2l8





CONSTANCE TEESCOT















'I THINK WE HAVE FINISHED, HE SAID.








Butbot'a Definitive EMtion
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
H "Hovel
- if BY
sfwEIR MITCHELL, M.D., LL.D.

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1905


Copyright, 1905, by
The Century Co.
Publithed March, 1905
THE DE VtNNE


CONSTANCE TRESCOT





CONSTANCE TKESCOT
i
R. HOOD will see you in the library,
sir."
George Trescot followed the servant,
and when left alone began to wander
about a large room which looked out
on the north coast of Massachusetts Bay. Why it
was called a library might well have puzzled the
young man. There were few books except those of
reference, but on chair and table were mill and rail-
way reports, and newspapers in superabundance.
As the clock struck the hour of noon a woman
of some twenty-seven years entered the room. Hear-
ing the door open, Trescot turned from a brief and
hopeless effort to comprehend the genealogical tree
of the Hood family, which hung on the wall in
much splendor of heraldic blazonry.
Miss Hood came in smiling, as if she had just
been amused and was enjoying the remembrance.
Her face had—what is more often found in plain
women than in those to whom nature has been more
bountiful—great power of expressing both kindli-
ness and mirth. She was slight, but of admirable


4
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
figure, and possessed the mysterious gift of grace.
For the rest, she was unselfish, seriously religious,
and perplexed at times by the comic aspect of things,
hardly realizing the fact that a ready sense of humor
had often been as useful in helping her to endure
the lesser trials of existence as the religious faith
which she held to with the simple trust of a child.
Life presented itself to her in relentless simplicity,
and consisted of things right and things wrong, with
over-sensitive self-reproach when either seemed too
amusing. She was, socially speaking, fearless, and
occasionally outspoken to a degree which embar-
rassed others, but never Susan Hood.
"Good morning, major," she said. "I am glad
to see you. I consider myself neglected of late."
"I shall be the best of brothers-in-law, Miss
Susan."
"Oh, that is all very well. The future does not
always pay the debts of the present. You will be
as good as my sister will let you be; but I am easily
satisfied."
"I ought to be," he said. "And, by the way, I
am only Mr. Trescot, not Major. These labels should
have gone when the war ended; but I suppose men
like titles. I shed mine long ago."
"You are quite right," she returned, smiling with
the aid of a large and expressive mouth and show of
rather irregular, very white teeth. "I see that I
am just in time to save you a fall from the ge-
nealogical tree of the Hoods. I incline to think some
of the limbs a trifle insecure. My uncle climbs it
at least once a week, and believes in its fabulous


CONSTANCE TKESCOT
6
fruit as he does in nothing else. I told him last
night that it was more genial than logical. If he
had understood me, I do not know what would have
happened.''
Trescot laughed. "Mr. Hood explained it to me
last week. I nearly fell asleep on the top branch."
"Did you? You would never have been forgiven.
It is still growing; the mustard-seed was nothing
to it." Then the further temptations offered by
the comparison presented themselves to her as ir-
reverent, and she said:
"By the way, I am sent by my uncle to entertain
you, as he is just now engaged. As a matter of
fact, he is engaged in settling what he will say to
you. He is enjoying it, too. Sit down; you will
have to put up with me for as long as he chooses
to remain agreeably perplexed."
"Perplexed?" said the young man, as he seated
himself. "What is there to perplex? It seems to
me very simple."
"And to me. You have asked my sister to marry
you. She desires to do so. My uncle says he is old,
and that he has entitled himself to our society un-
til he dies. I have told him that if he would kindly
set a time for that event we should know what to
do, and that he was pretty secure as to me. He did
not like it. Nothing is simple to my uncle."
"I suppose not," said Trescot, laughing. "The
asking him seemed to me a mere formal matter.
Constance is old enough to know her own mind, and,
I fancy, to have her own way. I did not ask of him
any favors."


6
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
"They should not need to be asked; but he will
be sure to think you expect him to provide for Con-
stance,—as, in fact, he ought to do."
"I expect nothing of the kind, nor does Con-
stance. We are prepared to wait until I can offer
her a home. That may be in a year, or even two
years. There is no need to discuss it."
"Indeed! Wait until you know my uncle better.
He discusses everything. He would discuss whether
two and two make four. He constructs theories, as
he calls them, and when it is needful to act does
not always abide by them, which, I assure you, is,
on the whole, rather fortunate, as I hope you may
discover."
"Well, on this subject, Miss Hood, I have also
my theory, and an abiding faith in it."
She laughed merrily and said: '' Wait a bit. You
have as yet seen only one side of my uncle. He can
be, as you know, a pleasant, rather cynical old gen-
tleman. Now you present yourself to him under
a novel aspect, and he will be sure to construct what
he calls a theory for himself and you, to fit the oc-
casion. It will be something like this—I may as
well prepare you: 'My theory, sir, is that people
never change. These young women have always
had all the money they wanted; therefore, they will
always want it. It must be clear to you that we
shall need to discuss the matter at length—at length,
sir. Money in my—sir, in my opinion, is develop-
mental; without money,' etc. He will be delight-
fully irrelevant. I wish I could overhear the inter-
view. He really does not care about money; but


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
7
he likes to talk about it. It may be he will light
on something else. You will have to be patient."
"I can be that. But as concerns money, I do not
want it—or, rather, I want it very much, but not
from him. I mean in time to get it myself. Con-
found it! Pardon me, but really—"
"Oh, that is a very mild expletive; if it applies
to Uncle Rufus, it is quite unnecessary: he is just
now sufficiently confounded. And, after all, if you
were an old man like my uncle, would you willingly
part with so delightful an inmate as my sister?"
"No," laughed Trescot; "no, indeed."
"Well, that is honest. You may be surprised to
learn that he would object quite as much to part
with me as to part with my sister. I am not mali-
cious enough to ask you to explain that.''
Trescot was relieved from need to reply when,
awaiting no answer, she continued:
"The fact is, he likes me because we disagree
radically about everything, from religion to politics,
and Constance because they agree about most things,
except politics. There they are far apart. His
opinions about the war have been to both of us
a matter of real unhappiness. Had he lived in the
South he would have been bitter against secession.
He is always in the opposition, but he despises peo-
ple who yield."
"Then he will certainly fall in love with me.
Thank you for the hint."
"Oh, I did not mean it for that, and I suspect it
was not needed. After all, it is not that you have
no money that troubles my uncle; it is really far


8
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
more the idea that Constance is ungrateful, and
shows great lack of taste in being willing to desert
him for you, or for any one. I think I hear his
voice. I must go; but when you are through with
uncle my sister wants to see you in the garden.
If you make yourself very disagreeable you will
find that Uncle Rufus will find some ingenious ex-
cuse for being reasonable. He will think it proper,
after he has posed a little as a shrewd man of busi-
ness, to pose as the good uncle."
Trescot stood with her in the window recess while
they talked, and now, turning, glanced at the
shrewd, kind face, with its readiness of humorous
comment, and said: "I should like to hear what
might be the character of George Trescot you would
present to Mr. Hood."
"Would you, indeed?" she returned, looking up.
It was a strong face she saw, and more serious just
now than the quality of the question suggested.
Yet it smiled in pleased fellowship of mirth as she
answered, laughing:
"Ah, there is my uncle! I have half a mind not
to tell you."
"Perhaps I had better not insist. You are sure
to be painfully honest, and I may have cause to re-
gret."
"But I will. I should say—well, I should say—
'Uncle Rufus, I like him.'"
'' Thank you. I shall put that with what Sheridan
once said to me."
"What did he say? Do tell me."
"Oh, he said, 'That was well done, Major Tres-
cot; very well done.' I blushed like a girl."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
9
"What had you done?"
"What had I done? Ah," he laughed, "you must
ask Sheridan."
"But I may never see him." She was curious
about large things, rarely about little ones or mere
social trivialities. "Of course you will tell me."
"Perhaps if, some day, on trial, you prove to be
a quite perfect sister-in-law."
"Am I not good enough now? I said I liked you.
Is n't that a form of goodness? I assure you that
there are no better judges of men than old maids
and sisters-in-law."
'' Indeed! But you are only a sort of brevet sister-
in-law. And why—shall I dare to say—are old maids
good judges of men?"
"Oh, they look down from a heaven of neutral-
ity where there is no giving in marriage. Goodness!
what am I saying?"
Hearing her uncle's step on the stair, she turned
to leave. Trescot saw with approval her trim, neat
figure, and said, laughing, "The basis of opinion
is not altogether secure."
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed. "I am already on
the family tree, my destiny predetermined,—'Susan
Hood, spinster.' But here is Uncle Rufus. If he
does not first indulge in vain genealogies I shall
be surprised. Good-by! I wonder what St. Paul
meant by vain genealogies?"
As she spoke, a small, very thin man of some
seventy years entered, with a too obvious affectation
of youthful briskness.
"I leave Mr. Trescot to your tender mercies,
uncle."


10
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"Ah, good morning. Fine day. Sit down," said
Mr. Hood, as she left them. "Pray, sit down." He
began at once, with an air of decision, "I suppose
this matter of which my niece has spoken to me
appears to you very simple."
"It did not at one time. It does now. I have
asked Miss Constance to be my wife. She has done
me the honor to say yes. What else is there?"
"Everything, sir; everything. I do not propose
that my niece shall leave me. She owes to me the
affection of a child. I am old and cannot live long.
Her sense of duty should forbid her to desert me.
If it does not, I must act for her, and prevent what
is both criminal and foolish. I must create for her
a virtue which she has not."
"But, Mr. Hood—" said Trescot, raising a hand
in appeal.
"No, sir; do not interrupt me. I object to it
altogether. You have no money, and she has none.
You know nothing of each other—nothing. As to
waiting a year—two years—until you can provide
for her, it is nonsense. When she mentioned this
highly absurd proposition I told her as much. Now,
sir, you have my decision, and my niece has already
had it."
"May I ask what was Miss Constance's reply?"
"She said she meant to marry you if she had to sew for a living. By George! she can't sew on a button. I was quite prepared for her reply. She has the obstinacy of my people."
"Then, Mr. Hood, you may rest assured that I shall marry her. I can wait."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
11
"But I cannot wait. Do you suppose I mean to
have a love-sick girl maundering about my house
for two years? No, sir; you do not know her. From
a child she has been obstinate when she wanted any-
thing; I should have no peace."
"I am sorry for you," said Trescot, much
amused; "but I can only repeat what I have said
already. Unless Miss Constance changes her
mind—"
"She never changes her mind; we never do—it
is a family trait."
"I hope not; and in that case I trust you will see
this matter in a more favorable light. But in any
case, to be frank, I mean to marry her."
"I suppose, then, there is no help for it," said
the elder man, with a curious collapse of resolution.
"I am old and feeble"—which was true. "The girl
is ungrateful. I rely upon her for everything.
Susan is wrapped up in her poor and her parson— she calls him her rector, I believe. I find it incon-
sistent with my sense of duty to let you go on in
blind ignorance. You will discover Constance to
be efficient, obstinate; and as I am told by Susan
that you are what is called religious, you ought also
to know that my niece and I agree in the entire
absence of that adjective."
"That," said Trescot, coldly, "is a matter I pre-
fer not to discuss.'' He knew very well by this time
that the woman he loved had, unlike himself, no
distinct creed.
"Well, I desire that you should understand her.
She is very like me."


13
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"Indeed!" he returned, much amused. "Then I
shall be sure to end by liking you, Mr. Hood. I
presume that I may consider it as settled."
"No, sir; I may yield, but I will never consent;
and I consider it my duty to warn you. I have said
as much. This girl, this woman, is a creature of
instincts. As a child her temper was terrible; under
my wise rule it has been tamed. She loves and
hates with animal fidelity; and once she is set on
doing anything, neither saint nor devil can change
her."
"That is rather gratifying," said Trescot, be-
tween suppressed mirth and annoyance. Certainly
this was an extraordinary old man.
"She was an unreasoning Union woman, and I am
of opinion that the South was altogether in the
right. But neither reason nor respect for me has
ever altered what she calls her views."
"You will pardon me if I say that I am very
glad to hear it."
"Ah, well, well, that is as you please. A pity
you agree. It is a theory of mine that difference of
opinion is a basis of true happiness in married life;
otherwise it becomes monotonous."
Trescot sat still, studying the self-pleased face,
and amused himself with thought of the mirth
with which Susan would have heard her uncle giv-
ing Constance a character for her new place. He
kept a respectful silence as the old man wandered
on; but by what paths he reached an expression of
opinion as to the constitutional rights of States and
cities to secede, Trescot never could remember. At


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
18
last he was given to understand that the right of
States to secede was based on the undoubted right
of individuals to secede from States. Here, as the
old man's voice rose to political levels of emphasis,
it recalled Trescot from the dreaming mood which
was taking him somewhere into the fairyland of love.
He recovered power to listen, but at last, disap-
pointed by the absence of exhilarating difference
of opinion, Mr. Hood said: "We seem to have
strayed. I was about to add that my niece and I
have always agreed, except as regards one subject;
and, I regret to say, as concerns that matter, even
the unfortunate closure of the war has in no degree
abated her feeling—a child, sir, instinctive and, as
I observed, obstinate. I think I have already dwelt
on that peculiarity."
"Yes, I so understood you. And now, Mr. Hood,
that you have sufficiently warned and informed me,
and have decided to consent—I beg pardon, yield—"
"I did nothing of the kind. I sometimes give way,
but I never yield. I do not like this marriage. But
I do not propose that you shall cause my niece to
quarrel with me. She cannot stay here and make
me uncomfortable; she cannot marry you and
starve; I won't permit it."
"Then may I ask what you propose to do?"
"Well, first I desire to state that, although I am
said to be a rich man, I do not intend to leave to
my nieces more than a very small competence. I
have a theory on this subject. It is interesting. At
another time I shall be happy to set it before you—
at length."


14
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
Trescot rose. "I assure you, sir, that I should
have been glad to feel that in case of anything go-
ing wrong with my power to provide for my wife,
—such as my death, or what not,—she would be at
ease. I should be a fool if I told you I do not
care what you do with your money; but if you im-
agine, as you seem to take for granted, that it is
influencing me in my relation to Miss Constance,
we had better drop the matter of money alto-
gether."
"But," said Hood, testily, "I am not going to be
bullied into dropping it. I mean to have my own
way."
Trescot was a man not merely good-tempered, but
of a certain gay sweetness of disposition which cap-
tured men and women. He began, however, to be
a little impatient, and in reply said:
"I have been for a half-hour endeavoring, sir, to
find out what it is you want. That I am to marry
appears to be settled."
"I suppose so. I know Constance too well to
oppose it. I am told by my niece that you can-
not marry at present. But if you choose to accept
the position of my agent in St. Ann, Missouri,
I will insure my niece an income for five years—
say, two thousand dollars. You would be called
upon to manage my property, and I should expect
that you would eject squatters, bring suits, and
otherwise care for my interests." He fell back in
his chair with an air of having settled the matter.
For a moment Trescot was silent, and regarded
the feeble, shrunken old man, who sat watching


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
15
him and pulling nervously at his thin gray side-
whiskers. With some sense of the niece being sold
to him for a consideration, he returned quietly:
"No; I do not wish to leave Boston. I am not
a land agent, and, to be plain, Mr. Hood, I cannot
accept your offer."
"But you will."
"No, I think not; I cannot. What you please
to give your niece or not to give her must have no
relation to any business interests you may choose
to confide to me, in the very doubtful case of my
considering your offer."
"You had better talk first to Constance. I think
she must know you already, for she declared that
you would not accept my offer, and then she made
me another."
"Indeed!" Trescot did not like this any better.
"She says that if I give her two thousand a year,
and put my affairs at St. Ann in your hands on a
pure business basis, you will, perhaps, think of it."
Trescot would have much preferred to have had
the offer made directly to himself. He said he would
speak to Constance about it. It was not a thing to
settle without time and thought.
"But it is settled," said the old man. "You
will find that out. Constance usually knows her
own mind."
"But not mine," returned Trescot, rising. He
had had by this time as much of the uncle's inde-
cisions and feeble display of business sharpness as
a nearly perfect temper would bear. He had learned
that his own tender and respectful love had been


10
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
met by a passion of affection which had seemed to
take as small thought of the future as a bird might
do, and yet here was a certain competence in her
dealings with her uncle for which he was unpre-
pared.
As he went away to meet her he said to himself,
'' It seems reasonable,'' but felt again that he should
have preferred to be left to arrange matters involv-
ing business and so complete a change of residence.


II
EORGE TRESCOT was, like Constance,
an orphan, and of the same old New
England breed as the woman he loved.
With slender means, he had made his
way in college, unassisted, by aiding
duller men as a tutor, and had passed through
the law school with unusual distinction. Then the
war broke out, and, enlisting in the ranks, he rose
rapidly, as death cleared the way, until in the
final struggle he was so wounded as partially to dis-
able his right shoulder, which he commonly eased
by carrying his hand caught in his waistcoat. Al-
though five years had gone by, at times it gave him
pain, and he felt this as he passed through the
drawing-room and out into the garden. Constance's
appearance of being tall struck him as she passed
across the path and disappeared behind a row of
shrubs which sheltered the garden from the rough
sport of the east winds. In reality, admirable sym-
metry was responsible, for she was not of more than
full middle height.
As he turned to meet her she was joyously flushed,
a glad welcome in her eyes. In a moment she was in
his arms. "A whole week!" she cried.
Conscious that the embrace was as much hers as
his, he cast an uneasy glance about him, fearful of

2 17


18
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
profane eyes, of which she was, to appearance,
heedless.
The moment was expressive. He loved her with
some sense that she was a thing apart from other
women. A great respect went with it—a delicate,
shy tenderness which passed into delicious wonder
at the deep passion which he had awakened.
They had met first at a dance, where, as he crossed
the room, an awkward partner in the waltz had
brought her roughly against his wounded shoulder.
In extreme pain he had dropped into a chair. She
caught sight of his face. "Who is he?" she said.
Her partner replied, "He is George Trescot, my old
major in the Sixth. I must have hurt his wounded
arm. Excuse me a moment."
"No, take me to him."
"Trescot," said his friend, "I am sorry; I was
awkward.''
"May I, too, apologize?" said she.
As they spoke, Trescot, pale with pain, looked
up and tried to rise. He met a pair of violet eyes
and a face of anxious interest he was never to
forget.
"Pardon me," he said; "I shall be all right in
a little while. It was worth some pain to know Miss
Hood."
"Thank you. That is a great deal to say."
He asked for a glass of wine, and, as his friend
went for it, she sat down beside him.
"I am more sorry," she said, "than I can tell you.
Were you hurt in the war? I think Mr. Ware
said so."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
19
"Yes; but pardon me, I cannot talk—not now, not
just yet. But do not go."
She had no such intention. She was silent, watch-
ing his set face, sensitively aware of some eager wish
to help him.
His friend returned. Trescot took the wine and
said at last, as they rose, "I am better, but I think
I must go."
She said, "My sister and I shall be glad to see
you; we are always at home on Monday after-
noons."
"Thank you," he returned; "I shall hope to be
better company when we meet again."
There was no indecision about this love-affair.
In two weeks they were engaged. She had often
said to herself that she would be hard to please,
and that only a long acquaintance would justify
a woman in giving herself to a man. She asked her-
self no questions as to the unreasoning passion which
made easy for Trescot what so many had found
hard. Their mutual attraction had the inevitability
of the physical forces. From the moment of their
first meeting, Constance Hood was the realization
of his dream of the most stately womanhood. The
impression he made on her was as sudden. He was
not over her own height, slightly made, and, just
then, even delicate in appearance. The look of in-
tellect and power which a few faces show with
features of great refinement gave added charm to
manners which were gently formal, with some flavor
of a more leisurely day when men had time to be
courteous.


20
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
The contrast between his frail look and the stories
men told of his fearlessness in the great war had its
influence on the woman who had broken into a pas-
sion of anger and grief when the news of Sumter
revealed the power of sentiment to stir her, as it
stirred and energized the manhood of a great na-
tion, presumed by those who thus challenged it to be
given over to the ledger and day-book.
Susan Hood watched with surprise, anxiety, and
a little amusement the progress of a love-affair
which did not explain itself to one who considered
marriage as a matter not to be entered into lightly
or unadvisedly, and who had had no personal expe-
rience to shock her with the discovery of passions in
herself or another. To the very humorous, love
comes with difficulty.
Very soon Constance talked to her with strange
unreserve. This abandonment to love, so profound,
so abrupt, shocked Susan. A man might thus ex-
hibit affection, not a woman. Needless to say that
it was for a time only the sister who thus saw and
heard and wondered, dismayed at a passion as wild
as that of Juliet.
When Trescot, having left her uncle, found Con-
stance, the lovers sat down beyond the garden, be-
fore them the quiet of an unruffled sea and the
eastward glow of the setting sun. The woman's
hand sought his and held it. '' Has uncle told you ?''
she said.
"Your uncle is an amazing person, but I learned
at last that you and he had settled the matter."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
21
She was aware at once that he was not entirely
satisfied, and said:
"Oh, of course, George, it rests with you. If
you accept we can be married soon, and if you
say no we must wait a year, or even two years.
How can I be without you so long? My uncle
remains here in the country all the year, as you
know; and now that I have disturbed his theory
as to what my life was to be, I shall be made to
suffer."
"But we would be near, and I should see you
often—very often."
"Yes, I know; but it would be hard—oh, harder
than you can know; and my uncle is never done
with a subject; my life would be made intolerable.
And then, after all, we should not be there—I
mean at St. Ann—always; you would succeed, and
some day we should come home." She made it all
seem clear, definite, and certain. Indeed, it so ap-
peared to her.
It seemed much more vague to the young man,
but the bribe she offered was too much for him to
resist.
"We should go among a strange and hostile peo-
ple, Constance—I a Northern officer, you with your
strong feeling about the South."
''1 should learn to hold my tongue, and you would
be sure to make friends."
"Perhaps." He remained silent a moment, and
then went on. "I have rarely had doubts as to any
future, dear, except as concerned whether I could
make you love me. But this future of a life at St.


22
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
Ann seems to me a very doubtful matter. I am
to displace the present agent and—"
"But Mr. Averill—my uncle calls him, with re-
spect, major-general—Mr. Averill desires to give up
the care of uncle's lands. He did not tell you that,
I am sure."
"No, he did not. Of course that somewhat sim-
plifies the matter. But to act for a man like Mr.
Hood may well have its difficulties."
"I do not think so. He always backs down before
a resolute man, or even an obstinate woman. You
will have your own way, and we shall be so happy,
George."
"Of that I am sure, there or anywhere; and yet I
am in reason, and above all because I love you,
bound to think of the future. I am naturally san-
guine, Constance. Even in the darkest hours of the
war I was that; but in this matter I am not sanguine,
and if you were to ask me why, I could not tell you.
I have a feeling—'' and here he paused.
"A feeling, George?"
"Yes, like that I had once on South Mountain. I
was about to ride on to a hillock for a better view
of the enemy's line, when I felt for a moment a
curious reluctance. I pulled up my horse, half
surprised at myself—and then, with a sense of the
absurdity of the thing, I rode on. As my horse
moved across the space between, a shell exploded on
the hillock."
"Oh, George! But it is n't like that—was not
that a pure superstition?"


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
38
"Yes, very absurd, utterly ridiculous in its ap-
plication here; I ought not to have said it."
"It does not in the least trouble me, although,
like my uncle, I have my own little thrills about
thirteen at table, and all such nonsense. My uncle
says—" and she stopped.
"Well, dear?"
"Oh, he says that a person may reason himself
out of religious beliefs, but can never quite get rid
of these little half-beliefs."
"I think," he returned, "that people who are
really and thoughtfully religious have least of these
remnants of a more ignorant day."
"And yet, George," she returned, laughingly,
"you obeyed an impulse quite without reason; I
should hardly call it a superstition."
"No; you are right. But to go back to what is
for you and me a very serious question. I believe
now that I may accept your uncle's offer. But I
must think it over when those dear eyes are not
looking into mine, those lips saying, 'Come, let us
go away and be all of life to each other.' Let us
drop it now and talk of other things. I have to go
back to Boston by the late train. Within a day I
shall write to you and to your uncle. I must talk
it over with an older lawyer."
She was satisfied, and saw, or thought she saw,
that he would be of her opinion. She had her own
reasons for desiring to have no such delay as he
would have tranquilly accepted. He had all through
life been denying himself this or that to-day in


24
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
order that he might be more secure of to-morrow's
wants. Such a passion as possessed her with the
power of a primal instinct was not yet in him vic-
torious over all rational considerations. He knew
little of women, and nothing of the woman who
desires to absorb, so to speak, all of the thoughts
and feelings of the one man, and who, as time goes
on, becomes jealous of his friends, and even of his
work, and, at last, of every hour not given to her.
Such women are happily rare, but are now and then
to be found. From the hour she first saw him,
frail and pallid from suffering, a vast protecting
eagerness arose in her mind. As her kinship of pity
blossomed into love, the desire to be with him and
watch over what seemed to her in her new anxiety
a more delicate life than it really was, supplied her
with a reason for early marriage. She had never
asked herself why she had been so suddenly cap-
tured; but as time went on she knew that she had
drawn a prize in the uncertain lottery of love, and
felt that his charm of manner, his distinction, the
delicacy and refinement with which he had pleaded
for her love, had fully justified her choice.
After further talk he left her at twilight, and
at the last moment, in haste to catch his train. She
watched him as he walked swiftly away, noting the
arm caught for relieving support in his waistcoat,
the upright, soldierly carriage of figure, well built,
but lacking flesh. She said:
"Ah! but I love you well; how well, you do not
yet know, George Trescot,—but you will—you
shall."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
26
As he turned at the garden gate to look back, she
cried, as she ran toward him, "You forgot, George."
"What?" he said.
"To kiss me again."
Late in the afternoon of the next day she received
a letter, with which she fled to the rocks above the
sea. She tore it open and read:
"Dearest Constance:
"I wonder how you got that pleasantly prophetic
name. You must tell me.
"Yes, I have made up my mind; my friend has
urgently advised me to accept your uncle's offer.
He thinks the position affords chances I ought not
to decline, and with your ever dear self thrown in—
you remember the Scotch song:
"'I 'll gie ye my bonny black hen
If ye 'll but advise me to marry
The lad I love dearly, Tarn Glenn'—
I gladly conclude to say yes. With what joy I am
filled, you, I trust, know. I am not very strong as yet,
but I come of a vigorous breed, and no tonic has
ever helped me like the bounty of love. You have
given me yourself—how can I ask more?
"Between us there lies one large gulf of difference
—and only one. That some day we shall bridge it
over, I hope and believe. Meanwhile, we shall trust
each other's honesty in this, life's largest matter,
and, so trusting, wait with the patience of love—''


2G
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"No," she said, looking up, "it is not for me life's
largest matter. This human love is for me the
larger. His religion, or any faith, is, compared to
that, dim, misty, unsatisfying. But love! ah, that
is near and sweet and real."
"Well, well," she mused, as she sat with the let-
ter in her lap. "He would have me to believe as he
believes. Would I wish him to change? No. He is
my religion. That would shock him. To please
him I could almost make believe to think as he
does. To be separated in anything from him seems
terrible.''
She was facing a hard question, made the more
difficult by pure ignorance. Since childhood she
had been in her uncle's care. He had his own very
peculiar views, and the delight in opposition which
is fed by self-esteem and accounts in some degree for
the ways and opinions of men who in the conduct
of life depart radically from the common-sense
standards of the world at large. His theories found
a fair field in Constance. She was never to be pun-
ished; reasoning would do everything. How could
a child accept a creed? She must be kept with a
neutral mind. She had never been allowed to set
foot in a church. When she grew up she might
choose for herself. It shocked the elder sister, who,
until the death of an aunt with whom she lived,
saw Constance rarely, as they were separated by
a hundred miles. When later she herself was left
without a home, she gladly accepted her uncle's in-
vitation to live with them.
The new abode was far more luxurious than the


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
27
one she had lost upon her aunt's death. It was also
very different. As time ran on, and she became
more familiar with what she felt to be a rather
singular household, she had an eager desire to help
her young sister to escape from what seemed to
Susan a bondage of the spirit. She became watch-
ful and observant of her uncle and Constance, and
saw, with something like dismay, the completeness
of her sister's isolation from all knowledge of that
which seemed to her an essential part of the higher
life. She was by temperament and sense of duty
made unwilling to accept a neutral attitude; a grow-
ing affection added a strong motive, and she was res-
olute not to go on endlessly without protest. Some
feeble attempts to approach the subject on which
the elder sister felt so deeply were met by Con-
stance either with indifference or mild amusement,
as a thing long since disposed of, or as beneath the
consideration of the larger mind. Rather than by
persistence risk the loss of a growing affection,
Susan ceased to speak of that which she held with
such reverent faith, and could only pray that time
and circumstances would afford more prosperous op-
portunities. With her uncle she was still less for-
tunate, but as he at least rested content with the
situation he had created, she felt forced at last to
secure for herself an opportunity to make the pro-
test to which she felt driven by motives which left
no escape possible.
He had soon become accustomed to use her for
many of the little tasks which Constance disliked.
She was seated with her uncle in his library after


28
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
breakfast, engaged in cutting the leaves of a report
on the census. He was minutely noting in his diary
the state of the barometer and such reflections of
his own as he considered worth preserving, and as
to this he was generous.
He was not too busy to observe that, true to the
habit of the born reader, she was now and then
caught by some fact of interest, and ceased using the
paper-cutter.
"Ah," she exclaimed, laughing, "the census of
this State embraces three millions of women—poor
Mr. Census."
"Yes, yes," he returned, "quite remarkable,—
an old joke, I believe. But I wish you would finish.
I need the book. Constance has been trained to do
one thing at a time." The niece thus characterized
had declined the task, and gone out to sail.
"I shall finish it, sir, in a few minutes."
There was again silence, until at last she said:
"The method of securing the number of people in
the different religious sects seems to me quite ab-
surd—just listen, Uncle Rufus."
'' I have no interest in it. It ought to be left out.
The multitudinous opinions of irrelevant minds are
disgraceful to the human intelligence. Negation
is the proper attitude. Constance represents it to
my satisfaction."
Susan's chance had come. She laid the book down
and said earnestly: "You must pardon me if I
say that I think you are wrong."
"Well, I am always ready to hear honest opinions,
—go on."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
29
"Do not you think that to leave a young girl
without any sense of relation to God must result
in her never acquiring any when grown up?"
"No, I do not. I have my views. When she is
a woman and mature, she will choose.''
"But will she? She will have no interest in the
matter.''
'' Well, what then? Suppose that she never has.''
Susan was shocked; but after a moment replied:
"Well, why not let her choose her morals? Why in-
sist on her being, as a child, truthful, and charit-
able? Why insist on good manners? Let her choose
her morals and her manners when she is what you
call mature."
"Nonsense; you are sophistical, and you are too
clever not to know it.''
Susan was well enough aware of the difficulty in
defending her statement, but she was too vexed to
be logical, and said: '' You have taken away from a
young life one of the most imperative motives to be
all that a woman ought to be."
"I think I am a better judge of that than you.
I have never missed what you call religion, nor will
Constance. I have my views, and I insist that you
are not to bother the girl with your superstitions."
"I am sorry, uncle, but I can make no promise."
"I suppose not. You are as obstinate in your
folly as I am resolute in my common sense."
"That is fine," murmured Susan, as she returned
to her work, making him no reply, and inclined
for the time to abandon a useless purpose. Pres-
ently she laid the book beside him, saying:


30
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"Is there anything else?"
"No, nothing."
She left him and went out to the company of
the flowers and the wholesomeness of a perfect day,
troubled that she had made no impression, and ask-
ing herself if, after all, her argument was sophis-
tical.
As she sat looking at the white sail of Constance's
cat-boat, rocking over an unquiet sea, she began to
sum up her slowly acquired knowledge of the
younger woman.
Yes, she was intelligent,—clever, accomplished, as
Susan was not; an admirable musician, singularly
ignorant of the great literature, but, like her uncle,
unusually well informed on the history of her coun-
try. How she had come to have political opinions
the reverse of her uncle's puzzled Susan. It might
be that she too loved to be in opposition, but cer-
tainly she held to her views with such passion as
he was incapable of. And surely the girl was beau-
tiful. As yet Susan could go no further in her in-
terested analysis. Yes, she had the virtues of her
caste, and great capacity for affection.
The woman concerning whom it was thus needful
to digress went back to her letter.
"We will put this question aside for the time.
You will let me try to help you. Your uncle made
me understand that his affairs would suffer by de-
lay, and now that I am clear in mind I see no cause
to prevent us from being married whenever you can
set a time. No time will be too soon for me. I have


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
31
been alone in the world these many years. All that
friendship could give in the army and at home I
have had, but neither love of mother nor of sister,
nor of any other woman has been mine. You have
it all—the all that might have been others is yours,
to-day and always."
Again she paused, with the thought that to take
him away even from his friends gave her a sense
of such completeness of possession as filled her with
joy. The rest of what he wrote was as delightful.
She put the letter in her bosom and felt it move with
her breathing; now and again she took it out and
kissed it.


