As they went up the slight ascent of West Street toward the Episcopal
church, Constance said to her husband: “Since we left home you have gone
to church alone. I mean that you shall never do that again. But, George,
do you know that this will be the first time I have ever been present at
a church service?”
“It will interest you,” he said, realizing with regret how complete had
been the denial of the highest opportunities to the woman he loved.
Careful to show no surprise, he went on to speak of the service, and of
how it had been formed and molded, until, arriving at the church, they
sat down near to the door. After church they slipped away, unnoticed,
except casually by General Averill. On the way homeward, Constance was
silent for a time, and seeming to her husband thus inclined, he made no
effort to disturb her mood.
Presently, however, she began to speak of the impression this amazing
novelty of a great ritual had left with her. The congregation had been
large and very devoted. She confessed to interest and something like
awe—a certain wonder at it, a trained disbelief in its verities. She
spoke with care, and he, on his side, listened without criticism.
Certainly to her it was so strange that he found it hard to put himself
in her attitude of mind, and preferred, with the patience which was part
of his character, to do no more than wait for such better chances as
time might bring.
The music she found good and simple. Caught by its charm, her full
soprano rose in the hymns he knew so well, and added to the satisfaction
he felt when she expressed her surprise at the refined faces she saw
about her. He explained that the older settlers had been Virginians, and
many of them gentlefolk. She was sure she would like them; and the
elderly woman she saw as they came out must be Mrs. Averill. She smiled
at them as the general raised his hat—a handsome couple. There was even
a kind of distinction in the old-fashioned gowns and bonnets.
“I think they were all curious about us,” she added.
“There may be other reasons,” he laughed, “for looking at you, my dear.
I sometimes enjoy that privilege myself.”
Sunday passed quietly in their new home, and they fully recognized the
thoughtful kindness which left them thus undisturbed. In the afternoon
they decided to see the little city and their neighborhood. They were
about a half-mile from the court-house green, beyond which, on an upper
rise, were a dozen houses, not very well cared for, but set pleasantly
among trees and well-tended gardens. On the level land above the river
bluff were the straggling houses and shops which, in their fresh
shingles and paint, gave evidence here and there of the new material
growth which had begun since the war. Below the bluff, on the shore of
the great curve of the turbid river, were warehouses, cotton-presses,
and rudely built piers where steamers lay. Much of the nearer
water-front was occupied, and as they stood Trescot pointed out where,
at the bend of the river, lay the long stretch of frontage which was in
litigation, and was claimed by Mr. Hood. Descending to the water’s edge,
they found a rough road which passed through low growths and the rude
clearings of the squatters who had refused to vacate their lands.
Beyond, the road wound along the river bank, and over the land which
Trescot had pointed out as valuable on account of the deep water in
front of it.
When on their homeward way they came near to their own house, the path
so narrowed in front of an ill-kept garden that Trescot fell behind. A
gentleman in gray clothes, and wearing an undress army-cap with
Confederate buttons, moved aside into the road to make room for Mrs.
Trescot to pass. He lifted his cap and showed some attentive surprise as
Trescot touched his straw hat and they passed on.
“By George!” he murmured, “who can that be? What a beautiful woman!” He
stared after her well-clad figure, noting the ease and grace of her
walk, and then the slighter form of the man. Seeing them turn in at
their own gate, he said aloud: “That must be old Hood’s new agent. He is
very young.”
Meanwhile Mrs. Trescot said: “George, did you notice that gentleman?”
“Yes.”
“He looks like an Indian chief, and very unlike the people I saw to-day.
He is handsome, but how dark he is!”
“Oh, there is some old Creole blood here—of French descent, very
likely—a fine, big man, probably a Confederate soldier.”
* * * * *
The Monday morning of their first week at St. Ann found them after
breakfast on the back porch of their new home. The man was gravely
happy; the young wife a little excited as they began to consider what
they were to do on this the first morning of their new life. Past the
little garden, the grassy slopes and green maize-fields were bounded
below by a fringe of oaks, beyond which the brown current of the mighty
river swept onward in its march to the gulf. The Cherokee rose was all
about them in red clusters, the humming-birds were busy on quivering
wing, and the warmth and moisture of the Southland—April already—invited
to repose and idleness.
“It is very pleasant here,” said Trescot, “but there will be many things
to do, and I suppose one must begin.” As he spoke he rose. The
temptations to linger were very great. But at last he compromised with
sense of duty by resolving, as many a man has done, to go as soon as his
pipe had gone out. Nevertheless he economically nursed the failing pipe.
As he lingered Constance asked:
“What have you to do, George? I mean at once.”
“Oh, many things. I must see the general and learn all I can of your
uncle’s affairs. There are unpaid rents, mortgages in arrears, taxes,
and what not,—a sad tangle, I fear. Then, if I am to appear in the
courts I must qualify by an examination to practise in this State.”
