“Don’t be disturbed, Hungerford; it is nothing but an idle story,” said Dick Birch, taking the arm of his friend as he joined him in the street.
“Dick, I shall go mad!” exclaimed Eugene; and a cold shudder ran through his frame.
“Never mind the story; it is only gossip.”
“Let us get out of sight, Dick,” continued Eugene, as he convulsively clutched the arm of his friend, and dragged him down the street towards the river. “I must go down to the island and learn the truth at once.”
“Keep cool, Hungerford.”
“How can I keep cool in the face of such a wretched rumor?”
“This is not like you.”
“I shall go mad, Dick!”
“No, you won’t do anything of the sort. What are you going mad for?” said Dick, rather impatiently.
“Don’t mock me.”
“Then don’t make a fool of yourself. You are attracting attention now by your furious pace. Slow down a little, and be reasonable.”
“You can’t understand it Dick,” groaned Eugene.
“Yes, I can understand it better than you do.”
“Let us get out of sight.”
“You won’t make much by getting out of sight, if you insist upon showing yourself off to the people in the streets beforehand.”
Eugene reduced his pace, and labored to be calm; but it was utterly impossible for him to control his emotions. It required all of Dick’s strategy to prevent him from exposing his weakness to the people in the streets. When they reached the river, the sail boat seemed to be the only available resort, and Eugene threw himself on the cushions in the standing-room, the very picture of despair and desolation. The conduct of Mary Kingman was as mysterious as it was painful.
Dick hoisted the sails, and took charge of the boat, leaving his companion to vent his sorrows by himself. The wind was very light, and the boat slowly receded from the shore. Eugene did not speak, and his common-sense friend watched the sails in silence, deeming it best to let the first transports of grief spend themselves. At last the disappointed lover looked up into the face of Dick, but the anguish of his heart was still visible in his countenance.
“What shall I do, Dick?” he asked.
“Do nothing,” replied Dick, rather sternly.
“You don’t understand it.”
“I do, perfectly. I don’t want to say anything to hurt your feelings, Hungerford, but I congratulate you upon this thing.”
“You are making sport of me.”
“On my soul, I am not! I mean what I say. It is fortunate for you that this thing happened when it did, and as it did.”
“No, Dick!”
“I mean so.”
“You cannot be so barbarous.”
“Barbarous? We haven’t got the facts yet, but if this girl has run away with a dissolute person, you are a lucky fellow to escape from further contact with her.”
“You don’t know her, Dick.”
“I don’t want to know her if she is what she appears to be.”
“I will not believe she meditates anything wrong, Dick. Mary Kingman was an angel!”
“All girls are, under certain circumstances.”
“No, no, Dick; you will not understand me.”
“Hungerford, I know you feel bad, and I am sorry for you; but I must speak my mind, if I speak at all, whether you like it or not. It appears now that the girl has run away with a man whose character is not above par.”
“Don’t, Dick!”
“Don’t what? I only state the fact.”
“You state it as offensively as possible.”
“I state it just as it is. Now, to take the mildest view of it: Miss Kingman did not love you, or she would not have run away with another man. Is that good logic?”
“I always thought she loved me.”
“You were mistaken.”
“I can’t think I was.”
“Confound it, Hungerford, what do you mean?” said Dick, impatiently. “Don’t you see the thing has proved itself? If you thought chalk was cheese, wouldn’t the taste convince you? The girl has gone off with another man, either to be his wife, or----.”
“No, Dick!” shouted Eugene, springing to his feet. “Don’t say that, or you will make me your enemy.”
“Hungerford, I don’t buy my friends, any more than you buy your wife. I deem it my duty, as your friend, to open your eyes. I don’t wonder that you feel bad, if you loved the girl.”
“If I loved her!” gasped Eugene.
“Well, I had my doubts whether or not you did. I must say you were the coolest, most unimpassioned lover I ever saw in my life.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do. Why, man, you hardly looked at her! You were alone with her for half an hour, the other day, and I’ll bet you talked politics with her, or discussed the height of the mountains in the moon.”
“You are amusing yourself at my expense, Dick.”
“I was never more serious in my life, Hungerford. In my opinion you have done the very thing I was afraid you would do, and warned you not to do.”
Dick prided himself on being a prophet.
“What was that?”
