Chapter IV: Part I: I (4)

“Yes, I know,” she returned; “but this is so different, George. What am I to read to a dying man? I went there once. It was horrible—so slovenly and dirty and ill-smelling; and I never before saw a man dying. It was dreadful. It seemed to me so unnatural.”

The thought struck him as singular. “That is,” he returned, “only because in the ordinary ways of life to see a death is rare for most people. I have seen thousands die. To me, for four years, death was ever near, a sadly common event. It is what may precede death that I dread,—long illness, the loss of competence,—but not death. I hope that, when I die, my twilight may be brief.”

“Please don’t,” she said. “But what _am_ I to read?”

“Well, then, to settle your mind, dear, read him the fourteenth chapter of John, and take my little Bible with you. I doubt if there be a Bible in the whole settlement.”

“Thank you, George.”

“Shall I go with you? I should be very glad to go.”

“Oh, no, no.” She felt that this would have embarrassed her.

“Remember, the fourteenth of John. It is very beautiful. Have you never read it?”

“Never.”

The reply shocked him. In spite of what he knew of her life, it also surprised him. For the moment he had been puzzled by her question; but the chapter he named was a favorite of his own, and he would, after all, have been unable to name any other more suitable.

In the afternoon she found Coffin waiting at the foot of the bluff. He walked with her past the busy cotton-presses, and then out of the wood on to the cleared lands with their broken fences and half-burned stumps. “Wait for me here,” she said, and went on to Wilson’s log cabin. The woman and her children were absent. By the dim light within she saw, as she paused at the door, the broken chairs, the open press with soiled gowns, and the lean chickens picking up the crumbs lying about the dirty floor. The air was heavy with the odors of uncared-for illness. As she approached the rude bed, Wilson said, trying to sit up, “There’s a chair, ma’am. Set down. Not that one; it’s broke.”

She took the hot, dry hand, and feeling a keen desire to run away, sat down beside him, saying, as she put her basket on the table, “I brought you some soup. I hope you are better.”

“No, ma’am; and I never will be no better. The doctor you sent told my wife I couldn’t hold out long. She’s awful troubled about the funeral. We talked it over, and I reckon it won’t cost much. I told her so. Tom will make the coffin.”

She was seeing a new aspect of life—the crude business of death among the poor. It shocked a woman who, in her abounding health and immense vitality, had little more realization of decay and death than has the normal animal.

She murmured softly, “Do not worry; we will take care of all that.”

“Thank you,” he said; “that’s mighty good of you. I can’t talk long; it makes me cough.” Then, after a brief pause, he said: “I’ve been thinking a heap about things. I ain’t been a bad man, but I killed a man in Tennessee. You see, he shot Brother Bill a week before. Seems to me it was—yes, it was Christmas eve, and snowing. I got him comin’ out of his barn. Now I want to know. My wife fetched a preacher here. He’s a Methody. He said I’d got to repent of that man, or I’d go to hell. I didn’t want him any more. I don’t repent. If a man was to kill your man, you wouldn’t forgive him, now would you?”

“I would not,” she replied.

“I knowed you would say something like that, and it’s a real comfort. The other notion ain’t natural.”

The woman sat still in thought, while he coughed until he was exhausted. What would George have said? Why did men confess to her? She had been reinforcing a dying man’s undying hatred. And yet, how could she lie?

At last he whispered hoarsely: “Sometimes in the night I ain’t easy about it. It’s a kind of muddle, life is. You don’t ever get things cleared up. Did you fetch the Book? I used to like mother to read the stories in it when I was a little chap. When father was dying she read out of it, and now I’m going too. Would you read some?”

She opened the Bible where Trescot had left a marker, and read in tones which gathered pathetic sweetness as she went on near to the end of the chapter, when he stopped her. “Seems to me I remember that,” he said; “must have heard it once in church up in the hills. What’s that about the Holy Ghost? That’s what bothered me when I was a young fellow. I took religion bad, once; but that about the Holy Ghost used to kind of scare me of nights. What does that mean?”

Constance paused, searching the page for an answer. It was a childlike creature who lay gasping under the soiled sheet, and yet it was a man; and she felt that out of her larger life she owed him an answer. But what to say she knew not.

For a moment she sat still, glad that he was unable to recognize her embarrassment. Then, her eye wandering over the page, she said: “Perhaps this may help you. ‘The Holy Ghost, the Comforter.’”

“There can’t be no comfort in what a man can’t understand. I don’t know as that—”

A cruel spell of coughing stopped him; and the agony of vain effort shook the rickety bed until it creaked sharply. For some reason, this strangely affected her. It seemed an inanimate expression of the extent of discomfort and wretchedness. At last, worn out, he groaned, “My God, that’s awful!” as he wiped away the blood on his lips and the gray tangle of his beard; and then, with recurrent reflection: “But there’s a heap of things a man can’t understand.”

She shared his conviction as she sat with her glove on the open page, penciled here and there by a hand she loved. She murmured, “Yes, yes,” and read on. “‘Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you.’”

“Won’t you say that again?” he murmured feebly.

