Susan announced next day at breakfast that her uncle would remain in his
room, and desired to be alone. He wished Constance to know that the
toast was burned, and that he had received a shock to a sensitive
nervous system. “My dear Conny, he thinks them equally important. He
wished me to say to you—and I do, dear, for he will ask me—I was to say
that the least gratitude on your part would have saved him from this
distressing incident.”
“Toast or nervous shock?” asked Constance.
“Don’t be cynical, dear,” said Susan; “toast, of course.”
Trescot declined any connection with the matter, and went away laughing.
On the following day Mr. Hood came down to breakfast. He was unusually
silent, and refusing to say where he was going, went out alone. He
lunched with General Averill, and returned late, having elaborately
arranged his ideas for the legal consultation to take place that
evening.
When Constance, mildly penitent as to methods because victorious, asked
him to walk in the garden, he said he preferred his own society, and
declined the rose she offered, with a well-worn classical quotation
concerning the Greeks and their gifts.
When Susan reminded him of the need to rest before dinner, he said in a
querulous tone that he was never left alone a moment, and he wished
Susan would attend to her own affairs.
“My dear Conny,” said Susan on her return, “when Uncle Rufus pinches you
or me, it is because some one whom he cannot pinch has been pinching
him. I know his subdued look. Something disagreeable has happened. He
will be sure to tell us all about it.”
At dinner he seemed to have recovered his good humor, and was in one of
his talkative moods, and soon fulfilled Susan’s prediction. Apparently
Constance was forgiven; indeed, his resentments rarely lasted long, and,
as Susan said, the sun would have to hurry if it meant to go down upon
his wrath.
“Well, Mr. Hood,” said Trescot, “we are waiting to hear what you think
of St. Ann. You have been out all day.”
“I find it a remarkable place—a most remarkable place.”
“In what way, uncle?” said Constance.
“Oh, the people—the people.”
“But how remarkable?” asked Trescot. “In every way? They are very
kindly, some of them cross, and no wonder; but still, among them there
are many very pleasant, well-bred gentlefolks. I find a few of the older
people really charming, with their flavor of Creole ways. Whom did you
meet?”
“I met that rude animal, Greyhurst. He wanted me to come into his office
for another talk. I declined. He is a brute.”
“But, really, I do not think he means to be ill-mannered or rude,” said
Trescot. “He certainly is impulsive and short of temper.”
“That is very well, sir; but I conceive myself to be at least able to
judge of manners. A brute, sir; a wild beast. I desire to be understood
as stating categorically that he is a mannerless cur.”
“That seems definite. I am glad you refused to talk business.”
“I did.”
“Whom else did you see?” asked Susan, beginning to enjoy herself, with
murmured comments to her sister about the spider and the fly.
“I met at the general’s Colonel Dudley, of General Stonewall Jackson’s
staff. I found him interesting. When I expressed myself with regard to
my convictions concerning State rights, we had a very agreeable
conversation. We went away from Averill’s together, and he took me to
their club. He was somewhat in doubt as to my argument in regard to the
secession of the individual as justifying that of the State.”
“Isn’t that fine, Conny?” said Susan, in a whisper. “Why not divorce as
an additional argument? Isn’t that a form of secession?”
Longing to pass on Susan’s contributions to her husband, Constance
asked: “Whom did you meet there?”
“The accommodations are very remarkable, I believe,” said Trescot; “but
I have never been inside of the club.”
“The colonel explained to me,” replied Hood, “why there were no front
steps; they contemplate larger quarters. We went in at the back; in
fact, through the kitchen.”
“Well,” said Susan, “that is rather novel; but it might be of use when
one is going out to dine.”
“There appeared to be but one room, and a kind of bar at one end—quite
genially provincial.”
“Delightful,” whispered Susan. “I am sure he told them so.”
“I hope they made you juleps, uncle,” said Constance “They are
delicious.”
“They did. I was presented to several Confederate officers. Every one of
them had a separate receipt for a mint-julep. The old black fellow
seemed to know them all. I tried one—I think it was Colonel La Grange’s
grandfather’s receipt. I regretted it; I was a little giddy after it. I
drank to the memory of the Confederacy—a tribute—”
“Tithes of mint, Conny,” said Susan.
“Did you really do that, uncle?” said Constance.
“I did.”
“Did they like your toast?” asked Trescot, as he caught his wife’s
expression of mirthful surprise.
“Like it? Yes, I think so; they did not say so. They appeared to me to
be more reserved than I had expected to find them.”
“You must have enjoyed your visit,” remarked Susan, on the track of
inquiry.
