PART I (continued 2)

“Oh, no; I must see it. You could not find the cloak.”

She left him where he stood enjoying the storm. As the quick-coming flashes lighted the hill slope he saw a man moving, very slowly as it seemed to him for one storm-caught, some thirty feet beyond the garden fence. He called out, “Halloa! come in here.”

Surprised to receive no reply, he called again. A moment after, amid still more vivid light, Trescot was aware of a flash lower down on the hillside, and of the sound, once familiar, of a rifle-shot. The broken glass of the window just to the left jangled. As the instant lightning flared, Trescot, seeing the man moving down the hill, ran through the garden and out of the gate in hot pursuit, thinking quickly as he caught sight of him at moments, “It was the old-fashioned rifle; he can’t reload. By George! he is lame; I shall have him.”

He was not twenty feet away when Trescot’s foot caught in a tangle of briers and he fell. He rolled over on his lame shoulder, and in some pain got up to find he had lost his man in the wood at the foot of the hill. He stood still a moment in the rain, and then walked back up the rise of ground.

His wife was on the porch. “Where have you been? What was that, George? I heard glass break.”

Concealment was impossible. “I am all right. A man shot at me; one of those squatters, I suppose. I saw him plainly; he was lame. Come in, dear. I should have had him in a moment if I had not fallen.”

“You are not hurt?” she asked anxiously.

“No; but come in. The shot went quite wide and broke the glass. Do not mention it to those blacks. It must appear to have been an accident while I was closing the shutters.”

When they were in the lighted room and the house shut up, he saw how pale she was. He put his arm around her. “Constance, love,” he said, “this will not occur again.” He was by no means sure. “Do not be worried; I am to see these men with Averill in a day or two. We shall settle with them in some way.”

“But what will you do? and how can I live here with the chance of having you brought home to me dead? Oh, this barbarous country! And I made you come—and my uncle, I shall never forgive him.”

At last he persuaded her to go to bed. She passed a restless night, almost without sleep—perhaps for the first time in her life of vigorous health.

When, next day, she insisted on his not leaving her, he said at last: “We shall walk to the Averills’, and I shall call for you after I have gone over some of the old French deeds. I shall not be long.” Her very visible anxiety troubled him, and the more because it was reasonable. She was not easily answered.

“But what will you do, George?” she went on. “Can’t you arrest him? Something must be done, and without delay. I shall write to uncle.”

“No, you must not do that; it would be of no use. Before he could reply I shall have consulted with the general and done something.” He had no clear idea of what he should do, except that he still meant to visit the squatters with Averill. He said as much.

“But I cannot sit still and wait,” she returned. “I simply cannot.”

Such reassurance as he was able to give quite failed to satisfy her. She went slowly up-stairs, step by step, deep in thought, and then, making a sudden decision, dressed herself with unusual care and came down to join him. Although she commonly talked much when with her husband, as they walked on she barely answered him, and finally left him at Mrs. Averill’s gate.

During the night, as Constance lay awake, she had reproached herself again and again for having urged her husband to accept her uncle’s offer. What now he would do had not satisfied her. As she walked by his side she kept on perplexing herself about a situation in which, as a woman, she felt herself powerless. After an uneasy half-hour with Mrs. Averill, to whom she said nothing of what had happened, she took her leave, and with a sudden and well-defined resolution in her mind went down the steep road from the bluff, and leaving the busy cotton-marts and -presses behind her, followed the river bank. The path led through scrubby undergrowth on to rudely cultivated clearings. Here were two well-built log cabins. In front of the nearer one a man well beyond middle age was seated on a stump engaged in oiling the lock of a rifle. As she came upon him he stood up in wonder at the loveliness of the wandering stranger.

She said: “Will you kindly give me a drink of water, and may I sit down? I am tired.”

“Would you come in, ma’am, out of the sun?”

She followed him, and took the chair he offered, and the tin cup.

“What good water you have! Thank you.”

As he moved she observed his lameness, and sharply observant, saw about her no evidence of a woman’s care. This was the man she sought.

“Yes, ma’am; it’s a spring below the bluff.”

“What a handsome bearskin! Did you shoot him?”

“Yes; last winter, up in the Virginia hills.”

“Are you a good shot?”

“I reckon I am.”

“But you missed my husband last night.”

“Great Scott!” he exclaimed, “who told you that?”

“He saw you. It is useless to deny it, and the fact is, Mr.—what is your name?”

“I’m Tom Coffin, and I just want—”

“Wait a little. If you had killed him you would have killed your best friend.”

“Well, now, that’s pretty good. My friend! ’Tain’t a matter to talk over with women. He’s got to let me alone. My father, that’s dead, and me, we have been here eighteen years, and now comes your man and says git out.”

“Is the land so good?”

“No, it isn’t; but it’s mine, and it’s all I have.”

“Suppose my husband were to offer to do one of two things?”

“Well,” he said, “he ain’t offered nothing.”

“If he wins our suit about the bounds of the land below you on the river, and would give you a deed for five acres on the bluff,—good land, too,—would you take it in exchange for what does not belong to you?”

“I would; but he hasn’t got it. Mr. Greyhurst says he won’t git it.”

Then the man became of a sudden suspicious.

“Look here, ma’am; I ain’t used to dealing with ladies. Did Mr. Trescot send you? He needn’t have been afraid.”

“Afraid!” she said proudly, rising as she spoke. “George Trescot, my husband, afraid! It was not he who ran last night. Who was it ran from an unarmed man?”

Then in a moment she was back in a well-played part.

“Mr. Coffin, I came here just because I am a woman and a young wife. My husband does not know, or I never should have been allowed to come. I want to make sure that you will not kill an unarmed, crippled man. I can’t stand by and wait to see what will happen. I will not go until you promise me that you will agree, if we win, to exchange your clearing for the better land below; or if you will not do that, tell me now what you will take to move if we—I mean my uncle—does not win his suit.”

Coffin weakened. This gracious woman with her soft voice and eyes full of tears captured the man.

“Who’s going to make sure of the pay?”

“I shall pay. Come, now, let us be friends. I am really on your side. You can’t fight the law. Some day you will have to go and get nothing for all you have done. Come, now, what will you take?”

“Would you say three hundred, ma’am?”

“No; four hundred,” she said quickly. It was the half of her little personal savings.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

She put out her hand. He took it shyly, as she said:

“Are you busy all day?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Could you come up in the afternoons and help me in my garden, for three dollars a week?”

“I will if your man wants me; he won’t want me.”

“Yes, he will. You should have come at first and talked to him. You are both old soldiers; and, Mr. Coffin, you must be a Northern man—you have a good old New England name.”

“No; my father was. He came from Massachusetts.” Then he was silent.

She saw that he was still unsatisfied. “Ah, my own State. Is there anything else? I want it all clear.”

“Well, it isn’t, and I want to know. The fact is, ma’am, Mr. Greyhurst told me you folks wouldn’t do anything, but just drive me out. Father and I have been here eighteen years, and my sister has the cabin just below here. Her man’s sick, and there’s two children, and go was the word, just like we were dogs.”

“If Mr. Greyhurst told you that, he said what was not true. He knew nothing about it, or what Mr. Trescot would do. My husband was coming here with General Averill to-morrow.”

“Was he?—he and my old captain?”

“Yes, and you come like a coward and shoot at an unarmed man, who is ready to help you.”

“O Lord, drop that! I was just fooled by that man Greyhurst. I’ll get even with him. I was thinking—me and another man—that we’d go and see Mr. Trescot. Greyhurst he said it was no good. You can tell your husband, if he’s minded not to be hard on us, I can help him about those bounds down below. I won’t say no more till we talk—me and him.”

Constance, surprised, returned: “I’ll leave you to settle that with him, but don’t go and what you call get even with Mr. Greyhurst.” She saw mischief in this. “Keep it all to yourself; do not let him know that you are on our side. Promise me; you know I trust you.”

“I can hold my tongue, ma’am. Darn that lawyer chap!”

“Well,” she said, “here is your first week’s wages.”

“No; I don’t take money I haven’t earned.”

“Yes, you must,” and she left the notes in his great rough hand.

“Of course Mr. Greyhurst will see you in my garden.”

“Well, it ain’t none of his business. Guess I’ll be the fooler this time. When will I come? I don’t half like it.”

“But you will. Come to-day at six. It is too late for work, but I want Mr. Trescot to talk to you.”

“Well, I’ll come. I’ve said it, and I’ll come.”

“Good-by.”

Well pleased, she went away across the clearing and up the bluff, determined that her uncle should agree to pay, or that she herself must do so. “I have bought a man and saved a man’s life,” she said joyously. She was glad, elate, and at ease.

She had been so long with Coffin that her husband had gone home. She hurried her steps and entered the house just after him. A great joy was in her heart. She would tell him in this way—no, it should be in that way. The adventure delighted her, and the feeling that she had been able to help her husband and make him secure.

“I missed you,” he said, as they sat down in the little library; “what made you so late?”

