PART I (continued 4)

“I shall not like that”; and still, she admitted to herself that the thought of a contest with Greyhurst strangely pleased her.

It by no means pleased her husband, who walked on in silence, and then at last said: “Try not to make this man angry. Be very quiet and cool.”

“But, George,” she continued, “I really cannot betray Coffin’s confidence. He never meant me to make public that he wished—that he tried to kill you; and he was so simple about it, and so frank! And then, if I speak out and tell the whole story, it will look as if you sent me because you were afraid. Oh, I can’t do it!”

“I hate it. But you will have to speak out.”

“Who on earth can make me?”

“The judge.”

“What you call contempt of court?”

“Yes; contempt of court.”

“George, they will never do here as they might do at home. Only do not let that man annoy you. You shall see that I am able to take care of your wife.”

They were late and he had to leave her. He was still troubled. Not so the woman. As she made her way through the crowd she was sorry not to have been able to dress for the occasion. A gentleman, recognizing her, gave up to her a seat on the front bench.

XV

When silence was proclaimed to the crowded room, Greyhurst rose.

“I propose, your honor, to call two witnesses in rebuttal as to the utterly worthless character of the witness on whose testimony the defendant’s case principally rests.”

Thomas Andrews took the stand and was sworn—a fat, brown man, uneasy and embarrassed. Greyhurst asked the usual formal questions, and then:

“Do you know Thomas Coffin?”

“I do; ever since we were boys.”

“Where did you know him?”

“At home in Tennessee, and in the lumber-camps, and here, too.”

“Do you know his character for truth and veracity in the community in which he resides?”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

“Bad.”

“Would you believe him on his oath?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Was Thomas Coffin ever charged with any crime?”

Trescot rose. “The question, as your honor well knows, is objectionable; but, in rising to say so, I desire to state that I shall not urge any objection.” He sat down.

Greyhurst repeated his question.

“Yes; he killed a man. He was arrested, but he got away from the sheriff.”

Meanwhile, Trescot used the moments of this damaging statement to exchange a few words with Coffin.

“That will do,” said Greyhurst.

“One moment,” said Trescot. “I wish to ask a question. Now, Mr. Andrews, do you know why Coffin killed the man?”

He hesitated.

“Take your time; but remember that you are on your oath to tell the truth.”

“Well, they said he shot Tom’s brother.”

“Did he shoot Tom’s brother?”

“They said so—I wasn’t there.”

“Ah, was that so? Were you ever in the Confederate service?”

“I was.”

“How long?”

“About three months.”

“You were wounded, were you not?”

“Yes, in the leg; I was took prisoner. It was on the skirmish-line. It was in a wood; we were too far out.”

The man began to be uneasy, anxious to explain.

“Were you not deserting?”

Greyhurst protested.

“I withdraw the question,” said Trescot, satisfied,—for the man’s face answered it as he said: “Damn you! no, I wasn’t.”

“That will do,” said Trescot.

“And now,” said Greyhurst, “I must very reluctantly, as a matter of simple duty, ask Mrs. Trescot to take the stand.”

There was a stir of fresh interest and expectant attention in the crowded room. People spoke to their neighbors, and then there was entire quiet as, in reply to the usual summons, Constance went smiling past her husband. The room was hot and close, and she left her hat on the seat. As she stood in the witness-box—erect, a little on guard, slightly flushed—a faint murmur which spoke of admiration was heard throughout the room.

She hesitated a little as she took the Bible and heard the usual formula of the oath. Then she answered, “I do.”

“Your name is Mrs. Trescot?”

“Yes; Constance Trescot.”

“You live in St. Ann?”

“I do.”

“You were, I believe, on the sixth of June, at the cabin of Thomas Coffin?”

“I was.”

“Why did you go there?”

“An errand of my own.”

“Tell the court what first passed on that occasion between you and Coffin.”

“I asked for a drink of water. I said it was very good water.”

“Pardon me, madam; but we will omit these trifles. What else was said?”

“I told Mr. Coffin something, and he told me something, neither of which I am at liberty to state.”

“I ask again, What passed between you on this occasion?”

“I decline to answer.”

“I insist that you tell the court and jury.”

“I will not. I cannot betray what, trusting my honor and good feeling, Coffin said to me. The latter part of what passed I shall be glad to relate.”

“But,” said Greyhurst, “you appear to forget that this is a court of justice; you have taken an oath; you have no choice,—nor, indeed, have I any.”

“I very much regret that I cannot answer,” she returned very quietly.

“I repeat my question.”

She was silent, facing the lawyer, tranquil, firm, faintly smiling at his evident annoyance.

“I must most reluctantly ask your honor to direct the witness to answer,” said Greyhurst.

The judge said: “I fear, Mrs. Trescot, that you must reply to the question put by counsel.”

“With the utmost respect for the court, I decline to answer. I regret, your honor, that it is impossible.”

The judge sat up, evidently troubled, as Greyhurst turned to him, saying:

“The matter is in the hands of the court.”

Trescot watched the unmoved woman, himself a little anxious, but with proud pleasure in the courage and quiet good-breeding she had shown.

Then, to the amazement of every one, a voice broke the silence, and Coffin, seated near by, said:

“Don’t you mind me, Mrs. Trescot; just you tell; I don’t care.”

“Thank you.” Turning to Greyhurst, she said: “The real chivalry and the good feeling of at least one man for a woman in an awkward situation set me free. Your honor will, I trust, pardon me. I will now answer Mr. Greyhurst.”

The judge bowed.

“Well,” said Greyhurst, flushing and ill pleased, “what passed between you and Coffin?”

“To explain clearly what passed I must tell the entire story, and I hope I may be allowed to do so.” She paused for a moment; Greyhurst moved restlessly and seemed about to interfere, but dreading the effect of objection at this time, remained silent as she went on:

“In the midst of a storm on the night of June 5th, while I had left our porch for a wrap, a rifle-shot broke a pane of glass over my husband’s head. The lightning was incessant, and he saw the man who fired. He ran after him, and was so near that he saw him clearly, and also saw that he was lame and ran with difficulty. Then my husband fell, and the man got away; but he was sure it was Coffin. When my husband came back, he told me all about it, and who the man was. I had heard the shot, of course.

“I was sure it would happen again. I could not sleep that night. I was most unhappy. I did not tell my husband what I meant to do. I had to do it. I went next day to see the man. I went alone. I said to him bluntly: ‘Why did you try to kill my husband?’ You see, Mr. Greyhurst, he was cleaning his rifle, and I knew what that meant. He did not try to lie to me, but replied: ‘Because Mr. Greyhurst told me your husband was going to turn me out of my home—the whole of us, like dogs.’”

