On the evening of the first of October, Constance found herself, to her
great joy, again in her own home. They arrived late, and Mr. Hood very
tired. He appeared, however, at breakfast next morning, having slept
unusually well. After an ample meal, during which he found time to
complain of the butter, the eggs, the corn-bread, and his cocoa, he
informed Susan that she had better take a rest, and that Constance, at
eleven o’clock, would go with him to show him the way to Mr. Greyhurst’s
office and to the general’s. At five in the afternoon George would drive
him about the country. He desired to see his lands. In the evening he
would be prepared to discuss matters with Trescot.
The family, thus disposed of, rose in revolt. Trescot had affairs which
would keep him busy; there would be a buggy and Coffin to drive Mr. Hood
about. It was too far for him to walk, and Constance would be occupied.
Susan declined to be advised. She had to unpack. He gave up at once.
Trescot said: “It would be as well not to call on Mr. Greyhurst. But if
you do, may I ask that you will not commit yourself in any way until the
general and I have been able to lay before you more fully what has been
done.”
“Of course not, Trescot; I have not been a business man all my life
without having learned caution.” He had a brisk little air of assurance.
“I hope to make the acquaintance of some of the Confederate officers. I
think you said Mr. Greyhurst was one of them. With my views of the late
disastrous war, everything will become easy.”
“I trust, sir,” said Trescot, as he was about to go out, “that you may
enable me, now that you are here, to act as I have not been as yet
authorized to do. Unless you can make up your mind to yield a little,
you will find difficulties, as we have done.”
Mr. Hood waved them away. “Difficulties are not for the resolute.”
Constance shook her head at her husband, who, thus advised, quietly gave
up; and the little old man went out on the porch to get his morning
exercise. He walked up and down, with his hands behind his back, smiling
at intervals, and contemplating with satisfaction novel opportunities
for the exercise of his adroitness in affairs. Meanwhile, Susan also
disappeared.
As Constance left him at the door, Trescot said: “There are limitless
capacities for mischief in that old man.”
“There are; but he is as timid as a house-fly. The general has already
disposed him to yield. He is only making believe to be very bold; and if
Mr. Greyhurst represents to him the state of feeling here, he will be
pretty well alarmed at the attitude of his Confederate friends.”
“That is very sensible, dear, and no doubt true; but he will say yes
to-day, and no to-morrow, and I shall be presumed to have advised him.
That is where the mischief will come in. And now I must go.”
Constance was fully resolved to have her own share in these counsels.
She saw her husband’s uneasiness, and was sensible that there was peril
in the air, and a general belief that this absentee millionaire was
standing in the way of progress and threatening men who had been
soldiers and for whom the deepest sympathy was felt. She was as clear as
George that to relieve the squatters and make easy settlements with the
owners of mortgaged lands would leave only the larger matter of the more
valuable land-claim on the bend. She cared nothing for what her uncle
might make or lose, but she had had one stern illustration of the
methods of the rude men who considered themselves wronged, and how the
issues were to affect her husband had been from the first her chief
anxiety. She had been fortunate in her venture with Coffin, and now
again she meant to act, and was the more resolute because she was not
quite at ease in regard to Trescot’s health. He had felt the summer’s
heat, and more often than before carried his right arm caught for
support in his waistcoat.
As the day proved cool, Mr. Hood decided to walk. When he stood in front
of the one-story wooden office of John Greyhurst, he considered with
disapproval the want of fresh paint and the ill-kept window-panes. They
gave him a sense of superiority. He was himself as neat as a cat.
He went up the entry, and in a moment was in the presence of Greyhurst,
who knew at a glance that the eager little gentleman in well-fitting
gray summer dress must be Mr. Hood. As he rose to welcome him,—large,
square-shouldered, and powerful,—the contrast was striking.
“Mr. Hood, I am sure.”
“Yes.”
