Chapter XI: Part II: I (4)

He felt that he had been terribly punished for an act of rashness and passion; but now, with gain of health and freedom from material reminders of guilt, he began to feel a return of belief in a more happy future. Time has for crime, as well as for grief, its alleviating helpfulness, and even the sharpest remorse may be dulled as the years go by.

He honestly loved the woman, who had long refused to consider his suit. When again he saw her in Sacramento, she was shocked and pitiful as she observed how greatly he was altered. She had heard of the death of Trescot, and he was wise enough to face the matter. He told her of his own life, of his boyhood, of the temptations and rude existence in the mining-camps of the West. He described, with every sign of regret, his sudden meeting with Trescot, and told of his belief that he was about to use a weapon, and of how the man who had insulted him came forward with a smile of triumph, and then of his own quick anger, and of the fatal consequence. He was profoundly moved, and she hardly less so.

She was, and had long been, on the border-line of that complete abandonment to love which, once it is passed, excuses all things, and has cost women so much unhappiness. Being, however, a person of great good sense, of ready decision, and possessed of that quick apprehension which is so mysterious to the male mind, his statement checked her. Something in it—and she acknowledged the feeling with pain—did not ring true. She refused finally to commit herself; he must wait. She gave no distinct reason, except that she was not sure of herself; and he went away, not altogether dissatisfied. She had been so tender, so sorry not to be able to say yes; so full of what, in fact, was yearning pity afraid to trust itself to speech.

When he had gone she would have had him back. Had he returned, she would have had no more to say than she had already said. She approved her own decision, but knew it to be insecure; and, fully comprehending the gravity of the question, felt that, for her sake and his, she ought not to leave him long without a definite answer. But how could she become more reasonably sure of what this man was? How could she be certain that he had told her the facts as they had appeared to less partial witnesses? She was a woman in her twenty-fifth year, and more than usually mature. Her religious convictions were positive, her beliefs distinct. It was not possible for her to fail to consider so grave a matter apart from the views which had been influential in a life not free from trials. She knew that her lover was, by habit, indifferent to what she regarded as of the utmost moment. She smiled sadly as she thought of St. Paul’s advice, and felt that under ordinary circumstances she would have been free to yield, trusting with affectionate hope to what influence time and love might have. But this other matter made her pause; no, that must be seen by her as others saw it—those in whose hearts there was no constant advocate willing or wishing to believe John Greyhurst innocent and the sad victim of circumstances.

Resolute at last to put an end to her doubt, and accustomed for years to independence of action, she decided to go to St. Ann, and, in Greyhurst’s absence, to see the Averills, whom she had known as a girl, and who had been friends of her dead father. She cherished a tender hope that here would be the friends who would incline to think the best possible of Greyhurst. She justified that night the Eastern proverb, “In the Inn of Decision men sleep well,” and awakened self-assured that she was right. She wrote to her cousins at Trois Îles, on the river below St. Ann, that she would make them a short visit.

The night before her departure she received Mrs. Trescot’s letter. Her future darkened as she ran over the pages. She had never before realized that which, when thus told by an agonized eye-witness, dismissed for her at once the merciful vagueness of a thing unseen. Once more considering the letter, she read between the lines, as she had read between the words her lover had used. It was natural that an unfortunate woman should overstate the guilt of the man who had cost her so dear. Again she doubted, again wondered where the truth lay, and found new distress in the thought of the young wife alone with her grief. Had Greyhurst ever thought, after that day of death, of the woman alone with the sorrow he had created? He had never mentioned her.

VIII

Late in the morning Miss Wilson arrived at her cousin’s home at Trois Îles, and, anxiously intent on her purpose, took the afternoon ferry-boat to St. Ann.

She had been in the town just after the war, and when it was half in ruins. When about to ask the way to General Averill’s she met Mrs. Dudley. “Why, this must be Jeanette Wilson,” said that lady. “So glad to see you! How well you look, and how young!” It was true. The blonde little woman still kept the childlike look which is the peculiar privilege of her type.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dudley. May I ask you to tell me where the Averills live?”

“Up on the hill. And so you are engaged to be married to Mr. Greyhurst.”

“No. I am not.”

“Bless me, my dear! I could not have misunderstood my husband.”

“I fear that you have done so. Mr. Greyhurst, I am quite sure, never could have said that.”

Mrs. Dudley would have been shocked had any one accused her of intention to deceive, but she was so habitually inaccurate as to have obtained for herself the credit of want of veracity. Like most inaccurate persons, she was exceedingly positive.

