I
“Mr. Hood will see you in the library, sir.”
George Trescot followed the servant, and when left alone began to wander
about a large room which looked out on the north coast of Massachusetts
Bay. Why it was called a library might well have puzzled the young man.
There were few books except those of reference, but on chair and table
were mill and railway reports, and newspapers in superabundance.
As the clock struck the hour of noon a woman of some twenty-seven years
entered the room. Hearing the door open, Trescot turned from a brief and
hopeless effort to comprehend the genealogical tree of the Hood family,
which hung on the wall in much splendor of heraldic blazonry.
Miss Hood came in smiling, as if she had just been amused and was
enjoying the remembrance. Her face had—what is more often found in plain
women than in those to whom nature has been more bountiful—great power
of expressing both kindliness and mirth. She was slight, but of
admirable figure, and possessed the mysterious gift of grace. For the
rest, she was unselfish, seriously religious, and perplexed at times by
the comic aspect of things, hardly realizing the fact that a ready sense
of humor had often been as useful in helping her to endure the lesser
trials of existence as the religious faith which she held to with the
simple trust of a child. Life presented itself to her in relentless
simplicity, and consisted of things right and things wrong, with
over-sensitive self-reproach when either seemed too amusing. She was,
socially speaking, fearless, and occasionally outspoken to a degree
which embarrassed others, but never Susan Hood.
“Good morning, major,” she said. “I am glad to see you. I consider
myself neglected of late.”
“I shall be the best of brothers-in-law, Miss Susan.”
“Oh, that is all very well. The future does not always pay the debts of
the present. You will be as good as my sister will let you be; but I am
easily satisfied.”
“I ought to be,” he said. “And, by the way, I am only Mr. Trescot, not
Major. These labels should have gone when the war ended; but I suppose
men like titles. I shed mine long ago.”
“You are quite right,” she returned, smiling with the aid of a large and
expressive mouth and show of rather irregular, very white teeth. “I see
that I am just in time to save you a fall from the genealogical tree of
the Hoods. I incline to think some of the limbs a trifle insecure. My
uncle climbs it at least once a week, and believes in its fabulous fruit
as he does in nothing else. I told him last night that it was more
genial than logical. If he had understood me, I do not know what would
have happened.”
Trescot laughed. “Mr. Hood explained it to me last week. I nearly fell
asleep on the top branch.”
“Did you? You would never have been forgiven. It is still growing; the
mustard-seed was nothing to it.” Then the further temptations offered by
the comparison presented themselves to her as irreverent, and she said:
“By the way, I am sent by my uncle to entertain you, as he is just now
engaged. As a matter of fact, he is engaged in settling what he will say
to you. He is enjoying it, too. Sit down; you will have to put up with
me for as long as he chooses to remain agreeably perplexed.”
“Perplexed?” said the young man, as he seated himself. “What is there to
perplex? It seems to me very simple.”
“And to me. You have asked my sister to marry you. She desires to do so.
My uncle says he is old, and that he has entitled himself to our society
until he dies. I have told him that if he would kindly set a time for
that event we should know what to do, and that he was pretty secure as
to me. He did not like it. Nothing is simple to my uncle.”
“I suppose not,” said Trescot, laughing. “The asking him seemed to me a
mere formal matter. Constance is old enough to know her own mind, and, I
fancy, to have her own way. I did not ask of him any favors.”
“They should not need to be asked; but he will be sure to think you
expect him to provide for Constance,—as, in fact, he ought to do.”
“I expect nothing of the kind, nor does Constance. We are prepared to
wait until I can offer her a home. That may be in a year, or even two
years. There is no need to discuss it.”
“Indeed! Wait until you know my uncle better. He discusses everything.
He would discuss whether two and two make four. He constructs theories,
as he calls them, and when it is needful to act does not always abide by
them, which, I assure you, is, on the whole, rather fortunate, as I hope
you may discover.”
“Well, on this subject, Miss Hood, I have also my theory, and an abiding
faith in it.”