There was a cordial greeting. Greyhurst removed some law books from a
chair, and they sat down, Mr. Hood saying: “It gives me great pleasure
to see you. You may not be aware that I am one of the many at the North
whose sympathies were with the South, and I have long felt that if I
could venture, at my age, to come to St. Ann, I might”—he remembered
Trescot’s warning—“I might clear up some misunderstandings.”
The lawyer was not one of those who, like Trescot, could let a man go on
to tangle himself in the net of his own garrulity. He said: “Oh, there
have been more than enough troubles, sir. You are quite correct, but I
should hesitate to call them misunderstandings, unless Mr. Trescot has
utterly set aside your wishes. He is a bolder man than your former
agent,—I may say, a rasher man. He has taken measures to turn out some
broken-down soldiers from their miserable little clearings. He has given
notices of merciless foreclosures. To some of these people it is ruin.”
Hood had not the frankness to say that these had been his own very
positive orders, nor that Trescot had insisted on milder measures. He
moved uneasily as he returned:
“I am inclined to be lenient, but business is business, Mr. Greyhurst.”
“Yes, no doubt; but I think that you ought to be aware that we are a
wrecked people; that people with no money cannot pay; and, worst of all,
there is that land-claim at the bend. One of our oldest families is
interested, and has the sympathy of our entire community. The failure to
settle this is standing in the way of our prosperity and limiting our
river facilities. I do not imagine, sir, that you know our hot-blooded
people. There is risk, sir,—peril,—in the course that is being pursued.”
“Peril!” said the little old gentleman, sitting up. “I do not
understand.” He was imposed upon by the emphatic statements of the
stalwart, dark-faced man. “I should be glad to be enlightened. Who is in
danger?”
Greyhurst had no desire to go beyond vague generalities.
“Yes, I said there was peril. If you lived here you would understand. No
Southern community will tamely submit to these measures. A compromise,
with a fair division of the water-front at the bend, would quiet the
feeling. The rest would be easy to manage. I have urged this in vain.
Mr. Trescot pleads your orders. As a lawyer I assure you your claim will
not stand.”
Hood held up the hand of appeal. “I—I, sir, will consider the matter. I
will talk it over with Mr. Trescot. I will speak to the general.”
He had come hither to talk business, as he called it, and was scared and
humiliated. This was not business. He went on: “We would be prepared to
go into any reasonable propositions.”
“I have invited them over and over.”
“Dear me! that is bad, very bad.”
“Then you agree to divide the water-front?”
“Oh, no; I could not say that; I—I am accustomed to discuss such
matters. I don’t quite know.”
He was getting confused and nervous, and as eager to get away as he had
been to come. He rose. “It has been a great pleasure to see you. Ah! my
hat, thank you; I must go on to see Averill.”
“I shall have the pleasure to call, and meanwhile you may trust me to do
all I can to restrain the feeling here. It is bitter, very bitter—in
fact, dangerously bitter. Good morning.”
“Bless me!” said the old gentleman, as he entered the street, and stood
wiping his forehead, “what an abrupt person! I must talk to George
Trescot.”
As he moved on he reflected that Greyhurst had no direct connection with
the affairs of the squatters, nor with the mortgages. If he intended to
alarm him, Rufus Hood, he should learn that it was not easy. The further
he got away from the impressive physical bulk and threatening manner of
the lawyer, the more he resolved to have his rights. He was, as I have
said, close and narrow in business affairs, but outside of them not
ungenerous, and very willing to let the left hand know of the bounty of
the right. After he had ousted these land robbers he might help
them—might do something. The idea of thus posing as a benefactor
refreshed him. He went on to Averill’s.
He found the general rather doubtful as to the very valuable land at the
bend. It was a difficult matter; nor was he much disposed to make that
or any of Hood’s business appear easy. He said nothing of the new
evidence. Mr. Hood would have to yield and not drive men to extremities.
He told him that Trescot would set before him in full, as concerned the
water-front, the state of the evidence in his favor. It must rest
largely on their ability to prove the bounds of a survey made for Mr.