“I went for a walk. I went down to the river and then through the woods to where your squatters live.”

“Constance, you must not do that again. God knows what might happen among those lawless men. This fellow Coffin—I know him now—is one of the worst of them. Promise me, love.”

“I can—I do. But I saw your lame scoundrel.”

“Saw him! You saw him!”

“Yes.” And she poured out the whole story, while he listened amazed, and not too well pleased. She saw the gravity of his look, the slight frown as she finished.

“Was I wrong, George?” she said anxiously.

He hesitated and then replied:

“Yes; this is not a woman’s business. You have pledged me without thought to what your uncle will never agree to do; and the money—where is it to come from?”

“I have it, George, and more than enough. I will not,—oh, I cannot let this state of things go on. My uncle must give you freedom to act as seems best. It is he who put you in peril. I won’t stand it.”

“And still, Constance, this must not occur again. It was thoughtless and unwise.”

“Thoughtless! Oh, George,” she cried, with a sudden passion of tears, “it was anything but thoughtless. I scarcely closed my eyes last night. I have been in an agony of apprehension. I could not wait to see what would happen. If I had been a man, and loved you as no man can love—oh, I should have killed him! Do you think this kind of thing will go on? And I brought you here, I made you come, I bribed you with my love, myself. Now I can sleep, you are safe. I have found an enemy and made him a friend. Oh, this horrible town! Let us go. Let us give up.”

She went on with broken phrases and disconnected words, and was soothed only when, at last, as she lay sobbing on his breast, he said: “Try, dear, to control yourself; we must talk this over quietly. Now, wait a little; do not speak.”

By degrees she steadied herself, and at last, wiping her eyes, said: “There, it is over; but I must finish, and I won’t be so weak again. I do think you must see, George, that this was not with me a matter of choice. I had to do it. You are the one thing in life for me. There is no other. Oh, you have your work and your enlarging future, your religion. I have you. That is my sole excuse. To-morrow I would do it again. That is all. And if I have done what my love made me do, at least you must see that out of it comes some good.”

He had been amazed and annoyed by her abrupt interference, but as she talked he quieted himself, and while in wonder at the abandonment of a passion so all-possessing, began to feel that her pledges must be kept to the letter. He said so, to her joy, and added, as he kissed her tears away: “I am sorry you went, but I love you the more for the courage that carried you through.”

She smiled. “Ah, George, it was the courage of selfishness; it was the courage of love. And I am forgiven? I want you to say it.”

“Hush! We shall never need the word—never. And so I am to see that scamp to-day at six. He must be a pretty cool fellow.” The humor of it struck him. “Do you expect to be present?” he asked, laughing. “To be shot at overnight by a man who proposes to attend to your garden the day after is something delightfully unusual.”

There was no laugh in it for Constance. The man was back again in his every-day calm. The woman remained excited, restless, and even exhausted by the strain of the morning and the talk with her husband. Her mind was still on the matter.

“You must write to Uncle Rufus and simply say you mean to have your way.”

“I will think it over. Probably I shall do so, but you, in the meantime, must not do what I alone ought to do.”

“No,” she returned, somewhat meekly; “I am out of the business now. But, George, don’t tell that man he is a scoundrel. He is the captive of my bow and spear.”

“No, I think I shall manage it; but I hardly think I can apologize for not being hit.”

“Please don’t,” she said, and went up to her room, glad then, and again after lunch, to lie down and rest with a mind at ease. The rather grim humor of the situation did not strike her as it would have done her sister.

VI

A little before six Coffin stood hesitating at the gate in front of the house. He, too, had some reasonable sense of embarrassment. As Trescot walked across the front room he saw him, and, understanding, went out at once, and said, “Come in; glad to see you.” Coffin advanced, with his halting gait, until they met at the door. “No, Mr. Trescot; I don’t go in till I’ve said my word. I was told you were a hard man and meant to kick me out. I was bred up in the Tennessee mountains, and I’ve seen men shot for less things than that. I’ve been on that ground, me and father, eighteen years; and I just want to say right here that, believing what that cuss told me, I was justified.”

“I see,” said Trescot; “but were you not a little hasty?”

“I don’t say I mightn’t of been, and I’m not a man that crawls easy; but I’m that damn glad to-day I didn’t git you that if I was a prayin’ cuss I’d be down on my knees and thank the Lord. That there woman of yours, she’s a wonder.” Then Trescot understood, and liked it.

“Mr. Coffin,” he said, “I have a Confederate’s bullet in my shoulder, and bear no malice. I certainly have none for the many who missed me. I want to say that I stand by my wife’s bargain.”

“Then I’ll come in.”

The two men shook hands and passed into the library. When they were seated, Trescot said: “Do you want it now in black and white?”

“No; if I trust a man, I trust him. I’ve got something to say to you about those lands, and just you listen. You’ve got a good title to the land I’m on; we all know that. A little money will clear off the other squatters if I give up and go. I can settle them. I understand from General Averill that it’s the big deep-water front below that’s the trouble.”

“Yes, that is so. You will do me a great service if you can help us.”

“I can. The bounds were set by blazing trees. My father helped run that line before ever we settled here. The blazed trees on the west was washed away nigh ten years ago, clean gone down the river. Now, about the ones back on the bluff that mark the bound to eastward—”

Trescot broke in: “No one can find the blazed trees where they ought to be. There are no end of big ones, but no blaze on any of them.”

“Well, there’s ways of looking. Fact is, those blazes is growed over. Why, it’s near on to forty years. The blazes leave a hollow like. The bark grows over and hides them. I can find the trees; they’re oaks. Cut them down and saw them up, and you have your blaze plain as day. One is a walnut.”

“If you can do that when I’m ready, Mr. Coffin, you will get a bigger farm than my wife promised; but, meanwhile, you must hold your tongue, and tell no one, and not quarrel with Greyhurst. Did you tell him of this?”

“No, I didn’t. It wasn’t any concern of mine, and I don’t like him none too well. I’m your man, sir; and if you don’t mind a poor chap like me saying it, I’m her man, too. I never saw no woman like her.”

“Nor I,” said Trescot, pleasantly. “And now she wants you here to-morrow, about four o’clock, for her garden work.”

“I’ll come.”

Trescot knew the habits of the place too well to fail to say:

“Have a little bourbon, Mr. Coffin?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Your health,” said Trescot.

“And yours, too.”

His host laughed.

“I see,” said Coffin, grinning; “I wasn’t wishing you much health last night; but if you can afford to lay that to one side, I guess I can. And I don’t want you to think I can’t shoot better than that. It was the lightning bothered me.”

Much amused at this odd form of vanity, Trescot made a light reply, laughed, and the woodsman went away, leaving him doubly at ease, and astonished at the luck which had brought him the evidence so long desired.

When it became plain to Constance that she had not only turned a foe into a friend, but had also been the means of adding valuably to the proof needed to insure her uncle’s title, she was overjoyed, and began to make more sure the adhesion of her garden helper.

She explained to him with patience the work she required, helped with such luxuries as were needed by the brother-in-law who was slowly dying, and soon bound to her a man who had been unlucky, and had at last fallen into a state of despondency and become reckless and vindictive.

One warm evening early in July, Trescot said to her, “I shall become jealous of the general, Constance. He says you are capturing all these old rebels.”

She laughed gaily. “Yes, men are easy game, but not their womankind. But I did have my little triumph this afternoon. I walked in quite by chance on their society meeting. It was at Mrs. Averill’s—something for the orphans of Confederate soldiers. They were pretty cool, and I was all sweetness. At last I got up and apologized for my intrusion, and said I must go. But then the dear old lady asked me if I would not sing for them while they sewed. One or two of them were civil enough to say they would be glad to hear me. I sat down at that queer old piano, and what do you think I did?”

“Heaven knows!”

“You could never guess.”

“I admit it as hopeless.”

“I sang ‘Dixie’ for them. Oh, George, I sang it as they never, never heard it before. They quit sewing and just sat and listened. When I turned half round on the stool some of them were crying. One old lady came and kissed me, and they crowded around the piano thanking me. Then another, a shy little old maid, said, ‘Would you mind playing “My Maryland”?’ I had to say I did not know it—and then, George, I had an inspiration. I turned to the piano, and broke out into that really fine rebel song you like, and I sang—oh, I sang it well—‘Stonewall Jackson’s Way.’ That time they really gave up. They clapped and praised me, and were so surprised when I said you liked it.

“As I finished I saw the old general standing in the doorway. He, too, thanked me with his fine, old-mannered way; and, George, I felt what an awful hypocrite I was.”

“Oh, but you are not. You were not. Think what these people have suffered, and what now have they left, except splendid memories and a song? Think of their deaths, their poverty, the humiliation of defeat! I have shared that feeling with a well-whipped army. Imagine it for a whole people.”

“I know—I know; but they hate us. I have heard enough to know what is said of you here. Coffin told me.”