Ill
MONTH had gone by. A savage north-
east wind was rocking the pines and
hurling a thunderous surf on the rock-
guarded coast. It was the third of
March, the night before the day set
for the marriage. Their uncle having as usual gone
to bed early, the two sisters sat alone by a bright
wood fire in the sitting-room they shared.
Susan rose and went to the window. "What a wild
night!" she said, as the rain, wind driven, crashed
against the panes, and the casement rattled. "The
gardener said this afternoon a ship had gone ashore
on Carlton's Reef. I hope no lives were lost."
"Yes, Uncle Rufus told me of it, and was gra-
cious enough to observe that going to sea was like
getting married—a very uncertain business."
Susan, as she returned to the fire, remarked:
"He has an unequaled capacity for saying un-
pleasant things, but I really believe that he does
not mean to be malicious. The trouble is, he val-
ues the product of his own mind too highly to be
willing to suppress any of it. I might have had
the fancy that the ocean and marriage are uncertain.
I should not have thought it fit or worth while to
say so." "I do not see, Susan, how George has stood it for 


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
83
this last month. What with Uncle Rufus's endless
indirectness and perpetual indecision, I cannot
wonder that George is puzzled to understand what
he wants. I shall be more than glad to have done
with it, and get half a continent between us and
uncle.''
"You will never be done with it while he lives,"
returned Susan; "and you may be pretty sure that
he will some day appear at St. Ann and still fur-
ther bother George."
"Well, George is as obstinate as—I ought to say
more resolute than—Uncle Rufus."
"George asked me," said Susan, "how uncle had
been so fortunate in his affairs. I told him what
you of course know, that uncle's fortune was largely
inherited, and that as the mills in which most of
it was invested are managed by wiser men, and he
is almost morbidly cautious, it is easy to see how
he became rich. Those lands in and about St. Ann
were one of his father's ventures. They have been
the source of constant trouble. I suspect that Gen-
eral Averill could not agree to do as uncle desired,
and that when he gave up no one else would accept
the agency."
No sooner had she spoken than she knew that she
had been unwise. Constance rose with a quick move-
ment, and turning to her sister, said:
"Uncle said nothing like that to me or to George.
Do you mean that he is using George because he
could get no one else? I shall go and ask him if
he has dared to do that." As she spoke she moved
quickly to the door. Susan was just in time.
3


34
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"Stop, dear," she said; "I have no authority for
what I said."
"Then you should not have spoken. You make
me unhappy—and now, to-night of all nights. If
your suspicion be correct, it is a thing I will not
stand. Let me go."
"No." Susan set her back to the door. "Listen,
dear. Uncle is asleep."
"I do not care. He must wake up."
"But you must care; and if I have been foolish
or imprudent, it is too late for you to act wildly
on a mere fancy of mine. Forget it, dear, and be
sure that no matter what may be uncle's little
schemes, George Trescot will succeed where others
have failed."
The tall girl, still flushed, angry, and only half
convinced, moved away and stood beside the fire,
silent for a moment. Then, as Susan took her hand,
she said:
"You are right; but, indeed, if he has put George
in a false position I shall never forgive him. I shall
not tell George."
"I should not, dear. Sit down. It is really of
no moment, but I was as indiscreetly anxious in
George's interest as you can be. Let us drop it.
This is our last talk. What a mad storm, Conny!''
"Yes. Listen to the wind."
"But you love storms, dear."
"Yes, but not to-night. Oh, not to-night!"
"I hope you will have sunshine to-morrow."
"Oh, sister, I do hope so."
"It does not look like it, Conny; but there is


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
35
sunshine enough in George Trescot. No one
could help liking him; I am half in love with him
myself.''
Constance laughed. "I can't have that. I want
him all to myself."
"That you will not have," said Susan, quietly.
"I am so glad that you concluded to be married
in church."
"He wanted it, and I really did not care."
"But you will some day, dear. You cannot live
with that man year after year and fail to feel the
value of the influences which guide and guard his
life—and, dear, it was not your fault. I think it
was cruel, wicked."
Constance looked up. "Do you think he is really
—I mean because of that—better than I am? Oh,
I mean—you know what I mean."
"I think you know, dear," said Susan, "or ought
to know. He has had a life of trial, you one of ease.
Both of you are what nature and the chances of life
have made you. I think you were unfairly dealt
with. Before I came, and ever since, uncle has
had his way."
"Yes, I know; but, truly, Susan, I am neither
religious nor non-religious; I am open-minded."
"Are you, my dear sister? Has not your open-
mindedness left you with the door of the mind very
hard to open wide? Time will show. You have
never yet found yourself; you have simply the con-
ventional morals and opinions of our own social
world. How they will serve you in days of strain
and trouble God alone knows."


36
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
"I think you are severe, Susan. I suppose I shall
laugh or cry, and grieve or be merry, like others."
"You are not like others. You are very unlike
others.''
"Am I not?"
"No; you are too natural."
"Too natural. Upon my word, Susan, you are
quite too enigmatical for my powers of compre-
hension. ''
"Well, dear, we won't talk any more. I did not
want to trouble you. And how am I to do without
you?"
"Oh, you must come to see us after a while, when
we are settled."
"Oh, shall I not? Now to bed, to bed, dear, for
a beauty sleep."
She kissed her, and Constance went away. The
elder woman remained long in thought by the fire,
reflecting upon her own imprudent frankness. The
younger lay awake for a time, wondering a little
what Susan meant by calling her too natural. She
awoke early to hear the surf and the constant rain,
and the wail of the wind among the pines.
Trescot had never been his former vigorous self
since he was wounded, and now, a resolute doctor
insisting upon a long holiday, five happy weeks went
by, much to the betterment of his health and looks.
As they got out of the train at St. Ann early in
April, on a Saturday afternoon, a gentleman ap-
proached them, and in the soft Southern tongue
said:


CONSTANCE TRE8COT
87
"Mrs. Trescot, I believe. I am General Averill.
Allow me to make you welcome to St. Ann."
As Trescot gave him his left hand he added in a
cordial way:
"Have you met with an accident? Nothing very
bad, I hope." He seemed really distressed. "And
in your honeymoon, too."
"You are very kind," said Trescot. "I am
afraid that you are in a way responsible; it was a
Confederate bullet."
"Oh, indeed? It is too late for apologies, but
not for regret. So you were a soldier. Well, I am
glad of that. It is not the men who fought who
are making mischief now. My carriage is here.
This way, madam. Here, boy," to an aged black,
and he gave some directions concerning their bag-
gage.
"But we are going to the hotel," said Trescot.
"I wrote and arranged for rooms."
The general laughed. "You are going to your
own house, sir. My wife has been busy there, or she
would have met Mrs. Trescot."
"But we have no house," said Constance.
"A little surprise, madam—as I understand, a
wedding-gift from Mr. Hood. Mrs. Averill wrote
and wished to be allowed to put it in order. Then
Miss Hood came to St. Ann. Your uncle and I are
old friends, as you know; and now that I see you,
Mrs. Trescot, it is more than a pleasure—it is a
privilege—to have been thus allowed to be of use.
Ah! here is the carriage. Permit me."
Trescot could only express formal thanks, and


88
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
they chatted as they drove through the old Creole
settlement, with its ill-kept gardens and new wooden
houses.
Trescot was much amazed by the uncle's sudden
and secret liberality. They had been five weeks
away from home, and except that Susan had writ-
ten, soon after they left, that St. Ann would sur-
prise them, they had been unprepared for what
now they heard.
Unable, for the time, to discuss matters, they
drove on for a half-mile through the dust of the
main street; and when a little way out of the fast-
growing southwestern town the general said, "This
is what we call Raeburn's addition." Where the
road began to slope to the broad river a too san-
guine speculator had put up a half-dozen scattered
cottages.
"This is your home, Mrs. Trescot. No, I shall
leave you to enjoy it alone. Mrs. Averill has gone
away, and hopes you will be pleased. You will
find supper ready in an hour."
They stood a moment on the roadside. A neat
old black woman in a gay bandana head-kerchief
stood at the open door; the general, hat in hand,
kind, genial, courteous, a little profuse in talk. The
two young people thanked him, and they were left
alone.
Constance had misgivings as to what she might
expect in this new home. She said nothing of the
feeling she had that she should have been consulted
as to the furniture. But much of what was needed
had been chosen by Susan, and some simple but


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
39
refined taste had presided over the rest. As she
looked about her, she cried: "Oh, George, when I
heard I was afraid; but it is really so very pretty
and so simple; and was it not considerate to leave
us alone? And was n't it like Susan just to go
away and leave us to ourselves, and Mrs. Averill
too?"
"You do not yet know the best of these Southern
people, Constance. It will be both pleasant and
desirable that you and I learn to like them. I am
sure you will. Imagine the kindness of it, and the
trouble!"
They went from room to room in the little house,
looking out on the roses already in bloom, the grass
slopes, and the river beyond. At last they found
their way into the dining-room, and then into an
apartment where were shelves and a businesslike
table; but here the cases sent on by Trescot and
Constance had been left unopened. Again husband
and wife recognized the feeling which had left their
personal belongings untouched.
One of the servants, an old woman once a slave of
the Averills, conducted Constance over the kitchen,
and up-stairs and down again, and was delighted
when, after supper, the cooking was praised.
Then, as the shadows came, and they sat on the
back porch among clustering Cherokee roses, she
brought him a match, and as his pipe glowed or
darkened they talked of the new life before them;
she recognizing with fresh happiness the man's
gain in health and vigor; he, at moments, in thought
with certain reasonable fears. Would this distin-


40
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
guished-looking woman, with her music, her social
ties, her unchecked expenditures, her familiar Bos-
ton circle—would she be contented here in this
simpler life? Would every one be as kind as Mrs.
Averill? He became more and more silent as they
sat in the twilight. She, too, had her less distinct
doubts, but heretofore they had said little of the
life which lay before them. Now she spoke, touch-
ing his brown hair as he sat on the step below her.
She was strangely intuitive as concerned George
Trescot.
"I know what you are thinking of, my dear, dear
George.''
"Oh! What, love?"
"You are wondering whether I shall be satisfied
here in this new life amid the people you fought and
I hated."
"I was; but you will not hate them. I never
did."
"And I shall not if they are good to you."
"Oh, whether or not; and you won't miss the ease
of home, the varied life, your carriage and riding-
horse?"
"I—I have you."
"But you will not have me always as you have
had for these happy weeks."
"But you will be always thinking of me."
"Even that may not be possible. I sometimes
fancy it would have been better—"
"No, no; we did wisely, and love is my only
answer."
"Then, once and for all let us put away the
past, and accept our new life with thankfulness."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
41
"Yes. Ah, letters! Thank you," she said to the
maid. "Let us go in, George, and read them." As
they sat down, she cried: "Gracious! oh, do listen
to this, George. It is from uncle."
"My dear Constance:
"Major-General Averill will give you the title-
deeds of the house. It will, I hope, make you less
discontented, for you will have to economize as you
never did here. I trust also that my generosity will
be an inducement to that obstinate young man to
give the fullest attention to my affairs.
"Susan will, no doubt, tell you that she made me
give you the house; but her religion is too vague
a thing to have taught her accuracy. What she calls
faith, I am happy to say I am without; it is too
vague for intellectual assimilation.
"Yours affectionately,
"Rupus Hood."
"Of which has he none—faith or intellectual
assimilation?" laughed Trescot. "Upon my word,
Constance, what about the blind belief we call love?
No one knows everything of any one. The rest we
call trust, faith; and without the mystery of the
unknowable in man, woman, and God, the half of
the charm of life and love were gone."
She did not answer him directly, but said:'' Uncle
Rufus is plain enough, and I know you, and you
me."
"No, not altogether; what you would do or be in
certain contingencies of this changeful life, I do not
know."


42
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"Am I not simple?"
"You? No, no," he laughed. "But what does
Susan say?"
She read:
"Dear Conny:
"As soon as you were engaged I set to work to
make Uncle Rufus behave decently. He is not mean
or ungenerous, but you were to be punished for
preferring George to him, and to have a narrow
income as a reminder of your iniquity. We had
it about and about. He enjoyed the row and, as
usual, backed down. I made him groan when the
bills came in; but he had to pay, and now he tells
every one about the pleasure he had in surprising
you with the house. I send a few books of refer-
ence for George—the cyclopedia he wanted, and a
few other books."
She said nothing of what further she had done.
Constance looked up. "But I meant to give you
that cyclopedia myself. I told her so."
She had a childlike disappointment because of
having been thus anticipated. He saw and under-
stood.
"But I want far more—the new biographical dic-
tionary, and how many other books I dare not tell
you. To-morrow we shall see when we unpack the
boxes. What else is there in your sister's letter?"
"Nothing of moment. She wishes to know if the
house, our house—is n't that delightful—needs any
other furniture."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
43
"I should think not," said Trescot, faintly jeal-
ous of the liberality which had provided what in
time he had hoped to give. He said, however: "I
confess, dear, to being very glad that you are to be
so pleasantly nested. I feared a little the long stay
at an inn or in lodgings, where you would have all
manner of unavoidable contacts."
"Yes," she said, "that would have been dreadful.
To have been able all one's life to choose or avoid,
to say 'At home' or not, and then to be obliged
to meet, all the time, the chance acquaintances of
a boarding-house! I did not expect to have a house
for a year at least."
George Trescot reflected anew upon the sacrifices
she had made, and on how less than little she knew
of what she was saved by Susan's persistency and
self-sacrifice.
"We owe Susan a great debt," he said; "and I
am as grateful as a man ought to be; but I wish
I had been able to do all this for you myself. I have
been so anxious that you should be satisfied."
Constance slipped down on to the step beside him,
cast an arm around him, and laid her head on his
shoulder. "You need not have been afraid, George.
Life can ask nothing of me, large or small, which
I would not give or be or do for you." The voice
became low and measured as she went on. "I could
beg, or do anything. You will see how I shall help
you. I shall make all these St. Ann people our
friends—oh, whether I like them or not; but,
George, I am scared sometimes when I think of how
all other love has shrunk to nothing, as if it had all


44
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
gone to make up one great love for you. If any
one—man or woman—loves you, I shall be jealous;
if any one does not, I shall hate him. Oh, I am a
fine fool of love! I am half jealous of the company
you find in your pipe."
He said, "Are you, indeed?"
"Yes, I am, really. Oh, you may laugh, but I
am."
The stress of passion in her words was broken by
this half-humorous reflection, and a little to the
man's relief, even if he hardly knew it. The quality
of his affection was governed by temperament, and,
never reaching the instinctive freedom of her pas-
sion, was nobler, in that it looked forward to being
always the true lover, and also the friend who
guides and counsels; for already he saw that both
guidance and counsel might be needed. He smiled
as he kissed her.
"Well, shall I give up my friend of many camp-
fires, of sad days, of long night-rides ?''
"What a pretty defense! No, indeed; I like it
because it can comfort and cannot love."
She rose as she spoke, and standing before him,
threw up her hands with a gesture of emphatic
abandonment and cried: "Oh, George, I am so
happy! Come, let us walk in the garden. Is n't
it little?—but do look at the roses."
He went with her, and they talked more quietly
of the kindness of the general and his wife; of
their own plans, and of his work. To his surprise,
she said no word of Susan. At last he said, "It is
early, but you must be tired."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
4B
"Oh, I am never tired; but I have to unpack, and
what the colored women can do I have yet to learn."
"To-morrow will be Sunday, Constance."
"I am going to church with you. You will have
to find the places for me in your prayer-book; but
I am going because—because you are going."
"Thank you! You are very good to me, my love!
Good night."
She left him, and he lighted his pipe, and for an
hour moved about in thought.


IV

IteifflUIS they went up the slight ascent of
West Street toward the Episcopal
church, Constance said to her husband:
"Since we left home you have gone to
church alone. I mean that you shall
never do that again. But, George, do you know that
this will be the first time I have ever been present
at a church service?"
"It will interest you," he said, realizing with
regret how complete had been the denial of the
highest opportunities to the woman he loved. Care-
ful to show no surprise, he went on to speak of the
service, and of how it had been formed and molded,
until, arriving at the church, they sat down near
to the door. After church they slipped away, un-
noticed, except casually by General Averill. On the
way homeward, Constance was silent for a time, and
seeming to her husband thus inclined, he made no
effort to disturb her mood.
Presently, however, she began to speak of the
impression this amazing novelty of a great ritual
had left with her. The congregation had been large
and very devoted. She confessed to interest and
something like awe—a certain wonder at it, a trained
disbelief in its verities. She spoke with care, and he,
on his side, listened without criticism. Certainly
46


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
47
to her it was so strange that he found it hard to put
himself in her attitude of mind, and preferred, with
the patience which was part of his character, to do
no more than wait for such better chances as time
might bring.
The music she found good and simple. Caught
by its charm, her full soprano rose in the hymns he
knew so well, and added to the satisfaction he felt
when she expressed her surprise at the refined faces
she saw about her. He explained that the older
settlers had been Virginians, and many of them
gentlefolk. She was sure she would like them; and
the elderly woman she saw as they came out must
be Mrs. Averill. She smiled at them as the general
raised his hat—a handsome couple. There was even
a kind of distinction in the old-fashioned gowns and
bonnets.
"I think they were all curious about us," she
added.
"There may be other reasons," he laughed, "for
looking at you, my dear. I sometimes enjoy that
privilege myself."
Sunday passed quietly in their new home, and
they fully recognized the thoughtful kindness which
left them thus undisturbed. In the afternoon they
decided to see the little city and their neighborhood.
They were about a half-mile from the court-house
green, beyond which, on an upper rise, were a dozen
houses, not very well cared for, but set pleasantly
among trees and well-tended gardens. On the level
land above the river bluff were the straggling houses
and shops which, in their fresh shingles and paint,


48
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
gave evidence here and there of the new material
growth which had begun since the war. Below the
bluff, on the shore of the great curve of the turbid
river, were warehouses, cotton-presses, and rudely
built piers where steamers lay. Much of the nearer
water-front was occupied, and as they stood Tres-
cot pointed out where, at the bend of the river,
lay the long stretch of frontage which was in
litigation, and was claimed by Mr. Hood. De-
scending to the water's edge, they found a rough
road which passed through low growths and the
rude clearings of the squatters who had refused to
vacate their lands. Beyond, the road wound along
the river bank, and over the land which Trescot
had pointed out as valuable on account of the deep
water in front of it.
When on their homeward way they came near to
their own house, the path so narrowed in front of
an ill-kept garden that Trescot fell behind. A gen-
tleman in gray clothes, and wearing an undress
army-cap with Confederate buttons, moved aside
into the road to make room for Mrs. Trescot to pass.
He lifted his cap and showed some attentive sur-
prise as Trescot touched his straw hat and they
passed on.
"By George!" he murmured, "who can that be?
What a beautiful woman!" He stared after her
well-clad figure, noting the ease and grace of her
walk, and then the slighter form of the man. See-
ing them turn in at their own gate, he said aloud:
"That must be old Hood's new agent. He is very
young."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
49
Meanwhile Mrs. Trescot said: "George, did you
notice that gentleman?"
"Yes."
"He looks like an Indian chief, and very unlike
the people I saw to-day. He is handsome, but how
dark he is!"
"Oh, there is some old Creole blood here—of
French descent, very likely—a fine, big man, prob-
ably a Confederate soldier."
The Monday morning of their first week at St.
Ann found them after breakfast on the back porch
of their new home. The man was gravely happy;
the young wife a little excited as they began to con-
sider what they were to do on this the first morn-
ing of their new life. Past the little garden, the
grassy slopes and green maize-fields were bounded
below by a fringe of oaks, beyond which the brown
current of the mighty river swept onward in its
march to the gulf. The Cherokee rose was all about
them in red clusters, the humming-birds were busy
on quivering wing, and the warmth and moisture
of the Southland—April already—invited to repose
and idleness.
"It is very pleasant here," said Trescot, "but
there will be many things to do, and I suppose one
must begin." As he spoke he rose. The tempta-
tions to linger were very great. But at last he com-
promised with sense of duty by resolving, as many
a man has done, to go as soon as his pipe had gone
out. Nevertheless he economically nursed the fail-
ing pipe. As he lingered Constance asked:
4


50
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"What have you to do, George? I mean at once."
"Oh, many things. I must see the general and
learn all I can of your uncle's affairs. There are un-
paid rents, mortgages in arrears, taxes, and what
not,—a sad tangle, I fear. Then, if I am to appear
in the courts I must qualify by an examination to
practise in this State."
She was at once eager to know why.
"I could appear," he returned, "in a United
States court, but not before local tribunals. But
that is all simple." And, in fact, after a fort-
night he was enabled thus to qualify for practice at
St. Ann.
When at last the pipe refused to furnish excuses
for delay, he left his wife to her new household
duties. She found herself amply occupied, and
while her husband spent a busy morning with Aver-
ill, she went about the house with the two black ser-
vants, arranging her husband's books, and giving
to the rooms that look of having been lived in, which
is one of the mysterious accomplishments of certain
women. Trescot heard snatches of song as he came
in at midday, to meet her eager questions, and to
note with satisfaction what she had done to change
the house into a home.
"How hard you must have worked!" he said, see-
ing all of his many books in order.
"I did not unpack your law books, George."
"No, you were right; I must have them with me.
I am to have a bit of an office next to the general's.
I find that he has come into some property of late,
and wants to give up part of his work—I mean


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
51
chiefly your uncle's affairs. There are, I fancy,
other reasons. He was somewhat reticent. From
what I gathered I fear that your uncle's business is
going to be difficult; and he has been so hard to deal
with that people here say it is impossible to settle
anything. However, we shall see. I suspect that
the general has been indisposed to push matters, and
that your uncle has been unyieldingly opposed to
any compromises."
"Very likely," said Constance; "but if the gen-
eral had been firm uncle would have given way. He
always does. But for that he should be here. He
is always most obstinate in his letters."
"That is hardly consoling," said Trescot. "And
oh, Constance, I would not hang my sword here.
Put it in your room."
"I should like that," she said, at once under-
standing him. "I see that you do not wear your
Loyal Legion button—I suppose we are to forget?"
"Yes, and forgive, as they, too, will in time. I
lost a brother and many friends in the war, but,
dear, I learn that our old general lost his two sons,—
his only children, Constance,—his all. They are
childless.''
"Oh, George! That mother! She was here to-
day, and such kindness I never could have hoped
for. Now I understand her
"'sad eyes
Wherein no expectation lies.'
Who said that, George? I forget. I wondered
what gave her that look; I noticed it when I first


52
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
saw her. I think Susan quoted it once. And, my
dear George, she heard me singing in that absurd
way in church, and would I join the choir, and they
would expect us to use their pew, and there are
sewing-circles, and what not. I had to say several
noes; I did it sweetly, and said I must think about
it. Imagine me in a sewing-circle!''
"I am sure you said just the right thing. As for
the general, he, too, was more than kind. He begged
me to be careful about war talk. People were still
sensitive. And I ought to be made aware that your
uncle, whom no one here has seen, is detested, and
supposed to hinder the growth of the town by re-
fusals to sell or improve. He wants me to see people
socially, and it seems there is a little club which he
thinks I had better join. I said it would be as well
to wait. I do not want any needless expenses—even
the smallest."
"Oh, I shall manage, George. I have talked to
Mrs. Averill. We shall have enough. It might be
better to join the club."
"I shall think of it," he said. "But my best
club is elsewhere."
"Yes; but you would see these people there.
Only, I shall be jealous of the hours I do not
own."
"You own all my hours, Constance. And, by the
way, talking of jealousy, the dark gentleman you
admired yesterday has some Indian and some Creole
blood. I guessed well. But his name, I take it, is
English—Greyhurst. He is the lawyer who has been
engaged in the suit to dispossess your uncle of the


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
53
water-front. I hear, also, that he is pretty deeply
and personally interested in lands along the water."
She determined to know more of this man when
she saw the general. She had some vague feeling
that here was a man who would be hostile; and she
had not liked the smiling face with the dark, at-
tentive eyes.
The next day being Tuesday, while Trescot was
again busy with the old general, Constance dressed
with care and set out to visit his wife. The sun was
warm, and as she walked along the road to the town
she was full of plans for a social campaign which
should be of use to the man she loved. There was
enough to interest in the negro huts and children,
the wayside flowers, the straggling town, its bloom-
ing gardens, and the houses which war and its at-
tendant poverty had left long uncared for. As she
gained the main street, she began to see that she was
the object of notice; but to this she was not unac-
customed, and did not find it unpleasing. Her looks
and her power to be agreeable were a part of
George's capital. She noted the men on horseback
—now and then a man in a battle-worn suit of Con-
federate gray; twice she observed the "C. S."
branded on the flanks of mules—and felt the near-
ness of that vast struggle which had left the South
wrecked and impoverished.
A question or two brought her to the general's
house. It stood on a rise to the eastward and above
the town—an ample brick dwelling of more preten-
sion than those near by. The garden around it on
all sides was admirably cared for, but the fence


54
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
was broken and the gate lay on the ground. The
hall door was open, but she looked in vain for a
bell, and used the brass knocker without effect. At
last she entered, and saw through the back door of
the hall the gray head of Mrs. Averill in the garden,
moving between tall rows of Osage orange. For a
moment some inbred regard for conventional usages
stayed the visitor's steps, and then, seeing no other
way, she walked through the house and down the
garden path.
Mrs. Averill turned, setting down a basket of
roses, and with both hands welcomed her visitor.
"Come in," she said; "come in out of the sun."
Her looks approved the proudly carried head, the
rich red of the cheeks, the large blue eyes, and that
indescribable air of caste and good-breeding which
the day before, as they came out of church, had been
at once and easily recognized.
Constance, too, saw that here was an older woman
of her own world—a woman, as she wrote to Susan,
who seemed suited to the old-fashioned garden and
its familiar flowers—a delicately provincial dame,
with an assured way of saying gently very positive
things, and with hands and feet thin, delicate, and
marvelously small.
The Southland tongue as Mrs. Averill used it,
with its half-lost r'a and a certain precision in her
choice of words, delighted the critical taste of Con-
stance.
As they entered the large parlor, Mrs. Averill
said: "Sit down, my dear; it is very warm. I must
find my servants—nowadays they are never to be
found. You shall have a glass of lemonade."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
65
Constance said she should be glad to have it, and
was left alone. She looked after her hostess with
increasing satisfaction. Mrs. Averill was exquisitely
neat, from the little cap, over abundant gray hair,
and wide white kerchief to the white gown and the
long garden gloves. The room offered an unpleas-
ing contrast. The wall-paper was worn and spotted,
the seats of the chairs showed signs of wear. Some
of them were of Colonial respectability, some with
the black hair-cloth covers of a day of worse taste.
The matting was much mended, and a thin-legged
piano, not too free from dust, suggested indifference,
or, more probably, the housekeeping troubles of
which as yet Constance was happily ignorant.
On the walls were two or three portraits in the
thin manner of the elder Peale, and an admirable
Copley of a husband and wife. Over the fireplace
hung a pair of crossed swords suspended by broad
black ribbons. Below were ill-colored photographs
of two young officers in Confederate uniform.
"Poor mother!" said Constance. Over all, caught
up in folds, hung a torn battle-flag of the rebel
States, and below it the flag of a Maine regiment,
also tattered and battle-scarred, evidently a cap-
tured trophy.
For a moment the young faces of the dead sons
troubled her, and then the two flags sent a rush of
angry blood to her face—a return of the passionate
feelings the great war had so often caused her.
Here before her was the record of battle and of
death, of the pathos and the courage and endurance
of a struggle which should have left, and did leave
for the best of those who fought and won, only ad-


56
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
miration, pity, and magnanimity. Constance had
little of that greatness of soul which is the noblest
factor in the large gospel of forgiveness. The per-
sonal feeling which entered so largely into her life
during the war was supported by an unusually in-
telligent knowledge of our history, and kept angrily
alive by her uncle's attitude when, rejoicing over
Confederate victories, he thus kept her irritated and
on edge throughout the years of that sad struggle—
ever glorious for those who won and those who lost.
Hearing Mrs. Averill's step at the doorway, she
turned quickly from the mantel to meet her, com-
posing her face with the habitual ease of a caste ac-
customed to hide emotion. The little old lady, so
gray, so worn, became of a sudden grave.
"Sit down here beside me," she said. "You were
looking at the flags and—the faces of my dead.
Of course it troubled you—I saw that—the flags
and—the rest. I won't have you excuse yourself;
it was natural. One boy fell dead on the flag he
had captured; they sent it home to me. The other,
a prisoner, died in the North, after having been
cared for as we could not have cared for him in
those terrible days. You see, I am explaining to
you because we are to be friends; but some day,
when you are a mother, you—"
"Please don't," said Constance, taking her thin
hand. Both women's eyes were full of tears.
For a moment they were silent. Then Constance
said, "How did you live through it?"
"God helped me, as some day he may need to help
you. It is less hard to forgive a nation than if it


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
57
had been a man, and John Averill was spared to
sorrow with me. Some day I shall see my boys.
There, my dear, we must not talk of it any more;
but we are very sore in the South, and the state of
things in the Carolinas makes it impossible to for-
get defeat in the face of continual humiliation."
"I know," said Constance. "It is shameful, and
no one—not even you—can feel it more than my
husband. He tries to put aside the war. He never
speaks of it, although his crippled arm is a sad
reminder. He will not let me hang his sword where
it can be seen in—" She paused, feeling that she
had made one of those social slips which even the
best-trained do not altogether escape. She went on
quickly: "We want to make friends with the peo-
ple here. You will tell us how. You know it is to
be our home."
"My dear, you will easily make friends; but
sometimes you will have to be forbearing and keep
silent. It may be hard, but for those who won it
should not be." Constance thought of George, and
assented. "Mr. Trescot will find it less easy; but
his having been in your army will help him with
all but the women; we are unreasonably venomous—
a few of us, not all."
"Well, that will save me some jealousies," said
Constance, smiling.
"Ah, here is the lemonade," said her hostess.
"I was picking these flowers for you; will you care
to carry the basket, or shall I send them? I was
about to call again this afternoon. I thought I
might help you. It must all be so strange to you.''


58
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
Constance, thanking her, rose, saying: ''You will
let me come again?''
"Oh, often, I hope,—often."
She walked away through the sun and down the
dusty street, carrying the roses. The men looked
after her erect figure, the women made comments
on gown and bonnet.
She was lost to her surroundings, thinking of the
flags and the dead boys, and wondering at the peace
of soul which had come to the childless mother.
She could not comprehend it, and thought that such
a calamity falling on herself would have left her
with an undying hatred. Presently, feeling the
heat, she was reminded that she had promised not
to tempt its consequences through the summer
months. The idea of leaving George troubled her,
and she quickened her pace in order the sooner to
see him.


V
HE Trescots by degrees settled into a
routine of life which, while it left Con-
stance alone in the mornings, usually
permitted of their being together the
rest of the day, and in the evening.
A few friends or relatives of the Averills called
upon them; but these visits were evidently formal
or made to oblige the general's wife, and they were
left much alone.
If Trescot soon felt the social atmosphere to be
cold, he excused it, and trusted to time and chance
for better things. Except that Constance saw in
their reception difficulties for her husband, she had
small regret on account of the conditions which re-
lieved her from being constantly on guard, and
made her secure of a larger share of the society she
preferred to all other.
The women she met and tried to find pleasant were
chiefly interested in their households, in the difficul-
ties caused by the emancipation of the slaves, and
in the awkward subject of the misgovernment of the
South. There were but few subjects which were
free from peril, and such intellectual sympathies
as Constance possessed awakened little interest
among overburdened women whom many forms of

59


60
CONSTANCE TRE8COT
disaster had left with too constant thought of the
morrow.
What help and advice Constance required she
found in the Averill house, where now and then they
ate a meal and were at all times welcome guests.
The older woman discovered, to her husband's joy,
a novel pleasure in Constance Trescot's music; and
it became common for the old general and his wife
to appear of an evening, and while the men smoked
their pipes on the porch the piano, Susan's wed-
ding-gift, was opened, and song after song, or the
tones of the greater music, soothed and pleased the
pale little lady who sat a silent listener, or pleaded
for "just one more, my dear."
Then, too, Susan sent the new books and the
magazines, and these were passed on to the Averills,
who formed, by degrees, an increasing attachment
to the young man and his wife, and became thought-
fully busy in the difficult task of bringing them into
cordial relations with what was best in the town.
As far as was possible to a woman like Constance,
the regard was returned. She had all her life had
a singular incapacity for generous division or shar-
ing of her affection. Once it had been wholly Su-
san's. It was now George Trescot's, and this pre-
disposition was reinforced by a passion deep, jeal-
ous, and exacting. The man so long lonely sunned
himself in the warmth of all that an intelligent and
beautiful woman brought to help and glorify his
life, with no mind to criticize the quality of the
woman's love.
And so the latter days of April passed, and the


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
61
warmth of May and June came, while, with the all-
sufficient company of books, music, and talk, time
moved onward. In the evening he read to her or
told her of his work, and she of what she had seen
and done. Of the keen sense he had of hostility
in the very air of the place he said but little. She
was but too anxiously aware of it, and said as little.
On an evening early in June the general came in,
and leaving Constance alone with her open piano,
the two men went out on to the porch.
"I came in, Mr. Trescot, because I want to talk
of the squatters. I heard to-day that there may be
trouble. I wish my friend Mr. Hood were more rea-
sonable. ''
"He is not, and never will be, and there is nothing
to do but to serve the usual notices on them."
"It has already excited a good deal of feeling.
The squatters will resist, or at least two of them
will. The fact is that I have been unable to make
up my mind in the past to turn out three old sol-
diers of my own regiment. One of these is a lame
man, crippled in the war. Cannot you wait until
the suit for the water-front has been tried?"
"It is low down on the docket, and it will be
October before it can come up. But what would
be gained by that—by waiting ?''
The general was unprepared to reply. He was
merely inclined, like most old men, to put off the
disagreeable, having that faith in the helpfulness
of time which is a part of the business creed of the
aged.
He said at last that he was of opinion that Orey-


62
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
hurst was stirring them up. The eviction of a lot
of old soldiers, one of them eighteen years on the
ground, father and son, would further prejudice
an already hostile public opinion, and make it the
harder to secure a just verdict in regard to the
question of title to the lands beyond them on the
river.
"What I disliked to do about these men, Mr. Tres-
cot," he said, "will be dangerous for you to at-
tempt. I think it right to tell you that. Their land
is not valuable for steamboat landings, and for any
other purpose it is useless, because the squatters
never can sell it; but they won't give up, and are
utterly indifferent to law, and quite well aware that
the community is on their side. Best let them alone
just now. Wait a little.''
"No, I must go on."
"It will be at the risk of your life."
He could have said nothing better fitted to add
vigor to Trescot's resolute intention. He replied,
laughing: "I presume that we have both been shot
at pretty often."
"But this is different, Trescot."
"Yes, I know that. But am I to believe, general,
that an opponent lawyer deliberately advises an
assassination?"
"Oh, no, I beg you not to misunderstand me; I
spoke rather too positively. Greyhurst would never
do that; and, upon my word, he never did anything
deliberate in his life. The man is impulsive and
quick to resent, and very imprudent in talk. He
is in debt, and if he can win this suit he will prob-


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
83
ably receive a large contingent fee. These men, es-
pecially that fellow named Coffin, have been to see
him,—I pointed the man out to you on the street
yesterday. Mr. Greyhurst has told them that you
surely mean to evict them. I do not think he can
have gone further."
"If he said only that I mean to evict, that is true.
I would tell them that myself. Was there anything
else?"
"No; but there are ways of saying things. It
was none of his business. They did not consult him
as a lawyer, and he was merely making mischief.
These mountain-men who are now squatted on the
flats come to me like children. They were, some of
them, in my company when I first went out, and
they look to me for protection. It is a damned dis-
agreeable business, sir; and none the easier for John
Greyhurst's interference and Mr. Hood's stupid ob-
stinacy."
"I presume, general, that you really could not
make up your mind to act on Mr. Hood's determina-
tion to evict."
"I must confess, Mr. Trescot, that I would not.
I think I said as much. The legal right no one
can dispute; but I could not come down on these
poor devils with the law without being looked
upon as an oppressor, and, what is worse just
now, as the instrument of a Northern man. Even
for me, my dear Trescot, to evict mercilessly
men who have lived there five, ten, even eighteen
years unmolested—even for me, sir, there might be
risk."


