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.