POPPLETON GOSPEL.
The long summer and part of the autumn wore heavily away to Ross
Kingman, within the walls of the county jail, before his trial took
place. The grand jury had found a true bill against him for the murder
of Eliot Buckstone; and he waited hopefully for the time when a jury of
twelve men should justify him for the deed he had done.
The months wore away less heavily at Pine Hill, though the Hungerfords
were not without their trials and anxiety. Millions of money could not
purchase exemption from the common lot of humanity. A hundred thousand
in the Poppleton Bank, and the same sum invested in stocks and real
estate, did not banish a single care from the mind of Eugene. He loved
and feared, he hoped and desponded, like the poor man who fed his
children by his daily labor. The loss of Dick Birch, even for a time,
was a severe trial to him, in connection with the doubt and uncertainty
which environed the name and reputation of his friend.
Dr. Bilks still came often to Pine Hill; still sunned himself in the
smiles of Julia. He loved her; but he made no progress. The solemn
warning of Dick Birch had not been in vain; and when the enthusiastic
wooer found himself ready to speak tenderly and confidentially on
the subject nearest to his heart, Julia darted away from him. It so
happened that he was rarely alone with her; never, except in the house
or the garden. If the doctor proposed a ride, she instantly ordered
the carriage, and either Eugene or her mother was always sure to be
invited. If they could not go, Julia did not feel like riding. She did
not discourage his attentions; she only checked them. There was no
unkindness on her part, and apparently no undue caution. By some of
those expedients always within the reach of a woman, the doctor was
invariably repressed, the decisive moment was deferred, and he was not
permitted to speak of the love which warmed his heart. But the doctor
still hoped. He had only been checked, not defeated. Day after day he
resolved to “propose,”--and he did not lack the courage to do it,--but
these provoking impediments always prevented him from taking the
important step.
Dr. Bilks had no reason to suppose that obstacles were intentionally
thrown in his way. Julia was always kind. As she had said herself, she
did not dislike him; and without the warning she had received, she
would have permitted events to take their natural course. Julia was
herself. She practised no arts, stooped to no hypocrisy. What she felt
she did not wholly conceal. As Dick Birch came no more to Pine Hill, as
she hardly heard from him, she had come to look upon the doctor as the
man of her choice, though a man deferred simply for prudential reasons.
He was unexceptionable to her; and if the current of love had not begun
to flow, it was only because it was dammed up in the parent fountain.
Dick Birch was absent, but not forgotten; and she could not help
comparing the characters and manners of the two men who loved her. She
did not absolutely love either of them; for one seemed to be a check
upon the other. Her strong mind asserted itself.
Eugene now managed his own business; and it gave him sufficient
occupation to save him from the pangs of _ennui_. About once a week
he went to The Great Bell; but he spoke not of love to Mary Kingman,
though his heart still longed to have all restraint removed. He saw
her as often as he called, and she always blushed and smiled in his
presence.
Captain Kingman was still confined to the house, and hobbled on
crutches every day from his room to the kitchen. He was feeble and
helpless. The family had no means of support, and debt pressed heavily
upon them. Eugene, as a pretence, paid Ross’s salary to Mrs. Kingman
every month, which was sufficient to keep the family comfortable. The
farm was mortgaged; and as no interest was paid, the creditor became
importunate for his dues. He threatened to take possession. Mrs.
Kingman told Eugene of this, with tears in her eyes; for the threat
implied ruin to her. He paid the principal and the interest; indeed, he
discharged every debt he could find against the Kingmans.
Captain Kingman did nothing but moan and groan from morning to night.
He was paying the penalty of his transgressions. He did not concern
himself about family affairs. He had nothing to say about Ross or the
murder; nothing about his debts; nothing about Mary. He was stupefied
by his pains and his misfortunes. He had lost all interest in his
family and his business. Years of dissipation had made him an imbecile.
Mrs. Kingman told him nothing of what Eugene had done; and as far as
possible, at his request, she kept it from Mary, whose sensitive nature
was outraged by dependence.
But, poor girl! she knew that Eugene paid the expenses of the family
without any equivalent, and she had struggled to resist this accepting
of his charity. She was helpless at first; but when her strength
was fully restored, she determined that the family should no longer
live upon his bounty, however freely and gladly it was bestowed.
She procured from her step-mother a full account of all sums Eugene
had expended, so far as Mrs. Kingman knew them, and imposed it upon
herself, as a solemn obligation, to pay back every dollar.