“It was a lie,” said Greyhurst.

Trescot was up instantly. “You are discourteous, sir. You asked for the whole truth, and are getting it, and to spare.” He sat down; but as Greyhurst turned with a sharp reply on his lips, Mrs. Trescot said quietly: “I did not understand Mr. Greyhurst as asserting me to be untruthful.”

“Certainly not,” he returned.

“Shall I go on?” she asked in her gentlest voice.

“Yes, if you please.”

“When Coffin said he had been told that he was to have no mercy and be driven out at once, I told him that it was not true.”

“And was it not?” asked Greyhurst. “Can you say that?”

“I have said it was not. I told him nothing was settled. I then said that I personally would make him an offer, either of land on the bend back of the bluff, if we won the suit, or of money. I said my husband never would consent to drive these poor people out of their homes. They had been soldiers as he had been, and were to be helped, not robbed.”

“One moment,” said Greyhurst. “I think you said Mr. Trescot authorized you to make this statement.”

It was a common and feeble device, which always fails with a good witness.

“Keep cool,” said Averill to Trescot. “I told you he would lose his wits with his case.”

“No,” replied Mrs. Trescot; “I did not say so.”

“Well, perhaps not.”

Again Averill laid a restraining touch on Trescot’s arm.

“At all events,” said Greyhurst, bitterly, “it should have been a man’s errand. Pray, go on.”

“I meant to undeceive him. I did. I made clear to him that in any case he should be paid to move. I asked him to take care of my garden. I pay him for it. I desired to save my husband’s life. A cruel slander had put it in peril. I made a friend of an enemy.”

“By George, that’s first-rate!” said a voice in the crowd. Silence was ordered, and there was need of the order.

Turning to the jury, Greyhurst spoke again in a voice of ill-governed anger: “A woman may be forgiven for the things this lady has said of me. I shall look elsewhere for an explanation. I have for her no answer. She, at least, is irresponsible. May I venture to ask, madam, if, as Mr. Hood’s or Mr. Trescot’s envoy, you visited the cabin of Coffin at any other time?”

“No; I did not.”

“But I had the pleasure to meet you.”

“That is true. I had been to see Wilson, one of the squatters.”

“Coffin’s brother-in-law.”

“Yes; I meant to say so—a dying man in need of luxuries, and even of good food. My husband and I had helped him.”

“You seem to have cultivated the good-will of the family.”

“I have; I neglected to say that, without the least prompting on my part, Coffin told me that he could give Mr. Trescot information in regard to the blazed trees on the corners of Mr. Hood’s land.”

“You appear to have made good use of your opportunities, madam,” said Greyhurst.

“I have; and I assure you I enjoyed it; and above all, when, as I was leaving, Coffin said—”

She paused long enough for Greyhurst to say:

“You seem to hesitate, madam; we want the whole of this very remarkable story.”

“Oh, with pleasure. Coffin assured me that he was, as he said, right glad he hadn’t killed my husband, and was a good bit ashamed. That was about the shooting. I understood him to mean that he was ashamed to have missed him.” This was so wholly in character that court and audience broke into laughter.

Greyhurst’s face flushed, the color deepening on his dark skin. Averill sat watchful and uneasy. She had said too much.

“That is all, madam. Thank you,” said Greyhurst.

Trescot said simply: “I have a few questions to ask the witness. I regret to be obliged to ask them, but the circumstances demand it.” The bar and the audience were delighted.

Constance turned to him, much amused.

“Did your husband know of your intention to intervene between him and Coffin?”

“No, he did not.”

“Did he express himself in regard to it when he heard of it?”

“Yes; he objected; he was just a little cross.”

The court smiled, and the crowd laughed.

“That is all,” said Trescot.

This closed the evidence. It now became the duty of the defendant to sum up for the defense. The judge said:

“The evidence has been so brief that the court will sit out the case, unless counsel are so lengthy as to forbid it.”

Trescot rose. “May it please your honor, and you, gentlemen of the jury, I shall be brief.

“In putting before you in its fullness a connected statement of what you have heard from the witnesses, it may be wise, and certainly is of interest, to sketch for you the history of this suit.

“James Hood, my client’s father, bought in 1830 a tract of land which lay within the vast grant held so long by the Baptiste family. Why he bought it I do not know; it had very little value. The Baptistes reserved several hundred feet from Mr. Hood’s western line on the bluff, and, of course, the river-front, perhaps anticipating its future usefulness. The years go on; no one disputes Mr. Hood’s title. Some seven years ago comes the flood, and Mr. Hood finds he has lost land, but has acquired a water-front. The riparian rights thus strangely won soon become so very valuable that some one advises the unfortunate people whose land has gone down to the Gulf—some one advises them, I say, to see what can be made out of an unlucky situation. Many Western decisions have made it clear beyond dispute that the man whose land the great river took has no remedy at law, except, perhaps,—and your honor will pardon the jest,—to sue the Gulf of Mexico as the receiver of stolen goods. But really this claim of the plaintiffs has its humorous aspects.

“Then this some one—I do not know who—may have suggested an inquiry into the possibility of disproving my client’s title. It is not, as I go on, a very pleasant history. The war had done its sad work—almost every evidence of title was lost. The surveyor was long dead, and his people scattered. Apparently no bounds could be proved. Thus encouraged, a suit for ejectment is brought, and very soon the reason for it appears when the plaintiffs seek for a compromise—a division of the water-front. This case has gone on through the hands of three sets of counsel. If Mr. Hood owns the land on the bluff he now owns the river-front. If he does not he is practically a squatter, and should have that sympathy which the learned counsel for the plaintiffs asks for those who are on land they do not own.”

The court smiled, and there was much laughter.

“It is only too plain that belief in the presumed weakness of my client’s claim suggested the suit to eject, in the hope that fear of total loss would force my client to offer or accept a compromise.”

Greyhurst rose. “Does the learned counsel mean that I was concerned in advising a suit with this sole purpose in view?”

“Oh, no,” said Trescot. “The case was not of your creation. I do not know who devised that which was clearly what I prefer not to characterize.”

“It is just as well that you should explain, and the explanation comes none too soon,” said Greyhurst. “You may think your explanation satisfactory. I do not.”

Trescot made no reply.

“As the case stands, you, gentlemen of the jury, have been led to think, to believe, if that were possible, that it is we who are the plaintiffs, we who complain; we, and not an act of nature, who are the oppressors.

“May I further tax your patience before returning to the essential facts? So much has been said that is personal, both in and out of the court, that I shall ask leave to say a few words not in immediate relation to the case. I shall be brief.