She was at once eager to know why.
“I could appear,” he returned, “in a United States court, but not before
local tribunals. But that is all simple.” And, in fact, after a
fortnight he was enabled thus to qualify for practice at St. Ann.
When at last the pipe refused to furnish excuses for delay, he left his
wife to her new household duties. She found herself amply occupied, and
while her husband spent a busy morning with Averill, she went about the
house with the two black servants, arranging her husband’s books, and
giving to the rooms that look of having been lived in, which is one of
the mysterious accomplishments of certain women. Trescot heard snatches
of song as he came in at midday, to meet her eager questions, and to
note with satisfaction what she had done to change the house into a
home.
“How hard you must have worked!” he said, seeing all of his many books
in order.
“I did not unpack your law books, George.”
“No, you were right; I must have them with me. I am to have a bit of an
office next to the general’s. I find that he has come into some property
of late, and wants to give up part of his work—I mean chiefly your
uncle’s affairs. There are, I fancy, other reasons. He was somewhat
reticent. From what I gathered I fear that your uncle’s business is
going to be difficult; and he has been so hard to deal with that people
here say it is impossible to settle anything. However, we shall see. I
suspect that the general has been indisposed to push matters, and that
your uncle has been unyieldingly opposed to any compromises.”
“Very likely,” said Constance; “but if the general had been firm uncle
would have given way. He always does. But for that he should be here. He
is always most obstinate in his letters.”
“That is hardly consoling,” said Trescot. “And oh, Constance, I would
not hang my sword here. Put it in your room.”
“I should like that,” she said, at once understanding him. “I see that
you do not wear your Loyal Legion button—I suppose we are to forget?”
“Yes, and forgive, as they, too, will in time. I lost a brother and many
friends in the war, but, dear, I learn that our old general lost his two
sons,—his only children, Constance,—his all. They are childless.”
“Oh, George! That mother! She was here to-day, and such kindness I never
could have hoped for. Now I understand her
“‘sad eyes
Wherein no expectation lies.’
“Who said that, George? I forget. I wondered what gave her that look; I
noticed it when I first saw her. I think Susan quoted it once. And, my
dear George, she heard me singing in that absurd way in church, and
would I join the choir, and they would expect us to use their pew, and
there are sewing-circles, and what not. I had to say several noes; I did
it sweetly, and said I must think about it. Imagine me in a
sewing-circle!”
“I am sure you said just the right thing. As for the general, he, too,
was more than kind. He begged me to be careful about war talk. People
were still sensitive. And I ought to be made aware that your uncle, whom
no one here has seen, is detested, and supposed to hinder the growth of
the town by refusals to sell or improve. He wants me to see people
socially, and it seems there is a little club which he thinks I had
better join. I said it would be as well to wait. I do not want any
needless expenses—even the smallest.”
“Oh, I shall manage, George. I have talked to Mrs. Averill. We shall
have enough. It might be better to join the club.”
“I shall think of it,” he said. “But my best club is elsewhere.”
“Yes; but you would see these people there. Only, I shall be jealous of
the hours I do not own.”
“You own all my hours, Constance. And, by the way, talking of jealousy,
the dark gentleman you admired yesterday has some Indian and some Creole
blood. I guessed well. But his name, I take it, is English—Greyhurst. He
is the lawyer who has been engaged in the suit to dispossess your uncle
of the water-front. I hear, also, that he is pretty deeply and
personally interested in lands along the water.”
She determined to know more of this man when she saw the general. She
had some vague feeling that here was a man who would be hostile; and she
had not liked the smiling face with the dark, attentive eyes.
The next day being Tuesday, while Trescot was again busy with the old
general, Constance dressed with care and set out to visit his wife. The
sun was warm, and as she walked along the road to the town she was full
of plans for a social campaign which should be of use to the man she
loved. There was enough to interest in the negro huts and children, the
wayside flowers, the straggling town, its blooming gardens, and the
houses which war and its attendant poverty had left long uncared for. As
she gained the main street, she began to see that she was the object of
notice; but to this she was not unaccustomed, and did not find it
unpleasing. Her looks and her power to be agreeable were a part of
George’s capital. She noted the men on horseback—now and then a man in a
battle-worn suit of Confederate gray; twice she observed the “C. S.”
branded on the flanks of mules—and felt the nearness of that vast
struggle which had left the South wrecked and impoverished.
A question or two brought her to the general’s house. It stood on a rise
to the eastward and above the town—an ample brick dwelling of more
pretension than those near by. The garden around it on all sides was
admirably cared for, but the fence was broken and the gate lay on the
ground. The hall door was open, but she looked in vain for a bell, and
used the brass knocker without effect. At last she entered, and saw
through the back door of the hall the gray head of Mrs. Averill in the
garden, moving between tall rows of Osage orange. For a moment some
inbred regard for conventional usages stayed the visitor’s steps, and
then, seeing no other way, she walked through the house and down the
garden path.