Undoubtedly this resolution gave her some comfort, and partially
satisfied the promptings of her pride. She fully intended to carry
out this design, and believed that, in time, she could earn money
enough to do so. She was not content merely to have a purpose, but she
immediately set about its execution. There was a vacancy in one of the
schools, and she attempted to obtain the situation. She applied for the
place; and one of the committee, knowing her to be a superior teacher,
gave her considerable encouragement. His associates were ministers of
the gospel. They were horrified at the very suggestion of appointing
“such a person.”
Mary was repulsed. She called upon her minister to aid her. He was
willing to do so, if he could. He could not. He did not believe she
ought to think of teaching school; it was not proper for her to do so.
She had made a mistake; she must suffer for it, as all must. Society
must protect itself even from the appearance of sin. It was right that
it should do so. It was hard for her, who had really done no wrong,
to be banished from the presence of the good and the upright; but it
was necessary. She must submit. It was the way of the world. Even bad
men frowned upon a woman’s sin, and turned from her, in society, when
the stain of suspicion hung about her. It was well; for virtue was to
her the pearl of great price, and it must be guarded even by men’s
prejudices.
Mary was terrified by her own sin. She fled from her minister almost
with the feeling that God had ceased to love her; that the demons had
taken possession of her soul. She examined her own heart; she prayed
for wisdom and for strength; but with all her searching, she could not
believe she was so lost and depraved as the fiat of the prudential
committee, and even of her own minister, had declared her to be. But
her own clergyman had not accused her of sin or wrong; he had only said
that society must protect itself at her expense. She had been deceived,
mocked, cruelly wronged. At the worst, she had only been imprudent,
she reflected; but she had always been true to her womanly instinct of
purity. Why should she be spurned? It was hard; but it was the way of
the world, and she could not resist it.
She applied for a school in a neighboring town. One laughed; another
frowned; all refused. The minister was right, in point of fact:
society would protect itself at her expense. She could not obtain a
situation to teach. She gave up the point in despair. She asked for
work in one of the factories. It was given to her simply because the
agent, who was anxious to conciliate Eugene, dared not refuse her. The
operatives, with one voice, protested. Some of them were sinners; but
these protested louder than the others. It was a shame to admit “such a
person” into the mills with respectable girls. They threatened to stop
work; and Mary fled in terror from the tempest she had created.
Eugene heard of all these things, and he asked if there was a God in
heaven. He was indignant, almost furious. He went to Mary; and in a
tumult of woe, she told him the truth. Then, more than ever before, he
wished to fold her in his arms, make her his own, and bravely breast
the storm of worldliness that would beat against them both. He went to
the mill agent, and reproached him for permitting Mary to be driven
from the factory by a mere prejudice. She had done no wrong; she was
more free from stain than half who had fled from her presence. The
agent knew it. He could not help it. If Mary would stay, he would
protect her. There was a principle at stake, and Mary went back to
the mill. The girls withdrew in a body. Eugene paid the damages of
the suspension. Other girls came, and there was a tempest. Society
was protecting itself. Money, for once, fought the battle of the
oppressed. It conquered in the end. Half the girls returned. They could
not contend against money. Indignant fathers and brothers threatened
to break down the dam, to burn the mill, to disable the wheel; and
the great building was guarded day and night like an arsenal in
revolutionary days. Again the factory worked all its spindles.
Those in the mill who came in contact with Mary began to love her. She
was a true Christian; not after the forms of the church alone, but
after the law of God and Christ, which she had transcribed upon her own
heart. One who worked by her side was taken down with a violent fever.
She was far away from home; and Mary tended the loom all day, and
watched all night with the sick one.
“Truly, this girl with a bad reputation is better than any of us,” said
the girls in the mill.
Mary became pale and feeble herself. Eugene heard of it. She had lived
down her bad name. Those who knew her loved her; and there was not an
evil-minded man that dared look disrespectfully upon her. She visited
the sick and the sorrowing; she spoke true and holy words to the
erring; she was the friend of all who needed a friend.
Eugene went to her. He insisted that she should leave the mill, and
nurse the sick girl, if she could not trust this sacred duty to another.
“Mary, you shall be a missionary among the poor and suffering. I shall
build a chapel for the poor, where they may go without money and
without price. John Porter, whom I knew and loved in college, shall
come and preach to them; and you shall help gather his flock. I shall
pay him and you a salary. Will you take the position?”
