PART I (continued 3)

“Poor Susan!” thought Constance; “I think she prefers them old. I imagine Susan in a mild clerical flirtation!”

XI

On the evening of the first of October, Constance found herself, to her great joy, again in her own home. They arrived late, and Mr. Hood very tired. He appeared, however, at breakfast next morning, having slept unusually well. After an ample meal, during which he found time to complain of the butter, the eggs, the corn-bread, and his cocoa, he informed Susan that she had better take a rest, and that Constance, at eleven o’clock, would go with him to show him the way to Mr. Greyhurst’s office and to the general’s. At five in the afternoon George would drive him about the country. He desired to see his lands. In the evening he would be prepared to discuss matters with Trescot.

The family, thus disposed of, rose in revolt. Trescot had affairs which would keep him busy; there would be a buggy and Coffin to drive Mr. Hood about. It was too far for him to walk, and Constance would be occupied. Susan declined to be advised. She had to unpack. He gave up at once.

Trescot said: “It would be as well not to call on Mr. Greyhurst. But if you do, may I ask that you will not commit yourself in any way until the general and I have been able to lay before you more fully what has been done.”

“Of course not, Trescot; I have not been a business man all my life without having learned caution.” He had a brisk little air of assurance. “I hope to make the acquaintance of some of the Confederate officers. I think you said Mr. Greyhurst was one of them. With my views of the late disastrous war, everything will become easy.”

“I trust, sir,” said Trescot, as he was about to go out, “that you may enable me, now that you are here, to act as I have not been as yet authorized to do. Unless you can make up your mind to yield a little, you will find difficulties, as we have done.”

Mr. Hood waved them away. “Difficulties are not for the resolute.”

Constance shook her head at her husband, who, thus advised, quietly gave up; and the little old man went out on the porch to get his morning exercise. He walked up and down, with his hands behind his back, smiling at intervals, and contemplating with satisfaction novel opportunities for the exercise of his adroitness in affairs. Meanwhile, Susan also disappeared.

As Constance left him at the door, Trescot said: “There are limitless capacities for mischief in that old man.”

“There are; but he is as timid as a house-fly. The general has already disposed him to yield. He is only making believe to be very bold; and if Mr. Greyhurst represents to him the state of feeling here, he will be pretty well alarmed at the attitude of his Confederate friends.”

“That is very sensible, dear, and no doubt true; but he will say yes to-day, and no to-morrow, and I shall be presumed to have advised him. That is where the mischief will come in. And now I must go.”

Constance was fully resolved to have her own share in these counsels. She saw her husband’s uneasiness, and was sensible that there was peril in the air, and a general belief that this absentee millionaire was standing in the way of progress and threatening men who had been soldiers and for whom the deepest sympathy was felt. She was as clear as George that to relieve the squatters and make easy settlements with the owners of mortgaged lands would leave only the larger matter of the more valuable land-claim on the bend. She cared nothing for what her uncle might make or lose, but she had had one stern illustration of the methods of the rude men who considered themselves wronged, and how the issues were to affect her husband had been from the first her chief anxiety. She had been fortunate in her venture with Coffin, and now again she meant to act, and was the more resolute because she was not quite at ease in regard to Trescot’s health. He had felt the summer’s heat, and more often than before carried his right arm caught for support in his waistcoat.

As the day proved cool, Mr. Hood decided to walk. When he stood in front of the one-story wooden office of John Greyhurst, he considered with disapproval the want of fresh paint and the ill-kept window-panes. They gave him a sense of superiority. He was himself as neat as a cat.

He went up the entry, and in a moment was in the presence of Greyhurst, who knew at a glance that the eager little gentleman in well-fitting gray summer dress must be Mr. Hood. As he rose to welcome him,—large, square-shouldered, and powerful,—the contrast was striking.

“Mr. Hood, I am sure.”

“Yes.”

There was a cordial greeting. Greyhurst removed some law books from a chair, and they sat down, Mr. Hood saying: “It gives me great pleasure to see you. You may not be aware that I am one of the many at the North whose sympathies were with the South, and I have long felt that if I could venture, at my age, to come to St. Ann, I might”—he remembered Trescot’s warning—“I might clear up some misunderstandings.”

The lawyer was not one of those who, like Trescot, could let a man go on to tangle himself in the net of his own garrulity. He said: “Oh, there have been more than enough troubles, sir. You are quite correct, but I should hesitate to call them misunderstandings, unless Mr. Trescot has utterly set aside your wishes. He is a bolder man than your former agent,—I may say, a rasher man. He has taken measures to turn out some broken-down soldiers from their miserable little clearings. He has given notices of merciless foreclosures. To some of these people it is ruin.”

Hood had not the frankness to say that these had been his own very positive orders, nor that Trescot had insisted on milder measures. He moved uneasily as he returned:

“I am inclined to be lenient, but business is business, Mr. Greyhurst.”

“Yes, no doubt; but I think that you ought to be aware that we are a wrecked people; that people with no money cannot pay; and, worst of all, there is that land-claim at the bend. One of our oldest families is interested, and has the sympathy of our entire community. The failure to settle this is standing in the way of our prosperity and limiting our river facilities. I do not imagine, sir, that you know our hot-blooded people. There is risk, sir,—peril,—in the course that is being pursued.”

“Peril!” said the little old gentleman, sitting up. “I do not understand.” He was imposed upon by the emphatic statements of the stalwart, dark-faced man. “I should be glad to be enlightened. Who is in danger?”

Greyhurst had no desire to go beyond vague generalities.

“Yes, I said there was peril. If you lived here you would understand. No Southern community will tamely submit to these measures. A compromise, with a fair division of the water-front at the bend, would quiet the feeling. The rest would be easy to manage. I have urged this in vain. Mr. Trescot pleads your orders. As a lawyer I assure you your claim will not stand.”

Hood held up the hand of appeal. “I—I, sir, will consider the matter. I will talk it over with Mr. Trescot. I will speak to the general.”

He had come hither to talk business, as he called it, and was scared and humiliated. This was not business. He went on: “We would be prepared to go into any reasonable propositions.”

“I have invited them over and over.”

“Dear me! that is bad, very bad.”

“Then you agree to divide the water-front?”

“Oh, no; I could not say that; I—I am accustomed to discuss such matters. I don’t quite know.”

He was getting confused and nervous, and as eager to get away as he had been to come. He rose. “It has been a great pleasure to see you. Ah! my hat, thank you; I must go on to see Averill.”

“I shall have the pleasure to call, and meanwhile you may trust me to do all I can to restrain the feeling here. It is bitter, very bitter—in fact, dangerously bitter. Good morning.”

“Bless me!” said the old gentleman, as he entered the street, and stood wiping his forehead, “what an abrupt person! I must talk to George Trescot.”

As he moved on he reflected that Greyhurst had no direct connection with the affairs of the squatters, nor with the mortgages. If he intended to alarm him, Rufus Hood, he should learn that it was not easy. The further he got away from the impressive physical bulk and threatening manner of the lawyer, the more he resolved to have his rights. He was, as I have said, close and narrow in business affairs, but outside of them not ungenerous, and very willing to let the left hand know of the bounty of the right. After he had ousted these land robbers he might help them—might do something. The idea of thus posing as a benefactor refreshed him. He went on to Averill’s.

He found the general rather doubtful as to the very valuable land at the bend. It was a difficult matter; nor was he much disposed to make that or any of Hood’s business appear easy. He said nothing of the new evidence. Mr. Hood would have to yield and not drive men to extremities. He told him that Trescot would set before him in full, as concerned the water-front, the state of the evidence in his favor. It must rest largely on their ability to prove the bounds of a survey made for Mr. Hood’s father forty years back. If they failed, then the Baptiste heirs would come in under an old French title. When Hood mentioned what the lawyer had said of violence and public opinion, Averill laughed. “A little bluff. The man is not very sure of his case. After Mr. Trescot talks to you, we will be better able to decide if it be well to compromise.”

“Compromise! That I will never do. I am not a man to be scared out of my rights.”

Averill smiled and said: “Be gentle with the squatters and the rest. Their lands are of small value; the water is shoal near the town; soon or late all our business has got to go to the bend. I should willingly abandon all your other interests to insure that.”

Mr. Hood went away well pleased. Here was business and to spare. He would be firm, firm. He struck his stick on the broad sidewalk, and went on.

In the afternoon Constance took her uncle to drive in a buggy along a bad wood-road to see the lands so long in dispute. It gave her the opportunity she needed.

In the woods she tied the horse and walked about until her uncle was tired and much bewildered. Then they sat down on a log. He had been telling her over and over how determined he was. At last, during a pause in his repetitions, she said:

“What do you mean to do about the squatters?”

“Turn them out, of course. It is my land.”

“They are pretty lawless men, Uncle Rufus.”

“Oh, I have heard all about that from Mr. Greyhurst. I am not a man to be easily alarmed. The general says it is all talk—pure bluff.”

“Indeed? Were you ever shot at?”

“I! God bless me! no. What do you mean? Why should I be shot at?”

“When George first came here, or soon after, these men were told that you meant to eject them, and that he would act promptly. One of them shot at George; I had just left him; it was at night.”

