come from the railroad station.
“Shall we have Dr. Bilks?” asked Eugene of his mother.
“Certainly; he is a very skilful physician,” replied Mrs. Hungerford, all of
whose doubts seemed now to be removed.

“I believe he is a villain.”
“All we want is his medical skill.”
“As you please, mother.”
Dr. Bilks had already been shown to the library; and when Eugene
appeared, he was warmly greeted by the doctor, as though nothing had
occurred to mar the harmony of their relations.
“I called up to see you for a moment, before I go to the office. I have just
returned from New York. I am very sorry not to have met your friend Mr.
Lester,” said the doctor, as volubly as ever.
“I am glad you called, Dr. Bilks,” replied Eugene, rather coldly.
“I merely came up to ask for our friend Mr. Birch. I have done nothing but
think of him ever since I left Poppleton. How is he?”
“He is as well as usual.”
“I suppose he will not even look at me, after what has happened; but I
assure you Mr. Birch is still dear to me as a friend.”
“Julia is very sick. I am glad you have come on her account. My mother is
not satisfied with Dr. White.”
“Miss Hungerford sick! I am sorry for that—very sorry;” and with the
utmost tenderness he asked the particulars of her illness, which Eugene
gave him.
“I am afraid it is too late to break up the fever. I will see her.”
Dr. Bilks went to Julia’s chamber. We must do him the justice to say that
nothing could be more tender, delicate, and judicious, than his conduct in
the sick room. He examined his patient with the nicest care; but he was
compelled to inform Mrs. Hungerford that nothing could prevent her
daughter from having a regular run of typhoid fever. More than this, he was
magnanimous towards Dr. White; for, whether he knew anything about it or
not, he assured her that the medical attendant had done all that any
physician could do. His treatment had been proper and judicious; but Julia’s
health had been impaired by her travel in Europe, and by the excitement in
which she had lived since her return.

Julia was very sick; and while Dr. Bilks promised well, he had some doubts
in regard to the result. If Mrs. Hungerford was not satisfied, he hoped she
would call in other medical advice. Eugene was not satisfied, and the two
doctors from the Mills came, in the afternoon, to consult with Dr. Bilks. All
that had been done was approved, and the patient’s condition, though
dangerous, was not critical.
Pine Hill was filled with anxiety. Gloomy forebodings hung over the house.
Mrs. Hungerford wept over her fair daughter, prostrate before her, perhaps
never again to rise, and mother and brother prayed that God would avert the
threatened blow.

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