Hood’s father forty years back. If they failed, then the Baptiste heirs
would come in under an old French title. When Hood mentioned what the
lawyer had said of violence and public opinion, Averill laughed. “A
little bluff. The man is not very sure of his case. After Mr. Trescot
talks to you, we will be better able to decide if it be well to
compromise.”
“Compromise! That I will never do. I am not a man to be scared out of my
rights.”
Averill smiled and said: “Be gentle with the squatters and the rest.
Their lands are of small value; the water is shoal near the town; soon
or late all our business has got to go to the bend. I should willingly
abandon all your other interests to insure that.”
Mr. Hood went away well pleased. Here was business and to spare. He
would be firm, firm. He struck his stick on the broad sidewalk, and went
on.
In the afternoon Constance took her uncle to drive in a buggy along a
bad wood-road to see the lands so long in dispute. It gave her the
opportunity she needed.
In the woods she tied the horse and walked about until her uncle was
tired and much bewildered. Then they sat down on a log. He had been
telling her over and over how determined he was. At last, during a pause
in his repetitions, she said:
“What do you mean to do about the squatters?”
“Turn them out, of course. It is my land.”
“They are pretty lawless men, Uncle Rufus.”
“Oh, I have heard all about that from Mr. Greyhurst. I am not a man to
be easily alarmed. The general says it is all talk—pure bluff.”
“Indeed? Were you ever shot at?”
“I! God bless me! no. What do you mean? Why should I be shot at?”
“When George first came here, or soon after, these men were told that
you meant to eject them, and that he would act promptly. One of them
shot at George; I had just left him; it was at night.”
The neat little old man was at once uneasy, and looked about him,
saying: “Good gracious, Constance! It must have been an accident. Are
you sure? Do they live near here?”
“The bullet broke a pane of glass. If you are curious, you can see the
hole it made in the wall. Now, uncle, this is serious, and not a matter
for doubt or delay. You have tied George up so that he is hated, and I
do not know what may happen. He has done some things to quiet these men.
He has settled certain of the mortgages, and you will have to stand by
his acts; but there is still danger. If you had been here, it would have
been you they would have shot at. You have been merciless, and it has
got to stop. I will not have George killed in order that you may make a
few thousand dollars. I will not have it!”
“How violent you are, Constance! You don’t suppose there is any—any
danger now? It was most inconsiderate, most unusual. Of course the man
was arrested.”
“Arrested? No; you can’t arrest a whole town. I mean that public opinion
would be on his side. He got away, and no one knows of it. If you talk
of it I will never, never forgive you.”
“I will not,” he said. “I never heard of such a thing. It is awful.”
She turned sharply as they sat on the log. “You say it is awful. It is
you who made what would have been easy full of risk to my husband. It
lies with you to put an end to this state of things. If you will not, I
shall leave St. Ann with George—oh, at once! Now what do you mean to do?
We have already talked of it—of leaving.”
“What do you want me to do?” he returned feebly.
“Will you agree to let George buy off the squatters?”
“I will talk to him. Women know nothing of business.”
“I do, uncle. George Trescot is my business. This trifling with my
husband’s life and my happiness must end—now and here. You talk of
business!” She rose and stood facing him. “_I_ am in the business of
life. Either you do as I say, or I shall make George give up your
affairs and go away. You have been entirely regardless of what might
happen. George and the general wrote to you over and over; you did not
reply or you refused to yield anything. These rebel friends of yours
hate you; and now this attempt at murder comes as a result of your
selfish folly.”
“No one mentioned this—this remarkable incident. I have been left in the
most culpable ignorance. I am a perfectly reasonable man. Let Trescot
clear them out, and I will—well, I will then see what may be done to
help them.”
“Yes; you will see; and with George dead, and you too if you announce
your intention and stay here. I will not have it. Will you do as George
wants, or will you not?”
“I will not be bullied. I must think it over.”
“You will do no such thing. This life of suspense is simply unendurable.
Have you no common sense—no compassion for me, no realization of the
danger you have brought upon us?” She turned from him with a gesture of
despair, crying: “You are an impossible person. You have neither common
sense nor heart. I have done with you. I hope never to see you again.”