“I came hither as the agent and legal adviser of Mr. Hood. I found myself, a Northern soldier, in a community naturally aggrieved and hostile. I have sought honestly to give no offense, and I have been able to induce my client to deal most generously with his many debtors, and to make kindly and even liberal provision for the squatters who, long undisturbed, had come to believe they had a right to their holdings. No single debtor of Mr. Hood’s will, before long, have the slightest cause for complaint. Some attempt has been made to affect public sentiment by word of mouth, as you have heard, and I regret to say in print also, and this, too, while arrangements were being made to deal justly and even generously. I cannot believe that such efforts have had any influence on this jury. So fully do I—so fully did I trust the honor and justice of the men I have learned to like in this city that, as you know, I made no objection to any juryman. My learned friend was less easily pleased.”

As he paused, taking up a paper, Greyhurst rose.

“Do I understand your charges to allude in any way to me?”

“I do,” said Trescot; “and I refer the counsel to Coffin’s evidence as to what you said to him.”

“The man who said so lies, and the man who now says so lies.”

The judge at once called Greyhurst to order, and he sat down, saying: “Well, we shall see.”

Trescot went on, making no allusion to the insult. He stated, with admirable clearness, the conclusions to be drawn from the evidence of the survey and the plan of the river as it had been and as it had come to be. With singular power of lucid statement he dealt with the evidence, admitting the validity of the old French grant as an essential to his own case. He emphasized the fact that no one had doubted his client’s title until the erosion of the river-frontage made it valuable. He wound up by an appeal for simple justice, and gathering his papers together, sat down.

It was now so late that the judge asked Greyhurst how long a time he would require. Upon his saying he could not tell, the court adjourned to meet at ten the next day.

Greyhurst walked sullenly away from the group of older lawyers who gathered with warm praise about Trescot. Mrs. Trescot having left to attend to some household matters, Averill said to Trescot as they left the court: “That fool called you a liar.”

“Yes, he said that I lied. I presume he meant Coffin also.”

“I think, Trescot, that you will have to ask him what he meant, or invite him to withdraw his words.”

“No, I shall not, general.”

“But, my dear Trescot, your position is really untenable, or at least it is so here. To accept a charge of lying and to do nothing! You would lose caste—oh, utterly.”

“Then I must risk that. To ask him would mean an acceptance of added insult or a duel. My own beliefs, and I may say the peace-making effect of a rebel bullet, make a duel impossible.” He laughed as he added: “I might hit a house with my left hand, but, my dear general, I come from a community where a duel is as absurd as to you, I dare say, such a state of feeling may be. I am much of George Washington’s opinion as concerns the matter.”

“I know,” said Averill; “but he never lived in St. Ann. Do you go armed?”

“I? No—of course not.”

“You had better.”

Trescot laughed. “My best weapon among people like yours is the fact, well known to Greyhurst and many, that I do not carry arms, and am crippled. Don’t worry, general; the man will quiet down, and I shall be careful.”

“You do not know Greyhurst.”

He was touched by the old man’s kindness, and, having no malice toward any one, went away elated with the certainty of success.

When, in the morning, Constance and he talked over the trial, she said: “I do not want to hear or see that man again, George. When will it be over?”

“Greyhurst must close. Then the judge will sum up; but how long the jury may be out I do not know. I will send you word, as I may be detained.”

“You will not forget me?”

“Do I ever forget you, Constance?”

“Never; but I shall be so very uneasy.”

XVI

On the next morning some intervening court business made it late before the case was called for continuance. The crowd was still greater when Greyhurst, as the plaintiffs’ counsel, rose to sum up, with some return of his usual self-confidence.

“May it please your honor, and you, gentlemen of the jury, I represent here to-day the cause of the widow and orphans of a Confederate soldier. The claimant is rich—indeed, far beyond our modest conceptions of wealth. His agent is a young man who served in the war which has left us ruined, oppressed, and insulted. Until just in time for effect in this trial, we heard very little of certain much-vaunted generous intentions. Let us hope that they were more honest than Mr. Hood’s former policy would seem to make credible. The opposing counsel has seen fit to speak of his personal relation to this case. In his use of witnesses he has made implications in regard to me which justify me in saying that I personally, at least, can afford to smile at slander which represents me as lying, and which leaves the statement for use in the safe hands of a female and a vagabond.”

“My heavens, general!” said Trescot, “I cannot stand that.” He rose at once. “Stop!” he said. “Sir, whatever statements have been made,—and you have utterly misrepresented them,—I alone am responsible. No gentleman could have said what you have just now permitted yourself to say!”

Greyhurst laughed: “The shaft has found its mark. I had heard, sir, that in the sense in which Southern gentlemen use the phrase, you did not consider yourself responsible.”

Trescot, still on his feet, said quietly, “I have said that I am responsible.”

The general looked from the one man to the other, uneasy and amazed that Trescot had been badgered into assuming at last a position so opposed to his principles.

Greyhurst returned sharply, “Well, I am relieved to hear it. It was unexpected.” And then, as Trescot resumed his seat, he turned to the jury, saying: “And now for this boasted evidence.”

As he went on, Trescot sat still, conscious of having been goaded by insult to commit himself to what he knew to be wrong. As he sat, he thought a moment of Alexander Hamilton, whom he greatly admired. Then he said to himself: “When the evil takes shape I will deal with it,” and began again to listen to his antagonist. Greyhurst dwelt long on the untrustworthy character of the evidence given by Coffin,—on his convincing reasons for offering assistance to the defendant with utter disregard of the truth. Trescot, again self-controlled, and listening quietly, felt at ease as to his case. His opponent’s criticisms left his witnesses’ testimony uninjured. What doubt was possible was thrown on the absence of deeds, on the slight value of the surveyor’s notes so providentially preserved, on the failure to pay taxes. In fact, as an old lawyer whispered to Trescot, “he has no case at all, and had better throw it up.” He finished with a passionate appeal to the jury to see the equity of the situation—where natural causes had swept away land and given to the greed of avarice a motive to add one more cause of poverty to the ruin of an old and honored family.

A murmur of applause in the audience assured him, as he sat down, that he must have equally affected the jury.

The court adjourned to meet for the judge’s charge in the afternoon.

The case was of unusual importance, and the charge of the judge to the jury was of great length. He gave the usual caution as to the weight and consideration to be given to the facts as stated, and as to the credibility of witnesses. He charged the jury that if these and the extraordinary discovery and production of the blazes, and the description of the land, were proved to their satisfaction, they must of need find for the defendant. He urged that the unfortunate personalities of the trial be set aside, and that, with no regard to the sectional prejudices which, with as little relation, had been brought forward, they should decide as true men.