The clear tones of a voice often spoken of for its charm repeated the promise. She was close to tears as she continued:

“‘Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’”

She was emotionally too much disturbed to go on, and made a brief pause to regain her command of speech, relieved by the strange comments which gave her time.

“That about being afraid, now, that’s curious-like. I’ve been troubled pretty often, but I don’t know as I ever was afraid.”

She made no reply, but read on, as one may do automatically, with one half-conscious mind on the text, and with one other mind perplexed by thoughts of death and life—the sudden sense of the sweet values of mystery in love and friendship and religion, of which George had spoken. She read on to the end, not taking in the meaning of the three verses which followed.

“Is that all, ma’am?”

“Yes; that is all.”

“Thank you.” He lay on his back, silent, the sweat on his forehead, his cheeks red, his eyes closed. What were his thoughts? There on the edge of the grave was this rude, half-civilized man of the woods, without education, with his creed of an eye for an eye, and here the woman of another world, with every gift and every chance that wealth had given, and both alike bewildered over the simple words of a promise which neither could comprehend nor yet know how to use.

The flies buzzed in and out and settled on the hot face undisturbed, until she began to fan them away.

“I wasn’t asleep,” he said feebly, opening his eyes: “I was a-thinking.” So, too, was she.

“I was thinking,” he repeated, “that maybe you wouldn’t mind saying a prayer. You won’t need to kneel down, the floor’s that filthy; it’s them chickens, and my wife’s wore out.”

The voice was very earnest in its appeal. “I might get some help.”

Constance sat up, in her perplexity fanning him more rapidly. She was helpless, stranded, full of pity. Was this a time for deceit? To whom could she pray? She felt for the man in his hour of doubt and pain, putting forth yearning hands for a sure hold on something. Would such an hour ever come to her?

He felt vaguely her hesitation, and with the gentleness of the mountain-man said: “Maybe you ain’t used to praying in company.”

“No, no,” she said, glad of the frailest pretense; “I am not; and the room is close, I must get outside.” It was true. She had the keenest sensitiveness to evil odors. Her head swam, and saying, “I will come again; I must get into the air,” she stood up and emptied her basket of fruit, lemons, and the bottle of soup. “You must need ice. I will send it to-morrow—no, to-night. Coffin will bring it.”

He thanked her, and again she had to touch the hot, dry hand, as he pleaded: “This isn’t any kind of place for folks like you, ma’am; but the angels might be like you—I don’t ask no better. You will come again, won’t you?”

“I will; certainly I will,” she said, and went out.

“A sad kind of angel you are, Constance Trescot,” she murmured, as she drank in the fresh pine-scented air. She had a pained sense of incompleteness, of incompetence, of failure.

Her uncle’s views, which were nourished by the pleasure of being in opposition to his own world, had kept her ignorant of all that Susan knew so well. Constance had felt no need of it for herself or for others. With all her many resources, her education, her acceptance by a man like Trescot on terms of intellectual equality, she had shrunk away defeated, unable to answer helpfully a simple, uneducated woodsman. She moved on into the forest, deep in thought, followed by her doglike guardian. Presently, as she went past the cotton-presses, she was aware of coming steps and met Mr. Greyhurst. He turned and went with her. Seeing whence she had come, he said, with some seriousness: “These clearings are rather lonesome places for ladies, Mrs. Trescot; and, now that the blacks are free, not altogether safe. You must pardon my frankness. Mr. Trescot may not fully comprehend the risks the North has brought on us.”

It was said kindly, and as she felt he was not without reason, she replied: “You are no doubt right; but when I come here among these poor people I ask my garden helper, Coffin, to follow me.”

“So I see, but he is a wild fellow, like the rest,—oh, I suppose, trustworthy in a way. I should think you would find these people interesting. They are mostly men who have drifted down from the mountain country.”

“Yes, I like them. This time I went to take a sick man some luxuries.”

“You are very good. These people—and, in fact, most of our people—are too poor to be able to help one another.”

“Oh, these are trifles any one can afford.”

“Perhaps. I called on you again yesterday, but was unlucky. Will you allow me to say one thing?”

She laughed. “Being ignorant, I must, I suppose, be generous. What is it?”

He went on, with a manner so timid and unassured as to be in marked contrast with his athletic build and ordinary self-assertive carriage.

“We have been so long accustomed to regard Mr. Hood as a sort of despotic landlord, standing in our way here in St. Ann, that your appearance as representing him rather startled our good ladies.”

“I trust they were agreeably startled. Are we so surprising?”

“Oh, I said you, Mrs. Trescot; men are never surprising.”

“Indeed! I have often found them so. I think, however, when my uncle comes in the fall for that tiresome trial, you will find one man who will pass as agreeably surprising. I want him to come because we wish him to know St. Ann and all these delightful people. Besides, he is a great friend of the South—what at home we called a Copperhead. He could do a great deal to help this town; and, once here on the spot, he may be brought to see that even in business it is often the best policy to be generous.”

“You will pardon me, Mrs. Trescot, if I say that he has hardly been that, or even just.”

“Perhaps not; but we trust that in the end St. Ann will not have to regret our coming or our influence with him. In business my uncle loves to be what he calls exact; outside of it he is the prey of everybody who wants help.”