“I was afraid you would permit your fear of buying the lady to make you seem cold, indifferent, reserved, and distant. When you came out of the house the day we went there, I studied her expression very carefully. You had been alone with her for half an hour; I expected to find a little glow upon her face, to find some indication of pleasure in her eye, which would assuredly have been visible, if you had given her reason even to suspect that you loved her. Hungerford, she looked sad, disappointed, hopeless.”
“Do you mean to say that you could tell by her looks what her feelings were?”
“No; but a lady of her age, and of her sensitive nature, could not conceal the exultation of her first love, any more than she could conceal any other joy that warmed her heart. I was looking for such a manifestation. I could not find it. On the contrary, she looked sad and depressed.”
“Poor girl! she had enough, as you saw, that day, to make her sad and depressed. It was just before her drunken father made his appearance.”
“It was not that. You did not take her by the hand, when we left; you did not smile upon her. Your adieu to her was not different from that to her mother. I watched her as you walked away. Her eye followed you, and it seemed to me I could hear her reason speaking to her heart, and saying that you did not love her, and that her heart must cease to beat for you. I think now that she gave you up then. Very likely she thought that, as you were now a millionnaire, she had no right to cherish the affection she had fostered when you were both poor.”
“Perhaps she did,” said Eugene, musing; “but I did love her, and I intended to assure her that I regarded her with deep interest.”
“Pray, what did you say to her?” demanded Dick, bluntly.
Eugene recalled the embarrassment under which he had labored on that occasion; the difficulty he had experienced in attempting to say enough without saying too much; and the fear which had haunted him lest he should make her the wife of the three millions instead of himself. He had firmly resolved not to permit himself to be influenced by the contingent fortune, and this resolution had warped his judgment over to the opposite extreme. He began to realize it now, under the sharp tuition of his common-sense friend.
“I told her that we should always be friends,” he replied, in answer to Dick’s blunt question.
“Did you, indeed?” And something like a sneer accompanied the words.
“I meant so.”
“It is quite possible you did. Are you sure you didn’t tell her you could never be anything more than friends?”
“Of course, I did not. I didn’t mean that.”
“Miss Kingman would have been smarter than any lady I know of, if she hadn’t believed that was what you meant. Did you tell her you were going abroad?”
“I did.”
“Did you promise to write to her, or ask her to write you?”
“Not in so many words?”
“What did you say about it?”
“Well, I told her--I told her I should think of all my friends at home.”
“Excellent!”
“Of course I meant her.”
“And she, being gifted with the power to read your soul, even while you were studiously attempting to hide it from her, readily understood that all your friends at home meant herself! No, Hungerford, there was no hole in that millstone. You cheated yourself, which is of no great consequence; you cheated her, which, as the result shows, is a matter of very great consequence both to you and to her.”
“Let us go to the island, and find out the facts,” said Eugene, uneasily; for, as thousands of others have done when it was too late, he regretted his excessive distrust, his overstrained prudence.
They went to the island; they saw Mrs. Kingman: her husband was still sleeping off the effects of his midnight debauch. She told Eugene that Mary had gone--where she knew not. The “strange story” that was circulating at the Port had not yet reached the island. With tearful eyes she narrated to him the events which had transpired in the house when Captain Kingman came home in the middle of the night; that Mary had been driven from her home by the fear of her father’s violence; that even her life was in peril if she remained longer in the house.
Eugene was filled with anguish by the story of wrong and violence; and it was some time before he could muster the courage to repeat to her the rumor which was passing through the village. Mrs. Kingman listened patiently to his slow and struggling utterance of the truth so terrible to him.
“I shouldn’t wonder, a mite,” said the woman.
“Then you think it is true that she has gone off with this man?” asked Eugene.
“I shouldn’t be the least surprised. Mr. Buckstone was down here e’en a’most all the time arter that day you were all here.”
“Was he?”
“That’s what made her father so desp’ate mad with her. He found ’em down on the beach two or three times; and arter that it seemed to me the man was possessed with the sperit of the evil one, and he pestered the poor gal all the time.”
“What did you think of Mr. Buckstone yourself?” said Eugene, pierced to the soul by every word the woman spoke.
“Well, he was a perlite body. He always looked like a nice sort o’ man to me; but there’s no tellin what a body is by the looks. Cap’n Kingman stuck to’t the man was a raskil; he told me that he had hearn some one said so that knew him in New York.”
“Poor Mary!” sighed Eugene.
He had already passed from the selfish view of his own loss to an unselfish consideration of the poor girl’s fate. The story was all told. What he had been too blind to see, others had known for a week--that Mary had encouraged the attentions of the artist. With a heart sadder than he had ever known before, he walked down to the boat, where his friend had remained while he went up to the house to make the inquiries. He repeated to Dick all that he had learned.