Besides dealing with the evidence, he had felt obliged to make entirely clear the decisions as to the changes in ownership of riparian rights made by these frequent erosive alterations in the courses of the great Western rivers. The lamps around the walls of the court-room were lighted before the judge had finished, and it was late when he gave the case to the jury and retired to await their verdict.

No one moved. The interest the case excited was such as to keep people in their seats, although the room was hot and the air oppressive. Within the rail, where the lawyers sat, there was equal interest, and a feeling, expressed in undertones, that the words which had passed between counsel must soon or late result seriously.

During the hour in which men waited to hear the verdict Greyhurst sat still. He had scarce a hope of success, and to fail would be for him a grave calamity. He reflected on this, or considered plans for future litigation, as he sat still; or, seeing the hands of the clock pass the hour, began to believe in a disagreement of the jury. But ever at times his face, which he had never learned to control, changed, as, with his eyes half closed, he frowned and gripped the arms of his chair. He thought of the way in which he had been fooled by Coffin and baffled by this frail-looking young lawyer. He recalled the amused faces of the listening counsel, the exasperating quiet and gentle manners of Trescot. “Damn him!” Now and again a flash of anger lit his face with passion, as the lightning illuminates for a second the darkness of a stormy night.

Meanwhile, Trescot, confident and happy, chatted with Averill or others.

Time ran on, and it was now late. At the close of an hour the judge, returning to his seat, recalled the jury. “It is plain, gentlemen,” he said, “that you may require some time to reach a conclusion. I shall remain in my room until eight o’clock to hear from you. I shall then leave. If, after that hour, you are of one mind and will return to the clerk of the court a written verdict, he will instruct you that it must be signed by every one of you and sealed. You will then be discharged, and avoid the necessity of being detained here all night.” With this the court broke up, and the audience left.

It will be unnecessary to dwell at length upon the effect which this delay had upon the several persons concerned. Trescot went home confident as to the lawsuit, and intent on concealing the gravity of the personal question he had yet to face. His wife was uneasy, and was also doing her best to hide her anxiety.

While to them the result of the trial was, for many reasons, a matter of interest, to Greyhurst it meant far more. He went slowly homeward in the dusk, a troubled, anxious, irritated man. He ate his supper hastily and sat down in his library, resolving to rid his mind of the cares of a disappointing day. He took up a book. His taste in literature was good, and the loneliness his temperament fostered had helped to make him a reader. But now the thoughts of the day’s passions could not easily be dismissed. He closed a volume of Burke, and sat still; but whether he reflected on his gathering debts, his political ambitions, or the loss an adverse verdict would mean, he recurred, as was habitual with him, to some human instrument as responsible; and now it was, above all, the Yankee lawyer whose triumph would cost him so dear, and who had insulted him, and, although Greyhurst did not confess it, had preserved that serenity of temper which so exasperates those for whom a slight is an outrage, and a hasty word an insult. He knew full well the mischief-making capacity of his temper, and at times dreaded the possible results of such consequent outbreaks as others feared, and as had cost him many hours of regretful penitence. He was no master of himself, and now an evil mood possessed the hour. He drank more than was his habit, and at last went to bed, only to pass a restless night and to awaken unrefreshed.

A great crowd was pouring into or gathering around the court-house next morning. As Greyhurst passed through it, sullen and anxious, he fancied men were smiling at him and his probable defeat. Trescot nodded to him coldly as he entered within the bar, but the elder man stared at him with set face, and without returning the salutation.

A little after ten the jury entered; the judge took his seat amid profound silence. The clerk announced that at half-past nine the night before the jury, having agreed, had all signed a verdict which had then been sealed. The clerk having handed the paper to the foreman, it was opened and read aloud: “We, the undersigned, find a verdict for the defendant.” Each juryman was asked, in turn, if this were his verdict, and the jury was discharged.

Amid the buzz and stir this announcement made in the court-room, a few pleased, the larger number disappointed, Greyhurst moved toward Trescot, and then, as if otherwise minded, turned aside and gathered up his papers. No one spoke to him, while Averill and several of the older members of the bar gathered about Trescot. As they discussed some of the points of the case, a young lawyer who had left the court-room returned and said to Trescot:

“Mrs. Trescot is waiting outside. She asked me to tell you to come to her at once. She desired me to say it was very important.”

Trescot turned to Averill and said: “My wife is outside and has sent for me in haste. I shall be back in a few minutes.”

He hurried out of a side door and found Constance waiting.

“I heard it, George. You have won. Oh, I am glad! Mr. Randolph told me. But come over here in the shade. How pale you are!”

“Yes; my arm is giving me pain.”

“I am sorry, George. Come over here to that bench under the trees. I have bad news.”

“What is it? A telegram?”

“Yes; read it. Uncle Rufus is dead. I thought you ought to know of it at once.”

He read:

“To Mrs. George Trescot:

“Uncle died last night, at eleven o’clock, suddenly. Knowing of the trial, and your great anxiety, I add that there is no will. I am sure of this. We are the sole heirs. Let George act as seems best. I shall approve. See letter to follow.

“Susan Hood.”

That Constance felt the shock of her uncle’s sudden death was certain, but far more to her was her husband’s interest, and just now even his safety. She had tried not to let him see her anxiety. It was very great, for she had not failed to see the material of a serious quarrel in the scenes of the court-room; and now here was death bringing peace, and power to consider generously the people concerned in the suit, and, above all, release from fear, and freedom to fly to more congenial surroundings.

He was very grave as he twice read the telegram. Constance sat still. There was much to think about.

“You are the sole heirs,” he said; “and I suppose, dear, it is a great estate.”

“Yes, yes; but now—at once—use this, George. Do settle at once. Give them half—give them all.”

He smiled at her urgency. He was pleased to be set at liberty to act kindly, but his nature did not admit of the excitement which Constance felt. He said, as they sat in the shade: “Nothing can be done in haste. We must wait for Susan’s letter.”

“Yes, yes; I know; but you can at least see the general now—at once—and ask him to let these poor people know that we intend to be reasonable; my uncle never was.”

He sat for some minutes talking, and at last said:

“You are practically Susan’s attorney. At all events, she will do as we think best. It is a vast relief.”

He read the telegram again.

“It is a strange fate, Constance. She says he died at eleven. Had he died before the verdict was signed,—that was at half-past nine,—it would have been a mistrial and all to go over again. I should not have been sorry to have compromised matters without a trial.”

“But you will do something, George, now. I insist that you do not delay.”

“Yes, dear, and most gladly.”

“And you won’t delay?”

“I will not. And now, dear, I must go. I will come back soon; wait for me here.” Rising, he put the telegram in the left-hand pocket of his waistcoat, saying: “I shall find Averill at once and ask him to see Greyhurst.” Constance sat down on the bench under the trees.

