Mary Kingman led the way into the house. As she had remarked, it certainly was not a palace. It was a very old house, but it would have been a very good one, if it had been kept in repair. The party were ushered into a large, square room, which in spite of the general dilapidation of the building, was a comfortable apartment. The floor was covered with a cheap carpet, and the furniture looked as though it had been redeemed by patient care and labor from the wrecks of better times, though here and there it was pieced out by sundry inexpensive articles rendered necessary by the progress of the age.
Whatever the house, and whatever the other occupants thereof, Mary Kingman was a lady. She moved with ease and grace, she spoke with fluency, and her manners would have adorned a Fifth Avenue palace. It was evident that she had risen above her social sphere. She was plainly dressed, yet there was that in her personal appearance which indicated a fine taste.
It was necessary that Mr. Buckstone should be introduced to the kitchen, where the great wood fire, employed in getting dinner, would extract the remaining moisture from his garments. An odor of fried fish pervaded the house, which the artist declared was exceedingly grateful; indeed, his prejudices, if he had any, against the humble abode and its humble surroundings, seemed to be completely merged in his admiration of Mary. If he was a stylish gentleman, as he doubtless claimed to be, he was remarkably condescending; for he made himself quite at home, and did not seem to notice the disagreeable things which could not be concealed from the eye and the nostrils of the denizen of the city.
Mary introduced him to her mother, a plain, good-natured woman, without any pretensions to polish. She was frying the fish over a wood fire in a great, old-fashioned fireplace. She gave the artist a homely but hearty welcome, placed him before the fire, and heaped on the wood till the fire blazed up like a volcano, and the fish in the pan exhibited a tendency to leap out of the hot fat in which it was immersed.
“Where is father?” asked Mary, in a low tone.
“He hain’t come home yit,” replied Mrs. Kingman, in the same low tone. “Are you go’n’ to have all these folks to dinner? cause, if you be, I must fry some more fish. I hain’t got nigh on to enough.”
“I don’t know; I will see.”
“I shall evaporate very soon at this rate,” said Mr. Buckstone, who was turning himself round before the fire like a piece of meat on the spit.
“I hope you are more comfortable, sir,” replied Mary. “Will you excuse me for a few moments?”
“Certainly,” answered the artist, though he would have preferred not to do so, for he realized that the gentlemen in the “best parlor” were to have the benefit of her society during those few moments.
As Mary passed along the entry, she saw Mr. Birch through the open, front door, on a little eminence before the house, apparently enjoying the view of the ocean and the surrounding scenery. I have no doubt he was enjoying it, for he had a keen relish for the beauties of nature; but at the same time, I cannot help thinking that his presence on the knoll at that moment was a piece of strategy--a commonplace contrivance to enable Eugene to see the lady alone for a brief period.
Mary went into the parlor, where she had left the two gentlemen. Eugene sat in the rocking-chair, as cool, dignified, and self-possessed as though he had not been under the same roof with the lady whom he professed to love well enough to make her Mrs. Hungerford. A slight flush mantled her cheek as she realized that she was alone with him.
“Has your friend so soon tired of our palace on the island?” said she.
“O, no; I was telling him what a fine view was to be obtained from that knoll, and he could not postpone the enjoyment of it.”
“Of course you will stay to dinner with us, though we can give you only fisherman’s fare.”
“No, I think not. We have our dinner on board the boat, and we shall partake of it on the Ledge. We had no intention of trespassing upon your hospitality to that extent. As Mr. Birch wished to see the island, I thought we might as well walk up while we were at the landing.”
That was all--was it? He had not walked up to the house for the sake of being in her presence a few moments longer. He did not look at her; he did not smile like one whose heart yearned towards her. There was little, if any, of the tenderness in his manner which the impressible artist exhibited even after an acquaintance of a few hours. Mary was sad at heart, and her smile was a struggle with her disappointment.
