Chapter V: Part I: I (5)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was not yet to be turned aside.

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

“Ah, Constance:

“‘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. Isn’t that Jupiter, George?” she said, looking up at the shining stars.

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

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

“I know, dear; but there are others.”

“Is not love enough?”

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

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

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

“Oh, yes, yes.”

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

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

XII

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

“Toast or nervous shock?” asked Constance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In what way, uncle?” said Constance.

“Oh, the people—the people.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tithes of mint, Conny,” said Susan.

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

“I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Presently he looked up again.

“Good heavens!”

“What is it?” said Constance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both nieces preserved an amused silence.

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

“Rather, uncle.”

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

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

“You were quite right.”

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

“Is it so common, Conny?”

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

“It seems very dreadful.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Conny, not that.”

“I do. I hate him!”

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

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

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

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

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

“That seems simple,” said Hood.

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

“And why not?”

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

“Yes; but the taxes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What people?” said Averill, coldly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did she do?”

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

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

“No, you would not.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Like? She is like her mother.”

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

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

“Is that your own wisdom, Uncle Rufus?”

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

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

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

XIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can only regret it,” said Greyhurst.

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

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

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

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

“You will find few to believe that.”

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

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

“I spoke hastily, Mr. Trescot.”

“Thank you; I was sure you did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes; perhaps three.”

“Cannot I be present?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But touch it—touch it!”

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

“It is all nonsense, of course, but—”

“But what?”

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

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

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

“Well?”

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

“And so am I. Was that all?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Once upon a time—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, much—very much.”

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

“What story, George?”

“Ruth. Of course you know that.”

“Yes, in a way; but I never read it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, no; I am sure you would not.”

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

“Yes; good night.”

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

“Well, dear?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wrote:

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

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

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

“ST. ANN,
“Sunday, P.M., October 6.

“DEAR MR. HOOD:

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

“Yours respectfully,
“GEORGE TRESCOT.

“RUFUS HOOD, Esq.”

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

XIV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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