“Oh, hang the fellow! We are doing better than I ever expected to do. If your uncle had any sense we should have no trouble at all. I wrote to him last night after you went to bed.”

“And you were positive?”

“I was; but this is my second letter to the same effect, and the first was unanswered.”

“How like Uncle Rufus! That reminds me I have a letter from Susan. You must hear it. There is a message for you; I will get it.”

While she was gone he reflected, not altogether pleasantly, upon the strong feeling of dislike with which Constance still regarded the people among whom they had chosen to live. He did not comprehend that it rested very largely on her belief that they were hostile to him. Feeling as he supposed her to feel, he did not quite like that for him or in his interest she should do as she had done. In his own intercourse with the men he met he had been simple and natural; and as most of them had been soldiers, they met on a ground of common self-respect, avoiding political discussions. That some of them, and all who had not fought, were still embittered, he knew too well, and knowing, was careful, kindly, and magnanimous.

Susan’s letter was laughingly discussed as they sat in the library.

“Dear Conny:

“Come soon and restore decent peace to this household. Imagine my combination of mirth and satisfaction when uncle told me that General Averill had written him he had seen you in church last Sunday and thought you looking well. He was in one of his mild rages. You can imagine a box-turtle angry. I advised him to write to you and complain. He went away declaring he would alter his will. As he has made three wills in a year, this need not alarm you. If there be a disease of indecision, he has it.

“About George’s last letter I really had to fight. ‘There!’ he said; ‘read that. He wants me to pay squatters to leave; he thinks the suit about my title ought to be compromised; he talks about the bad feeling in the town because I will not spend money or improve my property.’

“Then, as our old cook says, I just spoke up. I said George was right, and that uncle ought to want to help his unlucky rebel friends who had lost everything. This quite upset him. ‘Rebels! I presume you to mean Confederates.’ I was advised to study the constitutional history of the United States of America. You know his full phrases. I advised him to read what George Washington wrote about State feeling. I had not the most foggy idea what G. W. wrote, but it stopped him and he went off again on my good brother-in-law. He declared that George’s want of tact, and your opinions, and the general’s weak ways, and George’s despotic management had been responsible for making him, Rufus Hood, unpopular in that strange town of which you write such amusing accounts. He had received the ‘St. Ann Herald’ with an article on absentee owners. Oh, my dear Conny, he was at his loveliest worst. You were to blame, and if you had not gone to church you would not have lost the little common sense you had, and would have conciliated these people. Of course you had been exasperating, and then it was George, George, etc., etc. At last I told him he was like Aunt Nancy, who, as you may recall, fell ill of a plum-cake she had made, and never could settle in her mind whether it was the raisins, the currants, or the citrons. Uncle Rufus has a long-buried fraction of a talent for seeing a joke, and, dear, he really laughed till he looked five years younger, and until he remembered that his mirth was suicidal, and began to go over it all again. At last I said, ‘But you must do something.’ He said he would think it over and write to George, and perhaps he had better go to St. Ann when you return. He had been misunderstood. Some one named Greyhurst (isn’t he one of the claimants?) had written to him about a compromise.”

“What a muddle!” said George. “Confound Greyhurst! Imagine Mr. Hood in an attitude of conciliation! Well, what else?”

She read on:

“I really pity George Trescot. If I were he, I should do what seems best, and take the chance of a back-down, or of my uncle yielding, as he is pretty sure to do. Come soon, Conny; you must need our seaside freshening. The roses say come, and so do I.

“Yours always, “Susan Hood.”

“Constance,” said Trescot, “Susan is right; soon or late, I must have my way or give up a hopeless task.”

“Well, I have always said so; but don’t be in a hurry, George. I feel as if now it will be all easy. The squatters you can manage with Coffin’s help. You cannot try the land case until October. Then in August, when you go home with me, together we can bring Uncle Rufus to some decent sense of what is needed.”

“I hate to tell you, Constance; but I cannot go East this summer. The general and Mrs. Averill are going to New York on the third of August and will take care of you. He has asked me to remain in charge of his own work, and on the tenth to go to New Orleans about a claim for damaged cotton sent here last year. It is a great compliment and involves the sharing of a large fee if I can settle the matter. I am sorry.”

“Oh, George, how can I leave you?”

“I know, dear; I hesitated to tell you, but it is really a turning-point in my career. If I win I shall oblige several people of importance and make friends; and, Constance, I am sure that we need them, or that I do. Right or wrong, the way people feel has much to do with the settlement of land cases. Juries are human, and here, I fancy, they are far too readily affected by public opinion. This is why I welcome every chance of making friends.”

“I see; but I don’t like it. Could not you join us later?”

“No. On my return I must give myself up entirely to the land case. The general will, of course, act as my senior, but he looks to me to collect evidence. The man who surveyed the land is dead, and I have to go to Indiana to see his widow and secure her evidence and his books. There is really no more time than I require, and you would not wish me to fail.”

“I see perfectly,” she said. “I must go and you must stay. I am feeling this moist heat, and you are, too.”

“No, even my wicked arm is less ill behaved. I really think the heat suits it, and I never was better.”

Her intelligence was convinced, but not her heart. And with some people it requires a good deal of head to keep the heart from revolt. That for every reason it was best for him to remain was the one thing that aided her to submit. Before she finally yielded, the increasing heat of July made excuses difficult, and she began to feel, for the first time in her life, a sense of languor which she had to acknowledge as a cry of the body for her native air.

She had made up her mind that the summer plans, which for a time would separate them, were such as to serve her husband’s interests. Had they been able to do without what his profession began to bring in, her real desire would have been to cut off his work entirely, and to leave him no relations to life except those of a love which on her side she felt to be boundlessly sufficient. She had been trained to certain habits which passed for duties; but being without any ultimate beliefs by which to test her actions when called upon by the unusual, the instincts of a too natural creature were apt to be seen in what she did or felt. She would possibly have denied even to herself that she had no interests in life which did not consider George Trescot, and would have smiled at the idea that her jealousy of whatever took him from her side might in the end injure the man she loved, and would in time become selfishly exacting.

As Trescot expected to act only as junior counsel, he had, of course, many consultations with Averill. On one of these occasions the general said to him: “When I leave, you may have occasion to see and talk with Greyhurst. He tells me that he has called on you.”

“Yes, but we were out. I returned his visit, but I have seen very little of him. I suppose we shall try the case in October.”

“Yes, unless he contrives to put it off as he has done before. I think he is doubtful—as, in fact, he ought to be. Is he waiting for some offer from us? I think that likely.”

“He will not get it; but he would if I had my way.”

“Well, he will call on you about it. He said as much. Be a little careful. He is like some of the rest of the bar, a trifle indifferent as to the right or the wrong of his client’s case; but he did not suggest this suit, and he is a better fellow outside of his profession than in it.”

“Do you think he believes that Mr. Hood does not own that land?”

“Certainly not; but he is willing to make Mr. Hood pay for what the river did when it ate away the Baptiste water-frontage. It is not a highly moral attitude, and yet there is something to be said for it.”

“Yes, as to that I entirely agree with you,” said Trescot. “Considering what we know and he does not, he ought to lose the suit. If Mr. Hood were reasonable, I should like to put all our evidence before Greyhurst, and then offer some form of compromise. As it is, we must try it, and take the risk of failure.”

“Yes; but I do not feel quite so secure as you do. Well, that is all. You will take care of our case this summer, while I am away, and you will, of course, write to me if you need advice. And, my dear fellow, be a little careful of our noon sun, and of the evening coolness.”

“Thanks, general. I have every reason to want both health and life.”

VII

Trescot felt more than was convenient Constance’s too steady call upon his time during the three weeks which passed before she left him. With both will and wish to gratify her, it was not always easy or even possible. The general had become attached to him, won by his considerate ways and the charm of a kindliness interpreted by manners which were winning and gracious. He was industrious, and possessed of that form of legal intellect which reaches conclusions with a swiftness due to unusual rapidity of thought, but which to slower minds appears to have the quality of intuition. The older lawyer, who reasoned slowly, began more and more to admire and to trust him, and spoke of the possibility of a partnership in the near future.

As the days went by, Trescot, seeing his wife’s languor and her increasing sense of disappointment at his absence during the hours of business, gave her all the time he could spare from wearisome study of the old French titles, and the other work in which the general asked his aid, and for which he was fairly paid.

Whatever absence the daylight hours exacted, the evening belonged to Constance, and he resisted every increasing temptation to carry home for completion the unfinished work of the day, unless it was of a nature to interest her. While to the tired man at evening her music was restful, and to the mind that which change of climate may be to the body, he also enjoyed when with her an ever widening satisfaction in awakening to larger appreciation a nature long shut up within too limited intellectual bounds. Under the thoughtful guidance of a man whom war and a keen sense of responsibility had helped to mature, the mind of the woman was slowly unfolding. On one of these cherished evenings, shortly before her departure, she was perched on the arm of Trescot’s chair and sharing the delightful fun of “Milkanwatha,” that best of all parodies. They were laughing, merry as two children, when the black maid appeared and said there was a gentleman in the parlor waiting to see Mr. Trescot.