“Not altogether; one of them—a Captain Tracy—pointed out the photographs
of Jefferson Davis and General Lee, and a bad copy of Peale’s
Washington. Colonel Dudley asked me on which side I supposed Washington
would have been had he lived in the time of our late war. I said he
could have been on only one side.”
“That seems probable,” said Susan, with complete gravity; “but did they
agree with you, uncle?”
“No; they did not. Colonel La Grange said Washington was a damned
Federalist, and would have been with the North. He liked a strong
central government.”
“That is fine,” exclaimed Trescot. “I like that.”
“I did not. It was disgusting, sir; and they all laughed. I was shocked.
After that I ventured to sound some of them about the absurd feeling I
understand to exist here in regard to the squatters.”
“I am sorry you did that,” said Trescot.
“And so was I,” said Hood, meekly. “They were, I may say, quite
unpleasant.”
“But,” said Constance, “you told them, I hope, that you meant to buy up
these claims.”
“I did not; I have reconsidered the matter.”
“But I have not,” said Trescot, decisively, pushing back his chair. “I
hear the general.”
“Dear me!” said the old gentleman, “how very hasty everybody is!”
“I am in no hurry,” said Constance; “and Susan was never in a hurry in
all her life. Take your wine in peace with us, uncle. George will send
for you when he and Mr. Averill are ready.”
“General Averill,” corrected Mr. Hood, cracking a pecan-nut with an
emphasizing snap.
“Major-general,” said Susan, with an upward lift of her eyebrows, and a
touch of her sister’s foot.
“Yes, yes; thank you, my dear. There are so many generals here it is
quite confusing. One is an editor, I understand.”
Constance was thus reminded of her desire that her uncle should see the
“St. Ann Herald,” and, rising, said:
“I think, uncle, you may like to see the general-editor’s paper. I never
fail to read it. Here it is”; and so saying, she laid it on the table
and sat down to observe what would be the result of this innocent effort
to instruct and amuse.
While Susan took up a book and Constance sat expectant, Mr. Hood
adjusted his glasses and began to consider the small sheet before him.
Some people read the dailies, some run over them as indexes of passing
events. Mr. Hood studied them. For ten minutes he was absorbed.
Constance watched him as a boy watches the bob of his fishing-line. At
last, desiring an appreciative conspirator, she said: “Susan, did you
bring me our old receipt-book?”
Susan, looking up, caught her eye. “Yes; shall I get it now?”
“No.” Having drawn Susan’s attention, a slight facial gesture indicated
her desire that Susan should be the appreciative boy on the bank. Susan,
instantly comprehending, began to observe her uncle.
Presently, and without looking up, he murmured: “Very remarkable.” It
was a way he had when thus engaged. “Very satisfactory. The C. and St.
A. is thinking of a line to the bend. Hum! I might assist that. Good
gracious! That is interesting.”
He began to read aloud, while Constance and her sister exchanged smiles.
His way of announcing what interested him in his paper failed altogether
to consider the occupying interests of others. The habit is keenly felt
in some family circles as a breakfast nuisance. “Cotton has gone up two
cents. What’s this—what’s this?—‘We understand that Mr. Hood, the
obstructive New England millionaire, is now in St. Ann at the residence
of his niece. We trust that he will see the necessity of more lenient
action in an impoverished community than he or his agent has hitherto
shown.’”
He laid down the paper, and said: “What does the man mean? I must call
on him to-morrow and explain.”
“I think George would prefer to do that himself, uncle. When he
announces your generous intentions you will see what a fine apology
there will be.”
“Among you all I seem to be very little considered. I wish you to
understand that I am not a puppet for George Trescot to pull the wires.”
As neither woman replied, he returned to his study of the “St. Ann
Herald,” and Susan, on a signal from Constance, to a study of his face.
Presently he looked up again.
“Good heavens!”
“What is it?” said Constance.
“What a country! what people! It is incredible, monstrous!”
“They are very pleasant people, uncle. I wish some of our own were as
courteous and as gentle. We are harder, I fear. Of course there are all
kinds, and some most undesirable. But what is it?”
“Most uncivilized! Listen to this: ‘An unfortunate rencontre occurred
yesterday, on the levee, between Mr. James Lawton and Mr. Burpee. We
regret to state that the former was wounded—it was supposed mortally.
Mr. Burpee lost a finger, and a small negro boy was unlucky enough to be
shot in the stomach. He is now dead. The affair was the final result of
a long quarrel in regard to the title to a lot on the main street. On
inquiry we learn that Mr. Lawton is less seriously wounded than had been
supposed.’”
Hood looked up from the paper. “Does this kind of thing occur often,
Constance?”