Mrs. Averill turned, setting down a basket of roses, and with both hands
welcomed her visitor.
“Come in,” she said; “come in out of the sun.”
Her looks approved the proudly carried head, the rich red of the cheeks,
the large blue eyes, and that indescribable air of caste and
good-breeding which the day before, as they came out of church, had been
at once and easily recognized.
Constance, too, saw that here was an older woman of her own world—a
woman, as she wrote to Susan, who seemed suited to the old-fashioned
garden and its familiar flowers—a delicately provincial dame, with an
assured way of saying gently very positive things, and with hands and
feet thin, delicate, and marvelously small.
The Southland tongue as Mrs. Averill used it, with its half-lost _r_’s
and a certain precision in her choice of words, delighted the critical
taste of Constance.
As they entered the large parlor, Mrs. Averill said: “Sit down, my dear;
it is very warm. I must find my servants—nowadays they are never to be
found. You shall have a glass of lemonade.”
Constance said she should be glad to have it, and was left alone. She
looked after her hostess with increasing satisfaction. Mrs. Averill was
exquisitely neat, from the little cap, over abundant gray hair, and wide
white kerchief to the white gown and the long garden gloves. The room
offered an unpleasing contrast. The wall-paper was worn and spotted, the
seats of the chairs showed signs of wear. Some of them were of Colonial
respectability, some with the black hair-cloth covers of a day of worse
taste. The matting was much mended, and a thin-legged piano, not too
free from dust, suggested indifference, or, more probably, the
housekeeping troubles of which as yet Constance was happily ignorant.
On the walls were two or three portraits in the thin manner of the elder
Peale, and an admirable Copley of a husband and wife. Over the fireplace
hung a pair of crossed swords suspended by broad black ribbons. Below
were ill-colored photographs of two young officers in Confederate
uniform. “Poor mother!” said Constance. Over all, caught up in folds,
hung a torn battle-flag of the rebel States, and below it the flag of a
Maine regiment, also tattered and battle-scarred, evidently a captured
trophy.
For a moment the young faces of the dead sons troubled her, and then the
two flags sent a rush of angry blood to her face—a return of the
passionate feelings the great war had so often caused her. Here before
her was the record of battle and of death, of the pathos and the courage
and endurance of a struggle which should have left, and did leave for
the best of those who fought and won, only admiration, pity, and
magnanimity. Constance had little of that greatness of soul which is the
noblest factor in the large gospel of forgiveness. The personal feeling
which entered so largely into her life during the war was supported by
an unusually intelligent knowledge of our history, and kept angrily
alive by her uncle’s attitude when, rejoicing over Confederate
victories, he thus kept her irritated and on edge throughout the years
of that sad struggle—ever glorious for those who won and those who lost.
Hearing Mrs. Averill’s step at the doorway, she turned quickly from the
mantel to meet her, composing her face with the habitual ease of a caste
accustomed to hide emotion. The little old lady, so gray, so worn,
became of a sudden grave.
“Sit down here beside me,” she said. “You were looking at the flags
and—the faces of my dead. Of course it troubled you—I saw that—the flags
and—the rest. I won’t have you excuse yourself; it was natural. One boy
fell dead on the flag he had captured; they sent it home to me. The
other, a prisoner, died in the North, after having been cared for as we
could not have cared for him in those terrible days. You see, I am
explaining to you because we are to be friends; but some day, when you
are a mother, you—”
“Please don’t,” said Constance, taking her thin hand. Both women’s eyes
were full of tears.
For a moment they were silent. Then Constance said, “How did you live
through it?”
“God helped me, as some day he may need to help you. It is less hard to
forgive a nation than if it had been a man, and John Averill was spared
to sorrow with me. Some day I shall see my boys. There, my dear, we must
not talk of it any more; but we are very sore in the South, and the
state of things in the Carolinas makes it impossible to forget defeat in
the face of continual humiliation.”
“I know,” said Constance. “It is shameful, and no one—not even you—can
feel it more than my husband. He tries to put aside the war. He never
speaks of it, although his crippled arm is a sad reminder. He will not
let me hang his sword where it can be seen in—” She paused, feeling that
she had made one of those social slips which even the best-trained do
not altogether escape. She went on quickly: “We want to make friends
with the people here. You will tell us how. You know it is to be our
home.”
“My dear, you will easily make friends; but sometimes you will have to
be forbearing and keep silent. It may be hard, but for those who won it
should not be.” Constance thought of George, and assented. “Mr. Trescot
will find it less easy; but his having been in your army will help him
with all but the women; we are unreasonably venomous—a few of us, not
all.”
