Chapter IX: Part II: I (2)

“I do not. I want you to be the dear, good woman you are. I shall neither ask nor need help.”

“You certainly will not get it from me; I think it wicked, foolish.”

“Yes, yes,” said Constance; “from your point of view, not from mine. But you will not love me the less? I could not bear that. Only, dear, let us never talk of this any more. I am not a child. I am not hysterical or insane. I shall not trouble your life. We will live like other people. Now, that is all.” She bent over and kissed the elder sister, who sat staring into the fire, her hands clasped about her knees. Accepting the kiss coldly, Susan looked up, but finding no comfort in the set face of her sister, her own eyes full of tears,—for she loved with a deep and changeless love, and wished to be able to respect as well as to love,—she rose and said as she stood: “I shall never have a moment’s peace; I shall always be thinking of what you may do. You have made me very unhappy.”

“I am sorry,” said Constance.

Susan left her, saying: “I wish you were more sorry.”

Despite her assertion of certainty, Constance was not secure as to what her future course should be; while Susan, as their life went on in its usual way, regained her belief that Constance would some day acknowledge her schemes to be as absurd as they appeared to her own good sense.

In the morning, a few days later, Constance was leaving General Averill’s house when she saw, for only the second time since her return, the largely built figure of Greyhurst. He came upon her suddenly as she stood at the gate between the high rows of box. His face changed. He half raised his hand in obedience to the habit of salute, dropped it, and went on.

She turned out of the gate, paused a moment, and followed him. Half-way down the slope to the main street he looked back. He saw twenty feet behind him the tall, black-robed woman. He turned to go up the main street. It was the busy hour near to noon. Both were familiar figures. People looked after them in wonder. Two gentlemen in talk on the board sidewalk lifted their hats as she went by, and, observing Greyhurst in front of her, remarked on it as strange. Did Greyhurst know who was behind him? Did she recognize the man? They passed on. At his office he looked back once more. She was very near, and had raised her veil. She met his gaze with steady eyes. He saw the white face with its look of immeasurable pain, and, passing into the house, fell on a chair, limp and wet with the sudden sweat of an emotion akin to terror.

Nor was she less observant. She was aware of the quick change in a face where all expressions revealed themselves with distinctness, and went on her way with her share of a moment of agitation, murmuring: “I must be to him like a ghost. I know now that he suffers—and he shall suffer.”

From that time she was more frequently seen in the morning hours on the one busy street of the town. Now and then, as if by chance, she came upon the man she sought, but was careful not to overdo that which would lose force by repetition. Twice she followed him on his homeward way. The last time was at dusk. He became aware of her presence as he left the verge of the town and turned into West Street. She kept her place some few paces behind him. He did not look back, but was terribly conscious of her nearness. He could not have described or analyzed the form of distress which knowledge of her presence brought upon him. He longed to look back at her, and was sure that to do so would abruptly freshen the memory of all he desired to forget. Now, for the first time, he felt fear in its purity—such fear as the child has when going up-stairs in the dark—fear unassociated with a definite object or distinct idea.

At his own gate he turned and looked back. The tall black figure was but ten steps away. Of a sudden, obeying one of those unreasonable impulses to which he was subject, he went toward her.

For a moment she was afraid, but did not move. He stopped before her and said: “My God! have you no pity? Cannot you see how I suffer?”

“Suffer!” she cried. “I am glad that you suffer! Pity? I have for you such pity as you had for him and me!”

With no more words, she crossed the street, and her dark figure was lost in the deepening gloom. The man looked after her for a moment, and then walked back to his house, and, moving heavily, went up the steps, murmuring, “My God! my God!”

Before this he had thought it hardly strange that he met her so often, for every one met almost daily in the one business street. He had felt it keenly. But now he became certain that she had of purpose chosen to meet and follow him. This sudden sense of being causelessly afraid for a little while occupied his consciousness to the shutting out of other thought. He was a man who had been in battle fearless, and so rash as to be blamed for leading his men into needless peril. What now did he dread? He did not know, and that troubled him. These revelations of what lies hidden in the abysses of the mind are, at times, startling evidence of how little we know of the world of self. That it was not physical fear was what disturbed him most.

When seated in his library, he succeeded in fastening his attention on the tangled accounts of a bankrupt client’s business. He was apt at figures and liked to deal with them. After two hours of hard work he began to consider the situation in which he was placed. To have it continue would be intolerable. He had to be absent for a week, but must return for a day to speak at or near the county town. Then he was to go to California and attend to certain mining interests in which the governor and other political friends were concerned. He would be away at least two months, and, for more than one reason, looked forward with relief to this absence, and with hope as to what it might bring into his life.

However adroitly Constance managed to make her encounters with Greyhurst seem to be accidental, the fact that she did not avoid him, as most women so situated would have done, excited very natural surprise in the little town.