When, therefore, Miss Wilson denied her engagement, Mrs. Dudley returned: “Oh, that is always the way with young women. I suppose it amounts to the same thing.”

“Hardly; and I must ask that you do me the favor to contradict any rumor to that effect. I am not engaged.”

“Certainly; of course,” said Mrs. Dudley, not at all convinced. “What stay do you make in St. Ann?”

“Only a day or two.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, that is all.” Then she paused, and resolved of a sudden, and not very wisely, to take Mrs. Dudley into her confidence.

“Would you mind my asking you to tell me something?”

“Certainly not. What is it?” She was at once eager and curious. “Come in, my dear. It is only a step to our house. Ah, here we are.” When they were seated she said promptly:

“And now, my dear, what can I do for you?”

“You can help me, I hope. Mr. Greyhurst is, I believe, a friend of Colonel Dudley.”

“My husband has charge of his affairs while he is absent, but I could hardly say they were friends. You see, Miss Wilson, in St. Ann they—” and she checked herself.

“They what?” returned Miss Wilson, too greatly concerned to accept Mrs. Dudley’s prudent arrest of speech.

“Oh, nothing; it is of no moment.”

“Mrs. Dudley, Mr. Greyhurst had a very serious trouble more than a year ago. I have urgent reasons to know all about it. May I ask you frankly to tell me the whole story?”

For once, Mrs. Dudley was cautious. What she might say would possibly go back to Greyhurst, and as he had never quite lost the evil reputation of being quarrelsome, the colonel might, as had once happened, be asked to answer for his wife’s words.

She replied: “Oh, that is an old story, and we never talk about such things, Miss Wilson.”

“I know, I know; but oh, Mrs. Dudley, I am in great trouble. I hoped that, as an older woman, and without my saying more, you would help me. I should consider whatever you told me as absolutely confidential.”

Mrs. Dudley had no firm trust in the possibility of any woman preserving under temptation the virtue of entire silence. Moreover, she was becoming alarmed at a situation too perilous to permit of the luxury of gossip. She said therefore: “Help you, my dear? Indeed, I would if I could; but really I cannot.”

“I fear, Mrs. Dudley, that when you say you do not like to tell me, it means that you will not tell me. If that is so, I—”

Mrs. Dudley, interrupting, said, “Oh, yes, if you like to put it that way.” To pour out the whole sad story was her dear desire.

“Thank you,” said Miss Wilson, seeing how vain was her quest. “Thank you. I am at least your debtor for being frank with me. I think I understand.”

Mrs. Dudley was not so clear, and said awkwardly: “Oh, yes, of course. I thought you would. What a lovely gown!”

Poor Miss Wilson, sad as was her case, came near to smiling.

It was a crude method of dismissing the subject, but it answered the purpose; and seeing that she had failed, and urging her hostess no further, the younger woman accepted the change of conversational base. She skilfully put aside some rather intrusive questions, and finally went away unsatisfied, and leaving Mrs. Dudley eagerly desirous to know more.

Jeanette was fortunate in finding Mrs. Averill at home, and was grateful for the cordial welcome she received, as that lady at once remembered her, and that her visitor’s father had served during the war on the general’s brigade staff.

Seeing the miniatures of the dead sons on the table, Jeanette admired them, and asked how Mrs. Averill came to be so fortunate as to possess them. Mrs. Averill, suddenly recalling the fact that Miss Wilson was said to be engaged to Greyhurst, hoped that she would be content with the answer that they were done in Italy, the kind gift of friends. Unluckily, Miss Wilson turned over the one she held, and saw on the back, “From Susan Hood and Constance Trescot.”

She laid it down and, looking up, said: “Mrs. Trescot is a friend of yours?”

“Yes, she is my friend; and her sister, too.”

Miss Wilson, somewhat embarrassed, said: “I never knew them. They came to St. Ann long after my last visit”; and after a brief pause added: “And—and he was killed—I mean Mr. Trescot.”

Mrs. Averill saw her disturbed face. Leaning forward, she took her hand and said in her low, sweet voice: “Let us talk of something else, my dear. That is a matter too sad to discuss. He, too, was our friend.”

“Oh, no, no; I came to talk of—of this: but it is hard. You won’t mind, will you? You see, I must; I have to.”

Mrs. Averill knew too well what was in the younger woman’s mind.

“Don’t be worried, my dear. What is it? What can I do for you?”