“This is too bad, George,” said Constance; “can we never be left alone?”

In fact, they were rarely disturbed in the evening; but of this he did not remind her, and said merely: “Take to your piano, dear; I shall not be long.” She smiled, and he went into the parlor, where he found Greyhurst moving about or pausing to look at the engravings hung on the walls.

“Good evening,” he said, as Trescot welcomed him. “It is pleasant to hear people with a talent for laughter.”

“Oh, you heard us? We laugh a good deal in this house. Sit down. I am glad to see you. Or will you come into the library and see Mrs. Trescot?”

“With pleasure; but first may I ask for a few minutes’ talk over the business of those lands? The general is soon going away and I thought it well to ask you to consider the matter again.”

“Certainly; if you want to say anything I shall be most ready to hear. We have already discussed it pretty fully. You must, of course, be aware that I am not acting altogether as I should desire to do, but am more or less hampered by the owner’s instructions.” As he looked at his guest there was something about him which put Trescot suspiciously on guard. He added: “But pray go on,” and said to himself, “The man is anxious.”

Greyhurst said: “I want first to say to you once more that the case you propose to try in October you will lose. Even a man like Mr. Hood may be brought to reason. The deeds were lost in the war. There are no records; the office was burned, and you have to fall back on surveys of which there is no evidence except brief memoranda, if even these are to be had.”

Trescot knew well the value of silence. He made no sign of dissent, and, as he meant to try the case, had no idea of enlightening a man who might profit by what Trescot, the general, and Coffin alone knew.

“There is another consideration. You have not been here long, Mr. Trescot, and perhaps are not fully aware of the dangerous hostility provoked by Mr. Hood’s foreclosures, and the cruelty of his intention to drive out those old Confederate soldiers from their homes.”

And still Trescot held his tongue; but, as Greyhurst seemed to pause for a reply, he said:

“Well, Mr. Greyhurst, what else?”

The persistent, entirely courteous listening began to embarrass the older man, who was some ten years the senior of his host. He hesitated a moment, and then, setting his large, dark eyes on Trescot, went on:

“You will pardon me, I am sure, if I repeat that you are a stranger to our ways and feelings, and that you are a young man put by Mr. Hood in a false position.”

And still the cooler man failed to speak.

“I have already said to the general that we are open to settle this matter by some equitable division of the lands at the bend. I now come to you, and, sir, I represent the public sentiment of this community. These lands are now useless, and will be till this matter is settled.”

“Mr. Greyhurst,” said Trescot, “I am greatly obliged by your friendly visit, and am sorry to be unable to meet you on a common ground. My client refuses to compromise or to surrender any part of his land on deep water at the bend. The courts must decide, and we are instructed to try the case in October.”

“You will be sure to lose it.”

“So much the better for you,” laughed Trescot. “If winning be so certain, why seek for a compromise? The foreclosures are the only remedy for years of unpaid interest or of absolutely illegal possession. As, however, you are naturally interested in these poor people, I have no hesitation in telling you that some of the mortgages have been amicably arranged, and that time will be given to others. I hope to have no trouble with the squatters.”

He was indisposed to say more.

“Then your man Hood must all of a sudden have become damned amiable.”

“Pardon me,” said Trescot, rising; “Mr. Hood is Mrs. Trescot’s uncle. Allow me to close the door.” It had been left on a crack, and the piano had just ceased to be heard. “One moment,” he added, as Greyhurst, flushing deeply at the implied reproof, was about to reply. “One moment. I have listened to you patiently, although I fail to see what the other cases in my charge have to do with the issue we shall try in the fall. I shall, however, again advise my client of your desire to settle our case, and I may say also that if he is willing I shall gladly present to him any offer you may make.”

“Then let him make one.”

“Frankly, Mr. Greyhurst, I do not think he will, nor do I believe that he would accept one. You are an older lawyer than I, and must know that we cannot always make our clients reasonable.”

“Perhaps if he knew the state of feeling here he would understand the gravity of the situation. I am sure that—”

“Excuse me if I interrupt you. Public opinion has nothing to do with the matter; and, as you spoke a little while ago of what I suppose I may call hostility to me, I may add that it will in no way affect the course I shall take.”

Greyhurst moved uneasily as he listened, and then said abruptly: “You will find out when you come before a jury of Southern men.”

“I shall feel sure they will do what is right, and I am glad to say that, personally, I have met with much kindness in St. Ann, nor do I think political feeling will affect your courts or the course of justice. Let me add that I have not of late been aware of any personal hostility such as you speak of.”

“Well, you will see,” said Greyhurst; “and soon, too.”

“I do not quite understand you.”

“Indeed! You will know better when I tell you that you were blackballed last night at the club.”

Trescot flushed and returned instantly: “I asked the general not to present my name, and if you or any one presumes to suppose that this annoys me, he is much mistaken, and yet more so if he ventures to believe that it will in any way deter me from doing my duty as a lawyer. I do not see what motive you can possibly have in telling me, unless you really suppose that I am to be moved by fear of—” His voice rose as he spoke, but his speech was suddenly checked by the entrance of Mrs. Trescot.

“Mr. Greyhurst, I believe. Do not let me interrupt you. I came in to get a book. How you men can talk with my piano going I do not understand. When you are through, George, perhaps I may have a little visit.”

Greyhurst cooled instantly. He was in the presence of one of the rare women who, for good or ill, attract because of some inexplicable quality of sex. Incapable of analysis, it accounts for divorces and ruined households, even for suicides or murders. It may be faithful to a great passion, and be modified by character and education, and even by religion; but it is felt, whether the woman wishes it or not, and she who has it instinctively knows its power.

As Mrs. Trescot spoke she cast her large blue eyes on the man, and for an instant he was dumb and stood in mute admiration; nor was Trescot sorry for her coming.

“I think we have finished,” he said, but did not urge Greyhurst to accept the invitation his wife had given.

“I shall hope for the pleasure another time,” said Greyhurst. He knew that he should like to see her again, and he had said enough to Trescot to make a sudden return to cordiality difficult.

“You won’t forget, Mr. Greyhurst.”

He said something pleasant as he stood facing her—a strongly built man of soldierly carriage, dark-skinned, with large, regular features, and the high cheek-bones which told of his remote strain of Indian blood. As he left Trescot at the outer door he turned and said, rather to his host’s surprise: “If I have been abrupt or indiscreet I hope you will pardon me. I sometimes say or do things on the impulse of the moment, and then regret them. You will excuse me.”

“Oh, we all do that sort of thing now and then; and as for the club, it is of no moment, although I am sorry you told me. Good-by.”

As he went toward the drawing-room he said to himself: “What a strange man! Was he trying to scare me, or was it a game of bluff? And then his apology! Confound the fellow!”

Meanwhile, Greyhurst walked away with as complete dismissal of the lawsuits and all other earthly interests as if he were Adam in the garden alone with the new-born Eve. He was thinking of the woman.

It was the effect she was apt to produce on men, young or old. He felt it, even although it recalled to his mind a woman of quite different type. Then he turned to thought of the suit. “Damn my temper!” he exclaimed. “That confounded Yankee was as cold-blooded as a frog. It has its uses.” He felt his defeat.

* * *

“Well, Constance,” said Trescot, as he reëntered the library, “how much did you hear of that fellow’s agreeable talk?”

“A good deal of it—pretty much all.”

“I am sorry you heard him. I did not want to be in their club; but it is the civilians, not the soldiers, who are unfriendly, and really it is of no moment.”

“None,” she said. “But what did the man mean by it all?” And then she added: “But the things he said—oh, George, do you think you are still in any danger here? Since that awful night I cannot get it out of my mind. How am I to go away?”

He comforted her as best he could, not in the least degree sharing her apprehensions.

At last she said: “What do you suppose he wanted?”

“I think, dear, it would be hard to say.” He did not choose to admit that it had appeared to him to be an attempt to alarm him. He added that the man had been foolish, and yet was not a fool. “I fancy him to be in debt,” he said, “and to depend too anxiously on the issue of this suit.”

“I do not like him.”

He laughed. “Would you like any one who did not think George Trescot a legal angel?”

“I should not,” she cried, and kissed him. “He is very handsome, but he made me uncomfortable.”

“Oh, he is quite harmless.”

“So is a poor little dead snake on the road, but I jump when I see it.”

“Go to bed, Mrs. Eve,” he said, laughing.

A moment after she put her charming head through the half-open doorway and cried: “I hate him!”

“Oh, go to bed, you bad child. You don’t hate anybody.”

“But I do,” she murmured, as she went up the stair.