Yet Eugene did smile upon her; his heart did yearn towards her, and gladly would he have told her his thought, and revealed to her his soul; but Dick Birch’s prophecy was having a literal fulfilment. The three millions rested upon his heart like an incubus, not closing, but turning aside the channels of his affection; not drying up, but rolling back the current of his love. Eugene did try to be tender towards her, but it was an awkward and clumsy effort; it was a signal failure. He judged himself by his intention rather than by his acts, and though no sign was given, he fully believed he had taken his first step. He was waiting now for a token of encouragement: of course none could be given. Had he boldly looked his love,--had he taken her by the hand, and glanced wistfully into her face,--it would have been well with him, well with her. He knew not certainly that she loved him; to manifest his own love, decidedly and unmistakably, would be to tempt her with the three millions. He could not buy her with a price; he could not sell himself at a price.
Mary went out to inform her mother that only Mr. Buckstone would dine with them. Dick Birch still enjoyed the view, and she returned to the parlor.
“Is your friend dry, Mary?” asked Eugene, when she came back.
“He is not my friend,” she replied, hastening to repudiate the implication. “I never saw him till he came off to the boat.”
“Still he served you well enough to be your friend.”
“I am very grateful to him for his kind intentions, though it would have been better for him, and better for me, if he had confined his attention to his sketch of The Great Bell.”
“He is evidently a man of genius; and what is more, perhaps, to a lady, he is an exceedingly handsome man.”
“He is certainly handsome, but that is saying very little for him.”
“Not many ladies would grant as much.”
“We have been friends for a long time, Mr. Hungerford,”--she generally called him Eugene,--“and you know me well enough to believe what I say.”
“I know you set but a small value upon mere beauty; but Mr. Buckstone is more than handsome. He is an artist; he has an excellent reputation as a marine painter in the city.”
Why did he persist in talking about Mr. Buckstone?
“I suppose you will not remain in Poppleton now, Mr. Hungerford,” she continued, boldly changing the topic.
“Why should I not?”
“All the world knows that you are a millionnaire now,” she added, with a languid smile, as though that were the knell of any hopes she might have cherished.
“Would that change me?”
“I think it has changed you,” she answered, with some spirit.
“In what respect?”
“You seem more distant and dignified than you used to be.”
“Do I?”
“You know we used to be excellent friends when we went to school together, and even while you were in college, and since your return.”
“Are we not now?” he asked, with a look more earnest than any he had yet bestowed upon her, and beneath which a slight flush came to her cheeks.
“I don’t think you are so cordial as you used to be.”
“I am sure my friendship has suffered no diminution: on the contrary, I regard you with more--more respect than ever before.”
Respect! what a word to use at such a time and in such a presence! He meant to say something warmer than this when he began, but the ghost of the three millions suddenly obtruded itself between him and her, and he made a botch of it.
“Without being very sentimental, Mr. Hungerford, I cannot help setting a high value on these early friendships.”
“So do I; and, Mary, I am sure we shall always be friends,” said he, cheerfully, and even earnestly; but he placed a mysterious emphasis upon the word “friends,” which seemed to imply that they could never be anything more than friends.
“It would not be strange, Mr. Hungerford,”--she still persisted in calling him so, notwithstanding the example he set her in this respect,--“if you should forget some of the friends of your early years, in your altered circumstances.”
“Mary, it would be very strange if I should forget such a friend as you have been to me.”
This was at least progressive.
“I could not complain of you if you did. I certainly have no claim upon your friendly regard.”
“Indeed you have, Mary. I may forget many associates, but I shall never cease to remember you as one for whom I have always felt a strong----esteem.”
Was that all? Mary felt that it was. Her heart was yearning for his love--not for his three millions. What she felt now, she had felt before John Hungerford died, when Eugene was a humble law student in the office of Squire Perkins. These carefully guarded expressions seemed to shut the door against her, and to pile up a mountain between them. Yet he thought he had said a great deal. He believed that she understood him. He was tempted to take her hand as they stood by the window looking out at Dick Birch on the knoll, and give it a gentle pressure--just enough to assure her that he meant all he said; but this would be committing himself just a trifle too far; it would be offering her a bounty of three millions for her love. He must have some slight expression on her part; he must have some assurance that she loved him independently of his fortune.