“Well, that will save me some jealousies,” said Constance, smiling.
“Ah, here is the lemonade,” said her hostess. “I was picking these
flowers for you; will you care to carry the basket, or shall I send
them? I was about to call again this afternoon. I thought I might help
you. It must all be so strange to you.”
Constance, thanking her, rose, saying: “You will let me come again?”
“Oh, often, I hope,—often.”
She walked away through the sun and down the dusty street, carrying the
roses. The men looked after her erect figure, the women made comments on
gown and bonnet.
She was lost to her surroundings, thinking of the flags and the dead
boys, and wondering at the peace of soul which had come to the childless
mother. She could not comprehend it, and thought that such a calamity
falling on herself would have left her with an undying hatred.
Presently, feeling the heat, she was reminded that she had promised not
to tempt its consequences through the summer months. The idea of leaving
George troubled her, and she quickened her pace in order the sooner to
see him.
V
The Trescots by degrees settled into a routine of life which, while it
left Constance alone in the mornings, usually permitted of their being
together the rest of the day, and in the evening.
A few friends or relatives of the Averills called upon them; but these
visits were evidently formal or made to oblige the general’s wife, and
they were left much alone.
If Trescot soon felt the social atmosphere to be cold, he excused it,
and trusted to time and chance for better things. Except that Constance
saw in their reception difficulties for her husband, she had small
regret on account of the conditions which relieved her from being
constantly on guard, and made her secure of a larger share of the
society she preferred to all other.
The women she met and tried to find pleasant were chiefly interested in
their households, in the difficulties caused by the emancipation of the
slaves, and in the awkward subject of the misgovernment of the South.
There were but few subjects which were free from peril, and such
intellectual sympathies as Constance possessed awakened little interest
among overburdened women whom many forms of disaster had left with too
constant thought of the morrow.
What help and advice Constance required she found in the Averill house,
where now and then they ate a meal and were at all times welcome guests.
The older woman discovered, to her husband’s joy, a novel pleasure in
Constance Trescot’s music; and it became common for the old general and
his wife to appear of an evening, and while the men smoked their pipes
on the porch the piano, Susan’s wedding-gift, was opened, and song after
song, or the tones of the greater music, soothed and pleased the pale
little lady who sat a silent listener, or pleaded for “just one more, my
dear.”
Then, too, Susan sent the new books and the magazines, and these were
passed on to the Averills, who formed, by degrees, an increasing
attachment to the young man and his wife, and became thoughtfully busy
in the difficult task of bringing them into cordial relations with what
was best in the town. As far as was possible to a woman like Constance,
the regard was returned. She had all her life had a singular incapacity
for generous division or sharing of her affection. Once it had been
wholly Susan’s. It was now George Trescot’s, and this predisposition was
reinforced by a passion deep, jealous, and exacting. The man so long
lonely sunned himself in the warmth of all that an intelligent and
beautiful woman brought to help and glorify his life, with no mind to
criticize the quality of the woman’s love.
And so the latter days of April passed, and the warmth of May and June
came, while, with the all-sufficient company of books, music, and talk,
time moved onward. In the evening he read to her or told her of his
work, and she of what she had seen and done. Of the keen sense he had of
hostility in the very air of the place he said but little. She was but
too anxiously aware of it, and said as little.
On an evening early in June the general came in, and leaving Constance
alone with her open piano, the two men went out on to the porch.
“I came in, Mr. Trescot, because I want to talk of the squatters. I
heard to-day that there may be trouble. I wish my friend Mr. Hood were
more reasonable.”
“He is not, and never will be, and there is nothing to do but to serve
the usual notices on them.”
“It has already excited a good deal of feeling. The squatters will
resist, or at least two of them will. The fact is that I have been
unable to make up my mind in the past to turn out three old soldiers of
my own regiment. One of these is a lame man, crippled in the war. Cannot
you wait until the suit for the water-front has been tried?”
“It is low down on the docket, and it will be October before it can come
up. But what would be gained by that—by waiting?”
The general was unprepared to reply. He was merely inclined, like most
old men, to put off the disagreeable, having that faith in the
helpfulness of time which is a part of the business creed of the aged.
He said at last that he was of opinion that Greyhurst was stirring them
up. The eviction of a lot of old soldiers, one of them eighteen years on
the ground, father and son, would further prejudice an already hostile
public opinion, and make it the harder to secure a just verdict in
regard to the question of title to the lands beyond them on the river.
“What I disliked to do about these men, Mr. Trescot,” he said, “will be
dangerous for you to attempt. I think it right to tell you that. Their
land is not valuable for steamboat landings, and for any other purpose
it is useless, because the squatters never can sell it; but they won’t
give up, and are utterly indifferent to law, and quite well aware that
the community is on their side. Best let them alone just now. Wait a
little.”