64
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
"And for me," queried Trescot, smiling, "much
more risk?"
"That is my belief, sir. I do not think Mr. Hood
has ever taken in the situation."
"No; it is his land. The men must go. For him
it is simple,—but for me and you there are the
human ties to land men have cleared and plowed,
the sense of the home, and all manner of associations.
Mr. Hood prides himself on being exact in business.
Out of it he is generous, even lavish. He has not
imagination enough to be largely charitable. I
never saw a man like him."
"Then, sir," said the old general, grimly hu-
morous, "he had better lavish on you a good re-
volver or a first-class rifle. What I could not or
would not do, you will surely risk your life if you
try to do. I may as well say to you that my chief
reason for giving up Hood's agency was his infer-
nal obstinacy about these squatters. Did he tell
you that I had said so, and that no reputable gen-
tleman in St. Ann would accept the position?"
"No, he did not," returned Trescot, somewhat sur-
prised at this revelation of Mr. Hood's methods.
"Well, no one here would take it on his terms,
and, as I see it, he has placed you in what is a po-
sition of real danger. Even now, before you have
moved legally, these men are sure they will be
turned out. They are not men to wait, and the
whole town is on their side. Think it over. A very
little money would settle the business.''
"You are no doubt right; but what can I do? I
must give up the agency or act on Mr. Hood's or-


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
65
ders. I came here to do so, and I mean to move
in the matter. How can I hope to convince him if
you failed?"
The general laid a hand on Trescot's knee, and
said very earnestly:
"Wait until I write to him again. I have known
lives lost in this country for far less things, and if
you are set on taking legal action I beg that you
will go about armed."
Trescot laughed. "Why, my dear general, I am
half crippled, and it would be simply useless. Do
you all carry revolvers?"
"I do not; but if I were bent on following out
Mr. Hood's orders I most assuredly should do so,
and, too, I should be rather careful how I went out
at night."
Trescot thanked him and said: "You will do no-
thing with Hood; but could not we do something
with these men if you and I saw them together?"
"It is worth trying. I shall go with you with
pleasure. Before I leave let me say a word more
about that land suit. It was first brought the year
after the big flood in sixty-three. Who suggested
to the Baptiste people to dispute Hood's title I do
not know. Two lawyers have had it; one died and
one threw up the case. Then it came into Grey-
hurst's hands, and has hung on. I had too slight
evidence in Mr. Hood's favor to want to try it, and
Greyhurst evidently took it with the hope of for-
cing a compromise. I can't think he believes their
claim just."
"Well, I shall urge it, and we can make him come
5


66
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
to time. It is very much like a sort of legally dis-
guised blackmail. "What kind of man is he? I
ought to know. You said he was impulsive."
"Yes, it is as well that you should. A rather un-
usual person. He has had a wild life, but is not
uncultivated. He certainly has a high opinion of
John Greyhurst, and the most damned insecure
temper I ever met with. Halloa! Talk of him an-
other time. Listen to that!"
There was a low, mellow roll of murmurous thun-
der. The general rose. "We are in for one of our
big thunder-storms. It will cool the air. Say
good-by to Mrs. Trescot. I must hurry." He went
away around the house in haste.
As Trescot stood looking at the darkening sky
a blinding splendor of violet light made bright the
distant river and the march of dark masses of cloud
across the star-lighted sky. "Come out," he called
to his wife. "The general has gone, Constance;
come out on the porch."
She rejoiced in a great storm, as she did in any
display of the might of nature, such as the wild sea
drama of a gale on her own rock-bound coast. She
came out at once and they walked into the garden.
The herald wind of the coming storm shook the
house and brought a cool breath of freshness.
"How delicious the air is, George, and how mag-
nificent, how glorious!"
Swift javelins of light flashed incessant, with
crashes of thunder, and soon the sudden downfall
of rain drove them to the shelter of the porch.
"No, I can't go in, George. I never before saw


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
67
such a storm. I love it. I should like to be once in
an earthquake."
"Not I," he returned, laughing. "I saw one in
New Mexico. I prefer to face again the worst fire
I was ever under. I got out of a window on to a
shed, and the house went down behind me."
Again a vast flare of lightning made every drop
of rain in the air a moment's jewel.
'' The rain blows in here; get your rain-cloak,'' he
said. "Wait, I shall get it—or better to go in."
"Oh, no; I must see it. You could not find the
cloak."
She left him where he stood enjoying the storm.
As the quick-coming flashes lighted the hill slope he
saw a man moving, very slowly as it seemed to him
for one storm-caught, some thirty feet beyond the
garden fence. He called out, "Halloa! come in
here."
Surprised to receive no reply, he called again. A
moment after, amid still more vivid light, Trescot
was aware of a flash lower down on the hillside,
and of the sound, once familiar, of a rifle-shot. The
broken glass of the window just to the left jangled.
As the instant lightning flared, Trescot, seeing the
man moving down the hill, ran through the garden
and out of the gate in hot pursuit, thinking quickly
as he caught sight of him at moments, "It was the
old-fashioned rifle; he can't reload. By George!
he is lame; I shall have him."
He was not twenty feet away when Trescot's foot
caught in a tangle of briers and he fell. He rolled
over on his lame shoulder, and in some pain got up


68
CONSTANCE TEESCOT
to find he had lost his man in the wood at the foot
of the hill. He stood still a moment in the rain,
and then walked back up the rise of ground.
His wife was on the porch. "Where have you
been? What was that, George? I heard glass
break."
Concealment was impossible. "I am all right. A
man shot at me; one of those squatters, I suppose.
I saw him plainly; he was lame. Come in, dear. I
should have had him in a moment if I had not
fallen."
"You are not hurt?" she asked anxiously.
"No; but come in. The shot went quite wide and
broke the glass. Do not mention it to those blacks.
It must appear to have been an accident while I
was closing the shutters."
When they were in the lighted room and the house
shut up, he saw how pale she was. He put his arm
around her. "Constance, love," he said, "this will
not occur again.'' He was by no means sure. '' Do
not be worried; I am to see these men with Averill
in a day or two. We shall settle with them in some
way."
"But what will you do? and how can I live here
with the chance of having you brought home to me
dead? Oh, this barbarous country! And I made
you come—and my uncle, I shall never forgive
him."
At last he persuaded her to go to bed. She passed
a restless night, almost without sleep—perhaps for
the first time in her life of vigorous health.
When, next day, she insisted on his not leaving


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
69
her, he said at last:''We shall walk to the Averills',
and I shall call for you after I have gone over some
of the old French deeds. I shall not be long.'' Her
very visible anxiety troubled him, and the more be-
cause it was reasonable. She was not easily an-
swered.
"But what will you do, George?" she went on.
"Can't you arrest him? Something must be done,
and without delay. I shall write to uncle."
"No, you must not do that; it would be of no use.
Before he could reply I shall have consulted with
the general and done something." He had no clear
idea of what he should do, except that he still meant
to visit the squatters with Averill. He said as much.
"But I cannot sit still and wait," she returned.
"I simply cannot."
Such reassurance as he was able to give quite
failed to satisfy her. She went slowly up-stairs, step
by step, deep in thought, and then, making a sud-
den decision, dressed herself with unusual care and
came down to join him. Although she commonly
talked much when with her husband, as they walked
on she barely answered him, and finally left him at
Mrs. Averill's gate.
During the night, as Constance lay awake, she had
reproached herself again and again for having urged
her husband to accept her uncle's offer. What now
he would do had not satisfied her. As she walked
by his side she kept on perplexing herself about
a situation in which, as a woman, she felt herself
powerless. After an uneasy half-hour with Mrs.
Averill, to whom she said nothing of what had hap-


70
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
pened, she took her leave, and with a sudden and
well-defined resolution in her mind went down the
steep road from the bluff, and leaving the busy cot-
ton-marts and -presses behind her, followed the river
bank. The path led through scrubby undergrowth
on to rudely cultivated clearings. Here were two
well-built log cabins. In front of the nearer one a
man well beyond middle age was seated on a stump
engaged in oiling the lock of a rifle. As she came
upon him he stood up in wonder at the loveliness of
the wandering stranger.
She said: "Will you kindly give me a drink of
water, and may I sit down? I am tired."
"Would you come in, ma'am, out of the sun?"
She followed him, and took the chair he offered,
and the tin cup.
"What good water you have! Thank you."
As he moved she observed his lameness, and
sharply observant, saw about her no evidence of a
woman's care. This was the man she sought.
"Yes, ma'am; it 's a spring below the bluff."
"What a handsome bearskin! Did you shoot
him?"
"Yes; last winter, up in the Virginia hills."
''Are you a good shot ?''
"I reckon I am."
"But you missed my husband last night."
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, "who told you
that?"
"He saw you. It is useless to deny it, and the
fact is, Mr.—what is your name?"
"I'm Tom Coffin, and I just want—"


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
71
"Wait a little. If you had killed him you would
have killed your best friend."
"Well, now, that 's pretty good. My friend!
'T ain't a matter to talk over with women. He 's
got to let me alone. My father, that 's dead, and
me, we have been here eighteen years, and now
comes your man and says git out."
"Is the land so good?"
"No, it is n't; but it's mine, and it's all I have."
"Suppose my husband were to offer to do one of
two things?"
"Well," he said, "he ain't offered nothing."
"If he wins our suit about the bounds of the land
below you on the river, and would give you a deed
for five acres on the bluff,—good land, too,—would
you take it in exchange for what does not belong to
you?"
"I would; but he has n't got it. Mr. Greyhurst
says he won't git it."
Then the man became of a sudden suspicious.
''Look here, ma'am; I ain't used to dealing with
ladies. Did Mr. Trescot send you? He need n't
have been afraid."
"Afraid!" she said proudly, rising as she spoke.
"George Trescot, my husband, afraid! It was not
he who ran last night. Who was it ran from an
unarmed man?"
Then in a moment she was back in a well-played
part.
"Mr. Coffin, I came here just because I am a
woman and a young wife. My husband does not
know, or I never should have been allowed to come.


72
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
I want to make sure that you will not kill an un-
armed, crippled man. I can't stand by and wait to
see what will happen. I will not go until you prom-
ise me that you will agree, if we win, to exchange
your clearing for the better land below; or if you
will not do that, tell me now what you will take to
move if we—I mean my uncle—does not win his
suit."
Coffin weakened. This gracious woman with her
soft voice and eyes full of tears captured the man.
"Who 's going to make sure of the pay?"
"I shall pay. Come, now, let us be friends. I
am really on your side. You can't fight the law.
Some day you will have to go and get nothing
for all you have done. Come, now, what will you
take?"
"Would you say three hundred, ma'am?"
"No; four hundred," she said quickly. It was
the half of her little personal savings.
"I 'll take it," he said.
She put out her hand. He took it shyly, as she
said:
"Are you busy all day?"
"No, I 'm not."
"Could you come up in the afternoons and help
me in my garden, for three dollars a week?"
"I will if your man wants me; he won't want me."
"Yes, he will. You should have come at first and
talked to him. You are both old soldiers; and,
Mr. Coffin, you must be a Northern man—you have
a good old New England name."
"No; my father was. He came from Massachu-
setts." Then he was silent.


CONSTANCE TRESCOT 73 *
She saw that he was still unsatisfied. "Ah, my
own State. Is there anything else? I want it all
clear."
"Well, it is n't, and I want to know. The fact
is, ma'am, Mr. Greyhurst told me you folks
would n't do anything, but just drive me out. Fa-
ther and I have been here eighteen years, and my
sister has the cabin just below here. Her man 's
sick, and there 's two children, and go was the
word, just like we were dogs."
"If Mr. Greyhurst told you that, he said what
was not true. He knew nothing about it, or what
Mr. Trescot would do. My husband was coming
here with General Averill to-morrow."
"Was he?—he and my old captain?"
"Yes, and you come like a coward and shoot at
an unarmed man, who is ready to help you."
"0 Lord, drop that! I was just fooled by that
man Greyhurst. I 'll get even with him. I was
thinking—me and another man—that we 'd go and
see Mr. Trescot. Greyhurst he said it was no good.
You can tell your husband, if he 's minded not to
be hard on us, I can help him about those bounds
down below. I won't say no more till we talk—
me and him."
Constance, surprised, returned: "I 'll leave you
to settle that with him, but don't go and what you
call get even with Mr. Greyhurst." She saw mis-
chief in this. "Keep it all to yourself; do not let
him know that you are on our side. Promise me;
you know I trust you."
"I can hold my tongue, ma'am. Darn that law-
yer chap!"


74
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
"Well," she said, "here is your first week's
wages.''
"No; I don't take money I have n't earned."
"Yes, you must," and she left the notes in his
great rough hand.
'' Of course Mr. Greyhurst will see you in my gar-
den."
"Well, it ain't none of his business. Guess I 'll
be the fooler this time. When will I come? I don't
half like it."
"But you will. Come to-day at six. It is too
late for work, but I want Mr. Trescot to talk to you.''
"Well, I 'll come. I 've said it, and I 'll come."
"Good-by."
Well pleased, she went away across the clearing
and up the bluff, determined that her uncle should
agree to pay, or that she herself must do so. "I
have bought a man and saved a man's life," she said
joyously. She was glad, elate, and at ease.
She had been so long with Coffin that her hus-
band had gone home. She hurried her steps and
entered the house just after him. A great joy was
in her heart. She would tell him in this way—no,
it should be in that way. The adventure delighted
her, and the feeling that she had been able to help
her husband and make him secure.
"I missed you," he said, as they sat down in the
little library; "what made you so late?"
"I went for a walk. I went down to the river
and then through the woods to where your squatters
live."
"Constance, you must not do that again. God


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
75
knows what might happen among those lawless men.
This fellow Coffin—I know him now—is one of the
worst of them. Promise me, love."
"I can—I do. But I saw your lame scoundrel."
''Saw him! You saw him!''
''Yes.'' And she poured out the whole story, while
he listened amazed, and not too well pleased. She
saw the gravity of his look, the slight frown as she
finished.
"Was I wrong, George?" she said anxiously.
He hesitated and then replied:
"Yes; this is not a woman's business. You have
pledged me without thought to what your uncle
will never agree to do; and the money—where is it
to come from?"
"I have it, George, and more than enough. I
will not,—oh, I cannot let this state of things go
on. My uncle must give you freedom to act as
seems best. It is he who put you in peril. I won't
stand it."
"And still, Constance, this must not occur again.
It was thoughtless and unwise.''
"Thoughtless! Oh, George," she cried, with a
sudden passion of tears, "it was anything but
thoughtless. I scarcely closed my eyes last night.
I have been in an agony of apprehension. I could
not wait to see what would happen. If I had been
a man, and loved you as no man can love—oh, I
should have killed him! Do you think this kind of
thing will go on? And I brought you here, I made
you come, I bribed you with my love, myself. Now
I can sleep, you are safe. I have found an enemy


76
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
and made him a friend. Oh, this horrible town!
Let us go. Let us give up."
She went on with broken phrases and discon-
nected words, and was soothed only when, at last, as
she lay sobbing on his breast, he said: "Try, dear, to
control yourself; we must talk this over quietly.
Now, wait a little; do not speak." By degrees she steadied herself, and at last, wip-
ing her eyes, said: ''There, it is over; but I must
finish, and I won't be so weak again. I do think
you must see, George, that this was not with me
a matter of choice. I had to do it. You are the one
thing in life for me. There is no other. Oh, you
have your work and your enlarging future, your re-
ligion. I have you. That is my sole excuse. To-
morrow I would do it again. That is all. And if I
have done what my love made me do, at least you
must see that out of it comes some good."
He had been amazed and annoyed by her abrupt
interference, but as she talked he quieted himself,
and while in wonder at the abandonment of a pas-
sion so all-possessing, began to feel that her pledges
must be kept to the letter. He said so, to her joy,
and added, as he kissed her tears away: "I am sorry
you went, but I love you the more for the courage
that carried you through."
She smiled. "Ah, George, it was the courage of
selfishness; it was the courage of love. And I am
forgiven? I want you to say it.''
"Hush! We shall never need the word—never.
And so I am to see that scamp to-day at six. He
must be a pretty cool fellow." The humor of it


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
77
struck him. "Do you expect to be present?" he
asked, laughing. "To be shot at overnight by a
man who proposes to attend to your garden the day
after is something delightfully unusual."
There was no laugh in it for Constance. The
man was back again in his every-day calm. The
woman remained excited, restless, and even ex-
hausted by the strain of the morning and the talk
with her husband. Her mind was still on the
matter.
"You must write to Uncle Rufus and simply
say you mean to have your way."
"I will think it over. Probably I shall do so,
but you, in the meantime, must not do what I alone
ought to do."
"No," she returned, somewhat meekly; "I am
out of the business now. But, George, don't tell
that man he is a scoundrel. He is the captive of
my bow and spear."
"No, I think I shall manage it; but I hardly think
I can apologize for not being hit."
"Please don't," she said, and went up to her
room, glad then, and again after lunch, to lie down
and rest with a mind at ease. The rather grim
humor of the situation did not strike her as it would
have done her sister.


VI
LITTLE before six Coffin stood hesi-
tating at the gate in front of the house.
He, too, had some reasonable sense of
embarrassment. As Trescot walked
across the front room he saw him, and,
understanding, went out at once, and said, "Come
in; glad to see you." Coffin advanced, with his
halting gait, until they met at the door. "No, Mr.
Trescot; I don't go in till I 've said my word. I
was told you were a hard man and meant to kick
me out. I was bred up in the Tennessee mountains,
and I 've seen men shot for less things than that.
I 've been on that ground, me and father, eighteen
years; and I just want to say right here that, be-
lieving what that cuss told me, I was justified."
"I see," said Trescot; "but were you not a little
hasty?"
"I don't say I might n't of been, and I 'm not
a man that crawls easy; but I 'm that damn glad
to-day I did n't git you that if I was a prayin'
cuss I 'd down on my knees and thank the Lord.
That there woman of yours, she's a wonder.'' Then
Trescot understood, and liked it.
"Mr. Coffin," he said, "I have a Confederate's
bullet in my shoulder, and bear no malice. I cer
78


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
79
tainly have none for the many who missed me. I
want to say that I stand by my wife's bargain."
"Then I 'll come in."
The two men shook hands and passed into the
library. When they were seated, Trescot said: "Do
you want it now in black and white?"
"No; if I trust a man, I trust him. I 've got
something to say to you about those lands, and just
you listen. You 've got a good title to the land
I 'm on; we all know that. A little money will
clear off the other squatters if I give up and go. I
can settle them. I understand from General Averill
that it 's the big deep-water front below that 's the
trouble."
"Yes, that is so. You will do me a great service
if you can help us."
"I can. The bounds were set by blazing trees.
My father helped run that line before ever we set-
tled here. The blazed trees on the west was washed
away nigh ten years ago, clean gone down the
river. Now, about the ones back on the bluff that
mark the bound to eastward—"
Trescot broke in: "No one can find the blazed
trees where they ought to be. There are no end
of big ones, but no blaze on any of them."
"Well, there 's ways of looking. Fact is, those
blazes is growed over. Why, it 's near on to forty
years. The blazes leave a hollow like. The bark
grows over and hides them. I can find the trees;
they 're oaks. Cut them down and saw them up,
and you have your blaze plain as day. One is a
walnut.''


80
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"If you can do that when I 'm ready, Mr. Coffin,
you will get a bigger farm than my wife promised;
but, meanwhile, you must hold your tongue, and
tell no one, and not quarrel with Greyhurst. Did
you tell him of this?"
"No, I did n't. It was n't any concern of mine,
and I don't like him none too well. I 'm your man,
sir; and if you don't mind a poor chap like me say-
ing it, I 'm her man, too. I never saw no woman
like her."
"Nor I," said Trescot, pleasantly. "And now
she wants you here to-morrow, about four o'clock,
for her garden work."
"I 'll come."
Trescot knew the habits of the place too well to
fail to say:
"Have a little bourbon, Mr. Coffin?"
"Don't mind if I do."
"Your health," said Trescot.
"And yours, too."
His host laughed.
"I see," said Coffin, grinning; "I was n't wish-
ing you much health last night; but if you can
afford to lay that to one side, I guess I can. And
I don't want you to think I can't shoot better than
that. It was the lightning bothered me."
Much amused at this odd form of vanity, Tres-
cot made a light reply, laughed, and the woodsman
went away, leaving him doubly at ease, and as-
tonished at the luck which had brought him the
evidence so long desired.
When it became plain to Constance that she had


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
81
not only turned a foe into a friend, but had also
been the means of adding valuably to the proof
needed to insure her uncle's title, she was over-
joyed, and began to make more sure the adhesion
of her garden helper.
She explained to him with patience the work she
required, helped with such luxuries as were needed
by the brother-in-law who was slowly dying, and
soon bound to her a man who had been unlucky,
and had at last fallen into a state of despondency
and become reckless and vindictive.
One warm evening early in July, Trescot said to
her, "I shall become jealous of the general, Con-
stance. He says you are capturing all these old
rebels.''
She laughed gaily. "Yes, men are easy game,
but not their womankind. But I did have my little
triumph this afternoon. I walked in quite by chance
on their society meeting. It was at Mrs. Averill's
—something for the orphans of Confederate sol-
diers. They were pretty cool, and I was all sweet-
ness At last I got up and apologized for my in-
trusion, and said I must go. But then the dear
old lady asked me if I would not sing for them
while they sewed. One or two of them were civil
enough to say they would be glad to hear me. I
sat down at that queer old piano, and what do you
think I did?"
"Heaven knows!"
"You could never guess."
"I admit it as hopeless."
"I sang 'Dixie' for them. Oh, George, I sang
e


82
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
it as they never, never heard it before. They quit
sewing and just sat and listened. When I turned
half round on the stool some of them were crying.
One old lady came and kissed me, and they crowded
around the piano thanking me. Then another, a
shy little old maid, said, 'Would you mind playing
"My Maryland"?' I had to say I did not know
it—and then, George, I had an inspiration. I
turned to the piano, and broke out into that really
fine rebel song you like, and I sang—oh, I sang
it well—'Stonewall Jackson's Way.' That time
they really gave up. They clapped and praised me,
and were so surprised when I said you liked it.
"As I finished I saw the old general standing in
the doorway. He, too, thanked me with his fine,
old-mannered way; and, George, I felt what an
awful hypocrite I was."
"Oh, but you are not. You were not. Think
what these people have suffered, and what now have
they left, except splendid memories and a song?
Think of their deaths, their poverty, the humilia-
tion of defeat! I have shared that feeling with a
well-whipped army. Imagine it for a whole people."
"I know—I know; but they hate us. I have
heard enough to know what is said of you here.
Coffin told me."
'' Oh, hang the fellow! We are doing better than
I ever expected to do. If your uncle had any sense
we should have no trouble at all. I wrote to him
last night after you went to bed."
"And you were positive?"


CONSTANCE TKESCOT
83
"I was; but this is my second letter to the same
effect, and the first was unanswered."
"How like Uncle Rufus! That reminds me I
have a letter from Susan. You must hear it. There
is a message for you; I will get it.''
While she was gone he reflected, not altogether
pleasantly, upon the strong feeling of dislike with
which Constance still regarded the people among
whom they had chosen to live. He did not compre-
hend that it rested very largely on her belief that
they were hostile to him. Feeling as he supposed
her to feel, he did not quite like that for him or in
his interest she should do as she had done. In his
own intercourse with the men he met he had been
simple and natural; and as most of them had been
soldiers, they met on a ground of common self-
respect, avoiding political discussions. That some
of them, and all who had not fought, were still
embittered, he knew too well, and knowing, was
careful, kindly, and magnanimous.
Susan's letter was laughingly discussed as they
sat in the library.
"Dear Conny:
"Come soon and restore decent peace to this
household. Imagine my combination of mirth and
satisfaction when uncle told me that General Averill
had written him he had seen you in church last
Sunday and thought you looking well. He was in
one of his mild rages. You can imagine a box-
turtle angry. I advised him to write to you and
complain. He went away declaring he would alter


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
85
I told him he was like Aunt Nancy, who, as you may
recall, fell ill of a plum-cake she had made, and
never could settle in her mind whether it was the
raisins, the currants, or the citrons. Uncle Rufus
has a long-buried fraction of a talent for seeing a
joke, and, dear, he really laughed till he looked
five years younger, and until he remembered that
his mirth was suicidal, and began to go over it all
again. At last I said, 'But you must do something.'
He said he would think it over and write to George,
and perhaps he had better go to St. Ann when you
return. He had been misunderstood. Some one
named Greyhurst (is n't he one of the claimants?)
had written to him about a compromise."
"What a muddle!" said George. "Confound
Greyhurst! Imagine Mr. Hood in an attitude of
conciliation! Well, what else ?''
She read on:
"I really pity George Trescot. If I were he, I
should do what seems best, and take the chance
of a back-down, or of my uncle yielding, as he is
pretty sure to do. Come soon, Conny; you must
need our seaside freshening. The roses say come,
and so do I.
"Yours always,
"Susan Hood."
"Constance," said Trescot, "Susan is right; soon
or late, I must have my way or give up a hopeless
task."


86
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"Well, I have always said so; but don't be in a
hurry, George. I feel as if now it will be all easy.
The squatters you can manage with Coffin's help.
You cannot try the land case until October. Then in
August, when you go home with me, together we can
bring Uncle Rufus to some decent sense of what is
needed.''
"I hate to tell you, Constance; but I cannot go
East this summer. The general and Mrs. Averill
are going to New York on the third of August and
will take care of you. He has asked me to remain
in charge of his own work, and on the tenth to go
to New Orleans about a claim for damaged cotton
sent here last year. It is a great compliment and
involves the sharing of a large fee if I can settle the
matter. I am sorry."
"Oh, George, how can I leave you?"
"I know, dear; I hesitated to tell you, but it is
really a turning-point in my career. If I win I
shall oblige several people of importance and make
friends; and, Constance, I am sure that we need
them, or that I do. Right or wrong, the way people
feel has much to do with the settlement of land
cases. Juries are human, and here, I fancy, they
are far too readily affected by public opinion. This
is why I welcome every chance of making friends."
"I see; but I don't like it. Could not you join
us later?"
"No. On my return I must give myself up en-
tirely to the land case. The general will, of course,
act as my senior, but he looks to me to collect evi-
dence. The man who surveyed the land is dead,


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
87
and I have to go to Indiana to see his widow and
secure her evidence and his books. There is really
no more time than I require, and you would not
wish me to fail."
"I see perfectly," she said. "I must go and you
must stay. I am feeling this moist heat, and you
are, too."
"No, even my wicked arm is less ill behaved. I
really think the heat suits it, and I never was bet-
ter."
Her intelligence was convinced, but not her heart.
And with some people it requires a good deal of
head to keep the heart from revolt. That for every
reason it was best for him to remain was the one
thing that aided her to submit. Before she finally
yielded, the increasing heat of July made excuses
difficult, and she began to feel, for the first time in
her life, a sense of languor which she had to ac-
knowledge as a cry of the body for her native air.
She had made up her mind that the summer plans,
which for a time would separate them, were such
as to serve her husband's interests. Had they been
able to do without what his profession began to
bring in, her real desire would have been to cut
off his work entirely, and to leave him no relations
to life except those of a love which on her side she
felt to be boundlessly sufficient. She had been
trained to certain habits which passed for duties;
but being without any ultimate beliefs by which
to test her actions when called upon by the un-
usual, the instincts of a too natural creature were
apt to be seen in what she did or felt. She would


88
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
possibly have denied even to herself that she had
no interests in life which did not consider George
Trescot, and would have smiled at the idea that
her jealousy of whatever took him from her side
might in the end injure the man she loved, and
would in time become selfishly exacting.
As Trescot expected to act only as junior counsel,
he had, of course, many consultations with Averill.
On one of these occasions the general said to him:
"When I leave, you may have occasion to see and
talk with Greyhurst. He tells me that he has called
on you."
"Yes, but we were out. I returned his visit, but
I have seen very little of him. I suppose we shall
try the case in October."
"Yes, unless he contrives to put it off as he has
done before. I think he is doubtful—as, in fact,
he ought to be. Is he waiting for some offer from
us? I think that likely."
"He will not get it; but he would if I had my
way."
"Well, he will call on you about it. He said as
much. Be a little careful. He is like some of the
rest of the bar, a trifle indifferent as to the right
or the wrong of his client's case; but he did not
suggest this suit, and he is a better fellow outside
of his profession than in it."
''Do you think he believes that Mr. Hood does not
own that land?"
"Certainly not; but he is willing to make Mr.
Hood pay for what the river did when it ate away
the Baptiste water-frontage. It is not a highly


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
89
moral attitude, and yet there is something to be
said for it."
"Yes, as to that I entirely agree with you," said
Trescot. "Considering what we know and he does
not, he ought to lose the suit. If Mr. Hood were
reasonable, I should like to put all our evidence be-
fore Greyhurst, and then offer some form of com-
promise. As it is, we must try it, and take the risk
of failure."
"Yes; but I do not feel quite so secure as you do.
Well, that is all. You will take care of our case
this summer, while I am away, and you will, of
course, write to me if you need advice. And, my
dear fellow, be a little careful of our noon sun, and
of the evening coolness."
"Thanks, general. I have every reason to want
both health and life."