As he moved away the crowd went by, talking, gesticulating, excited. Trescot, moving on, sought eagerly for Averill among the lawyers and others now coming out of the side exit. When not more than twenty feet away, he observed the general on the top step. At the same moment he saw Greyhurst emerge from the crowd, and knew that he must meet him first. He would show him the telegram, and offer to divide the land. It pleased him, and, forgetful of the insults he had received, and smiling at the kindly thought, he raised his lame hand to take the telegram from his pocket. As he did so he was aware of Greyhurst’s leveled revolver. He stood facing his foe, motionless; saw the crowd scatter, heard Constance scream, and heard no more on earth. He fell on his face, clutching the telegram.

Twenty feet away Greyhurst stood still, pistol in hand. Averill caught him by the shoulder and swung him round. “You scoundrel! to shoot an unarmed, crippled man!”

“No man shall call me that and live!”

“You fool! A bullet in me and you swing in ten minutes from one of these trees!”

“He was drawing on me.”

“He was not. He never went armed, and you knew it.”

Greyhurst made no reply. It was wild, quick talk, and meanwhile a crowd gathered where Constance knelt beside her husband. They turned him over on his back. “Is he dead?” she cried, looking up. “How can he be dead?” The features twitched, the face grew white, and the eyes became set. No one spoke. “Tell me,” she cried. “Will no one tell me? Is he dead?”

Some one said softly, “He is dead.”

She rose and looked about her, as if in search of something, and then with both hands struck aside the yielding crowd. She walked swiftly to where Greyhurst stood. He fell back a step or two, the pistol in his hand. She said, as if with effort, slowly, word by word:

“You have murdered an unarmed man. Oh, coward! coward!”

A crowd gathered quickly, excited, curious, silent, while the woman stood a moment, paling, motionless, unable to say more, her lips moving, her face twitching.

Greyhurst stared at her. He said nothing, but his face changed. The wild madness of anger was gone.

“My God!” she cried, and fell at his feet. The man moved a step toward her, and then stood still, horror-stricken.

She was mercifully insensible, convulsed and quivering as they carried her to the porch of the court-house.

Averill said: “Go on, Dudley, and tell my wife. Send me a carriage at once.” Then he turned to Greyhurst: “If, sir, you feel insulted, I am at your disposal. Gentlemen in my State do not murder unarmed men. I will see your seconds at any time; but never dare to speak to me again.” He waited an answer for a moment, and receiving none, moved away.

Greyhurst, turning, stared after him. Some one said: “How was it, Greyhurst? What did he do?”

“Oh, go to ——!” he returned; and dropping the pistol into his pocket, he walked slowly away, men silently looking after him.

He went to a magistrate and gave himself up. After a brief hearing bail was accepted, and he went away to his home, now seeing the woman’s face of anguish, and now the smiling triumph of the man he had killed. He tried to think that, according to his Western code, he was justified. He had been told that Trescot never carried arms. He had not believed it at the time, and now fell back on this remembrance. Most men went armed, and certainly Trescot had seemed to him about to draw a pistol; and the man had said he was responsible, which in St. Ann meant that he was prepared to expect attack.

And Averill? He was in no mood for another quarrel. As concerned the legal consequences he was in no wise disturbed, nor, indeed, did they at all occupy him. He had had affrays in wild mining-camps, had himself been wounded, but had never killed a man. Now, being a person with some imagination, and sensitive as to his own moods, he began to reflect on this tremendous fact. He had killed a man. By the time he reached his home he had become uneasy in mind. A certain uncontrollable rush of thoughts came over him—a jostling of self-excuses, a sense of wrong done to himself, of insult, a wish that he had been less hasty. “Oh, my God; that woman!” he murmured, as he entered his home. To-morrow he would consider it all; now he must cease to think, for to think was torment and led to nothing helpful. He went up-stairs, and drank glass after glass of whisky, until he had drugged himself into a state where he ceased to reason, and where memory was dulled, and at last dead. He lay on a lounge all day and through the night, without undressing, sleeping a drunken slumber.

At morning, when he awakened, it all came back to him by degrees, and again he recalled the verdict, and was filled with dull anger. The evening before he had made himself incapable of efficient reasoning. Now one aspect of the affair presented itself, and now another. Bits of the death-scene appeared—the woman’s wide-open eyes, their color; that her chin-muscles had twitched before she fell; how, as by instinct, he had made a step forward to pick her up, and then did not. Some unseen hand was jangling the wires of puppet memories—he a helpless looker-on.

He had regret rather than anything as positive as remorse, and soon recovered the power to deal with the facts. Seated in his library in sunshine, he was at last able to dismiss the emotional disturbance which had disquieted him the day before, and to consider the effect of what he had done on his legal and political career and on his social position. His anger still burned, and he lost nothing of his hatred. He was sorry only because of the hasty form his revenge had taken for what he considered insulting. With a few men like Averill it would injure him. A duel would have been wiser. Then he thought of the woman in the madness of her grief. She had called him “coward.” It stung him like a whip.

Well, he would outlive it, and as he must live and had interests in and near the town, he must learn to control a temper which he knew had lost him friends, influence, and opportunities. He hoped to be chosen by the county to represent it in the legislature. The death by his hand of an unpopular land agent—a Yankee officer—would hardly trouble the rough country-folk.

He rose and walked about among his books. He had lived much alone since his wife had left him; and, as is often the case in small towns, had read as men in larger communities do not. As he rose early, he was apt, after breakfast, to sit down for an hour with a cigar and a book. It was the habit of a lonely man.

“Now,” he said to himself, “I must do just as I usually do.” He sat down and took up the volume he had been reading—a life of John Marshall. It had lost interest. He could not keep his attention on the text. His cigar went out. “Damn it!” he exclaimed, “if this goes on—” Of a sudden the naked fact of having killed came back to him. This was not murder. No one would call it that. Once he had read:

“The devil owns the minutes, God the years.”

This began to say itself over and over in his mind, bringing back again the fatal scene. What had the devil’s minute brought? What would the “years of God” bring?

Time would go on. People would forget. Mrs. Trescot would go away, of course. He would see her stately grace no more. The thought of her called up the face of another woman far away in Sacramento. What would she say? What would she think?

“Well,” he said, “I had better go out and show myself.” He went to his room and took his watch from the table. He had forgotten to wind it. Then he picked up his revolver, glanced at the one empty barrel, hesitated a moment, put it back on the table, and went down to his office. As he passed Trescot’s home he looked across at the house and quickened his steps.

The next day he left St. Ann and remained absent until, as he supposed, the funeral of his victim would be over.