“No, I must go on.”
“It will be at the risk of your life.”
He could have said nothing better fitted to add vigor to Trescot’s
resolute intention. He replied, laughing: “I presume that we have both
been shot at pretty often.”
“But this is different, Trescot.”
“Yes, I know that. But am I to believe, general, that an opponent lawyer
deliberately advises an assassination?”
“Oh, no, I beg you not to misunderstand me; I spoke rather too
positively. Greyhurst would never do that; and, upon my word, he never
did anything deliberate in his life. The man is impulsive and quick to
resent, and very imprudent in talk. He is in debt, and if he can win
this suit he will probably receive a large contingent fee. These men,
especially that fellow named Coffin, have been to see him,—I pointed the
man out to you on the street yesterday. Mr. Greyhurst has told them that
you surely mean to evict them. I do not think he can have gone further.”
“If he said only that I mean to evict, that is true. I would tell them
that myself. Was there anything else?”
“No; but there are ways of saying things. It was none of his business.
They did not consult him as a lawyer, and he was merely making mischief.
These mountain-men who are now squatted on the flats come to me like
children. They were, some of them, in my company when I first went out,
and they look to me for protection. It is a damned disagreeable
business, sir; and none the easier for John Greyhurst’s interference and
Mr. Hood’s stupid obstinacy.”
“I presume, general, that you really could not make up your mind to act
on Mr. Hood’s determination to evict.”
“I must confess, Mr. Trescot, that I would not. I think I said as much.
The legal right no one can dispute; but I could not come down on these
poor devils with the law without being looked upon as an oppressor, and,
what is worse just now, as the instrument of a Northern man. Even for
me, my dear Trescot, to evict mercilessly men who have lived there five,
ten, even eighteen years unmolested—even for me, sir, there might be
risk.”
“And for me,” queried Trescot, smiling, “much more risk?”
“That is my belief, sir. I do not think Mr. Hood has ever taken in the
situation.”
“No; it is his land. The men must go. For him it is simple,—but for me
and you there are the human ties to land men have cleared and plowed,
the sense of the home, and all manner of associations. Mr. Hood prides
himself on being exact in business. Out of it he is generous, even
lavish. He has not imagination enough to be largely charitable. I never
saw a man like him.”
“Then, sir,” said the old general, grimly humorous, “he had better
lavish on you a good revolver or a first-class rifle. What I could not
or would not do, you will surely risk your life if you try to do. I may
as well say to you that my chief reason for giving up Hood’s agency was
his infernal obstinacy about these squatters. Did he tell you that I had
said so, and that no reputable gentleman in St. Ann would accept the
position?”
“No, he did not,” returned Trescot, somewhat surprised at this
revelation of Mr. Hood’s methods.
“Well, no one here would take it on his terms, and, as I see it, he has
placed you in what is a position of real danger. Even now, before you
have moved legally, these men are sure they will be turned out. They are
not men to wait, and the whole town is on their side. Think it over. A
very little money would settle the business.”
“You are no doubt right; but what can I do? I must give up the agency or
act on Mr. Hood’s orders. I came here to do so, and I mean to move in
the matter. How can I hope to convince him if you failed?”
The general laid a hand on Trescot’s knee, and said very earnestly:
“Wait until I write to him again. I have known lives lost in this
country for far less things, and if you are set on taking legal action I
beg that you will go about armed.”
Trescot laughed. “Why, my dear general, I am half crippled, and it would
be simply useless. Do you all carry revolvers?”
“I do not; but if I were bent on following out Mr. Hood’s orders I most
assuredly should do so, and, too, I should be rather careful how I went
out at night.”
Trescot thanked him and said: “You will do nothing with Hood; but could
not we do something with these men if you and I saw them together?”
“It is worth trying. I shall go with you with pleasure. Before I leave
let me say a word more about that land suit. It was first brought the
year after the big flood in sixty-three. Who suggested to the Baptiste
people to dispute Hood’s title I do not know. Two lawyers have had it;
one died and one threw up the case. Then it came into Greyhurst’s hands,
and has hung on. I had too slight evidence in Mr. Hood’s favor to want
to try it, and Greyhurst evidently took it with the hope of forcing a
compromise. I can’t think he believes their claim just.”
“Well, I shall urge it, and we can make him come to time. It is very
much like a sort of legally disguised blackmail. What kind of man is he?
I ought to know. You said he was impulsive.”
“Yes, it is as well that you should. A rather unusual person. He has had
a wild life, but is not uncultivated. He certainly has a high opinion of
John Greyhurst, and the most damned insecure temper I ever met with.
