Chapter X: Part II: I (3)

Pierre was surprised and relieved that Greyhurst showed no anger. In fact, he was restraining himself with a great effort. He said: “Offer to take it off Marcel’s hands. I will give him fifteen thousand. It is worth that to me; but any one else is a fool to take it at your price.”

“They will not sell. It is to hold.”

“Who bought it?”

Pierre was maliciously enjoying the situation, and was made less timid by Greyhurst’s unusually quiet manner.

“It was bought for a lady.” He was tormenting his big mouse, and liked the game.

“‘A lady!’ Why the mischief can’t you answer? What lady?”

“It was Madame Trescot.”

“Damnation! You two cursed Frenchmen have sold me between you!”

“_Mais_, monsieur, what could be done? You set a limit.”

Greyhurst made no reply, but turned and went out, leaving the old Creole still apologetic, gesticulating, and by no means ill pleased. As he passed into the street, he pulled down his hat and walked on, looking downward because of the vision of the smiling, silvery face.

“Always that devil of a woman!” he said. “When will it end?” Suppressed anger divided his mind with the fear of some sudden bodily disaster such as the phantom seemed to threaten. He must live, must be well. There was his child, far away at school, and the one cherished hope—the little woman in Sacramento. He put aside the business of the land. It was ruinous, and he began too fully to realize what money may do to aid a revengeful purpose. Forgetting for a moment, he looked up. The face was there, in the bustling street as elsewhere. He walked faster, speaking to no one, his head bent down. He lost the face as he stood on Dr. Eskridge’s step and, looking at his watch, rang the bell. He had written asking the doctor to receive him at this hour.

The doctor had never had any liking for the man for whom he was now waiting, and his feeling had been much intensified by the fatal consequences of Greyhurst’s ungoverned temper. He had, however, a fund of pitiful charity, kept full by sad personal experiences and by the physician’s vast explanatory knowledge of the lives of men and women, which accepts heredity, education, and environment as matters not to be left out of the consideration of disease or of the motives of men’s actions.

He was reflecting upon what had made Greyhurst what he was, when the man who thus occupied his thoughts entered the room. As they had met of late, on the street or elsewhere, he had casually noticed the slight loss of soldierly carriage, and the absence of a certain defiant challenge in his expression. Now, as they sat down, he cast on Greyhurst a quick look of observant attention, and saw that the large frame had lost flesh. He began to be curious as to the object of this visit; but, as the lawyer had in the past consulted him in regard to minor matters of health, he knew him to be free from grave organic maladies, and was quite unprepared for the abrupt statement with which he began.

“Doctor,” he said as he sat down, “I am going away to-morrow, and I want to ask you a question. I have of late been troubled—not all the time, I ought to say—by an occasional sensation of quite 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 forehead 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 always 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!”

“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 anything 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 remembered 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 distrusted his own increasing curiosity, and was therefore careful as to how far he should invite confidences.

“Yes, you may help me. God knows, I need advice—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.”

“Very well. That may be better.”

“I came by mere chance upon a photograph of Mr. Trescot. I came on it abruptly, unprepared; and then as I looked up I saw the face—that face—not at all that of the photograph, but the same man, only—smiling.”

The doctor had heard in his long life many strange things, but this was the strangest. He repressed his astonishment and said quietly: “Is that all?”

“No; and I want to tell you the rest—all of it—all. I have been, since my unchecked, spoiled boyhood, a passionate man. It wrecked my married life, and did me evil service during the war, and later in my career at the bar. My Western life made it worse—that was before the war. The Hood lawsuit found me embarrassed as to money matters. I lost it, and I knew I ought to have lost it. Things passed in the trial which—well, no matter. I was insulted; I was told by—by Trescot that he was responsible—you know what that means with us. I shot that man. I did think he was drawing his pistol, if I thought at all.” He wiped his forehead. “I did not think. I was sorry for my haste. Since then I have more and more bitterly regretted. But it was done—and I must live. I went on hoping that, with time, I should suffer less. Then Mrs. Trescot came back; and from the time of her return I have been in hell—no demon could be more ingeniously cruel than that woman.”

He went on to relate all that she had done, including the ruining purchase of the land on the river. Both men were silent for a moment, and then Greyhurst added:

“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 Cincinnati, 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 myself that she could do no more; now I am honestly afraid. I credit her intelligence, doctor, with terrible 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 Sacramento. 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 at Antietam. He died, and I got a ball in the side. I was able to write to her at Mobile of his death, at a time when I was pretty near it myself. You may trust me as a gentleman that she shall know all. I believe that she will feel for me.”