When it became common knowledge that she purposely followed him, the interest and consequent gossip increased. She had made herself liked, but now even her closest friends felt her actions to be indecorous and inexplicably out of relation to an existence so full of good sense and so notable for well-bred regard for the decencies of life. When Mrs. Averill, greatly distressed by the gossip which soon came to her ears, thought proper to talk of Constance to Susan Hood, the latter became fully awakened to the results of her sister’s behavior.

To reason with her would be vain. For a moment she thought of the new rector, with whom she had formed friendly relations, but knew, alas! how futile would be that resort. Mrs. Averill, remembering her former defeat, was indisposed to renew her own efforts, and at last laid the matter before her husband, who had already heard quite too much of it.

He said: “My dear Eleanor, a lady without a husband usually relies on one of two men—her preacher or her doctor. Ask Dr. Eskridge to see her. He ought to be able to influence her, if any one can. He is a gentleman and will see this outrageous conduct in a proper light. As concerns myself, I can do nothing, and whether she annoys that man or not I do not care. But Constance must not be talked about. I had to stop some young fellows at the club last night.”

“Do you think, Edward, that the man feels it?”

“Yes; you asked me that before. This, or something, is affecting him deeply. Ever since he killed poor Trescot he has been—well, softer, less easily put out. But of late he is moody and silent; every one notices it.”

“I wish he would go away, or that she would. However, I will talk to Susan, who is in despair, and I will see the doctor.”

She did both, and, as a consequence, the next morning Dr. Eskridge called on Mrs. Trescot. He led a busy life, and she had seen but little of the cheerful, ruddy, rather stout old man with small bright eyes and alert ways. He had been at one time in charge of the State asylum for the insane, and then, during the war, a surgeon in Pickett’s division of the Confederate army.

While waiting for Mrs. Trescot he looked at the pictures, and then fell with interest upon a magazine, which he laid down as Constance with both hands made him welcome, reproaching him with neglect of an old patient.

“If I come I stay too long, and I am a busy old fellow. I was reading in this journal an account of Pickett’s charge. I was behind his line and got somehow too near. I have still a memorial in my leg. May I take the journal home?”

“Of course. My husband was on the hill. How strange it all seems!”

He looked at the mournful figure and the sad white face, and said to her:

“You will not mind my saying that I and others of our old army both liked and respected your husband.”

“Oh, I know, I know. And he was so sure of the soldiers—so patient with the feeling against us! Oh, doctor, why did I bring him here? He did not want to come. I urged it. I am so unhappy!”

It was the usual story. We must confess to some one—a priest, or, better, to the large, wise charity of the doctor. It was a relief to the woman, who was indisposed to talk of her husband even to Susan, and still less to pour out to any one else her abiding regret at having allowed her eager love to overrule George Trescot’s wish to wait until he could offer her a home in Boston.

“I was wrong,” she said; “and it was I who killed him. But for me, he would be alive now—now!”

“My dear,” he said, “we do what seems best to us, and who can predict the far-away results? I tell a man to go to Europe, and the ship goes down at sea. Am I to blame?”

“Oh, that is different. I was selfish. I did not do what was best. I should have known it was not. I loved as few women love. I could not wait; I wanted him near me always. I should be ashamed to confess how I felt. How did I come to speak of it? I never do.”

He saw that she was wiping her eyes as he returned:

“You are in a mood to assume blame. You are wrong. Mr. Trescot was fully advised by older men, his friends, that it was wise to come here. And, after all, I am right, and there is no use in our vain regrets. If we use the errors or mistakes of the past to wreck our present and make us useless—what of that?”

“Am I useless, doctor?”

He saw that he was astray, and said: “No; I must be pardoned—you are not; but if I am not mistaken, you are doing that which will surely end in ruining your health and making you useless.”

She drew herself up and regarded him with steady eyes. This man understood her and the strain to which she was subjecting herself. That, too, was a relief.

“I am sure that you know I am right,” he urged. “And let me say a few words more. You are exciting talk and gossip by what you are doing. Your sister and your friends are hurt and troubled and—pardon me—ashamed.”

“They have asked you to come here and try to make me do as other weak, helpless women have done?”

“Yes; but I should not so state it.”

“Doctor, you are the one person I can or will talk to freely of this matter. Listen to me.”

“I will.”

“This man murdered my husband. If he had killed your wife, you would have shot him as you would any other wild beast.”

“I would,” he said.

“This accursed town goes through the farce of a trial. He is free. He prospers. Except a few, who cares for the death of a Yankee officer? The man will go to the legislature—perhaps, some day, to Congress. At first people are a little shocked. It was pretty bad, they say. Does no one here punish a murderer? No one! I, at least, cannot sit down and do nothing. I am still too much of a woman to kill him; and, after all, death does not punish—or, if it does, should I ever know? I mean to ruin this man, and I can. These mild women who love in their weak way are shocked. What does that matter to me?”

“I will tell you how it matters,” he said. “I have heard you rave in your illness. I, at least, can understand; I, at least, cannot altogether blame you. But there are two or three things I want to urge upon you. I do not propose to discuss the right and wrong of this matter; but I entreat you to listen to me as patiently as I have listened to you.”

“I will do so.”