“I do not know. I am in trouble. Mrs. Dudley tells me that I am said to be engaged to Mr. Greyhurst, and I am not; I may never be. Oh, dear Mrs. Averill, I am in deep waters. I care for him,—oh, very much,—but we are not engaged. I have had in my life much sorrow, and I cannot now think of marrying him without knowing all of that awful story. I came here to know. He has given me his own account of it; but it is natural he should make the best of it; and, oh, won’t you, dear Mrs. Averill—won’t you help me? Won’t you tell me all about what you and General Averill think should guide me? I have no one to turn to—no one. I want some one who knows to tell me—plainly—all about it.”

Mrs. Averill knew that all social relations between Greyhurst and her husband had ceased from the time of Trescot’s death. However much she pitied the young woman who thus appealed to her, she was reasonably unwilling to be frank. She hesitated just long enough for Miss Wilson to note the tardiness of reply and to feel what it implied. Mrs. Averill usually spoke with ease and readiness; now she said slowly, with care as to her words:

“I am very sorry, but I cannot—I do not feel quite free to answer you. The general does not now know Mr. Greyhurst. They do not speak. In fact, I would rather not discuss this subject. I think the general will also be unwilling.”

It is a little to be feared that she knew with what entire unreserve her husband would have told all he knew and what he thought of Greyhurst.

“I see, I understand,” said the blonde little lady. “You must pardon me.” The unusual caution of one older woman, and the obvious indisposition of a far different one, told her almost as much of what she wished and yet feared to know as if they had been rashly outspoken.

Mrs. Averill said: “There is, my dear, nothing to pardon. I am honestly sorry to be unable to help you, and I think that you must see why I cannot.”

“Yes. Thank you. I will not trouble you any further; but, somehow, I _must_ know. Will you be so kind as to read this letter?”

She opened the envelop and laid Mrs. Trescot’s letter on Mrs. Averill’s lap, who said innocently:

“Of course, my dear; what is it?” She put on her glasses, recognized the handwriting at once, and with surprise and pain read the letter. She was shocked and sorry. “That is very terrible, my dear child; how could she have done it—or done it as she has?”

“If what she says be true, Mrs. Averill, and I were in her place, I should have done it. I will ask but one more question—a harmless one. Was Mr. Trescot a man to—to provoke or grossly insult another?”

“No, no; he was not.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“He was all that a man ought to be—a gentleman to the core, and in no way to blame; and now, Miss Wilson, you must not ask me any more questions. I do not feel free to reply. I wish I could help you, but I cannot; nor can I tell you who will be willing to do so. I beg that you will not embarrass my husband by asking him.”

“I will not. You have been most kind to me, and I thank you; but some one must help me. May I come again? I promise not to speak of this—this subject.”

The old lady rose. “You will always be welcome—always. And I do trust that God may guide you in the right way.”

She went with her to the hall door, saying: “The general will be glad to hear of you, and I know he will like to talk with you about your father.”

Mrs. Averill went back to her knitting, and reflected with womanly compassion upon the strength and maturity of the character which could thus resolutely determine the fullness of love impossible without complete trust and entire respect.

Miss Wilson was, in fact, just what Mrs. Averill supposed her to be. She had longed to say to the girl, “Do not marry that man.” Even on her door-step, as they parted, she had felt that she had not done her duty to a soul in deep distress.

Miss Wilson paused a moment in thought outside of the gate, and then returning, found Mrs. Averill in the parlor and asked her where she could find Mr. Kent. Mrs. Averill replied, “At the church, my dear,” and gave her the needed directions, adding that he would probably be in the vestry-room, which he used as a study, or possibly in the library-room of the parish Sunday-school. Could she desire to ask his advice? That might be the case. He would, she thought, be prudent.

The clergyman had occurred to the young woman as for her a natural and final resort. Her friends had written of him in their letters as a man of high character and much liked. Where else could she go? At all events, she would tell her story and ask his aid.

When she rang at the library door, it was opened by Miss Hood, who had been busy with a case of new books she had just received. She went with her to the vestry, saying, as Kent opened the door, “Here is a lady to see you, Mr. Kent.”

As he made her welcome and she sat down, she was for a moment disappointed, having, for no reason, expected to see a man of full middle age. The pleasant, smiling face, and something, she knew not what, in his eyes, reassured her. When she apologized for troubling him, and he said, “No, I am not busy; I am much at your service,” she felt at once that here, at least, she would find a sympathetic hearing, and making no further excuses, said simply:

“I am a woman, Mr. Kent, in great perplexity. I am Jeanette Wilson. I may add that I am an Episcopalian. For some time I was in more than doubt as to whether I ought to marry a gentleman. It is about him I wish to speak. While his wife lived—you know, he had been divorced—I could not even consider the matter. Now that she has died, he has again asked me to share his life.”