“That is unusual,” he returned; “but, unfortunately, this is all business.”

“Yes; but, after all, Mr. Greyhurst, it is hard for a man to escape from the tyranny of his own temperament. My uncle is always in the opposition, and for that reason I think he really enjoys a legal battle.”

“It is often a costly luxury.”

“Yes; but he does not care about that.”

“What you say about the difficulty of escape from the despotism of temperament—ah! that is sadly true. No one knows that better than I. I envy Mr. Trescot his entire self-control. I think the bar is scarcely a good education in amiability.”

“If,” she laughed, “my husband degenerates in St. Ann I shall run away. I think General Averill is a poor illustration of the influence of the practice of the law.”

“Oh, the general! No one is like Averill. He has the tenderness of a woman. He is impossible as an example.”

“Cannot a man make himself what he really wants to be?”

He glanced at her with interest, and returned gaily, “Can a woman?”

“No,” she said; “no.”

“Neither can I, Mrs. Trescot, more’s the pity.”

He was once more on the point of one of those easy confessions, which, for some occult reason of sex sympathies, men, as I have said, are so apt to confide to the charity of women. Young as she was, she was prepared for it, and not liking the too personal turn the talk had taken, she said:

“You have told me what folks think of us in St. Ann, but you have never asked—no one has—what we think of St. Ann.”

“Well,” he said, “that might be worth while.”

“We like it and the people.”

She was scarcely accurate, to state it in no worse way.

“That is pleasant; I accept my share.”

“I must leave the partition to you,” she said lightly. “What a big river-steamer!”

“Yes; the _Stonewall Jackson_, a new boat.”

“How warm it is!” She raised her parasol as they came out on the bluff. “Is it always as warm as this in your July weather?”

They went on talking of every-day matters. In the main street she said: “I must leave you here; I have to make a call and do some shopping.”

He took it to be a dismissal, and, raising his hat, left her.

He walked on, absorbed in thought. The woman had a calming influence upon his uncertain temper. Most women so affected him. With men his self-esteem was always on the watch for slights. It made his associates uncomfortably careful. He was at times aware of their reserve, and, without fully understanding the cause, resented it. He felt it in his business, and most of all with Trescot, who, although very desirous of keeping on good terms with him, found it increasingly difficult. That morning, in Averill’s office, Greyhurst had returned to the question of an amicable settlement of Hood’s claim to own the water-front at the bend. Trescot had once more made the reply that it lay with Mr. Hood, and that he had himself failed to move him. Greyhurst had lost his temper and made his disbelief so plain that nothing except Averill’s very positive interference and indorsement of Trescot’s statement had saved an open quarrel. Greyhurst had reluctantly apologized, and Trescot had been exasperatingly good-humored.

As Greyhurst walked on he said, with returning remembrance of his annoyance: “Damn the man! I was a fool to talk of it,—a child,—but his cold-blooded ways are hard to stand.” As he murmured his condemnation of Trescot, a big black fellow, much in liquor, hustled him. He struck him savagely and went on. The man gathered himself up, and following him, said meekly: “I didn’t go to do it, massa.”

“Oh, go to the devil!” exclaimed Greyhurst. “Get out, or you’ll get a bullet through you!”

He had made himself angry about one man, and another had suffered. A minute later he was sorry for his brutal haste. His life was full of such regrets; but this was a minor one, and did not trouble him long.

X

By and by, her errands done, Constance called at her husband’s office, and they walked homeward together.

He told her that he had heard from her uncle. He had once more declined to yield assent to any of Trescot’s proposals. The squatters must go.

Constance laughed. “Wait till I have him here. I know a way.”

“Upon my word, dear, I begin to respect your legal resources; but they are, so far, rather costly. You have provided for Coffin. How much it will require to get the rest to leave we do not know. As for the use of the machinery of the law to turn them out to shift for themselves—I will throw up the whole business rather than do that.”

“Indeed, I should, George, if it came to that; but it will not; there will be no occasion.”

“Well, I trust not. I have had a long talk with Greyhurst this morning in Averill’s office. I never knew so peculiar a man. He told me that he, at least, had had no hand in that club business. When I thanked him and said that I had never for a moment supposed the Confederate officers had been in it, he said some of them had, and would have told me who they were if I had not said I did not wish to know their names. He laughed, and remarked that it was as well not to know, because I might feel obliged to call them to account. I said in reply that I had no malice about the blackballing, and that in a case of even graver injury I should not feel justified in avenging myself by shooting a man, and that a bullet in the shoulder was, in my case, a pretty positive peacemaker.

“As he made no reply, I went on to say that I had never desired to be a member of the club, and was therefore quite easy in mind. When Averill asked him at what time in October he thought our case would come up, he said he did not know, and that it never ought to come up at all; and when I said that was my desire, but that it would have to go to trial, he quite suddenly lost his temper, and said that I ought to be able to bring about a settlement. And then there was more of it, and worse.”

“What did you say, George?”