She laughed merrily and said: “Wait a bit. You have as yet seen only one
side of my uncle. He can be, as you know, a pleasant, rather cynical old
gentleman. Now you present yourself to him under a novel aspect, and he
will be sure to construct what he calls a theory for himself and you, to
fit the occasion. It will be something like this—I may as well prepare
you: ‘My theory, sir, is that people never change. These young women
have always had all the money they wanted; _therefore_, they will always
want it. It must be clear to you that we shall need to discuss the
matter at length—at length, sir. Money in my—sir, in my opinion, is
developmental; without money,’ etc. He will be delightfully irrelevant.
I wish I could overhear the interview. He really does not care about
money; but he likes to talk about it. It may be he will light on
something else. You will have to be patient.”
“I can be that. But as concerns money, I do not want it—or, rather, I
want it very much, but not from him. I mean in time to get it myself.
Confound it! Pardon me, but really—”
“Oh, that is a very mild expletive; if it applies to Uncle Rufus, it is
quite unnecessary: he is just now sufficiently confounded. And, after
all, if you were an old man like my uncle, would you willingly part with
so delightful an inmate as my sister?”
“No,” laughed Trescot; “no, indeed.”
“Well, that is honest. You may be surprised to learn that he would
object quite as much to part with me as to part with my sister. I am not
malicious enough to ask you to explain that.”
Trescot was relieved from need to reply when, awaiting no answer, she
continued:
“The fact is, he likes me because we disagree radically about
everything, from religion to politics, and Constance because they agree
about most things, except politics. There they are far apart. His
opinions about the war have been to both of us a matter of real
unhappiness. Had he lived in the South he would have been bitter against
secession. He is always in the opposition, but he despises people who
yield.”
“Then he will certainly fall in love with me. Thank you for the hint.”
“Oh, I did not mean it for that, and I suspect it was not needed. After
all, it is not that you have no money that troubles my uncle; it is
really far more the idea that Constance is ungrateful, and shows great
lack of taste in being willing to desert him for you, or for any one. I
think I hear his voice. I must go; but when you are through with uncle
my sister wants to see you in the garden. If you make yourself very
disagreeable you will find that Uncle Rufus will find some ingenious
excuse for being reasonable. He will think it proper, after he has posed
a little as a shrewd man of business, to pose as the good uncle.”
Trescot stood with her in the window recess while they talked, and now,
turning, glanced at the shrewd, kind face, with its readiness of
humorous comment, and said: “I should like to hear what might be the
character of George Trescot you would present to Mr. Hood.”
“Would you, indeed?” she returned, looking up. It was a strong face she
saw, and more serious just now than the quality of the question
suggested. Yet it smiled in pleased fellowship of mirth as she answered,
laughing:
“Ah, there is my uncle! I have half a mind not to tell you.”
“Perhaps I had better not insist. You are sure to be painfully honest,
and I may have cause to regret.”
“But I will. I should say—well, I should say—‘Uncle Rufus, I like him.’”
“Thank you. I shall put that with what Sheridan once said to me.”
“What did he say? Do tell me.”
“Oh, he said, ‘That was well done, Major Trescot; very well done.’ I
blushed like a girl.”
“What had you done?”
“What had I done? Ah,” he laughed, “you must ask Sheridan.”
“But I may never see him.” She was curious about large things, rarely
about little ones or mere social trivialities. “Of course you will tell
me.”
“Perhaps if, some day, on trial, you prove to be a quite perfect
sister-in-law.”
“Am I not good enough now? I said I liked you. Isn’t that a form of
goodness? I assure you that there are no better judges of men than old
maids and sisters-in-law.”
“Indeed! But you are only a sort of brevet sister-in-law. And why—shall
I dare to say—are old maids good judges of men?”
“Oh, they look down from a heaven of neutrality where there is no giving
in marriage. Goodness! what am I saying?”
Hearing her uncle’s step on the stair, she turned to leave. Trescot saw
with approval her trim, neat figure, and said, laughing, “The basis of
opinion is not altogether secure.”