As she ended, she moved away with quick steps through the darkening
wood.
“Great heavens!” he cried, as he stood up. “Are you going to leave me
here alone?”
“I am; you can walk home.”
“Constance! Constance!” he cried.
She turned back. “Well, what is it?”
“I will do it.”
“Yes—until you get home. Oh, you and your money! I want no more of it; I
had rather sew or beg.”
“But I will do it. George may do as he likes.”
“And you will pay? You will let him settle with the squatters?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And the other things—the foreclosures?”
“Yes, yes.” He rose, very shaky. She gave him her arm as he tottered.
“And about the lands here?”
“I will never give them up.”
She smiled, and, contented with her victory, said: “I would not if I
were you. Here is the buggy.”
He was silent all the way home, nursing his wrath.
Her husband met them as they entered his library.
“Have you had a pleasant drive, Mr. Hood?”
“I have not, sir. It has been most disagreeable.”
“My uncle has agreed, George, that whatever terms you may make with the
squatters, and about the mortgages, he will abide by them.”
Trescot was surprised. “Oh, thank you,” he cried. “It is a great relief,
sir, great—”
“I agreed to it under compulsion,” said Hood. “On reflection, I am of
opinion—”
Trescot turned on him. “Did you tell my wife you would do as she has
said?”
“I did; but, upon reconsidering, I—”
“Then, sir, I shall act on your very wise decision; and it is time I
did, and none too soon. I will talk it all over with you to-night or
to-morrow.”
“We shall see,” said the old man; “I am too weak to discuss matters at
present.”
“I have no desire to do so,” returned Trescot.
“Uncle,” said Susan, an amused listener, “you had better lie down before
dinner; you must be tired.”
“Damn everybody!” said the old man, and disappeared, clutching at
Susan’s arm.
“And now, dear,” said George, “as you have been acting for me in this
business—”
“No, no; I was acting for myself.”
“I see, dear; and what did you say to that improbable old man?”
“I said you had been shot at.”
“Constance!”
“I did. He thinks he will be killed. I told him that would be a great
relief. Oh, I said horrid things. He is half dead already.”
“Do you think you were altogether wise to make him angry?”
“What do I care? I am a woman in love, at bay. Oh, I used my claws; but
he gave way; he always does. To-morrow he will change his mind.”
“Be at ease, dear; I am too relieved to give him a chance to escape. I
could not have used any risk I run, or have run, to make your uncle give
me a free hand; but I should simply have said, Either I am to do as
seems best, or I give up the charge of your affairs.”
“I told him you would.”
Susan entered, laughing. “George,” she said, “my uncle wants a
time-table of the railroad East. What have you done to him, Conny?”
George and Constance laughed as she replied, “I frightened him well.”
“He is a bit over-cooked, Conny,” said Susan. “Did you tell him he would
be scalped? He is in a panic.”
“He won’t be to-morrow,” returned Constance, still a little cross.
“He thinks he will not get up for dinner. Whenever his feelings are hurt
by you or me he decides to make a new will. I shall hear of it
to-morrow. I have been very rich, steeped in poverty, and moderately
well off. He tells me all about it every time. It would be very, very
funny if there were not too much of it. It is money, money, money. I
think there must be devil-saints and their blood-money. It is an
obsession with Uncle Rufus. He is now being robbed and ruined by these
unlucky squatters, and is talking of giving thousands to endow an asylum
for the orphans of dead rebels! It all has its serious side, but I could
not help being amused.”
“Amused? There is nothing amusing about it—nothing. Nothing as
unreasonable as Uncle Rufus is amusing to me; and he is always acting,
with himself for audience when the play doesn’t draw. He was horribly
scared, Susan. Is he still? I have worse things in store if he should
dare to change his mind. This is no matter for laughter. I hope he will
go. This is all of my life. It is George Trescot.” She was becoming more
and more excited and angry.
“I shall do nothing to keep him here,” said Trescot, laying a hand on
her arm. “But be quiet, dear.”