VII
RESCOT felt more than was conve-
nient Constance's too steady call upon
his time during the three weeks which
passed before she left him. With both
will and wish to gratify her, it was not
always easy or even possible. The general had be-
come attached to him, won by his considerate ways
and the charm of a kindliness interpreted by man-
ners which were winning and gracious. He was in-
dustrious, and possessed of that form of legal in-
tellect which reaches conclusions with a swiftness
due to unusual rapidity of thought, but which to
slower minds appears to have the quality of in-
tuition. The older lawyer, who reasoned slowly,
began more and more to admire and to trust him,
and spoke of the possibility of a partnership in
the near future.
As the days went by, Trescot, seeing his wife's
languor and her increasing sense of disappointment
at his absence during the hours of business, gave her
all the time he could spare from wearisome study of
the old French titles, and the other work in which
the general asked his aid, and for which he was
fairly paid. Whatever absence the daylight hours exacted, the 
90


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
91
evening belonged to Constance, and he resisted
every increasing temptation to carry home for com-
pletion the unfinished work of the day, unless it was
of a nature to interest her. While to the tired man
at evening her music was restful, and to the mind
that which change of climate may be to the body,
he also enjoyed when with her an ever widening
satisfaction in awakening to larger appreciation a
nature long shut up within too limited intellectual
bounds. Under the thoughtful guidance of a man
whom war and a keen sense of responsibility had
helped to mature, the mind of the woman was slowly
unfolding. On one of these cherished evenings,
shortly before her departure, she was perched on the
arm of Trescot's chair and sharing the delightful
fun of "Milkanwatha," that best of all parodies.
They were laughing, merry as two children, when
the black maid appeared and said there was a gen-
tleman in the parlor waiting to see Mr. Trescot.
"This is too bad, George," said Constance; "can
we never be left alone ?''
In fact, they were rarely disturbed in the even-
ing; but of this he did not remind her, and said
merely: "Take to your piano, dear; I shall not be
long." She smiled, and he went into the parlor,
where he found Greyhurst moving about or pausing
to look at the engravings hung on the walls.
"Good evening," he said, as Trescot welcomed
him. "It is pleasant to hear people with a talent
for laughter."
"Oh, you heard us? We laugh a good deal in
this house. Sit down. I am glad to see you. Or


92
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
will you come into the library and see Mrs. Tres-
cot?"
"With pleasure; but first may I ask for a few
minutes' talk over the business of those lands? The
general is soon going away and I thought it well
to ask you to consider the matter again."
"Certainly; if you want to say anything I shall
be most ready to hear. We have already discussed
it pretty fully. You must, of course, be aware that
I am not acting altogether as I should desire to do,
but am more or less hampered by the owner's in-
structions." As he looked at his guest there was
something about him which put Trescot suspiciously
on guard. He added: "But pray go on," and said
to himself, "The man is anxious."
Greyhurst said: "I want first to say to you once
more that the case you propose to try in October you
will lose. Even a man like Mr. Hood may be
brought to reason. The deeds were lost in the war.
There are no records; the office was burned, and
you have to fall back on surveys of which there
is no evidence except brief memoranda, if even these
are to be had."
Trescot knew well the value of silence. He made
no sign of dissent, and, as he meant to try the case,
had no idea of enlightening a man who might
profit by what Trescot, the general, and Coffin alone
knew.
"There is another consideration. You have not
been here long, Mr. Trescot, and perhaps are not
fully aware of the dangerous hostility provoked
by Mr. Hood's foreclosures, and the cruelty of his


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
93
intention to drive out those old Confederate soldiers
from their homes."
And still Trescot held his tongue; but, as Grey-
hurst seemed to pause for a reply, he said:
"Well, Mr. Greyhurst, what else?"
The persistent, entirely courteous listening began
to embarrass the older man, who was some ten years
the senior of his host. He hesitated a moment, and
then, setting his large, dark eyes on Trescot, went
on:
"You will pardon me, I am sure, if I repeat
that you are a stranger to our ways and feelings,
and that you are a young man put by Mr. Hood in
a false position."
And still the cooler man failed to speak.
"I have already said to the general that we are
open to settle this matter by some equitable divi-
sion of the lands at the bend. I now come to you,
and, sir, I represent the public sentiment of this
community. These lands are now useless, and will
be till this matter is settled."
"Mr. Greyhurst," said Trescot, "I am greatly
obliged by your friendly visit, and am sorry to be
unable to meet you on a common ground. My client
refuses to compromise or to surrender any part of
his land on deep water at the bend. The courts
must decide, and we are instructed to try the case
in October."
"You will be sure to lose it."
"So much the better for you," laughed Trescot.
"If winning be so certain, why seek for a compro-
mise? The foreclosures are the only remedy for


94
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
years of unpaid interest or of absolutely illegal
possession. As, however, you are naturally in-
terested in these poor people, I have no hesitation
in telling you that some of the mortgages have been
amicably arranged, and that time will be given to
others. I hope to have no trouble with the squat-
ters."
He was indisposed to say more.
"Then your man Hood must all of a sudden have
become damned amiable."
"Pardon me," said Trescot, rising; "Mr. Hood is
Mrs. Trescot's uncle. Allow me to close the door."
It had been left on a crack, and the piano had just
ceased to be heard. "One moment," he added, as
Greyhurst, flushing deeply at the implied reproof,
was about to reply. '' One moment. I have listened
to you patiently, although I fail to see what the
other cases in my charge have to do with the issue
we shall try in the fall. I shall, however, again ad-
vise my client of your desire to settle our case, and
I may say also that if he is willing I shall gladly
present to him any offer you may make."
"Then let him make one."
"Frankly, Mr. Greyhurst, I do not think he will,
nor do I believe that he would accept one. You
are an older lawyer than I, and must know that we
cannot always make our clients reasonable."
"Perhaps if he knew the state of feeling here he
would understand the gravity of the situation. I
am sure that—"
"Excuse me if I interrupt you. Public opinion
has nothing to do with the matter; and, as you spoke


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
95
a little while ago of what I suppose I may call hos-
tility to me, I may add that it will in no way af-
fect the course I shall take."
Greyhurst moved uneasily as he listened, and
then said abruptly: "You will find out when you
come before a jury of Southern men."
"I shall feel sure they will do what is right, and
I am glad to say that, personally, I have met with
much kindness in St. Ann, nor do I think political
feeling will affect your courts or the course of jus-
tice. Let me add that I have not of late been aware
of any personal hostility such as you speak of."
'' Well, you will see,'' said Greyhurst; '' and soon,
too."
"I do not quite understand you."
"Indeed! You will know better when I tell
you that you were blackballed last night at the
club."
Trescot flushed and returned instantly: "I asked
the general not to present my name, and if you or
any one presumes to suppose that this annoys me,
he is much mistaken, and yet more so if he ven-
tures to believe that it will in any way deter me
from doing my duty as a lawyer. I do not see
what motive you can possibly have in telling me,
unless you really suppose that I am to be moved
by fear of—" His voice rose as he spoke, but his
speech was suddenly checked by the entrance of
Mrs. Trescot.
"Mr. Greyhurst, I believe. Do not let me inter-
rupt you. I came in to get a book. How you men
can talk with my piano going I do not understand.


96
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
When you are through, George, perhaps I may have
a little visit."
Greyhurst cooled instantly. He was in the pres-
ence of one of the rare women who, for good or
ill, attract because of some inexplicable quality of
sex. Incapable of analysis, it accounts for divorces
and ruined households, even for suicides or mur-
ders. It may be faithful to a great passion, and be
modified by character and education, and even by
religion; but it is felt, whether the woman wishes
it or not, and she who has it instinctively knows
its power.
As Mrs. Trescot spoke she cast her large blue
eyes on the man, and for an instant he was dumb
and stood in mute admiration; nor was Trescot
sorry for her coming.
"I think we have finished," he said, but did
not urge Greyhurst to accept the invitation his wife
had given.
"I shall hope for the pleasure another time,"
said Greyhurst. He knew that he should like to
see her again, and he had said enough to Trescot
to make a sudden return to cordiality difficult.
"You won't forget, Mr. Greyhurst."
He said something pleasant as he stood facing her
—a strongly built man of soldierly carriage, dark-
skinned, with large, regular features, and the high
cheek-bones which told of his remote strain of In-
dian blood. As he left Trescot at the outer door
he turned and said, rather to his host's surprise:
"If I have been abrupt or indiscreet I hope you
will pardon me. I sometimes say or do things on


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
97
the impulse of the moment, and then regret them.
You will excuse me."
"Oh, we all do that sort of thing now and then;
and as for the club, it is of no moment, although
I am sorry you told me. Good-by."
As he went toward the drawing-room he said to
himself: "What a strange man! Was he trying to
scare me, or was it a game of bluff? And then
his apology! Confound the fellow!"
Meanwhile, Greyhurst walked away with as com-
plete dismissal of the lawsuits and all other earthly
interests as if he were Adam in the garden alone
with the new-born Eve. He was thinking of the
woman.
It was the effect she was apt to produce on men,
young or old. He felt it, even although it recalled
to his mind a woman of quite different type. Then
he turned to thought of the suit. "Damn my tem-
per!" he exclaimed. "That confounded Yankee
was as cold-blooded as a frog. It has its uses."
He felt his defeat.
"Well, Constance," said Trescot, as he reentered
the library, "how much did you hear of that fel-
low's agreeable talk?" "A good deal of it—pretty much all." "I am sorry you heard him. I did not want to
be in their club; but it is the civilians, not the sol-
diers, who are unfriendly, and really it is of no
moment.''
"None," she said. "But what did the man mean
by it all?" And then she added: "But the things
7


OS
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
he said—oh, George, do you think you are still in
any danger here? Since that awful night I cannot
get it out of my mind. How am I to go away?"
He comforted her as best he could, not in the
least degree sharing her apprehensions.
At last she said: "What do you suppose he
wanted ?''
'' I think, dear, it would be hard to say.'' He did
not choose to admit that it had appeared to him
to be an attempt to alarm him. He added that the
man had been foolish, and yet was not a fool. "I
fancy him to be in debt," he said, "and to depend
too anxiously on the issue of this suit."
"I do not like him."
He laughed. "Would you like any one who did
not think George Trescot a legal angel?"
"I should not," she cried, and kissed him. "He
is very handsome, but he made me uncomfortable."
"Oh, he is quite harmless."
"So is a poor little dead snake on the road, but
I jump when I see it."
"Go to bed, Mrs. Eve," he said, laughing.
A moment after she put her charming head
through the half-open doorway and cried: "I hate
him!"
"Oh, go to bed, you bad child. You don't hate
anybody.''
"But I do," she murmured, as she went up the
stair.
Her weekly letter to Susan went next day. She
wrote:


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
99
"Dear Susan:
"In two weeks I shall be at Eastwood, but how
I am to live there two months with uncle, and with-
out George, I do not yet see. I am sometimes sur-
prised to recognize how completely he is all of life
to me; and then I am glad. I rejoice in my good
looks and my voice because they are for him, and
because they help him among these strange people
who are still sullen and bitter about the war they
brought upon us, and about what it cost them. As
if we, too, had not had our share! George expects
me to be very tender of their feelings, and I am—
indeed I am; but when I see George nursing that
crippled arm, and evidently in pain of which I am
never to speak, I sometimes— But I will say no more
to you, my only confessor. When George says that
I am to forget and, what I cannot forget, forgive,
I can almost do it. Indeed, I go to church because
he goes, and sing the hymns—you should hear me.
If it would make him more happy I could al-
most pretend to believe what he believes. It can-
not be only a creed which makes him so tender, so
entirely true, so thoughtful, and, above all, what I
am not, so magnanimous concerning these people.
He brings home no stories of his annoyances, but
I have heard and seen more than enough to make
me cry at times because I urged him to come to this
place. He only says: 'Why, all this is natural, and
must pass away with time.' But still I feel that
we are in a hostile land.
"Knowing what he has to endure, I said to him


100
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
last week that his religion nowhere orders us to
forgive the enemies of those we love. You should
have seen his face. I got a proper scolding; and
oh, I love him to scold me. Can you understand
that?
'' Last night we had a visit from a Mr. Greyhurst,
who is the lawyer of the people who dispute uncle's
land claims. I overheard them talking rather high,
and suddenly appeared as peacemaker. The man
looked at me and was quiet. It was like a charm;
but the way he looked was not quite pleasant. A
dark, Spanish-looking person, with overbold eyes,
and very handsome, with a strong, uneasy face—
a curious contrast to the refinement and intellectual
beauty of George, who looked slight and almost
frail beside this man's massive figure. Sometimes
I am anxious when I look at George and know that
he has to remain in this heat. When, in your last
letter, you said that I had no resource in me or
my beliefs against the sorrows of life, I had a sud-
den and horrible fear lest you might have been
thinking of George, and then I felt it was cruel of
you, and as if I never could write to you again; but
I ought to have known better. This strained, anxious
life is, I suppose, making me morbid, and perhaps
something else is having a like effect.
"George has heard from uncle, who either does
not or will not realize the state of affairs here among
his dear rebels, who hate him, and no wonder. At
first I disliked the idea of his coming to St. Ann;
but, on the whole, it may be as well. He can be stiff
enough in a letter, but not when he is face to face


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
101
with a resolute man. He will learn a little when he
comes.
"Tours always,
"Constance.
"P. S.—I have been rather depressed of late, but
this is largely because of the prospect of leaving
George. In truth, we have been making some friends,
and just now the town is lovely with flower-gardens.
"C."


VIII
RS. AVERILL had been absent a week,
on a visit to friends in the country, be-
fore Constance saw her again.
Constance, standing at the gate,
watched her for a moment as she moved
among her flowers in the front garden. The old
lady, turning, smiled a glad welcome for the face
on which the joy of youth and love and perfect
health were plain to see. "Ah, for shame!" she
cried, looking over the box row, "prying at an old
lady alone with her flowers. Come in, my dear; I
forgive you. If you knew what I was saying to
my flowers you would like it; I was really thinking
of you. There are flowers which always remind me
of certain people. Oh, no; I won't tell you what
I was thinking."
'' Then,'' said Constance, gaily,'' I shall be equally
cruel and not tell you what delightful things were
in my mind."
"Let us trust that they were complimentary."
She was so pretty and so sweetly gracious, with
her underlying, pathetic expression of abiding sor-
row, that Constance felt tempted to say: "What a
beautiful old lady you are! I wonder what I shall
be like if I live as long." She limited herself to
saying: "Yes, they were as—well, as complimentary
as you could desire."

102


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
103
"Thank you, my dear. That is saying a great
deal. I suppose we never outlive our vanity. Come
in; it is too hot for you here."
'' No, there is shade enough. How is the general ?''
"Very well, for him. He is never very strong.
Just now he is worried because of what your hus-
band told him of Mr. Greyhurst's visit, and that
miserable business of the club. You overheard it, he
said. The general blames himself, and, of course,
did not mean to say a word about it to Mr. Trescot.
He does not think that Mr. Greyhurst did anything
to influence the vote."
"Perhaps not; but I don't like and I don't trust
that man."
"I do not like him either, my dear. But we do
hope that neither of you will think that the old offi-
cers here have any other than good-will to your hus-
band. Mr. Greyhurst is a very strange man. He
was divorced from his wife, who died eighteen
months ago. During the war he put her money
into Confederate securities. We have all found
them rather insecure"; and she smiled.
"Yes; so I have heard," said Constance.
"At one time he was on General Hill's staff, but
he was constantly quarreling, and the general says
he was too impulsive and resentful to be a good
officer.''
"I wish some one else had the case," said Con-
stance.
"Well, my child, no one could quarrel with your
husband, and, after all, the general will be the senior
counsel.''


104
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
Constance bent over and kissed the little old lady,
saying: ''Thank you; you always comfort me; and
then—oh!"
Greyhurst was leaning over the paling fence.
"Good evening," he said. "May I come in?
What good luck you have with flowers! I see Mrs.
Trescot's every day as I go by. I fancy they grow
best for the ladies. I see that you have Coffin work-
ing for you. He can hardly know much about
flowers."
"Oh, I am teaching him; he wanted work, and
I am glad to help him.''
"A lazy, worthless vagabond, Mrs. Trescot, I fear;
one of the squatters. I am surprised he would work
for Mr. Trescot after the way he talks. These
squatters are pretty saucy."
"He is my gardener, not Mr. Trescot's; and as
yet my husband has made no objection." She was
quietly amused at Coffin's diplomacy.
Mrs. Averill, a little puzzled, looked up from the
flowers she was pruning.
"Well," returned Greyhurst, "that is a comfort-
able view of the situation."
"It is very useful," said Mrs. Trescot, "in mar-
ried life for husband and wife to know how to hold
their tongues."
"Quite true, my dear," said Mrs. Averill, still a
little in the dark.
"Therefore, when Coffin abuses my husband I
shall say: 'Are the geraniums doing well?' 'Best in
town, ma'am.' Then I shall say: 'Coffin, I forgive
you.'"


106
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
relenting, and disposed against her feelings to send
him away in a good humor.
"Thank you," he said, not ill pleased; and setting
Mrs. Averill's rose in his buttonhole, left them alone.
"My dear Constance, were you not rather hard on
that man?"
"No; he was insolent, and he meant to be; and I
know he lied about Coffin. Tom is a man who might
kill you, but he would never work for a man and
lie about him. Heaven knows what he said to Mr.
Greyhurst. He owes him a grudge."
"Yes, my dear; but it is worse than no use to
make a man like John Greyhurst angry. It is really
a poor kind of triumph. You had better have ap-
peared not to notice what he said."
"I could not help it. The man is unpleasant to
me."
"Best not to show it. Come in and let us talk
over our plans. Do you want to stop in Washing-
ton on your way North?"
As Constance walked homeward she acknowledged
to herself that she had been unwise, and knew as
by instinct that a very little graciousness to this
man would have better served her husband. She
smiled, as she went down the dusty street, at her
certainty that she could bring the man to her feet
like a fawning spaniel. She read with natural readi-
ness the eager eyes of this ungoverned personality.
Then she saw in her mind the fine lines of Trescot's
face, and thought of the restraint and patience with
which he refrained from urging upon her opinions
which she felt with intense feeling were their only


CONSTANCE TKESCOT
107
ground of difference. The manners of a man to
his wife are a final test of conduct; and again she
smiled, as though at some fresh discovery, and the
joy of its tender recognition.
She was now a well-known figure in the town.
Many persons acknowledged her greeting. She went
into two or three shops, helped a little child up some
steps, and left with every one a pleasing sense of
liberal cheerfulness, and of that charm of manner
which made her somewhat startling beauty a con-
tribution to the joys of life.
As she came out of a shop she met Coffin.
"Well," she said, "Tom, how is your brother-in-
law?"
"He 's failing, ma'am."
"Is there anything you need for him?"
"Yes, ma'am; I was going to ask you something.
He says would you come and read out of the Bible
to him? We can't any of us read well."
She hesitated, and then said quickly, "Yes, I will
come; but cannot his wife read ?''
"Yes; but not like you can; it 's you he wants."
"I will come. Have you seen Mr. Greyhurst
lately?"
"Yes; and I reckon I fooled him well."
"You abused my husband," she said merrily.
"Who told you that? I did—I did."
"Mr. Greyhurst."
"Well, he is a fool. He just swallowed it all like
them big catfish grabs a bait. Well, you 'll come
soon? He ain't going to live long."
"I will come; I shall be there to-morrow."


108
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
As Tom left her, she wondered why she had said
she would read to the man. In fact, she had no
ready excuse for denying so simple a request.
Not far from her home she was aware of Grey-
hurst. He met her and turned back, walking be-
side her.
"Mrs. Trescot," he said quietly, "I was rude to
you; I desire to ask your pardon.''
"Indeed," she returned sweetly, "we were both,
I fear, a little cross."
'' Thank you; that is more than a pardon.'' Paus-
ing a moment, he added gravely: "I have had,
madam, a rather sad and disappointing life, and I
suppose it has soured me. Are you ever sorry for
things you do?"
Constance was less amazed at the odd turn his
talk had taken than a man would have been, for
men say easily to women things they never could
say to those of their own sex.
"Yes, I am sorry every day," she returned.
"I was hasty in what I said to Mr. Trescot the
other night. I fear that you overheard us, and I
wish now to assure you that I did not blackball him
at the club."
''I wonder,'' thought she, '' if that be true.'' Her
temper was rising, but she said coldly: "The whole
matter is unimportant—entirely unimportant."
"Not to me, madam, not to me; but Mr. Trescot
has a way of being—"
"Stop, Mr. Greyhurst," she said; "you forget
yourself. We are going to quarrel again. It seems


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
109
to me that you have an extraordinary gift of say-
ing disagreeable things."
"That is true. My life is one long story of re-
grets. I—there is no one I should be less willing to
annoy than you."
He turned his dark eyes on her as he spoke, for
now they were at her gate, and she had stopped.
"I am sure of that,'' she said.
Very strange to her was this strong man, big and
athletic, with ardent eyes and sudden familiarities,
and impulsive speech and childlike regrets.
She gave him her hand, saying good-by, but did
not ask him to come in. To her surprise, he bent
over it, raised it to his lips and kissed it, and lifting
his hat, went on his way.
"Well," she said, "next to Uncle Rufus, that is
the most singular man I ever met. I wonder if he
is quite sound in mind." She gave a queer little
glance at the hand he had kissed. Among the older
gentlemen of Creole descent it was not rare to see
this pretty usage. But this man she had not seen
over a half-dozen times, and it was out of doors.
She went in, wisely resolving to say nothing, and
much inclined to avoid Greyhurst in future.


IX
HE increasing heat of the latter days
of July, the dust, the dried-up garden,
and the mosquitos helped the young
wife's faltering will, so that she felt
physically convinced that a change was
imperative. And there was also another and a
powerful motive for care of her health.
She said to her husband next morning at break-
fast:
"I have arranged with Mrs. Averill that we leave
a week from to-day, on the evening train."
"I am glad it is settled, Constance. I shall be
happier when you are breathing the good salt air." "It had to be, I suppose." "Yes, it had to be."
She was silent for a moment, and then said:"George, Thomas Wilson has asked me—it was
Coffin who brought the message—if I would go to
see him to-day."
"Well, why not? But I do not like you to be in
those clearings alone." "Coffin will be there."
"That will answer, I suppose. What else is
there?"
"He wants me to read the Bible to him. His
wife cannot read, or reads badly. These people are

110


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
111
amazingly uneducated. Why cannot he get a
preacher? I was foolish to say yes."
"Well, dear?"
"Surely, George, you must understand me."
He saw her difficulty at once, and said, smiling:
"You may trust me always to understand you. You
know, dear, my own feeling in regard to freedom
of belief and, indeed, of unbelief. You know, too,
what I desire and never urge. I see your difficulty,
but there is no need for you to pretend anything.
He will ask no questions. The Bible is a book—or,
rather, many books. We have read much of it to-
gether."
It was true. Without any concealed intention on
his part, and purely as noble literature, they had
read at times, in their evenings alone, much of the
great Hebrew poetry, as they had also read much
of the best English prose and verse.
''Yes, I know,'' she returned; ''but this is so dif-
ferent, George. What am I to read to a dying man?
I went there once. It was horrible—so slovenly and
dirty and ill-smelling; and I never before saw a
man dying. It was dreadful. It seemed to me so
unnatural."
The thought struck him as singular. "That is,"
he returned, "only because in the ordinary ways
of life to see a death is rare for most people. I
have seen thousands die. To me, for four years,
death was ever near, a sadly common event. It is
what may precede death that I dread,—long ill-
ness, the loss of competence,—but not death. I hope
that, when I die, my twilight may be brief.''


112
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"Please don't," she said. "But what am I to
read?"
"Well, then, to settle your mind, dear, read him
the fourteenth chapter of John, and take my little
Bible with you. I doubt if there be a Bible in the
whole settlement."
"Thank you, George."
"Shall I go with you? I should be very glad
to go."
"Oh, no, no." She felt that this would have
embarrassed her.
"Remember, the fourteenth of John. It is very
beautiful. Have you never read it?"
"Never."
The reply shocked him. In spite of what he knew
of her life, it also surprised him. For the moment
he had been puzzled by her question; but the chap-
ter he named was a favorite of his own, and he
would, after all, have been unable to name any other
more suitable.
In the afternoon she found Coffin waiting at the
foot of the bluff. He walked with her past the busy
cotton-presses, and then out of the wood on to the
cleared lands with their broken fences and half-
burned stumps. ''Wait for me here,'' she said, and
went on to Wilson's log cabin. The woman and her
children were absent. By the dim light within she
saw, as she paused at the door, the broken chairs,
the open press with soiled gowns, and the lean
chickens picking up the crumbs lying about the
dirty floor. The air was heavy with the odors of
uncared-for illness. As she approached the rude


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
113
bed, Wilson said, trying to sit up, '' There 's a chair,
ma'am. Set down. Not that one; it 's broke."
She took the hot, dry hand, and feeling a keen
desire to run away, sat down beside him, saying,
as she put her basket on the table, "I brought you
some soup. I hope you are better."
"No, ma'am; and I never will be no better. The
doctor you sent told my wife I could n't hold out
long. She 's awful troubled about the funeral. We
talked it over, and I reckon it won't cost much. I
told her so. Tom will make the coffin."
She was seeing a new aspect of life—the crude
business of death among the poor. It shocked a
woman who, in her abounding health and immense
vitality, had little more realization of decay and
death than has the normal animal.
She murmured softly, "Do not worry; we will
take care of all that."
"Thank you," he said; "that 's mighty good
of you. I can't talk long; it makes me cough."
Then, after a brief pause, he said: "I 've been think-
ing a heap about things. I ain't been a bad man,
but I killed a man in Tennessee. You see, he shot
Brother Bill a week before. Seems to me it was—
yes, it was Christmas eve, and snowing. I got him
comin' out of his barn. Now I want to know. My
wife fetched a preacher here. He 's a Methody.
He said I 'd got to repent of that man, or I 'd go to
hell. I did n't want him any more. I don't repent.
If a man was to kill your man, you would n't forgive
him, now would you?"
"I would not," she replied.
8


114
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
"I knowed you would say something like that,
and it 's a real comfort. The other notion ain't
natural."
The woman sat still in thought, while he coughed
until he was exhausted. What would George have
said? Why did men confess to her? She had been
reinforcing a dying man's undying hatred. And
yet, how could she lie T
At last he whispered hoarsely: '' Sometimes in the
night I ain't easy about it. It 's a kind of muddle,
life is. You don't ever get things cleared up. Did
you fetch the Book? I used to like mother to read
the stories in it when I was a little chap. When
father was dying she read out of it, and now I 'm
going too. Would you read some?"
She opened the Bible where Trescot had left a
marker, and read in tones which gathered pathetic
sweetness as she went on near to the end of the chap-
ter, when he stopped her. '' Seems to me I remember
that," he said; "must have heard it once in church
up in the hills. What's that about the Holy Ghost?
That's what bothered me when I was a young fellow.
I took religion bad, once; but that about the Holy
Ghost used to kind of scare me of nights. What
does that mean?"
Constance paused, searching the page for an an-
swer. It was a childlike creature who lay gasping
under the soiled sheet, and yet it was a man; and
she felt that out of her larger life she owed him an
answer. But what to say she knew not.
For a moment she sat still, glad that he was un-
able to recognize her embarrassment. Then, her eye


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
115
wandering over the page, she said: "Perhaps this
may help you. 'The Holy Ghost, the Comforter.'"
"There can't be no comfort in what a man can't
understand. I don't know as that—''
A cruel spell of coughing stopped him; and the
agony of vain effort shook the rickety bed until it
creaked sharply. For some reason, this strangely
affected her. It seemed an inanimate expression of
the extent of discomfort and wretchedness. At
last, worn out, he groaned, "My God, that 's aw-
ful!" as he wiped away the blood on his lips and
the gray tangle of his beard; and then, with recur-
rent reflection: "But there 's a heap of things a
man can't understand."
She shared his conviction as she sat with her
glove on the open page, penciled here and there
by a hand she loved. She murmured, "Yes, yes,"
and read on. "'Peace I leave with you; my peace I
give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto
you.'"
"Won't you say that again?" he murmured fee-
bly.
The clear tones of a voice often spoken of for its
charm repeated the promise. She was close to tears
as she continued:
"'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let
it be afraid.'"
She was emotionally too much disturbed to go on,
and made a brief pause to regain her command of
speech, relieved by the strange comments which gave
her time.
"That about being afraid, now, that 's curious-


116
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
like. I 've been troubled pretty often, but I don't
know as I ever was afraid."
She made no reply, but read on, as one may do
automatically, with one half-conscious mind on the
text, and with one other mind perplexed by thoughts
of death and life—the sudden sense of the sweet
values of mystery in love and friendship and re-
ligion, of which George had spoken. She read on
to the end, not taking in the meaning of the three
verses which followed.
"Is that all, ma'am?"
"Yes; that is all."
"Thank you." He lay on his back, silent, the
sweat on his forehead, his cheeks red, his eyes closed.
What were his thoughts? There on the edge of the
grave was this rude, half-civilized man of the woods,
without education, with his creed of an eye for an
eye, and here the woman of another world, with
every gift and every chance that wealth had given,
and both alike bewildered over the simple words of
a promise which neither could comprehend nor yet
know how to use.
The flies buzzed in and out and settled on the
hot face undisturbed, until she began to fan them
away.
"I was n't asleep," he said feebly, opening his
eyes: "I was a-thinking.'' So, too, was she.
"I was thinking," he repeated, "that maybe you
would n't mind saying a prayer. You won't need
to kneel down, the floor's that filthy; it's them
chickens, and my wife 's wore out."
The voice was very earnest in its appeal. "I
might get some help."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
117
Constance sat up, in her perplexity fanning him
more rapidly. She was helpless, stranded, full of
pity. Was this a time for deceit? To whom could
she pray? She felt for the man in his hour of doubt
and pain, putting forth yearning hands for a sure
hold on something. Would such an hour ever come
to her?
He felt vaguely her hesitation, and with the gen-
tleness of the mountain-man said: "Maybe you ain't
used to praying in company."
''No, no,'' she said, glad of the frailest pretense;
"I am not; and the room is close, I must get
outside." It was true. She had the keenest sen-
sitiveness to evil odors. Her head swam, and say-
ing, "I will come again; I must get into the air,"
she stood up and emptied her basket of fruit, lemons,
and the bottle of soup. "You must need ice. I will
send it to-morrow—no, to-night. Coffin will bring
it."
He thanked her, and again she had to touch the
hot, dry hand, as he pleaded: "This is n't any kind
of place for folks like you, ma'am; but the angels
might be like you—I don't ask no better. You will
come again, won't you?"
'' I will; certainly I will,'' she said, and went out.
"A sad kind of angel you are, Constance Tres-
cot," she murmured, as she drank in the fresh
pine-scented air. She had a pained sense of incom-
pleteness, of incompetence, of failure.
Her uncle's views, which were nourished by the
pleasure of being in opposition to his own world,
had kept her ignorant of all that Susan knew so
well. Constance had felt no need of it for herself


118
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
or for others. With all her many resources, her edu-
cation, her acceptance by a man like Trescot on
terms of intellectual equality, she had shrunk away
defeated, unable to answer helpfully a simple, un-
educated woodsman. She moved on into the forest,
deep in thought, followed by her doglike guardian.
Presently, as she went past the cotton-presses, she
was aware of coming steps and met Mr. Greyhurst.
He turned and went with her. Seeing whence she
had come, he said, with some seriousness: "These
clearings are rather lonesome places for ladies, Mrs.
Trescot; and, now that the blacks are free, not al-
together safe. You must pardon my frankness. Mr.
Trescot may not fully comprehend the risks the
North has brought on us.''
It was said kindly, and as she felt he was not
without reason, she replied: "You are no doubt
right; but when I come here among these poor people
I ask my garden helper, Coffin, to follow me.''
"So I see, but he is a wild fellow, like the rest,—
oh, I suppose, trustworthy in a way. I should think
you would find these people interesting. They are
mostly men who have drifted down from the moun-
tain country."
"Yes, I like them. This time I went to take a
sick man some luxuries."
"You are very good. These people—and, in fact,
most of our people—are too poor to be able to help
one another."
"Oh, these are trifles any one can afford."
"Perhaps. I called on you again yesterday, but
was unlucky. Will you allow me to say one thing?"


CONSTANCE TEESCOT
119
She laughed. "Being ignorant, I must, I sup-
pose, be generous. What is it?"
He went on, with a manner so timid and unas-
sured as to be in marked contrast with his athletic
build and ordinary self-assertive carriage.
"We have been so long accustomed to regard
Mr. Hood as a sort of despotic landlord, stand-
ing in our way here in St. Ann, that your appear-
ance as representing him rather startled our good
ladies."
"I trust they were agreeably startled. Are we
so surprising?"
'' Oh, I said you, Mrs. Trescot; men are never sur-
prising. ''
"Indeed! I have often found them so. I think,
however, when my uncle comes in the fall for that
tiresome trial, you will find one man who will pass
as agreeably surprising. I want him to come be-
cause we wish him to know St. Ann and all these
delightful people. Besides, he is a great friend of
the South—what at home we called a Copperhead.
He could do a great deal to help this town; and,
once here on the spot, he may be brought to see
that even in business it is often the best policy to
be generous."
"You will pardon me, Mrs. Trescot, if I say that
he has hardly been that, or even just."
"Perhaps not; but we trust that in the end St.
Ann will not have to regret our coming or our in-
fluence with him. In business my uncle loves to be
what he calls exact; outside of it he is the prey of
everybody who wants help."