“Poor girl! I pity her, if the fellow is the villain he is represented to me,” said Dick, who, though sometimes sharp in his words and quick in his conclusions, had a heart as warm and tender as that of a woman.
Eugene buried his face with his hands, and groaned in bitterness of spirit. To his own grief at the loss of her who seemed to be more to him now than ever before, was added the revolting fact that Mary Kingman had unwittingly thrown herself into the arms of a reckless villain. To have known that she had become the bride of an honest man, would have been tolerable; to feel that she had thrown herself away upon an unprincipled wretch, was insupportable.
“What shall I do, Dick?” he exclaimed, unable longer to conceal the tears that flowed down his haggard face.
“You can do nothing but bear it. I pity you, Hungerford, as I pity her.”
“Can’t we follow her, and bring her back?”
“She would not come, if what you say be true. She loves this Buckstone.”
“Can you believe it?”
“We have no right to think she does not. When we saw them last on the beach, I could not help thinking that she was favorably inclined towards him. He is a splendid looking fellow. He is an artist, and probably as romantic as a knight errant.”
“But Mary was not romantic,” protested Eugene.
“Perhaps not. Poor girl! I have ceased to blame her for what she has done.”
“Wasn’t it wrong for her to go off so suddenly with this man!”
“Undoubtedly he has promised to make her his wife at once. Here she was, driven from her home in the dead of the night, with the fear of death by the hand of her father if she returned; and, with too much pride to burden her friends, whither could she turn?”
“Where, indeed!” groaned the disconsolate lover.
“Then this Buckstone, who has been pouring the tale of his love into her ears all the time for a week, steps into her presence. He knows something about her family relations, and she tells him what has happened. What more natural than that she should listen to him? What more natural than his offer to be her best and truest friend? Doubtless he proposed to make her his wife without delay, and she, poor girl, not having a resting-place or a near friend on earth, after weakly resisting the appeal for a time, yields the point.”
“Will he make her his wife?” whispered Eugene.
“Let us hope that he will. They may be man and wife before this time.”
“But they say he’s a villain.”
“They say so; but he may be an honest man, after all, though I confess that I have my doubts.”
“He may deceive her.”
“He may.”
“Dick, I cannot endure this agony!” cried Eugene, springing to his feet, as he had often done in his excitement. “I must do something to save her; at least I must try to do something.”
“Nothing can be done.”
“Dick, I feel guilty. If I had spoken what was in my heart, this could not have been.”
“We don’t know.”
“I know! If I had told her how I loved her; if I had whispered only a tithe of what I felt then, and feel now, this could not have been.”
“It might.”
“No, Dick.”
“Don’t distress yourself. You meant right.”
“If Mary comes to harm, it will be my fault. If she is lost, I have destroyed her,” cried Eugene, in his agony.
“Nothing of the kind, Hungerford.”
“If I had told her what I felt, she would not have countenanced this Buckstone. When we found them in the boat, I saw that his presence was distasteful, if not disagreeable, to her. I think she had begun to love me. As you said before, Dick, my coldness robbed her of all hope, and she has thrown herself away upon this wretch.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Hungerford. You did what you believed was right.”
“I am guilty, Dick! I must at least try to save her.”
“It is too late.”
“It is not too late to try; I must do that. If I can find her, I will tell her of my love now.”
“After she has been off with this fellow?”
“Dick, she is as pure as the angels of heaven. It is honorable marriage with her, or it is nothing. She may be deceived; this is all I fear. Come with me, Dick. Be my friend now, as you have always been.”
“Though I think it will be a bootless journey, I will go with you where you will; or I will follow her without you.”
“No; I will go. If the villain has wronged and deceived her, I will tear him in pieces. If I cannot be her husband, I will be her avenger, if any wrong has been done to her.”
They landed. The intention to do something, in some measure, satisfied the impetuous nature of Eugene, and he was tolerably calm, as they walked up to Squire Perkins’s office. The deeds were signed and sealed, and the tenants of the Irish house were warned to vacate the premises on the next rent day, though with the assurance that better apartments at the same price would soon be in readiness for them. While Eugene was thus occupied, Dick Birch obtained, at the hotel where he lodged, all the current information in regard to Mr. Buckstone. As Eugene’s friend was obliged to go to Boston on the following day, in order to close up his business affairs, he had arranged to go with him, and consult an architect in the city in regard to the plan for his new residence. They now purposed to take the noon train, and there was not much time to spare.