“Oh, Averill interfered, and I said I should do everything possible; and indeed I shall. He went away in a curious sullen humor, and, upon my word, he is like some rude, undisciplined boy; but I think he has brains enough to know that he has a bad case. If he knew all I know, he would give it up, although that is not Averill’s opinion.”

“I met him in the woods as I came from Wilson’s. He was pretty sharply critical of Uncle Rufus, and was rather intimate in his talk about himself.”

“Was he? I should not have thought him a man to do that.”

“It surprised me less than it does you, for men have a queer way of opening their minds to women.”

“I am sure you said what was right. How is poor Wilson?”

“I was wrong to go, George.”

Realizing what must have happened, and not altogether sorry, he said: “What was your trouble, my love? Did you read to him?”

“Yes; I read to him, and oh, George, he asked me questions.”

“What, dear?”

She hesitated, and then said: “It was dreadful. He asked me what was the Holy Ghost, what kind of a Ghost. It was awful. How did I know? How does any one know? Your Bible is a tangle of mysteries.”

“It is answered in the same chapter, Constance.”

“Answered?”

“Yes; it is the Comforter.”

“I said that.”

“It is also called the Spirit of Truth, Constance. That which is as old as the world, as old as He who made it, the Spirit before which science bends in worship, that on which the world of morals rests. Isn’t that simple enough?”

“Yes,” she said doubtfully.

“Was that all, dear?”

“Oh, no, no; he asked me to pray for him.”

He looked at her. She was troubled, tearful; he hardly knew what to say, and at last wisely put the question by. “We will talk of that at another time, not now; it is a large question.”

“I did not do it.”

“No; you were right.”

“Thank you, George.”

To know that, thinking, believing as he did, he was able to put himself in her position affected her deeply. She was about to go on and say something of the man’s confession and his creed of unforgiveness, but recalling what she too had said in reply, she was silent.

The next week she went away to her old home with the general and Mrs. Averill. The day after her arrival she wrote to Trescot:

“DEAR GEORGE:

“I am sitting on the great rock at sunset, and it seems as though the
waves I love are glad of my coming. A mad gale is hurling them on the
rocks below me, and far away there is a wild turmoil of waters about
Little Misery Islands. The air is sweet and salt, and it wants only
the sunshine of the love I miss every hour.

“I found Susan well and utterly unchanged. Why should she not
be?—only that I have changed, and am wiser and a larger person than
when you first knew me. What your dear love and company have done for
me I know full well. The atmosphere of my old home seems to me other
than it was. I think I shall understand Susan better. Once I used to
think her narrow. Uncle Rufus is thinner than thin, with a wilted
autumnal look, and the same delicate features, and the same meek
violence in his opinions. I refused to be taken in the toils of an
invitation to discuss his Western affairs, but it will have to be
soon or late, though I shall not be serious with him until we are in
St. Ann. Then he may look out. And now I must go. I hear voices in
the garden.

“Constantly your constant
“CONSTANCE.

“Isn’t that pretty, sir?

“P.S.—Tell me all the news, big and little. How are Wilson and Coffin
and my cat? The Averills were most kind, and will be here very soon
for a visit.

“P.S.—I am writing a second P.S.,—almost in the dark. Far away to
right, Marblehead Light is flashing at intervals over the stormy
water. There is another, a lesser one, far to the left. I like it
better. It is, sir, if you please, constant, like me.”

She wrote daily, and a week later said:

“I can see that dear, grave face when I tell you that I went to
church last Sunday with Susan. I am not going to pretend I went for
any reason except because I love you, but that is not reason, for my
love is all of me—body, soul, and mind. Is that a riddle, sir? I
_had_ to tell Susan that I went because it would please you. She put
on one of her queer looks, and said it was creditable to my sense of
the humorous. I did not like that. I do not think that even you can
understand the absolute negation from childhood of all thought about
this vast matter of religion. Since I came, a little girl, to
Eastwood, I have been imprisoned within the bounds of my uncle’s
belief, or unbelief, and only of late years did I slowly apprehend
that his attitude was purely due to the joy of standing up against
other people’s beliefs. But think, dear, what this ignorance,
ridicule, and denial did with a childhood like mine. Susan said once
you cannot even teach manners without forms, nor make a child
religious and reverent without forms. Is that so? I had a wicked
little joy when uncle saw me go out to church with Susan. He said, as
if it were a tragedy, ‘And this is the end,’ and, as Susan says,
twinkled away. He does not walk like other people, but only from his
knees—really an absurd little person, as he appears to me now, with a
queer way of suddenly saying unexpected things. He told me once, when
I was fifteen, that I was a fine animal. I was furious, but I think I
know now what he meant.

“The Averills came and were made much of. Since the general was here
uncle has spoken of you to our friends with a newly acquired pride,
to the vast amusement of Susan. You are to understand that when, in
October, you have the help of a man with some knowledge of business
everything will be settled. I said, ‘Better, then, uncle, not to
discuss things with an ignorant woman’; and with this he was
contented for half a day.

“Whenever it is possible I go out in our cat-boat, and oh, to sail
with a mad east wind driving the fog in your face! Do you like that?
Nature is never too riotous for me—and then these summer evenings by
the sea; what a blithe playmate! I used to like best to be alone on
the shore or in the woods; but now, ah! to have you, and cry, ‘Look
at this, George; and see that.’