Kent listened with interested attention. She was young, pretty, and evidently under the influence of deep emotion. After a moment of pause she added:

“And now again I hesitate.”

“May I, without indiscretion, ask his name, or can I advise or aid your decision without that?”

“You may know him. He is Mr. John Greyhurst.”

Kent was more than surprised.

“Yes; I met him once in Colonel Dudley’s office. I can hardly say I know him, in any fuller personal sense. But, pray, go on, and be sure that I shall be most glad to give you any help in my power.”

“I was sure you would. I am in the utmost perplexity. I know much of his life. He has told me of the—the death of Mr. Trescot. I want to believe his account of it; but oh, Mr. Kent, at the best it is terrible, and I fear to trust his statement. If he has not been entirely truthful, I must know it. With so much at stake, it is—it must be—natural for a man to find excuses for so awful a sin. I want to help him to a better life. I want to be able to marry him. Before I let myself go,—and I could,—I am resolved to learn from some one the whole truth. If he had repented in your sense and mine, I should believe him; he has not. He regrets and has suffered, that is sure; but oh, Mr. Kent, that is so little—so very little. I have been to two women to ask—to know more of Mr. Greyhurst, to hear the whole story of this dreadful thing. I have come from Sacramento to learn, and now no one will tell me. If they are afraid of him, that is bad; but at all events I must know. I do not want advice; I want only full knowledge; then I shall decide for myself.”

“Is this all, Miss Wilson?”

“No; while I was still in doubt, after Mr. Greyhurst left California, I received a letter from Mrs. Trescot. I can put myself in her place, different as our views must be. I might, God help me! have done the same. Have the kindness to read it, sir. If she tells the exact truth, he has not told all of it, and it had been more wise to have wholly trusted a woman’s love and pity.”

That was Kent’s opinion as he considered the childlike sweetness of the face below the blonde hair. Without a word he took the letter. He frowned, annoyed and displeased, as he read; and folding the sheet, returned it.

“You are right,” he said gravely. “As a clergyman, and also as a man, you have a right to all I know.”

“If,” she said, “it will make trouble for you with Mr. Greyhurst—”

He interrupted her with, “That is no part of the matter. I shall write to him and tell him what I shall now say; and I may say to you that I know the whole of this sad story, although at the time it happened I was not in St. Ann.”

“Is it necessary that you do this—I mean tell him?”

“Yes, for me it is. Mr. Greyhurst was angry at the loss of his case. There were some sharp passages between Trescot and himself, such as occur in trials. Of these I know least. As I have said, I was not in St. Ann at that time. I believe that he said things of Mr. Trescot—and to his wife, whom he called as a witness—things no man should have said. I do not wish to overstate the matter. Mr. Greyhurst was said to be in debt. This suit was of great moment to him, and I suppose that the verdict was a serious disappointment. When he came out of the court, Mrs. Trescot was near by, waiting for her husband.”

“Oh, sir, did he see her?” asked Miss Wilson, anxiously.

“I do not know. He saw Mr. Trescot coming to meet him, and, without warning, killed him.”

“But he was drawing a pistol,” she said quickly.

“No; he never so much as owned a pistol. His right arm was crippled from a wound, as was generally known because he usually rested it caught in his waistcoat. As he approached he was smiling. You see, he was pleased to be able to be generous.”

“My God!” she exclaimed. “Go on; tell me all!”

“Yes; he had just received a telegram authorizing him to divide the land in dispute, in order to treat more liberally Mr. Greyhurst’s clients. He raised his lame arm to take out the telegram from his pocket, and was, as is known, advancing to make the offer. He had it in his hand when Mr. Greyhurst fired.”

“Is that all?” she said faintly.

“No; on his desk was found a letter to Mr. Hood, stating that he would give up the agency unless Mr. Hood, the owner, would, after the trial, consent to a compromise as an act of equitable justice to people who had no legal claim. Mr. Hood’s sudden death enabled Miss Hood, the sister of Mrs. Trescot, to give Mr. Trescot full authority to settle the matter. Mrs. Trescot called him out of the court to give him the telegram, and to beg him at once to offer Mr. Greyhurst the adjustment they desired. That is all. I have been long, but it seemed to me that you had a right to know the whole. I believe that I have stated it correctly.”

“Then,” she said, as her head drooped, “it was murder, and without shadow of excuse.” She fell back, appalled at her verdict, murmuring again, “It was murder, and without excuse.”

“Yes, as I see it, it was murder; whether premeditated, or the sudden outcome of anger and disappointment, God alone knows.”