“Oh, now and then,” she replied lightly; “one gets used to it. You hear
a shot, and then people, as they say, squander.”
“You had better buy a revolver, uncle,” said Susan, laughing.
He stood up, tottering a little. “It does not present itself to me,
young women, as a matter for inconsiderate mirth. You seem to forget
that I have property in this town, and that occurrences of this kind may
affect its value.” He began to walk about the room, the paper in his
hand, muttering to himself: “Most astounding! most barbarous!”
Both nieces preserved an amused silence.
“I think you stated that this kind of incident is common, Constance.”
“Rather, uncle.”
It appeared to Susan a definite but not very pleasing method of settling
a business difficulty, and as she so expressed herself Trescot appeared
and carried Mr. Hood away to the study, where was General Averill.
As he disappeared, Constance said: “Of course, dear, you saw that I
meant to make it all as bad as I could.”
“You were quite right.”
“In fact, this kind of thing is very dreadful. Mr. Lawton is really a
most agreeable and highly educated man, and has been very kind to
George; but, oh, Susan, I have lived here in constant terror. I do not
see how the women stand it. I had already heard of this last horror from
George. Mr. Lawton is not badly hurt, but I fancied the news would be
morally useful to uncle.”
“Is it so common, Conny?”
“No; but it has happened twice since we came—once in the country, and
once on the main street. Two men were killed. This is the third of these
agreeable incidents.”
“It seems very dreadful.”
“Yes, it is, it is; and, dear Susan, I _must_ tell you. I was told not
to mention it, but I must. George was shot at by one of these
squatters.” She told the story, but without naming Coffin.
“Oh, my poor Conny, why was I not told sooner? You ought not to stay
here. You must not stay here.”
“Oh, I do not know. I hope not long, and it is not George’s fault. We
are regarded, by all but a few old soldiers, as hard and cruel. It is
uncle’s fault. There is not one thing that could not be settled easily
with a little forbearance.”
“Knowing uncle as I do, I can readily believe you. I think, Conny, you
sent him away in an excellent frame of mind. He will yield everything
and go home. I suppose you told him of this awful thing. It was like him
to conceal it.”
“Yes, I told him; and I wish he would go. I hate him!”
“Oh, Conny, not that.”
“I do. I hate him!”
Susan was right. To the amazement of Averill, Hood stood to his bargain
with Constance, and agreed to give to the squatters land on the bluff at
some distance from the water-line of the bend. He was even willing to
pay at need. He authorized George to withdraw the remaining foreclosures
and to cancel or lessen the past indebtedness for unpaid interest where
that seemed best. When Averill put before him an agreement authorizing
George to carry these arrangements into effect, he hesitated; but at
last, seeing Averill smile, he signed the paper.
“It will have an excellent influence on public opinion,” said the
general. “And what, now, about the case of the water-front at the bend?”
Trescot waited, watching Mr. Hood. He was satisfied with what he had
won, and not unwilling to try a case as important as that of the
ejectment suit brought by the heirs of the Baptiste family. And still he
felt that if it were his own land he would have listened to any
equitable form of settlement outside of the courts.
Here at last was a chance for the endless discussions which Hood
enjoyed. His eyelids drew together and his face became eager as he said:
“I should like to go into that matter fully, fully.”
“Let me state it,” said Trescot. “Just forty years ago, in 1830, your
father bought land on the bluff from the Baptiste family. They retained
the river-front below the bluff, and some of the bluff to eastward of
it. Even then the shore had prospective value. The river has since then
eaten away their beach, their frontage on the bluff, and some hundreds
of feet of that which your father bought. You now own, therefore, the
valuable river-frontage, if we can prove the sale to your father and
define the bounds.”
“That seems simple,” said Hood.
“No,” said Averill; “it is not simple.”
“And why not?”
“When your people were here in the war we burned the cotton. The old
town on the bluff took fire and was utterly destroyed; the records were
burned. My own house on the bluff went, and with it your deeds. But all
this you know as well as I do.”
“Yes; but the taxes.”
“Taxes go for little in land cases, and where are the receipts? I had
them once, but they, too, are gone with the deeds. We have with
difficulty acquired the surveyor’s books with a description of the lot
and a rough map. His wife had luckily kept them, and will prove
Hazewell’s writing. It is hardly enough, and juries are very uncertain.”
“It is damned rascality,” said Hood. “It is a pure swindle—blackmail.”
“It may be; but you must not say so—least of all to Mr. Greyhurst. He is
employed to prosecute the Baptiste claim, and, if he wins, will have a
large fee—perhaps a handsome share of the frontage. I think him
over-eager—one of the men who become identified with their clients. He
is very quick-tempered; but I do not think him a rascal. One has to be
careful here in the use of language, Mr. Hood.”