“You are following Greyhurst at times. No, do not interrupt me; let me have my say. It has excited unpleasant talk—too unpleasant to repeat. At the club and among the women it is discussed”—he hesitated—“even laughed at.” He knew how bitter was the medicine. “I wish to be frank with you. I know this man. He is by birth and early breeding a gentleman. I am making no plea for him. Who, indeed, could? I am sure that not only has he not escaped self-torment, but that your following him is probably a severe punishment. But what of yourself?”

“Of myself, doctor? I have never in this matter given myself a thought.”

“No, no; and that is the trouble. You are thinking of one thing, and are regardless of everything else, of every one else—of sister, friends, of all who love you. If any woman I did not know and like as I do you were to take so petty a mode of avenging a wrong as great as you have suffered, I should not hesitate to say how it looks to me and to those you cannot fail to respect.”

“What do you mean, doctor?”

“I mean that it is vulgar.”

She colored slightly. “You have certainly the courage of your opinions—”

“And, too,” he said, “a very great regard for a lady who should be far above the use of such means.”

Nothing he had said or could have said affected her as did this sentence. She saw it all in a minute, and gave way at once.

“If it be true that he suffers through me, I am glad to have hurt the man. But I see the force of what you say. I shall not do as I have done; and there are other ways which will neither annoy my friends nor make me seem ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” he said, well pleased. “But that is not all. You speak of other ways. Take care. The steady thinking on anything that involves emotion is full of peril to a woman like you; in fact, to any one, man or woman.”

“I know that. It is true, and I am guarding myself with care. I have taught myself to deal coldly with this matter. I keep myself busy. I ride; I read; I draw; I go among your poor. I have had my lesson.”

“But what do you mean to do?”

“Now there, my dear doctor, I must stop. I do not know. I mean to ruin this man, to drive him to despair.”

As she spoke the doctor considered her resolute face. He had an insecure belief that she would in some way compass her ends. She would collect this debt of vengeance, with usury thereto. How she would do it he could not imagine. He expressed his doubts, and even more than he felt, in the hope of inducing her to give up altogether her use of means full of danger to her mental health. She turned on him at last with her reply:

“You say that I am powerless and that I shall not only harm myself, but hurt all who love me, and yet do this man no real injury. I want one friend who will credit me with not being a fool, and what I say is for you alone.”

“That, of course, Mrs. Trescot.”

She then told him what she had done with the telegram and the letter.

“I cannot blame you,” he said, as she finished a perfectly calm statement. “I do not blame you. I shall say no more. I had far rather you left vengeance to Him who soon or late is sure to punish as man cannot. I see that I, at least, am unable to convince you. But take care; you are on a dark and dangerous way. I shall say no more to Mrs. Averill than that you will occasion no further talk by what you do.”

“Yes,” she said, rising; “thank you, my good doctor. I shall be glad to have you put an end to this gossip. Good-by.”

He went out to his gig, saying to himself as he drove away: “The man is doomed. If she persists he will do something—God knows what. He will be unable to bear it. These sensitive people never can stand still and wait. They are always nettled into doing something.” He began to consider, as he drove into the country, whether he had ever seen any one like Constance Trescot. He at last smiled with the satisfied nod of a man who has found what he was looking for. There was something feline in her delicate ways, her grace of movement, her neatness, the preservation of primitive passions and instincts, her satisfaction in the chase and in torturing. “Let us add,” said the old doctor, “the human intelligence, and we have her. Get up, Bob! It is as near as we shall ever get.”

Two days later the doctor received a note:

“MY DEAR DOCTOR:

“Yesterday, as Susan wanted to hear a real stump-speech, Colonel
Dudley rode with us to Ekron; and there, on the edge of the woods, he
got us a standing-place (every one was very kind) close to the
speakers. I soon had enough of the sectional eloquence; but Susan,
who was taken with the humor of it, would not go. I had been told
that that man was not to be present. When he got on the stump, not
ten feet from us, for a moment he spoke to the people behind him.
Colonel Dudley said to me: ‘Come away; I did not expect this.’ Susan
said: ‘I must go.’ I said: ‘No; I will not go; I will not be driven
away.’ As I refused he turned and saw me. I cannot describe to you
with what satisfaction I saw what before I had only guessed. I cannot
describe how his face changed. His voice broke for a moment, and then
he went on. He was embarrassed. That might well be; but there was
more. He got confused and then was clear again. Some one said he was
drunk. Although he tried not to look at me, the speech was evidently
a failure, and the crowd surprised. As he stepped down I said: ‘Now
we will go.’

“I write because I was seen by many who will think that I went
purposely or should have left at once. I wish you, who will hear of
it, to know that I did not break my promise.

“Believe me, with grateful remembrance,
“CONSTANCE TRESCOT.”

“But she stayed, for all that,” said the doctor. “How will it end?”

Others were as curious; and over the cocktails and juleps at the club on the evening of the stump-speaking, the ex-Confederates and others discussed this novel vendetta. As the doctor entered with Colonel Dudley, a young fellow was describing the scene and the evident effect upon Greyhurst. Another, a little older, said: “I saw her follow him down the street. How the deuce could she want to come back here? It must be awful.”