“One word more, Mr. Kent. There had been ill feeling between them? Sharp words had passed. You said so. Mr. Greyhurst believed himself to have been insulted.”

“Yes, I have so heard.”

“What kind of man was Mr. Trescot? You see,” she said, eager to find excuses, “I want to know all—both sides.”

“I never saw him; but as to that there was but one opinion. He was a sweet-tempered, kindly, and most honorable gentleman, a servant of your Master and mine.”

“That is enough, and too much. God pity him and me!”

She rose as she spoke, and standing with bowed head, looking down, added: “I cannot thank you too much. You have done me the greatest service a man could render a woman. I think that you ought to know that I shall never marry John Greyhurst. I meant to ask your advice, but now I do not need it. The way of my duty is plain. Good-by.”

She let fall her veil and went out, passing Miss Hood, who was still busy with her books.

“I shall be jealous, Reginald, if you are so long closeted with pretty women.”

“Don’t begin quite so soon,” he said, “or the supply of jealousy may not equal the demand. Come and walk with me; I have had a rather grim half-hour.”

She looked up at him, curious, but asked no questions.

IX

Mrs. Trescot received no acknowledgment of the receipt of her letter, nor had the unhappy woman to whom it was sent any intention of answering it. She desired never again to hear of the writer.

Making such excuses as were possible to her astonished friends, Miss Wilson took the train to the North on the day after her visit to Mr. Kent, and thence returned to Sacramento. She was wise enough to avoid a meeting with Greyhurst.

From Chicago she wrote to Mr. Kent a note of renewed thankfulness, and earnestly asked that he would not feel it necessary to mention to Mr. Greyhurst what he, Mr. Kent, had told her. “I am most grateful to you,” she wrote, “for the courage of what you did for me, a stranger; but I cannot rest easy under the idea that, in his anger and disappointment, a man as passionate may again do something as rash as that which has parted us forever. It will be altogether unnecessary for you to speak of what you said to me, because Mrs. Trescot’s letter will suffice to explain to him the reasons for my decision. It is an unfeeling letter, but it will so justify my decision as to relieve you from need to speak.”

Her request had no effect on Kent’s intention. He had taken on himself a grave responsibility, and meant to abide by it. He had neither fear of unpleasant consequences nor belief that they would occur. The thought that Mrs. Trescot’s letter would reach Greyhurst made him far more uneasy. He resolved to speak to the lawyer on his return, which took place two days later.

Greyhurst had found difficulty in satisfying the bankers on whom he relied. The money-market was unsettled, and men were indisposed to go into even the most promising ventures. He was advised to wait, to return in a month. He left New York a much disappointed man, and went home to meet conditions which he knew must result in ruin.

Thinking sadly of his affairs, and with some relieving hope in regard to Jeanette Wilson, whom he very honestly loved and sincerely respected, he left the station at St. Ann. The phantom face had been seen of late but rarely, and had lost distinctness.

On his way he called to see Colonel Dudley. His wife was in the hall. “Glad to see you back,” she said. “My husband is out.”

“Tell the colonel that I was detained in New York. I will call to-night.”

“You have just missed Miss Wilson.”

“Miss Wilson! Has she been in St. Ann?”

“Yes; but she stayed only two or three days. She has gone.”

“Did you see her, Mrs. Dudley?”

“Oh, yes; she was looking very pretty and very well. We had a little talk. I hope I may soon be able to congratulate you.”

If she desired to make him speak of Miss Jeanette, she was mistaken.

“You may not,” he returned abruptly.

He knew Mrs. Dudley well and disliked her. Something in her face and manner, and what she had mentioned, made him uncomfortable. He said good-by and went on to his office. He unlocked it and went in. His clerk had left a number of letters on his table. None of them were very reassuring. The people from whom he had bought the river-frontage, in his hope of adding the strip Mrs. Trescot had taken from him, were urgent for payment of interest upon a mortgage left on the property. There were other claims as pressing: notice of a note gone to protest, two unpaid bills for the schooling of his daughter. He tossed the papers aside, and, turning over his other letters in eager haste, fell upon one in a hand he knew and loved. He tore it open and read:

“DEAR SIR:

“After seeing you I spent some of the most miserable hours a not too
happy life has brought me. I was wretched because I felt that you
might not have been able to be entirely truthful. I had to learn more
than I could expect you to tell. My whole life was at stake. Where I
love I must also respect, and I was in an agony of doubt. I could not
stand it. I went to St. Ann, and there gathered from various sources
all that men knew of that one sad matter of which you talked to me. I
heard too much for my own happiness. I thought it all over with such
grief as it pains me to remember; and, with every desire to be just,
I have prayed to be rightly guided, and now I must tell you that I
can never marry you.