“Nonsense!” she exclaimed. “I am already on the family tree, my destiny
predetermined,—‘Susan Hood, spinster.’ But here is Uncle Rufus. If he
does not first indulge in vain genealogies I shall be surprised.
Good-by! I wonder what St. Paul meant by vain genealogies?”
As she spoke, a small, very thin man of some seventy years entered, with
a too obvious affectation of youthful briskness.
“I leave Mr. Trescot to your tender mercies, uncle.”
“Ah, good morning. Fine day. Sit down,” said Mr. Hood, as she left them.
“Pray, sit down.” He began at once, with an air of decision, “I suppose
this matter of which my niece has spoken to me appears to you very
simple.”
“It did not at one time. It does now. I have asked Miss Constance to be
my wife. She has done me the honor to say yes. What else is there?”
“Everything, sir; everything. I do not propose that my niece shall leave
me. She owes to me the affection of a child. I am old and cannot live
long. Her sense of duty should forbid her to desert me. If it does not,
I must act for her, and prevent what is both criminal and foolish. I
must create for her a virtue which she has not.”
“But, Mr. Hood—” said Trescot, raising a hand in appeal.
“No, sir; do not interrupt me. I object to it altogether. You have no
money, and she has none. You know nothing of each other—nothing. As to
waiting a year—two years—until you can provide for her, it is nonsense.
When she mentioned this highly absurd proposition I told her as much.
Now, sir, you have my decision, and my niece has already had it.”
“May I ask what was Miss Constance’s reply?”
“She said she meant to marry you if she had to sew for a living. By
George! she can’t sew on a button. I was quite prepared for her reply.
She has the obstinacy of my people.”
“Then, Mr. Hood, you may rest assured that I shall marry her. I can
wait.”
“But I cannot wait. Do you suppose I mean to have a love-sick girl
maundering about my house for two years? No, sir; you do not know her.
From a child she has been obstinate when she wanted anything; I should
have no peace.”
“I am sorry for you,” said Trescot, much amused; “but I can only repeat
what I have said already. Unless Miss Constance changes her mind—”
“She never changes her mind; we never do—it is a family trait.”
“I hope not; and in that case I trust you will see this matter in a more
favorable light. But in any case, to be frank, I mean to marry her.”
“I suppose, then, there is no help for it,” said the elder man, with a
curious collapse of resolution. “I am old and feeble”—which was true.
“The girl is ungrateful. I rely upon her for everything. Susan is
wrapped up in her poor and her parson—she calls him her rector, I
believe. I find it inconsistent with my sense of duty to let you go on
in blind ignorance. You will discover Constance to be efficient,
obstinate; and as I am told by Susan that you are what is called
religious, you ought also to know that my niece and I agree in the
entire absence of that adjective.”
“That,” said Trescot, coldly, “is a matter I prefer not to discuss.” He
knew very well by this time that the woman he loved had, unlike himself,
no distinct creed.
“Well, I desire that you should understand her. She is very like me.”
“Indeed!” he returned, much amused. “Then I shall be sure to end by
liking you, Mr. Hood. I presume that I may consider it as settled.”
“No, sir; I may yield, but I will never consent; and I consider it my
duty to warn you. I have said as much. This girl, this woman, is a
creature of instincts. As a child her temper was terrible; under my wise
rule it has been tamed. She loves and hates with animal fidelity; and
once she is set on doing anything, neither saint nor devil can change
her.”
“That is rather gratifying,” said Trescot, between suppressed mirth and
annoyance. Certainly this was an extraordinary old man.
“She was an unreasoning Union woman, and I am of opinion that the South
was altogether in the right. But neither reason nor respect for me has
ever altered what she calls her views.”
“You will pardon me if I say that I am very glad to hear it.”
“Ah, well, well, that is as you please. A pity you agree. It is a theory
of mine that difference of opinion is a basis of true happiness in
married life; otherwise it becomes monotonous.”