“I have no doubt of your present esteem, but the excitements of your new position will drive many old thoughts from your mind,” she continued, perhaps wondering whether he had ever thought of her with any more feeling than that of cold friendship.
“It may; but, Mary, you will never be driven from my thoughts; that is to say, I shall always think of you as the kindest and best of friends.”
The first clause was too warm, the second too cold; and Eugene began to struggle for the happy medium.
“Mary, I don’t know that any definite expressions of affection ever passed between us,” he continued; “still there was a certain sympathy of thought and feeling when--when--we went to school together, which made us unusually good friends. While I was at the head on the boys’ side, you were at the head on the girls’ side. All this has gone by; but friendship between boys and girls has a tendency to be a progressive sentiment which has ripened or will ripen into something”--up came the three millions again--“will ripen into the friendship of the man and the woman.”
“I hope so,” replied Mary; but it was with a sigh which she turned away to conceal.
“Mary, I am going to Europe in a month or two--as soon as I can make my arrangements. As I wander among the ruins of Greece and Rome, and sun myself under pure Italian skies, about which we used to have something to say at school, I shall think of--”--the three millions!--“I shall think of--of my friends at home.”
All of them, of course! Eugene had a large heart, and it could include within its embrace all Poppleton, not excepting the four thousand of the perishing classes, who were to be blessed by his bounty. Mary was hardly satisfied with the cold, studied, embarrassed termination of Eugene’s rapturous speech. One moment he made her heart glow, and the next he chilled it. It is impossible to say what point he might have reached, if Mr. Buckstone, now thoroughly dried and comfortable, had not entered the room and disturbed the unsatisfactory conference.
Mary could hardly be said to be in love, though the phase she had reached is usually interpreted as being in love. She was enduring the miseries of that incipient affection from which the slightest token of love on the part of Eugene would have plunged her into irretrievable depths. That token had not been given; it had been studiously withheld. His words were carefully guarded, apparently with the intention of preventing her from misunderstanding his purpose. He spoke as a friend, not as a lover; he labored to make it plain to her that he was only a friend. He insisted upon friendship; he had half a dozen times elaborately repudiated the very idea of love. The spark that was wanting to kindle in the heart the flame of genuine affection was not communicated to the waiting altar.
Mary Kingman was not lacking in decision. The little curl of her under lip did not speak falsely of her character. Gladly, joyously, triumphantly, as she would have thrown herself into the arms of Eugene Hungerford, and permitted her heart to grow into and intwine itself upon him, he was a mountain of ice to her. She felt that he had closed his heart against her. He could be a good and true friend, but nothing more. With a desponding spirit she turned from him, and the firmness of her character enabled her to banish, once and for all, the pleasing illusion from her mind. Not all, not many, could have done so; Mary did, and Mr. Eliot Buckstone, with his new-born, but enthusiastic admiration, became tolerable to her.
“I hope I don’t intrude,” said the artist, significantly, as he entered the room.
“Not in the least, Mr. Buckstone,” replied Eugene, lightly, as though the great event of his lifetime had not been pending during the interview; and the very cheerfulness of his tones was full confirmation to Mary that no thought deeper than friendship had crossed his mind. “How do you feel after your bath?”
“Very nicely, thank you.”
“Well, Mary, my friend must have exhausted the island by this time, and we will continue our voyage,” added Eugene, taking his hat, and moving towards the door.
“Dinner’s all ready, Mr. Hungerford,” interposed Mrs. Kinsman, coming out of the kitchen on the other side of the entry. “We hain’t got much, but you’re welcome to’t such as ’tis.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kingman; I think we will not remain. We engaged to dine on the Ledge.”
At this moment the door at the rear end of the entry was opened, and an elderly man, considerably intoxicated, reeled towards the party. It was Captain Kingman, the proprietor of the island and of the dilapidated buildings; and the ruinous aspect of everything about the place was sufficiently explained by his present condition.