“You say I am making you vain. I leave you to imagine how much I love
you, how emptied is life without you. My uncle concerns himself with
everything, from the dairy and the butter to my poor little every-day
letters to you. ‘Absurd waste of paper,’ he says; and then, with his
inconsequent felicity, ‘What would I do if you were dead?’ I said:
‘Do? I should kill myself in the hope to find you—oh, somewhere!’ Do
you know, he laughed, and said: ‘Just so, just so. I do not doubt
it.’ Then he went on: ‘Once you had a doll and it fell into the well.
You were caught trying to climb down the chain to get it; and then,
when you were punished, you said you would starve until some one got
that doll.’ It was true. At last I scared him so that a man went down
and got it. There was not much doll left, but it was my doll. He went
on, and I learned more about my obstinate ways, until I fled away,
leaving him talking, until, as I presume, he discovered that he was
alone.

“Yesterday we had a dense fog. It rolled in from the sea in gray
masses. An east wind drove it landward. I went to the shore and lay
on the rocks just above the sea. The fog shut out the islands, and at
last was like a gray wall about me. You know how the sea of a bright
day seems to explain itself, when from far away the waves rise and
gather and grow and break on the shore; but now you could not see
twenty feet, and the great rollers came as if out of nowhere and
tumbled at my feet. Somewhere out at sea a steamer screamed as if
lost. Oh, but I wanted you! You would have said things of it all I
cannot say. I can only see and enjoy and badly describe.

“C.T.”

A few days before she returned to St. Ann one of his replies to her daily letters ran thus:

“Yes, the rooms will be in order for your uncle and our welcome
Susan. Mrs. Averill has been sending me a lot of things—I presume
owing to your distrust of my capacity to keep house. I have at least
laid in a stock of patience for use when your uncle comes, and have
got out and dusted my other unused virtues. I received last week a
kind note from Colonel La Grange, with a check for my settlement of
the damaged cotton. You may guess how much—enough to make it easier
to deal with your uncle.

“You ask in your last whom I see, and would like to know what I do
all day. You ask if I have made any new friends. I scent the wicked
weed jealousy in the garden of love. Fie for shame! More people have
been able this year to get away. I see no women except Mrs. Averill,
and if you are jealous of any woman it must be of Rosalind or Portia
or Lady Macbeth. I have been refreshing myself with the company of
these ladies in your absence. Horses are so plenty that I have been
able to ride a few times with La Grange, and I begin to think of the
joy of some day riding with you.

“Poor Wilson is dead; and, as you desired, I took care of the
funeral. The rest may keep. Everything goes well, and there are still
flowers,—oh, in abundance! I hear that the rector is not well and has
given up. A young man named Kent has taken his place. I had some
distant relatives named Kent. I never saw them. You may tell Susan
that La Grange, who knows Mr. Kent, says he is young and very
good-looking. That is all my news. Do take care of yourself.”

“Poor Susan!” thought Constance; “I think she prefers them old. I imagine Susan in a mild clerical flirtation!”

XI

On the evening of the first of October, Constance found herself, to her great joy, again in her own home. They arrived late, and Mr. Hood very tired. He appeared, however, at breakfast next morning, having slept unusually well. After an ample meal, during which he found time to complain of the butter, the eggs, the corn-bread, and his cocoa, he informed Susan that she had better take a rest, and that Constance, at eleven o’clock, would go with him to show him the way to Mr. Greyhurst’s office and to the general’s. At five in the afternoon George would drive him about the country. He desired to see his lands. In the evening he would be prepared to discuss matters with Trescot.

The family, thus disposed of, rose in revolt. Trescot had affairs which would keep him busy; there would be a buggy and Coffin to drive Mr. Hood about. It was too far for him to walk, and Constance would be occupied. Susan declined to be advised. She had to unpack. He gave up at once.

Trescot said: “It would be as well not to call on Mr. Greyhurst. But if you do, may I ask that you will not commit yourself in any way until the general and I have been able to lay before you more fully what has been done.”

“Of course not, Trescot; I have not been a business man all my life without having learned caution.” He had a brisk little air of assurance. “I hope to make the acquaintance of some of the Confederate officers. I think you said Mr. Greyhurst was one of them. With my views of the late disastrous war, everything will become easy.”

“I trust, sir,” said Trescot, as he was about to go out, “that you may enable me, now that you are here, to act as I have not been as yet authorized to do. Unless you can make up your mind to yield a little, you will find difficulties, as we have done.”

Mr. Hood waved them away. “Difficulties are not for the resolute.”

Constance shook her head at her husband, who, thus advised, quietly gave up; and the little old man went out on the porch to get his morning exercise. He walked up and down, with his hands behind his back, smiling at intervals, and contemplating with satisfaction novel opportunities for the exercise of his adroitness in affairs. Meanwhile, Susan also disappeared.

As Constance left him at the door, Trescot said: “There are limitless capacities for mischief in that old man.”

