Pine Hill blazed with glory on the evening of the fifteenth of May. Eugene and Mary were married. The ceremony had been performed at the farm-house on The Great Bell, at six o’clock, in presence of the two families, and a few intimate personal friends. Dick Birch and Julia, Dr. Lynch and Miss Perkins, were groomsmen and bridesmaids. At half past six several gayly-decorated barges, prepared for the occasion by Ross Kingman, bore the party over the channel, and by seven o’clock the festivities at the Pine Hill mansion were fairly inaugurated.
For certain cogent reasons, Eugene, generally opposed to much display, favored a universal gathering; and the most elaborate preparations had been made to celebrate the joyous occasion. Mary had been under the ban of public displeasure; she had been frowned upon, had been neglected and despised. Her husband wished to make this her triumph. If it was the way of the world to cast her off when in poverty and subjected to odious suspicions, it was also the way of the world to smile upon those whom fortune favored. Brilliant lights, gorgeous dresses, inspiring music, a sumptuous feast, put the world in excellently good humor with itself.
Men from the city--caterers, decorators, fire-kings--had been at Pine Hill for a week. The house, large as it was, was not large enough to hold the multitude; for all Poppleton was bidden to the feast. Thousands of fantastic lamps and Chinese lanterns flashed among the trees of the grounds. Pyrotechnic fires, of all colors, illuminated the scene, and one might see to read fine print anywhere between the house and the river. A vast pavilion had been erected for the supper, and a small army of cooks and waiters were as busy as bees in their temporary quarters. The Poppleton Brass Band played near the river, and the Germania, from the city, on the lawn before the house.
At seven o’clock, when the guests began to arrive, Eugene and the bride stood at the head of the great drawing-room. Mary had been subjected to the manipulations of Madame La Somebody, from Paris, and her dress of white satin was the perfection of the mode. Nothing more beautiful in human form could be conceived of than Mrs. Eugene Hungerford, and the admiration bestowed upon her was unmeasured and unstinted. She was happy; the clouds had rolled away, and behind their dense volume, paradise had opened to her. Earth had become heaven. The fondest dream that ever gladdened the heart of woman was realized in that blissful hour. She was the wife of the man she loved--who loved her. This was joy enough without the gorgeous surroundings with which she passed to her estate of bliss.
Eugene Hungerford, tall, well formed, and elegant in his manner, never looked better, and never felt happier. Even the thought that she who stood by his side had been another’s for a brief period, was forgotten. His cup was full; the one dreg at the bottom could not be seen.
Parkinson was master of ceremonies in the house, and he ushered the guests into the drawing-room with a suavity and a dignity which would have been distinguishable in a grand chamberlain. It required no little strategetic skill to keep the programme from being suddenly blocked by the crowd; but without any jarring, or even any loud words, the interminable line of visitors passed by the bridal couple, congratulated them, and disappeared, to mingle with the festive throngs that filled the gardens and the grounds.
At nine o’clock the festivities became a little more old-fashioned. Eugene and his wife abandoned the stateliness of their position in the drawing-room, and mingled with the guests. Dancing, games, and merrymaking prevailed. Laughing, shouting, hilarity, and even rudeness were not frowned upon, and everybody was encouraged to make the most of the occasion.
At ten the great pavilion was opened. The tables were profusely spread with every luxury which Monsieur the Chef de Cuisine could invent or procure. It is true that some of the old sea captains and mill agents grumbled, in a quiet way, because there was no champagne; but Eugene had resolved that the joyous occasion should not be a stumbling-block in the way of any man.
At eleven o’clock the fire-kings were in their glory; rockets, squibs, serpents, Bengal lights, and Roman candles, as well as whirligigs and set pieces, fizzed, banged, screamed, hissed, and blazed in every direction. The stars disappeared, and the floating clouds glowed with crimson lights. The air was redolent of smoke and sulphur. All Poppleton was excited to the highest pitch of ecstasy. Such fire and smoke, such lights and music, such wonderful dishes and astonishing pastry, such brilliant scenes and gorgeous displays, had never before been seen or known in the town.