“Yes; for him.”

Said Dudley: “You boys had better drop that. I took this lady to the meeting. No one knew that Mr. Greyhurst was to speak. And let me, as an old fellow, remind you that we do not discuss ladies here.”

“Oh, but, colonel, this was such an amazing thing.”

“Would make a good article,” said the editor, as they sat down.

“But never will, sir,” remarked the doctor, sharply, over the shrubbery of his julep.

“Of course not,” said the editor.

The young fellows apologized, and the colonel began to chat with the doctor.

A few minutes later Greyhurst entered the smoke-filled room. Without speaking to any one else, he went over to where Dudley sat. “Will you do me the favor to speak to me a few minutes? Not outside,” he added a little louder, as men looked around. The old Confederate rose, saying, “Of course; but let no one take away my julep.”

“Not outside,” Greyhurst repeated. “Up-stairs, colonel.”

Dudley followed him to the room above, where were two candles, some chairs, a poker-table, and mildewed walls.

“Let us sit down,” said Greyhurst. “I shall not keep you long.”

“Very good; it is chilly here. What is it?”

Greyhurst said: “You will, I know, pardon me if I am wrong; but you as much as told me I must leave the board of the orphan home. I have since learned, or inferred, that Mrs. Trescot was behind the matter.”

“Yes, in a way; indirectly. In fact, I have no reason to conceal from you that she declined to leave in the hands of the managers the money she gave, because you were on the board. I thought her justified, but of course I could not bring a lady’s name into the matter when I talked to you.” Dudley was not a man to excuse his actions. He expected an angry answer. To his surprise, Greyhurst said quietly:

“Yes, she was justified. May I ask if, when you rode out with her to the meeting this afternoon, you were aware that I was to speak?”

“I was not. Is that all?” asked the colonel, as he stood up.

“Yes, that is all,” said Greyhurst, in tones both sad and gentle; “and, sir, I trust that you will accept my excuses for such unusual questions.”

“It is all right,” said the colonel. Then, seeing that Greyhurst still lingered, standing, with one thumb on the table, something struck him in this large, square-shouldered man with the dark eyes. Either curiosity or faintly felt pity, or both, made him say:

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes; if I may keep you a few minutes.”

“Pray, go on.”

“I am in a situation, Colonel Dudley, which is very unusual. I was unfortunate a year ago—most unfortunate; and since Mrs. Trescot has returned to St. Ann I fear that my presence, our accidental encounters, our—well, I find it difficult to avoid her. I put it as a man must do about a lady. It has become unendurable.” He did not wish to complain that he was haunted by this living ghost. He looked steadily at the old colonel, and added: “I hope I make myself understood?” He was unwilling to say that she followed him.

“I suppose,” said Dudley, coldly, “that I must admit that you do. It is plain enough as you put it—unusual, too, as you state; but let me add that I do not propose to discuss with you this lady’s course.”

Greyhurst said promptly: “I did not expect you to do that. I wish to ask advice of an older man as to what, as a gentleman, I should do.”

“I can’t give it, Mr. Greyhurst. There are reasons why even to be asked is disagreeable to me. I allowed you to question me in regard to my presence with Mrs. Trescot at that meeting. I answered you frankly. But I did not like it, sir; I did not like it. If I had declined to reply we should have quarreled. I think this talk had better end before my temper gives out—or yours.”

Greyhurst had been looking down as they talked, seeming to weigh his words. Now, with something like a wan smile on his dark face, he said quickly, as he looked up: “No man, Colonel Dudley, can ever quarrel with me again, or make me quarrel.”

Dudley’s face cleared as he said at once, in his frank, pleasant way: “I misunderstood. You must pardon me. I am free to say to you that, little as I like or approve this lady’s course, you, sir, can do nothing. I did not mean to advise, but now I have done so, and I have only this to add. None of us who know Mrs. Trescot are likely to stop her. I saw her at the meeting. If ever a woman hated a man, she hates you. Whether she is justified in her course or not, you know best. You have made me speak out, and I have had to express myself in a way, sir, which is not agreeable to me and cannot be pleasant to you.”

“I have said that she is justified,” said Greyhurst, slowly. “I have had no day since—since I killed that man which has not been full of regret. I do not hesitate to say so to you. But a man must live. I cannot go away; I have not the means. What can I do?”

“Do? Damn it! you can do nothing.”

“Thank you; that is my own unhappy conclusion. At all events, I shall be released for a time. I go to California next week, and shall be gone a month, or even two. You know, it is about Dexter’s mines.”

He said next, with a certain timidity: “Would you do me the great favor to allow me to refer to you some business matters while I am absent?”

Dudley hesitated, and then replied shortly: “Yes; tell them to come to me.”

“Thank you,” said Greyhurst.

Upon this, they went down-stairs in silence. As Greyhurst turned to go out, the old colonel, for the first time, put out his hand, saying: “I am sorry for you, Greyhurst, both for the past and for the present. Good night.”