“There are; but he is as timid as a house-fly. The general has already disposed him to yield. He is only making believe to be very bold; and if Mr. Greyhurst represents to him the state of feeling here, he will be pretty well alarmed at the attitude of his Confederate friends.”

“That is very sensible, dear, and no doubt true; but he will say yes to-day, and no to-morrow, and I shall be presumed to have advised him. That is where the mischief will come in. And now I must go.”

Constance was fully resolved to have her own share in these counsels. She saw her husband’s uneasiness, and was sensible that there was peril in the air, and a general belief that this absentee millionaire was standing in the way of progress and threatening men who had been soldiers and for whom the deepest sympathy was felt. She was as clear as George that to relieve the squatters and make easy settlements with the owners of mortgaged lands would leave only the larger matter of the more valuable land-claim on the bend. She cared nothing for what her uncle might make or lose, but she had had one stern illustration of the methods of the rude men who considered themselves wronged, and how the issues were to affect her husband had been from the first her chief anxiety. She had been fortunate in her venture with Coffin, and now again she meant to act, and was the more resolute because she was not quite at ease in regard to Trescot’s health. He had felt the summer’s heat, and more often than before carried his right arm caught for support in his waistcoat.

As the day proved cool, Mr. Hood decided to walk. When he stood in front of the one-story wooden office of John Greyhurst, he considered with disapproval the want of fresh paint and the ill-kept window-panes. They gave him a sense of superiority. He was himself as neat as a cat.

He went up the entry, and in a moment was in the presence of Greyhurst, who knew at a glance that the eager little gentleman in well-fitting gray summer dress must be Mr. Hood. As he rose to welcome him,—large, square-shouldered, and powerful,—the contrast was striking.

“Mr. Hood, I am sure.”

“Yes.”

There was a cordial greeting. Greyhurst removed some law books from a chair, and they sat down, Mr. Hood saying: “It gives me great pleasure to see you. You may not be aware that I am one of the many at the North whose sympathies were with the South, and I have long felt that if I could venture, at my age, to come to St. Ann, I might”—he remembered Trescot’s warning—“I might clear up some misunderstandings.”

The lawyer was not one of those who, like Trescot, could let a man go on to tangle himself in the net of his own garrulity. He said: “Oh, there have been more than enough troubles, sir. You are quite correct, but I should hesitate to call them misunderstandings, unless Mr. Trescot has utterly set aside your wishes. He is a bolder man than your former agent,—I may say, a rasher man. He has taken measures to turn out some broken-down soldiers from their miserable little clearings. He has given notices of merciless foreclosures. To some of these people it is ruin.”

Hood had not the frankness to say that these had been his own very positive orders, nor that Trescot had insisted on milder measures. He moved uneasily as he returned:

“I am inclined to be lenient, but business is business, Mr. Greyhurst.”

“Yes, no doubt; but I think that you ought to be aware that we are a wrecked people; that people with no money cannot pay; and, worst of all, there is that land-claim at the bend. One of our oldest families is interested, and has the sympathy of our entire community. The failure to settle this is standing in the way of our prosperity and limiting our river facilities. I do not imagine, sir, that you know our hot-blooded people. There is risk, sir,—peril,—in the course that is being pursued.”

“Peril!” said the little old gentleman, sitting up. “I do not understand.” He was imposed upon by the emphatic statements of the stalwart, dark-faced man. “I should be glad to be enlightened. Who is in danger?”

Greyhurst had no desire to go beyond vague generalities.

“Yes, I said there was peril. If you lived here you would understand. No Southern community will tamely submit to these measures. A compromise, with a fair division of the water-front at the bend, would quiet the feeling. The rest would be easy to manage. I have urged this in vain. Mr. Trescot pleads your orders. As a lawyer I assure you your claim will not stand.”

Hood held up the hand of appeal. “I—I, sir, will consider the matter. I will talk it over with Mr. Trescot. I will speak to the general.”

He had come hither to talk business, as he called it, and was scared and humiliated. This was not business. He went on: “We would be prepared to go into any reasonable propositions.”

“I have invited them over and over.”

“Dear me! that is bad, very bad.”

“Then you agree to divide the water-front?”

“Oh, no; I could not say that; I—I am accustomed to discuss such matters. I don’t quite know.”

He was getting confused and nervous, and as eager to get away as he had been to come. He rose. “It has been a great pleasure to see you. Ah! my hat, thank you; I must go on to see Averill.”

“I shall have the pleasure to call, and meanwhile you may trust me to do all I can to restrain the feeling here. It is bitter, very bitter—in fact, dangerously bitter. Good morning.”

“Bless me!” said the old gentleman, as he entered the street, and stood wiping his forehead, “what an abrupt person! I must talk to George Trescot.”

As he moved on he reflected that Greyhurst had no direct connection with the affairs of the squatters, nor with the mortgages. If he intended to alarm him, Rufus Hood, he should learn that it was not easy. The further he got away from the impressive physical bulk and threatening manner of the lawyer, the more he resolved to have his rights. He was, as I have said, close and narrow in business affairs, but outside of them not ungenerous, and very willing to let the left hand know of the bounty of the right. After he had ousted these land robbers he might help them—might do something. The idea of thus posing as a benefactor refreshed him. He went on to Averill’s.