120
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"That is unusual," he returned; "but, unfortu-
nately, this is all business."
"Yes; but, after all, Mr. Greyhurst, it is hard for
a man to escape from the tyranny of his own tem-
perament. My uncle is always in the opposition,
and for that reason I think he really enjoys a legal
battle."
"It is often a costly luxury.''
"Yes; but he does not care about that."
"What you say about the difficulty of escape from
the despotism of temperament—ah! that is sadly
true. No one knows that better than I. I envy Mr.
Trescot his entire self-control. I think the bar is
scarcely a good education in amiability."
"If," she laughed, "my husband degenerates in
St. Ann I shall run away. I think General Averill
is a poor illustration of the influence of the practice
of the law."
'' Oh, the general! No one is like Averill. He
has the tenderness of a woman. He is impossible
as an example."
'' Cannot a man make himself what he really wants
to be?"
He glanced at her with interest, and returned
gaily, "Can a woman?"
"No," she said; "no."
"Neither can I, Mrs. Trescot, more's the
pity."
He was once more on the point of one of those
easy confessions, which, for some occult reason of
sex sympathies, men, as I have said, are so apt to
confide to the charity of women. Young as she was,


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
121
she was prepared for it, and not liking the too per-
sonal turn the talk had taken, she said:
"You have told me what folks think of us in St.
Ann, but you have never asked—no one has—what
we think of St. Ann."
"Well," he said, "that might be worth while."
"We like it and the people."
She was scarcely accurate, to state it in no worse
way.
"That is pleasant; I accept my share."
"I must leave the partition to you," she said
lightly. "What a big river-steamer!"
"Yes; the Stonewall Jackson, a new boat."
"How warm it is!" She raised her parasol as
they came out on the bluff. "Is it always as warm
as this in your July weather ?''
They went on talking of every-day matters. In
the main street she said: "I must leave you here;
I have to make a call and do some shopping."
He took it to be a dismissal, and, raising his hat,
left her.
He walked on, absorbed in thought. The woman
had a calming influence upon his uncertain temper.
Most women so affected him. With men his self-
esteem was always on the watch for slights. It made
his associates uncomfortably careful. He was at
times aware of their reserve, and, without fully un-
derstanding the cause, resented it. He felt it in
his business, and most of all with Trescot, who, al-
though very desirous of keeping on good terms with
him, found it increasingly difficult. That morning,
in Averill's office, Greyhurst had returned to the


122
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
question of an amicable settlement of Hood's claim
to own the water-front at the bend. Trescot had
once more made the reply that it lay with Mr. Hood,
and that he had himself failed to move him. Grey-
hurst had lost his temper and made his disbelief
so plain that nothing except Averill's very positive
interference and indorsement of Trescot's statement
had saved an open quarrel. Greyhurst had reluc-
tantly apologized, and Trescot had been exasperat-
ingly good-humored.
As Greyhurst walked on he said, with returning
remembrance of his annoyance: "Damn the man!
I was a fool to talk of it,—a child,—but his cold-
blooded ways are hard to stand." As he murmured
his condemnation of Trescot, a big black fellow,
much in liquor, hustled him. He struck him sav-
agely and went on. The man gathered himself up,
and following him, said meekly: "I did n't go to do
it, massa.''
'' Oh, go to the devil!'' exclaimed Greyhurst.
"Get out, or you 'll get a bullet through you!"
He had made himself angry about one man, and
another had suffered. A minute later he was sorry
for his brutal haste. His life was full of such re-
grets; but this was a minor one, and did not trouble
him long.


124
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
to know their names. He laughed, and remarked
that it was as well not to know, because I might feel
obliged to call them to account. I said in reply that
I had no malice about the blackballing, and that in
a case of even graver injury I should not feel justi-
fied in avenging myself by shooting a man, and that
a bullet in the shoulder was, in my case, a pretty
positive peacemaker.
"As he made no reply, I went on to say that I
had never desired to be a member of the club, and
was therefore quite easy in mind. When Averill
asked him at what time in October he thought our
case would come up, he said he did not know, and
that it never ought to come up at all; and when I
said that was my desire, but that it would have to
go to trial, he quite suddenly lost his temper, and
said that I ought to be able to bring about a set-
tlement. And then there was more of it, and
worse.''
"What did you say, George?"
"Oh, Averill interfered, and I said I should do
everything possible; and indeed I shall. He went
away in a curious sullen humor, and, upon my word,
he is like some rude, undisciplined boy; but I think
he has brains enough to know that he has a bad case.
If he knew all I know, he would give it up, although
that is not Averill's opinion."
"I met him in the woods as I came from Wilson's.
He was pretty sharply critical of Uncle Rufus, and
was rather intimate in his talk about himself."
'' Was he? I should not have thought him a man
to do that."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
125
"It surprised me less than it does you, for men
have a queer way of opening their minds to women.''
"I am sure you said what was right. How is
poor Wilson?"
"I was wrong to go, George."
Realizing what must have happened, and not al-
together sorry, he said: "What was your trouble,
my love? Did you read to him ?''
"Yes; I read to him, and oh, George, he asked
me questions."
"What, dear?"
She hesitated, and then said: "It was dreadful.
He asked me what was the Holy Ghost, what kind
of a Ghost. It was awful. How did I know? How
does any one know? Your Bible is a tangle of
mysteries.''
"It is answered in the same chapter, Constance."
'' Answered ?''
"Yes; it is the Comforter."
"I said that."
"It is also called the Spirit of Truth, Constance.
That which is as old as the world, as old as He who
made it, the Spirit before which science bends in
worship, that on which the world of morals rests.
Is n't that simple enough?"
"Yes," she said doubtfully.
"Was that all, dear?"
"Oh, no, no; he asked me to pray for him."
He looked at her. She was troubled, tearful; he
hardly knew what to say, and at last wisely put the
question by. "We will talk of that at another time,
not now; it is a large question."


126
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"I did not do it."
"No; you were right."
"Thank you, George."
To know that, thinking, believing as he did, he
was able to put himself in her position affected her
deeply. She was about to go on and say something
of the man's confession and his creed of unforgive-
ness, but recalling what she too had said in reply,
she was silent.
The next week she went away to her old home
with the general and Mrs. Averill. The day after
her arrival she wrote to Trescot:
"Dear George:
"I am sitting on the great rock at sunset, and
it seems as though the waves I love are glad of my
coming. A mad gale is hurling them on the rocks
below me, and far away there is a wild turmoil of
waters about Little Misery Islands. The air is
sweet and salt, and it wants only the sunshine of the
love I miss every hour.
"I found Susan well and utterly unchanged.
Why should she not be?—only that I have changed,
and am wiser and a larger person than when you
first knew me. What your dear love and company
have done for me I know full well. The atmo-
sphere of my old home seems to me other than it
was. I think I shall understand Susan better.
Once I used to think her narrow. Uncle Rufus is
thinner than thin, with a wilted autumnal look, and
the same delicate features, and the same meek vio-
lence in his opinions. I refused to be taken in the


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
127
toils of an invitation to discuss his Western affairs,
but it will have to be soon or late, though I shall
not be serious with him until we are in St. Ann.
Then he may look out. And now I must go. I
hear voices in the garden.
"Constantly your constant
"Constance.
"Is n't that pretty, sir?
"P. S.—Tell me all the news, big and little. How
are Wilson and Coffin and my cat? The Averills
were most kind, and will be here very soon for a
visit.
"P. S.—I am writing a second P. S.,—almost in
the dark. Far away to right, Marblehead Light is
flashing at intervals over the stormy water. There
is another, a lesser one, far to the left. I like it bet-
ter. It is, sir, if you please, constant, like me."
She wrote daily, and a week later said:
"I can see that dear, grave face when I tell you
that I went to church last Sunday with Susan. I
am not going to pretend I went for any reason ex-
cept because I love you, but that is not reason, for
my love is all of me—body, soul, and mind. Is that
a riddle, sir? I had to tell Susan that I went because
it would please you. She put on one of her queer
looks, and said it was creditable to my sense of
the humorous. I did not like that. I do not think
that even you can understand the absolute negation
from childhood of all thought about this vast mat-
ter of religion. Since I came, a little girl, to East-


128
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
wood, I have been imprisoned within the bounds
of my uncle's belief, or unbelief, and only of late
years did I slowly apprehend that his attitude was
purely due to the joy of standing up against other
people's beliefs. But think, dear, what this igno-
rance, ridicule, and denial did with a childhood like
mine. Susan said once you cannot even teach man-
ners without forms, nor make a child religious and
reverent without forms. Is that so? I had a
wicked little joy when uncle saw me go out to church
with Susan. He said, as if it were a tragedy, 'And
this is the end,' and, as Susan says, twinkled away.
He does not walk like other people, but only from
his knees—really an absurd little person, as he ap-
pears to me now, with a queer way of suddenly
saying unexpected things. He told me once, when
I was fifteen, that I was a fine animal. I was
furious, but I think I know now what he meant.
"The Averills came and were made much of.
Since the general was here uncle has spoken of
you to our friends with a newly acquired pride, to
the vast amusement of Susan. You are to under-
stand that when, in October, you have the help of a
man with some knowledge of business everything
will be settled. I said, 'Better, then, uncle, not to
discuss things with an ignorant woman'; and with
this he was contented for half a day.
"Whenever it is possible I go out in our cat-boat,
and oh, to sail with a mad east wind driving the
fog in your face! Do you like that? Nature is
never too riotous for me—and then these summer
evenings by the sea; what a blithe playmate! I


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
129
used to like best to be alone on the shore or in the
woods; but now, ah! to have you, and cry, 'Look at
this, George; and see that.'
"You say I am making you vain. I leave you to
imagine how much I love you, how emptied is life
without you. My uncle concerns himself with every-
thing, from the dairy and the butter to my poor
little every-day letters to you. 'Absurd waste of
paper,' he says; and then, with his inconsequent
felicity, 'What would I do if you were dead?' I
said: 'Do? I should kill myself in the hope to find
you—oh, somewhere!' Do you know, he laughed, and
said:'Just so, just so. I do not doubt it.' Then he
went on: 'Once you had a doll and it fell into the
well. You were caught trying to climb down the
chain to get it; and then, when you were punished,
you said you would starve until some one got that
doll.' It was true. At last I scared him so that a
man went down and got it. There was not much
doll left, but it was my doll. He went on, and I
learned more about my obstinate ways, until I fled
away, leaving him talking, until, as I presume, he
discovered that he was alone.
"Yesterday we had a dense fog. It rolled in
from the sea in gray masses. An east wind drove
it landward. I went to the shore and lay on the
rocks just above the sea. The fog shut out the
islands, and at last was like a gray wall about me.
You know how the sea of a bright day seems to
explain itself, when from far away the waves rise
and gather and grow and break on the shore; but
now you could not see twenty feet, and the great


130
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
rollers came as if out of nowhere and tumbled at
my feet. Somewhere out at sea a steamer screamed
as if lost. Oh, but I wanted you! You would have said things of it all I cannot say. I can only see
and enjoy and badly describe.
"C. T."
A few days before she returned to St. Ann one
of his replies to her daily letters ran thus:
"Yes, the rooms will be in order for your uncle
and our welcome Susan. Mrs. Averill has been
sending me a lot of things—I presume owing to
your distrust of my capacity to keep house. I have
at least laid in a stock of patience for use when
your uncle comes, and have got out and dusted my
other unused virtues. I received last week a kind
note from Colonel La Grange, with a check for my
settlement of the damaged cotton. You may guess
how much—enough to make it easier to deal with
your uncle.
"You ask in your last whom I see, and would like
to know what I do all day. You ask if I have made
any new friends. I scent the wicked weed jealousy
in the garden of love. Fie for shame! More peo-
ple have been able this year to get away. I see no
women except Mrs. Averill, and if you are jealous
of any woman it must be of Rosalind or Portia or
Lady Macbeth. I have been refreshing myself with
the company of these ladies in your absence. Horses
are so plenty that I have been able to ride a few


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
131
times with La Grange, and I begin to think of the
joy of some day riding with you.
'' Poor Wilson is dead; and, as you desired, T took
care of the funeral. The rest may keep. Every-
thing goes well, and there are still flowers,—oh, in
abundance! I hear that the rector is not well and
has given up. A young man named Kent has taken
his place. I had some distant relatives named Kent.
I never saw them. You may tell Susan that La
Grange, who knows Mr. Kent, says he is young and
very good-looking. That is all my news. Do take
care of yourself."
"Poor Susan!" thought Constance; "I think she
prefers them old. I imagine Susan in a mild clerical
flirtation!"


XI

N the evening of the first of October,
Constance found herself, to her great
joy, again in her own home. They ar-
rived 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 com-
plain 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 even-
ing 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 Con-
stance would be occupied. Susan declined to be ad-
vised. 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
132


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
133
will not commit yourself in any way until the gen-
eral and I have been able to lay before you more
fully what has been done."
"Of course not, Trescot; I have not been a busi-
ness man all my life without having learned cau-
tion." He had a brisk little air of assurance. "I
hope to make the acquaintance of some of the Con-
federate officers. I think you said Mr. Greyhurst
was one of them. With my views of the late dis-
astrous 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 ex-
ercise. He walked up and down, with his hands
behind his back, smiling at intervals, and contem-
plating with satisfaction novel opportunities for
the exercise of his adroitness in affairs. Mean-
while, 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


134
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 un-
easiness, and was sensible that there was peril in
the air, and a general belief that this absentee mil-
lionaire 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 mort-
gaged 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 them-
selves 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
135
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 wel-
come 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 ven-
ture, 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 Tres-
cot, 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 misunder-
standings, 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


136
CONSTANCE TRE8COT
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 busi-
ness, 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 pur-
sued."
"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 gen-
eralities.
"Yes, I said there was peril. If you lived here
you would understand. No Southern community
will tamely submit to these measures. A compro-
mise, 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.


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
137
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 accus-
tomed 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, dan-
gerously bitter. Good morning."
"Bless me!" said the old gentleman, as he en-
tered 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 law-


138
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
yer, 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 rob-
bers 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 no-
thing 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
139
willingly abandon all your other interests to insure
that."
Mr. Hood went away well pleased. Here was busi-
ness 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 opportu-
nity 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 tell-
ing 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. Grey-
hurst. 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, Con-
stance! It must have been an accident. Are you
sure? Do they live near here?" "The bullet broke a pane of glass. If you are


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
141
"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 busi-
ness 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 inci-
dent. I have been left in the most culpable igno-
rance. I am a perfectly reasonable man. Let Tres-
cot 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 sus-
pense is simply unendurable. Have you no com-
mon sense—no compassion for me, no realization of
the danger you have brought upon us 1" 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.


142
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"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—"


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
143
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 disap-
peared, 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 im-
probable 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


144
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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. "When-
ever 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 mod-
erately 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 him-
self for audience when the play does n't draw. He


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
145
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 Tres-
cot." She was becoming more and more excited and
angry.
'' I shall do nothing to keep him here,'' said Tres-
cot, 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 in-
stantly 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 ridicu-
lous. 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.
10


146
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"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 begin-
ning 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
147
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 pa-
tient with me and every one, even when things seem
so utterly hopeless."
"Ah, Constance:
"'Where hope is none
Patience is there a god.'"
"How you love to quiet me with a quotation! It
is very clever. I never have an answer. Is n't that
Jupiter, George?" she said, looking up at the shin-
ing 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


148
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 over-
ruling 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 in-
crease."
"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

USAN announced next day at break-
fast 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 re-
ceived 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 dis-
tressing 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
149


150
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
the rose she offered, with a well-worn classical quo-
tation 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 dis-
agreeable 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 Con-
stance 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
151
me to come into his office for another talk. I de-
clined. 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, begin-
ning to enjoy herself, with murmured comments to
her sister about the spider and the fly.
"I met at the general's Colonel Dudley, of Gen-
eral Stonewall Jackson's staff. I found him in-
teresting. 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 re-
gard to the secession of the individual as justifying
that of the State."
"Is n't that fine, Conny?" said Susan, in a whis-
per. "Why not divorce as an additional argument?
Is n'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 be-


152
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
lieve," 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 Con-
stance. "They are delicious."
"They did. I was presented to several Confed-
erate 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—


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
153
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 ven-
tured to sound some of them about the absurd feel-
ing 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, push-
ing 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."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
155
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 in-
teresting."
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 million-
aire, is now in St. Ann at the residence of his niece.
We trust that he will see the necessity of more le-
nient 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 him-
self, 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 consid-
ered. 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.


156
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"What a country! what people! It is incred-
ible, monstrous!"
"They are very pleasant people, uncle. I wish
some of our own were as courteous and as gen-
tle. 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 unfortu-
nate rencontre occurred yesterday, on the levee, be-
tween 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 Su-
san, laughing.
He stood up, tottering a little. "It does not pre-
sent itself to me, young women, as a matter for in-
considerate 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!"


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
157
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 Gen-
eral 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 ter-
ror. 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?


158
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 set-
tled easily with a little forbearance."
"Knowing uncle as I do, I can readily believe
you. I think, Conny, you sent him away in an ex-
cellent 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 sat-
isfied with what he had won, and not unwilling to


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
169
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 discus-
sions which Hood enjoyed. His eyelids drew to-
gether 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 prospec-
tive 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


160
CONSTANCE TRKSCOT
gone with the deeds. We have with difficulty ac-
quired 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-tem-
pered; 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 sub-
dued, 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 re-
quire 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 evi-
dence?" 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 busi-
ness. ''
"I will not do it. It is contrary to my sense of
justice. I have yielded everything else. I was bul-


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
161
lied 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 liti-
gation."
"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 Tres-
cot 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 peo-
ple that—"
"What people?" said Averill, coldly.
"These—this town. I mean to have my rights."
Averill was both indignant and hurt; but see-
ing 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
11


162
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
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 con-
tradicted 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 rea-
son. His decision to abide by the issues of the ap-
proaching 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."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
1C3
"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 some-
times 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 ras-
cality."
"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 unpleas-
ant. 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.


164
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
"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 justifica-
tion 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
RESCOT 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 him-
self quite equal to the task.
In the latter part of the day, after Hood's de-
parture, 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 op
165


166
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
posing counsel, called upon Greyhurst. The law-
yer was in a very good humor. He knew of Aver-
ill'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 dam-
aged cotton had obliged important people. And


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
167
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 oppo-


168
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
nent was, for the thousandth time, regretting un-
reasonable 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 indi-
vidualities of men were less conventionally governed.
He was felt to be a dangerous man, and as resent-
ments 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 Tres-
cot, complained that he was now away from her


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
169
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 de-
fense.
Flattered by the appeal to her intelligence, and
enjoying the novelty of the interest thus awa-
kened, 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. Is n'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 compe-
tent to fill your entire life."


170
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"That, dear, is possible in one sense; in another,
it never can be."
"I suppose not. This is Saturday, is n'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 be-
cause 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 yel-
low 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.


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
171
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 con-
cerning 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 ex-
pression 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."


172
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"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 companion-
ship which gave the day its restfulness. She would
have denied, even to herself, that her husband's re-
ligion was, strange as it may seem, a subject of jeal-
ousy. 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 fee-
ble."
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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
173
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. Yes-
terday 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 silli-
nesses. 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?"


174
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"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 con-
siderate 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 sug-
gest 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 forgive-
ness. ''
"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 her-
self 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 lan-


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
175
guage had found echoes of sympathetic answer in
the stirred depths of her awakening nature. But
now she said quickly: "Not to-night, George; some-
thing 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 lis-
tened, 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 back-
grounds, 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 wan-
dering lad, proud of his colored coat; the brothers
Reuben and Judah, sharply characterized; the con-
templated 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


176
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 Poti-
phar. 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 des-
ert, 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 peo-
ple, dazzled by the wonders of the teeming land,
pyramids, palace, and temple, and the one high-
way 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."


178
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 cere-
monial; this is love."
She threw her arms around him, kissing him pas-
sionately. "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?"


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
179
"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 mo-
ment'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 unexpected-
ness 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 star-
tled 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 re-
ceived 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 tri-
umph. 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 com-
promise which he had intended (think of that,
George!) quite out of the question. I wonder how


180
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 gen-
eral and I think that the poverty of some of the Bap-
tiste heirs, a widow and three orphans, with the mis-
fortune of their loss by natural events of what goes
to profit you, ought to induce you to deal chari-
tably with them and avoid for them and you fur-
ther 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, for-
gotten during the excitement of the trial.


XIV
Mil
| HE 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 gen-
eral, 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.
181


182
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
The jurors were in place and a deepening still-
ness 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 un-
certain—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 evi-
dence could be produced to uphold the defendant's
pretension.
The direct evidence of ownership by the Bap-
tistes 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


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
183
ownership. It was simple. The defendant had no
deeds to put in evidence, no proof of undisputed pos-
session, no real knowledge of such bounding monu-
ments 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 sub-
mitted to the court and the jury. The wills prov-
ing title by descent were exhibited, and Trescot, ad-
mitting 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 rec-
ords and also the deeds and surveys once in pos-
session 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 sur-
vey had been made. He would produce the sur-
veyor's notes, giving the bounds, and prove by his


186
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
tesy 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 1''
"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 no-
thing."
"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 contain-
ing, with other matters, a statement of the boun-
daries 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 wit-
nesses 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
187
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 sur-
prise, 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 evi-
dence. 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 east-
ward 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 crow-
bar. I made the fire."


188
CONSTANCE TRE8COT
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 over-
ruled, 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.


CONSTANCE TKESCOT
189
"That is all," said Trescot to Coffin.
"One moment," said Greyhurst. "I prefer, if
counsel does not object, to cross-examine the wit-
ness after all the defendant's evidence is con-
cluded."
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 sur-
vey 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 sur-
veyor was brief, and served only to make that offi-
cial 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 weak-
ness 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. Grey-
hurst, unprepared for the ability with which evi-
dence 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?"


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
191
"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 al-
most 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 nat-
urally 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?"


192
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
"Yes," and Coffin grinned.
"Indeed! Who was it?"
"Thomas Coffin." The audience laughed.
As Greyhurst turned to address the judge, Tres-
cot rose again. "May I ask your honor if the wit-
ness is bound to state what would tend to criminate
him 1 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 approba-
tion 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 mat-
ter.
"Now, Coffin, what did you say to the lady about
the bounds 1"
Coffin's face cleared. "There was n'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."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
193
"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
13


194
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 jus-
tified 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 oppor-
tunity 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 ac-
tively 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 ex-
amining 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 evi-
dence 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 Grey-


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
196
hurst. 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 at-
tempt 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 audi-
ence 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


196
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
to a tavern near by for his midday meal, and
drank just enough to supply him with the self-con-
fidence 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 compro-
mise 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 fail-
ure. He had debts, and some which were embarrass-
ing; 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 handi-
capped 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 puz-
zled and thinks there is something which Coffin con-
cealed, 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
197
put you and me in a disagreeable situation. You
will be called, I fear."
"I shall not like that"; and still, she admitted
to herself that the thought of a contest with Grey-
hurst 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
HEN 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. Grey-
hurst 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 vera-
city in the community in which he resides?" "I do." "What is it?" "Bad."
"Would you believe him on his oath?"
"No, I would n't."
"Was Thomas Coffin ever charged with any
crime ?''
Trescot rose. "The question, as your honor well

198


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
199
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 was n't there."
"Ah, was that so? Were you ever in the Con-
federate 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,


200
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
—for the man's face answered it as he said: "Damn
you! no, I was n't."
"That will do," said Trescot.
"And now," said Greyhurst, "I must very reluc-
tantly, 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."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
201
"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 re-
late."
"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 impos-
sible."
The judge sat up, evidently troubled, as Grey-
hurst turned to him, saying:
"The matter is in the hands of the court."
Trescot watched the unmoved woman, himself a


202
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
little anxious, but with proud pleasure in the cour-
age 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 rest-
lessly 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


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
203
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 discourte-
ous, 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


204
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
said Mr. Trescot authorized you to make this state-
ment."
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 Tres-
cot'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."


206
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 wit-
nesses, 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 Bap-
tistes 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
207
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 dis-
pute 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 Mex-
ico 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 en-
couraged, 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 plain-
tiffs 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."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
209
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 jury-
man. 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 tome?"
"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
u


210
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
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 un-
tenable, 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
211
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
N the next morning some intervening
court business made it late before the
ease was called for continuance. The
crowd was still greater when Grey-
hurst, 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 ef-
fect 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 pol-
icy 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

212


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
213
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 Tres-
cot resumed his seat, he turned to the jury, saying:
"And now for this boasted evidence."
As he went on, Trescot sat still, conscious of hav-
ing been goaded by insult to commit himself to what
he knew to be wrong. As he sat, he thought a mo-
ment of Alexander Hamilton, whom he greatly ad-
mired. 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 as-
sistance 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.


214
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"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 Tres-
cot, "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 nat-
ural 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 af-
fected 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 for-
ward, 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
216
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 Tres-
cot. "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.


216
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 disap-
pointing day. He took up a book. His taste in
literature was good, and the loneliness his tempera-
ment 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


CONSTANCE TKESCOT
217
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 tem-
per, 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. Tres-
cot 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 an-
nounced 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.


218
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 gath-
ered 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 Con-
stance 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


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
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 sud-
den 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 peo-
ple 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


220
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 in-
sist 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 waist-
coat, 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, forget-
ful 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
221
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,


222
CONSTANCE TRE8COT
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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
223
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 ex-
pect 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 im-
agination, 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 uncontrol-
lable 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 slum-
ber.
At morning, when he awakened, it all came back
to him by degrees, and again he recalled the ver-
dict, and was filled with dull anger. The evening
before he had made himself incapable of efficient


224
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
reasoning. Now one aspect of the affair presented
itself, and now another. Bits of the death-scene ap-
peared—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 dis-
turbance 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 in-
sulting. With a few men like Averill it would in-
jure 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
225
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 vol-
ume he had been reading—a life of John Marshall.
It had lost interest. He could not keep his atten-
tion 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 Sacra-
mento. 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
is


226
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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
HE 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 con-
siderate. My poor husband is distressed beyond mea-
sure. 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—

227


228
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 im-
possible 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 con-
ditions, accidents, sorrow, may cause people to ap-
pear for a time alien from themselves. They are


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
rarely so. The novel incident only evolves what
might have remained unused, unknown, for a life-
time. 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


230
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 re-
covered. At times she sat up of a sudden with di-
lated 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?"


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
231
The two women stood by, mute and without re-
source.
'' 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 yes-
terday had brought. A little later, the storm which
had left her nervous system shattered passed away,
and she began to piece together her recovered recol-
lections. 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. Some-
where 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:
"'For again life's scattered fragments, memories of
joy and woe,
Tremulously grew to oneness as a storm-torn lake
may grow Quiet, winning back its pictures, when the wild
winds cease to blow!'"
"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 ques-
tions, but lay still, entirely patient. At last, one
day, the doctor, uneasy at her changeless melan-
choly, said to her: ''You are better; do you not feel
better?"


232
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"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 for-
ward 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."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
233
"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.' Is n't that what is always said,
doctor?"
"Yes; but it is true, and let me add that, how-
ever 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? Be-
ing a woman, she wondered that her sister could
wish to live.
Constance asked no more questions; but, seem-
ing 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 clear-


234
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
ness 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 Bap-
tiste heirs; but, let me ask, will such action bene-
fit 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 sepa-
rate 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 Con-


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
235
stance. "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 con-
tradictions, 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 gen-
erous. 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 plea-
sure. 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."


236
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
"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."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
237
"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 did n'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, Gen-
eral Averill will see to it—I mean anything for
the Wilsons."
"Thank you, ma'am."
She gave him her hand. He took it with some-
thing like reverence. Then he stood, uneasy, evi-
dently 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."


238
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"It would n'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 suf-
fer. 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 faith-
ful dog, wishing to help and not knowing how.
"I would n'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
N the afternoon of the next day the sis-
ters left for the long journey to their
home on the Beverly coast of Massa-
chusetts. 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 let-
ter 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:

239


240
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
"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 hus-
band '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 sor-
row associated with ideas of revenge; but, after all,
Edward, there is more than revenge here—or per-
haps 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
241
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 bul-
lets 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 com-
rade and lover, added: "But I am glad they can-
not 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 in-
scription?"
"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.
16


242
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 al-
ways 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 irri-
table, 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 gal-
leries, and takes no real interest in anything ex-
cept 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 some-
thing 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


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
243
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


244
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
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 satis-
factory."
Mrs. Averill was silent for a moment, automati-
cally plying her knitting-needles. The general stood
with a hand on her shoulder. Presently she said:
"Will you drive me to the churchyard this after-
noon? 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. Grey-
hurst is the sole instance I recall in which the man
who killed seemed to be personally changed by what


PART II 


I
YEAR had gone by since Trescot's
death. St. Ann was prospering and
on the way to become a great city.
The shops were larger, the cotton-
presses more busy, a new railroad was
approaching the town. Already the divided water-
front at the bend was being needed for cotton-
storage and to supply landings for freight-boats.
Greyhurst profited by the general rise in real
estate, and was able to sell two or three lots
at good prices. His political prospects were also
promising, and with increased means and lessening
causes of irritability, he began to feel some return of
self-confidence and the amiability of a man reas-
sured as to his future. A fortunate decision in a
case against the United States government added
local popularity, and it may be said that, except
in the opinion of a small class, he had suffered lit-
tle in the eyes of a community largely made up of
not altogether the best elements of the West and
South. As he became busier, chiefly with small
suits, occupation served to assist the blurring in-
fluence of time.

247


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
249
to it. He went on, setting his mind upon the busi-
ness of the day, nor did he venture to ask any one
who had taken the house.
At dusk the day before Constance Trescot and a
maid arrived at St. Ann. Unrecognized in her black
veil, she had driven to her old home. A letter from
her and a despairing note from Susan Hood had
prepared the Averills for her coming, so that she
found the house in order and her old servants ready.
For two days she was, by her own wish, alone,
having begged her sister, who utterly disapproved of
her return to St. Ann, not to join her for a fort-
night.
She found the house, as she had desired to find it,
unaltered. She went up-stairs and changed her
dress, asking to have tea sent up to her. Later in
the evening, when the house had been closed, and
the servants had gone to bed, she took a candle
and went down to the study. The room, by her
wish, had never been opened, and the dust lay thick
on everything. For a minute she stood with the
candlestick in her hand and looked about her.
There were the table and books—the Bible with
one of her own gloves left in it as a marker at the
story of Ruth, which Trescot had meant next to
read to her. The dead rose-stem was in the tall
glass, the dried petals on the table. The piano was
there, and her music; on a chair lay Trescot's spurs
and his riding-whip. She sat down, and for the
first time in months broke into a passion of tears.
That yearning for the dead which few escape came
upon her. She threw up her hands with a wild


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
251
ing. He had said that to give way to emotion
would for a long time to come be likely to bring
about a fresh attack of loss of self-command. She
set herself sternly to recover calmness of mind, and
with it the power to reason. As she rose she felt
amazed at this sudden feebleness. Resolving not
again to give way to the sweetness and pain of try-
ing to live back into the too real recollection of the
days of a supreme passion, she went in, and, to
her surprise, slept a deep and, as she knew next
morning, an unrefreshing slumber. "This shall not
happen again," she said, as she turned over her
letters at breakfast; and, in fact, unsatisfied desire
to make her husband's murderer atone in suffering
took the place of a more perilous form of mental
activity.
After breakfast she quietly arranged her house-
hold affairs for the day, and then busied herself
in setting the study in order, dusting it, with care
to leave all things as they had been.
At last she sat down at Trescot's table, and, pre-
occupied, dipped a pen into the dry inkstand. She
laid down the pen and went to get her traveling-
inkstand. Returning, she stood still a moment, and
then turned to her own table, and again sat down.
She had the feeling that not where he sat could she
plan a course of life so opposed to all he held dear.
He would have said, "Forgive; forget." For a
minute, and for the first time, the woman hesitated.
She was at the parting of the ways. She looked
around her at the memorials of a true and noble
life, and forward at the lonely desert of days and


252
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
years without hope and void of all the joys that
belong to youth and love. She did not reason—
she simply felt. "No," she said aloud; "I must go
my way.'' From that sad hour she held to one un-
changing resolve.
First she must see Coffin, and must know all that
was possible of her enemy's life. How could she,
a young woman, enter into it with power to ruin
and make him suffer? She resolved to be patient.
Had it been some lesser injury, she could have
made the man love her and then cast him aside to
realize the pain of loss. She knew, as by instinct,
her power over men. She dismissed the thought in
disgust and horror, and, rising, walked about, and
at last went into the front parlor, and, to air the
long-closed room, threw up a sash. As she moved to
the other window she saw herself in a mirror, a tall
form in deep mourning-dress, with a face the whiter
from contrast with her black gown and mass of
dark hair. She threw up the sash and stood still,
held motionless as if by some fascination; for, on
the farther side of the street, in the brilliant sun-
shine, she saw John Greyhurst walking slowly to-
ward the town. He glanced over at the house and
saw and knew her. Instantly quickening his pace,
he looked away and moved on.
Noting the suddenly averted head, the abrupt
hastening of his steps, she looked after him, and
said aloud: "He feels; he is sensitive." A stern
joy possessed her, and she turned away satisfied.
"Now I know," she said.
When she went back to the study she saw Tom


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
253
Coffin on the back porch. She called him: "Tom,
Tom!"
"I heard you was here. I was that sure you
would come back. Are you going to stay, ma'am?"
"Yes; I do not know how long. I told you I
meant to come. Did you keep my secret?"
"I did."
"Are you doing well on the bluff?"
"Why, Mrs. Trescot, I 'm saving money. Never
did that before in all my life, and it 's all along of
you. Oh, we 're right well pleased, all of us."
It was a long speech for Tom.
"I am very glad. And now I want something.
I want to know all about that man, Tom. How he
spends his time. He goes to his office, I suppose,
and to that club, and to—to the court-house. Does
he go to any houses? Does he visit any one—any
woman ?''
"You want me to find out? That 's easy enough."
"But he must not know he is watched." Tom smiled. "All right." He looked at her
and wondered what she could mean to do. It
seemed simple to him—a rifle-shot, and that would
end the matter. She had said no. Her desire for
some continuity of punishment would have been
foreign to his mountain code of vengeance. For
men of his kind there was some recognized joy in
the crude pleasure of pipe and glass, of the visible
results of the hunt, and of the use of ax and plow.
The men he knew had no other joys, and to take
life was to take away all that was valuable, and
competently to deal with a wrong. He left her, puz-


254
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
zled as to what she meant to do, but, as always, her
willing instrument, in small things or in large.
On the following day the general found her in
the parlor.
"Well, my dear," he said, "we are glad and
sorry to see you here again. You are still too pale.
Are you well?"
"Yes; I think I may say that I am as strong as
I ever was. Sit down; I want to talk to you.''
"Certainly, my dear child. There is a good deal
of business. The water-front at the bend ought to
be improved, and—"
'' Excuse me, general, but those matters may wait.
I have other things to speak of, and, to me, far more
important things."
He was surprised and curious. "Now, as always,
I am at your disposal."
"I asked you some time ago to do for me what
I was sure you would disapprove of."
"Yes, on the whole I did disapprove; and when
the warden said he would never consent I felt re-
lieved. Mrs. Averill and I considered it unwise,
and only to be explained by the condition in which
your illness left you. It would have been an im-
propriety, to say no more."
"I do not feel as you do," she returned. "A
useful, noble life is ended by a brute's anger. He
lives on unpunished. A jury justifies his act; no
one remembers. Is there to be no record? Must
this man live and go his way just as before? As
I live, I do not mean that he shall. If to kill him
would satisfy me, and I had been a man, I would