Mary Kingman turned pale and turned red. She looked as though she would sink through the floor, and hide the shame of being the daughter of a drunkard. She had hoped he would not come home while her guests were present, and the exposure of the family grief would be avoided.
“How d’ do, Mis’r Hung’ford,” said Captain Kingman, in very loud and bluff tones, as he staggered up to Eugene and extended his hand.
“Very well; how do you do, Captain Kingman?”
“Only to’rable; I git a little touch of rheumatiz now’n then; but I’m to’rable. ’S dinner ready, mother?”
“Yes, and waitin’.”
“Come, Mis’r Hung’ford, set down, and take a bite with us.”
“I thank you, captain; I have a friend with me, and we intend to dine on the Ledge.”
“Where’s the man? Tell him t’ come ’n take a bite with us.”
“You must excuse me, Captain Kingman; but we shall be too late for the tide if we remain any longer.”
“See here, Mis’r Hung’ford,” reeling up to Eugene, and steadying himself in a position directly before him, “they say you’re rich now. Your uncle’s dead and gone, ’n left you all ’s money. But look here, Mis’r Hung’ford; you mus’n’t come down here, put’n on airs. I knew your father, Mis’r Hung’ford; he was a smarter man ’n any of ’s chil’n. Will you take sum’n to drink, Mis’r Hung’ford?”
“Nothing at present; I’m obliged to you. I must go now.”
“Mr. Hung’ford, you go to----.”
For some reason or other the inebriated man was determined to be angry. Eugene saw what was coming, for Captain Kingman, in his cups, was well known to be a quarrelsome man, and he beat a retreat. Dick Birch, who had stood like the statue of one of the martyrs on the knoll all this time, joined him, and they hastened down to the boat, which was soon standing down the river again.
“Who’s this man?” demanded Captain Kingman, glancing at Mr. Buckstone.
“Your most obedient servant,” replied the artist, with abundant good nature. “Captain Kingman, I’m happy to make your acquaintance;” and he stepped forward, with extended hand, which the drunken man grasped, with a tipsy grin on his face. “My name is Eliot Buckstone.”
“Mis’r Bucks’on, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you take sum-thin?”
“Thank you; I don’t care if I do,” replied the polite wooer.
“You’re the man for me, Mis’r Bucks’on. Won’t you take a bite with us?”
“Thank you; I had already accepted Mrs. Kingman’s invitation to dine.”
“Well, come; the dinner’ll be cold,” suggested the lady of the house, nervously.
At the table Mr. Buckstone was introduced to another member of the family--Ross Kingman, the only son of the captain. There were four girls, all younger than Mary. The inebriate brought out a black bottle from his chamber, adjoining the kitchen, and the artist, though evidently for the sole purpose of keeping the peace, partook very sparingly with his host. Captain Kingman drank, and the effect of this additional dram was soon apparent in his manners. He was belligerent to a degree which made peace almost impossible; and poor Mary and her mother endured tortures too keen for description during the dinner hour.
“Mary,” said her father, sharply and sternly, as the family rose from the table.
She looked at him, but she made no reply.
“Mary, that Hung’ford is a fool,” he continued, spicing the remarks, as he did most of his conversation, with many oaths. “He’s a bad man. Don’t you speak to him again. Mary, d’ye hear me?”
“I hear, sir,” she replied, as she conducted Mr. Buckstone to the parlor, hoping to escape her father’s presence.
The artist had behaved in the most conciliatory manner, and by his tact had several times appeased the anger of the inebriate; but it was plain to him that home to Mary Kingman was little better than a hell upon earth. He pitied the poor girl, and with admiration, love, and pity, his interest in her was hourly increasing. Captain Kingman followed them into the parlor. He was even more stormy and violent than at dinner, and Mr. Buckstone, in spite of the peace policy he pursued, found it utterly impossible to prevent the drunkard from pouring out the vials of his causeless wrath upon him.