He found the general rather doubtful as to the very valuable land at the bend. It was a difficult matter; nor was he much disposed to make that or any of Hood’s business appear easy. He said nothing of the new evidence. Mr. Hood would have to yield and not drive men to extremities. He told him that Trescot would set before him in full, as concerned the water-front, the state of the evidence in his favor. It must rest largely on their ability to prove the bounds of a survey made for Mr. Hood’s father forty years back. If they failed, then the Baptiste heirs would come in under an old French title. When Hood mentioned what the lawyer had said of violence and public opinion, Averill laughed. “A little bluff. The man is not very sure of his case. After Mr. Trescot talks to you, we will be better able to decide if it be well to compromise.”

“Compromise! That I will never do. I am not a man to be scared out of my rights.”

Averill smiled and said: “Be gentle with the squatters and the rest. Their lands are of small value; the water is shoal near the town; soon or late all our business has got to go to the bend. I should willingly abandon all your other interests to insure that.”

Mr. Hood went away well pleased. Here was business and to spare. He would be firm, firm. He struck his stick on the broad sidewalk, and went on.

In the afternoon Constance took her uncle to drive in a buggy along a bad wood-road to see the lands so long in dispute. It gave her the opportunity she needed.

In the woods she tied the horse and walked about until her uncle was tired and much bewildered. Then they sat down on a log. He had been telling her over and over how determined he was. At last, during a pause in his repetitions, she said:

“What do you mean to do about the squatters?”

“Turn them out, of course. It is my land.”

“They are pretty lawless men, Uncle Rufus.”

“Oh, I have heard all about that from Mr. Greyhurst. I am not a man to be easily alarmed. The general says it is all talk—pure bluff.”

“Indeed? Were you ever shot at?”

“I! God bless me! no. What do you mean? Why should I be shot at?”

“When George first came here, or soon after, these men were told that you meant to eject them, and that he would act promptly. One of them shot at George; I had just left him; it was at night.”

The neat little old man was at once uneasy, and looked about him, saying: “Good gracious, Constance! It must have been an accident. Are you sure? Do they live near here?”

“The bullet broke a pane of glass. If you are curious, you can see the hole it made in the wall. Now, uncle, this is serious, and not a matter for doubt or delay. You have tied George up so that he is hated, and I do not know what may happen. He has done some things to quiet these men. He has settled certain of the mortgages, and you will have to stand by his acts; but there is still danger. If you had been here, it would have been you they would have shot at. You have been merciless, and it has got to stop. I will not have George killed in order that you may make a few thousand dollars. I will not have it!”

“How violent you are, Constance! You don’t suppose there is any—any danger now? It was most inconsiderate, most unusual. Of course the man was arrested.”

“Arrested? No; you can’t arrest a whole town. I mean that public opinion would be on his side. He got away, and no one knows of it. If you talk of it I will never, never forgive you.”

“I will not,” he said. “I never heard of such a thing. It is awful.”

She turned sharply as they sat on the log. “You say it is awful. It is you who made what would have been easy full of risk to my husband. It lies with you to put an end to this state of things. If you will not, I shall leave St. Ann with George—oh, at once! Now what do you mean to do? We have already talked of it—of leaving.”

“What do you want me to do?” he returned feebly.

“Will you agree to let George buy off the squatters?”

“I will talk to him. Women know nothing of business.”

“I do, uncle. George Trescot is my business. This trifling with my husband’s life and my happiness must end—now and here. You talk of business!” She rose and stood facing him. “_I_ am in the business of life. Either you do as I say, or I shall make George give up your affairs and go away. You have been entirely regardless of what might happen. George and the general wrote to you over and over; you did not reply or you refused to yield anything. These rebel friends of yours hate you; and now this attempt at murder comes as a result of your selfish folly.”

“No one mentioned this—this remarkable incident. I have been left in the most culpable ignorance. I am a perfectly reasonable man. Let Trescot clear them out, and I will—well, I will then see what may be done to help them.”

“Yes; you will see; and with George dead, and you too if you announce your intention and stay here. I will not have it. Will you do as George wants, or will you not?”

“I will not be bullied. I must think it over.”

“You will do no such thing. This life of suspense is simply unendurable. Have you no common sense—no compassion for me, no realization of the danger you have brought upon us?” She turned from him with a gesture of despair, crying: “You are an impossible person. You have neither common sense nor heart. I have done with you. I hope never to see you again.” As she ended, she moved away with quick steps through the darkening wood.

“Great heavens!” he cried, as he stood up. “Are you going to leave me here alone?”

“I am; you can walk home.”

“Constance! Constance!” he cried.

She turned back. “Well, what is it?”

“I will do it.”

“Yes—until you get home. Oh, you and your money! I want no more of it; I had rather sew or beg.”

“But I will do it. George may do as he likes.”

“And you will pay? You will let him settle with the squatters?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And the other things—the foreclosures?”

“Yes, yes.” He rose, very shaky. She gave him her arm as he tottered.

“And about the lands here?”

“I will never give them up.”