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
255
have shot him as I should any other wild beast, and
not have had a pang of remorse. But something I
must do—oh, something!"
She rose and walked up and down the room, the
figure of an avenging fate, splendid in her wrath.
"My dear Constance! let me beg of you—"
"Pardon me, let me finish. I mean to make this
man suffer—oh, as I have suffered; oh, more, if
that be possible! I have now but one purpose in
life, and to it I mean to give my strength, my
thought, and, at need, every dollar I have in the
world."
He lifted a hand in appeal: "God knows, dear,
that I feel for you; but what can you do?"
He felt in a larger way much as Coffin felt; but
this woman's talk of some more refined vengeance
struck him as pitiable in its incapacities.
"What I can do, general, I do not know as yet.
I have felt, however, that I wished you beforehand
to understand that if I seem strange in what I
do, or, as men see things, eccentric, you will not
consider me insane. I am fully aware that you will
disapprove. I cannot help that. A man dies,
and a woman must sit down and cry. I am not so
made; I cannot, and I would not if I could.''
This stormy passion troubled him. It was not like
any woman he had ever known. There was some-
thing in it of the deadly instinct of attack of a
wounded animal—something not modern. Revenge
had been in his experience the prerogative of man.
He did not know how to answer her, and fell upon
petty futilities. People would talk—she would


256
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
surely be thought to be crazy. He hesitated to say
that this vain dream of a woman ruining a strong
man outside of the possibility of contact or influence
was absurd, and might come to seem ridiculous, even
with the tragedy behind it.
He moved her no whit. As he talked she contin-
ued to walk about uneasily, and at last pausing
before him, said: "I know how you, how any man,
must feel about what I have said. If there are men
fools enough to think lightly of it, I swear to you
there will be one man who will not laugh when I am
done with him."
The general began to think that it might very well
be. He said: "I should be a poor friend, Con-
stance, if I did not try to stop you. Think it
over. Let Mrs. Averill talk to you, and wait, my
dear. Do nothing rash."
"Certainly, general, I shall do as you say. I am
in no hurry, but nothing on earth will move me."
"I am very, very sorry."
"I could hardly have imagined that you would
agree with me. May I ask you if that man is pros-
perous, if people have condoned his act?"
He hesitated. It was unnatural, disagreeable, this
curiosity about a man who ought to have passed
unmentioned out of her life.
"You do not want to answer me."
"Frankly, I do not. He and I do not speak. If
ever he did, I should call him out and kill him.''
"Thank you. I shall not urge you further. I
can easily learn all I need to learn. Ask my dear
Mrs. Averill to come here at four to-day. I have


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
257
the miniatures for her. I have made myself un-
pleasant. You will forgive me, I am sure."
He took her hand as he rose, kissed it in the old-
fashioned way, and left her, feeling that he had
entirely failed to bring her to reason.
When he related to Mrs. Averill this amazing in-
terview, she said: "It is very sad, but it is also
absurd. I will make her understand that, as a wo-
man, I feel with and for her. It will then be easy
to make clear how utterly impossible it is for her
to do anything. It is really childish."
The general smiled. "Wait a little," he said—
"wait until you hear her talk."
When Mrs. Averill had kissed the pale cheek and
expressed pleasure at seeing her again, Constance
gave her the two miniatures. They were admirably
done, and the mother's eyes filled as she looked up
and thanked the kind thought which had made them
hers.
"And now, dear," she said, "the general has
told me of your talk. I am a woman and can enter
into your feelings; but, dear, I am a Christian, and
must plead with you, by all that George Trescot
held dear and true, to put aside these thoughts
of revenge. They are wicked; and even if they
were not, it is practically useless for you or me,
or any woman, to think of affecting the life of such
a man."
"But I am not a Christian, Mrs. Averill."
"No; Susan told me that long ago, to my regret,
dear. But still you must at least feel—"
"Pardon me, my dear Mrs. Averill," she broke
17


258
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
in. "I must go my way, and I mean to do so. I
may fail; I think I shall not fail. But let me say,
dear friend, once for all, just this," and she laid
a hand on the knee of the elder woman. "Iam here
for a purpose, but I shall live my life—the usual
life. I shall see you often, I hope; and while here
I shall try to do what good I can to those who are
in need or suffering. All pain and all human dis-
tress appeal to me as they never did before. We will
never recur to this subject, and yet, last of all, let
me say just only this: if a man killed me, do you
think George Trescot, no matter what his creed,
would have left him unpunished?"
"But that is different," said the old lady, feebly. "I do not so see it," said Constance. "We won't
talk about it any more. Here are some new flower-
seeds and a meerschaum pipe for our dear general."
Mrs. Averill thanked her, and they spoke of
other matters—Susan, dress, foreign travel, and, at
last, of the home for the orphans of Confederate
soldiers. She—Constance—desired to help it.
After a long chat, the pretty old lady put on her
gloves and rose, quite conscious that she had fared no
better than her husband. She had been accustomed
to act in her quiet, sweet-tempered way as a peace-
making influence. Her gray, wrinkled, patient face
preached silent sermons of gentleness and endur-
ance. She had lost children, fortune, and all that
helps us to bear the inevitable addition of such
physical disabilities as the years bring to the old.
She still retained a certain pleasure in her power
to affect for good the lives of the younger people,


II
REYHURST, who had reflected not a
little on the return of Mrs. Trescot,
concluded that her large business in-
terests alone could have brought her
to St. Ann. She was unlikely to re-
main; and even if her stay should be long, what did
it matter? On the third day after her return he
went to his office and began to read his letters.
One in a firm, large-charactered woman's hand in-
terested him. He broke the black seal of the mourn-
ing-paper. A yellow slip fell out. He read:
"Sib:
"The inclosed telegram was in the hand of the
man you murdered at the moment he was going
toward you to offer, as before he had no power to
do, a friendly, and even generous, division of the
lands at the bend. His blood is on it, as I trust
it may rest on your own soul.
"Constance Trescot."
His first feeling was simply astonishment. For
a moment he held the letter in act to tear it up.
Then, as if that were impossible, he laid it down
and mechanically unfolded the telegram and read

260


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
261
it over and over. It was terribly new to him. The
general had never spoken to him since the day
of his fatal anger. He knew, of course, of the more
recent and accepted proffer to Mrs. Baptiste to
divide the frontage. He sat stupefied. He saw
the brown blood-stains on the paper, and let it fall.
The scene came back to him. Yes, the man was
smiling—he had thought it the smile of triumph.
There he was, dead—dead! He tore the papers
to pieces and cast them into the waste-basket at his
side. A brief fury of anger came over him. He
rose and walked to and fro. "By heavens, if she
were a man!'' Then he controlled himself, saying:
"After all, what does it matter—a woman's re-
venge!"
I have said that he was variously sensitive. By
degrees he had set aside and carefully rid himself
of even the smallest reminder of an hour which he
deeply regretted. He had ceased to wear his revol-
ver; had put it aside and locked it up. He had
found that the gray suit he wore during the trial
revived a dark memory. He gave it away. And
now, the feeble ingenuity of a woman's hatred had
brought back in dreadful clearness all that time
had mercifully dealt with.
He went out and forced himself to attend to the
business of the day. He stayed late at the club,
seeking society, unwilling to face the solitude of
his own house.
As he walked homeward in the darkness he took
refuge in that which had somewhat helped him at
an earlier period. During his trial men swore to


262
CONSTANCE TEE8COT
their belief that the younger man was in act to
draw his pistol. This, as he thought of it in cold
blood, justified his own action as defensive. He
clung to this view of the matter; set it before his
mind as true, and, with sophistry which was scarcely
self-convincing, so manipulated the facts that at
last mere repetition of the mental states did as-
sist him to escape from the self-reproach which
fell upon him when Averill had struck him with
the verdict of a man whom all men honored. The
telegram and Mrs. Trescot's letter had forced him
again to think it all over. He realized how small
had been his victory over the recording power of
memory. He had been at the mercy of a slip of
paper—and, at once, that which chanced a year ago
was to him as if it had happened yesterday. At
times he felt competent to defend and excuse his
action; at others he suffered the anguish of such
regret as was inevitable in an imaginative man, who
felt keenly the accusation of having taken advantage
of a man who carried no arms and was, to some ex-
tent, incapable of protecting himself.
By degrees, as the days went by, he comforted
himself with the idea that here at least was the end.
He had, too, at times an indistinct feeling that there
was cruelty in thus tormenting a man who had bit-
terly repented; and the memory of the beauty and
grace of the woman, and his immense admiration of
her, barbed and poisoned the shaft which had gone
so surely to its mark.
Meanwhile, Constance took up her life, but with
more or less thought of its supreme purpose. She


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
263
heard from Coffin what were the habits of Grey-
hurst's days, and began to plan ways of knowing
more of his life. At first all thought of him dis-
turbed her emotionally; but this she learned to put
aside. She was frequently at the general's, but
would go nowhere else. He had found for her rid-
ing-horses, and an old slave for a groom, so that soon
her figure in the black riding-habit became familiar
in and near the town. In a word, she lived, or
seemed to live, the ordinary life of a young widow
of more than usual means.
No one she knew mentioned Greyhurst, and, ex-
cept the Averills and Coffin, no one suspected that
she was doing or thinking otherwise than the two
or three sad women in St. Ann who, like herself,
were suffering from the cruel consequences of some
deadly quarrel.
Toward the close of her second week at St. Ann,
Mrs. Averill asked her to be present at a meeting of
women who were interested in their modest home
for the orphans of Confederate soldiers, to which
Constance had promised help from Susan and her-
self. Contact with the Averills, and the misery she
had seen as the direct or indirect result of war, had
lessened her own strong partizan feeling. Disposed
by nature to be generous, she was, moreover, eager
to make friends and secure allies; and thus, al-
though rather reluctant to face the many she would
meet, she decided at last to accept Mrs. AverilPs
invitation. It was late in the afternoon when she
found herself among some two dozen ladies, old
and young. Many of them she had met, and all


264
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
were either anxious to express their sympathy by
a kindly greeting, or were merely curious to see the
rich widow who had so strangely elected to return
to St. Ann.
Mrs. Averill explained that the meeting was in-
formal and designed to assist the male managers
of the home. She spoke, for Constance's informa-
tion, of the good it had done, and of the great diffi-
culty they had in carrying it on. A lady read the
quarterly statement of the treasurer, and the small-
ness of the deficit gave Constance a sad sense of
their limited resources. Several women offered mod-
est aid, and then there was the usual silence.
Constance whispered to Mrs. Averill, who said:
"Certainly, my dear. Ask what questions you
please."
Constance rose. "Mrs. Averill permits me to
ask for some little information. May I inquire how
many children you have in your home?"
Prom this she went on in a businesslike way to
put herself in possession of all the facts she re-
quired to know.
"I have had," she said, "some acquaintance with
an institution like yours, and now may I learn
finally how much per head per day it costs you?"
No one was quite prepared to answer; but Miss
Bland, a spinster she had met before, said: "We
can say that if we had a thousand dollars a year,
with our present subscriptions, it would be enough
to support all our home has room for."
Constance then said: "My sister and I shall be
most glad to give, between us, that amount for five


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
265
years; and probably we may be able then to secure
the same sum to you as a permanent income."
There were exclamations of pleasure and surprise,
and warm and grateful words as they turned to
thank her. At last, on the suggestion of further
business, Mrs. March, a stout, elderly dame, and
their chairman, said: "We shall ask the gentlemen,
our managers, to offer you formal thanks, Mrs.
Trescot, for your generous help. As Southern ladies
we thank you, and may I venture to add that every
one in St. Ann appreciates the kind and liberal way
in which you and Miss Hood have dealt with the
squatters and, indeed, with all those with whom you
have had to deal."
Mrs. March drew back her chair and, smoothing
out her gown, sat down, well pleased with her lit-
tle speech.
"Thank you, Mrs. March," said Constance. "It
is quite unnecessary to thank us formally. I have
here a blank check; I will fill it out for the first six
months. And your little deficit I shall like to make
good as my personal gift."
Miss Bland, who sat on her right, said: "Oh,
thank you; and don't you want to see our printed
report?"
Mrs. Averill shook her head; but the signal came
too late. Constance said: "Yes, certainly, Miss
Bland; I am much interested." She glanced at
the first page and saw that the managers were all
ex-officers of the Confederacy, and that the seventh
name was John Greyhurst's. A faint flush rose to
cheek and forehead. "Thank you," she said as,


266
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
with an effort to seem calm, she returned the pam-
phlet. "I do not want it."
"Oh, keep it," said Miss Bland; "I have another
copy."
"I said, 'I do not want it,' " returned Constance,
with emphasis.
Mrs. Averill frowned, and Mrs. Dudley, seated
behind Miss Bland, whispered to her, with vicious
satisfaction: '' Take care, Eliza! How could you ?''
"I do not see what I have done."
As Mrs. Trescot rejected the pamphlet she sat
up, quite too visibly disturbed to escape the notice
of those who were within view of her face. With
the persistency of the dull-witted, Miss Bland, an-
noyed at Mrs. Dudley's reproof, exclaimed: "Oh,
do take it!"
Constance turned toward her, saying so as to
be generally heard: "I know, Miss Bland, that it
could not have occurred to you that among the
names of the managers is that of—" and she
stopped, controlling herself.
Mrs. Dudley, leaning over the back of Miss
Bland's chair, whispered, "It is Greyhurst! How
could you!"
"Oh, I never thought!" cried Miss Bland, awk-
wardly apologetic. "I am sorry. I did n't re-
member. ''
"I was sure of that. Do not let it trouble you."
Constance's voice broke, and then, recovering, she
added, "You have really done me a service."
"You may be sure, Mrs. Trescot," said Mrs. Dud-
ley, "that we never thought—we—"


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
267
"Excuse me if I interrupt you," returned Mrs.
Trescot. "After what I have just learned, I must
ask you to consider our gift as entirely in the hands
of the visiting ladies, and not at the disposal of the
male managers."
Mrs. Averill said at once: "It shall be as
you wish, dear. The gentlemen have been so in-
active that it did not occur to any of us to think
of them. The man referred to was put on the
board three years ago, when it was first formed.
It should have occurred to us; I ought to have
told you."
There was a moment of silence, when Mrs. March
said: "You may rest assured, Mrs. Trescot, that no
one here fails to feel with you; and if, under the
circumstances, you would rather not give at all, we
should all understand it."
"Thank you," said Constance, proudly; "you are
most considerate. But you are welcome to all we
can do, and if you find the situation embarrassing,
as may be the case, I will write to Colonel Dudley
and explain it myself. I see that he is chairman of
the board."
"Oh, no, no," said several women. "By no
means; it is quite unnecessary."
Constance smiled in her cold way, shaking her
head as she spoke, and rising.
"I must go. It is—it was a little too much for
me. And you are all so good. I must go. Good-by."
Mrs. Averill went with her to the outer door.
"Oh, my dear, I am so sorry—and in my house, too;
I am so very sorry!"


268
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"I am not very sure that I am," said Constance,
as she kissed her and went away.
Mrs. Averill looked after her in puzzled amaze-
ment, and then returned to the room where her
friends were busily discussing this unpleasant in-
cident.
"It is just as well; she had to know soon or late,''
said Mrs. March. "Of course he will hear of it—
and I, for one, hope that he will hear of it."
Others were of her way of thinking, and in a
dozen homes that evening the sad story was revived
and Constance's generosity praised, and her sad
fate pitied anew.
That evening she wrote to Mrs. March, inclosing a
copy of a note sent to Colonel Dudley. She could
not leave the ladies in a situation which obliged
them to make to the managers an explanation which
should properly come from her.
To the president of the board of the home she
wrote:
"Dear Colonel Dudley:
''My sister and I are much interested in your excel-
lent charity, and we shall have the pleasure of aiding
it to the extent of one thousand dollars a year for
five years. Then, or sooner, we hope to endow it
with enough to represent the same income. An
accident brought to my knowledge the fact that
one of your members is the man who murdered my
husband. You will, I am sure, understand why I
have felt it to be impossible for me to confide our
gladly given help to a board of which he is a mem-


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
269
ber. I have placed the money, and shall in future
place it, in the hands of the visiting committee of
ladies, for their use, and theirs alone. My own
strong feeling, and my late husband's great regard
for you, will, I know, excuse to you my very frank
statement."
A courteous note acknowledging the receipt of
her letter was all she heard of it for a week or more.
Susan Hood had twice put off her journey to St.
Ann, having no reason to leave the home she loved
except her affection for Constance. She had re-
luctantly come to the conclusion that marriage and
trouble had in some way set up barriers between
them. She had been the one strong, and even jeal-
ous, affection of Constance's younger life, and now
sadly felt that it had incomprehensibly lessened,
and that her sister seemed to have been incapable of
more than one such relation at a time.
After Trescot's death Constance had begun again
to rely on her, and to defer to her opinion on the
lesser matters of life. But all through the summer
and their many months of travel she had felt that
the mind once so open to her was hiding and cher-
ishing thoughts which she, Susan, was not allowed
to share. All her kindly attempts to enter into the
confidence of her sister failed, and now, being about
to join her, she wrote, in some anxiety and distress:
"My deak Connt:
"Why you so obstinately insisted upon returning
to a place which must be full of painful memories


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
271
So far she had won her way, as she had meant to
do, making her rather excessive bounty to the poor
and sick the more gracious by the attraction of man-
ner which made those whom she tactfully obliged
partners of the honest joy she felt, especially in help-
ing the sad and hopelessly stranded women of her
own class.
Her desire to know more of her enemy than
Coffin could tell her found at last an ally. Just
before Susan's arrival, she had come from a long
ride, and met at her door a woman whose face and
worn look had interested her for a moment at the
meeting in Mrs. Averill's home. Seeing her in
her riding-dress, the woman would have gone away,
but Constance said: "No, I am quite at leisure.
Do come in. You are, I think, the matron of the
home. I saw you at the meeting."
"Yes; I am Miss Althea Le Moine."
She was dressed in clothes which had evidently
been long in use. Her air of furtive apprehension
struck Constance. "A provincial lady," was the
hostess's conclusion, as they sat down. Constance
rang, saying: "I have the habit of indulging my-
self with a cup of tea after I ride. May I tempt
you ?''
The tea was brought, and the toast and cake
evidently enjoyed, while they talked of the home
and its needs, or Constance turned over her Flor-
entine photographs, setting at ease a woman whom
she felt to be somewhat embarrassed. •
At last Miss Althea said: "I have come to you,
Mrs. Trescot, to ask a little help."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
273
feel entirely at ease. Is there anything else I can
do for you?"
"Oh, no," said Miss Althea, as she rose. "I
do think I shall sleep to-night. I wish there was
anything I could do to show you how grateful I
am."
"Stop," said Mrs. Trescot. "Sit down. You
can help me. But, first, I want to ask you to con-
sider what I shall say as confidential—absolutely
confidential."
"Yes, of course." Miss Althea was curious, and
her narrowing life had left her little of interest.
"I learned lately, as you know, that the man
who killed my husband is one of the managers of
the home. It embarrassed me. You can under-
stand that, and why it must keep me from visiting
at the home as I should like to do."
"But he never comes there, Mrs. Trescot. At
the visitors' meeting yesterday Mrs. Dudley said
that the colonel had told him that, as he never at-
tended their meetings, he ought to resign, and he
has done so."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Trescot. "I have rea-
sons—very good reasons—for desiring to know more
of this man. I have trusted you; and now, when
you hear anything of interest about him, I want
you to come and tell me."
Miss Althea, much astonished, promised to be
watchful, and went away comforted, but with her
curiosity ungratified.
On the following day Greyhurst recognized in
the morning mail the black-edged envelop and the
18


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
275
as he sat, and then smoothed it out and read it again.
He never for a moment doubted that it told the
truth. He was a man of too easy morals, but capa-
ble of affection and even of love. A new and over-
whelming realization of what he had done to this
woman swept over him in a storm of self-reproach
and pity.
He sat with his face in his hands, his elbows on
the table, the copy of Trescot's letter before him.
He lit a match and saw that his hand shook as he
held the two papers over it and they slowly burned
away. Then, rising, he lighted a cigar and threw
himself on a sofa. The cigar went out. He cast
it away. How would this end? There must be a
limit to the ability of this woman to torture him,
and to his own capacity to suffer. After all, he
was a man and she but a woman. The matter of
his resignation from the board of the home was a
trifle, and he was prospering as never before. It
was not so easy to deal with the horrible power
these letters had to bring back emotions which time
had helped to render less poignant. He had a bad
memory for faces; but now, as he lay, he saw again
the smiling young fellow approaching with his mes-
sage of peace and kindness. He might have under-
stood even then; but long years of unrestraint had
combined with the bitterness of defeat to ruin him.
He rose and, returning to his table, tried to lose
himself in the enforced study of an important case.
It was vain. He went out to a stable near by and
mounted a horse he had just bought. It proved
unruly, and a furious ride brought back the horse


276
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
tired and the rider relieved, more at ease, and with
a renewed sense of mastery.
His life was too busy to leave him large leisure
for painful reflection. He had cases to try, and
one which called him away to the capital of the
State. He was gone for a week. His political am-
bitions also claimed a part of his time, as he hoped
in a year to be a successful candidate for the legis-
lature, and would then be absent for long periods.
Meanwhile, in one and another way, from Coffin
and from the gossip Althea Le Moine willingly and
in wonder brought to Constance, she knew of Grey-
hurst's habits and expectations, and silently brooded
over plans of disturbing her prey, not as yet fully
realizing her power, nor comprehending how far
the sensitive nature of the man was aiding her
purpose.


Ill
USAN HOOD had been a week at St.
Ann before she was able to learn any-
thing of the design, so steadily held,
that had brought Constance back to
a place which she, at least, wished
never to see again.
She found the house made pretty and far more
comfortable, and a part of the back porch converted
into a conservatory. There were riding-horses,—
the best they had ever had,—and, in fact, every sign
of intention to make St. Ann a place of long, if
not permanent, residence.
It seemed also to Susan that there was more
cordiality in the many women and the few men who
dropped in after their easy Southern way. Evidently
there was here some change. It had never been
her sister's habit or desire to be on terms of cor-
dial relation to society at large, so that her present
absence of reserve, and her rather watchful eager-
ness to please everybody, for a time puzzled the elder
woman.
No one entered Trescot's library except Con-
stance. She herself kept it dusted, neat, and un-
changed. Susan understood why, being Constance,
she should spend daily certain hours alone where

277


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
279
the barriers of reserve which she had set up. The
old affection, strangely weakened by her marriage
and her incapacity to care deeply for more than
one person at a time, was returning in full force.
When she had confessed that, as Susan said, she had
changed, both were silent for a moment, when Susan
returned:
"You have been unlike my Constance all summer.
I can understand that grief like yours may take
many forms; but while abroad you would see no
one, not even the most interesting people; here you
see every one, even that plaintive little shrivel of
a woman, Miss Althea. What brought you here,
Constance ?''
"I knew that you would ask. It is very simple.
A man has murdered my husband and utterly
wrecked my life. I tried—oh, very hard!—to ac-
cept it as other women accept such things. I could
not. I know I shall shock you when I say that
for a time I thought of suicide. Then it seemed
to me that I must kill him. If I had been a man
he would have been dead to-day." "Oh, sister! How can you say such things?" Taking no notice of the gentle protest, Constance
continued:
"I gave it up because death is no punishment;
it merely destroys the power to feel and suffer. I
want that man to feel such anguish as he brought
into my life, and I want to know that he suffers.
I came here resolved to find some way to make him
wretched. I know now that he is sensitive. It
seems incredible, but he is. And let me say once


280
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
for all that I shall go my way, and I shall succeed—
I know I shall succeed in making his life unbear-
able—oh, such as he has made mine!"
Susan had thought of many explanations of her
sister's return, but certainly not of this. She had
ceased using the paper-knife, and, as Constance
spoke with increasing passion, closed the book. A
look at the stern, set face, so white, so beautiful,
made the elder woman sure that here was a side of
character which was serious and new to her, and not
to be dealt with lightly. Turning to her sister,
she exclaimed: "Dear, dear sister, drop this; come
away with me. Let us go abroad again."
"No."
''But it is horrible, and what can you do? Think
how that dear fellow would have felt. Think what
he did feel even in the face of insult; how patiently
he bore with the behavior of these people. Oh,
Conny!"
"You may rest assured, Susan, that I have thought
of all that; but I am not like you—nor, alas! like
him. I have no beliefs which teach me to sit down
and cry and pretend to forgive. I don't believe that
any one ever does forgive a wrong so cruel. I,
at least, cannot, and I never will—never!"
"You can do nothing. Your lives are far apart.
What can you do? Even if revenge were right,
you are helpless."
It seemed to Susan's common sense past belief.
"And, dear," she went on, "suppose the impos-
sible; suppose you ruin this wretch, make him suf-
fer, what good will it do?"


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
281
"It will make me happy—as happy as I can ever
be."
"Happy, Constance! Can revenge bring happi-
ness? Will it not serve only to keep open wounds
which ought to close? Does it not keep in your
mind thoughts of a bad man, in place of the beauty
and nobleness of the man whose death you wish to
avenge? To be in thought a murderer—to wish
to kill—that seems to me so dreadful that I ask
myself if you can be your own self, or if disease or
shock has changed you. Let it all go—oh, dear
Conny, let it go. Leave it to God to deal with this
man. Be sure that in the end he will repay. He
has his ways."
Constance stood up. "His ways—yes. Suppose
I am the instrument of his justice. Why not? How
do you know? That seems horrible to you; but I
can't help it; we have no common ground. I have
love, and loss, and hate; you have never known them.
Leave me to do what I think right, for neither
man nor woman can turn me nor stop me. I will
never willingly speak of this again, and neither
must you."
Puzzled, worried, and hurt, Susan saw that to
reason would be vain; that the appeal of affection
was thus lightly put aside filled her with slowly
gathering anger.
"I shall do now as you say; but I make no
promises. You surely do not expect me to help
you.''
"I do not. I want you to be the dear, good woman
you are. I shall neither ask nor need help."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
283
rows of box. His face changed. He half raised
his hand in obedience to the habit of salute, dropped
it, and went on.
She turned out of the gate, paused a moment, and
followed him. Half-way down the slope to the
main street he looked back. He saw twenty feet
behind him the tall, black-robed woman. He turned
to go up the main street. It was the busy hour
near to noon. Both were familiar figures. People
looked after them in wonder. Two gentlemen in
talk on the board sidewalk lifted their hats as she
went by, and, observing Greyhurst in front of her,
remarked on it as strange. Did Greyhurst know
who was behind him? Did she recognize the man?
They passed on. At his office he looked back once
more. She was very near, and had raised her veil.
She met his gaze with steady eyes. He saw the
white face with its look of immeasurable pain, and,
passing into the house, fell on a chair, limp and wet
with the sudden sweat of an emotion akin to ter-
ror.
Nor was she less observant. She was aware of
the quick change in a face where all expressions
revealed themselves with distinctness, and went on
her way with her share of a moment of agitation,
murmuring: "I must be to him like a ghost. I
know now that he suffers—and he shall suffer."
From that time she was more frequently seen in
the morning hours on the one busy street of the
town. Now and then, as if by chance, she came
upon the man she sought, but was careful not to
overdo that which would lose force by repetition.


284
CONSTANCE TKESCOT
Twice she followed him on his homeward way. The
last time was at dusk. He became aware of her
presence as he left the verge of the town and
turned into West Street. She kept her place some
few paces behind him. He did not look back, but
was terribly conscious of her nearness. He could
not have described or analyzed the form of dis-
tress which knowledge of her presence brought upon
him. He longed to look back at her, and was sure
that to do so would abruptly freshen the memory
of all he desired to forget. Now, for the first time,
he felt fear in its purity—such fear as the child
has when going up-stairs in the dark—fear unasso-
ciated with a definite object or distinct idea.
At his own gate he turned and looked back. The
tall black figure was but ten steps away. Of a
sudden, obeying one of those unreasonable impulses
to which he was subject, he went toward her.
For a moment she was afraid, but did not move.
He stopped before her and said: "My God! have
you no pity? Cannot you see how I suffer?"
'' Suffer!'' she cried. "I am glad that you suffer!
Pity? I have for you such pity as you had for
him and me!"
With no more words, she crossed the street, and
her dark figure was lost in the deepening gloom.
The man looked after her for a moment, and then
walked back to his house, and, moving heavily, went
up the steps, murmuring, "My God! my God!"
Before this he had thought it hardly strange that
he met her so often, for every one met almost daily
in the one business street. He had felt it keenly.


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
285
But now he became certain that she had of purpose
chosen to meet and follow him. This sudden sense
of being causelessly afraid for a little while occu-
pied his consciousness to the shutting out of other
thought. He was a man who had been in battle
fearless, and so rash as to be blamed for leading
his men into needless peril. What now did he
dread? He did not know, and that troubled him.
These revelations of what lies hidden in the abysses
of the mind are, at times, startling evidence of
how little we know of the world of self. That it
was not physical fear was what disturbed him most.
When seated in his library, he succeeded in fas-
tening his attention on the tangled accounts of a
bankrupt client's business. He was apt at figures
and liked to deal with them. After two hours of
hard work he began to consider the situation in
which he was placed. To have it continue would
be intolerable. He had to be absent for a week,
but must return for a day to speak at or near the
county town. Then he was to go to California and
attend to certain mining interests in which the gov-
ernor and other political friends were concerned.
He would be away at least two months, and, for
more than one reason, looked forward with relief
to this absence, and with hope as to what it might
bring into his life.
However adroitly Constance managed to make her
encounters with Greyhurst seem to be accidental,
the fact that she did not avoid him, as most women
so situated would have done, excited very natural
surprise in the little town.