Trescot sat still, studying the self-pleased face, and amused himself
with thought of the mirth with which Susan would have heard her uncle
giving Constance a character for her new place. He kept a respectful
silence as the old man wandered on; but by what paths he reached an
expression of opinion as to the constitutional rights of States and
cities to secede, Trescot never could remember. At last he was given to
understand that the right of States to secede was based on the undoubted
right of individuals to secede from States. Here, as the old man’s voice
rose to political levels of emphasis, it recalled Trescot from the
dreaming mood which was taking him somewhere into the fairyland of love.
He recovered power to listen, but at last, disappointed by the absence
of exhilarating difference of opinion, Mr. Hood said: “We seem to have
strayed. I was about to add that my niece and I have always agreed,
except as regards one subject; and, I regret to say, as concerns that
matter, even the unfortunate closure of the war has in no degree abated
her feeling—a child, sir, instinctive and, as I observed, obstinate. I
think I have already dwelt on that peculiarity.”
“Yes, I so understood you. And now, Mr. Hood, that you have sufficiently
warned and informed me, and have decided to consent—I beg pardon,
yield—”
“I did nothing of the kind. I sometimes give way, but I never yield. I
do not like this marriage. But I do not propose that you shall cause my
niece to quarrel with me. She cannot stay here and make me
uncomfortable; she cannot marry you and starve; I won’t permit it.”
“Then may I ask what you propose to do?”
“Well, first I desire to state that, although I am said to be a rich
man, I do not intend to leave to my nieces more than a very small
competence. I have a theory on this subject. It is interesting. At
another time I shall be happy to set it before you—at length.”
Trescot rose. “I assure you, sir, that I should have been glad to feel
that in case of anything going wrong with my power to provide for my
wife,—such as my death, or what not,—she would be at ease. I should be a
fool if I told you I do not care what you do with your money; but if you
imagine, as you seem to take for granted, that it is influencing me in
my relation to Miss Constance, we had better drop the matter of money
altogether.”
“But,” said Hood, testily, “I am not going to be bullied into dropping
it. I mean to have my own way.”
Trescot was a man not merely good-tempered, but of a certain gay
sweetness of disposition which captured men and women. He began,
however, to be a little impatient, and in reply said:
“I have been for a half-hour endeavoring, sir, to find out what it is
you want. That I am to marry appears to be settled.”
“I suppose so. I know Constance too well to oppose it. I am told by my
niece that you cannot marry at present. But if you choose to accept the
position of my agent in St. Ann, Missouri, I will insure my niece an
income for five years—say, two thousand dollars. You would be called
upon to manage my property, and I should expect that you would eject
squatters, bring suits, and otherwise care for my interests.” He fell
back in his chair with an air of having settled the matter.
For a moment Trescot was silent, and regarded the feeble, shrunken old
man, who sat watching him and pulling nervously at his thin gray
side-whiskers. With some sense of the niece being sold to him for a
consideration, he returned quietly:
“No; I do not wish to leave Boston. I am not a land agent, and, to be
plain, Mr. Hood, I cannot accept your offer.”
“But you will.”
“No, I think not; I cannot. What you please to give your niece or not to
give her must have no relation to any business interests you may choose
to confide to me, in the very doubtful case of my considering your
offer.”
“You had better talk first to Constance. I think she must know you
already, for she declared that you would not accept my offer, and then
she made me another.”
“Indeed!” Trescot did not like this any better.
“She says that if I give her two thousand a year, and put my affairs at
St. Ann in your hands on a pure business basis, you will, perhaps, think
of it.”
Trescot would have much preferred to have had the offer made directly to
himself. He said he would speak to Constance about it. It was not a
thing to settle without time and thought.
“But it is settled,” said the old man. “You will find that out.
Constance usually knows her own mind.”
“But not mine,” returned Trescot, rising. He had had by this time as
much of the uncle’s indecisions and feeble display of business sharpness
as a nearly perfect temper would bear. He had learned that his own
tender and respectful love had been met by a passion of affection which
had seemed to take as small thought of the future as a bird might do,
and yet here was a certain competence in her dealings with her uncle for
which he was unprepared.
As he went away to meet her he said to himself, “It seems reasonable,”
but felt again that he should have preferred to be left to arrange
matters involving business and so complete a change of residence.