The doctor rose. Would he—could he—be really frank to her? He had a good deal of doubt as to Greyhurst’s power to confess the actual facts as others saw them.

“I must go now. This phantom will fade. It is really of no great moment, and is no indication of failure in mind or body. But stay away as long as you can; better if you were never to return to St. Ann.”

Greyhurst left him with a great sense of relief, and, walking homeward, observed that he had lost the smiling face of George Trescot.

Returning in an hour, the doctor sat down with his pipe and his thoughts. Both the personages in this sad drama had told him their stories. The mixture of good and evil in these two lives struck him. Both were without that steadying faith which had been his from childhood. Greyhurst was simply unreligious by habit. Constance had no religion, and, as Susan had told him, declared herself simply indifferent. Motives such as might otherwise have helped them were absent. The contrasts of Greyhurst’s life interested him—his unchecked boyhood, his passionate nature, his intelligence, his impulsiveness, his sensitiveness, the incidentally told act of self-exposing courage. He felt how vain it was to judge of human actions without the largest knowledge.

Then he reflected upon the calm, steadily pursued revenge of the woman, with its dreadful inventiveness, its implacable hatred.

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe as he wondered what manner of woman might she be whom Greyhurst desired to marry. The man had been scourged by vain regret. His repentance had so modified and gentled his life that all men saw it. If the woman loved him, and he could live elsewhere than in St. Ann, it might be the final solution of serious questions; but there was one incalculable factor in this tangle of human passions—the strong personality of Constance Trescot. He lighted his candle and went up to bed, more than a little pitiful for the woman who suffered, and for the man who had caused her to suffer.

VI

When Constance quietly related to Susan what she had done about the land, the elder sister was as near to reasonable 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 addition 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 not like to talk of it. But I will not be lectured. It is perfectly useless. What I feel you can never feel. I am glad to be alone in what I do, and I am not yet done with him.”

She spoke with increasing passion, more and more rapidly, sitting forward erect, as poor Susan, astonished, let fall her egg-spoon and fell back in her chair.

“I have seen all along that I make you unhappy. As compared to the personal justice I am dealing out where other justice failed, I hardly care. But neither affection nor opinion shall come between me and that man. I think you set the doctor to warning me. He did. What was health of mind or body compared to this? I suppose it will be the preacher next. But I advise you not to try that. Let us say no more, or we shall quarrel.”

“You say, dearest sister, let us say no more. It is you who furnished both text and sermon. I have said next to nothing. I asked nothing. It was you, and you alone, who began it.”

The plain, good-natured face was tearful as she went on: “We can never quarrel. That is impossible. But I think you both unkind to me and unjust, as I have never reopened this most painful subject. I do not say that I never meant to. You spoke of the rector, and of what I might ask him to do; and lest you should again misunderstand me, I may as well say now”—and she calmed herself a little as she spoke—“that Mr. Kent intends to call on you again. I wish you to know that. I did not ask him to do so. I have never dreamed of asking 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 isn’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.”

Constance sat still. She was pleased to do something that would be agreeable to Susan. She would see Mr. Kent. He had come to St. Ann to relieve a clerical friend who had fallen ill, and upon the rector resigning had accepted his parish. She knew no more than this; but was it possible that Susan—No; it was absurd. Susan would never leave her, and had often laughed at what she called these “Sunday-school unions.” She had, however, noticed Susan’s slight embarrassment and her unusually quick show of resentment when Constance had spoken of Kent. Yes; she was perfectly sure that Susan would never marry, and that they would never be parted. And still the thought left her a little uneasy.

Greyhurst had been away for a week; but the news about the land purchase lent fresh zest to the gossip which so greatly annoyed the Averills. Colonel Dudley had been confidential to Mrs. Dudley concerning Greyhurst’s affairs, and she in turn to others, some of whom were of opinion that Constance’s mind had given way—a decision not easily accepted by those who met her in her own home and knew of her care of the poor, and of the intelligent interest with which she talked of books and the politics of the day. She was living a double life.

It was now past Christmas, and clear and cold, when, one morning, Susan set out to visit Mrs. Averill, her sole confidante. The old lady had again felt it a duty to express herself so freely that Constance, resentful of interference, now visited the Averills but rarely. She had also had an unpleasant interview with the general in regard to her purchase of land.

Susan found neither help nor comfort from her friend, and only the relief of being able to cry like a child—with the sad companionship of the tears of an older woman.