Her weekly letter to Susan went next day. She wrote:

“Dear Susan:

“In two weeks I shall be at Eastwood, but how I am to live there two months with uncle, and without George, I do not yet see. I am sometimes surprised to recognize how completely he is all of life to me; and then I am glad. I rejoice in my good looks and my voice because they are for him, and because they help him among these strange people who are still sullen and bitter about the war they brought upon us, and about what it cost them. As if we, too, had not had our share! George expects me to be very tender of their feelings, and I am—indeed I am; but when I see George nursing that crippled arm, and evidently in pain of which I am never to speak, I sometimes—But I will say no more to you, my only confessor. When George says that I am to forget and, what I cannot forget, forgive, I can almost do it. Indeed, I go to church because he goes, and sing the hymns—you should hear me. If it would make him more happy I could almost pretend to believe what he believes. It cannot be only a creed which makes him so tender, so entirely true, so thoughtful, and, above all, what I am not, so magnanimous concerning these people. He brings home no stories of his annoyances, but I have heard and seen more than enough to make me cry at times because I urged him to come to this place. He only says: ‘Why, all this is natural, and must pass away with time.’ But still I feel that we are in a hostile land.

“Knowing what he has to endure, I said to him last week that his religion nowhere orders us to forgive the enemies of those we love. You should have seen his face. I got a proper scolding; and oh, I love him to scold me. Can you understand that?

“Last night we had a visit from a Mr. Greyhurst, who is the lawyer of the people who dispute uncle’s land claims. I overheard them talking rather high, and suddenly appeared as peacemaker. The man looked at me and was quiet. It was like a charm; but the way he looked was not quite pleasant. A dark, Spanish-looking person, with overbold eyes, and very handsome, with a strong, uneasy face—a curious contrast to the refinement and intellectual beauty of George, who looked slight and almost frail beside this man’s massive figure. Sometimes I am anxious when I look at George and know that he has to remain in this heat. When, in your last letter, you said that I had no resource in me or my beliefs against the sorrows of life, I had a sudden and horrible fear lest you might have been thinking of George, and then I felt it was cruel of you, and as if I never could write to you again; but I ought to have known better. This strained, anxious life is, I suppose, making me morbid, and perhaps something else is having a like effect.

“George has heard from uncle, who either does not or will not realize the state of affairs here among his dear rebels, who hate him, and no wonder. At first I disliked the idea of his coming to St. Ann; but, on the whole, it may be as well. He can be stiff enough in a letter, but not when he is face to face with a resolute man. He will learn a little when he comes.

“Yours always, “Constance.

“P.S.—I have been rather depressed of late, but this is largely because of the prospect of leaving George. In truth, we have been making some friends, and just now the town is lovely with flower-gardens.

“C.”

VIII

Mrs. Averill had been absent a week, on a visit to friends in the country, before Constance saw her again.

Constance, standing at the gate, watched her for a moment as she moved among her flowers in the front garden. The old lady, turning, smiled a glad welcome for the face on which the joy of youth and love and perfect health were plain to see. “Ah, for shame!” she cried, looking over the box row, “prying at an old lady alone with her flowers. Come in, my dear; I forgive you. If you knew what I was saying to my flowers you would like it; I was really thinking of you. There are flowers which always remind me of certain people. Oh, no; I won’t tell you what I was thinking.”

“Then,” said Constance, gaily, “I shall be equally cruel and not tell you what delightful things were in my mind.”

“Let us trust that they were complimentary.”

She was so pretty and so sweetly gracious, with her underlying, pathetic expression of abiding sorrow, that Constance felt tempted to say: “What a beautiful old lady you are! I wonder what I shall be like if I live as long.” She limited herself to saying: “Yes, they were as—well, as complimentary as you could desire.”

“Thank you, my dear. That is saying a great deal. I suppose we never outlive our vanity. Come in; it is too hot for you here.”

“No, there is shade enough. How is the general?”

“Very well, for him. He is never very strong. Just now he is worried because of what your husband told him of Mr. Greyhurst’s visit, and that miserable business of the club. You overheard it, he said. The general blames himself, and, of course, did not mean to say a word about it to Mr. Trescot. He does not think that Mr. Greyhurst did anything to influence the vote.”

“Perhaps not; but I don’t like and I don’t trust that man.”

“I do not like him either, my dear. But we do hope that neither of you will think that the old officers here have any other than good-will to your husband. Mr. Greyhurst is a very strange man. He was divorced from his wife, who died eighteen months ago. During the war he put her money into Confederate securities. We have all found them rather insecure”; and she smiled.

“Yes; so I have heard,” said Constance.

“At one time he was on General Hill’s staff, but he was constantly quarreling, and the general says he was too impulsive and resentful to be a good officer.”

“I wish some one else had the case,” said Constance.

“Well, my child, no one could quarrel with your husband, and, after all, the general will be the senior counsel.”

Constance bent over and kissed the little old lady, saying: “Thank you; you always comfort me; and then—oh!”

Greyhurst was leaning over the paling fence.

“Good evening,” he said. “May I come in? What good luck you have with flowers! I see Mrs. Trescot’s every day as I go by. I fancy they grow best for the ladies. I see that you have Coffin working for you. He can hardly know much about flowers.”

“Oh, I am teaching him; he wanted work, and I am glad to help him.”

“A lazy, worthless vagabond, Mrs. Trescot, I fear; one of the squatters. I am surprised he would work for Mr. Trescot after the way he talks. These squatters are pretty saucy.”

“He is my gardener, not Mr. Trescot’s; and as yet my husband has made no objection.” She was quietly amused at Coffin’s diplomacy.

Mrs. Averill, a little puzzled, looked up from the flowers she was pruning.

“Well,” returned Greyhurst, “that is a comfortable view of the situation.”

“It is very useful,” said Mrs. Trescot, “in married life for husband and wife to know how to hold their tongues.”

“Quite true, my dear,” said Mrs. Averill, still a little in the dark.

“Therefore, when Coffin abuses my husband I shall say: ‘Are the geraniums doing well?’ ‘Best in town, ma’am.’ Then I shall say: ‘Coffin, I forgive you.’”

Greyhurst was not quite up to the light give and take of mere chat, to which Constance was trained. Mrs. Averill saw in it a tactful effort to reduce a serious question to a harmless level. The man felt himself chaffed, and said: “You will find him out.”

“Not in work-hours,” she laughed. “Punctuality is my one virtue. That I insist on, even in a husband.”

“Will you not come in?” said Mrs. Averill, not liking the man’s ill-repressed look of embarrassed annoyance.

“No,” he said; “I retreat under fire. I must go. Mrs. Trescot is too sharp for a poor old Confederate; I shall retire before worse comes.”

“That was what we did not do in the war, Mr. Greyhurst,” said Mrs. Averill, gaily.

“I protest,” said Constance, “against considering me as an enemy.”

“Oh,” he returned, “after all, it is generally the man who retreats. I ask for terms of honorable surrender.”

Mrs. Averill said, smiling, “You may march out with colors flying, and here they are,” giving him a rose.

“And Mrs. Trescot’s?” he asked.

“I never give roses out of other people’s gardens, and just now there are none in mine.”

He took off his hat, saying: “I am usually too late, or too early. That is the fate of some of us. May I hope to be more fortunate when your roses appear?”

“Perhaps, if you are very, very good,” she cried, relenting, and disposed against her feelings to send him away in a good humor.

“Thank you,” he said, not ill pleased; and setting Mrs. Averill’s rose in his buttonhole, left them alone.

“My dear Constance, were you not rather hard on that man?”

“No; he was insolent, and he meant to be; and I know he lied about Coffin. Tom is a man who might kill you, but he would never work for a man and lie about him. Heaven knows what he said to Mr. Greyhurst. He owes him a grudge.”

“Yes, my dear; but it is worse than no use to make a man like John Greyhurst angry. It is really a poor kind of triumph. You had better have appeared not to notice what he said.”

“I could not help it. The man is unpleasant to me.”

“Best not to show it. Come in and let us talk over our plans. Do you want to stop in Washington on your way North?”

As Constance walked homeward she acknowledged to herself that she had been unwise, and knew as by instinct that a very little graciousness to this man would have better served her husband. She smiled, as she went down the dusty street, at her certainty that she could bring the man to her feet like a fawning spaniel. She read with natural readiness the eager eyes of this ungoverned personality. Then she saw in her mind the fine lines of Trescot’s face, and thought of the restraint and patience with which he refrained from urging upon her opinions which she felt with intense feeling were their only ground of difference. The manners of a man to his wife are a final test of conduct; and again she smiled, as though at some fresh discovery, and the joy of its tender recognition.

She was now a well-known figure in the town. Many persons acknowledged her greeting. She went into two or three shops, helped a little child up some steps, and left with every one a pleasing sense of liberal cheerfulness, and of that charm of manner which made her somewhat startling beauty a contribution to the joys of life.

As she came out of a shop she met Coffin.

“Well,” she said, “Tom, how is your brother-in-law?”

“He’s failing, ma’am.”

“Is there anything you need for him?”

“Yes, ma’am; I was going to ask you something. He says would you come and read out of the Bible to him? We can’t any of us read well.”

She hesitated, and then said quickly, “Yes, I will come; but cannot his wife read?”