Some of the farmers from the Summerville road estimated that twenty thousand dollars would not cover the expenses of the evening; that half a dozen good farms were eaten up and drank up, fizzled away and flirted away, in six hours’ time. They did not add that all the money went into the hands of merchants, mechanics, artists, and laborers, and that some portion of it doubtless went into the half dozen farms. It was an awfully extravagant affair, and they regarded it as so much money out of pocket. So it was to Eugene; but what goes out of one pocket goes into another, and as he could unquestionably afford the expense, it was only so much money transferred from his exchequer to the purses of those who needed it more than he did. The old farmers from the Summerville road took a one-sided view of the matter.
At half past eleven, the bridal party, groom and groomsmen, bride and bridesmaids, took carriages at the door, and went to the Mills, where a special train was waiting for them. The festivities continued at Pine Hill till two o’clock in the morning. At one o’clock the party were in Boston. They were absent a fortnight on the bridal tour. On their return to Poppleton, the current of life began to roll on as before--yet not as before, for Eugene and Mary were one now, and it was a new life. The loving wife was duly installed in her new position as the mistress of the Pine Hill mansion. The dignity sat easily upon her, and every day was a day of joy.
Dick Birch was a member of the family, and Dr. Lynch, still hopeful, was a constant visitor. Julia did not permit him again to plead his suit before her. She treated him with the utmost consideration and kindness; but she avoided every appearance which was liable to misconstruction.
Eugene was married. The first step towards acquiring the three millions, now in trust, had been taken. After all doubts in regard to the first marriage of Mary had been removed from the minds of others, Dick Birch had ceased to reason with his friend upon the impropriety of making her Mrs. Hungerford. Doubtless he would still have opposed the marriage, if there had been any hope of preventing it. Eugene was determined; his mother and sister favored his wishes, and Dr. Lynch absolutely urged it with the strongest arguments which could be presented to a willing mind.
Dick had not been selfish. When he had been compelled to expose his hopes of winning Julia, an insurmountable barrier had been raised up before him. He was virtually accused of seeking her for the sake of her contingent half million, and he had solemnly resolved never to think of her again until Eugene was married, even if she was forever lost to him by the delay. He had kept his vow, as far as such a vow could be kept. He loved her, and concealed his thoughts and feelings. He had prudently avoided every demonstration which could incline her to favor his suit. Though he had been a member of the family since the trial of Ross Kingman, he had seldom spent an evening in the sitting-room with the family.
The marriage of Eugene had removed his disability. He could not now be accused, even by the most invidious critic, of loving her for her fortune. On the bridal tour, he had been more sociable with her; but Julia appeared to be very impartial between him and the doctor. Since the return of the party, he was often by her side. Little attentions were more profuse than before; but Dr. Lynch was in his way. Contrary as it may appear to human experience, he cherished no ill will towards his rival. If Julia preferred the doctor to himself, justice and generosity to her required that he should be magnanimous.
Dick’s term of probation had passed away, and his affection gathered power as the obstacles were removed. He had not ceased to love her since they resided together in the cottage of James Hungerford. He had not concealed his love; he had even been compelled to proclaim it in public. He was ready to speak now; and when the party returned to Pine Hill, he had begun to watch for his opportunity.
It was a bright June day, and the garden was in the flush of its summer beauty. Dick had taken his early morning walk through the estate, and on his return he met Julia. She wore her morning dress. She was in easy costume; and Dick thought she had never looked so beautiful, though it is quite probable she always had. He had been thinking of her, and very likely he was in condition to be peculiarly enthusiastic.
“Good morning, Dick”--she always called him so, except in the presence of strangers. “Have you finished your morning ramble? No matter if you have; you must come with me.”
“With the greatest pleasure. I like to walk here; with you it will be a double satisfaction.”
“Were you ever in Ireland, Dick?”
“Never.”
“I thought you had been.”
“Why, Julia?”
“I judged so from the remark you made--a double satisfaction! You must have been to Cork; you must have kissed the blarney stone.”
“I think I could kiss something nearer home that would give me the persuasive tongue.”
“Why, Dick! I am positively afraid of you,” laughed she.
“I assure you I am entirely harmless.”
“You talk like a Spanish gallant this morning. What is the matter with you? What has come over you? Have you been reading Don Quixote?”
“No; I have only been thinking of you.”
“Thinking of me! I thought you never indulged in trivial reflections. But I have a very serious matter to propose.”
“So have I.”
“You!”