The neat little old man was at once uneasy, and looked about him, saying: “Good gracious, Constance! It must have been an accident. Are you sure? Do they live near here?”

“The bullet broke a pane of glass. If you are curious, you can see the hole it made in the wall. Now, uncle, this is serious, and not a matter for doubt or delay. You have tied George up so that he is hated, and I do not know what may happen. He has done some things to quiet these men. He has settled certain of the mortgages, and you will have to stand by his acts; but there is still danger. If you had been here, it would have been you they would have shot at. You have been merciless, and it has got to stop. I will not have George killed in order that you may make a few thousand dollars. I will not have it!”

“How violent you are, Constance! You don’t suppose there is any—any danger now? It was most inconsiderate, most unusual. Of course the man was arrested.”

“Arrested? No; you can’t arrest a whole town. I mean that public opinion would be on his side. He got away, and no one knows of it. If you talk of it I will never, never forgive you.”

“I will not,” he said. “I never heard of such a thing. It is awful.”

She turned sharply as they sat on the log. “You say it is awful. It is you who made what would have been easy full of risk to my husband. It lies with you to put an end to this state of things. If you will not, I shall leave St. Ann with George—oh, at once! Now what do you mean to do? We have already talked of it—of leaving.”

“What do you want me to do?” he returned feebly.

“Will you agree to let George buy off the squatters?”

“I will talk to him. Women know nothing of business.”

“I do, uncle. George Trescot is my business. This trifling with my husband’s life and my happiness must end—now and here. You talk of business!” She rose and stood facing him. “I am in the business of life. Either you do as I say, or I shall make George give up your affairs and go away. You have been entirely regardless of what might happen. George and the general wrote to you over and over; you did not reply or you refused to yield anything. These rebel friends of yours hate you; and now this attempt at murder comes as a result of your selfish folly.”

“No one mentioned this—this remarkable incident. I have been left in the most culpable ignorance. I am a perfectly reasonable man. Let Trescot clear them out, and I will—well, I will then see what may be done to help them.”

“Yes; you will see; and with George dead, and you too if you announce your intention and stay here. I will not have it. Will you do as George wants, or will you not?”

“I will not be bullied. I must think it over.”

“You will do no such thing. This life of suspense is simply unendurable. Have you no common sense—no compassion for me, no realization of the danger you have brought upon us?” She turned from him with a gesture of despair, crying: “You are an impossible person. You have neither common sense nor heart. I have done with you. I hope never to see you again.” As she ended, she moved away with quick steps through the darkening wood.

“Great heavens!” he cried, as he stood up. “Are you going to leave me here alone?”

“I am; you can walk home.”

“Constance! Constance!” he cried.

She turned back. “Well, what is it?”

“I will do it.”

“Yes—until you get home. Oh, you and your money! I want no more of it; I had rather sew or beg.”

“But I will do it. George may do as he likes.”

“And you will pay? You will let him settle with the squatters?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And the other things—the foreclosures?”

“Yes, yes.” He rose, very shaky. She gave him her arm as he tottered.

“And about the lands here?”

“I will never give them up.”

She smiled, and, contented with her victory, said: “I would not if I were you. Here is the buggy.”

He was silent all the way home, nursing his wrath.

Her husband met them as they entered his library.

“Have you had a pleasant drive, Mr. Hood?”

“I have not, sir. It has been most disagreeable.”

“My uncle has agreed, George, that whatever terms you may make with the squatters, and about the mortgages, he will abide by them.”

Trescot was surprised. “Oh, thank you,” he cried. “It is a great relief, sir, great—”

“I agreed to it under compulsion,” said Hood. “On reflection, I am of opinion—”

Trescot turned on him. “Did you tell my wife you would do as she has said?”

“I did; but, upon reconsidering, I—”

“Then, sir, I shall act on your very wise decision; and it is time I did, and none too soon. I will talk it all over with you to-night or to-morrow.”

“We shall see,” said the old man; “I am too weak to discuss matters at present.”

“I have no desire to do so,” returned Trescot.

“Uncle,” said Susan, an amused listener, “you had better lie down before dinner; you must be tired.”

“Damn everybody!” said the old man, and disappeared, clutching at Susan’s arm.

“And now, dear,” said George, “as you have been acting for me in this business—”

“No, no; I was acting for myself.”

“I see, dear; and what did you say to that improbable old man?”

“I said you had been shot at.”

“Constance!”

“I did. He thinks he will be killed. I told him that would be a great relief. Oh, I said horrid things. He is half dead already.”

“Do you think you were altogether wise to make him angry?”

“What do I care? I am a woman in love, at bay. Oh, I used my claws; but he gave way; he always does. To-morrow he will change his mind.”

“Be at ease, dear; I am too relieved to give him a chance to escape. I could not have used any risk I run, or have run, to make your uncle give me a free hand; but I should simply have said, Either I am to do as seems best, or I give up the charge of your affairs.”

“I told him you would.”

Susan entered, laughing. “George,” she said, “my uncle wants a time-table of the railroad East. What have you done to him, Conny?”

George and Constance laughed as she replied, “I frightened him well.”

“He is a bit over-cooked, Conny,” said Susan. “Did you tell him he would be scalped? He is in a panic.”

“He won’t be to-morrow,” returned Constance, still a little cross.

“He thinks he will not get up for dinner. Whenever his feelings are hurt by you or me he decides to make a new will. I shall hear of it to-morrow. I have been very rich, steeped in poverty, and moderately well off. He tells me all about it every time. It would be very, very funny if there were not too much of it. It is money, money, money. I think there must be devil-saints and their blood-money. It is an obsession with Uncle Rufus. He is now being robbed and ruined by these unlucky squatters, and is talking of giving thousands to endow an asylum for the orphans of dead rebels! It all has its serious side, but I could not help being amused.”

“Amused? There is nothing amusing about it—nothing. Nothing as unreasonable as Uncle Rufus is amusing to me; and he is always acting, with himself for audience when the play doesn’t draw. He was horribly scared, Susan. Is he still? I have worse things in store if he should dare to change his mind. This is no matter for laughter. I hope he will go. This is all of my life. It is George Trescot.” She was becoming more and more excited and angry.

“I shall do nothing to keep him here,” said Trescot, laying a hand on her arm. “But be quiet, dear.”

Never before had he seen her swept by such a storm of passionate wrath.

She drew herself up at his touch, and was instantly quieted, like some splendid animal tamed and stilled by the touch of a master.

“I did not mean to laugh at you,” said Susan, her kindly face, with its great power of expression, becoming suddenly grave; “but you ought by this time to know, Conny dear, that everything has its droll side for me. You take uncle too seriously. You get superbly angry; I make him appear ridiculous. Either answers; and, dear, the anger hurts you; the ridicule is effective, and hurts no one. I am altogether on your side. But what about that time-table?”

“I have none,” said Trescot; “and he cannot go until we have set all this matter at rest. After that he cannot go too soon.”

“Very well; he shall stay just as long as you want,” said Susan, and left the room.

Then Constance sat down and burst into tears.

“What is it, my love?” said Trescot, comforting her.

“Oh, everything, George, everything; I did not think any one could be as heartless. I hope they will all go away—oh, soon; I want you to myself.”

“I do not think he will stay, and I do not want him; he will only muddle matters. Come out into the garden; we will talk of other things. Let this rest.”

It was his way to avoid needless discussions, and, having settled a thing and reached a decision, to dwell upon it no longer. It was otherwise with Constance. It required a distinct effort, as Susan said,—and she knew her sister well,—“for Conny to pick the burs off her mind.” He, too, was beginning to observe the persistency with which she dwelt upon unpleasant and, indeed, pleasant ideas.

The quiet of a windless night, with the unclouded brilliancy of the Southern heavens, was over them as they went into the garden. She slipped her hand into his, and they walked up and down the garden path. After a little she said: “I behaved like a bad child. You do not scold me, George.”

“I never shall. You have that within which scolds enough at need.”

“I sometimes doubt it.”

“Oh, no; never do that.”

“I envy you your patience, George. I wonder if ever I shall be like you. They say husband and wife do sometimes grow to be alike.”

“Or more and more unlike. We are both distinct characters, and both strong natures; we shall never grow into resemblance.”

She made no immediate reply, but after a little asked inconsequently: “Were you ever afraid, George?”

“Oh, often; always when going under fire. Why do you ask?”

“I have been afraid of late; I do not know why. It is like the fear in a dream. Is there such a thing as pure, causeless fear?”

“Yes,” he said; “some insane people have it, or so I have heard.”

“Well, I am not that,” she said, laughing. “I suppose it is a result of my long anxiety about you—my sense of danger ever since that dreadful night.”

“Well,” he returned, “we are, or are going to be, in quiet waters. See how glorious Orion is.”

She was not yet to be turned aside.

“Oh, I was quite hopeless about these wretched affairs, and you never are; and you are always patient with me and every one, even when things seem so utterly hopeless.”

“Ah, Constance:

“How you love to quiet me with a quotation! It is very clever. I never have an answer. Isn’t that Jupiter, George?” she said, looking up at the shining stars.

“Yes; I think it is. What a little part of it all we are; and yet we are. And, like the great rolling worlds overhead, we too are pulled by a hundred exterior forces and, like them, must keep our orbits steadily.”