Coming out of the house with red eyes, and very conscious of an emotional breakdown, she saw the rector, Mr. Kent, coming up the street from the town. He moved slowly, and seemed to Susan to be deep in study of the broken boards of the sidewalk.

Susan was of no mind to meet him just now. Their intimacy had reached the stage which permits of sympathetic curiosity, and she was aware that her eyes were red. She waited to let him go by; but turning in at Averill’s gate, his face lighted up as the woman descended the steps and they met.

He saw that she had been crying, but merely said:

“A fine frosty day, Miss Susan; a pleasant reminder of New England.”

“Yes, I like it; and, indeed, I wish I were there.”

“Shall I find you at home this afternoon?”

“No; we ride to-day.”

“But it is dark early. Perhaps late, on your return?”

“Very well, then, late; and, by the way, my sister will see you.”

“I am glad of that—at six, then.”

He turned to go, hesitated, and said: “You are troubled, I fear. I can easily guess why, and I cannot 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 Constance—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 antiquity 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. 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 wouldn’t matter if he were alone; but he didn’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 doctor, 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 wouldn’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?’”

The doctor laughed. “I should have been puzzled 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 fellows that were afraid, and hadn’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 intimacy 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 Jeanette 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 foolish and wicked business and enable Greyhurst to 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. “Perhaps, when Mrs. Trescot learns of this other woman, she will give up.”

“I hardly think so. _Le diable d’une idée_ 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 sunshine, was seated on the back porch. She was reflecting 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 utterly vain. Moreover, the satisfaction she promised herself in creating misery and adding ruin was not such as she had expected. How much Greyhurst had suffered she had not fully known until, in his few and only words to her, he had let her see that she had inflicted lasting pain. How would it end? The man had gone, and she was at the limit of her resources.

When she thought of this, and of Susan, and of the pain she had given the Averills, to whom she owed so much kindness in those darkest hours, she said: “Why not stop here?” It was, save once before, almost literally her first moment of doubt or indecision; but then, as if a giant fate were shutting out all other paths, her obsession rose again dominant, and deprived her of liberty to reflect or to marshal the forces of reason. She stood up, and felt, as she did so, some sense of inertness, some lack of her usual strength of body.

She rode with Susan in the afternoon, as they had agreed to do, and, returning, went up to change her dress.

Susan was still at the door and giving the black maid some household directions when Mr. Kent came up the garden path from the street. He knew that his visit was welcome. The plain, sweet face, with its humorous lines, made that distinct enough. In fact, he was the one person whose presence insured her happy talk and freedom from the thought of what dreadful surprise Constance might have in store with which to trouble her life.

She thanked him for the venison he had sent, and they fell into talk of his mountain journey, the scenery of the hills, and the books constantly supplied from the East.

At last he said: “Does your sister read much?”

“No; not of late. In fact, my sister never was a great reader; and now she is too uneasy, too restless-minded, to sit down to a book.”

“That seems a pity. Books are sometimes such blessed apostles. But to get good out of them, or help or consolation, does require a certain temperament and the habit of books. After all, readers, like poets, are born, not made.”

“Yes, the habit of books; she never had that. Do you know Lord Macaulay’s verses about this thing—the comforting of books?”

“No, I do not.”

“I have a poor memory for quotations. I envy the people who possess a remembered library of poetry. There is one of the verses which I suppose I am able to recall, because I liked it more than the rest. He is telling of the gift of love of literature which the fairy godmother gave him at birth.

“‘Fortune that lays in sport the mighty low,
Age that to penance turns the joys of youth,
Shall leave untouched the gifts which I bestow,
The sense of beauty and the thirst for truth.’”

“I like that, and I shall be glad to see the whole poem.”

“I will send you the book to-morrow. I must confess that, of late, not even books are capable of distracting my mind. My sister is evidently failing in health. She is becoming more and more silent, and she is gradually losing interest in the charitable work she did so well; in fact, I—” here she paused, feeling, with the defensive instincts of a woman, that these advances in the direction of personal statements were somewhat perilous.

With some realization of her state of mind, he said quickly: “Yes, I can imagine how trying it must all be to you. If I can be of any use, I am sure you must know how entirely I am at your service; and if to talk of this trouble hurts and does not help, let us drop it.”

The look of anxious kindness on the man’s face as he leaned toward her, the sense that here was the sympathy of a strong and comprehending manhood, in some way, of a sudden, weakened her habitual self-control.