XVII

The days went by, and it was now late in October. Mrs. Averill waited at the foot of the stairs. “Will she live?” she said, as she met Dr. Eskridge, a war-worn old Confederate surgeon.

“Yes,” he said, “unhappily she will live.” He had known and liked Constance. “What she will be or what she will do when this wild hysteria is over, no one can say. Now she knows nothing.”

“I was with her all last night, doctor. At times she lay in a stupor; at others she talked, laughing, about her child, and said, over and over, ‘It must be called George.’”

“Poor lady, that hope is at an end.”

“Yes; and more’s the pity.”

“I still think that her sister should not see her.”

“She understands that,” said Mrs. Averill. “A most sensible, thoughtful young woman, and so considerate. My poor husband is distressed beyond measure. I did not think there was possible for him any other sorrow on earth except my death, and I am old. But this young man was, in some ways, like my son Harry. I am worried about the general. I wish you would talk to him.”

“I will. In a few weeks—perhaps abruptly—Mrs. Trescot will come out of this state, perhaps well, perhaps physically broken in health. Then she must go away and never return.”

“I suppose that will be best. These two young women are both rich, my dear doctor, and can go where they please. Mr. Hood did not mean to leave them much money, but he died without leaving a will, and now they have all. He was a singular man, and really this dreadful affair was caused by his obstinate hardness.”

“I have heard as much,” said the doctor.

“He made a dozen wills, and fortunately burned the last one the day before he died.”

“Well, well,” said the doctor, “a will is the only contribution to folly a dead man can make. Ah, good morning, Miss Hood. Your sister is somewhat better; we must have patience.”

“I have it,” said Susan. “But come into the garden with me a moment. It seems just now impossible to find a quiet place.” He followed her, and as they walked down the path she said:

“Do you think that if she recovers she will be in mind what she was; and can you, with your great experience and what you know of her, form any idea of how this calamity will influence her life? She is all I have, and I am so very anxious.”

“I think it likely that she will get well and be sound in mind and body. Unless misfortune wrecks us utterly and we become insane, after a shock like this we remain essentially what we were. New conditions, accidents, sorrow, may cause people to appear for a time alien from themselves. They are rarely so. The novel incident only evolves what might have remained unused, unknown, for a lifetime. She may surprise you, but it will be with the use of some quality you have never had occasion to see—or she to employ. Grief does not, as a rule, alter people radically.”

Susan listened, deeply concerned and thoughtful. “Thank you,” she said. “But it does seem as if a thing like this must change one.”

“No. Put yourself in her place. What would you be or become? What would you do?”

“I should go to the East—to Egypt. One seems there so small, so puny. I should try to forgive. Oh, I should try to save my soul alive; but then, doctor, I am an old maid, and cannot imagine what a woman like Constance feels or will feel.”

The doctor considered for a moment the face and figure of the “old maid,” and, smiling, looked at his watch. “You old maids are perilous folk. No one else shall abuse you but Miss Susan, and I do not mean to tell you what I think of you. I shall come in to-night.”

She went with him through the house to the door, and there saw Coffin seated on the steps. He haunted the place, questioning the servants, or, with boundless patience won in the loneliness of the woods, waiting until some one came out who could tell him of Mrs. Trescot.

Susan said: “Come in.”

“No, I won’t come in. How is she? Will she die? I could not stand that.”

“No; she will get well. But, Mr. Coffin, I want you to think over what I said to you. You talked wildly of killing that man; you frightened me.”

“I’ve thought about that. When she’s well I’ll see; if she wants it, I’ll get him, sure.”

“She never will want that—never.”

“I’m not that sure, and I ain’t made that way, neither. I’m going to wait and see. If she just lifts a finger I’ll kill that man.”

“Oh, no, no!” she cried. “It is horrible—murder on murder. We are going away as soon as she is well enough. God will help her to forget, and she is young, and time is God’s great peacemaker.”

“She is going away! going away! That’s awful. Since I was a boy I never had a friend like she was—and she’s going.” His eyes filled and he stood still, the tears rolling down out of the patient eyes over his brown, sun-tanned cheeks. He brushed them away with his sleeve and went out of the gate, saying over and over, “She’s going.”

The weeks went by while Constance slowly recovered. At times she sat up of a sudden with dilated pupils, staring, but silent. At other times she babbled of her home, her childhood, of Susan, but never of recent events.

At last, one morning, after a natural slumber, she sat up and said to Mrs. Averill:

“Where am I? Tell George I want him at once. I say at once!”

Susan, hearing her high-pitched cry, ran in.

“What are you doing here?” asked Constance. “Where is George?”

The two women stood by, mute and without resource.

“Why don’t you answer? Something happened.”

She fell back, to their relief, again insensible.

From this time she began to recover, as it were in fragments, her memory of the tragic past. For a while she lost to-day such remembrances as yesterday had brought. A little later, the storm which had left her nervous system shattered passed away, and she began to piece together her recovered recollections. Susan sat by in wonder, grieving for the pain this revival of memories was plainly writing on the face once so joyous and so fair. Somewhere she had seen described such a condition of mind, and as, one day, she talked of it to the doctor, she recalled and quoted the lines:

“Yes,” he said; “that describes it perfectly.”

A word or two now and then told that she knew of Trescot’s death. For a week she asked no questions, but lay still, entirely patient. At last, one day, the doctor, uneasy at her changeless melancholy, said to her: “You are better; do you not feel better?”

“Yes, I am better; I should like to get on to the lounge.”

Pleased at any return of will or wish, he said, “Yes, certainly,” and with Susan’s help lifted her wasted frame and laid her on the lounge.

She said: “Thank you, and please leave me with Dr. Eskridge.” Susan went out.

“Doctor,” said Mrs. Trescot, “I know all about it.”

He was immediately relieved. He had looked forward with anxiety to the hour of questions. “My poor child!” was all he could say.

“How long have I been ill?”

“Nine weeks, Mrs. Trescot.”

Suddenly she asked: “And the child?”

He took her hand. She read his answer in the kind eyes which had seen so much of disaster and death.

“I see—I know. If anything could make it worse, that does.”

“Do not talk any more,” he said, as he rose.

“Yes, I must. No, you cannot go; I must finish. Was that—that man ever tried?”

“Yes.”

“Well?—oh, tell me; don’t be afraid; I can bear—oh, anything, now—anything!”

“He was declared not guilty.”

“How could that be?”

But now Dr. Eskridge saw signals which made him resolute. He replied: “When you are better you shall hear. I will answer no more questions now.”

“One—only one. I insist. Will he live here? Does he live here?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I will ask no more questions. I promise to be good—very good.”

The doctor rose, relieved. He said: “In two weeks you must go away, and later it would really be best to go abroad. You are young and will get well and strong.”