“Thank you,” she said; “I accept the lesson. I will try; you know what is for me the one overruling force.”

“I know, dear; but there are others.”

“Is not love enough?”

“Yes; the love that is in and of all earthly love at its best.”

She walked on in silence, and then returned: “I understand you; but do you think I could ever love you more or better than I do?”

He hesitated, and then answered: “Will you not love me better as the years go on, and as, with God’s help, I shall be better worth the loving,—for, indeed, I mean to be?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

“Then there will be reasons for love’s sweet increase.”

“I am trapped!” she cried, laughing. “You ought to be ashamed. Good night”; and kissing him, she went away, crying: “It was not fair; I shall be careful how I make admissions.”

XII

Susan announced next day at breakfast that her uncle would remain in his room, and desired to be alone. He wished Constance to know that the toast was burned, and that he had received a shock to a sensitive nervous system. “My dear Conny, he thinks them equally important. He wished me to say to you—and I do, dear, for he will ask me—I was to say that the least gratitude on your part would have saved him from this distressing incident.”

“Toast or nervous shock?” asked Constance.

“Don’t be cynical, dear,” said Susan; “toast, of course.”

Trescot declined any connection with the matter, and went away laughing.

On the following day Mr. Hood came down to breakfast. He was unusually silent, and refusing to say where he was going, went out alone. He lunched with General Averill, and returned late, having elaborately arranged his ideas for the legal consultation to take place that evening.

When Constance, mildly penitent as to methods because victorious, asked him to walk in the garden, he said he preferred his own society, and declined the rose she offered, with a well-worn classical quotation concerning the Greeks and their gifts.

When Susan reminded him of the need to rest before dinner, he said in a querulous tone that he was never left alone a moment, and he wished Susan would attend to her own affairs.

“My dear Conny,” said Susan on her return, “when Uncle Rufus pinches you or me, it is because some one whom he cannot pinch has been pinching him. I know his subdued look. Something disagreeable has happened. He will be sure to tell us all about it.”

At dinner he seemed to have recovered his good humor, and was in one of his talkative moods, and soon fulfilled Susan’s prediction. Apparently Constance was forgiven; indeed, his resentments rarely lasted long, and, as Susan said, the sun would have to hurry if it meant to go down upon his wrath.

“Well, Mr. Hood,” said Trescot, “we are waiting to hear what you think of St. Ann. You have been out all day.”

“I find it a remarkable place—a most remarkable place.”

“In what way, uncle?” said Constance.

“Oh, the people—the people.”

“But how remarkable?” asked Trescot. “In every way? They are very kindly, some of them cross, and no wonder; but still, among them there are many very pleasant, well-bred gentlefolks. I find a few of the older people really charming, with their flavor of Creole ways. Whom did you meet?”

“I met that rude animal, Greyhurst. He wanted me to come into his office for another talk. I declined. He is a brute.”

“But, really, I do not think he means to be ill-mannered or rude,” said Trescot. “He certainly is impulsive and short of temper.”

“That is very well, sir; but I conceive myself to be at least able to judge of manners. A brute, sir; a wild beast. I desire to be understood as stating categorically that he is a mannerless cur.”

“That seems definite. I am glad you refused to talk business.”

“I did.”

“Whom else did you see?” asked Susan, beginning to enjoy herself, with murmured comments to her sister about the spider and the fly.

“I met at the general’s Colonel Dudley, of General Stonewall Jackson’s staff. I found him interesting. When I expressed myself with regard to my convictions concerning State rights, we had a very agreeable conversation. We went away from Averill’s together, and he took me to their club. He was somewhat in doubt as to my argument in regard to the secession of the individual as justifying that of the State.”

“Isn’t that fine, Conny?” said Susan, in a whisper. “Why not divorce as an additional argument? Isn’t that a form of secession?”

Longing to pass on Susan’s contributions to her husband, Constance asked: “Whom did you meet there?”

“The accommodations are very remarkable, I believe,” said Trescot; “but I have never been inside of the club.”

“The colonel explained to me,” replied Hood, “why there were no front steps; they contemplate larger quarters. We went in at the back; in fact, through the kitchen.”

“Well,” said Susan, “that is rather novel; but it might be of use when one is going out to dine.”

“There appeared to be but one room, and a kind of bar at one end—quite genially provincial.”

“Delightful,” whispered Susan. “I am sure he told them so.”

“I hope they made you juleps, uncle,” said Constance “They are delicious.”

“They did. I was presented to several Confederate officers. Every one of them had a separate receipt for a mint-julep. The old black fellow seemed to know them all. I tried one—I think it was Colonel La Grange’s grandfather’s receipt. I regretted it; I was a little giddy after it. I drank to the memory of the Confederacy—a tribute—”

“Tithes of mint, Conny,” said Susan.

“Did you really do that, uncle?” said Constance.

“I did.”

“Did they like your toast?” asked Trescot, as he caught his wife’s expression of mirthful surprise.

“Like it? Yes, I think so; they did not say so. They appeared to me to be more reserved than I had expected to find them.”

“You must have enjoyed your visit,” remarked Susan, on the track of inquiry.

“Not altogether; one of them—a Captain Tracy—pointed out the photographs of Jefferson Davis and General Lee, and a bad copy of Peale’s Washington. Colonel Dudley asked me on which side I supposed Washington would have been had he lived in the time of our late war. I said he could have been on only one side.”

“That seems probable,” said Susan, with complete gravity; “but did they agree with you, uncle?”

“No; they did not. Colonel La Grange said Washington was a damned Federalist, and would have been with the North. He liked a strong central government.”

“That is fine,” exclaimed Trescot. “I like that.”

“I did not. It was disgusting, sir; and they all laughed. I was shocked. After that I ventured to sound some of them about the absurd feeling I understand to exist here in regard to the squatters.”

“I am sorry you did that,” said Trescot.

“And so was I,” said Hood, meekly. “They were, I may say, quite unpleasant.”

“But,” said Constance, “you told them, I hope, that you meant to buy up these claims.”

“I did not; I have reconsidered the matter.”

“But I have not,” said Trescot, decisively, pushing back his chair. “I hear the general.”

“Dear me!” said the old gentleman, “how very hasty everybody is!”

“I am in no hurry,” said Constance; “and Susan was never in a hurry in all her life. Take your wine in peace with us, uncle. George will send for you when he and Mr. Averill are ready.”

“General Averill,” corrected Mr. Hood, cracking a pecan-nut with an emphasizing snap.

“Major-general,” said Susan, with an upward lift of her eyebrows, and a touch of her sister’s foot.

“Yes, yes; thank you, my dear. There are so many generals here it is quite confusing. One is an editor, I understand.”

Constance was thus reminded of her desire that her uncle should see the “St. Ann Herald,” and, rising, said:

“I think, uncle, you may like to see the general-editor’s paper. I never fail to read it. Here it is”; and so saying, she laid it on the table and sat down to observe what would be the result of this innocent effort to instruct and amuse.

While Susan took up a book and Constance sat expectant, Mr. Hood adjusted his glasses and began to consider the small sheet before him. Some people read the dailies, some run over them as indexes of passing events. Mr. Hood studied them. For ten minutes he was absorbed. Constance watched him as a boy watches the bob of his fishing-line. At last, desiring an appreciative conspirator, she said: “Susan, did you bring me our old receipt-book?”

Susan, looking up, caught her eye. “Yes; shall I get it now?”

“No.” Having drawn Susan’s attention, a slight facial gesture indicated her desire that Susan should be the appreciative boy on the bank. Susan, instantly comprehending, began to observe her uncle.

Presently, and without looking up, he murmured: “Very remarkable.” It was a way he had when thus engaged. “Very satisfactory. The C. and St. A. is thinking of a line to the bend. Hum! I might assist that. Good gracious! That is interesting.”

He began to read aloud, while Constance and her sister exchanged smiles. His way of announcing what interested him in his paper failed altogether to consider the occupying interests of others. The habit is keenly felt in some family circles as a breakfast nuisance. “Cotton has gone up two cents. What’s this—what’s this?—‘We understand that Mr. Hood, the obstructive New England millionaire, is now in St. Ann at the residence of his niece. We trust that he will see the necessity of more lenient action in an impoverished community than he or his agent has hitherto shown.’”

He laid down the paper, and said: “What does the man mean? I must call on him to-morrow and explain.”

“I think George would prefer to do that himself, uncle. When he announces your generous intentions you will see what a fine apology there will be.”

“Among you all I seem to be very little considered. I wish you to understand that I am not a puppet for George Trescot to pull the wires.”

As neither woman replied, he returned to his study of the “St. Ann Herald,” and Susan, on a signal from Constance, to a study of his face.

Presently he looked up again.

“Good heavens!”

“What is it?” said Constance.

“What a country! what people! It is incredible, monstrous!”

“They are very pleasant people, uncle. I wish some of our own were as courteous and as gentle. We are harder, I fear. Of course there are all kinds, and some most undesirable. But what is it?”