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
287
poor Trescot he has been—well, softer, less easily
put out. But of late he is moody and silent; every
one notices it."
"I wish he would go away, or that she would.
However, I will talk to Susan, who is in despair,
and I will see the doctor."
She did both, and, as a consequence, the next
morning Dr. Eskridge called on Mrs. Trescot. He
led a busy life, and she had seen but little of the
cheerful, ruddy, rather stout old man with small
bright eyes and alert ways. He had been at one
time in charge of the State asylum for the insane, and then, during the war, a surgeon in Pickett's
division of the Confederate army.
While waiting for Mrs. Trescot he looked at the
pictures, and then fell with interest upon a maga-
zine, which he laid down as Constance with both
hands made him welcome, reproaching him with
neglect of an old patient.
"If I come I stay too long, and I am a busy old
fellow. I was reading in this journal an account
of Pickett's charge. I was behind his line and got
somehow too near. I have still a memorial in my
leg. May I take the journal home?"
"Of course. My husband was on the hill. How
strange it all seems!"
He looked at the mournful figure and the sad
white face, and said to her:
"You will not mind my saying that I and others
of our old army both liked and respected your
husband."
'' Oh, I know, I know. And he was so sure of the


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
291
love you. If any woman I did not know and like
as I do you were to take so petty a mode of aveng-
ing a wrong as great as you have suffered, I should
not hesitate to say how it looks to me and to those
you cannot fail to respect."
"What do you mean, doctor?"
"I mean that it is vulgar."
She colored slightly. "You have certainly the
courage of your opinions—"
"And, too," he said, "a very great regard for
a lady who should be far above the use of such
means.''
Nothing he had said or could have said affected
her as did this sentence. She saw it all in a minute,
and gave way at once.
"If it be true that he suffers through me, I am
glad to have hurt the man. But I see the force of
what you say. I shall not do as I have done; and
there are other ways which will neither annoy my
friends nor make me seem ridiculous."
"Thank you," he said, well pleased. "But that
is not all. You speak of other ways. Take care.
The steady thinking on anything that involves emo-
tion is full of peril to a woman like you; in fact,
to any one, man or woman."
'' I know that. It is true, and I am guarding my-
self with care. I have taught myself to deal coldly
with this matter. I keep myself busy. I ride; I
read; I draw; I go among your poor. I have had my
lesson."
"But what do you mean to do?"
"Now there, my dear doctor, I must stop. I do


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
293
drove away: "The man is doomed. If she persists
he will do something—God knows what. He will
be unable to bear it. These sensitive people never
can stand still and wait. They are always nettled
into doing something." He began to consider, as
he drove into the country, whether he had ever seen
any one like Constance Trescot. He at last smiled
with the satisfied nod of a man who has found what
he was looking for. There was something feline in
her delicate ways, her grace of movement, her neat-
ness, the preservation of primitive passions and in-
stincts, her satisfaction in the chase and in tor-
turing. "Let us add," said the old doctor, "the
human intelligence, and we have her. Get up, Bob!
It is as near as we shall ever get."
Two days later the doctor received a note:
"My dear Doctor:
'' Yesterday, as Susan wanted to hear a real stump-
speech, Colonel Dudley rode with us to Ekron; and
there, on the edge of the woods, he got us a standing-
place (every one was very kind) close to the speak-
ers. I soon had enough of the sectional eloquence;
but Susan, who was taken with the humor of it,
would not go. I had been told that that man was not
to be present. When he got on the stump, not ten
feet from us, for a moment he spoke to the people
behind him. Colonel Dudley said to me: 'Come
away; I did not expect this.' Susan said: 'I must
go.' I said: 'No; I will not go; I will not be driven
away.' As I refused he turned and saw me. I can-
not describe to you with what satisfaction I saw


294
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
what before I had only guessed. I cannot describe
how his face changed. His voice broke for a mo-
ment, and then he went on. He was embarrassed.
That might well be; but there was more. He got
confused and then was clear again. Some one said
he was drunk. Although he tried not to look at me,
the speech was evidently a failure, and the crowd
surprised. As he stepped down I said: 'Now we
will go.'
"I write because I was seen by many who will
think that I went purposely or should have left at
once. I wish you, who will hear of it, to know that
I did not break my promise.
"Believe me, with grateful remembrance,
"Constance Trescot."
"But she stayed, for all that," said the doctor.
"How will it end?"
Others were as curious; and over the cocktails
and juleps at the club on the evening of the stump-
speaking, the ex-Confederates and others discussed
this novel vendetta. As the doctor entered with
Colonel Dudley, a young fellow was describing the
scene and the evident effect upon Greyhurst. An-
other, a little older, said: "I saw her follow him
down the street. How the deuce could she want to
come back here? It must be awful."
"Yes; for him."
Said Dudley: "You boys had better drop that. I
took this lady to the meeting. No one knew that Mr.
Greyhurst was to speak. And let me, as an old fel-
low, remind you that we do not discuss ladies here."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
295
"Oh, but, colonel, this was such an amazing
thing."
"Would make a good article," said the editor, as
they sat down.
"But never will, sir," remarked the doctor,
sharply, over the shrubbery of his julep.
"Of course not," said the editor.
The young fellows apologized, and the colonel
began to chat with the doctor.
A few minutes later Greyhurst entered the smoke-
filled room. Without speaking to any one else, he
went over to where Dudley sat. "Will you do me
the favor to speak to me a few minutes? Not out-
side," he added a little louder, as men looked
around. The old Confederate rose, saying, "Of
course; but let no one take away my julep.''
"Not outside," Greyhurst repeated. "Up-stairs,
colonel."
Dudley followed him to the room above, where
were two candles, some chairs, a poker-table, and
mildewed walls.
"Let us sit down," said Greyhurst. "I shall not
keep you long."
"Very good; it is chilly here. What is it?"
Greyhurst said: "You will, I know, pardon me
if I am wrong; but you as much as told me I must
leave the board of the orphan home. I have since
learned, or inferred, that Mrs. Trescot was behind
the matter."
"Yes, in a way; indirectly. In fact, I have no
reason to conceal from you that she declined to
leave in the hands of the managers the money she


296
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
gave, because you were on the board. I thought her
justified, but of course I could not bring a lady's
name into the matter when I talked to you.'' Dud-
ley was not a man to excuse his actions. He expected
an angry answer. To his surprise, Greyhurst said
quietly:
"Yes, she was justified. May I ask if, when you
rode out with her to the meeting this afternoon, you
were aware that I was to speak?"
'' I was not. Is that all?" asked the colonel, as he
stood up.
"Yes, that is all," said Greyhurst, in tones both
sad and gentle; "and, sir, I trust that you will ac-
cept my excuses for such unusual questions."
"It is all right," said the colonel. Then, seeing
that Greyhurst still lingered, standing, with one
thumb on the table, something struck him in this
large, square-shouldered man with the dark eyes.
Either curiosity or faintly felt pity, or both, made
him say:
'' Is there anything else I can do for you 1''
"Yes; if I may keep you a few minutes."
"Pray, go on."
"I am in a situation, Colonel Dudley, which is
very unusual. I was unfortunate a year ago—most
unfortunate; and since Mrs. Trescot has returned
to St. Ann I fear that my presence, our accidental
encounters, our—well, I find it difficult to avoid
her. I put it as a man must do about a lady. It
has become unendurable." He did not wish to com-
plain that he was haunted by this living ghost. He
looked steadily at the old colonel, and added: "I


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
297
hope I make myself understood?" He was unwill-
ing to say that she followed him.
"I suppose," said Dudley, coldly, "that I must
admit that you do. It is plain enough as you put
it—unusual, too, as you state; but let me add that
I do not propose to discuss with you this lady's
course.''
Greyhurst said promptly: "I did not expect you
to do that. I wish to ask advice of an older man as
to what, as a gentleman, I should do."
"I can't give it, Mr. Greyhurst. There are rea-
sons why even to be asked is disagreeable to me. I
allowed you to question me in regard to my presence
with Mrs. Trescot at that meeting. I answered you
frankly. But I did not like it, sir; I did not like
it. If I had declined to reply we should have quar-
reled. I think this talk had better end before my
temper gives out—or yours."
Greyhurst had been looking down as they talked,
seeming to weigh his words. Now, with something
like a wan smile on his dark face, he said quickly,
as he looked up: "No man, Colonel Dudley, can
ever quarrel with me again, or make me quarrel."
Dudley's face cleared as he said at once, in his
frank, pleasant way: "I misunderstood. You must
pardon me. I am free to say to you that, little as I
like or approve this lady's course, you, sir, can do
nothing. I did not mean to advise, but now I have
done so, and I have only this to add. None of us
who know Mrs. Trescot are likely to stop her. I
saw her at the meeting. If ever a woman hated a
man, she hates you. Whether she is justified in her


298
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
course or not, you know best. You have made me
speak out, and I have had to express myself in a
way, sir, which is not agreeable to me and cannot
be pleasant to you."
"I have said that she is justified," said Greyhurst,
slowly. "I have had no day since—since I killed
that man which has not been full of regret. I do
not hesitate to say so to you. But a man must live.
I cannot go away; I have not the means. What can
Ido?"
"DoT Damn it! you can do nothing."
"Thank you; that is my own unhappy conclusion.
At all events, I shall be released for a time. I go
to California next week, and shall be gone a month,
or even two. You know, it is about Dexter's mines."
He said next, with a certain timidity: "Would
you do me the great favor to allow me to refer to
you some business matters while I am absent?"
Dudley hesitated, and then replied shortly: "Yes;
tell them to come to me."
"Thank you," said Greyhurst.
Upon this, they went down-stairs in silence. As
Greyhurst turned to go out, the old colonel, for the
first time, put out his hand, saying: "I am sorry
for you, Greyhurst, both for the past and for the
present. Goodnight."
The lawyer made no reply, and the colonel went
back to his euchre and the julep and the doctor.
"I was afraid," said the old army comrade, "that
there might be something unpleasant."
"No; but I had to speak my mind. He was as
sweet-tempered as—well, as you are, doctor."


CONSTANCE TRE8COT
299
"Then he is changed. In fact, since he killed
Trescot he is strangely patient. Every one notices
it."
"Damn him!" said Dudley. "I don't think he
would even kill a fly now. Your deal, doctor."
The game went on to the end, and the colonel,
who had won, said, laughing: "You are not in your
usual form, Eskridge."
"No; my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking of
Greyhurst, and what a mess he has made of his life.
I do not believe the man has a friend in the world;
and I suppose he quarrels with John Greyhurst as
often as with others. Many of us are not our own
friends. I doubt a little if he is even his own ac-
quaintance. ''
Dudley laughed. "You have a queer way of put-
ting things."
The doctor was in his speculative vein. He went
on.
"It was simple murder, that good fellow's death.
I wonder how a man feels after he has done a thing
like that. If he is educated and imaginative, and
has power to feel, it must set him apart, as it were,
in a kind of awful loneliness—a sort of solitary
imprisonment in himself."
"Oh, I don't suppose men take it that way, Esk-
ridge."
"Some; not all. Of course there are brutes who
have no power to suffer for what they do."
"And you think this man does suffer?"
"I do. I am sure of it."
"And so am I. Another julep, doctor?"


300 CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"No; I must go. I have one dying man to see,
and there is another soul about to fill up the ranks.
You see, I live on the skirmish-line of life."
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"Oh, I leave you to digest my remark." He went
out. laughing.


IV
the days went by, Greyhurst, some-
¥ A ~nsk w^a* relieved by the prospect of a long
aDsence> arranged his affairs, and pre-
Iresai pare(j himself for his journey to Cali-
fornia. Constance Trescot, well aware
of his plans, was deep in thought of the man who
was, for a time, to be out of her reach. Her in-
creasing abstraction, her lessening interest in books,
—and she had never been an eager reader,—her still
silent piano, all alike contributed to increase the
anxiety in which the elder sister lived. In fact,
Constance had exhausted her resources; but now an
accident came to her aid, and, doing for her that
which she never would have done, inflicted on her
enemy a torture beyond the dream of malice, and
far-reaching in its consequences.
An errand of charity to one of the families now
residing on the bluff had occupied her afternoon.
It was dusk and the shadows were deepening as
Constance walked slowly along a wood path which
led into the road on which she lived. As she came out
of the forest in the dusk she quickened her steps,
and, deep in thought, moved on, until of a sudden
she became aware of being on the same side of the
way and in front of the house in which Greyhurst
301


304
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
And still it meant even to his knowledge something
sinister, but about which it was possible to reason.
It affected him at the moment less than had done
the letters or telegram, or the presence of the woman
who had sent them. His fear was not so much of
what was as of what might follow. What did it
mean? Was he about to be ill? He resolved to see
Dr. Eskridge and to talk to him frankly. He awak-
ened the next day still seeing the face, at times dimly,
at others clearly. Its persistency troubled him.
Was it a symptom of some impending mental dis-
aster? Had his head been clear of late—his mem-
ory unimpaired? When the mind of the sensitive
becomes critical concerning the health of its own pro-
cesses, there is peril in the way. He found himself
caught in machinery not readily arrested by the
will which set it in motion. He had always been
in vigorous health and had rarely had occasion to
consult a physician. He had, however, lacked power
to dismiss unpleasant thoughts, and now the terror
of decay of reason haunted him unceasingly. And it
was a woman who had brought this fear upon him, a
woman against whom he was absolutely defenseless.
Early in the morning he gave the bag to a maid
and asked her, much to her amazement, to leave it
at Mrs. Trescot's. When it was laid on the break-
fast table beside Constance, her sister asked a ques-
tion in regard to it. Constance replied: "I lost
it yesterday. I suppose that some one, finding my
cards, has returned it."
"You are fortunate, dear."
"Yes, am I not?"


V HE town of St. Ann was prospering.
There were more horses hitched about
the gnawed posts in front of the gro-
cery-shops; more men in well-worn
gray coming in from the country to
buy or sell. In a word, there was more money.
There was also, as a consequence, less anxiety, and
more time, or, rather, more leisure; and the Christ-
mas season was less sad as the years went on.
Miss Susan Hood had thrown herself with energy
and good humor into the church work, and had re-
organized the Sunday-schools. The orphan home had
also her care, and as she had money and a bountiful
sense of the humorous aspects of life, she found
ready occasion for the varied forms of generosity of
which she was capable, and constant mild amuse-
ment in what she saw and heard. As concerned
Constance she was still uneasy, and the more so be-
cause she was sure that her sister had by no means
given up her designs against Greyhurst. The fact
that Constance sedulously concealed whatever she
was doing still further added to her discomfort, and,
except Mrs. Averill, there was no one to whom she
felt free to talk. She resolved once more to reopen
the subject with Constance.
20 305


306
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
On this special morning Miss Althea had been long
closeted with Mrs. Trescot, and when she had gone
Constance took up her garden gloves, flower-basket,
and scissors, and, putting on a long white apron,
went out into the little conservatory. Here she
found Coffin, who, under her instructions, was with
much labor of mind slowly learning how to care for
flowers. His old, weather-worn face was more eager
than usual.
He said: "That man is going away; I thought to
come and tell you."
"Are you sure? I heard that he was. Don't
speak so loud."
Tom's voice had the volume needed for great
wood spaces.
"Yes, I 'm sure. His old black woman she says
so. It 'll be for a month or two.''
"Indeed! So long!" She stood before the lame
little woodman, taller by a head. For him there was
the sense of a commanding presence, remembrance of
kindness with flavor of comprehending friendliness,
and yet such sense of aloofness as the statue of a god-
dess may have had for some Greek hewer of wood.
She stood still in thought; at last he asked:
"Was you worried over that vermin?" Her ven-
geance had brought her into singular partnerships.
"No; not while he is here."
"Thought you would have liked him clean out
of sight."
"No; I mean to ruin him. If he goes away I can-
not."
What she had done or desired to do he did not


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
307
know; nor, had he known, would her slow methods
have appealed to his coarser conception of what he
called "evenin' up" things.
He said: "It might be best to do what I said.
I 'd do it. You see, ma'am, it 's sure, and it don't
give no trouble."
Greyhurst's life hung on the issue of a minute of
indecision. A wild anger came upon her at the
thought of his escaping. A little flush grew on
the pale cheek, and then faded.
"No," she said. "I can wait."
"Well," returned Coffin, "it is n't my notion of
things. I 'd just kill him and get done with him."
"No; you must not do that."
"It 'll be as you say. 'Bout these rose-bugs,
they 're mighty troublesome, ma'am."
He dismissed the matter lightly. He was a man
of the Tennessee border, where women do not value
a man who cannot shoot straight—a land of long-
nourished hatreds, where men kill but do not steal,
where the vendetta is medieval in the simplicity of
its one demand. He could not comprehend the feel-
ing which stayed his hand, but, nevertheless, he was
entirely the vassal of her will.
She answered one or two questions about the flow-
ers with some directions, and sent him away with
roses for Mrs. March.
While her sister was thus engaged, Susan had
been in the parlor in earnest talk with the new rec-
tor of the church at St. Ann. Very soon after her
arrival she had added to her church work some care
of the freed slaves, and, happy in the relief of new


308
CONSTANCE TEESCOT
duties, had brought inspiriting good sense and
money to aid the many forms of usefulness in which
Mr. Kent was interested.
The rector had been talking of George Trescot.
"You must have met him," said Susan.
"No; we exchanged visits, but he was much of
the time absent since I came; and for a few weeks
I was myself in the East."
'' I am sorry you never met.''
"And I. I think I mentioned that we were re-
lated—distant cousins. Perhaps, if Mrs. Trescot
knew that, she might be willing to see me. I very
much want to help you and her. And there is so
much wild talk—"
"Yes, I know; but my sister has opinions which
I neither share nor like—oh, excuse me, I fear I
must cut short our talk. I see that her gardener
is going, and I have to see her before she goes out.''
He rose, saying: "I shall try again. I hope to
have better luck."
"I shall see you to-morrow at the library. The
books I ordered should be here to-day."
"One moment, Miss Hood. May I be pardoned
if I ask why Mrs. Trescot never comes to church?"
"That is a long story, and a sad one. Some day
we will talk about it, not now."
"You will not forget the flowers for Sunday?"
"Of course not."
After he left her, Susan went out into the little
conservatory.
Said Constance: "Has your rector, or director,
gone? What can you find to talk about? He makes


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
309
rather long visits. I must admit that he rides well
for a preacher. I saw him pass yesterday. He
looks to be about twenty-one."
"He is not young," said Susan, shortly.
"Oh, preachers never are young. He is rather
good-looking.''
"Yes, rather. I wish you would see him when he
calls. You see every one else."
"Oh, some day, if you really want me to see him."
"I should like it, Conny."
Susan was indisposed to discuss the rector, or to
insist too much on his being received; but why, she
would have been unable, or, more likely, unwilling,
to say. She changed the subject.
"You had your two beauties, Conny. You think
I talk long with Mr. Kent. How you find talk for
an hour with that depressing Althea I cannot ima-
gine. Her head wabbles about as if she were a
feeble chicken, and her nose—did you ever notice
her nose?"
"No," said Constance. "She is a very good wo-
man, and very unfortunate. I do not see why you
make fun of her."
"I? The fun is ready made; and really, Conny,
I can pity, and could, at need, help her, with-
out enjoying her society. What do you talk
about?"
'' Oh, many things.''
Susan had overheard portions of Althea's gossip.
"I think I could guess. Is it never to end?"
Constance, who had been moving about the room,
turned on her.


310
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"I thought, Susan, we had agreed to dismiss that
subject."
"No; or, if we did, I cannot go on in this way.
I did not lightly bring this matter up. Oh, Conny,
if you only would—"
"I would do anything else for you. But for the
present you may be at ease. He is going away—
to be gone, perhaps, for two months."
"I am very glad."
"And I am not. Oh, there is the lunch-bell."
She was already deeply engaged in a new scheme,
and feared to face any more of Susan's questions.
To plan possible or impossible means of wound-
ing her enemy gave her the only satisfaction her
narrowing life afforded. To talk of him was pain-
ful, or at least Susan was not the neutral-minded
confessor who would see in her course the least
shadow of human excuse.
After lunch she went into Trescot's study. The
feeling which rigidly guarded the room from any
presence but that of Constance seemed to Susan
morbid. Nevertheless, she had respected her sister's
wish. Constance entered and sat down. When
there she had at times that sense of the nearness
of the dead which many have known—and known
with intense longing for the "sound of a voice that
is still."
She had long since brought his sword from her
chamber and placed it on his table. She picked it
up and dusted it, and laid it down. The room
was full of him. She walked about, thinking of her
dead, and then, with another thrill of anguish, of


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
311
the lost child. "And you would have had me for-
give!" she cried. "Oh, George, George, how can
I! You are dead; I shall see you no more. My
baby is dead—and I am dead, too—oh, dead to love,
to joy! And it gets worse and not better."
She sat down and rocked back and forward,
clasping her head. "Perhaps to die were better."
Her face twitched around the mouth, her jaw stif-
fened, and she recalled again the doctor's warning.
Even the luxury of self-abandonment to lonely
grief was not for her. She controlled herself, but
not readily. The passions are near neighbors. And
with the thought of Greyhurst, her anger rose to
stormy force. "And he did it!" she cried, "and
lives, and is to have years of ease, and at last for-
getfulness. Never, never, if I can help it—and no
one shall stop me; and, if all else fail, I have always
that—that!" She was thinking of the temptation
Coffin had crudely set before her.
She grew agitated, looking about her. "Not
here; I must not think of it here. Would he forgive
me? He would know I had to go my way."
She went out of the room and met her sister, who,
seeing her agitation, said: "My dear Conny, what is
the matter?"
"Nothing is the matter. I wish you would let me
alone.''
"Oh, Conny, what have I done?"
She was hurt; but was far too wise to say
more, for of late her sister had become irritable.
As she turned aside, repressing the sharp answer
she felt inclined to make, Constance said: '' Where is


312
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
the paper? I have not seen it to-day. You always
take it." It was her habit to run over it daily.
"I will get it," said Susan. "Wait, dear; I know
where it is."
When she returned Constance took the little sheet.
Presumably she found what she sought.
"The land sale we mentioned some time ago in-
cludes a long stretch of shore to the south of the
Hood estate. It was, we understand, bought by Mr.
Greyhurst; but whether for himself or others is
not known. The water at this place on the river-
front is shallow; but if, as we hear, the deep-
water front between it and the Hoods' has also
been acquired from the Baptistes, it would give Mr.
Greyhurst's frontage all it needs, and add much
to its value."
For a little while Constance sat thinking. Then
she rose, dressed herself for the street, and went out.
She had more than enough to think about. Al-
thea had heard that Mr. Greyhurst was bent on
other business than mines. They did say that there
was a lady in Sacramento who had refused to
marry him while his divorced wife lived. But now,
that lady being dead a year or more, it might be that
she would reconsider her refusal. No; Althea did
not know her name. She was said to be rich.
At first Constance thought it an unlikely bit of
gossip; but if it were true her foe might escape.
She had fed the flame of her anger with the fuel of
grief, and, as was usual with her, this surrender
to passionate sorrow left her set and resolute. She
must know more. And so Althea was petted and


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
319
causeless fear—well, something like the terror a
timid child has when alone in the dark."
"Indeed!" said the doctor. "Is that all, or is
there anything else?"
"No; that is not all. I have also been annoyed
by seeing a face in the air, a little to the left. It
is lost when I look down. It appears as if made of
gossamer, and I see things through it. Does it or
the other trouble represent any probability of mental
failure?"
He was sweating as he spoke, and wiped his fore-
head repeatedly.
The doctor toyed with a paper-cutter, a habit he
had when intensely interested.
"You are well otherwise?"
"Yes. I have lost appetite and flesh, but otherwise
I am as usual. I should add that I still have at
times that inexplicable fear; the vision is nearly al-
ways present. I cannot get rid of it."
"Indeed! No headaches?"
"No, never; a slight vertigo now and then. I
never drank to excess, and less now than ever. I
smoke too much; but, you see, I have been worried
about business matters and—about other things."
"As you look up, now, do you see the face?"
"I do."
"Is this phantasm that of a face you have ever
seen?"
The question was natural and innocent, the reply
startling.
"My God! doctor. It is the face of the man I
killed!"


320
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"I beg pardon, Mr. Greyhurst. I am sorry—sorry
I asked, and very sorry for you. I could not have
dreamed of this. I am sorry."
"I am glad one man is sorry. I am in a hell of
sorrow.''
"That can't be helped, I fear."
"No, I suppose not; but I have got to live—and
there is Mathilde, my child. Does this mean any-
thing serious—that is what I want to know—this
specter—that fear? I can stand it if it does not
imply the nearness of some mental failure."
"Before I answer, may I venture to ask if this
spectral illusion came only at times and then more
and more often, and was there any immediate cause?
Do not reply if to do so annoys you."
Greyhurst read in the grave and kindly face, so
keen and attentive, sympathy which included in
its charity alike the weaknesses and the crimes of
men. He, too, like others, felt the human craving
to escape by confession from the loneliness of re-
membered sin. For a moment he reflected, and then
said: "I may as well tell you all."
"Not unless it will help me to help you." He dis-
trusted his own increasing curiosity, and was there-
fore careful as to how far he should invite confi-
dences.
"Yes, you may help me. God knows, I need ad-
vice—counsel."
"But first," said Eskridge, "let me say that the
face you see will fade away in time, unless the cause
which occasioned it is repeated."
"Of that I cannot be sure. I may as well tell you
all."


322
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"I can do nothing. Regret—remorse, if you like
—is the only thing a man can give. I know what
I have done; but I must live."
"Yes, yes," said the doctor, reflectively. "Could
you not go away and live elsewhere?"
"No, I cannot. I have my girl at school in Cin-
cinnati, as you know. I am, or I was, better off; but
this land business seriously embarrasses me, and I
must take care of the child. All my interests are
here; I cannot go away; I fear for what that woman
may do. At first it troubled me, but I said to my-
self that she could do no more; now I am honestly
afraid. I credit her intelligence, doctor, with ter-
rible capacity to hurt me. Can I bear this strain?
Am I now breaking under it? I have reason to hope
that I may marry again. The lady lives in Sacra-
mento. I hope to be able to explain to her—I—"
He hesitated.
"Indeed!" exclaimed the doctor. "But you mean
to tell her? She will have heard, of course. You
will do well to be frank."
"Yes, of course. She knows what my life has
been. She, at least, is a woman. This other is a
devil."
The doctor became yet more grave. "Whatever
she is, you may count on her unending hatred. If
you marry,—and I hope you may,—you will not—
must not—live here.""
"No; not if I marry. And let me say that Miss
Wilson shall know in the frankest way just what
you know. Our acquaintance began through my
carrying her wounded brother out of a heavy fire


VI
HEN Constance quietly related to Su-
san what she had done about the land,
the elder sister was as near to reason-
able wrath as it was possible for her
to be. They were at breakfast when
this revelation was unintentionally drawn out, not
altogether to Constance's satisfaction.
Susan had said: "I want, Conny, to put a new
roof on the church, and I thought you would like to
buy the land northwest of the churchyard. They
talk of stables there."
"The church roof does not interest me; the other
does, Susan. But I cannot buy anything now. I
have found use for all my spare income."
Susan looked up. ''And for what ?''
"You may as well know it from me, sister. Some
one will be sure to tell you, and I suppose this
wretched little town will feed its gossip with this
for a month of orphan sewing-circles."
"What have you been doing now, Conny?"
'' I have paid an extravagant price for the strip of
frontage next to ours. Mr. Greyhurst owns the lots
beyond it. His land is valueless without the addi-
tion of the deep-water front between us. He was in
treaty for the Baptiste strip, and I bought it. I
said I meant to ruin him. I had to tell you. I do


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
327
him to interfere. I have never thought of doing so.
I do not mean to imply that he has never spoken
of what you have been doing. Everybody talks of it.
I think Mrs. Dudley may have spoken to him of
your strange conduct, and he has mentioned some
things to me which I had never heard of, and which I
trust may not be true. But, dear Conny, you are
the talk of the town."
"I do not care."
"That is the worst of it." She paused, and then
added: "But I will say no more. I have done, and
when you say that not even affection for me would
check you, it is time I ceased to speak."
Constance studied the pained face a moment, and
then returned: "Yes, we had better stop here; and
as to your rector, I apologize. I did not imagine
you cared. I have no fancy for clergymen; but
if you want me to see him, I will."
"Oh, I don't care whether you see him or not."
Susan's temper was failing her at last.
"Susan," said Constance, "that is n't like you.
I don't want to hurt you. If I have said too much,
forgive me."
"Oh, Conny! You have done so much that it is
hard to forgive where I so constantly disapprove."
"Yes, that may be. I can't help it. As for Mr.
Kent, I know you wish me to see him. I will, I will.
I presume," she added lightly, "that he will not
undertake my reformation."
"He is a gentleman, and my friend." Susan
flushed a little as she stood up. "I must go to my
Bible-class. I almost forgot it. Good-by."


330
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
not wonder at it. I wish it were in my power to help
you."
"No one can do that."
"It is needless to hide from you, Miss Susan,
what every one knows. That miserable man has gone
away. Will not that put an end to your sister's
strange conduct?"
"It might with any one else. It will not with
her. From her childhood it has been like this. You
are very kind, but it is like the possession one reads
of—no one can help her or me. But I must go—
good-by."
He had seen much of her in the parish work and
elsewhere, and now, as often before, noted with
pleasure the two gifts she had in common with Con-
stance—the charm of grace in movement, and, with
less height, a faultless figure. He quite forgot his
intention to call on Mrs. Averill, and remained for
a moment looking after Susan Hood.
Dr. Eskridge, on the farther side of the street,
benevolently regarded this interview and its results,
when Kent, seeing himself observed, crossed over,
guiltily conscious, like a boy caught in an apple-
orchard, but as yet regretfully innocent of the joy
of transferred property.
"If you are going my way," said the doctor, "I
will walk with you; but you must remember the an-
tiquity of my legs, and not travel at your usual rate.
A fellow must begin to be old somewhere. I am as
well pleased that it is not in the head. You have
been in the mountains, I hear. Get any deer?"
"Yes, three; and I had some queer experiences.


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
331
It is like nothing I ever saw elsewhere. I camped
in the snow with a mild-looking little man who is
said to have killed three men. He explained to me,
in a casual way, that he preferred to avoid a certain
settlement because a man lived there whose father
he had shot."
"I suppose," said Eskridge, "that it was one of
those well-preserved vendettas."
"Yes; just that. He remarked that it would n't
matter if he were alone; but he did n't want to get
me into trouble. We were lying by the camp-fire
at night, and he went on to tell me of his quarrel,
much as you might of any of the commonplaces of
life."
"Did you take his morals in hand?" said the doc-
tor, with a questioning look at the strong face of the
younger man, for whom he had both respect and
friendly regard.
"No, not then. I did not see my way. Later
in the evening he asked me what I did for a living.
I said I was a preacher, an Episcopal clergyman.
This appeared to interest him. He said there were
none of that kind in the hills—only Methodists.
Upon this I asked if they preached against killing
one another. He said yes; but when a man shot
one of your people, what could you do? I could
only reply that Christ taught us to forgive injuries.
He was silent for a moment, and then said: 'It
would n't work in the mountains, because, next
thing, the fellow would kill you to get clear of your
killing him; and where, then, would the forgiveness
come in?'"


332
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
The doctor laughed. "I should have been puz-
zled to reply, or at least so as to be of any real use.
What did you say?"
"What could I say? The very basis of the morals
of forgiveness was wanting. I tried to clear the
ground a little. He listened, and when at last I
quoted, 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the
Lord,' he said he had 'knowed' that tried by fel-
lows that were afraid, and had n't ever seen that
it worked."
"It must be a strange life," said Eskridge. "But,
Kent, here we have in this little town a woman
who is no better than your friend. A stranger
story could hardly be. Doctors, soon or late, hear
everything; and I perhaps know more of it than
any one else. I have long meant to talk to you
about it. Both these sisters must be suffering.
May I ask if you have any influence with Mrs.
Trescot?"
"None at all, doctor. She has, I fear, like these
men, nothing to which I can appeal."
"And Miss Susan?"
"She has failed—altogether failed."
The doctor reflected with approval on the inti-
macy with Susan which enabled Kent to answer
as he had done.
"Well, the man has gone away. I hear from more
than one source that he is engaged to a Miss Jean-
ette Wilson. We used at one time to see her here,
a very sweet, intelligent, pretty girl, with a great
deal of money. If it be true, this may end a fool-
ish and wicked business and enable Greyhurst to


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
333
live elsewhere, as I am assured he would very gladly
do."
"It is almost too good to be true. Do you think,
doctor, that he has ever sincerely repented of that
awful murder? I hear men say so."
"Repented, Kent? No! Not in your sense. I
am sure that he is punished by regret and the most
honest self-reproach. I know that he suffers. Mrs.
Trescot has punished him with such ingenuity of
revenge as almost makes one pity the man. This last
land business has terribly embarrassed him in regard
to money. But the course she has taken has inflicted
suffering of various kinds on innocent people,—
and, above all, on her sister—to me the finer nature
of the two."
"Yes, her sister," repeated Kent, softly. "Per-
haps, when Mrs. Trescot learns of this other wo-
man, she will give up."
"I hardly think so. Le diable d'une idee is a very
persistent fiend, and very mischievous."
"Yes; the devil of one idea," said Kent.
While the two men were thus discussing her,
Constance, liking the cold air and the brilliant sun-
shine, was seated on the back porch. She was re-
flecting with her too habitual intensity upon what
she had done. There were minutes when she was
made vaguely uneasy by the gradual failure of her
interest in books and flowers, and by her difficulty
in setting aside schemes which she knew to be ut-
terly vain. Moreover, the satisfaction she promised
herself in creating misery and adding ruin was not
such as she had expected. How much Greyhurst


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
337
He took her hand. "This must not go on."
"Hush," she said. "Here comes Constance."
As they stood up, she raised his hand to her lips.
He bent over and kissed her forehead.
"You must not," she said shyly.
"But I did," he replied; and, as they drew apart,
Susan, flushed, tearful, and not unhappy, said
quickly: "I must go—oh, do let me go!" and leav-
ing him, passed in haste through the back parlor and
up-stairs.
At another or an earlier day, the unusual speed
of Susan's exit, and Kent's slightly embarrassed
look, would not have escaped notice from Constance,
who now entered from the hall. The younger sis-
ter was, however, freed from suspicion by the too
constant ideas which occupied her mind. She said
graciously: "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Kent;
and how delicious your venison was!''
At times she had seen him in the street, and twice
at the Averills'; but, except for a moment, never
in her home or elsewhere. Something in his gen-
eral bearing disturbed her; was it because he looked
like some one? He had very little of the conven-
tional clergyman in dress or manner, and Constance
knew in a minute or two that she was talking to a
man of her own class, and accustomed to the ways
and habits of a larger world than she had found
at St. Ann.
'' I must say to you, Mrs. Trescot, how much plea-
sure it gives me to see you. I am kept pretty busy
among these unlucky freedmen, who are like chil-
dren, and I have had very little time for social 22


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
339
her memory. She said: "They were most kind to
me in my great trouble—most kind. I shall never
forget it."
"Mrs. Trescot," he said, "as you have spoken of
that sad calamity, may I venture to say that I am
a distant cousin of Qeorge Trescot? My grand-
father went from Massachusetts to Carolina."
Then Constance understood. There was some
occasional reminder in Kent of her husband's face.
She said, with something of her old interest:
"There is a likeness; it is very, very pleasant to me.
I wonder that Susan never spoke of it." Susan
had her own reasons for saying very little to her
sister. "But Susan is so wrapped up in her poor,
and your Bible-class, and the freedmen, that very
little else interests her,"—which was not Reginald
Kent's opinion.
Then the talk fell upon the stormy politics of the
day, and the last novel of Thackeray, which she had
not read. As he talked—and he talked well—he
felt, rather than saw, that he soon failed to interest
Mrs. Trescot.
As he rose, Constance said: "You will come
again?"
"Yes," he said; "it will give me great pleasure." She watched him as he went, and said to herself:"Well, for a clergyman, that is an unusual man." He had said not a word of her absence from
church—nor, in fact, anything to remind her that
he was a clergyman. That he rode well, could
rough it with the mountain-men, hunt on snow-
shoes—all were to Constance's liking; but, above all,


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
341
make all else secondary in value, and, as is the case
with the domination of a fixed idea, to impair, in
time, the competence of will and of reason. Thought
is then emotionally disturbed, and, soon or late, mere
indecision and indefinite craving replace resolute
and well-considered plans of action. Constance was
near the verge of such a condition, but still far
enough away to feel alarmed at her lessened effi-
ciency. She was irritable, spent more time alone,
rode less frequently, and became indifferent as re-
garded her charities—all of which the watchful,
worried sister saw with the alarm of undiminished
affection. The pale face was thinner, the set look,
as she stood at times listless and unoccupied, more
intense. Meanwhile gossip ceased, or, for lack of
novel occasion, became uninteresting; and, because
of heavy rain, the river was rising and causing alarm
and excitement. There was something more serious
to occupy attention than Mrs. Trescot's strange
ways.
Miss Althea Le Moine still called on Constance;
but, her visits being no longer helpful, Constance sat
still while she talked feebly about the home and the
floods, dimly conscious that her useful patroness
was losing interest.


