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.