The lawyer made no reply, and the colonel went back to his euchre and the julep and the doctor.

“I was afraid,” said the old army comrade, “that there might be something unpleasant.”

“No; but I had to speak my mind. He was as sweet-tempered as—well, as you are, doctor.”

“Then he is changed. In fact, since he killed Trescot he is strangely patient. Every one notices it.”

“Damn him!” said Dudley. “I don’t think he would even kill a fly now. Your deal, doctor.”

The game went on to the end, and the colonel, who had won, said, laughing: “You are not in your usual form, Eskridge.”

“No; my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking of Greyhurst, and what a mess he has made of his life. I do not believe the man has a friend in the world; and I suppose he quarrels with John Greyhurst as often as with others. Many of us are not our own friends. I doubt a little if he is even his own acquaintance.”

Dudley laughed. “You have a queer way of putting things.”

The doctor was in his speculative vein. He went on.

“It was simple murder, that good fellow’s death. I wonder how a man feels after he has done a thing like that. If he is educated and imaginative, and has power to feel, it must set him apart, as it were, in a kind of awful loneliness—a sort of solitary imprisonment in himself.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose men take it that way, Eskridge.”

“Some; not all. Of course there are brutes who have no power to suffer for what they do.”

“And you think this man does suffer?”

“I do. I am sure of it.”

“And so am I. Another julep, doctor?”

“No; I must go. I have one dying man to see, and there is another soul about to fill up the ranks. You see, I live on the skirmish-line of life.”

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“Oh, I leave you to digest my remark.” He went out, laughing.

IV

As the days went by, Greyhurst, somewhat relieved by the prospect of a long absence, arranged his affairs, and prepared himself for his journey to California. Constance Trescot, well aware of his plans, was deep in thought of the man who was, for a time, to be out of her reach. Her increasing abstraction, her lessening interest in books,—and she had never been an eager reader,—her still silent piano, all alike contributed to increase the anxiety in which the elder sister lived. In fact, Constance had exhausted her resources; but now an accident came to her aid, and, doing for her that which she never would have done, inflicted on her enemy a torture beyond the dream of malice, and far-reaching in its consequences.

An errand of charity to one of the families now residing on the bluff had occupied her afternoon. It was dusk and the shadows were deepening as Constance walked slowly along a wood path which led into the road on which she lived. As she came out of the forest in the dusk she quickened her steps, and, deep in thought, moved on, until of a sudden she became aware of being on the same side of the way and in front of the house in which Greyhurst resided. She stopped short, recalling that just here she and her husband had first met him. As she turned quickly to cross the street, she stumbled on the rough sidewalk, recovered her balance, and crossed over to her own side of the way. At her garden gate she suddenly missed a little velvet bag which usually hung from her belt. Instantly she remembered that it held, besides her cards, a small morocco case in which was a photograph of her husband in his major’s uniform. Realizing the fact that she had stumbled and might then have lost it, and much troubled, she was about to return and look for it, when she saw Greyhurst, who had just come out of his garden. As she hesitated, he picked up something which she knew must be her bag. She had a moment of indecision. To seek him, or to send for it, she felt to be impossible. She had a larger copy, a duplicate of the photograph. What effect would this picture of the man he had killed have on the murderer? With a singular smile on her face, she turned and went into her own house. She had a wild desire to see that meeting of the slayer and the slain.

Without the least idea of the ownership of the bag, Greyhurst carelessly laid it on the table of his library. He then lighted a lamp, and, mildly curious, began to look at the contents of the bag. He came first on the small case, and drew out the photograph. As he turned it over he saw the face of George Trescot.

The suddenness of this pictured revival of a face he had of late seen with less painful clearness gave to it the terrible power of an apparition. He let it fall. The face lay uppermost. He made a great effort, and seizing it, threw it from him.

“My God!” he said, “I shall end by killing that woman!”

For a moment he entertained the idea that she had meant him to find it. Then, as he saw the cards and some memoranda, he knew that she must have accidentally dropped the bag; and still, the horror of the thing was increased for him rather than lessened by his certainty that he was the victim of a chance loss. Was everything against him?

He picked up the photograph, and, resolute not to yield to what he felt was weakness, he set it before him, and with his head in his hands stared at the strong, well-bred, kindly face. It was too much for him. The tears began to gather, and as they rolled down his face he slowly replaced the portrait in the case, laid it in the bag, and closed the clasp. The test of endurance had been beyond his powers, and had produced on his nervous system an effect such as could never have been anticipated.

“My God!” he cried, as he fell back in his chair, “am I not punished enough!”