“Yes; but not like you can; it’s you he wants.”

“I will come. Have you seen Mr. Greyhurst lately?”

“Yes; and I reckon I fooled him well.”

“You abused my husband,” she said merrily.

“Who told you that? I did—I did.”

“Mr. Greyhurst.”

“Well, he is a fool. He just swallowed it all like them big catfish grabs a bait. Well, you’ll come soon? He ain’t going to live long.”

“I will come; I shall be there to-morrow.”

As Tom left her, she wondered why she had said she would read to the man. In fact, she had no ready excuse for denying so simple a request.

Not far from her home she was aware of Greyhurst. He met her and turned back, walking beside her.

“Mrs. Trescot,” he said quietly, “I was rude to you; I desire to ask your pardon.”

“Indeed,” she returned sweetly, “we were both, I fear, a little cross.”

“Thank you; that is more than a pardon.” Pausing a moment, he added gravely: “I have had, madam, a rather sad and disappointing life, and I suppose it has soured me. Are you ever sorry for things you do?”

Constance was less amazed at the odd turn his talk had taken than a man would have been, for men say easily to women things they never could say to those of their own sex.

“Yes, I am sorry every day,” she returned.

“I was hasty in what I said to Mr. Trescot the other night. I fear that you overheard us, and I wish now to assure you that I did not blackball him at the club.”

“I wonder,” thought she, “if that be true.” Her temper was rising, but she said coldly: “The whole matter is unimportant—entirely unimportant.”

“Not to me, madam, not to me; but Mr. Trescot has a way of being—”

“Stop, Mr. Greyhurst,” she said; “you forget yourself. We are going to quarrel again. It seems to me that you have an extraordinary gift of saying disagreeable things.”

“That is true. My life is one long story of regrets. I—there is no one I should be less willing to annoy than you.”

He turned his dark eyes on her as he spoke, for now they were at her gate, and she had stopped.

“I am sure of that,” she said.

Very strange to her was this strong man, big and athletic, with ardent eyes and sudden familiarities, and impulsive speech and childlike regrets.

She gave him her hand, saying good-by, but did not ask him to come in. To her surprise, he bent over it, raised it to his lips and kissed it, and lifting his hat, went on his way.

“Well,” she said, “next to Uncle Rufus, that is the most singular man I ever met. I wonder if he is quite sound in mind.” She gave a queer little glance at the hand he had kissed. Among the older gentlemen of Creole descent it was not rare to see this pretty usage. But this man she had not seen over a half-dozen times, and it was out of doors. She went in, wisely resolving to say nothing, and much inclined to avoid Greyhurst in future.

IX

The increasing heat of the latter days of July, the dust, the dried-up garden, and the mosquitos helped the young wife’s faltering will, so that she felt physically convinced that a change was imperative. And there was also another and a powerful motive for care of her health.

She said to her husband next morning at breakfast:

“I have arranged with Mrs. Averill that we leave a week from to-day, on the evening train.”

“I am glad it is settled, Constance. I shall be happier when you are breathing the good salt air.”

“It had to be, I suppose.”

“Yes, it had to be.”

She was silent for a moment, and then said:

“George, Thomas Wilson has asked me—it was Coffin who brought the message—if I would go to see him to-day.”

“Well, why not? But I do not like you to be in those clearings alone.”

“Coffin will be there.”

“That will answer, I suppose. What else is there?”

“He wants me to read the Bible to him. His wife cannot read, or reads badly. These people are amazingly uneducated. Why cannot he get a preacher? I was foolish to say yes.”

“Well, dear?”

“Surely, George, you must understand me.”

He saw her difficulty at once, and said, smiling: “You may trust me always to understand you. You know, dear, my own feeling in regard to freedom of belief and, indeed, of unbelief. You know, too, what I desire and never urge. I see your difficulty, but there is no need for you to pretend anything. He will ask no questions. The Bible is a book—or, rather, many books. We have read much of it together.”

It was true. Without any concealed intention on his part, and purely as noble literature, they had read at times, in their evenings alone, much of the great Hebrew poetry, as they had also read much of the best English prose and verse.

“Yes, I know,” she returned; “but this is so different, George. What am I to read to a dying man? I went there once. It was horrible—so slovenly and dirty and ill-smelling; and I never before saw a man dying. It was dreadful. It seemed to me so unnatural.”

The thought struck him as singular. “That is,” he returned, “only because in the ordinary ways of life to see a death is rare for most people. I have seen thousands die. To me, for four years, death was ever near, a sadly common event. It is what may precede death that I dread,—long illness, the loss of competence,—but not death. I hope that, when I die, my twilight may be brief.”

“Please don’t,” she said. “But what am I to read?”

“Well, then, to settle your mind, dear, read him the fourteenth chapter of John, and take my little Bible with you. I doubt if there be a Bible in the whole settlement.”

“Thank you, George.”

“Shall I go with you? I should be very glad to go.”

“Oh, no, no.” She felt that this would have embarrassed her.

“Remember, the fourteenth of John. It is very beautiful. Have you never read it?”

“Never.”

The reply shocked him. In spite of what he knew of her life, it also surprised him. For the moment he had been puzzled by her question; but the chapter he named was a favorite of his own, and he would, after all, have been unable to name any other more suitable.

In the afternoon she found Coffin waiting at the foot of the bluff. He walked with her past the busy cotton-presses, and then out of the wood on to the cleared lands with their broken fences and half-burned stumps. “Wait for me here,” she said, and went on to Wilson’s log cabin. The woman and her children were absent. By the dim light within she saw, as she paused at the door, the broken chairs, the open press with soiled gowns, and the lean chickens picking up the crumbs lying about the dirty floor. The air was heavy with the odors of uncared-for illness. As she approached the rude bed, Wilson said, trying to sit up, “There’s a chair, ma’am. Set down. Not that one; it’s broke.”

She took the hot, dry hand, and feeling a keen desire to run away, sat down beside him, saying, as she put her basket on the table, “I brought you some soup. I hope you are better.”

“No, ma’am; and I never will be no better. The doctor you sent told my wife I couldn’t hold out long. She’s awful troubled about the funeral. We talked it over, and I reckon it won’t cost much. I told her so. Tom will make the coffin.”

She was seeing a new aspect of life—the crude business of death among the poor. It shocked a woman who, in her abounding health and immense vitality, had little more realization of decay and death than has the normal animal.

She murmured softly, “Do not worry; we will take care of all that.”

“Thank you,” he said; “that’s mighty good of you. I can’t talk long; it makes me cough.” Then, after a brief pause, he said: “I’ve been thinking a heap about things. I ain’t been a bad man, but I killed a man in Tennessee. You see, he shot Brother Bill a week before. Seems to me it was—yes, it was Christmas eve, and snowing. I got him comin’ out of his barn. Now I want to know. My wife fetched a preacher here. He’s a Methody. He said I’d got to repent of that man, or I’d go to hell. I didn’t want him any more. I don’t repent. If a man was to kill your man, you wouldn’t forgive him, now would you?”

“I would not,” she replied.

“I knowed you would say something like that, and it’s a real comfort. The other notion ain’t natural.”

The woman sat still in thought, while he coughed until he was exhausted. What would George have said? Why did men confess to her? She had been reinforcing a dying man’s undying hatred. And yet, how could she lie?

At last he whispered hoarsely: “Sometimes in the night I ain’t easy about it. It’s a kind of muddle, life is. You don’t ever get things cleared up. Did you fetch the Book? I used to like mother to read the stories in it when I was a little chap. When father was dying she read out of it, and now I’m going too. Would you read some?”

She opened the Bible where Trescot had left a marker, and read in tones which gathered pathetic sweetness as she went on near to the end of the chapter, when he stopped her. “Seems to me I remember that,” he said; “must have heard it once in church up in the hills. What’s that about the Holy Ghost? That’s what bothered me when I was a young fellow. I took religion bad, once; but that about the Holy Ghost used to kind of scare me of nights. What does that mean?”

Constance paused, searching the page for an answer. It was a childlike creature who lay gasping under the soiled sheet, and yet it was a man; and she felt that out of her larger life she owed him an answer. But what to say she knew not.

For a moment she sat still, glad that he was unable to recognize her embarrassment. Then, her eye wandering over the page, she said: “Perhaps this may help you. ‘The Holy Ghost, the Comforter.’”

“There can’t be no comfort in what a man can’t understand. I don’t know as that—”

A cruel spell of coughing stopped him; and the agony of vain effort shook the rickety bed until it creaked sharply. For some reason, this strangely affected her. It seemed an inanimate expression of the extent of discomfort and wretchedness. At last, worn out, he groaned, “My God, that’s awful!” as he wiped away the blood on his lips and the gray tangle of his beard; and then, with recurrent reflection: “But there’s a heap of things a man can’t understand.”

She shared his conviction as she sat with her glove on the open page, penciled here and there by a hand she loved. She murmured, “Yes, yes,” and read on. “‘Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you.’”

“Won’t you say that again?” he murmured feebly.