“I have, but of course it is your right to be heard first.”
“Do you know that it was very stupid of you not to think of a rustic bridge when you were making these grounds?” replied she, evidently gathering some intimation of the subject of Dick’s intended discourse from his looks.
“I am glad I was so stupid.”
“This is rebellious.”
“By no means. It is a happy reflection now, that everything was not done in the beginning.”
“Why, Dick?”
“Because the neglect has given you a thought, and afforded me this opportunity.”
“What opportunity?” she asked, turning away to hide her confusion.
“The opportunity to do what you wish me to do--build a bridge, if that is what you desire.”
“That is what I desire. This way, Dick; I propose to build the bridge over the brook--not over the river.”
“Over both, if you wish.”
“How complaisant you are, Dick! Why can’t you be a little obstinate, and tell me that a bridge cannot be built; that it would spoil the grounds; that it wouldn’t be safe, or something of that kind? This is the place. You ought to have put a rustic bridge here, instead of such a one as the stupid county commissioners would put over the river.”
“Have you made a plan of what you desire?”
“A plan! Do you think I could be guilty of such an absurdity as drawing a plan?”
“How shall I know what you wish, then?”
“I said a rustic bridge; you know what that is. I leave all the details to you.”
“It shall be commenced to-day.”
“You are very obedient.”
“I intend to be. I will build you a bridge; but Julia----”
He paused, and looked her in the face--only a glance, then gazed upon the ground.
“But what? Are you going to tell me it is impossible, now you have promised to do it?”
“Not at all; but if I build a bridge for you, Julia, you must build one for me.”
“I am not a bridge builder.”
“Neither am I.”
“What do you mean, Dick?”
“I find myself on the wrong side of the river.”
“The wrong side?”
“I am on one side, and you are on the other.”
“Are you demented?”
“As sane as a man in my condition can be.”
“Pray, what do you mean by your condition?”
“In love.”
“Poor fellow! That’s a serious malady to some people.”
“Very serious to me, if you refuse to build me the bridge.”
“Has Susey Perkins stolen your heart?” stammered Julia, struggling to recover her self-possession.
“Julia, I love you!”
“Why, Dick! I wonder those words did not choke you.”
“They will, I am afraid, if you laugh at me. Sit down on this bench, Julia, and we will see how the bridge will look when it is done,” said he, taking her by the hand, and conducting her to the seat.
She did not resist, and he seated himself by her side. He said something more about the bridge, and described to her the structure he intended to erect, if she was pleased with the idea.
“Will you build my bridge, Julia?”
“That is a very blind figure, and I don’t understand it.”
“The bridge upon which I may pass from doubt and uncertainty to joy and peace. I need not tell you, Julia, how long I have loved you.”
“I don’t think you love me, Dick; it is only a spasm; you will recover in a week,” laughed she.
“You doubt my words.”
“How can I help doubting them?”
“Why should you doubt them?”
“For more than a year you have been hardly sociable as a friend.”
“You know the reason. It would have been mean for me to press my suit before my character was vindicated.”
“But since that?”
“My motives were liable to misconstruction. Eugene is married now----”
“Don’t say a word about those disagreeable matters, Dick. They are loathsome to me. I used to think before I went to Europe, and while I was there, that you were just a little fond of me.”
“Not a little, for I loved you with all my soul, Julia.”
“Not since I returned?”
“Every moment of the time since I first came to Poppleton.”
“But you have been so cold and distant since the trial!”
“There was good reason for that.”
“What?”
“Dr. Lynch.”
“What of him?”
“If you love him better than me, I have no right to complain, and I will not. I did not, at any time, wish to step between you and him.”
“You were very prudent.”
“For your sake I was.”
“Why are you less considerate now?”
“I do not perceive that you are any more partial to him than to me.”
“I am not, Dick.”
He looked at her; he took her hand, but she gently released it from his grasp.
“Julia, I love you with all my soul. My fate is in your hands.”
“That is very dramatic.”
“You mock me.”
“I cannot really determine, Dick, whether to be serious or not.”
“I am so.”
“I will not laugh again--if I can help it. I don’t know what to say.”
“There is one thing you can say.”
“What is that?”
“Whether you love me or not.”
“I don’t know whether to say that or not.”
“You know whether you do love me or not.”