VII
ATE in February occurred the monthly
meeting of the women who managed
the home for orphans.
After the session, Althea was called
in to answer questions and receive di-
rections. The business having been concluded, the
ladies lingered.
Mrs. Dudley said: "I hear that the river is fall-
ing. It dropped five inches last night."
"Indeed!" returned Miss Bland. "That is good
news. But, dear me, what a dull winter it has been!
I was driving yesterday when I met Susan Hood,
on horseback, with Mr. Kent. I cannot imagine
what he sees in that homely old maid. They can't
talk Sunday-school all the time."
"She is anything but homely," said Mrs. Averill,
who loved Susan and disliked gossip. "Plain, if
you like, but surely not homely; and any one must
admit that she has a perfect figure."
'' Oh, that 's her gowns,'' remarked Miss Marcel.
Mrs. Averill smiled as she regarded Miss Marcel's
gaunt outlines, but was too kindly to do more than
whisper to her neighbor, Mrs. March, who smiled
in answer as Mrs. Dudley remarked aloud: '' She is
not too much of an old maid either for fine gowns or
for a clerical flirtation.''

342


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
343
"Oh, that would be too absurd!" exclaimed Miss
Bland, who had of late developed a novel interest
in altar decorations and Sunday-schools.
"He is certainly very handsome," said Mrs.
Averill, a little annoyed and more than a little
amused.
Mrs. March laughed. "My dear Eliza,"—this
was to Miss Bland,—"Miss Hood may be plain, but
her fortune is also plain; and, really, clergymen do
seem to capture the rich girls in a remarkable way.''
"Do not you think," said Mrs. Averill, in her
most quiet manner—"do not you think that we are
gossiping just a little more than is advisable 1"
"You are quite right," said Mrs. March; "I
agree with you, Eleanor. But I do love a good talk
about our neighbors; and, after all, we have not
been very vicious."
Mrs. Dudley, eager for an opportunity, remarked:
"Well, we shall see. But have you heard the latest
news?"
"Oh, what is it?" said Miss Marcel.
"Colonel Dudley consented to take charge of Mr.
Greyhurst's affairs while he was away—but that
is not all.''
"Was he not terribly broken up by that extraor-
dinary land purchase?" asked Mrs. March.
"Oh, awfully."
"It has always seemed to me," said Miss Bland,
"that Constance Trescot's conduct was most un-
womanly. ''
"And unchristian, I should say," added Miss
Marcel, tartly.


344
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"I am sure that you will pardon me," said Mrs.
Averill, rising, "if I remind you that you are speak-
ing of a woman to whom our home is deeply in-
debted, and also that she is my friend."
"I know," said Miss Bland. "But, really, Mrs.
Averill—"
"No matter, my dear," returned the old lady.
"Let us drop it. I am sure you must agree with me
when you come to think about it."
"But I really must tell you my news," said Mrs.
Dudley, as they stood, about to leave. "Mr. Grey-
hurst is engaged to be married."
Even Mrs. Averill stopped, surprised into interest.
"Who is it?" asked two or three in a breath.
"I am sorry for her, whoever she may be," said
Mrs. Averill. "Can she know the man?"
"She is a Miss Jeanette Wilson. I think you
know her, Mrs. Averill. They were Mobile people.
She is very well off, and—"
"Oh, I remember her," broke in Miss Marcel.
"She was here, staying in the country, just after
the war—a little woman, a blonde. You met her,
Eliza," she added, turning to Miss Bland.
"Yes, a very quiet girl. I thought her mighty
dull. Well, that is news!"
Miss Marcel went out with Miss Bland, talking
volubly as to what that terrible Mrs. Trescot would
think of it.
Mrs. Averill walked homeward with Mrs. March.
For a few moments both were busy with their own
reflections concerning what they had just heard. At
last Mrs. March said:


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
345
"Eleanor, I wonder if it is really true? You
know the quality of Jane Dudley's gossip. I have
had reason to remember it."
"I should be glad if it were true, for—well, for
Constance Trescot's sake. It would put an end to
this unnatural vendetta."
"Is it unnatural, Eleanor? Unusual, I grant you
that; but only too natural. Think of the other
woman! I shall want more certain information be-
fore I believe it. You must recall the girl."
"I do, of course. She was here just after the
war; a very pretty blonde, with very gentle ways.
She must be by this time about twenty-five."
"Old enough to know better."
"Yes; but—ah, well, it is vain to discuss love-
affairs; no one ever knows the why and the where-
fore—least of all the people most concerned."
"Yes; I suppose one must admit that. I shall
be glad on account of Constance, and sorry for the
girl."
"Her father was on the general's staff, and I be-
lieve it is at least true that since his death the girl
has had money left her."
"A strange business," said Mrs. March. "Good-
by."
Althea, who had listened eagerly, was delighted
to have, at last, something of moment to say to Mrs.
Trescot. She was entirely without moral sense of
the right or wrong of Mrs. Trescot's ways, but dis-
tinctly aware of that lady's useful relation to Al-
thea Le Moine.
Mrs. Dudley sat down with those who remained,


346
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
profusely ready to discuss this matter, and to pour
out all she knew, with surmises in regard to what
she did not know.
When, late in the afternoon, Althea found Mrs.
Trescot alone on the back porch, that lady rose to
greet her, saying rather wearily:
"Ah, Miss Althea, sit down. Were you at the
meeting?"
"No; I am not allowed to be present, as I think
would be fitting. I was called in afterward, and I
am glad I was, because I know you will be in-
terested. ''
Constance thought it unlikely, but said languidly:
"Have the orphans got over the mumps, or refused
hash?"
"It is much more important, Mrs. Trescot," re-
plied Althea, with a clear conviction that the news
would reflectively add to her own value.
"Well, what is it?"
"It is really surprising—most surprising."
"Well, go on. What is it?"
"You will be interested."
"Good heavens!" said Constance, irritably.
"Will you have the goodness to say what you
mean?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Althea, with a little start, "I
beg pardon, Mrs. Trescot."
"Well, will you never go on?"
"Mr. Greyhurst is going to marry Miss Jeanette
Wilson. She is a blonde. She lives in San Fran-
cisco—no, I mean Sacramento. She is rich. She
is very small. I thought you would wish to know.


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
347
She lives with an old aunt, Miss Ruth Wilson.
Is n't it horrid?"
As Miss Althea delivered herself of this news,
in her usual inconsecutive manner, Constance sat
up, and, grasping the arms of her chair, listened.
Her languor was gone.
"Now be careful, Miss Althea," she said. "Is
this true? Is there any doubt about it?"
Althea repeated her tale with slight variations.
"Yes, Colonel Dudley has had a letter. It was an
old affair. Miss Wilson had once been in St. Ann,
or near it; but Miss Wilson is very strict in her
views, and would not listen to him while Mrs. Grey-
hurst was alive. You know she was divorced."
Mrs. Trescot rose. "I am sorry that I cannot ask
you to stay. I am not very well.'' In fact, she was
greatly agitated, and was eager to be alone.
"Yes; it is quite upsetting," said Althea. "One
never knows what will happen."
"Thank you for coming, and oblige me by saying
nothing to any one of your having told me. Pray
pardon my abruptness."
"Certainly. You do look upset."
"Yes; I am not quite myself to-day. Come soon
again, or if you hear more let me know at once."
Althea had made mischief. She was morally as
innocent as the slow-match between the engineer's
hand and the gunpowder in the mine.
Constance returned to the porch and walked
slowly to and fro.
Greyhurst had left St. Ann a half-ruined man,
and, she was sure, an unhappy man. She had


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
351
October, 1870, he murdered my husband, shooting
down in cold blood an unarmed man, partly crippled,
and who, at the moment, was going forward to meet
him with a message of peace and an offer to settle
generously the case Mr. Greyhurst had just lost.
'' If, for your misfortune, you doubt my statement,
General Averill will, I am sure, indorse all I have
said. Probably Mr. Greyhurst has told you his own
story. Whether you can trust it or not you must
decide. His only excuse can be that what he did
was an act of sudden anger, the fatal result of a
life without moral law and without religion.
"I leave you to imagine what prospect of happi-
ness a union with such a man may offer. I trust,
at least, to hear that you have received this letter.
To write it has cost me dear, and has renewed for me
a scene I saw and can never forget. "Very truly yours,
"Constance Trescot.
"Miss Jeanette Wilson."
Having shot her arrow, Constance waited with the
patience of a hunting animal. The letter thus sent
was not such as she could have written in her earlier
months of desire for retributive punishment. Cer-
tainly her motives in writing it were untruly stated,
and she had once been truthful. The cunning it
displayed was a sad illustration of the failure of
a character which, in the presence of one consuming
purpose, had ceased to be influenced by anything
else.
What pain she was to inflict on this unseen wo-


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
353
the mining-camps of the West. He described, with
every sign of regret, his sudden meeting with Tres-
cot, and told of his belief that he was about to use
a weapon, and of how the man who had insulted him
came forward with a smile of triumph, and then of
his own quick anger, and of the fatal consequence.
He was profoundly moved, and she hardly less so.
She was, and had long been, on the border-line
of that complete abandonment to love which, once
it is passed, excuses all things, and has cost women
so much unhappiness. Being, however, a person of
great good sense, of ready decision, and possessed
of that quick apprehension which is so mysterious
to the male mind, his statement checked her. Some-
thing in it—and she acknowledged the feeling with
pain—did not ring true. She refused finally to
commit herself; he must wait. She gave no distinct
reason, except that she was not sure of herself; and
he went away, not altogether dissatisfied. She had
been so tender, so sorry not to be able to say yes;
so full of what, in fact, was yearning pity afraid
to trust itself to speech.
When he had gone she would have had him back.
Had he returned, she would have had no more to
say than she had already said. She approved her
own decision, but knew it to be insecure; and,
fully comprehending the gravity of the question,
felt that, for her sake and his, she ought not to
leave him long without a definite answer. But how
could she become more reasonably sure of what this
man was? How could she be certain that he had
told her the facts as they had appeared to less par-


354
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
tial witnesses? She was a woman in her twenty-
fifth year, and more than usually mature. Her re-
ligious convictions were positive, her beliefs distinct.
It was not possible for her to fail to consider so
grave a matter apart from the views which had been
influential in a life not free from trials. She knew
that her lover was, by habit, indifferent to what she
regarded as of the utmost moment. She smiled
sadly as she thought of St. Paul's advice, and felt
that under ordinary circumstances she would have
been free to yield, trusting with affectionate hope
to what influence time and love might have. But
this other matter made her pause; no, that must be
seen by her as others saw it—those in whose hearts
there was no constant advocate willing or wishing
to believe John Greyhurst innocent and the sad vic-
tim of circumstances.
Resolute at last to put an end to her doubt, and
accustomed for years to independence of action, she
decided to go to St. Ann, and, in Greyhurst's ab-
sence, to see the Averills, whom she had known as
a girl, and who had been friends of her dead fa-
ther. She cherished a tender hope that here would
be the friends who would incline to think the best
possible of Greyhurst. She justified that night the
Eastern proverb, "In the Inn of Decision men sleep
well," and awakened self-assured that she was right.
She wrote to her cousins at Trois ties, on the river
below St. Ann, that she would make them a short
visit.
The night before her departure she received Mrs.
Trescot's letter. Her future darkened as she ran


VIII
ATE in the morning Miss Wilson ar-
rived at her cousin's home at Trois
lies, and, anxiously intent on her pur-
pose, took the afternoon ferry-boat to
St. Ann.
She had been in the town just after the war, and
when it was half in ruins. When about to ask the
way to General Averill's she met Mrs. Dudley.
"Why, this must be Jeanette Wilson," said that
lady. '' So glad to see you! How well you look, and
how young!" It was true. The blonde little woman
still kept the childlike look which is the peculiar
privilege of her type.
"Thank you, Mrs. Dudley. May I ask you to tell
me where the Averills live?"
"Up on the hill. And so you are engaged to be
married to Mr. Greyhurst." "No. I am not."
"Bless me, my dear! I could not have misunder-
stood my husband."
"I fear that you have done so. Mr. Greyhurst, I
am quite sure, never could have said that."
Mrs. Dudley would have been shocked had any
one accused her of intention to deceive, but she was

356


CONSTANCE TBESCOT
357
so habitually inaccurate as to have obtained for her-
self the credit of want of veracity. Like most in-
accurate persons, she was exceedingly positive.
When, therefore, Miss Wilson denied her engage-
ment, Mrs. Dudley returned: "Oh, that is always
the way with young women. I suppose it amounts to
the same thing."
"Hardly; and I must ask that you do me the
favor to contradict any rumor to that effect. I am
not engaged."
"Certainly; of course," said Mrs. Dudley, not at
all convinced. "What stay do you make in St.
Ann?"
"Only a day or two."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, that is all." Then she paused, and re-
solved of a sudden, and not very wisely, to take Mrs.
Dudley into her confidence.
"Would you mind my asking you to tell me
something ?''
"Certainly not. What is it?" She was at once
eager and curious. "Come in, my dear. It is only
a step to our house. Ah, here we are." When they
were seated she said promptly:
"And now, my dear, what can I do for you?"
"You can help me, I hope. Mr. Greyhurst is, I
believe, a friend of Colonel Dudley."
"My husband has charge of his affairs while he
is absent, but I could hardly say they were friends.
You see, Miss Wilson, in St. Ann they—" and she
checked herself.
"They what?" returned Miss Wilson, too greatly


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
369
"Thank you," said Miss Wilson, seeing how vain
was her quest. "Thank you. I am at least your
debtor for being frank with me. I think I under-
stand."
Mrs. Dudley was not so clear, and said awk-
wardly: "Oh, yes, of course. I thought you would.
What a lovely gown!"
Poor Miss Wilson, sad as was her case, came near
to smiling.
It was a crude method of dismissing the subject,
but it answered the purpose; and seeing that she
had failed, and urging her hostess no further, the
younger woman accepted the change of conversa-
tional base. She skilfully put aside some rather in-
trusive questions, and finally went away unsatisfied,
and leaving Mrs. Dudley eagerly desirous to know
more.
Jeanette was fortunate in finding Mrs. Averill at
home, and was grateful for the cordial welcome she
received, as that lady at once remembered her, and
that her visitor's father had served during the war
on the general's brigade staff.
Seeing the miniatures of the dead sons on the
table, Jeanette admired them, and asked how Mrs.
Averill came to be so fortunate as to possess them.
Mrs. Averill, suddenly recalling the fact that Miss
Wilson was said to be engaged to Greyhurst, hoped
that she would be content with the answer that they
were done in Italy, the kind gift of friends. Un-
luckily, Miss Wilson turned over the one she held,
and saw on the back, "From Susan Hood and Con-
stance Trescot."


360
CONSTANCE TBESCOT
She laid it down and, looking up, said: "Mrs.
Trescot is a friend of yours?"
"Yes, she is my friend; and her sister, too."
Miss Wilson, somewhat embarrassed, said: "I
never knew them. They came to St. Ann long after
my last visit"; and after a brief pause added: "And
—and he was killed—I mean Mr. Trescot."
Mrs. Averill saw her disturbed face. Leaning for-
ward, she took her hand and said in her low, sweet
voice: "Let us talk of something else, my dear.
That is a matter too sad to discuss. He, too, was
our friend."
"Oh, no, no; I came to talk of—of this: but it is
hard. You won't mind, will you? You see, I must;
I have to."
Mrs. Averill knew too well what was in the
younger woman's mind.
"Don't be worried, my dear. What is it? What
can I do for you?"
"I do not know. I am in trouble. Mrs. Dudley
tells me that I am said to be engaged to Mr. Grey-
hurst, and I am not; I may never be. Oh, dear Mrs.
Averill, I am in deep waters. I care for him,—oh,
very much,—but we are not engaged. I have had
in my life much sorrow, and I cannot now think of
marrying him without knowing all of that awful
story. I came here to know. He has given me his
own account of it; but it is natural he should make
the best of it; and, oh, won't you, dear Mrs. Averill
—won't you help me? Won't you tell me all about
what you and General Averill think should guide
me? I have no one to turn to—no one. I want


362
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
cot's letter on Mrs. Averill's lap, who said inno-
cently:
"Of course, my dear; what is it?" She put on
her glasses, recognized the handwriting at once, and
with surprise and pain read the letter. She was
shocked and sorry. "That is very terrible, my dear
child; how could she have done it—or done it as she
has?"
"If what she says be true, Mrs. Averill, and I were
in her place, I should have done it. I will ask but
one more question—a harmless one. Was Mr. Tres-
cot a man to—to provoke or grossly insult another?"
"No, no; he was not."
"What kind of man was he?"
"He was all that a man ought to be—a gentle-
man to the core, and in no way to blame; and now,
Miss Wilson, you must not ask me any more ques-
tions. I do not feel free to reply. I wish I could
help you, but I cannot; nor can I tell you who will
be willing to do so. I beg that you will not embar-
rass my husband by asking him."
"I will not. You have been most kind to me,
and I thank you; but some one must help me. May
I come again? I promise not to speak of this—
this subject."
The old lady rose. "You will always be welcome
—always. And I do trust that God may guide you
in the right way."
She went with her to the hall door, saying: "The
general will be glad to hear of you, and I know he
will like to talk with you about your father."
Mrs. Averill went back to her knitting, and re-


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
363
flected with womanly compassion upon the strength
and maturity of the character which could thus reso-
lutely determine the fullness of love impossible with-
out complete trust and entire respect.
Miss Wilson was, in fact, just what Mrs. Averill
supposed her to be. She had longed to say to the girl,
"Do not marry that man." Even on her door-step,
as they parted, she had felt that she had not done her
duty to a soul in deep distress.
Miss Wilson paused a moment in thought outside
of the gate, and then returning, found Mrs. Averill
in the parlor and asked her where she could find
Mr. Kent. Mrs. Averill replied, "At the church,
my dear," and gave her the needed directions, add-
ing that he would probably be in the vestry-room,
which he used as a study, or possibly in the library-
room of the parish Sunday-school. Could she desire
to ask his advice? That might be the case. He
would, she thought, be prudent.
The clergyman had occurred to the young woman
as for her a natural and final resort. Her friends
had written of him in their letters as a man of high
character and much liked. Where else could she go?
At all events, she would tell her story and ask his aid.
When she rang at the library door, it was opened
by Miss Hood, who had been busy with a case of
new books she had just received. She went with her
to the vestry, saying, as Kent opened the door,
"Here is a lady to see you, Mr. Kent."
As he made her welcome and she sat down, she
was for a moment disappointed, having, for no rea-
son, expected to see a man of full middle age. The


364
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
pleasant, smiling face, and something, she knew not
what, in his eyes, reassured her. When she apolo-
gized for troubling him, and he said, ''No, I am not
busy; I am much at your service," she felt at once
that here, at least, she would find a sympathetic
hearing, and making no further excuses, said sim-
ply:
"I am a woman, Mr. Kent, in great perplexity.
I am Jeanette Wilson. I may add that I am an
Episcopalian. For some time I was in more than
doubt as to whether I ought to marry a gentleman.
It is about him I wish to speak. While his wife
lived—you know, he had been divorced—I could not
even consider the matter. Now that she has died,
he has again asked me to share his life."
Kent listened with interested attention. She was
young, pretty, and evidently under the influence of
deep emotion. After a moment of pause she added:
"And now again I hesitate."
"May I, without indiscretion, ask his name, or
can I advise or aid your decision without that J"
"You may know him. He is Mr. John Grey-
hurst."
Kent was more than surprised.
"Yes; I met him once in Colonel Dudley's office. I can hardly say I know him, in any fuller personal
sense. But, pray, go on, and be sure that I shall
be most glad to give you any help in my power."
"I was sure you would. I am in the utmost per-
plexity. I know much of his life. He has told me
of the—the death of Mr. Trescot. I want to be-
lieve his account of it; but oh, Mr. Kent, at the


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
365
best it is terrible, and I fear to trust his statement.
If he has not been entirely truthful, I must know
it. With so much at stake, it is—it must be—nat-
ural for a man to find excuses for so awful a sin.
I want to help him to a better life. I want to be
able to marry him. Before I let myself go,—and
I could,—I am resolved to learn from some one the
whole truth. If he had repented in your sense and
mine, I should believe him; he has not. He regrets
and has suffered, that is sure; but oh, Mr. Kent,
that is so little—so very little. I have been to two
women to ask—to know more of Mr. Greyhurst, to
hear the whole story of this dreadful thing. I have
come from Sacramento to learn, and now no one will
tell me. If they are afraid of him, that is bad; but
at all events I must know. I do not want advice; I
want only full knowledge; then I shall decide for
myself.''
"Is this all, Miss Wilson?"
"No; while I was still in doubt, after Mr. Grey-
hurst left California, I received a letter from Mrs.
Trescot. I can put myself in her place, different as
our views must be. I might, God help me! have done
the same. Have the kindness to read it, sir. If she
tells the exact truth, he has not told all of it, and
it had been more wise to have wholly trusted a wo-
man's love and pity."
That was Kent's opinion as he considered the
childlike sweetness of the face below the blonde hair.
Without a word he took the letter. He frowned,
annoyed and displeased, as he read; and folding the
sheet, returned it.


366
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
"You are right," he said gravely. "As a clergy-
man, and also as a man, you have a right to all I
know.''
"If," she said, "it will make trouble for you with
Mr. Greyhurst—"
He interrupted her with, "That is no part of the
matter. I shall write to him and tell him what I
shall now say; and I may say to you that I know the
whole of this sad story, although at the time it
happened I was not in St. Ann."
"Is it necessary that you do this—I mean tell
him?"
"Yes, for me it is. Mr. Greyhurst was angry at
the loss of his case. There were some sharp pas-
sages between Trescot and himself, such as occur in
trials. Of these I know least. As I have said, I was
not in St. Ann at that time. I believe that he said
things of Mr. Trescot—and to his wife, whom he
called as a witness—things no man should have said.
I do not wish to overstate the matter. Mr. Grey-
hurst was said to be in debt. This suit was of great
moment to him, and I suppose that the verdict was
a serious disappointment. When he came out of the
court, Mrs. Trescot was near by, waiting for her
husband.''
"Oh, sir, did he see her?" asked Miss Wilson,
anxiously.
"I do not know. He saw Mr. Trescot coming to
meet him, and, without warning, killed him."
"But he was drawing a pistol," she said quickly.
"No; he never so much as owned a pistol. His
right arm was crippled from a wound, as was gen-


368
CONSTANCE TKE8COT
"One word more, Mr. Kent. There had been ill
feeling between them? Sharp words had passed.
You said so. Mr. Greyhurst believed himself to
have been insulted."
"Yes, I have so heard."
"What kind of man was Mr. Trescot? You see,"
she said, eager to find excuses, ''I want to know all
—both sides."
"I never saw him; but as to that there was but
one opinion. He was a sweet-tempered, kindly, and
most honorable gentleman, a servant of your Mas-
ter and mine.''
"That is enough, and too much. God pity him
and me!"
She rose as she spoke, and standing with bowed
head, looking down, added: "I cannot thank you
too much. You have done me the greatest service
a man could render a woman. I think that you
ought to know that I shall never marry John Grey-
hurst. I meant to ask your advice, but now I do not
need it. The way of my duty is plain. Good-by."
She let fall her veil and went out, passing Miss
Hood, who was still busy with her books.
"I shall be jealous, Reginald, if you are so long
closeted with pretty women.''
"Don't begin quite so soon," he said, "or the sup-
ply of jealousy may not equal the demand. Come
and walk with me; I have had a rather grim half-
hour."
She looked up at him, curious, but asked no ques-
tions.


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
371
"Oh, yes; she was looking very pretty and very
well. We had a little talk. I hope I may soon
be able to congratulate you."
If she desired to make him speak of Miss Jean-
ette, she was mistaken.
"You may not," he returned abruptly.
He knew Mrs. Dudley well and disliked her.
Something in her face and manner, and what she
had mentioned, made him uncomfortable. He said
good-by and went on to his office. He unlocked
it and went in. His clerk had left a number of
letters on his table. None of them were very re-
assuring. The people from whom he had bought the
river-frontage, in his hope of adding the strip Mrs.
Trescot had taken from him, were urgent for pay-
ment of interest upon a mortgage left on the prop-
erty. There were other claims as pressing: notice
of a note gone to protest, two unpaid bills for the
schooling of his daughter. He tossed the papers
aside, and, turning over his other letters in eager
haste, fell upon one in a hand he knew and loved.
He tore it open and read:
"Dear Sib:
"After seeing you I spent some of the most mis-
erable hours a not too happy life has brought me.
I was wretched because I felt that you might not
have been able to be entirely truthful. I had to
learn more than I could expect you to tell. My
whole life was at stake. Where I love I must also
respect, and I was in an agony of doubt. I could
not stand it. I went to St. Ann, and there gathered


372
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
from various sources all that men knew of that one
sad matter of which you talked to me. I heard too
much for my own happiness. I thought it all over
with such grief as it pains me to remember; and,
with every desire to be just, I have prayed to be
rightly guided, and now I must tell you that I can
never marry you.
"I shall give no further explanations. The let-
ter I inclose, hard and cruel as it is, would have
been enough. I will never see you again, and this is
final. What this decision costs me you can never
know. May God guide and guard you! Forgive
me the pain this letter will inflict on you. It cannot
be greater than what it costs me. "Yours truly,
"Jeanette Wilson.
"John Greyhurst, Esq."
He turned with sudden anger to the inclosed let-
ter from Mrs. Trescot. He read that also. He let
it fall and lay back in his chair. As he read, the
remembrance of the young man walking toward him,
with the smile of what he had taken to be triumph,
came back to him. He looked up and saw once more
the silvery phantom, for some weeks absent at times
or indistinct. It, too, was smiling. He took up
Jeanette Wilson's letter and read it and re-read it.
When at last he laid it down the paper was wet
from his sweating hands. He knew her too well to
have the slightest hope. She herself could never
have had any conception of the passion with which
he loved her, nor could she have fully appreciated
what to him would be this ending of his hopes for


C0N8TANCE TRESCOT
373
a life that would atone for the past and satisfy her
ideals. And this was that woman's work! He
cursed her with oaths too dreadful to repeat. She
had brought him to the verge of ruin, had tortured
him into impossibility of forgetfulness, and now
she had taken away from him the one real love of
his unhappy life.
He rose, seeing the face as before. "My God!"
he cried, staring at the phantom, "George Trescot,
you ought to thank me!" As he stood up he stag-
gered with a return of the old vertigo, and seized
a chair back until it passed away. It did not now
alarm him. He caught up his traveling-cap, and
as he passed out left the door open. In the street
he was recognized by two or three men. One said,
"He has been drinking." He went on his way,
turning down West Street toward his house, which,
in his absence, had been closed. Walking rapidly,
he went past the church at the corner, and crossed
to the south side of the street. Kent had just come
out of his study and stood still, enjoying the splen-
dor of scarlet above the setting sun, and the strange
colors cast on the yellow waters of the mighty river
below. It was unusual, and, becoming more and more intense, was changing from moment to mo-
ment.
Kent wondered if Susan Hood were feeling the
mysterious awe which for him vast masses of red
created. No other color so affected him. He wished
her to share with him the solemn beauty of the
fading day, and while hastening to find her at her
home, he saw Greyhurst in front of him.
Glad of an early chance to free his mind, he


374
CONSTANCE TRESCOT
quickened his pace and overtook him. He said, as
he joined him:
"Good evening, Mr. Greyhurst."
Without turning his head, the man beside him
said, "Good evening," and leaving him, abruptly
crossed the street.
Kent was surprised, and said to himself, "He
must have heard, but how could he have heard?"
With increase of interest he saw Greyhurst stop,
look over at Mrs. Trescot's, and pass on. Still more
amazed, he, too, went by the house and, pausing,
observed Greyhurst go up his own steps and, as it
seemed, try the door. Apparently finding himself
unable to enter, he went around the house, through
the garden, and was lost to view. Kent thought
it all rather odd; but, like the man on the main street,
concluded that Greyhurst must have been drinking,
and turned back to seek Susan Hood.
The March day in this warm clime was already
rich with the young buds of spring. He picked an
opening rose, and, ringing the bell, stood at the
door, left open for the cooler air of evening to sweep
through the hall. He saw how the vast flood of
scarlet to westward was slowly darkening to orange.
The maid said Miss Susan had just come in and
was up-stairs. Mrs. Trescot was in the parlor. He
hesitated a moment and then went in.
Mrs. Trescot was seated at the western window in
a listless attitude, her hands in her lap. She turned
as he entered saying, "What a glory of color!"
"Yes," she said; "but I do not like it. I dislike
red. I always did, even when a child."


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
375
"Well," he said, smiling, "Nature is generously
respectful; she is shifting her scenery."
"And then," she said, "it will be night, and I
do not love darkness. I should like to live in endless
daylight."
He thought singular both her moody manner and
the feeling she expressed.
"The Northland would suit you for half the
year, but not me. I hope Miss Hood did not miss
the sunset."
"I do not know."
For a moment there was silence,—the woman
gazing at the slowly darkening pall above the dy-
ing day, the man resolute to fulfil a long-held
purpose.
"I do not know whether you can understand the
great pleasure you gave me the other day when you
said I have some likeness to my cousin. It has been
noticed by others, but for you to see it meant much
to me. If in all ways I could be like him I should
be well satisfied with myself."
"You are like him," she said, turning toward
him. "It pleased me, and I wondered that I had
not seen it before. It is in manner more than in
face."
He returned earnestly: "May not that give me the
privilege of taking with you a liberty greater than
our brief acquaintance justifies?"
"Oh, yes, if you want to." She would have said
no in some form if there had not been something
sadly familiar in the grave gentleness of Kent's
approach; something which forbade her to deny


X
ONTRARY to what the doctor and Su-
san expected, Constance came out of
her dazed state in a few hours. She
asked quickly if they had taken it
away. When assured as to this, she
seemed at ease and put no other questions. Although
her mind was clear, she spoke little, and was ap-
parently indifferent to everything. She asked, how-
ever, after a few days to be taken to her Beverly
home. Kent made all the needed arrangements and
went with them. This seemed to excite no surprise
in the mind of Constance; she accepted everything
in an apathetic way, and when Kent was leaving
them at the end of their journey, said good-by list-
lessly and with no word of thanks. For a month or
more she lost flesh and vigor daily, so that Susan
thought that she would surely find the relief of
death.
In August she began to recover her strength, but
not her looks. She had lived many years in one,
and, except for the still lovely eyes, had little left
of her former beauty. The framework of her face
was on a scale which needed the fullness of health,
and this she had lost forever. As she slowly regained her strength she turned

380


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
381
anew to Susan for the only society she cared to have,
and by degrees taxed more and more heavily the
time and attention of the self-sacrificing sister. She
began at last to read, or liked better to be read to;
but never returned to her music, and never spoke of
the Averills, or of Kent,—nor, indeed, of any one
in St. Ann. Neither did she ever mention George
Trescot. So long as she had been actively employed
in thinking of means of ruining Greyhurst, she had
asked of Susan no more attention and care than was
easy and pleasant to give. When once her pursuit
had ended, and one dominating idea had ceased to
occupy her mind, she began to enlarge the boundaries
of those despotic claims which the feeble or suffering
sometimes make upon the unselfish. It is probable
that Constance was not fully aware of this avarice of
affection which caused her to accept or grasp and
use the service of the sister, and to overesteem the
love she herself gave in return. At first Susan
looked upon it all as evidence of a revival of Con-
stance's former affection. She was unwilling to
be alone, she desired no occupation, and would not
ride or walk far. What she liked best was to sit
in silence with Susan reading aloud to her in the
garden, or to drive for hours in the carriage. To
escape from her company was so difficult that Susan
found only those hours her own in which Constance
slept. At times she wondered whether or not this
jealous absorption of a life would not soon or late
have been applied to George Trescot.
As the warm summer days came and went, Su-
san was made to feel more and more plainly that she


CONSTANCE TRESCOT
383
you show small consideration for my feelings."
Although aware that her sister and Kent corre-
sponded, and that letters came and went daily, she
took no more interest in it than she did in whatever
was outside of her own immediate and limited life.
It was to Susan an almost inconceivable condition,
and she was well aware that not only must it come
to an end, but that to hear of her decision would be
to Constance a painful awakening.
At last, when, in September, Constance seemed
still better, Susan knew that she must speak out,
and frankly. Constance furnished the opportunity.
They were seated at evening in the garden above a
quiet sea. Constance said: "I have been thinking,
Susan, about the winter and what would be best for
me. The doctor talks about Algiers. How would
that do? It is time I made my plans. I do not
suppose you care where we go, so long as we are to-
gether. ''
For a moment Susan made no reply; then she
said: "Let us put that aside for a moment. I have
long wanted to talk to you, Conny, about another
matter, but you have never been willing to listen.
While you were so weak I felt that you must not
be troubled by what I knew you must some day
know. I am engaged to Reginald Kent, and we are
to be married late in October. You must have
known, Conny, that it would be."
Constance heard her with an appearance of in-
difference.
"Oh, I saw there was something; but you cannot
really mean to leave me. You are all I have, all