“Most uncivilized! Listen to this: ‘An unfortunate rencontre occurred yesterday, on the levee, between Mr. James Lawton and Mr. Burpee. We regret to state that the former was wounded—it was supposed mortally. Mr. Burpee lost a finger, and a small negro boy was unlucky enough to be shot in the stomach. He is now dead. The affair was the final result of a long quarrel in regard to the title to a lot on the main street. On inquiry we learn that Mr. Lawton is less seriously wounded than had been supposed.’”

Hood looked up from the paper. “Does this kind of thing occur often, Constance?”

“Oh, now and then,” she replied lightly; “one gets used to it. You hear a shot, and then people, as they say, squander.”

“You had better buy a revolver, uncle,” said Susan, laughing.

He stood up, tottering a little. “It does not present itself to me, young women, as a matter for inconsiderate mirth. You seem to forget that I have property in this town, and that occurrences of this kind may affect its value.” He began to walk about the room, the paper in his hand, muttering to himself: “Most astounding! most barbarous!”

Both nieces preserved an amused silence.

“I think you stated that this kind of incident is common, Constance.”

“Rather, uncle.”

It appeared to Susan a definite but not very pleasing method of settling a business difficulty, and as she so expressed herself Trescot appeared and carried Mr. Hood away to the study, where was General Averill.

As he disappeared, Constance said: “Of course, dear, you saw that I meant to make it all as bad as I could.”

“You were quite right.”

“In fact, this kind of thing is very dreadful. Mr. Lawton is really a most agreeable and highly educated man, and has been very kind to George; but, oh, Susan, I have lived here in constant terror. I do not see how the women stand it. I had already heard of this last horror from George. Mr. Lawton is not badly hurt, but I fancied the news would be morally useful to uncle.”

“Is it so common, Conny?”

“No; but it has happened twice since we came—once in the country, and once on the main street. Two men were killed. This is the third of these agreeable incidents.”

“It seems very dreadful.”

“Yes, it is, it is; and, dear Susan, I must tell you. I was told not to mention it, but I must. George was shot at by one of these squatters.” She told the story, but without naming Coffin.

“Oh, my poor Conny, why was I not told sooner? You ought not to stay here. You must not stay here.”

“Oh, I do not know. I hope not long, and it is not George’s fault. We are regarded, by all but a few old soldiers, as hard and cruel. It is uncle’s fault. There is not one thing that could not be settled easily with a little forbearance.”

“Knowing uncle as I do, I can readily believe you. I think, Conny, you sent him away in an excellent frame of mind. He will yield everything and go home. I suppose you told him of this awful thing. It was like him to conceal it.”

“Yes, I told him; and I wish he would go. I hate him!”

“Oh, Conny, not that.”

“I do. I hate him!”

Susan was right. To the amazement of Averill, Hood stood to his bargain with Constance, and agreed to give to the squatters land on the bluff at some distance from the water-line of the bend. He was even willing to pay at need. He authorized George to withdraw the remaining foreclosures and to cancel or lessen the past indebtedness for unpaid interest where that seemed best. When Averill put before him an agreement authorizing George to carry these arrangements into effect, he hesitated; but at last, seeing Averill smile, he signed the paper.

“It will have an excellent influence on public opinion,” said the general. “And what, now, about the case of the water-front at the bend?”

Trescot waited, watching Mr. Hood. He was satisfied with what he had won, and not unwilling to try a case as important as that of the ejectment suit brought by the heirs of the Baptiste family. And still he felt that if it were his own land he would have listened to any equitable form of settlement outside of the courts.

Here at last was a chance for the endless discussions which Hood enjoyed. His eyelids drew together and his face became eager as he said: “I should like to go into that matter fully, fully.”

“Let me state it,” said Trescot. “Just forty years ago, in 1830, your father bought land on the bluff from the Baptiste family. They retained the river-front below the bluff, and some of the bluff to eastward of it. Even then the shore had prospective value. The river has since then eaten away their beach, their frontage on the bluff, and some hundreds of feet of that which your father bought. You now own, therefore, the valuable river-frontage, if we can prove the sale to your father and define the bounds.”

“That seems simple,” said Hood.

“No,” said Averill; “it is not simple.”

“And why not?”

“When your people were here in the war we burned the cotton. The old town on the bluff took fire and was utterly destroyed; the records were burned. My own house on the bluff went, and with it your deeds. But all this you know as well as I do.”

“Yes; but the taxes.”

“Taxes go for little in land cases, and where are the receipts? I had them once, but they, too, are gone with the deeds. We have with difficulty acquired the surveyor’s books with a description of the lot and a rough map. His wife had luckily kept them, and will prove Hazewell’s writing. It is hardly enough, and juries are very uncertain.”

“It is damned rascality,” said Hood. “It is a pure swindle—blackmail.”

“It may be; but you must not say so—least of all to Mr. Greyhurst. He is employed to prosecute the Baptiste claim, and, if he wins, will have a large fee—perhaps a handsome share of the frontage. I think him over-eager—one of the men who become identified with their clients. He is very quick-tempered; but I do not think him a rascal. One has to be careful here in the use of language, Mr. Hood.”

“Oh, of course—certainly.” He was at once subdued, but said: “Then you advise me to settle with them, divide, do something?” He got up and walked about. “I don’t see my way to it. I won’t do it. No one ever doubted my title until the flood made it valuable. I shall think it over. It will require further consideration, and I am tired—I must beg to be excused. We can take it up again to-morrow.”

“But had you not better hear the rest of the evidence?” said Averill. Hood at once sat down, as eager as ever. “One word,” said Averill. “We are old friends. I ask you as a favor to let us offer to divide the front, and thus settle this business.”

“I will not do it. It is contrary to my sense of justice. I have yielded everything else. I was bullied by that man, and insulted in the club. I mean to have this case go to trial. Is that the whole of our case? You said there was more.”

“Yes,” said Trescot; “the general has said it is not all, and is aware that we can probably prove the bounds. We shall find the blazed trees, and that, with other evidence, ought to win the case.”

“Then, sir, you meant to conceal this and induce me to settle!”

Trescot flushed. “No; I meant to tell you; you interrupted us; but even now I beg of you to take the more generous view. I think we shall win; but it will go to another court and result in endless litigation.”

“I do not care.” Trescot’s last statement had made him obstinate. “I shall tell Mr. Greyhurst that I will listen to no compromise, or perhaps Trescot had better inform him of my decision.”

“But,” said Averill, “if we win, will you not then consider the unfortunate accident which has cost these people so dear, and arrange the matter?”

“No, sir, I will not. I mean to teach these people that—”

“What people?” said Averill, coldly.

“These—this town. I mean to have my rights.”

Averill was both indignant and hurt; but seeing that it was vain to reason with him, after an unpleasant talk they gave up. Trescot, who felt that he had done his duty, was not sorry to accept the situation. It was one to tempt a young and able lawyer. Before leaving the house, Averill told him that their case would come up in a week, which was rather sooner than Trescot desired.

Before going to bed, Mr. Hood announced that he intended to leave the next day. Constance was not grieved. She, however, urged him to stay; but he replied:

“No; I never change my mind—you know that; and I am not well”—which was true. “I want my home comforts, and I wish to escape being contradicted every minute.”

He went at noon the next day, taking Susan with him, and assured Constance, as he left, that he had never been more uncomfortable.

For an hour after leaving St. Ann he talked to Susan, with apparent satisfaction, of the ease with which his presence and capacity in affairs had settled these long-standing difficulties. He was at no pains to relate the various influential motives which had contributed to make him listen to reason. His decision to abide by the issues of the approaching trial presented itself to his mind as likely to afford a useful lesson to a community which he described as lawless.

He soon made it clear to Susan that his anger at Constance was of longer life than usual. “Most generally women degenerate when they marry. She is degenerating, I think. She was very impertinent to me.”

“What did she do?”

“Oh, no matter. It is over. I have been treated with great disrespect, Susan. I think I shall make a new will and leave you everything.”

“It would save trouble, uncle. I should at once divide with Conny.”

“No, you would not.”

“Try me,” she laughed. “I do not think you can know me.”

“Do I not! You are like your father. It is sometimes an advantage to have known two or three—what I may adequately describe as degenerations. You are like him—very like him. He joked his way through life. He joked away an estate as large as mine, and laughed when it was gone.”

“I thought, sir, it was lost by his partner’s rascality.”

“Well, perhaps you know better than I do.”

Susan shifted the talk. “But who is Constance like?”

“Like? She is like her mother.”

“That does not help me. I never saw my mother to remember her. You have more than once made clear to me that you were not friends, and so you must pardon me if I ask you to be very careful what you say.”

“Good gracious, Susan! I said nothing unpleasant. I will say nothing of your mother; but I will say that Constance is a fool, and is very like her. If Constance ever has children, she will be like a tigress with her cubs. There’s really a good bit more of the savage animal in women than in men.”

“Is that your own wisdom, Uncle Rufus?”

He said, at times, things which appeared to imply glimpses of insight into character which were far above his ordinary range of appreciations.

“It is; and I wish you would stop talking. I shall try to get a nap.”

Susan made no comment. His statement about her sister was extreme, but was felt by Susan to have in it a certain amount of truth. That in the life of their mother there had been any justification for the more than implied opinion of her, Susan knew to be untrue. She was glad when the talk fell away and he dropped asleep.

