The inclosed is a copy of a letter my husband left on his desk the
morning of October 7, 1870. You will see that he meant to sacrifice
his position as my uncle’s agent if Mr. Hood still refused to deal
generously with your clients. My husband’s murder and my uncle’s
death left to my sister and to me the privilege of generous dealing,
of which your hand deprived George Trescot.
“CONSTANCE TRESCOT.”
“Curse the woman!” he cried. “I was a fool to read it.” He crumpled
Trescot’s letter in his hands as he sat, and then smoothed it out and
read it again. He never for a moment doubted that it told the truth. He
was a man of too easy morals, but capable of affection and even of love.
A new and overwhelming realization of what he had done to this woman
swept over him in a storm of self-reproach and pity.
He sat with his face in his hands, his elbows on the table, the copy of
Trescot’s letter before him. He lit a match and saw that his hand shook
as he held the two papers over it and they slowly burned away. Then,
rising, he lighted a cigar and threw himself on a sofa. The cigar went
out. He cast it away. How would this end? There must be a limit to the
ability of this woman to torture him, and to his own capacity to suffer.
After all, he was a man and she but a woman. The matter of his
resignation from the board of the home was a trifle, and he was
prospering as never before. It was not so easy to deal with the horrible
power these letters had to bring back emotions which time had helped to
render less poignant. He had a bad memory for faces; but now, as he lay,
he saw again the smiling young fellow approaching with his message of
peace and kindness. He might have understood even then; but long years
of unrestraint had combined with the bitterness of defeat to ruin him.
He rose and, returning to his table, tried to lose himself in the
enforced study of an important case. It was vain. He went out to a
stable near by and mounted a horse he had just bought. It proved unruly,
and a furious ride brought back the horse tired and the rider relieved,
more at ease, and with a renewed sense of mastery.
His life was too busy to leave him large leisure for painful reflection.
He had cases to try, and one which called him away to the capital of the
State. He was gone for a week. His political ambitions also claimed a
part of his time, as he hoped in a year to be a successful candidate for
the legislature, and would then be absent for long periods.
Meanwhile, in one and another way, from Coffin and from the gossip
Althea Le Moine willingly and in wonder brought to Constance, she knew
of Greyhurst’s habits and expectations, and silently brooded over plans
of disturbing her prey, not as yet fully realizing her power, nor
comprehending how far the sensitive nature of the man was aiding her
purpose.