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.
[Illustration: 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.