“I shall give no further explanations. The letter I inclose, hard and
cruel as it is, would have been enough. I will never see you again,
and this is final. What this decision costs me you can never know.
May God guide and guard you! Forgive me the pain this letter will
inflict on you. It cannot be greater than what it costs me.

“Yours truly,
“JEANETTE WILSON.

“JOHN GREYHURST, Esq.”

He turned with sudden anger to the inclosed letter from Mrs. Trescot. He read that also. He let it fall and lay back in his chair. As he read, the remembrance of the young man walking toward him, with the smile of what he had taken to be triumph, came back to him. He looked up and saw once more the silvery phantom, for some weeks absent at times or indistinct. It, too, was smiling. He took up Jeanette Wilson’s letter and read it and re-read it. When at last he laid it down the paper was wet from his sweating hands. He knew her too well to have the slightest hope. She herself could never have had any conception of the passion with which he loved her, nor could she have fully appreciated what to him would be this ending of his hopes for a life that would atone for the past and satisfy her ideals. And this was that woman’s work! He cursed her with oaths too dreadful to repeat. She had brought him to the verge of ruin, had tortured him into impossibility of forgetfulness, and now she had taken away from him the one real love of his unhappy life.

He rose, seeing the face as before. “My God!” he cried, staring at the phantom, “George Trescot, you ought to thank me!” As he stood up he staggered with a return of the old vertigo, and seized a chair back until it passed away. It did not now alarm him. He caught up his traveling-cap, and as he passed out left the door open. In the street he was recognized by two or three men. One said, “He has been drinking.” He went on his way, turning down West Street toward his house, which, in his absence, had been closed. Walking rapidly, he went past the church at the corner, and crossed to the south side of the street. Kent had just come out of his study and stood still, enjoying the splendor of scarlet above the setting sun, and the strange colors cast on the yellow waters of the mighty river below. It was unusual, and, becoming more and more intense, was changing from moment to moment.

Kent wondered if Susan Hood were feeling the mysterious awe which for him vast masses of red created. No other color so affected him. He wished her to share with him the solemn beauty of the fading day, and while hastening to find her at her home, he saw Greyhurst in front of him.

Glad of an early chance to free his mind, he quickened his pace and overtook him. He said, as he joined him:

“Good evening, Mr. Greyhurst.”

Without turning his head, the man beside him said, “Good evening,” and leaving him, abruptly crossed the street.

Kent was surprised, and said to himself, “He must have heard, but how could he have heard?”

With increase of interest he saw Greyhurst stop, look over at Mrs. Trescot’s, and pass on. Still more amazed, he, too, went by the house and, pausing, observed Greyhurst go up his own steps and, as it seemed, try the door. Apparently finding himself unable to enter, he went around the house, through the garden, and was lost to view. Kent thought it all rather odd; but, like the man on the main street, concluded that Greyhurst must have been drinking, and turned back to seek Susan Hood.

The March day in this warm clime was already rich with the young buds of spring. He picked an opening rose, and, ringing the bell, stood at the door, left open for the cooler air of evening to sweep through the hall. He saw how the vast flood of scarlet to westward was slowly darkening to orange.

The maid said Miss Susan had just come in and was up-stairs. Mrs. Trescot was in the parlor. He hesitated a moment and then went in.

Mrs. Trescot was seated at the western window in a listless attitude, her hands in her lap. She turned as he entered saying, “What a glory of color!”

“Yes,” she said; “but I do not like it. I dislike red. I always did, even when a child.”

“Well,” he said, smiling, “Nature is generously respectful; she is shifting her scenery.”

“And then,” she said, “it will be night, and I do not love darkness. I should like to live in endless daylight.”

He thought singular both her moody manner and the feeling she expressed.

“The Northland would suit you for half the year, but not me. I hope Miss Hood did not miss the sunset.”

“I do not know.”

For a moment there was silence,—the woman gazing at the slowly darkening pall above the dying day, the man resolute to fulfil a long-held purpose.

“I do not know whether you can understand the great pleasure you gave me the other day when you said I have some likeness to my cousin. It has been noticed by others, but for you to see it meant much to me. If in all ways I could be like him I should be well satisfied with myself.”

“You are like him,” she said, turning toward him. “It pleased me, and I wondered that I had not seen it before. It is in manner more than in face.”