Halloa! Talk of him another time. Listen to that!”
There was a low, mellow roll of murmurous thunder. The general rose. “We
are in for one of our big thunder-storms. It will cool the air. Say
good-by to Mrs. Trescot. I must hurry.” He went away around the house in
haste.
As Trescot stood looking at the darkening sky a blinding splendor of
violet light made bright the distant river and the march of dark masses
of cloud across the star-lighted sky. “Come out,” he called to his wife.
“The general has gone, Constance; come out on the porch.”
She rejoiced in a great storm, as she did in any display of the might of
nature, such as the wild sea drama of a gale on her own rock-bound
coast. She came out at once and they walked into the garden. The herald
wind of the coming storm shook the house and brought a cool breath of
freshness.
“How delicious the air is, George, and how magnificent, how glorious!”
Swift javelins of light flashed incessant, with crashes of thunder, and
soon the sudden downfall of rain drove them to the shelter of the porch.
“No, I can’t go in, George. I never before saw such a storm. I love it.
I should like to be once in an earthquake.”
“Not I,” he returned, laughing. “I saw one in New Mexico. I prefer to
face again the worst fire I was ever under. I got out of a window on to
a shed, and the house went down behind me.”
Again a vast flare of lightning made every drop of rain in the air a
moment’s jewel.
“The rain blows in here; get your rain-cloak,” he said. “Wait, I shall
get it—or better to go in.”
“Oh, no; I must see it. You could not find the cloak.”
She left him where he stood enjoying the storm. As the quick-coming
flashes lighted the hill slope he saw a man moving, very slowly as it
seemed to him for one storm-caught, some thirty feet beyond the garden
fence. He called out, “Halloa! come in here.”
Surprised to receive no reply, he called again. A moment after, amid
still more vivid light, Trescot was aware of a flash lower down on the
hillside, and of the sound, once familiar, of a rifle-shot. The broken
glass of the window just to the left jangled. As the instant lightning
flared, Trescot, seeing the man moving down the hill, ran through the
garden and out of the gate in hot pursuit, thinking quickly as he caught
sight of him at moments, “It was the old-fashioned rifle; he can’t
reload. By George! he is lame; I shall have him.”
He was not twenty feet away when Trescot’s foot caught in a tangle of
briers and he fell. He rolled over on his lame shoulder, and in some
pain got up to find he had lost his man in the wood at the foot of the
hill. He stood still a moment in the rain, and then walked back up the
rise of ground.
His wife was on the porch. “Where have you been? What was that, George?
I heard glass break.”
Concealment was impossible. “I am all right. A man shot at me; one of
those squatters, I suppose. I saw him plainly; he was lame. Come in,
dear. I should have had him in a moment if I had not fallen.”
“You are not hurt?” she asked anxiously.
“No; but come in. The shot went quite wide and broke the glass. Do not
mention it to those blacks. It must appear to have been an accident
while I was closing the shutters.”
When they were in the lighted room and the house shut up, he saw how
pale she was. He put his arm around her. “Constance, love,” he said,
“this will not occur again.” He was by no means sure. “Do not be
worried; I am to see these men with Averill in a day or two. We shall
settle with them in some way.”
“But what will you do? and how can I live here with the chance of having
you brought home to me dead? Oh, this barbarous country! And I made you
come—and my uncle, I shall never forgive him.”
At last he persuaded her to go to bed. She passed a restless night,
almost without sleep—perhaps for the first time in her life of vigorous
health.
When, next day, she insisted on his not leaving her, he said at last:
“We shall walk to the Averills’, and I shall call for you after I have
gone over some of the old French deeds. I shall not be long.” Her very
visible anxiety troubled him, and the more because it was reasonable.
She was not easily answered.
“But what will you do, George?” she went on. “Can’t you arrest him?
Something must be done, and without delay. I shall write to uncle.”
“No, you must not do that; it would be of no use. Before he could reply
I shall have consulted with the general and done something.” He had no
clear idea of what he should do, except that he still meant to visit the
squatters with Averill. He said as much.
“But I cannot sit still and wait,” she returned. “I simply cannot.”
Such reassurance as he was able to give quite failed to satisfy her. She
went slowly up-stairs, step by step, deep in thought, and then, making a
sudden decision, dressed herself with unusual care and came down to join
him. Although she commonly talked much when with her husband, as they
walked on she barely answered him, and finally left him at Mrs.
Averill’s gate.
During the night, as Constance lay awake, she had reproached herself
again and again for having urged her husband to accept her uncle’s
offer. What now he would do had not satisfied her. As she walked by his
side she kept on perplexing herself about a situation in which, as a
woman, she felt herself powerless. After an uneasy half-hour with Mrs.