“You pop’jays from the city think a sight of yourselves,” he added, after he had broken with the artist because he declined to drink a second time. “You ain’t no better ’n the law ’lows. You’ve been here long ’nough.”
“I’m going presently, Captain Kingman.”
“Want you to go now,” roared the inebriate. “And if you ain’t gone ’fore I get my bitters, I’ll help you out.”
He left the room, and Mary wept like an infant. It was the artist’s duty to comfort her, and he did so in the most tender and respectful manner. While he was thus engaged, a scream from the kitchen startled both of them. It was twice repeated, and Mary rushed out of the room, followed by Mr. Buckstone. It appeared that Mrs. Kingman, fearful of the consequences of further drains upon the bottle while there was company in the house, had taken the liquor from the chamber and concealed it. She had attempted to do this before, and her husband, promptly comprehending the trick, flew at the poor woman with a ferocity which threatened her life.
Mr. Buckstone promptly interposed, and saved the wife from further peril, but only to draw down upon himself the vengeance of the demon. He defended himself with skill and decision, using no more violence than was necessary to save himself from the wrath of his opponent. He was soon joined by Ross Kingman, the son; and the old man, now overcome by the liquor and the excitement, was borne to his bed.
Mary was weeping bitterly when the artist joined her; but for years had she suffered as she was suffering now. Mr. Buckstone was all sympathy and tenderness. He consoled her, and soothed her mortified pride, by telling her that he had witnessed the same scenes in the house of his own father, and he knew what it was. She felt his kindness, and later in the day, when he took her hand, she did not resist. She was so wounded by disappointment, so broken down by domestic sorrow, that it was sweet to have a friend near her in such an hour.
Twenty years before, Captain Kingman had been what was called a “smart man,” though even then, he was occasionally the worse for liquor. The island was his farm, and at that time he had been the owner of a good coasting schooner, which he sailed himself. But his bad habits increased upon him. In coming into port, after he had drank too much, he ran his schooner upon the Ledge, in a sharp blow, and she became a total wreck. This event opened his eyes, and he was a comparatively steady man for several years, and sailed in the employ of other owners.
Just before the wreck, he had lost his first wife, the mother of Mary and Ross, an excellent, well-bred, refined woman, who sorrowed herself to death as the wife of a drunkard. He married another, his present wife, an easy, good-natured woman, of no force of character, though with a capacity for suffering which was now tried to its utmost. Captain Kingman soon relapsed into even a lower depth of vice. No one would trust him now with the command of a vessel, for he had lost another schooner when there was no excuse for him. He was poor, for he spent what little money he made in drink. Without Ross and Mary, the family could not have been kept together.
Mary had for several years received a salary as a teacher. Her position in the High School had been a good one; but several times her father had come to the school in a state of beastly intoxication, and abused her shamefully. Her sensitive nature could not endure what she was unable to prevent, and she had resigned her situation, with the intention of obtaining another place, at a distance from home. She was waiting for such a position at the present time.
Ross Kingman was a good-hearted young man. He worked on the farm, at the ship-yards on the other side of the river, and occasionally made a fishing or a coasting voyage. All he earned was contributed to the support of the family. The farm was mortgaged up to its full value; and guilty as his father was, the pride of Ross would not permit the family to be broken up, for that would send his parents to the almshouse. Mary was his own sister, and to her he was wholly devoted. He had often advised her to seek a home elsewhere; but thus far she had assisted in the support of the family, and had borne her cross with what fortitude she could command.
Mr. Buckstone heard the substance of this story from the lips of Mary herself. In her grief she was glad of a friend. She listened to his kind words with gratitude; and now that Eugene Hungerford, as she fully believed, could be no more to her, she hardly shrank from the attentions of the artist.
He went back to his hotel in the evening. He came the next day, and the next, and the next,--every day,--till he returned to the city. Captain Kingman, sober, remembered his interference in the quarrel, and savagely drove him from the house; but Mary met him in other places.