He returned earnestly: “May not that give me the privilege of taking with you a liberty greater than our brief acquaintance justifies?”

“Oh, yes, if you want to.” She would have said no in some form if there had not been something sadly familiar in the grave gentleness of Kent’s approach; something which forbade her to deny him. She was deeply moved as, in the lessening light, she heard him say:

“I want to speak to you as a man, not as a clergyman.”

“Go on,” she returned faintly.

“Thank you. You cannot know—you cannot have known—the pain you have given to Miss Susan and to the many whom you have helped in St. Ann. May I not ask you to think how it will end. I should feel glad, for you and others, that it should end.”

“Yes, it must end. I fear that now it is at an end.”

Her voice lost its languor. She ceased to regard either the sunset or the man, and sat up, a little excited, looking straight in front of her.

“If,” she continued, “it had not been at an end, I do not think I should have been willing to listen to you. I have allowed no one to interfere with my actions—not even my sister; but now I do not care. I have made that man suffer. I have taken from him the power to forget. I have ruined him financially, and I believe—yes, I am sure—that I have taken from him the love of a woman; and now you ask me how it will end! If you had talked to me about my soul, and of the sin of punishing a murderer, I should have laughed at you. You did not. You have done what you think a duty. You have talked as George would have done, and so I answer that I know nothing more I can do. If there were anything I could do to injure or to punish, I should do it eagerly. There is nothing.”

“And,” he said, “are you satisfied?”

“No, I am not. If I could fill his days with grief like mine,—oh, to his latest hour,—if I could make his nights, like mine, one long anguish of yearning and unrest, I should be satisfied.”

He touched the thin, white hand which lay on her knee. He made no other reply. The malady was past his helping. She turned and looked at him steadily. A certain tender sweetness in his silent failure to respond, some fresh recognition of resemblance, disturbed her as she said:

“For good or ill, I suppose it is at an end.”

Then, as he heard a heavy footfall behind him, she was on her feet. John Greyhurst was standing in the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, pale, and with eyes deeply congested, he came quickly to the middle of the room and stood still as Mrs. Trescot leaped to her feet and faced him.

Kent laid a hand on his arm. “This,” he said, “is the last house you should dare to enter.”

“What do you want?” said Mrs. Trescot, faintly; and then, in sudden anger, “Out of this, murderer—go!”

He shook off Kent’s arm and said in unnaturally measured tones:

“No; this is my hour, not yours. For these many months you have driven me to despair. You have taken from me, at last, all that was left to me—a woman’s love. I am here to end it—to settle my debt.”

As he spoke, and his hand dropped to his pocket, Kent instantly threw himself before him. The woman stood still, glad of the swift coming of death.

With his left arm Greyhurst threw Kent violently from him across the room, and as the young man fell, stunned for the moment, he covered her with his revolver. She stood motionless.

“Thank you,” she said; “I am glad—glad to die!”

He laughed. “You fool!” he cried, and turning the pistol to his temple, fired. His arm dropped in jerks. For a moment he stood, staring, and then fell as a tree falls, shaking the room with his bulk.

The woman staggered back, caught behind her with both hands the edge of a table, and stared at the man at her feet—dead.

As the servants ran in and out again, screaming, Kent was on his feet. He knelt beside Greyhurst, and then looked up as Susan ran in and stood still, terrified.

“Is he dead?” asked Constance.

“Yes, he is dead.”

“Then he is gone, and I am alive. Will you have it taken away—quick, quick—out of my house?”

Kent caught her as she staggered to the door, swaying and crying, “Take him away, take him away, out of this house—anywhere!” She pushed Kent aside, passed into the study, and, as Susan followed her, fell on to a lounge. The house filled with a crowd of neighbors. Susan, always most quiet when others lost their heads, shut the door. Kent, having said a word of explanation to those in the parlors, reëntered the study.

Constance was breathing fast, her eyes wide open. Leaving a scared maid beside her, Kent led Susan into the hall, and in as few words as possible told her what had happened.

“And this is the end,” she said. “How terrible! My poor Conny! Did he mean to kill her, Reginald?”

“I thought so for a moment; I do not know. I struck my head as he threw me, and what followed I did not fully see. I will go for Dr. Eskridge and send for General Averill. Shall you mind my leaving you alone with her?”

“Oh, no; I think there is no danger. She seems conscious. I will get her up to bed. Come back soon.”

As he went out he cast his eyes on the sword upon the table, the Bible with its marking glove, the dead flower-petals, the sacredly guarded room. “I wonder,” he thought, as he hurried up the street, “what this woman would have been had George Trescot lived.”