She smiled feebly, the large blue eyes unnatural and strange in the worn, thin features—they alone unwasted and beautiful.

“‘I am young.’ Isn’t that what is always said, doctor?”

“Yes; but it is true, and let me add that, however impossible it may seem to you, time is very kind—to the young at least.”

“I am not young, and time—yes, I want its help. I do not wish to die; I want to live.”

“Now, that is better,” he said, and went down-stairs, telling Susan on the way that her sister knew everything, and was really in a wholesome state of mind and eager to get well.

Susan shook her head. How could that be? Being a woman, she wondered that her sister could wish to live.

Constance asked no more questions; but, seeming to put it all aside, set herself to get well.

Three days before they left she called Susan and the general to her room, insisting that she would not be satisfied until she was at ease about certain matters. She surprised both by the clearness and decision with which she stated her wishes.

“Susan and I, general, are, I am sure, agreed to divide the shore-land at the bend with the Baptiste heirs; but, let me ask, will such action benefit that man?”

Susan looked up.

“I do not know. He lost the suit, and, of course, his large contingent fee. I do not see how a separate agreement as between you and Mrs. Baptiste can benefit him, even if his fee had been arranged to be a share of the land.”

“Then,” said Constance, “if they agree not to litigate further, and he is none the better for it, we will divide. Does that suit you, Susan?”

“Yes, I have said so; anything, dear, that you want done I shall want done; and this I especially desire as an act of simple justice. We will give the general a power of attorney to act for us.”

“Then sister and I wish the squatters to have land on the bluff back of the bend—to eastward, I mean.”

The general made notes.

“The land must be good,” said Constance; “and we wish to be generous. I should like them all to be helped to buy what they need to clear and till the land.”

“It will be rather costly.”

“Yes,” said Susan; “but Constance wishes it, and there is a large amount of accumulated interest in bank. It was my uncle’s way.”

“I want Coffin especially cared for,” said Constance. “I wish him to have the cleared land nearest the bluff; and, general, I want you to pay him five dollars a week to care for my garden.”

“Your garden, Conny!” exclaimed Susan.

“Yes; I mean to shut up the house; but I shall keep it; I shall never sell it. I want no one to enter the study. Lock it. Has it been disturbed?”

“No, dear; I locked it and have the key.”

“Then give it to me. The house is mine. I shall keep it as it is.”

“Is not that unwise, sister?”

“I have made up my mind.”

“Well, dear, it is yours. We will not discuss it.”

The doctor had long since warned her against contradictions, and against anything which might stir up dangerous emotion.

“Is that all?” asked the general.

“Yes,” said Susan; “except that we desire to make the most liberal arrangements in regard to the mortgages not yet settled. You cannot be too generous. My sister and I know how your people have suffered.”

The old soldier looked up, touched by what she said. “You are giving a sad old man a rare pleasure. Is that all?”

“No,” said Constance. “I have here a letter. Read it, please, when I am gone. If you dislike to do what I ask, it can wait. There is no hurry about it, and I am very sorry to trouble you.”

“You do not trouble me. Ah, my dear children, we shall miss you sadly.”

“But next summer,” said Susan, “you will spend with us at Beverly.”

“Perhaps,” he said; “but you had better go abroad.”

Constance had put off seeing Coffin; but on the sixteenth of December, the day before they were to leave, she sent for him.

He entered, halting in his gait, somewhat bow-legged, a round-shouldered man in much-worn gray, with here and there a lingering Confederate button, a ragged felt hat in his hand. What Susan called the “lost-dog” look was in his eyes.

What he saw was a tall, wasted woman in black. She was very thin and without a relic of the rosy color which once added so much to her beauty. The large framework of her features showed too prominently in the absence of flesh. Above all, the man was shocked at her complete pallor. He was too unthoughtful to have been prepared for the effects of emotion and consequent illness. Her quiet manner not less amazed him. The women of his own class wept and were natural. This woman had back of her two centuries of Puritan self-restraint, and the controlling reserve of a class accustomed to hide emotion.

She said, as she gave him her thin, cold hand: “Sit down; but first shut the door. I want to talk to you.”

He sat down on the edge of the chair.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Oh, very well, ma’am.”

“Can you hold your tongue, Tom? I want to trust you.”

“I can.” He was a man by long habit wood-dumb, as the old lumbermen say—a man of few words.

“I want you to take care of my garden.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You will come every week to the general to get five dollars; you will care for my garden. You are also to have the best land on the bluff.”

“I didn’t expect all that. I’m right thankful. They do say you’re going away. Mrs. Averill says you’ll never come back. Are that so?”

“No; they think so; but I am coming back. That is what I want no one to know. Will you keep it to yourself?”

“I reckon, Mrs. Trescot, you know you can trust me.”

“I am sure I can,” she said as she rose. “I am still weak, and I cannot talk to you as I want to do when I come back. If you need anything, General Averill will see to it—I mean anything for the Wilsons.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She gave him her hand. He took it with something like reverence. Then he stood, uneasy, evidently with something unsaid.

“Well?” she asked. “Is there anything else, Coffin?”

“I was thinking you might be wanting some one to kill that there man.” He spoke simply, in his drawling mountain dialect, as he might have asked what tree he should fell.

The thought had been too often in her mind to cause her any shock. She said, “No, no.”

“It wouldn’t be no trouble, ma’am. I’d as lief do it on my own account as not.”

“No,” she said again; “no. That would not be any comfort to me, Tom. I want that man to suffer. I want him to suffer every day, every night, till he curses the day he was born. I don’t want him to die, Tom; not yet—no, not yet.”

He accepted her statement with blind faith in her resources, and with the obedient trust of a faithful dog, wishing to help and not knowing how.

“I wouldn’t know how to fetch that about. Now, if you know—”

“No, Tom, not yet. I must first get well and strong. Good-by; I shall ask Mrs. Averill to let me hear how you get on, and the Wilson children and the rest. But remember, no one—no one must know what I have said to you.”

He went away wondering, sorry not to be able to bring about what she desired, and with dull wonder because of her unwillingness to accept the vengeful service for which he was so ready.

XVIII

On the afternoon of the next day the sisters left for the long journey to their home on the Beverly coast of Massachusetts. The general, who had gone with them to the station, on his return came into the parlor—no one called it a drawing-room in St. Ann. Mrs. Averill was seated before the hickory-log fire, her knitting on her lap. She was looking up at the rival flags, the swords, and the poor little photographs. As she heard Averill’s step she took up her knitting, smiling sadly at the intrusive remembrance concerning the “ravell’d sleave of care” which none can knit. He had a letter in his hand.