“I cannot take money from you.”
“False pride!” replied he. “I shall pay another, if not you.”
“Better another than me.”
“I know of no one who will do so well as you.”
Long and faithfully he pleaded with her to become his missionary before
she would accept a salaried position; but she consented. The chapel was
commenced; but the harvest, ripe for the reapers, did not wait for a
building. John Porter came--came to preach practical Christianity. Both
he and Mary visited the poor with provisions, clothing, and fuel in
their train. More cheap tenement houses were built. The poor were well
lodged, well clothed, well fed; the chapel was filled with attentive
hearers; but more than all,--for it is the foundation of all true
self-respect,--the poor were taught to be independent. It was found
that the model houses were good, paying property, and prudent men, for
their own interest, helped to carry out Eugene’s idea. Men and women,
who had received gifts from the chapel treasury, insisted upon paying
their full value; for with well-filled stomachs and well-covered bodies
came a self-respect and a self-reliance which refused charity.
But, in spite of all that was done, Eugene did not dream of founding
a Utopia. He did not succeed in building up a colony of saints and
heroes. There were still hundreds of men and women who could hardly be
anything but vagabonds. The foreign population, though much improved in
condition, still obstinately clung to dirt, and rags, and bad whiskey;
paradise and Poppleton were still dissimilar.
When Eugene had bought the land, and staked out the chapel, Father
McCafferty, the Catholic priest of the Mills, called upon him in high
dudgeon, and squarely accused him of attempting to convert his flock to
the “abominable religion.”
“Not at all, Father McCafferty,” replied Eugene, calmly.
“You are building a chapel for them,” added the indignant priest. “Of
what use is it to them if you build houses for the poor, feed, and
clothe, and warm them, if you steal away their souls?”
“I assure you, sir, I have no designs upon their souls.”
“What else can it mean? The chapel is for the poor; and that means my
people. Sure you have done everything for them, and you are stealing
them away from me.”
“I have no desire to convert them from anything but dirt, rags, and
vile liquor.”
“God bless you for that; if you will only stop there. But your chapel
and your Sunday school will rob them of their souls. I have no
church--nothing but an old shed; and some of them may be led into a
nice place like that you mean to build.”
“Father McCafferty, it makes no difference to me what these people
believe, if they only have a religion that will save their souls, and
keep them from vice and sin.”
“That is what their religion is for,” said the priest, warmly. “I have
no means to work with.”
“Do you want a church?”
“I do, badly.”
“You shall have one. What will it cost?”
“Six thousand dollars,” replied the astonished priest.
“Build your church, and I will pay all the bills.”
“God bless your honor.”
Father McCafferty was a true Catholic, but none the less a true
Christian. If he placed more stress on mere forms than those of a
different faith, it was because he believed they were vital. Eugene
thought that any Christian faith would save a man from sin, if it was
earnestly believed and faithfully followed. It made no difference to
him what other men’s theological opinions were, if the holders of them
were only earnest and faithful.
So the Catholic Church was built, and Father McCafferty was a happy
man, and joined Eugene in good works, while he refused even to utter
the Lord’s Prayer in worship with him. The _millionnaire_ went a step
farther. The priest, at his suggestion, imported half a dozen Sisters
of Charity into Poppleton, and Eugene filled up the exchequer from
which these self-sacrificing ladies drew for the needy ones. Under
the tuition of the good father and the benevolent sisters, the people
of the Catholic parish struck a terrible blow at the demons of filth,
rags, and bad whiskey. But yet, with all that had been done, paradise
and Poppleton were still leagues apart.
Thus passed away the summer and the autumn, till the first Tuesday in
November, the day appointed for the trial of Ross Kingman. As Julia
insisted upon being the companion of Mary, the carriage was ordered
for them, and Eugene and Dr. Bilks occupied the front seat. On their
arrival, the vehicle was left at the hotel, and the ladies, attended by
Eugene, walked over to the jail to see Ross, where an awkward meeting
took place, for Dick Birch was there, preparing himself for the trial.
Dick blushed up to his eyes; so did Julia. A friendly greeting
followed, and she retreated as soon as possible.
“Dick, I am glad to see you again,” said Eugene, as he grasped the
offered hand.
“Equally glad am I,” replied Dick.
“Where have you been these four months?”
“At work. I have written to you half a dozen times.”
“You have; but you didn’t say anything in your letters.”