XIII

Trescot lost no time. He went with Coffin and fixed on the great trees of the inland boundary, and made other arrangements. Next he called on Averill to report his success. He found him in bed, and likely to be laid by for several days. Thus deprived of his senior counsel, he should have to rely on himself alone. He felt himself quite equal to the task.

In the latter part of the day, after Hood’s departure, he busied himself with personal visits to several of the persons on whose properties he had been ordered to foreclose mortgages, and left with some of them, as the agent of Mr. Hood, entire or partial releases from their debts for past interest, and a promise, in regard to others, to give them time and lower rates of interest in the future.

He had no trouble with the squatters. There were seven in all. He offered them small holdings, in fee simple, on the lands back of the bend, and, in case of failure in the suit, a reasonable compensation in money. In this he was aided by Coffin, and met with no difficulty.

Thus released, he gave himself up to the case before him, and, to arrange matters with the opposing counsel, called upon Greyhurst. The lawyer was in a very good humor. He knew of Averill’s illness, and believed that if the case went at once to trial he would find a feebler antagonist in Trescot. He said: “Sit down. A little bourbon? No? I hope you don’t mean to ask for delay on account of Averill’s illness. I really could not consent.”

“No; the time is rather short, but I can—indeed, I mean to be ready. The court will reach it about the seventh of October, I suppose.”

“Yes, on the seventh, I am sure. I hear that the general is ill. Shall you have any other counsel?”

“No; but I do not mean on that account to ask for postponement. I shall try it alone.”

“Do you still feel that all chance of settlement is out of the question?”

“Yes; I am instructed to try the case.”

“I can only regret it,” said Greyhurst.

“You were so kind at one time as to warn me in regard to the hostility Mr. Hood’s measures had caused. I was really very much obliged to you. Now, as it has no bearing on our own case, you will be glad to know that I have settled amicably most of the larger mortgage cases, and also those of the poor fellows who have squatted on Mr. Hood’s land. It has been to me—and I fancy to them—a very agreeable relief.”

Greyhurst was ill pleased. A weapon was lost to him. Trescot’s gentle ways, his quiet manner and well-bred consideration, had made for him friends, and his success in arranging the matter of the damaged cotton had obliged important people. And now this more than liberal treatment of debtors would tell in his favor, and he might find a jury quite too amiably disposed. Greyhurst did not like it. To be annoyed was, with him, sure to result in anger, and that in heedless or irritating speech. He said:

“You were very wise. The generosity comes at a time when it is politic.”

Trescot laughed. “It would have come long ago had I had my way.”

“You will find few to believe that.”

Trescot rose. “Mr. Greyhurst, we have hardly had one talk over this matter in which you have not said something disagreeable. I do not see why you do so. I have done nothing to entitle you to doubt my word. We are both old soldiers and now about to go into a legal contest. It ought to involve neither bitterness nor any need to be other than courteous.”

It was difficult to resist words conveyed with the manner which made George Trescot so much liked. Anger would have bred anger. The gentleness of the remonstrance checked an irascible man. He said:

“I spoke hastily, Mr. Trescot.”

“Thank you; I was sure you did.”

Showing none of the annoyance he still felt, he shook hands with Greyhurst as they parted, and went out, feeling how hard it had been not to make such a reply as the words, and still more the manner, of the older lawyer invited. He resolved to be equally cool and patient in the trial.

It is strangely true that at the moment his opponent was, for the thousandth time, regretting unreasonable anger, and promising himself also for the future a more resolute self-rule. The general once remarked of him that he was half broken, like an ill-trained colt. This was said to Dudley over their cards at the little club just before Averill fell ill.

“It is that strain of Indian blood,” returned Dudley; “but it must be far back. I knew his grandmother—a fine old Creole dame. They were friends of my people.”

“I wish,” said Averill, “that, if he is your friend, you would teach him to muzzle his temper. He never sees Trescot without saying what would make one of us call him out.”

“I am not his friend,” said Dudley. “The man has no friends. He has intimates and acquaintances, but he is too thin-skinned for friendship. It is a pity, too. He is not a bad fellow, and is enough of a gentleman to be sorry after his damned vanity has made him say something disagreeable.”

In the ordered life of a more complex society Greyhurst’s readiness to take offense would have caused amusement and been checked in any excessive manifestation. In the wilder West, and in St. Ann, where he had lived since the war, the individualities of men were less conventionally governed. He was felt to be a dangerous man, and as resentments were here apt to result seriously, he was either avoided or treated cautiously by his old comrades in arms.

Constance, pleased to be again alone with Trescot, complained that he was now away from her all day. He made clear that for a week he must be at his office or elsewhere than with her; but that after the trial he would go away with her for a fortnight to New Orleans. And still, as usual, he kept the evenings for her, bringing his work home where it was incomplete, and making plain to her the evidence in the land case and his line of defense.

Flattered by the appeal to her intelligence, and enjoying the novelty of the interest thus awakened, she followed his explanations with keen delight. When the law business was laid aside, and while she played, the tired man sat still with his pipe, soothed and rested as he watched her face and the house vibrated with the music of the great masters.

Now she turned from the instrument. “Oh, George, I wish there were no business, and then I could have you all the time.”

He had heard this before. He thought it sweetly unreasonable. Laughing, he returned: “I should soon cease to be worth having. It is the contrasts of life that make for its joys. I come home tired, and here are love and peace. I go away refreshed, and you are with me always. That ought to satisfy you.”

“It does not. I want you to be at the head of your profession, and I do not want you to be so long and so often away from me. Isn’t that silly, George? And I know—I know that I shall be more and more jealous as time goes on. I should like to be competent to fill your entire life.”

“That, dear, is possible in one sense; in another, it never can be.”

“I suppose not. This is Saturday, isn’t it?”

“Yes. How the week has gone by! To-morrow I shall be free all day, and Tuesday will end the strain. I have felt it in my arm as I do when I am tired.”

“I saw that you were saving it, George. Will this trial last two days?”

“Yes; perhaps three.”

“Cannot I be present?”

Why not? He anticipated success and was pleased to think she should be there, and that he, alone, was to try the case. “The general will be in court, but not as counsel. You know that I shall call him as a witness, which I could not do were he in the case. He is still far from well.”

Then, as usual, he read to his wife what she liked best, a short tale—this time a story of Hawthorne’s. She left him with his pipe, saying: “You will not work any more.”

“No; I am fully prepared. Good night.”

The Sundays were delightful to Constance because of their freedom from visitors, and especially because there was no law business partly to occupy George’s attention.

In the afternoon of this Sunday he sat on the back porch, watching the sunset as seen across the yellow waters of the great river. Now and then he followed with appreciative joy the tall figure of Constance as she moved to and fro in the garden, gathering the roses which were still abundant in this genial clime.

He called to her: “Pick me a red rose, Constance.”

“There is but one,” she called back to him.

“Then I want it.” He had a woman’s love of flowers; and now, as she returned with her basket full of roses, the white-clad figure with the wide straw hat made for him a picture which he found altogether charming. He went in with her, saying prettinesses of love-speech, and then aided her to arrange the flowers, being himself sensitive concerning their grouping, and having more refined appreciation of their color-values than had his wife. The great red rose he had desired was set in a long-stemmed glass on his table.

“This is you,” he said, “an ambassador of love. It seems to have the conscious pride of beauty. Oh, you have it, too.”

She flushed with pleasure as she cried: “George, how absurd you are!” Yet she liked it well. His tendency to set his love in delicacies of poetic expression pleased her. She could show in many ways the strength and quality of her affection, but she had not his gift of language. Her love was more passionate than his—of another, perhaps not of so fine a fiber.

After their evening meal they sat in the library, with open windows, in the still, warm air. He felt better for the quiet hour, and for the peace of the morning service, where her voice rose that day in the old hymns familiar to his childhood. She went because it pleased him; she sang because he liked it.

“The Sunday stillness is very pleasant,” she said. “You always look rested on Sunday night.”

“Yes; it is like an oasis in the desert—we pause to rest and win refreshment for the march of the morning. It is the one day when it is all evening, and man ceases from labor. That is a bit far-fetched, but I so feel it.”

“I understand, George; but for me it is of all days the best because I have you, and people stay away, and there is no business. Is it I or is it the church that is so restful?”

He smiled: “I do not know, my love, whether women often feel what some men do, that even if the hours of the service did not represent something higher, to be merely taken for a time out of the turmoil and worries of the week-day life, and into a region of higher thoughts, would have its peculiar value.”

She wanted him to say that it was her companionship which gave the day its restfulness. She would have denied, even to herself, that her husband’s religion was, strange as it may seem, a subject of jealousy. Any approach to discussion of a matter so dear to him embarrassed her, and she made haste to escape, saying:

“Do you really find that long service so restful?”

“Yes; and more than that—oh, far more.”

“I wonder if I ever shall. I have not heard from Susan since she wrote about uncle’s being so feeble.”

Entirely aware of her state of mind, he accepted, as usual, her disinclination to dwell longer on what was to him so serious a part of his daily life; and went on to follow her lead, and to talk about their Eastern home and their letters—she sitting the while on the arm of his chair, as she liked to do.

