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.