“Oh, of course—certainly.” He was at once subdued, but said: “Then you
advise me to settle with them, divide, do something?” He got up and
walked about. “I don’t see my way to it. I won’t do it. No one ever
doubted my title until the flood made it valuable. I shall think it
over. It will require further consideration, and I am tired—I must beg
to be excused. We can take it up again to-morrow.”
“But had you not better hear the rest of the evidence?” said Averill.
Hood at once sat down, as eager as ever. “One word,” said Averill. “We
are old friends. I ask you as a favor to let us offer to divide the
front, and thus settle this business.”
“I will not do it. It is contrary to my sense of justice. I have yielded
everything else. I was bullied by that man, and insulted in the club. I
mean to have this case go to trial. Is that the whole of our case? You
said there was more.”
“Yes,” said Trescot; “the general has said it is not all, and is aware
that we can probably prove the bounds. We shall find the blazed trees,
and that, with other evidence, ought to win the case.”
“Then, sir, you meant to conceal this and induce me to settle!”
Trescot flushed. “No; I meant to tell you; you interrupted us; but even
now I beg of you to take the more generous view. I think we shall win;
but it will go to another court and result in endless litigation.”
“I do not care.” Trescot’s last statement had made him obstinate. “I
shall tell Mr. Greyhurst that I will listen to no compromise, or perhaps
Trescot had better inform him of my decision.”
“But,” said Averill, “if we win, will you not then consider the
unfortunate accident which has cost these people so dear, and arrange
the matter?”
“No, sir, I will not. I mean to teach these people that—”
“What people?” said Averill, coldly.
“These—this town. I mean to have my rights.”
Averill was both indignant and hurt; but seeing that it was vain to
reason with him, after an unpleasant talk they gave up. Trescot, who
felt that he had done his duty, was not sorry to accept the situation.
It was one to tempt a young and able lawyer. Before leaving the house,
Averill told him that their case would come up in a week, which was
rather sooner than Trescot desired.
Before going to bed, Mr. Hood announced that he intended to leave the
next day. Constance was not grieved. She, however, urged him to stay;
but he replied:
“No; I never change my mind—you know that; and I am not well”—which was
true. “I want my home comforts, and I wish to escape being contradicted
every minute.”
He went at noon the next day, taking Susan with him, and assured
Constance, as he left, that he had never been more uncomfortable.
For an hour after leaving St. Ann he talked to Susan, with apparent
satisfaction, of the ease with which his presence and capacity in
affairs had settled these long-standing difficulties. He was at no pains
to relate the various influential motives which had contributed to make
him listen to reason. His decision to abide by the issues of the
approaching trial presented itself to his mind as likely to afford a
useful lesson to a community which he described as lawless.
He soon made it clear to Susan that his anger at Constance was of longer
life than usual. “Most generally women degenerate when they marry. She
is degenerating, I think. She was very impertinent to me.”
“What did she do?”
“Oh, no matter. It is over. I have been treated with great disrespect,
Susan. I think I shall make a new will and leave you everything.”
“It would save trouble, uncle. I should at once divide with Conny.”
“No, you would not.”
“Try me,” she laughed. “I do not think you can know me.”
“Do I not! You are like your father. It is sometimes an advantage to
have known two or three—what I may adequately describe as degenerations.
You are like him—very like him. He joked his way through life. He joked
away an estate as large as mine, and laughed when it was gone.”
“I thought, sir, it was lost by his partner’s rascality.”
“Well, perhaps you know better than I do.”
Susan shifted the talk. “But who is Constance like?”
“Like? She is like her mother.”
“That does not help me. I never saw my mother to remember her. You have
more than once made clear to me that you were not friends, and so you
must pardon me if I ask you to be very careful what you say.”
“Good gracious, Susan! I said nothing unpleasant. I will say nothing of
your mother; but I will say that Constance is a fool, and is very like
her. If Constance ever has children, she will be like a tigress with her
cubs. There’s really a good bit more of the savage animal in women than
in men.”
“Is that your own wisdom, Uncle Rufus?”
He said, at times, things which appeared to imply glimpses of insight
into character which were far above his ordinary range of appreciations.
“It is; and I wish you would stop talking. I shall try to get a nap.”
Susan made no comment. His statement about her sister was extreme, but
was felt by Susan to have in it a certain amount of truth. That in the
life of their mother there had been any justification for the more than
implied opinion of her, Susan knew to be untrue. She was glad when the
talk fell away and he dropped asleep.