Never before had he seen her swept by such a storm of passionate wrath.
She drew herself up at his touch, and was instantly quieted, like some
splendid animal tamed and stilled by the touch of a master.
“I did not mean to laugh at you,” said Susan, her kindly face, with its
great power of expression, becoming suddenly grave; “but you ought by
this time to know, Conny dear, that everything has its droll side for
me. You take uncle too seriously. You get superbly angry; I make him
appear ridiculous. Either answers; and, dear, the anger hurts you; the
ridicule is effective, and hurts no one. I am altogether on your side.
But what about that time-table?”
“I have none,” said Trescot; “and he cannot go until we have set all
this matter at rest. After that he cannot go too soon.”
“Very well; he shall stay just as long as you want,” said Susan, and
left the room.
Then Constance sat down and burst into tears.
“What is it, my love?” said Trescot, comforting her.
“Oh, everything, George, everything; I did not think any one could be as
heartless. I hope they will all go away—oh, soon; I want you to myself.”
“I do not think he will stay, and I do not want him; he will only muddle
matters. Come out into the garden; we will talk of other things. Let
this rest.”
It was his way to avoid needless discussions, and, having settled a
thing and reached a decision, to dwell upon it no longer. It was
otherwise with Constance. It required a distinct effort, as Susan
said,—and she knew her sister well,—“for Conny to pick the burs off her
mind.” He, too, was beginning to observe the persistency with which she
dwelt upon unpleasant and, indeed, pleasant ideas.
The quiet of a windless night, with the unclouded brilliancy of the
Southern heavens, was over them as they went into the garden. She
slipped her hand into his, and they walked up and down the garden path.
After a little she said: “I behaved like a bad child. You do not scold
me, George.”
“I never shall. You have that within which scolds enough at need.”
“I sometimes doubt it.”
“Oh, no; never do that.”
“I envy you your patience, George. I wonder if ever I shall be like you.
They say husband and wife do sometimes grow to be alike.”
“Or more and more unlike. We are both distinct characters, and both
strong natures; we shall never grow into resemblance.”
She made no immediate reply, but after a little asked inconsequently:
“Were you ever afraid, George?”
“Oh, often; always when going under fire. Why do you ask?”
“I have been afraid of late; I do not know why. It is like the fear in a
dream. Is there such a thing as pure, causeless fear?”
“Yes,” he said; “some insane people have it, or so I have heard.”
“Well, I am not that,” she said, laughing. “I suppose it is a result of
my long anxiety about you—my sense of danger ever since that dreadful
night.”
“Well,” he returned, “we are, or are going to be, in quiet waters. See
how glorious Orion is.”
She was not yet to be turned aside.
“Oh, I was quite hopeless about these wretched affairs, and you never
are; and you are always patient with me and every one, even when things
seem so utterly hopeless.”
“Ah, Constance:
“‘Where hope is none
Patience is there a god.’”
“How you love to quiet me with a quotation! It is very clever. I never
have an answer. Isn’t that Jupiter, George?” she said, looking up at the
shining stars.
“Yes; I think it is. What a little part of it all we are; and yet we
are. And, like the great rolling worlds overhead, we too are pulled by a
hundred exterior forces and, like them, must keep our orbits steadily.”
“Thank you,” she said; “I accept the lesson. I will try; you know what
is for me the one overruling force.”
“I know, dear; but there are others.”
“Is not love enough?”
“Yes; the love that is in and of all earthly love at its best.”
She walked on in silence, and then returned: “I understand you; but do
you think I could ever love you more or better than I do?”
He hesitated, and then answered: “Will you not love me better as the
years go on, and as, with God’s help, I shall be better worth the
loving,—for, indeed, I mean to be?”
“Oh, yes, yes.”
“Then there will be reasons for love’s sweet increase.”
“I am trapped!” she cried, laughing. “You ought to be ashamed. Good
night”; and kissing him, she went away, crying: “It was not fair; I
shall be careful how I make admissions.”