The clear tones of a voice often spoken of for its charm repeated the promise. She was close to tears as she continued:

“‘Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’”

She was emotionally too much disturbed to go on, and made a brief pause to regain her command of speech, relieved by the strange comments which gave her time.

“That about being afraid, now, that’s curious-like. I’ve been troubled pretty often, but I don’t know as I ever was afraid.”

She made no reply, but read on, as one may do automatically, with one half-conscious mind on the text, and with one other mind perplexed by thoughts of death and life—the sudden sense of the sweet values of mystery in love and friendship and religion, of which George had spoken. She read on to the end, not taking in the meaning of the three verses which followed.

“Is that all, ma’am?”

“Yes; that is all.”

“Thank you.” He lay on his back, silent, the sweat on his forehead, his cheeks red, his eyes closed. What were his thoughts? There on the edge of the grave was this rude, half-civilized man of the woods, without education, with his creed of an eye for an eye, and here the woman of another world, with every gift and every chance that wealth had given, and both alike bewildered over the simple words of a promise which neither could comprehend nor yet know how to use.

The flies buzzed in and out and settled on the hot face undisturbed, until she began to fan them away.

“I wasn’t asleep,” he said feebly, opening his eyes: “I was a-thinking.” So, too, was she.

“I was thinking,” he repeated, “that maybe you wouldn’t mind saying a prayer. You won’t need to kneel down, the floor’s that filthy; it’s them chickens, and my wife’s wore out.”

The voice was very earnest in its appeal. “I might get some help.”

Constance sat up, in her perplexity fanning him more rapidly. She was helpless, stranded, full of pity. Was this a time for deceit? To whom could she pray? She felt for the man in his hour of doubt and pain, putting forth yearning hands for a sure hold on something. Would such an hour ever come to her?

He felt vaguely her hesitation, and with the gentleness of the mountain-man said: “Maybe you ain’t used to praying in company.”

“No, no,” she said, glad of the frailest pretense; “I am not; and the room is close, I must get outside.” It was true. She had the keenest sensitiveness to evil odors. Her head swam, and saying, “I will come again; I must get into the air,” she stood up and emptied her basket of fruit, lemons, and the bottle of soup. “You must need ice. I will send it to-morrow—no, to-night. Coffin will bring it.”

He thanked her, and again she had to touch the hot, dry hand, as he pleaded: “This isn’t any kind of place for folks like you, ma’am; but the angels might be like you—I don’t ask no better. You will come again, won’t you?”

“I will; certainly I will,” she said, and went out.

“A sad kind of angel you are, Constance Trescot,” she murmured, as she drank in the fresh pine-scented air. She had a pained sense of incompleteness, of incompetence, of failure.

Her uncle’s views, which were nourished by the pleasure of being in opposition to his own world, had kept her ignorant of all that Susan knew so well. Constance had felt no need of it for herself or for others. With all her many resources, her education, her acceptance by a man like Trescot on terms of intellectual equality, she had shrunk away defeated, unable to answer helpfully a simple, uneducated woodsman. She moved on into the forest, deep in thought, followed by her doglike guardian. Presently, as she went past the cotton-presses, she was aware of coming steps and met Mr. Greyhurst. He turned and went with her. Seeing whence she had come, he said, with some seriousness: “These clearings are rather lonesome places for ladies, Mrs. Trescot; and, now that the blacks are free, not altogether safe. You must pardon my frankness. Mr. Trescot may not fully comprehend the risks the North has brought on us.”

It was said kindly, and as she felt he was not without reason, she replied: “You are no doubt right; but when I come here among these poor people I ask my garden helper, Coffin, to follow me.”

“So I see, but he is a wild fellow, like the rest,—oh, I suppose, trustworthy in a way. I should think you would find these people interesting. They are mostly men who have drifted down from the mountain country.”

“Yes, I like them. This time I went to take a sick man some luxuries.”

“You are very good. These people—and, in fact, most of our people—are too poor to be able to help one another.”

“Oh, these are trifles any one can afford.”

“Perhaps. I called on you again yesterday, but was unlucky. Will you allow me to say one thing?”

She laughed. “Being ignorant, I must, I suppose, be generous. What is it?”

He went on, with a manner so timid and unassured as to be in marked contrast with his athletic build and ordinary self-assertive carriage.

“We have been so long accustomed to regard Mr. Hood as a sort of despotic landlord, standing in our way here in St. Ann, that your appearance as representing him rather startled our good ladies.”

“I trust they were agreeably startled. Are we so surprising?”

“Oh, I said you, Mrs. Trescot; men are never surprising.”

“Indeed! I have often found them so. I think, however, when my uncle comes in the fall for that tiresome trial, you will find one man who will pass as agreeably surprising. I want him to come because we wish him to know St. Ann and all these delightful people. Besides, he is a great friend of the South—what at home we called a Copperhead. He could do a great deal to help this town; and, once here on the spot, he may be brought to see that even in business it is often the best policy to be generous.”

“You will pardon me, Mrs. Trescot, if I say that he has hardly been that, or even just.”

“Perhaps not; but we trust that in the end St. Ann will not have to regret our coming or our influence with him. In business my uncle loves to be what he calls exact; outside of it he is the prey of everybody who wants help.”

“That is unusual,” he returned; “but, unfortunately, this is all business.”

“Yes; but, after all, Mr. Greyhurst, it is hard for a man to escape from the tyranny of his own temperament. My uncle is always in the opposition, and for that reason I think he really enjoys a legal battle.”

“It is often a costly luxury.”

“Yes; but he does not care about that.”

“What you say about the difficulty of escape from the despotism of temperament—ah! that is sadly true. No one knows that better than I. I envy Mr. Trescot his entire self-control. I think the bar is scarcely a good education in amiability.”

“If,” she laughed, “my husband degenerates in St. Ann I shall run away. I think General Averill is a poor illustration of the influence of the practice of the law.”

“Oh, the general! No one is like Averill. He has the tenderness of a woman. He is impossible as an example.”

“Cannot a man make himself what he really wants to be?”

He glanced at her with interest, and returned gaily, “Can a woman?”

“No,” she said; “no.”

“Neither can I, Mrs. Trescot, more’s the pity.”

He was once more on the point of one of those easy confessions, which, for some occult reason of sex sympathies, men, as I have said, are so apt to confide to the charity of women. Young as she was, she was prepared for it, and not liking the too personal turn the talk had taken, she said:

“You have told me what folks think of us in St. Ann, but you have never asked—no one has—what we think of St. Ann.”

“Well,” he said, “that might be worth while.”

“We like it and the people.”

She was scarcely accurate, to state it in no worse way.

“That is pleasant; I accept my share.”

“I must leave the partition to you,” she said lightly. “What a big river-steamer!”

“Yes; the Stonewall Jackson, a new boat.”

“How warm it is!” She raised her parasol as they came out on the bluff. “Is it always as warm as this in your July weather?”

They went on talking of every-day matters. In the main street she said: “I must leave you here; I have to make a call and do some shopping.”

He took it to be a dismissal, and, raising his hat, left her.

He walked on, absorbed in thought. The woman had a calming influence upon his uncertain temper. Most women so affected him. With men his self-esteem was always on the watch for slights. It made his associates uncomfortably careful. He was at times aware of their reserve, and, without fully understanding the cause, resented it. He felt it in his business, and most of all with Trescot, who, although very desirous of keeping on good terms with him, found it increasingly difficult. That morning, in Averill’s office, Greyhurst had returned to the question of an amicable settlement of Hood’s claim to own the water-front at the bend. Trescot had once more made the reply that it lay with Mr. Hood, and that he had himself failed to move him. Greyhurst had lost his temper and made his disbelief so plain that nothing except Averill’s very positive interference and indorsement of Trescot’s statement had saved an open quarrel. Greyhurst had reluctantly apologized, and Trescot had been exasperatingly good-humored.

As Greyhurst walked on he said, with returning remembrance of his annoyance: “Damn the man! I was a fool to talk of it,—a child,—but his cold-blooded ways are hard to stand.” As he murmured his condemnation of Trescot, a big black fellow, much in liquor, hustled him. He struck him savagely and went on. The man gathered himself up, and following him, said meekly: “I didn’t go to do it, massa.”

“Oh, go to the devil!” exclaimed Greyhurst. “Get out, or you’ll get a bullet through you!”

He had made himself angry about one man, and another had suffered. A minute later he was sorry for his brutal haste. His life was full of such regrets; but this was a minor one, and did not trouble him long.

X

By and by, her errands done, Constance called at her husband’s office, and they walked homeward together.

He told her that he had heard from her uncle. He had once more declined to yield assent to any of Trescot’s proposals. The squatters must go.

Constance laughed. “Wait till I have him here. I know a way.”

“Upon my word, dear, I begin to respect your legal resources; but they are, so far, rather costly. You have provided for Coffin. How much it will require to get the rest to leave we do not know. As for the use of the machinery of the law to turn them out to shift for themselves—I will throw up the whole business rather than do that.”