She smiled, and, contented with her victory, said: “I would not if I were you. Here is the buggy.”

He was silent all the way home, nursing his wrath.

Her husband met them as they entered his library.

“Have you had a pleasant drive, Mr. Hood?”

“I have not, sir. It has been most disagreeable.”

“My uncle has agreed, George, that whatever terms you may make with the squatters, and about the mortgages, he will abide by them.”

Trescot was surprised. “Oh, thank you,” he cried. “It is a great relief, sir, great—”

“I agreed to it under compulsion,” said Hood. “On reflection, I am of opinion—”

Trescot turned on him. “Did you tell my wife you would do as she has said?”

“I did; but, upon reconsidering, I—”

“Then, sir, I shall act on your very wise decision; and it is time I did, and none too soon. I will talk it all over with you to-night or to-morrow.”

“We shall see,” said the old man; “I am too weak to discuss matters at present.”

“I have no desire to do so,” returned Trescot.

“Uncle,” said Susan, an amused listener, “you had better lie down before dinner; you must be tired.”

“Damn everybody!” said the old man, and disappeared, clutching at Susan’s arm.

“And now, dear,” said George, “as you have been acting for me in this business—”

“No, no; I was acting for myself.”

“I see, dear; and what did you say to that improbable old man?”

“I said you had been shot at.”

“Constance!”

“I did. He thinks he will be killed. I told him that would be a great relief. Oh, I said horrid things. He is half dead already.”

“Do you think you were altogether wise to make him angry?”

“What do I care? I am a woman in love, at bay. Oh, I used my claws; but he gave way; he always does. To-morrow he will change his mind.”

“Be at ease, dear; I am too relieved to give him a chance to escape. I could not have used any risk I run, or have run, to make your uncle give me a free hand; but I should simply have said, Either I am to do as seems best, or I give up the charge of your affairs.”

“I told him you would.”

Susan entered, laughing. “George,” she said, “my uncle wants a time-table of the railroad East. What have you done to him, Conny?”

George and Constance laughed as she replied, “I frightened him well.”

“He is a bit over-cooked, Conny,” said Susan. “Did you tell him he would be scalped? He is in a panic.”

“He won’t be to-morrow,” returned Constance, still a little cross.

“He thinks he will not get up for dinner. Whenever his feelings are hurt by you or me he decides to make a new will. I shall hear of it to-morrow. I have been very rich, steeped in poverty, and moderately well off. He tells me all about it every time. It would be very, very funny if there were not too much of it. It is money, money, money. I think there must be devil-saints and their blood-money. It is an obsession with Uncle Rufus. He is now being robbed and ruined by these unlucky squatters, and is talking of giving thousands to endow an asylum for the orphans of dead rebels! It all has its serious side, but I could not help being amused.”

“Amused? There is nothing amusing about it—nothing. Nothing as unreasonable as Uncle Rufus is amusing to me; and he is always acting, with himself for audience when the play doesn’t draw. He was horribly scared, Susan. Is he still? I have worse things in store if he should dare to change his mind. This is no matter for laughter. I hope he will go. This is all of my life. It is George Trescot.” She was becoming more and more excited and angry.

“I shall do nothing to keep him here,” said Trescot, laying a hand on her arm. “But be quiet, dear.”

Never before had he seen her swept by such a storm of passionate wrath.

She drew herself up at his touch, and was instantly quieted, like some splendid animal tamed and stilled by the touch of a master.

“I did not mean to laugh at you,” said Susan, her kindly face, with its great power of expression, becoming suddenly grave; “but you ought by this time to know, Conny dear, that everything has its droll side for me. You take uncle too seriously. You get superbly angry; I make him appear ridiculous. Either answers; and, dear, the anger hurts you; the ridicule is effective, and hurts no one. I am altogether on your side. But what about that time-table?”

“I have none,” said Trescot; “and he cannot go until we have set all this matter at rest. After that he cannot go too soon.”

“Very well; he shall stay just as long as you want,” said Susan, and left the room.

Then Constance sat down and burst into tears.

“What is it, my love?” said Trescot, comforting her.

“Oh, everything, George, everything; I did not think any one could be as heartless. I hope they will all go away—oh, soon; I want you to myself.”

“I do not think he will stay, and I do not want him; he will only muddle matters. Come out into the garden; we will talk of other things. Let this rest.”

It was his way to avoid needless discussions, and, having settled a thing and reached a decision, to dwell upon it no longer. It was otherwise with Constance. It required a distinct effort, as Susan said,—and she knew her sister well,—“for Conny to pick the burs off her mind.” He, too, was beginning to observe the persistency with which she dwelt upon unpleasant and, indeed, pleasant ideas.

The quiet of a windless night, with the unclouded brilliancy of the Southern heavens, was over them as they went into the garden. She slipped her hand into his, and they walked up and down the garden path. After a little she said: “I behaved like a bad child. You do not scold me, George.”

“I never shall. You have that within which scolds enough at need.”

“I sometimes doubt it.”

“Oh, no; never do that.”

“I envy you your patience, George. I wonder if ever I shall be like you. They say husband and wife do sometimes grow to be alike.”