“It is curious, Constance, how one changes. Yesterday I was tired and not as sure of my case as I know I should have been. To-day I feel elate and eager, and yet I am not much subject to moods. It must be purely physical. I was never ill in my life until I was hit.”

Constance said quickly, with a half-repressed laugh: “You must touch wood, George.”

“What a strange old superstition!” he returned, smiling. “I wonder how it grew up—where it came from.”

“But touch it—touch it!”

“No!” he cried, laughing; and then, seeing her too earnest look, he tapped on the table.

“It is all nonsense, of course, but—”

“But what?”

“I do not know. Uncle has a dozen such sillinesses. I never had—I never used to have. I think love must nourish superstition.”

“And so now you wish to be superstitious by proxy; and, dear, you have been very quiet to-day. I should call it absent-minded. Where now is your mind absent? Does anything worry you?”

“Yes. I saw Mrs. Averill after church.”

“Well?”

“She said she was very sorry that the general was not to take an active part in the case.”

“And so am I. Was that all?”

“No; she said he was one of the few people who could keep Mr. Greyhurst in order; and you know, George, that man’s reputation.”

“Yes, I know it. The old lady was hardly as considerate as usual. And so it is this which troubles you. It need not. We are merely two lawyers engaged to try a suit. Of course sharp things are said at times, and the same men meet afterward and laugh over it. I think, too, you know, dear, that I am pretty good-tempered. I can even forgive you for being jealous of my mistress—the law.”

“Oh, but I am; and I don’t like this man, George. I should hate any one who had been rude to you.”

“Please not to say such things, Constance,” he returned, with an appealing hand on her arm. “The man has been ill-mannered, but, after all, there has hardly been material enough even to suggest forgiveness. Keep that for something larger. Let us drop him and not spoil our Sunday.”

“Pardon me, dear, dear George; I shall never, never be like you. You see I am asking for forgiveness.”

“Hush,” he said, putting his hand over her mouth. “The word is not in the vocabulary of love. Shall I read to you?”

“Yes; some short story. I want to be amused. Oh, not the magazines.” She rose and settled herself comfortably in an easy-chair as she spoke.

To her surprise, he took up the Bible. Of late he had read to her parts of its greater poetry, avoiding all that was doctrinal. Much of it was new to her, and the splendor and passion and novelty of the language had found echoes of sympathetic answer in the stirred depths of her awakening nature. But now she said quickly: “Not to-night, George; something light—a short story.”

“Wait a little. Here shall be an old tale, the best short story ever written.”

“What is it?” she questioned, suddenly curious.

He made no direct reply, but turned to the Book.

“Once upon a time—”

“Oh, I like that. Is that in the Bible?”

“Once upon a time—This is the story of Joseph the Dreamer.”

“Ah! go on, George.” She fell back in the chair, luxuriously at ease, and fanning herself as she listened, for the night was warm, and the voice she loved admirably modulated. She knew, too, how he would deal with the story.

When he read to her the Bible tales or the Hebrew ballads, it was in a way quite peculiarly his own, with thoughtful comments, occasional scenic backgrounds, and a word now and then of Oriental dress and customs. She closed her eyes, the better to secure visions of what he drew for her. He made her see the parched hillsides of Shechem; the wandering lad, proud of his colored coat; the brothers Reuben and Judah, sharply characterized; the contemplated murder; the sale of the terrified boy; the long caravan march of his masters over the desert to Egypt. She felt the sad youth’s grief; and then shared his amazement at the pyramids, the turbid Nile, the funeral boats with many oarsmen, the crowded towns, the strange old civilization, and the changeless red sunsets. The gaps in the Scripture narrative were well filled, as she saw, too, the slave-market, and the lad led away to the house of Potiphar. He made real to her the prison story of the dreams and of the slave-boy’s good fortune. Then came the famine and the visit of the brothers, with their terror when, at their evening halt in the desert, they found in their sacks the money and the drinking-cup. She saw the splendidly clad governor and the returning brothers, heard their plea for the old man, and of his love for the little brother, the child of his age, and then their trembling words concerning that other who was dead. He read of Joseph’s emotion, of his easy forgiveness of those who had sent him to captivity, and thus to high fortune. As he read of these simple pastoral people, dazzled by the wonders of the teeming land, pyramids, palace, and temple, and the one highway beside the Nile, and the strange hill-hidden graves, the descriptions became part of the story, and what she heard she seemed to see. He ended with the meeting of the father and the long-lost son.

“Thank you,” said Constance. “How true you make it seem, how real! Oh, some day we must go to Egypt.”

“Yes; and everywhere. I seem to see my way clearly. In a year or two we will go home to Boston. I do not deceive myself. Some day there will be nothing in reason which I shall not be able to give you. And you liked the story?”

“Oh, much—very much.”

He turned over the pages, and then mechanically picked up a glove she had left on his table, and laid it in the Book, saying: “We will read this other story next time.”

“What story, George?”

“Ruth. Of course you know that.”

“Yes, in a way; but I never read it.”

Her ignorance as to certain things never failed to cause him an unpleasing surprise; but neither by look nor by word did he ever show it. He said: “You will like it, although it is not as skilfully told as the tale of Joseph, and the scenery is more simple.”

“I am sure I shall like it if it has the directness of that story of Joseph. It is that which makes it so striking.”

“You are quite right; but I do not think I ever saw before what it was that gave this story its peculiar charm. There is none of the modern excess in the analysis of motives. You seem to have seen it as I did not.”

“Thank you,” she returned. She liked, above all things, praise, even the mildest, from her husband; and, flushing a little, continued: “I did like the directness of it. The men do this or that, but you are not told that they are good or bad—oh, not even when they sell the little brother. I liked another thing. Isn’t there a gleam of humor where Joseph says to Judah, ‘Wot ye not that such a man as I can certainly divine?’”

He looked up, pleased to be able to say: “Yes, that is true, but often as I have read it, I never noticed it. It is very human. Any more such wise comments, dear?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Was it natural for Joseph to forgive his brothers—and so easily, too? For my part, I should have made them suffer. I could not have forgotten; I should have hated them all through those years.”

“Oh, no; I am sure you would not.”

“But, George, even if he forgave them his own sufferings, how could he pardon them for the poor old father’s misery? No; I could never have done that.” She rose as she spoke. “I am glad I was not Joseph. You will go to bed early, George, and get a good rest.”

“Yes; good night.”

She kissed him as he sat. As he picked up a book he saw that she had come back.

“Well, dear?”

She seemed to him, as she stood bending over him, like some queenly lily—gracious, sweet, and stately. He said as much, looking up.

“I wanted to kiss you again. That was only ceremonial; this is love.”

She threw her arms around him, kissing him passionately. “Now, early; don’t read long.”

As she turned away, the great red rose she had set on his table of a sudden fell to pieces, the red petals dropping on the table and on the open book he was holding. She raised her hand in a quick gesture, and cried out: “Oh, the rose I gave you!”

“Well,” he said quickly, “what of it, Constance?”

“Oh, nothing. It startled me; I suppose I am a little nervous. I never used to be. Good night.”

Sitting with the book in his hand, he gave a moment’s thought to the little incident. Then with a smile he recalled the fact that once, late at night at Cambridge, when about to go to bed, as he left his table a rose had of a sudden fallen to pieces. He had had a faint sense of unpleasantness in this abrupt ending of a life of beauty, in the unexpectedness of this sudden death. He remembered that it had seemed to him as if an unseen hand had crushed it. He swept the red petals off the open book, and said to himself: “I suppose any one would feel that way. It was natural. I don’t wonder it startled her.” Then recalling an intention, he read again a letter from Susan which purposely he had not shown to his wife.

She wrote:

“Uncle Rufus is very feeble since his return, and continually talks of the way in which he was received at St. Ann. It was like him to be very much frightened when there, and very bold now that he is away. I think you ought to know that he wrote a very imprudent and quite childish letter to Mr. Greyhurst. He showed it to me with an air of triumph. He said in it that his age and weakness had alone prevented him from punishing Mr. Greyhurst for the insulting manner in which he had treated him, and that Mr. Greyhurst had thus made a compromise which he had intended (think of that, George!) quite out of the question. I wonder how you have had the patience to stand him, and I do hope that this inconceivable folly will not add to your troubles.

“Do not tell Constance. She is already quite too needlessly alarmed, and now it is very necessary for her to be free from care.”

“Pretty bad, that,” murmured Trescot. After a few moments’ thought he wrote to Mr. Hood:

“St. Ann, “Sunday, P.M., October 6.

“Dear Mr. Hood:

“We shall win, I believe. And now I beg leave to say that it has come to my knowledge that you have again gone by me, your agent, and written to Mr. Greyhurst a most imprudent letter. The general and I think that the poverty of some of the Baptiste heirs, a widow and three orphans, with the misfortune of their loss by natural events of what goes to profit you, ought to induce you to deal charitably with them and avoid for them and you further litigation. If, after the trial, you still refuse and are of a mind to interfere in your own affairs without regard to your agent, I beg leave to give up the care of your property. You may consider this as final and not open to discussion.

“Yours respectfully, “George Trescot.

“Rufus Hood, Esq.”

He read the letter with care, and, directing it, left it on his table, where it lay for some days, forgotten during the excitement of the trial.

