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.”