As he spoke, he looked up and saw, as if some ten feet away and a little to the left, the face of the man he had killed. For a moment he was simply astonished. It was larger than life and smiling, and not like the photograph. He rubbed his eyes, closed and opened them, and moved about. The phantom kept its place; and at last he observed that if he looked down he lost it. He was, as I have said, intelligent, and recognized in this vision the effect of long strain and sudden shock. And still it meant even to his knowledge something sinister, but about which it was possible to reason. It affected him at the moment less than had done the letters or telegram, or the presence of the woman who had sent them. His fear was not so much of what was as of what might follow. What did it mean? Was he about to be ill? He resolved to see Dr. Eskridge and to talk to him frankly. He awakened the next day still seeing the face, at times dimly, at others clearly. Its persistency troubled him. Was it a symptom of some impending mental disaster? Had his head been clear of late—his memory unimpaired? When the mind of the sensitive becomes critical concerning the health of its own processes, there is peril in the way. He found himself caught in machinery not readily arrested by the will which set it in motion. He had always been in vigorous health and had rarely had occasion to consult a physician. He had, however, lacked power to dismiss unpleasant thoughts, and now the terror of decay of reason haunted him unceasingly. And it was a woman who had brought this fear upon him, a woman against whom he was absolutely defenseless.

Early in the morning he gave the bag to a maid and asked her, much to her amazement, to leave it at Mrs. Trescot’s. When it was laid on the breakfast table beside Constance, her sister asked a question in regard to it. Constance replied: “I lost it yesterday. I suppose that some one, finding my cards, has returned it.”

“You are fortunate, dear.”

“Yes, am I not?”

V

The town of St. Ann was prospering. There were more horses hitched about the gnawed posts in front of the grocery-shops; more men in well-worn grey coming in from the country to buy or sell. In a word, there was more money. There was also, as a consequence, less anxiety, and more time, or, rather, more leisure; and the Christmas season was less sad as the years went on.

Miss Susan Hood had thrown herself with energy and good humor into the church work, and had reorganized the Sunday-schools. The orphan home had also her care, and as she had money and a bountiful sense of the humorous aspects of life, she found ready occasion for the varied forms of generosity of which she was capable, and constant mild amusement in what she saw and heard. As concerned Constance she was still uneasy, and the more so because she was sure that her sister had by no means given up her designs against Greyhurst. The fact that Constance sedulously concealed whatever she was doing still further added to her discomfort, and, except Mrs. Averill, there was no one to whom she felt free to talk. She resolved once more to reopen the subject with Constance.

On this special morning Miss Althea had been long closeted with Mrs. Trescot, and when she had gone Constance took up her garden gloves, flower-basket, and scissors, and, putting on a long white apron, went out into the little conservatory. Here she found Coffin, who, under her instructions, was with much labor of mind slowly learning how to care for flowers. His old, weather-worn face was more eager than usual.

He said: “That man is going away; I thought to come and tell you.”

“Are you sure? I heard that he was. Don’t speak so loud.”

Tom’s voice had the volume needed for great wood spaces.

“Yes, I’m sure. His old black woman she says so. It’ll be for a month or two.”

“Indeed! So long!” She stood before the lame little woodman, taller by a head. For him there was the sense of a commanding presence, remembrance of kindness with flavor of comprehending friendliness, and yet such sense of aloofness as the statue of a goddess may have had for some Greek hewer of wood. She stood still in thought; at last he asked:

“Was you worried over that vermin?” Her vengeance had brought her into singular partnerships.

“No; not while he is here.”

“Thought you would have liked him clean out of sight.”

“No; I mean to ruin him. If he goes away I cannot.”

What she had done or desired to do he did not know; nor, had he known, would her slow methods have appealed to his coarser conception of what he called “evenin’ up” things.

He said: “It might be best to do what I said. I’d do it. You see, ma’am, it’s sure, and it don’t give no trouble.”

Greyhurst’s life hung on the issue of a minute of indecision. A wild anger came upon her at the thought of his escaping. A little flush grew on the pale cheek, and then faded.

“No,” she said. “I can wait.”

“Well,” returned Coffin, “it isn’t my notion of things. I’d just kill him and get done with him.”

“No; you must not do that.”

“It’ll be as you say. ’Bout these rose-bugs, they’re mighty troublesome, ma’am.”

He dismissed the matter lightly. He was a man of the Tennessee border, where women do not value a man who cannot shoot straight—a land of long-nourished hatreds, where men kill but do not steal, where the vendetta is medieval in the simplicity of its one demand. He could not comprehend the feeling which stayed his hand, but, nevertheless, he was entirely the vassal of her will.

She answered one or two questions about the flowers with some directions, and sent him away with roses for Mrs. March.

While her sister was thus engaged, Susan had been in the parlor in earnest talk with the new rector of the church at St. Ann. Very soon after her arrival she had added to her church work some care of the freed slaves, and, happy in the relief of new duties, had brought inspiriting good sense and money to aid the many forms of usefulness in which Mr. Kent was interested.

The rector had been talking of George Trescot.

“You must have met him,” said Susan.

“No; we exchanged visits, but he was much of the time absent since I came; and for a few weeks I was myself in the East.”

“I am sorry you never met.”

“And I. I think I mentioned that we were related—distant cousins. Perhaps, if Mrs. Trescot knew that, she might be willing to see me. I very much want to help you and her. And there is so much wild talk—”

“Yes, I know; but my sister has opinions which I neither share nor like—oh, excuse me, I fear I must cut short our talk. I see that her gardener is going, and I have to see her before she goes out.”