XIV

The crowd in and about the court-room was so great that it was with difficulty Trescot found for Constance a seat at the front. He then entered within the rail, spoke a word or two to the general, shook hands with Greyhurst and others, sat down, and looked about him.

The room was large and full of people, some of whom he knew, and many, both men and women, of all classes, whom he did not know, from the town and the surrounding country. He arranged his papers and waited. A single case preceded his own. It was soon over, and the crier called the case of Elise Baptiste and others versus Rufus Hood.

The judge said: “The case will now proceed.”

Greyhurst, handsome, soldierly, erect, and clad in Confederate gray, a rose in his coat, stood up and said: “May it please your honor, I appear for the plaintiffs.” Trescot stated that he appeared for the defendant, and regretted that circumstances left him alone in the conduct of the case.

A jury was impaneled. To four jurors Greyhurst objected. Trescot challenged no one, and contented himself with asking each juror if he could decide the case without fear or favor.

The jurors were in place and a deepening stillness fell upon an audience full of interest. As Constance, eager and anxious, looked at the slight figure and refined face of her husband, he seemed, as she thought, to be conscious of her anxiety, and, turning, smiled assurance of the confidence he felt.

Greyhurst opened the case. “May it please your honor and the gentlemen of the jury. It is plain from this great audience that this is a case which excites the interest of every one in this community. It should do so. A writ of ejectment has been served upon Rufus Hood to test his right to lands at the bend of the river.

“Mr. Hood lays claim to certain—I might say uncertain—acres, a part of the large estate known as the Baptiste tract, and held under an indisputable French title, for which I shall produce the original grant.

“No one can define the limits of the defendant’s claim. The defendant will assert that it began inland somewhere and extended to low water.” Where, he asked, did it begin—at what points? He went on to speak of the erosion of the water-front, and of this as the reason why a man already rich was eager to put forward a claim which had no foundation. He was confident that no credible evidence could be produced to uphold the defendant’s pretension.

The direct evidence of ownership by the Baptistes would not keep him long. It would consist merely in the production and proof of the original grant, and of the wills required to prove the present ownership. It was simple. The defendant had no deeds to put in evidence, no proof of undisputed possession, no real knowledge of such bounding monuments as could be sworn to. He was very cool and impressive as he spoke, and dwelt at length upon the unfairness of the defendant’s claim, characterizing it as an attempt to inflict injury on impoverished and unfortunate people.

The original French grant was produced and submitted to the court and the jury. The wills proving title by descent were exhibited, and Trescot, admitting their validity, offered no objections. All the evidence for the plaintiffs was before the court, although the details occupied considerable time, and Greyhurst sat down, stating that the plaintiff rested the case.

Trescot rose, cast a smiling glance at Constance, and went on to state his case. He had declined to question the validity of the grant or the wills. He accepted both for his client. He wished neither to delay nor to obstruct. His business was to prove that forty years ago the holder of the Baptiste grant had sold to James Hood, the father of his client, a certain tract of land, for which a deed had been given. He would deal frankly with the matter. The war and the great cotton fire had destroyed the records and also the deeds and surveys once in possession of Mr. Hood’s former agent, General Averill. Even the tax receipts were gone. He would prove, however, that such a deed had existed, that a survey had been made. He would produce the surveyor’s notes, giving the bounds, and prove by his widow his handwriting; and also would produce a plot of the survey appended to the notes.

This survey set forth that from an oak at one time on the bluff the line ran due east sixty-seven perches, more or less, to a tree, a certain live-oak; thence north one hundred perches to a third tree, a walnut; and west again sixty-seven perches to an oak on the bluff. A line carried south between the two trees originally on the bluff completed the original bounds of the tract. Observe, he said, that this left the Baptistes in possession of a tract between Mr. Hood’s land and the river, partly bluff and partly the shore below.

He would produce a witness who assisted the surveyor, and prove that the said surveyor had with him as a guide a deed or paper defining the bounds, and that the witness saw him consult the said paper. He would prove what no doubt opposing counsel would admit,—indeed had admitted,—the erosion of the bluff. He would prove, past dispute, the present existence of the two trees marking the eastern line of the survey, and thus show that lines drawn due westward from said trees the number of perches stated in the survey would carry his client’s claim far out beyond the present low-water mark.

The great storm and flood of seven years before had carried away the projecting headland, had taken the Baptiste shore, their upland on the bluff, Mr. Hood’s front, and his western boundary trees. All of the Baptiste land had gone and a part of Mr. Hood’s. He trusted that he had made it entirely clear.

Greyhurst at first assumed an attitude of careless inattention, but as Trescot went on he began to listen intently, and to take notes.

The fact of Averill’s being no longer of counsel in the case left Trescot free to use his evidence as he could not otherwise have done. He felt that the affection and respect with which the general was regarded by all men were sure to give great weight to what he would say, and enabled Trescot to do without some other and feebler witnesses. As the general, when called, took his oath, Greyhurst said to Colonel Dudley, who sat beside him: “A fortunate illness that, and not very lasting.”

“You do not mean, sir, that General Averill—”

“Oh, no,” said Greyhurst, interrupting him; “of course not.”

Dudley was silent.

“Were you,” asked Trescot, “Mr. Hood’s agent?”

“Yes, I was from the year 1852. I am not now.”

“Did you at any time hold for the defendant a deed for land on the bluff at the bend of the river?”

“I did—both a deed and the survey, made by one Hazewell.”

After further questions he went on to say that, to the best of his remembrance, this deed described the holding as extending westward to land retained by the Baptistes on the bluff. He had paid taxes on the land, but the receipts and his own books had been burned during his absence in the war. He also bore witness to the erosion of the bend.

Greyhurst cross-examined him with extreme courtesy on his failure to remember accurately the terms of the deed.

At last he asked, “What taxes have been paid on this land by you since the war?”

“None; the property was in dispute, and, as the jury knows, taxes may run on unpaid for years without finally affecting the title. That means nothing.”

“Pardon me,” said Greyhurst; “but I object to the witness instructing the jury. It is facts, not opinions, we want.”

The general smiled and was dismissed, when Trescot, interposing, said, “Did the Baptistes, at any time since the war, pay taxes?”

Greyhurst objected, but not in time to prevent the witness from saying, “They did not.”

Mrs. Hazewell, the widow of the surveyor, and now brought from Indiana, produced a book containing, with other matters, a statement of the boundaries and area of a survey, made by her husband, of land on the Baptiste property for James Hood in October, 1830. With it was a neat plot of the property, indicating certain trees as monuments at the corners. There was also a memorandum of receipt of payment for the work. She identified the book and swore to the handwriting as that of her husband. So carefully had Trescot guarded his witnesses that the utmost surprise was created as the case went on. The book and plot were submitted to the jury, and although the witness was sharply cross-examined, her evidence was not shaken. As the young lawyer developed his case, and it was seen how the dates as given by the witnesses coincided, the elder members of the bar began to listen with growing interest, and to exchange glances of surprise, or whispers of astonishment, that Greyhurst should have ventured to try the case at all.

Several persons swore to the fact of the great flood, and the amount of erosion of the bluffs; and a map showing these changes was also put in evidence. This was not disputed.

To the evident amazement of Greyhurst, the next witness called was Thomas Coffin. After the usual preliminaries, Trescot asked:

“What do you know of the survey of this tract on the bluff?”

“I helped my father. He was a chain-bearer, and blazed the bounds.”

“How old were you at that time?”

“Well, it’s forty years ago. I am fifty-eight now, come February. I was eighteen years old. That was in October, 1830.”

“How were you employed in the survey?”

“I helped; I carried the ax.”

“Can you swear to the trees marking the eastward bound? Those which were blazed?”

“I can.”

“How do you know them?”

“Saw father blaze them. He made two blazes—one on the west side and one on the east. He always did that. He was a mighty careful man.”

“Did he blaze only with the ax?”

“No; he burned the blaze, too, with a hot crowbar. I made the fire.”

Showing him the surveyor’s plot, Trescot asked:

“Do you understand this map?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you say where on it the trees would be you have spoken of—those on the inland side? Look at it carefully; take your time.”

After a little hesitation, during which the stillness of the crowded room deepened, he replied, pointing:

“Yes, sir,—there and there.”

“Here are two pins; put them in at the places.” He did so, and the plot of the survey was submitted to the jury.

“How do you know the trees are those said to have been blazed?”

“I cut them down yesterday, both of them,—those I showed you—me and another man cut them down. Mr. Douglas, he was there. I sawed them through and found the blazes. But before they was felled I knew them by the sinking in of the bark over the blazes.”

“Where are the trees?”

“The blazed parts—that’s the sections with the bark off—is in a wagon back of the court.”

“I shall ask your honor,” said Trescot, “to have them brought in, or, as they are heavy, that the jury shall go out and examine them.”

Greyhurst rose to object that there was no proof of these being the trees in question. Being overruled, the jury went out, inspected the sections, and returned to their seats.

With this unlooked-for evidence the interest became intense, while Constance watched steadily the face of her husband.

“That is all,” said Trescot to Coffin.

“One moment,” said Greyhurst. “I prefer, if counsel does not object, to cross-examine the witness after all the defendant’s evidence is concluded.”