At the railroad station they learned that Mr. Buckstone had taken tickets for Boston, as they had before supposed. Our travellers reached that city late in the afternoon. Dick immediately procured the services of a skilful detective, who promptly traced the fugitives to the Providence depot. The hackman who had driven them there had followed Mr. Buckstone into the station-house to carry the baggage, and had heard him call for a ticket for Providence. The last train for that city had gone; but Eugene, not to be balked or delayed, chartered a special train, and at half past eight in the evening they were thundering on their way in quest of the runaways.
The detective went with them, and other assistance was obtained when they reached Providence, at ten o’clock; but the hackmen, upon whom they mainly relied for information, were scattered at this hour, though at midnight the fact was clearly established that the fugitives had taken the steamboat train for Stonington and New York at seven in the evening. The lady and gentleman were in Providence about an hour; but whether they were married or not during that time, it was impossible to ascertain that night. They had proceeded, on their arrival, to the house of an artist in Westminster Street. Whether a marriage ceremony had been performed there or not, the occupants positively refused to say; the parties had gone to New York, and must answer for themselves.
The fugitives could be followed no farther that night, if indeed it was necessary to continue the search. The next morning Eugene and Dick called at the house of the artist, which had been visited by Mr. Buckstone and Mary. Eugene assured him he came as the friend of the lady, and had no desire to injure her; all he wanted was information of the facts.
“I haven’t a word to say, sir,” replied the artist. “Buckstone’s affairs are not mine. I don’t know what the effect might be of telling you that a marriage has or has not taken place in my house; therefore I shall make no sign.”
“If Mr. Buckstone is married, I have nothing to say.”
“I don’t know, sir, anything about that. You are a stranger to me. How do I know but you mean to attach the lady’s property, if she has any, for Buckstone’s debts, if they are married? How do I know but you mean to prevent the marriage if they are not married? You perceive, sir, that I can say nothing at all about the matter.”
Eugene was suspicious; so was Dick; but it was impossible to induce the obstinate artist to unseal his lips. The secret was safe with him. During the day all the clergymen in the city were visited, but none of them had performed the ceremony. It might have been done by some other authorized person; but no such individual could be discovered who had married the parties. Some inquiries into the character of the artist in Westminster Street were not favorable to that gentleman, and it was possible that he had been a party to one of those miserable deceptions by which young females have been deluded into the belief that they were legally married; but there was no evidence on this point, and the pursuers continued on their way to New York.
It was two days before the present abode of Mr. Buckstone could be discovered. At this house it appeared that he had taken rooms for himself and wife.
“Is she his wife?” demanded Eugene, imperatively, of the landlady.
“Bless you! I suppose she is! If she isn’t, I don’t want them in my house. But they got a telegraph message yesterday, and started immediately for Philadelphia. Mr. Buckstone said they should return in a few days.”
It was useless to pursue the fugitives any farther. It was more than probable that the telegraph message had come from Providence, and Mr. Buckstone was now fleeing from them. Eugene and Dick instituted a thorough inquiry into the antecedents and character of Mr. Buckstone. The result was not so unfavorable as it might have been, though it appeared that the painter had been implicated in a disreputable affair, affecting the honor of a married lady, as it had been reported in Poppleton; but opinions varied in regard to his guilt. Some declared that he was innocent of the charge, and was as honorable a man as any in the city, while others were entirely satisfied of his guilt in the particular case, and did not regard him as even a respectable man.
Mr. Buckstone could not be tried on the accusation, or on his general character. Whether he was actually married or not, it was impossible to ascertain. Be this as it might, Eugene was confident that Mary believed she was legally the wife of the artist. This was all the result that could be reached, and sadly and reluctantly he left the city, to forget, if he could, the painful circumstances. Bitterly he reproached himself for concealing his feelings from Mary. He felt guilty, even though his motives had been pure and lofty. Mary could be no more to him, and he felt that there was not another woman in the world who could take her place in his affections.
Dick Birch was a true comforter, a true friend; but Eugene’s was a sorrow which could not be healed by human sympathy--hardly soothed by it. Even the plans for the elegant mansion, the work on Pine Hill, and model houses, seemed to have lost half their interest. The business in Boston was completed, and Eugene returned to Poppleton. Dick soon followed him, and they immediately plunged deep into the operations which had already been commenced.