As he hastened to find the doctor he sought to recall just what had happened. Surely the man meant to kill Constance Trescot and then himself. She most plainly was glad to die. Yes, she had said so; on which he had turned the pistol on himself, saying, “You fool!” What did he mean? Did he not want to kill her because she wished to die? “Ah, poor lady!” he said. “Perhaps George Trescot was fortunate—and my poor Susan!”

X

Contrary to what the doctor and Susan expected, Constance came out of her dazed state in a few hours. She asked quickly if they had taken it away. When assured as to this, she seemed at ease and put no other questions. Although her mind was clear, she spoke little, and was apparently indifferent to everything. She asked, however, after a few days to be taken to her Beverly home. Kent made all the needed arrangements and went with them. This seemed to excite no surprise in the mind of Constance; she accepted everything in an apathetic way, and when Kent was leaving them at the end of their journey, said good-by listlessly and with no word of thanks. For a month or more she lost flesh and vigor daily, so that Susan thought that she would surely find the relief of death.

In August she began to recover her strength, but not her looks. She had lived many years in one, and, except for the still lovely eyes, had little left of her former beauty. The framework of her face was on a scale which needed the fullness of health, and this she had lost forever.

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

As the warm summer days came and went, Susan was made to feel more and more plainly that she was becoming the slave of exactions which had in them something morbid. To her alarm, she began also to suspect that incessant care of a depressed and too dependent woman might prove to be a dangerous tax on health, and recognized at last with some alarm that she herself was consciously losing vigor.

When making vain efforts to assert her independence she was met by unlooked-for difficulties. In her uncle’s house, as the elder sister, Susan had exerted more or less authority; but now she had the feeling that Constance was, as indeed she looked, the older sister. By degrees Susan also learned that Constance relied on her misfortunes and her long illness to insure to her an excess of sympathetic affection and unremitting service. The discoveries thus made troubled the less selfish sister, and her good sense made plain to her that to permit limitless use of this form of devotion was to commit suicide of health and to sacrifice more than herself. There was one escape possible, and of this she knew that at some time she should have to speak, for her health and all that was once hers alone she felt were no longer to be risked without unfairness to one more dear to her than Constance. Over and over, when approaching this subject, her courage failed her.

When she chanced to mention, even in the most casual way, the man whom she had promised to marry, Constance said at once: “You must know, Susan,—you ought to know,—that I have no desire to hear of him, or of any one in St. Ann. I think you show small consideration for my feelings.” Although aware that her sister and Kent corresponded, and that letters came and went daily, she took no more interest in it than she did in whatever was outside of her own immediate and limited life. It was to Susan an almost inconceivable condition, and she was well aware that not only must it come to an end, but that to hear of her decision would be to Constance a painful awakening.

At last, when, in September, Constance seemed still better, Susan knew that she must speak out, and frankly. Constance furnished the opportunity. They were seated at evening in the garden above a quiet sea. Constance said: “I have been thinking, Susan, about the winter and what would be best for me. The doctor talks about Algiers. How would that do? It is time I made my plans. I do not suppose you care where we go, so long as we are together.”

For a moment Susan made no reply; then she said: “Let us put that aside for a moment. I have long wanted to talk to you, Conny, about another matter, but you have never been willing to listen. While you were so weak I felt that you must not be troubled by what I knew you must some day know. I am engaged to Reginald Kent, and we are to be married late in October. You must have known, Conny, that it would be.”

Constance heard her with an appearance of indifference.

“Oh, I saw there was something; but you cannot really mean to leave me. You are all I have, all I care for. It is simply out of the question. You must see that your duty lies with me.”

“Yes, dear, I see that; and we hope that you will live with us. Reginald is to have a parish near Boston.”

“I will never consent to it. Must I always be sacrificed?”

“If you mean that you will not consent to my marriage, you have no right to say that; if you mean not to live with us, I shall be sorry. I do not think that you should have spoken as you have done. You have had from me all that I could give, and, dear, you do not know how much you claim, nor do you seem to see that even with my sound health I am not fit to be and do what you expect of me—in fact, that it is I who am sacrificed.”

“Then you think I am selfish?”

“I think, dear, that in your sorrow and weakness you need more than I can give.”

“And you intend to marry that man and leave me?”

“I mean to marry Reginald Kent.”

“Then I shall find a companion and go abroad,” she said; and, rising, went away into the house.

Transcriber’s Notes

The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after):

[p. 78]:
... cuss I’d down on my knees and thank the Lord. ...
... cuss I’d be down on my knees and thank the Lord. ...