Trescot said, “Although this is unusual, I shall urge no objection.”

Peter Douglas, the county surveyor, was next called. He had been present when the trees were felled and sawed. He had himself driven with the sections to the court-house. He swore that the survey shown him gave correctly the distance between the two trees marking the eastern bound, and that lines carried west as required on the survey shown him would now end far out in the river.

Greyhurst’s cross-questioning of the county surveyor was brief, and served only to make that official angry and to weaken the plaintiffs’ case.

As link on link was added to the chain of evidence, murmurs of surprise ran through the audience; for Greyhurst had talked confidently of the utter weakness of the defendant’s case.

Trescot bowed to the Judge, and then said: “I have done. My witnesses are in your hands, Mr. Greyhurst.”

Coffin was recalled for cross-examination. Greyhurst, unprepared for the ability with which evidence had been collected and guarded, was, as usual, annoyed and even angered.

“Your name is Thomas Coffin?”

“Yes, that’s my name.”

“What’s your business?”

“I cut and haul wood; been lumbering ’most all my life.”

“You must have a good memory.”

“I always did have.”

“Then perhaps you remember who paid you to find trees you saw in a big wood when you were a boy.”

Trescot was on his feet in a moment. “I protest, your honor, against the form of the question—against a grave insinuation.”

The judge suggested that counsel put the question differently.

Greyhurst then asked: “How did you happen to inform Mr. Trescot as to these very convenient trees?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Did he on this occasion pay you, or make any promise of pay, if you would find these much-needed trees?”

“He didn’t make any promise, and he didn’t pay me.”

Greyhurst smiled and went on. “Did Mr. Trescot send any one to you about these boundaries?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Now, take care,” said Greyhurst, advancing. He towered above the small, lean woodman. “You have sworn to tell the truth and the whole truth. Did not Mrs. Trescot come to your house in the peanut-patch?”

“She did.”

“What day?”

“I ain’t sure of the day. Guess you know.”

“I want an answer—not insolence. Was it on the sixth of June?”

“Yes, I reckon it was.”

At this bringing of his wife into the case Trescot was, for the moment, annoyed; and then, catching a look from Constance, was strangely set at ease. She was evidently undisturbed. In the court-room almost motionless attention told how increasingly deep was the concern with which the audience watched the unexpected developments of the case.

“Now, take care,” said Greyhurst. “What did Mrs. Trescot say to you? I want all of it. What did she say first?”

“I won’t tell you.”

A faint stir in the hall told of astonishment.

Trescot instantly understood that Coffin was naturally unwilling to confess that he had shot at him. It was this which stopped him.

“Pardon me, Mr. Greyhurst,” he said. “I think I can assist your cross-examination. I am desirous that the witness conceal nothing.”

“I do not ask your assistance, Mr. Trescot. When I want a junior counsel you shall have your chance.”

“Very good,” returned Trescot, and sat down.

“Come, now,” said Greyhurst, “I want an answer. What did Mrs. Trescot say to you, and what did you say to her?”

“I reckon you got my answer.”

“Do you know what will happen if you do not reply as you are sworn to do?”

“I do. I’ll go to jail.”

“Did any one tell you not to answer?”

“Yes,” and Coffin grinned.

“Indeed! Who was it?”

“Thomas Coffin.” The audience laughed.

As Greyhurst turned to address the judge, Trescot rose again. “May I ask your honor if the witness is bound to state what would tend to criminate him? I know and comprehend his difficulty. It has no direct connection with the case. If the learned counsel will ask my witness what passed in relation to the boundary trees, and leave Mrs. Trescot out of the matter, he will attain his end, and I shall be grateful.”

He was most unwilling that his wife should be known to have tried to secure him from the anger of Coffin. He knew what these people, or many of them, would think. He was smiling and courteous as he spoke of his wife, and a murmur of approbation was audible.

“Perhaps,” said Greyhurst, “Mr. Trescot may like to conduct both sides of this case. May it please your honor, I accept this suggestion, and for the present we will leave Mrs. Trescot out of the matter.

“Now, Coffin, what did you say to the lady about the bounds?”

Coffin’s face cleared. “There wasn’t a word said of those trees or this claim until Mrs. Trescot was going away, and then I told her to tell Mr. Trescot I knew about them trees—and I did.”

Greyhurst was disappointed. He said: “Your honor, when I call witnesses in rebuttal I shall deal further with this mystery. That will do, my man.”

“I am nobody’s man but my own. Why don’t you ask me what you said to me about Mr. Trescot the week before I told about the trees?”

The counsel within the rail smiled; the audience tittered; and Greyhurst said angrily: “You may go, do you hear?”

Coffin turned to Trescot. “Do you want me any more?”

“No; certainly not.”

So long as Greyhurst felt his case to be a good one, his very able mind acted well; but in the presence of impending defeat he became irritable, and lost the tranquillity which is needful for quick and perfect use of the mental mechanism.

He had been surprised by the evidence of Coffin. The secret had been well kept, and now he feared that his case was lost. He stated to the court that he was through with the defendant’s witnesses, and at noon the court adjourned to meet at one-and-a-half o’clock.

No trial in years had so interested St. Ann. It was a rich Northern man against poor Southern people who were desperately battling for valuable land. It involved well-known questions of technical interest; erosion of river-frontage, lumber interests, and the value of old blazes as evidence—all these were familiarly discussed as the audience came out; but above all was the excitement caused by Coffin’s refusal to speak freely of what Mrs. Trescot had said.

The lawyers saw which way the case was going, and several of them congratulated Trescot as he joined his wife. They stayed to lunch with the Averills in place of going home. Mrs. Trescot was in high spirits. Her husband’s success satisfied her pride. The dramatic character of the trial, and, above all, Coffin’s refusal to commit himself, and his pleasure in baffling Greyhurst, interested and amused her, so that altogether the trial was to her both novel and entertaining.

The general was as well pleased. Trescot had justified his opinion both of the young lawyer’s legal mind and of his readiness and coolness. He said, turning to Trescot as they smoked alone after the meal:

“If I know Greyhurst, he will lose his head as he loses his case. He will lose it, too; I kept my eye on the jury; but what he will do in summing up will be sure to be unpleasant. You will have no opportunity to answer, and I am sorry for that. He seems to have the skill of the devil in breeding anger. And I very deeply regret that I am not actively in this case.”

“I shall reply beforehand to his summing up, general. I think I know what he will say. It will be a personal attack on Mr. Hood’s harshness. I have my answer, as you are aware. For the rest, I am not easily stirred. What he can do in examining witnesses in rebuttal I do not know. How can he damage us? If Coffin were the worst of men, he is so sustained by facts and by the surveyor’s evidence that to prove he never before in his life had told the truth would not help the case.”

“I do not know. This suit means much to Greyhurst. He will go to all lengths. He is angry. I saw that. He is a proud, over-sensitive man who makes no allowance for the feelings of others, and desires to have his own attentively considered. Now he is hard hit, and, by Jove! do you know, I think he will call Mrs. Trescot.”

“Oh, hardly.”

“Yes; he is puzzled, and thinks there is something he may use in what Coffin concealed. I was not at all surprised when you told me of the attempt to kill you. I had fully warned you. Of course Coffin was not fool enough to answer and confess an attempt to murder. His feud was over, and Mrs. Trescot had won him, as she does all of us. But what a strange business! I don’t wonder the audience was curious. Before we return, let me once more prepare you for some such insolence from Greyhurst as will force you into the quarrel he is sure to seek if he fail in his case.”

“I shall try to keep my head. But Mrs. Trescot, general,—that may be difficult. She will refuse to betray Coffin.”

“Let us hope Greyhurst will not call her; but in any case he will try to be courteous,—indeed, he is sure to be, unless that infernal temper of his gets the better of him. You never can calculate upon what he will do. He is as impulsive as a child, and as dangerous as a wild animal.”

This summary of his antagonist’s character, and his own knowledge of his wife’s nature, left the young man more than a little uneasy.

When Greyhurst left the court, he went alone to a tavern near by for his midday meal, and drank just enough to supply him with the self-confidence which alcohol gives. He was, as a rule, sober.

So far the Yankee lawyer, as he knew, had made out an impregnable case. The chance for a compromise had rested on the presumed weakness of the defendant’s title. It was now most unlikely that, with a strong case, Hood would consent to that which he had refused when his title appeared to be weak. Greyhurst reflected with more comfort that his power over juries had won for him victories when all seemed lost. In fact, he was more an advocate than a lawyer. He was less well satisfied when he considered what might be his future in case of failure. He had debts, and some which were embarrassing; but he owned land beyond the bend which was rising in value. He was competent enough to have had more business, but his insecure temper handicapped a man who should otherwise have done far better. Just now, as he sat alone, the explanatory ghosts of past failures possessed the hour, and haunted him as he went moodily back to the court-house.

Trescot, walking on alone with his wife, said to her: “I am sorry, Constance; but Averill thinks you will be called as a witness. Greyhurst is puzzled and thinks there is something which Coffin concealed, and which is of moment to his case. He is vexed and has the hope that he can show by you that some improper influence was brought to bear on Coffin. It is very absurd; but I see that he may put you and me in a disagreeable situation. You will be called, I fear.”