“Indeed, I should, George, if it came to that; but it will not; there will be no occasion.”

“Well, I trust not. I have had a long talk with Greyhurst this morning in Averill’s office. I never knew so peculiar a man. He told me that he, at least, had had no hand in that club business. When I thanked him and said that I had never for a moment supposed the Confederate officers had been in it, he said some of them had, and would have told me who they were if I had not said I did not wish to know their names. He laughed, and remarked that it was as well not to know, because I might feel obliged to call them to account. I said in reply that I had no malice about the blackballing, and that in a case of even graver injury I should not feel justified in avenging myself by shooting a man, and that a bullet in the shoulder was, in my case, a pretty positive peacemaker.

“As he made no reply, I went on to say that I had never desired to be a member of the club, and was therefore quite easy in mind. When Averill asked him at what time in October he thought our case would come up, he said he did not know, and that it never ought to come up at all; and when I said that was my desire, but that it would have to go to trial, he quite suddenly lost his temper, and said that I ought to be able to bring about a settlement. And then there was more of it, and worse.”

“What did you say, George?”

“Oh, Averill interfered, and I said I should do everything possible; and indeed I shall. He went away in a curious sullen humor, and, upon my word, he is like some rude, undisciplined boy; but I think he has brains enough to know that he has a bad case. If he knew all I know, he would give it up, although that is not Averill’s opinion.”

“I met him in the woods as I came from Wilson’s. He was pretty sharply critical of Uncle Rufus, and was rather intimate in his talk about himself.”

“Was he? I should not have thought him a man to do that.”

“It surprised me less than it does you, for men have a queer way of opening their minds to women.”

“I am sure you said what was right. How is poor Wilson?”

“I was wrong to go, George.”

Realizing what must have happened, and not altogether sorry, he said: “What was your trouble, my love? Did you read to him?”

“Yes; I read to him, and oh, George, he asked me questions.”

“What, dear?”

She hesitated, and then said: “It was dreadful. He asked me what was the Holy Ghost, what kind of a Ghost. It was awful. How did I know? How does any one know? Your Bible is a tangle of mysteries.”

“It is answered in the same chapter, Constance.”

“Answered?”

“Yes; it is the Comforter.”

“I said that.”

“It is also called the Spirit of Truth, Constance. That which is as old as the world, as old as He who made it, the Spirit before which science bends in worship, that on which the world of morals rests. Isn’t that simple enough?”

“Yes,” she said doubtfully.

“Was that all, dear?”

“Oh, no, no; he asked me to pray for him.”

He looked at her. She was troubled, tearful; he hardly knew what to say, and at last wisely put the question by. “We will talk of that at another time, not now; it is a large question.”

“I did not do it.”

“No; you were right.”

“Thank you, George.”

To know that, thinking, believing as he did, he was able to put himself in her position affected her deeply. She was about to go on and say something of the man’s confession and his creed of unforgiveness, but recalling what she too had said in reply, she was silent.

The next week she went away to her old home with the general and Mrs. Averill. The day after her arrival she wrote to Trescot:

“Dear George:

“I am sitting on the great rock at sunset, and it seems as though the waves I love are glad of my coming. A mad gale is hurling them on the rocks below me, and far away there is a wild turmoil of waters about Little Misery Islands. The air is sweet and salt, and it wants only the sunshine of the love I miss every hour.

“I found Susan well and utterly unchanged. Why should she not be?—only that I have changed, and am wiser and a larger person than when you first knew me. What your dear love and company have done for me I know full well. The atmosphere of my old home seems to me other than it was. I think I shall understand Susan better. Once I used to think her narrow. Uncle Rufus is thinner than thin, with a wilted autumnal look, and the same delicate features, and the same meek violence in his opinions. I refused to be taken in the toils of an invitation to discuss his Western affairs, but it will have to be soon or late, though I shall not be serious with him until we are in St. Ann. Then he may look out. And now I must go. I hear voices in the garden.

“Constantly your constant “Constance.

“Isn’t that pretty, sir?

“P.S.—Tell me all the news, big and little. How are Wilson and Coffin and my cat? The Averills were most kind, and will be here very soon for a visit.

“P.S.—I am writing a second P.S.,—almost in the dark. Far away to right, Marblehead Light is flashing at intervals over the stormy water. There is another, a lesser one, far to the left. I like it better. It is, sir, if you please, constant, like me.”

She wrote daily, and a week later said:

“I can see that dear, grave face when I tell you that I went to church last Sunday with Susan. I am not going to pretend I went for any reason except because I love you, but that is not reason, for my love is all of me—body, soul, and mind. Is that a riddle, sir? I had to tell Susan that I went because it would please you. She put on one of her queer looks, and said it was creditable to my sense of the humorous. I did not like that. I do not think that even you can understand the absolute negation from childhood of all thought about this vast matter of religion. Since I came, a little girl, to Eastwood, I have been imprisoned within the bounds of my uncle’s belief, or unbelief, and only of late years did I slowly apprehend that his attitude was purely due to the joy of standing up against other people’s beliefs. But think, dear, what this ignorance, ridicule, and denial did with a childhood like mine. Susan said once you cannot even teach manners without forms, nor make a child religious and reverent without forms. Is that so? I had a wicked little joy when uncle saw me go out to church with Susan. He said, as if it were a tragedy, ‘And this is the end,’ and, as Susan says, twinkled away. He does not walk like other people, but only from his knees—really an absurd little person, as he appears to me now, with a queer way of suddenly saying unexpected things. He told me once, when I was fifteen, that I was a fine animal. I was furious, but I think I know now what he meant.

“The Averills came and were made much of. Since the general was here uncle has spoken of you to our friends with a newly acquired pride, to the vast amusement of Susan. You are to understand that when, in October, you have the help of a man with some knowledge of business everything will be settled. I said, ‘Better, then, uncle, not to discuss things with an ignorant woman’; and with this he was contented for half a day.

“Whenever it is possible I go out in our cat-boat, and oh, to sail with a mad east wind driving the fog in your face! Do you like that? Nature is never too riotous for me—and then these summer evenings by the sea; what a blithe playmate! I used to like best to be alone on the shore or in the woods; but now, ah! to have you, and cry, ‘Look at this, George; and see that.’

“You say I am making you vain. I leave you to imagine how much I love you, how emptied is life without you. My uncle concerns himself with everything, from the dairy and the butter to my poor little every-day letters to you. ‘Absurd waste of paper,’ he says; and then, with his inconsequent felicity, ‘What would I do if you were dead?’ I said: ‘Do? I should kill myself in the hope to find you—oh, somewhere!’ Do you know, he laughed, and said: ‘Just so, just so. I do not doubt it.’ Then he went on: ‘Once you had a doll and it fell into the well. You were caught trying to climb down the chain to get it; and then, when you were punished, you said you would starve until some one got that doll.’ It was true. At last I scared him so that a man went down and got it. There was not much doll left, but it was my doll. He went on, and I learned more about my obstinate ways, until I fled away, leaving him talking, until, as I presume, he discovered that he was alone.

“Yesterday we had a dense fog. It rolled in from the sea in gray masses. An east wind drove it landward. I went to the shore and lay on the rocks just above the sea. The fog shut out the islands, and at last was like a gray wall about me. You know how the sea of a bright day seems to explain itself, when from far away the waves rise and gather and grow and break on the shore; but now you could not see twenty feet, and the great rollers came as if out of nowhere and tumbled at my feet. Somewhere out at sea a steamer screamed as if lost. Oh, but I wanted you! You would have said things of it all I cannot say. I can only see and enjoy and badly describe.

“C.T.”

A few days before she returned to St. Ann one of his replies to her daily letters ran thus:

“Yes, the rooms will be in order for your uncle and our welcome Susan. Mrs. Averill has been sending me a lot of things—I presume owing to your distrust of my capacity to keep house. I have at least laid in a stock of patience for use when your uncle comes, and have got out and dusted my other unused virtues. I received last week a kind note from Colonel La Grange, with a check for my settlement of the damaged cotton. You may guess how much—enough to make it easier to deal with your uncle.

“You ask in your last whom I see, and would like to know what I do all day. You ask if I have made any new friends. I scent the wicked weed jealousy in the garden of love. Fie for shame! More people have been able this year to get away. I see no women except Mrs. Averill, and if you are jealous of any woman it must be of Rosalind or Portia or Lady Macbeth. I have been refreshing myself with the company of these ladies in your absence. Horses are so plenty that I have been able to ride a few times with La Grange, and I begin to think of the joy of some day riding with you.

“Poor Wilson is dead; and, as you desired, I took care of the funeral. The rest may keep. Everything goes well, and there are still flowers,—oh, in abundance! I hear that the rector is not well and has given up. A young man named Kent has taken his place. I had some distant relatives named Kent. I never saw them. You may tell Susan that La Grange, who knows Mr. Kent, says he is young and very good-looking. That is all my news. Do take care of yourself.”