“Eleanor,” he said, “this has been a great shock to me. I could not have imagined it as possible.”

“No new trouble?” she said quickly. “What is it? Always tell me things first and say what you like afterward. Men always prepare one.” She was slightly irritated.

“Oh, it is of no personal moment. Read that, Eleanor, and tell me what on earth I am to do.”

She took the letter and read:

“My dear General:

“If what I now ask seems to you too strange, or may in any way annoy you to carry out, let it go; it can wait.

“I want a simple gray stone put over my husband’s grave, with this inscription:

“‘In memory of George Trescot. Aged 29 years. Late Major 6th Massachusetts Volunteers.

“‘Murdered on October 9, 1870, in St. Ann.’”

Mrs. Averill slowly folded the letter, and replaced it in the envelop. “Do you not think, Edward, that she may be a little—well, not quite sane? It is too strange, too horrible.”

“No; she is sane enough, Eleanor. But grief plays strange tricks with the most sane.”

“I, at least, cannot imagine a really great sorrow associated with ideas of revenge; but, after all, Edward, there is more than revenge here—or perhaps less. It would, after all, be only an unusual act of justice.”

“But you could never have desired such a thing.”

“I am not sure. No, I could not; but I am not Constance. I do not blame her.”

The general stood by the fire, the letter in his hand. At last he said: “Personally, Eleanor, I could wish this thing done. A man commits a crime like this and justice fails; people forget, and there is not even a record; and at last the man, too, I suppose, forgets.”

“But does he? Do you think that a man like him does at last cease to feel what he must have felt when that dear, beautiful woman fell at his feet? I often think, as I sit here, Edward,—just a sad, childless mother,—that if the men whose bullets left us lonely could have seen us or fully known what they had done, they could not have failed to be unhappy.” Then she paused and, looking up affectionately at the kind, brave face of the comrade and lover, added: “But I am glad they cannot know.”

“Yes, that is as well, dear. I, too, have helped to create in unseen homes the misery of war, more’s the pity. If every man in an army knew and saw whom his shot killed or crippled, and saw, too, all the far-away, never-ending consequences, I think wars would cease.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” she said, as she looked up with full eyes at the crossed swords over the mantel.

They were silent again for a little while. Then she said:

“What will you do about this letter—this inscription?”

“I hardly know.”

“You may be sure that the churchwarden will never permit it. You can see him and show him the letter in confidence. He will say no; and you can repeat this to our poor Constance.”

The general, well pleased to be thus counseled, had his interview with the astonished warden, and upon his protesting wrote to Constance to that effect.

She replied that no one, not even Susan, knew anything of her letter, and that no further steps need be taken. She was sorry to have given trouble.

She wrote from time to time, but her letters were rare and never personal. Meanwhile, they had gone to Europe, as the doctor had desired them to do. Susan wrote often. Constance was, apparently, well again, but still thin and without a trace of her lovely coloring. The doctors said it was anemia, but one in Milan insisted that it was not want of blood, but some change in the nervous system. He had seen such cases and said that she would always be pale. “I really think,” said Susan, “that she is more beautiful than ever, but it is the beauty of living marble; and, dear Mrs. Averill, I had a cherished belief that this awful thing would make my sister turn where alone are peace and rest and the hope that lives when earth has none. I can see no such result. She will not even let me speak of what is so near to me. This alone makes her irritable, and that is new to Constance. People stare at her, and no wonder—so pale, so stately, and so sadly indifferent. She reads little, goes to the galleries, and takes no real interest in anything except that she shows the most eager desire to get well and vigorous. I should have wished to die. She was always, except with George and me, a reserved person, and now I am sure there is something constantly on her mind. It is not a mere torturing memory, but something which, when she thinks she is unnoticed, makes her smile in a cold way. I cannot describe it; but it does worry me. Once only she has shown interest, and that was about the miniatures we have had made for you from the photographs of your sons. They are very admirable, and to know what they will be to our dear friends pleased her. She said, ‘How George would have liked them!’ and, believe me, this is the only time I have heard his name pass her lips. I can give you no better idea of the effect she produces than to tell you what happened yesterday at the Pitti—no, it was at the Bargello. I was seated, looking at the statue of David. My sister was moving about, never looking long at any one of the wonderful things on every side. I heard a man near by say to a younger man: ‘Did you see that woman?’ ‘Yes,’ he said; ‘what a colorless face! She is as pale as death.’ The other said: ‘But what a cold, beautiful face! She must have had a history worth hearing.’ They strolled away, and I heard no more. I have a dreadful desire to know what has become of that man Greyhurst. Is he still in St. Ann?”

Mrs. Averill looked up from the letter she had been reading aloud to her husband.

“I have never chanced to set eyes on him,” she said. “But, then, I rarely leave my home.”

“As you know, dear,” returned Averill, “we do not speak. Of course I see him and hear of him. I think he has been made to feel that men are more than ever inclined to avoid him; not so much, I am sorry to say, on account of Trescot’s death as because of that terrible evidence of his uncertain temper. At the club I notice that he is not asked to take a hand at cards, although he plays well.”

“That is rather a mild punishment.”

“Yes; but it means something to him; and the social discipline has had its effect on a man who is, or was, amusing, and who liked the society of men. He is a sensitive person and feels it. I hear, too, that he no longer carries a revolver.”

“Indeed! and here, where it is so common!”

“Yes; Colonel Dudley told me. He has had two or three successful cases of late, and behaved with propriety and good temper.”

“Mrs. Dudley told me that he has been speaking in the county at political meetings.”

“Yes,” said Averill, “and admirably well. He wants to go to the legislature. That is all I know, Eleanor. I dislike even to talk about him. So far he is prospering, and that dear fellow is forgotten. This is a strange world, and not altogether satisfactory.”

Mrs. Averill was silent for a moment, automatically plying her knitting-needles. The general stood with a hand on her shoulder. Presently she said:

“Will you drive me to the churchyard this afternoon? I want to leave some flowers on the grave.”

He replied, “Certainly—of course.”

Then she added: “I was wondering how, in the far future, these two lives will end—her life and his.”

“Oh, she is young, and he will live on, and the whole thing will be forgotten in time. It is not the only case we have had in St. Ann; and, as far as I have been able to see, the actors in these tragedies appear to be very little influenced or altered. Greyhurst is the sole instance I recall in which the man who killed seemed to be personally changed by what he had done. He certainly is changed—Dudley says very much changed.”

“But how?”

“Oh, he is moody and silent; he is less gay; he is more deferential. Suppose we drop him, Eleanor.”

“It is all very sad,” she said; and gathering up her knitting, she went out into the garden, where now in the late spring the flowers were welcoming the sun.