Averill, to whom she said nothing of what had happened, she took her
leave, and with a sudden and well-defined resolution in her mind went
down the steep road from the bluff, and leaving the busy cotton-marts
and -presses behind her, followed the river bank. The path led through
scrubby undergrowth on to rudely cultivated clearings. Here were two
well-built log cabins. In front of the nearer one a man well beyond
middle age was seated on a stump engaged in oiling the lock of a rifle.
As she came upon him he stood up in wonder at the loveliness of the
wandering stranger.
She said: “Will you kindly give me a drink of water, and may I sit down?
I am tired.”
“Would you come in, ma’am, out of the sun?”
She followed him, and took the chair he offered, and the tin cup.
“What good water you have! Thank you.”
As he moved she observed his lameness, and sharply observant, saw about
her no evidence of a woman’s care. This was the man she sought.
“Yes, ma’am; it’s a spring below the bluff.”
“What a handsome bearskin! Did you shoot him?”
“Yes; last winter, up in the Virginia hills.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“I reckon I am.”
“But you missed my husband last night.”
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed, “who told you that?”
“He saw you. It is useless to deny it, and the fact is, Mr.—what is your
name?”
“I’m Tom Coffin, and I just want—”
“Wait a little. If you had killed him you would have killed your best
friend.”
“Well, now, that’s pretty good. My friend! ’Tain’t a matter to talk over
with women. He’s got to let me alone. My father, that’s dead, and me, we
have been here eighteen years, and now comes your man and says git out.”
“Is the land so good?”
“No, it isn’t; but it’s mine, and it’s all I have.”
“Suppose my husband were to offer to do one of two things?”
“Well,” he said, “he ain’t offered nothing.”
“If he wins our suit about the bounds of the land below you on the
river, and would give you a deed for five acres on the bluff,—good land,
too,—would you take it in exchange for what does not belong to you?”
“I would; but he hasn’t got it. Mr. Greyhurst says he won’t git it.”
Then the man became of a sudden suspicious.
“Look here, ma’am; I ain’t used to dealing with ladies. Did Mr. Trescot
send you? He needn’t have been afraid.”
“Afraid!” she said proudly, rising as she spoke. “George Trescot, my
husband, afraid! It was not he who ran last night. Who was it ran from
an unarmed man?”
Then in a moment she was back in a well-played part.
“Mr. Coffin, I came here just because I am a woman and a young wife. My
husband does not know, or I never should have been allowed to come. I
want to make sure that you will not kill an unarmed, crippled man. I
can’t stand by and wait to see what will happen. I will not go until you
promise me that you will agree, if we win, to exchange your clearing for
the better land below; or if you will not do that, tell me now what you
will take to move if we—I mean my uncle—does not win his suit.”
Coffin weakened. This gracious woman with her soft voice and eyes full
of tears captured the man.
“Who’s going to make sure of the pay?”
“I shall pay. Come, now, let us be friends. I am really on your side.
You can’t fight the law. Some day you will have to go and get nothing
for all you have done. Come, now, what will you take?”
“Would you say three hundred, ma’am?”
“No; four hundred,” she said quickly. It was the half of her little
personal savings.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
She put out her hand. He took it shyly, as she said:
“Are you busy all day?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Could you come up in the afternoons and help me in my garden, for three
dollars a week?”
“I will if your man wants me; he won’t want me.”
“Yes, he will. You should have come at first and talked to him. You are
both old soldiers; and, Mr. Coffin, you must be a Northern man—you have
a good old New England name.”
“No; my father was. He came from Massachusetts.” Then he was silent.
She saw that he was still unsatisfied. “Ah, my own State. Is there
anything else? I want it all clear.”
“Well, it isn’t, and I want to know. The fact is, ma’am, Mr. Greyhurst
told me you folks wouldn’t do anything, but just drive me out. Father
and I have been here eighteen years, and my sister has the cabin just
below here. Her man’s sick, and there’s two children, and go was the
word, just like we were dogs.”
“If Mr. Greyhurst told you that, he said what was not true. He knew
nothing about it, or what Mr. Trescot would do. My husband was coming
here with General Averill to-morrow.”
“Was he?—he and my old captain?”
“Yes, and you come like a coward and shoot at an unarmed man, who is
ready to help you.”
“O Lord, drop that! I was just fooled by that man Greyhurst. I’ll get
even with him. I was thinking—me and another man—that we’d go and see
Mr. Trescot. Greyhurst he said it was no good. You can tell your
husband, if he’s minded not to be hard on us, I can help him about those
bounds down below. I won’t say no more till we talk—me and him.”
Constance, surprised, returned: “I’ll leave you to settle that with him,
but don’t go and what you call get even with Mr. Greyhurst.” She saw
mischief in this. “Keep it all to yourself; do not let him know that you
are on our side. Promise me; you know I trust you.”