He rose, saying: “I shall try again. I hope to have better luck.”

“I shall see you to-morrow at the library. The books I ordered should be here to-day.”

“One moment, Miss Hood. May I be pardoned if I ask why Mrs. Trescot never comes to church?”

“That is a long story, and a sad one. Some day we will talk about it, not now.”

“You will not forget the flowers for Sunday?”

“Of course not.”

After he left her, Susan went out into the little conservatory.

Said Constance: “Has your rector, or director, gone? What can you find to talk about? He makes rather long visits. I must admit that he rides well for a preacher. I saw him pass yesterday. He looks to be about twenty-one.”

“He is not young,” said Susan, shortly.

“Oh, preachers never are young. He is rather good-looking.”

“Yes, rather. I wish you would see him when he calls. You see every one else.”

“Oh, some day, if you really want me to see him.”

“I should like it, Conny.”

Susan was indisposed to discuss the rector, or to insist too much on his being received; but why, she would have been unable, or, more likely, unwilling, to say. She changed the subject.

“You had your two beauties, Conny. You think I talk long with Mr. Kent. How you find talk for an hour with that depressing Althea I cannot imagine. Her head wabbles about as if she were a feeble chicken, and her nose—did you ever notice her nose?”

“No,” said Constance. “She is a very good woman, and very unfortunate. I do not see why you make fun of her.”

“I? The fun is ready made; and really, Conny, I can pity, and could, at need, help her, without enjoying her society. What do you talk about?”

“Oh, many things.”

Susan had overheard portions of Althea’s gossip. “I think I could guess. Is it never to end?”

Constance, who had been moving about the room, turned on her.

“I thought, Susan, we had agreed to dismiss that subject.”

“No; or, if we did, I cannot go on in this way. I did not lightly bring this matter up. Oh, Conny, if you only would—”

“I would do anything else for you. But for the present you may be at ease. He is going away—to be gone, perhaps, for two months.”

“I am very glad.”

“And I am not. Oh, there is the lunch-bell.”

She was already deeply engaged in a new scheme, and feared to face any more of Susan’s questions. To plan possible or impossible means of wounding her enemy gave her the only satisfaction her narrowing life afforded. To talk of him was painful, or at least Susan was not the neutral-minded confessor who would see in her course the least shadow of human excuse.

After lunch she went into Trescot’s study. The feeling which rigidly guarded the room from any presence but that of Constance seemed to Susan morbid. Nevertheless, she had respected her sister’s wish. Constance entered and sat down. When there she had at times that sense of the nearness of the dead which many have known—and known with intense longing for the “sound of a voice that is still.”

She had long since brought his sword from her chamber and placed it on his table. She picked it up and dusted it, and laid it down. The room was full of him. She walked about, thinking of her dead, and then, with another thrill of anguish, of the lost child. “And you would have had me forgive!” she cried. “Oh, George, George, how can I! You are dead; I shall see you no more. My baby is dead—and I am dead, too—oh, dead to love, to joy! And it gets worse and not better.”

She sat down and rocked back and forward, clasping her head. “Perhaps to die were better.” Her face twitched around the mouth, her jaw stiffened, and she recalled again the doctor’s warning. Even the luxury of self-abandonment to lonely grief was not for her. She controlled herself, but not readily. The passions are near neighbors. And with the thought of Greyhurst, her anger rose to stormy force. “And he did it!” she cried, “and lives, and is to have years of ease, and at last forgetfulness. Never, never, if I can help it—and no one shall stop me; and, if all else fail, I have always that—that!” She was thinking of the temptation Coffin had crudely set before her.

She grew agitated, looking about her. “Not here; I must not think of it here. Would he forgive me? He would know I had to go my way.”

She went out of the room and met her sister, who, seeing her agitation, said: “My dear Conny, what is the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter. I wish you would let me alone.”

“Oh, Conny, what have I done?”

She was hurt; but was far too wise to say more, for of late her sister had become irritable. As she turned aside, repressing the sharp answer she felt inclined to make, Constance said: “Where is the paper? I have not seen it to-day. You always take it.” It was her habit to run over it daily.

“I will get it,” said Susan. “Wait, dear; I know where it is.”

When she returned Constance took the little sheet. Presumably she found what she sought.

“The land sale we mentioned some time ago includes a long stretch of shore to the south of the Hood estate. It was, we understand, bought by Mr. Greyhurst; but whether for himself or others is not known. The water at this place on the river-front is shallow; but if, as we hear, the deep-water front between it and the Hoods’ has also been acquired from the Baptistes, it would give Mr. Greyhurst’s frontage all it needs, and add much to its value.”

For a little while Constance sat thinking. Then she rose, dressed herself for the street, and went out.

She had more than enough to think about. Althea had heard that Mr. Greyhurst was bent on other business than mines. They did say that there was a lady in Sacramento who had refused to marry him while his divorced wife lived. But now, that lady being dead a year or more, it might be that she would reconsider her refusal. No; Althea did not know her name. She was said to be rich.