“Perhaps I don’t,” replied she, musing. “You have never given me an opportunity to love you; or, at least, to find out whether I did or not. Do you think, Dick, that ladies fall in love with gentlemen just as they do with new bonnets, without any excuse for doing so?”
“Not often.”
“Sometimes they do, I grant; but I am not so impulsive.”
“Do you dislike me, Julia?”
“Very far from it; indeed, I like you very much.”
“Then will you be my wife?”
“I am not prepared to answer you now. You have been so distant that I do not yet know my own heart.”
“If you will say that you do not love me----”
“You will be just as well satisfied,” interposed she.
“You are cruel, Julia.”
“Do you wish to persuade me to say now that I do not love you?”
“If it be true, say so.”
“And what then?”
“I will never annoy you again.”
“You do not annoy me.”
“I am afraid I do.”
“Well, if you will have it so.”
“I will leave you; I will leave Pine Hill, if you desire.”
“Now you are absurd!”
“I will not thrust myself into your presence.”
“You know I like you, Dick.”
“Like me; but you do not love me.”
“You say that, not I.”
“We are almost quarrelling, Julia.”
“You are; I am not.”
“Let us be very serious for a moment. If you do not love me, Julia, I have no reproaches for you. I should be greatly grieved, but not angry. If you do not love me, say so, I entreat you.”
“Dick, I’m afraid I do love you, just a very little.”
“Ah, Julia----”
“Only a very little.”
“I am satisfied, Julia.”
“I am not,” she added, apparently with a feeling that she had committed herself too far. “I do not love you well enough to become your wife. You must wait, Dick. I think I have said enough.”
“Not quite, Julia; you have not told me whether I may hope or not.”
“I can tell you that. I will not be the wife of any man unless I love him with all my mind, heart, and soul; unless I can have perfect confidence that he has not now, and never will have, any other god than myself. I must be wholly his, and he must be wholly mine.”
“Then be wholly mine!”
“Not yet can I say that. Marriage on any other terms than those I state would be absolutely loathsome to me.”
“It would to me; but I could have no other god but you.”
“Perhaps not; but we must wait.”
“May I hope?”
“On your own responsibility you may--not on mine.”
“But you said you did love me a little.”
“A very little.”
“Will that little increase?”
“It may--it may not. If it does not, I can never be your wife. You must not ask me to unsay what I have said. I have been sincere. There is my hand, Dick. We are the best of friends--let the future determine your fate and mine.”
“You do not bid me cease to hope?” he said, taking the offered hand.
“No; we are both free.”
“You are; but I am not.”
“What more can I say, Dick? This I will add--that you----”
“Ahem!”
Both of them started. Dr. Lynch stood hardly a rod distant, looking at them. His face was flushed, and he appeared to be angry.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, advancing towards them.
“You are out early, doctor,” said Julia, striving to hide her confusion.
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” he replied, significantly; “but the nature of my business required me to do so.”
“What has happened, doctor?” asked Julia.
“Captain Kingman had a bad turn this morning, and I was called in at five o’clock. I think he will not live through the day. Mrs. Hungerford is going down to the island. Mr. Hungerford desired to see Mr. Birch before he goes, and I volunteered to find him.”
Dick, leaving Julia with Dr. Lynch, hastened to the house.
“I am very sorry to have disturbed you, Miss Hungerford,” said the doctor.
“You need not be at all disconcerted,” she replied, turning away to hide her blushes.
“You seemed to be very pleasantly employed,” he added, with something like a sneer.
“You are rather cynical in your manner this morning, Dr. Lynch.”
“Pardon me, Miss Hungerford, but may I yet know whether I am to be banished from your presence?”
“I shall never banish you, doctor.”
“Mr. Birch seems to be on excellent terms with you.”
“As he should be,” she answered with dignity.
“Do I annoy you?”
“Only when you refer to Mr. Birch.”
“Pardon my rudeness, Julia. I love you, and it does not improve my temper to see another so intimate with you. I have no right to feel so.”
“You have not, certainly.”
“Will you answer me only one question?”
“If it is a proper one.”
“Must I cease to hope?”
“You must hope or cease to hope with no aid from me. The circumstances have not perceptibly changed since we last spoke on this subject.”
By this time they had reached the house. The doctor professed to be satisfied; but he was not.