“I can hold my tongue, ma’am. Darn that lawyer chap!”
“Well,” she said, “here is your first week’s wages.”
“No; I don’t take money I haven’t earned.”
“Yes, you must,” and she left the notes in his great rough hand.
“Of course Mr. Greyhurst will see you in my garden.”
“Well, it ain’t none of his business. Guess I’ll be the fooler this
time. When will I come? I don’t half like it.”
“But you will. Come to-day at six. It is too late for work, but I want
Mr. Trescot to talk to you.”
“Well, I’ll come. I’ve said it, and I’ll come.”
“Good-by.”
Well pleased, she went away across the clearing and up the bluff,
determined that her uncle should agree to pay, or that she herself must
do so. “I have bought a man and saved a man’s life,” she said joyously.
She was glad, elate, and at ease.
She had been so long with Coffin that her husband had gone home. She
hurried her steps and entered the house just after him. A great joy was
in her heart. She would tell him in this way—no, it should be in that
way. The adventure delighted her, and the feeling that she had been able
to help her husband and make him secure.
“I missed you,” he said, as they sat down in the little library; “what
made you so late?”
“I went for a walk. I went down to the river and then through the woods
to where your squatters live.”
“Constance, you must not do that again. God knows what might happen
among those lawless men. This fellow Coffin—I know him now—is one of the
worst of them. Promise me, love.”
“I can—I do. But I saw your lame scoundrel.”
“Saw him! You saw him!”
“Yes.” And she poured out the whole story, while he listened amazed, and
not too well pleased. She saw the gravity of his look, the slight frown
as she finished.
“Was I wrong, George?” she said anxiously.
He hesitated and then replied:
“Yes; this is not a woman’s business. You have pledged me without
thought to what your uncle will never agree to do; and the money—where
is it to come from?”
“I have it, George, and more than enough. I will not,—oh, I cannot let
this state of things go on. My uncle must give you freedom to act as
seems best. It is he who put you in peril. I won’t stand it.”
“And still, Constance, this must not occur again. It was thoughtless and
unwise.”
“Thoughtless! Oh, George,” she cried, with a sudden passion of tears,
“it was anything but thoughtless. I scarcely closed my eyes last night.
I have been in an agony of apprehension. I could not wait to see what
would happen. If I had been a man, and loved you as no man can love—oh,
I should have killed him! Do you think this kind of thing will go on?
And I brought you here, I made you come, I bribed you with my love,
myself. Now I can sleep, you are safe. I have found an enemy and made
him a friend. Oh, this horrible town! Let us go. Let us give up.”
She went on with broken phrases and disconnected words, and was soothed
only when, at last, as she lay sobbing on his breast, he said: “Try,
dear, to control yourself; we must talk this over quietly. Now, wait a
little; do not speak.”
By degrees she steadied herself, and at last, wiping her eyes, said:
“There, it is over; but I must finish, and I won’t be so weak again. I
do think you must see, George, that this was not with me a matter of
choice. I had to do it. You are the one thing in life for me. There is
no other. Oh, you have your work and your enlarging future, your
religion. I have _you_. That is my sole excuse. To-morrow I would do it
again. That is all. And if I have done what my love made me do, at least
you must see that out of it comes some good.”
He had been amazed and annoyed by her abrupt interference, but as she
talked he quieted himself, and while in wonder at the abandonment of a
passion so all-possessing, began to feel that her pledges must be kept
to the letter. He said so, to her joy, and added, as he kissed her tears
away: “I am sorry you went, but I love you the more for the courage that
carried you through.”
She smiled. “Ah, George, it was the courage of selfishness; it was the
courage of love. And I am forgiven? I want you to say it.”
“Hush! We shall never need the word—never. And so I am to see that scamp
to-day at six. He must be a pretty cool fellow.” The humor of it struck
him. “Do you expect to be present?” he asked, laughing. “To be shot at
overnight by a man who proposes to attend to your garden the day after
is something delightfully unusual.”
There was no laugh in it for Constance. The man was back again in his
every-day calm. The woman remained excited, restless, and even exhausted
by the strain of the morning and the talk with her husband. Her mind was
still on the matter.
“You must write to Uncle Rufus and simply say you mean to have your
way.”
“I will think it over. Probably I shall do so, but you, in the meantime,
must not do what I alone ought to do.”
“No,” she returned, somewhat meekly; “I am out of the business now. But,
George, don’t tell that man he is a scoundrel. He is the captive of my
bow and spear.”
“No, I think I shall manage it; but I hardly think I can apologize for
not being hit.”
“Please don’t,” she said, and went up to her room, glad then, and again
after lunch, to lie down and rest with a mind at ease. The rather grim
humor of the situation did not strike her as it would have done her
sister.