At first Constance thought it an unlikely bit of gossip; but if it were true her foe might escape. She had fed the flame of her anger with the fuel of grief, and, as was usual with her, this surrender to passionate sorrow left her set and resolute. She must know more. And so Althea was petted and flattered, and bidden to listen and report all she heard. Meanwhile there was this other matter.

She had told Susan that she would not ride, and now walked away into the town, passing Greyhurst on the main street. He had again the sense of being haunted as the tall black figure went by, almost touching him. Well, he would soon be far away from it all. The face of Trescot went with him still, misty and delicate.

Mrs. Trescot soon found what she sought, and reading on the sign, “Paul Marcel, Land Agent, Second Story,” went up-stairs and, knocking, was bidden to enter.

“I am Mrs. Trescot,” she said, throwing back her veil.

Marcel’s daughter had spoken of her, but he himself knew her only by sight. She accepted a chair and began at once:

“You will be so kind, Mr. Marcel, as to consider my business confidential, or at least for the present.”

“Certainly, madame.” He was an old man, brisk and alert, with hair cut short and upstanding in a way that gave an aggressive expression to a not unkindly, clean-shaven face. His accent was distinctly that of the old Creole French.

“How can I oblige you?” he said.

She unrolled a small plan of the river-front.

“Here,” she said, “Mr. Marcel, are our lands. You may be aware that we gave Mrs. Baptiste the half of our river-frontage nearest to the city.”

“It was more than generous,” he said. “The land should be improved.”

“Yes; that will come. Our own land lies next, you observe. We have—I do not now recall how many feet. It is ample; but we would be better off if we owned the next lots to the south of us—I think there is about four hundred feet.”

“I see,” he said. “It has the deepest water on the entire frontage—very desirable. It belongs to a niece of Madame Baptiste. I have heard something about it lately. It can be bought—no doubt it can be bought. The land beyond it is of very little value because of the shallowness of the water.”

“But with this,” she asked quickly, “it would become valuable?”

“Yes, very, of course. I fancy it to have been acquired with a view to subsequent purchase of Mademoiselle Baptiste’s water-front. The sale may have been already made; I think not.”

“I should like to know as soon as possible.”

“If madame will wait a minute—ten minutes, to be more accurate? The agent of the Baptistes is near by.”

Madame would wait. He went out. She got up and moved about, impatient.

When he came back he said: “I have learned that, as I supposed, it is for sale. An offer has been made for it.” Then he hesitated, and said very courteously: “I think Madame Trescot should be made to know who is the person who is bidding.”

“I do know,” she returned coldly. “It is a pure matter of business.”

“_Eh bien!_ It is a matter of business. He offers twelve thousand; they ask fifteen. I could not advise that. It is too much.”

“Buy it,” she said; “and, if you please, without delay—now—at once.”

“But, madame, it is inordinate. May I ask is it for the Hood estate? You will pardon me if I say that in that case you should consult General Averill.”

“It is for me, personally.”

“Ah! that is so; and is madame resolved?”

“She is,” said Constance, smiling.

“It can be bought,” he said, and went out. In a few moments he was back again. “It is an affair finished; but I have saved you eight hundred dollars.”

“Then it is secure? There can be no mistake? It is my property?”

Her anxiety struck him as singular; but he made haste to reassure her. “Yes, it is yours. I will see to the titles; but I know them as my hand. In a few days I shall ask for madame’s check.”

“Thank you; but there must be no mistake.”

“There can be none. I have it in writing, here in my hand.”

She thanked him and went out.

“_Diable!_” he said. “_Quelle femme!_”

On his way to the doctor’s that evening, Greyhurst called at the house of the agent of Mademoiselle Baptiste. He said: “Monsieur Pierre, I leave to-morrow, to be gone about two months. Before I go I should like to settle about those water-lots. I left you an offer; you refused it. What will you take? I must leave part of the payment on mortgage?”

The agent—like M. Marcel, of Creole descent—was by no means friendly to Greyhurst; but he was also very much afraid of him.

“_C’est dommage_, monsieur. I too deeply regret. I was about to write.”

“What do you regret? Can you Frenchmen never speak out and say what you mean!”

“But I was sorry, Monsieur Greyhurst, for to disappoint you. Paul Marcel was here to-day, and—the land is sold.”

“Sold!”

“Yes; I have consult mademoiselle, who live near by, as you know, and she say take it. I could only advise to do the same. The offer was large, and it was yes or no.”

“This seems to me very strange; I should have been told.”

“Yes, I say so. Marcel he say, ‘We offer twelve thousand.’ I say, ‘No.’ He say, ‘How much?’ I say, ‘Fifteen thousand.’ He offer fourteen thousand. I say we split. Then he say, ‘Fourteen thousand two hundred’; and mademoiselle, who was there, she say very quick, ‘I take it.’ _Mais, mon Dieu!_ monsieur, what could I do? It is sold.”