Repressed here and troubled there, missing the old affection, the demand for love and attention, of Constance’s former days, Susan’s gentle spirit, to which love meant so much, to her dismay, gave way, and she began to show in tears the too visible signals of distress.

“Oh, Susan,” he said, “I am so sorry for you! I know, of course. I know what is hurting you. I wish I could tell you how much it all means to me.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, “I know”—wiping her eyes; “you are—you have been both good and helpful. But it goes on and on, and I am afraid. I live in constant fear of what to-morrow may bring.”

“Let me have the right to end it all—the right to speak for you as you cannot.”

“No, no.” She shook her head and sat tapping her skirt mechanically with her riding-whip.

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 leaving 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 sister 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 general bearing disturbed her; was it because he looked like some one? He had very little of the conventional 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 pleasure it gives me to see you. I am kept pretty busy among these unlucky freedmen, who are like children, and I have had very little time for social visits.” She recognized and liked the tact which thus set her free from need to explain why she had not seen more of him. She found herself saying with cordiality that she hoped he would find time in the future, and that, as he rode often, he would be able to join them—a pleasure which Susan had refused him, believing that Constance would be ill pleased.

“I should like nothing better,” he said; “I came near to taking that liberty last Tuesday; but I had to hurry home.”

“I saw you ahead of us,” she returned, “and told my sister that you had the cavalry seat, and that you must have seen service. Susan did not appear to know, and I was rather curious.”

“Oh, Miss Susan,” he said to himself, “you did not know!” There was little about his life which that lady did not know.

He replied: “Yes, I was born in North Carolina; but I was educated at a seminary in the North, and had a parish in Portland when the war broke out. I thought the North right and I served as a chaplain in the Eighth Maine. I came here on a holiday to relieve a sick friend, and when he gave up I accepted the parish. At first I had trouble, but now I get on well enough. It is impossible not to like these people. When once they accept you there is no limit to their kindness; and as I was a Southern man who had been in the Northern army, I was surprised to find how soon I was made to feel at home.”

Again the smile, and something in his face taxed 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 George Trescot? My grandfather 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 snowshoes—all were to Constance’s liking; but, above all, that he had been in the army of the North pleased her. She spoke pleasantly of him that evening at dinner, for they kept to their late Northern hours. She thought him a gentleman and interesting. Susan was of like opinion, but was discreetly careful, as was advisable with Constance, for a variety of reasons.

She said to Susan: “He told me of his distant relationship to George.”

“Indeed!” said the sister, surprised, for of Trescot Constance rarely spoke.

“Yes; did you not observe the resemblance, Susan? It is slight.”

“Now that you mention it, I do,” returned the sister, mildly disingenuous, and looking down at her plate. “I am glad you liked him.”

“Do you? Oh, of course you do. You like all clergymen.”

“Yes, more or less.”

The man of whom they talked was pleased with his visit. He had made himself agreeable, as he had meant to do, and now went on his way, whistling softly in unclerical fashion. He was wise enough not to call soon again on Mrs. Trescot. There were other chances of seeing Susan Hood, and as her sister now rode more rarely, he found added opportunities of being alone with the woman he loved.

The month of January passed, and the first two weeks of February. Greyhurst was still absent, and Constance was moodily brooding over the sudden termination of her means of carrying out her purpose. It had become so despotic in its rule as to 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 efficiency. She was irritable, spent more time alone, rode less frequently, and became indifferent as regarded 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

Late 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 directions. The business having been concluded, the ladies lingered.

Mrs. Dudley said: “I hear that the river is falling. 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.”

“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?”

“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 extraordinary land purchase?” asked Mrs. March.

“Oh, awfully.”

“It has always seemed to me,” said Miss Bland, “that Constance Trescot’s conduct was most unwomanly.”

“And unchristian, I should say,” added Miss Marcel, tartly.

“I am sure that you will pardon me,” said Mrs. Averill, rising, “if I remind you that you are speaking of a woman to whom our home is deeply indebted, 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. Greyhurst 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,” 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:

“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 before 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 wherefore—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 believe 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 distinctly aware of that lady’s useful relation to Althea Le Moine.

Mrs. Dudley sat down with those who remained, 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 interested.”

Constance thought it unlikely, but said languidly: “Have the orphans got over the mumps, or refused hash?”