“I thought it was best to let old matters slumber for a while. I have
been as busy as a bee. But you must excuse me now, for I have two or
three points to settle before the trial comes on.”
Ross was cheerful, and seemed to have no fears of the result. Mary had
been to see him several times during his long confinement, and Eugene
had been careful to supply him with everything he needed, which the
rules of the jail would permit. As Dick Birch wished to confer with the
prisoner, the party left him, and went to the court-house, where Dr.
Bilks had already preceded them.
“Have you seen Mr. Birch? They say he is here,” said the doctor to
Eugene.
“I saw him at the jail.”
“How does he seem?”
“Remarkably cheerful.”
“What has he been about?” asked the doctor, rather nervously.
“I don’t know; he says he has been at work all the time.”
“What has he been doing?”
“He does not say; but I suppose he has been at work upon his own case.”
“His own case, it seems to me, was pretty effectually settled the last
time we were here.”
Dr. Bilks did not appear to be at all satisfied with Dick’s labors
during his absence, or rather with the fact that he had been at work.
Perhaps he thought it was very unreasonable of Dick, after he had been
so fully condemned by the popular voice, to resist the conclusion that
he was a liar and a perjurer.
The court came in; the prisoner was placed in the dock, and after the
usual difficulty in impanelling a jury to try a capital case, the
trial commenced. We do not propose to follow it through its tedious
length. Dr. Bilks was the first witness called in the afternoon. He
took his place upon the stand with an easy assurance, and Mr. Lowe,
the government attorney, drew from him all the evidence he wanted,
substantially as it had been given before, with the additional fact
that he had seen and recognized Mr. Birch, in company with Buckstone.
The doctor was as tender of his friend, as he had been before; and he
appeared like a man who was anxious for nothing but to tell the truth.
Mr. Lowe, entirely satisfied with the witness, turned him over to the
defence for cross-examination.
“Your name, if you please,” said Dick, to whom this duty was again
intrusted.
“Dr. Bilks.”
“Your name in full, if you please.”
“Thomas L. Bilks,” replied the doctor, with a smile.
“What is your middle name?”
The doctor hesitated, and looked slightly embarrassed.
“Lenox,” he added, at last.
“Thomas Lenox Bilks,” repeated the lawyer.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that your name?” demanded Dick, sharply.
“That is my name.”
“Are you willing to swear that that is your name?” continued the thorny
lawyer, rising from his chair, and gazing earnestly into his face.
Mr. Lowe interfered; even the judges, feeling that the lawyer meant
to browbeat the witness, suggested that he was under oath. To the
astonishment of everybody, Dick declared that the doctor had not given
his true name.
“You take your oath that your name is Thomas Lenox Bilks--do you?”
“I do.”
The doctor was pale as a sheet. He trembled, and his attempt to smile
and seem indifferent was an utter failure. The people in the court-room
were breathless with interest.
The lawyer pressed him on this point for some time, until the court
interfered.
“May it please the court, the witness has not given his true name. We
shall be able to prove, if necessary, that he is here under an assumed
character, that his evidence is utterly unreliable and worthless,” said
Dick, turning to the judges; and he was permitted to proceed.
“Once more, Dr. Bilks, what is your real name?”
The doctor was silent. It was evident that Dick Birch had not worked
for nothing during his absence.
“Answer me, if you please,” said Dick, sternly.
Dr. Bilks looked around the room, as if to measure the full extent of
his difficulty. He saw some one, apparently, whose presence startled
him.
“My real name is Thomas Lynch,” replied the doctor, as the cold sweat
stood upon his forehead.
“I thought so,” replied Dick, triumphantly, as he glanced at Hungerford
to see the effect of this astonishing revelation.
Eugene actually leaped to his feet with surprise, for that name was the
key to everything which had been dark and mysterious.
“Why did you change your name, Dr. Lynch?” asked Dick.
“Because the name of Lynch does not suit me. It was an injury to me in
my practice. I have been taken for an Irishman so many times that I
assumed my mother’s maiden name.”
“Was that the only reason?”
“It was.”
“Is your mother living?”
“She is not.”
“What was the name of her last husband?”
Dr. Lynch, as we must hereafter call him, was not disposed to answer
this question. The court thought it was unnecessary; and Dick explained
what he intended to prove.
“The name of your mother’s last husband, if you please?” repeated Dick.
“John Hungerford,” replied the doctor, desperately, as he glanced at a
woman in the witness seats, who was a stranger to most of the people
present at the trial.