“It is much more important, Mrs. Trescot,” replied 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 Francisco—no, I mean Sacramento. She is rich. She is very small. I thought you would wish to know. She lives with an old aunt, Miss Ruth Wilson. Isn’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. Greyhurst 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 had in mind a dozen schemes to be worked out on his return—some utterly vain, some grave enough. She had heard that his house was mortgaged, and the interest in arrears. What if she bought the mortgage? She had been, however, lavishly wasteful, and to do that she must trench on her capital. Now he was about to escape, and, with a new hope in life, to find love, and the power of flight, or the means of resistance money would give.

As usual, and more and more of late, too intense thought brought on emotion. To sit still and see this murderer unpunished and perhaps happy, able to live on and forget, would, she felt, be unendurable. Oh, rather should he die! and she laughed a laugh that startled her as though it were a ghost of mirth. She walked faster up and down the porch, thinking of what she could do, until of a sudden, realizing the completeness of her defeat, she stood still, staring at the distant river. Suddenly, as she sat down, she saw with vividness the man with the revolver, the little haze of smoke rising as he stood, the dead man, the dearly loved face, the crowd. She caught her head in her hands, clutching it in the agony of a hysterical vision which reproduced the anguish of life’s darkest hour. Her hair fell about her, over the black dress. She staggered to her feet, and, swaying, dropped on the floor.

An hour later, Susan, glowing and happy, came home from a ride with Reginald Kent. She gathered her skirts and went in, asking for Constance. Not finding her in the house, she went out to the porch, and saw Constance lying, with clenched hands, rigid and motionless. She understood at once that it was a return of the former trouble, and, being a woman of sense and resource, knew what was to be done.

When Dr. Eskridge arrived, he found Constance on a lounge in the parlor, already better and asking what was the matter. Had she fainted? There were slight returns of rigidity and forgetfulness, but before morning she was herself. A few days of rest would be needed. She assented willingly, relieved that Susan asked no questions.

In a day or two she recognized that she had been strangely eased by this riotous outbreak of emotion, but felt as if bruised in every inch of her strong body.

“And now, Miss Susan,” said the doctor, after his second visit, as they went down-stairs, “what caused this trouble?”

“Wait a little, doctor. She has the hearing of an animal.”

He was silent until they had entered the parlor and she had closed the door.

“Now,” she said, “we can talk unheard. Constance hears everything. You asked what caused it. I do not know. Nothing unusual happened. Miss Althea Le Moine was here, but she comes very often to see Constance—a furtive, childish, dried-up woman, one of the helpless wrecks of the war. Constance is good to her, I fancy.”

The doctor asked questions concerning Mrs. Trescot, few of which Susan was able to answer. Sorry for both sisters, he went away in doubt, as he had gone so often from among the griefs and perplexities of many in his long life of honest service.

When, in the afternoon, Mrs. Averill called, Susan heard of the gossip at the home, and began to suspect that it was Miss Le Moine’s visit which had been the cause of Constance’s attack. She disliked to question Miss Le Moine, and felt herself powerless. It was unadvisable to reopen the subject with her sister. She would learn nothing. Kent was as little able to advise her.

Meanwhile the days went by and Constance was up and about the house. She was evidently better, and submitted to every order with patience, longing to regain her full strength and decide upon what she should do.

At the close of a fortnight, she mailed the following letter to Miss Jeanette Wilson, in the care of Miss Ruth Wilson, Sacramento, California:

“ST. ANN,
WEST STREET, March 12, 1872.

“DEAR MISS WILSON:

“I have learned of late that you are engaged to be married to Mr.
Greyhurst of St. Ann. If it be not true, I simply offer my apologies
for this letter. If, on the other hand, it be true, I should be
wanting in my sense of duty if I failed to do what probably no one
else will do. Believe me, I have no motive except that, as a woman
who has greatly suffered by this man’s act, I cannot leave another
woman ignorant.

“Mr. Greyhurst’s first marriage resulted in a divorce caused by his
ill-temper. On the ninth of 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 happiness 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. Certainly 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 woman gave her no concern. Of Susan’s opinion she did think at times; but Susan would never know of this letter, nor, at this time, would it in the least degree have affected her own course of action. Her power of self-trial and self-condemnation was lost. If she had any doubts she put them aside, and, as usual with her, was set at ease for the time by a decisive act.

Meanwhile, her letter crossed the continent and passed the train in which Greyhurst returned to St. Ann. He lingered a day to see Colonel Dudley, and then went East to meet certain bankers in New York, whom he hoped to interest in the mines, and who were to advance money to open and develop them. His fee was to be a share in the property, and he looked forward with confidence to such a favorable result of his negotiations as would in some degree release him from his increasing embarrassments.