Susan Hood had been a week at St. Ann before she was able to learn
anything of the design, so steadily held, that had brought Constance
back to a place which she, at least, wished never to see again.
She found the house made pretty and far more comfortable, and a part of
the back porch converted into a conservatory. There were
riding-horses,—the best they had ever had,—and, in fact, every sign of
intention to make St. Ann a place of long, if not permanent, residence.
It seemed also to Susan that there was more cordiality in the many women
and the few men who dropped in after their easy Southern way. Evidently
there was here some change. It had never been her sister’s habit or
desire to be on terms of cordial relation to society at large, so that
her present absence of reserve, and her rather watchful eagerness to
please everybody, for a time puzzled the elder woman.
No one entered Trescot’s library except Constance. She herself kept it
dusted, neat, and unchanged. Susan understood why, being Constance, she
should spend daily certain hours alone where Trescot had lived with her
and his books. “It would not have been my way,” said Susan; “but, then,
I am commonplace.” She thought unwholesome her sister’s attitude in the
presence of a great calamity, and found, too, something that seemed to
her false in the contrasted aspects of Constance’s life. Then, as usual
with her, she convicted herself of ignorant want of charity, having
never been in love; and said she must really rid herself of what she
called cynicism—as if the cynical are themselves ever conscious of the
quality.
A week after her arrival they were seated alone before the fire, now
grateful at close of day in the November weather.
“Constance,” said Susan, “tell the maid not to let in any visitors. I
want to talk to you. We are so rarely alone, and this constant effort to
be agreeable to people you certainly were once far from liking is rather
surprising.”
Constance, ignoring a part of her sister’s indictment, said: “My dear,
you can’t choose here whom you will see. I never refuse to see people.
They don’t understand it. At St. Ann you are always at home if you are
in.”
“You must have changed your ways, Conny.”
“Yes, I have,” she returned, with a glance at Susan, who was busily
cutting the leaves of a book.
She was at once aware that it would not long be possible to hide from so
acute an observer as Susan what she was doing, and why she had returned
to St. Ann. Indeed, she confessed to herself a certain prospect of
relief in being able to break down the barriers of reserve which she had
set up. The old affection, strangely weakened by her marriage and her
incapacity to care deeply for more than one person at a time, was
returning in full force. When she had confessed that, as Susan said, she
had changed, both were silent for a moment, when Susan returned:
“You have been unlike my Constance all summer. I can understand that
grief like yours may take many forms; but while abroad you would see no
one, not even the most interesting people; here you see every one, even
that plaintive little shrivel of a woman, Miss Althea. What brought you
here, Constance?”
“I knew that you would ask. It is very simple. A man has murdered my
husband and utterly wrecked my life. I tried—oh, very hard!—to accept it
as other women accept such things. I could not. I know I shall shock you
when I say that for a time I thought of suicide. Then it seemed to me
that I must kill him. If I had been a man he would have been dead
to-day.”
“Oh, sister! How can you say such things?”
Taking no notice of the gentle protest, Constance continued:
“I gave it up because death is no punishment; it merely destroys the
power to feel and suffer. I want that man to feel such anguish as he
brought into my life, and I want to know that he suffers. I came here
resolved to find some way to make him wretched. I know now that he is
sensitive. It seems incredible, but he is. And let me say once for all
that I shall go my way, and I shall succeed—I know I shall succeed in
making his life unbearable—oh, such as he has made mine!”
Susan had thought of many explanations of her sister’s return, but
certainly not of this. She had ceased using the paper-knife, and, as
Constance spoke with increasing passion, closed the book. A look at the
stern, set face, so white, so beautiful, made the elder woman sure that
here was a side of character which was serious and new to her, and not
to be dealt with lightly. Turning to her sister, she exclaimed: “Dear,
dear sister, drop this; come away with me. Let us go abroad again.”
“No.”
“But it is horrible, and what can you do? Think how that dear fellow
would have felt. Think what he did feel even in the face of insult; how
patiently he bore with the behavior of these people. Oh, Conny!”
“You may rest assured, Susan, that I have thought of all that; but I am
not like you—nor, alas! like him. I have no beliefs which teach me to
sit down and cry and pretend to forgive. I don’t believe that any one
ever does forgive a wrong so cruel. I, at least, cannot, and I never
will—never!”
“You can do nothing. Your lives are far apart. What can you do? Even if
revenge were right, you are helpless.”
It seemed to Susan’s common sense past belief.
“And, dear,” she went on, “suppose the impossible; suppose you ruin this
wretch, make him suffer, what good will it do?”
“It will make me happy—as happy as I can ever be.”
“Happy, Constance! Can revenge bring happiness? Will it not serve only
to keep open wounds which ought to close? Does it not keep in your mind
thoughts of a bad man, in place of the beauty and nobleness of the man
whose death you wish to avenge? To be in thought a murderer—to wish to
kill—that seems to me so dreadful that I ask myself if you can be your
own self, or if disease or shock has changed you. Let it all go—oh, dear
Conny, let it go. Leave it to God to deal with this man. Be sure that in
the end he will repay. He has his ways.”
Constance stood up. “His ways—yes. Suppose I am the instrument of his
justice. Why not? How do you know? That seems horrible to you; but I
can’t help it; we have no common ground. I have love, and loss, and
hate; you have never known them. Leave me to do what I think right, for
neither man nor woman can turn me nor stop me. I will never willingly
speak of this again, and neither must you.”
Puzzled, worried, and hurt, Susan saw that to reason would be vain; that
the appeal of affection was thus lightly put aside filled her with
slowly gathering anger.
“I shall do now as you say; but I make no promises. You surely do not
expect me to help you.”
“I do not. I want you to be the dear, good woman you are. I shall
neither ask nor need help.”
“You certainly will not get it from me; I think it wicked, foolish.”
“Yes, yes,” said Constance; “from your point of view, not from mine. But
you will not love me the less? I could not bear that. Only, dear, let us
never talk of this any more. I am not a child. I am not hysterical or
insane. I shall not trouble your life. We will live like other people.
Now, that is all.” She bent over and kissed the elder sister, who sat
staring into the fire, her hands clasped about her knees. Accepting the
kiss coldly, Susan looked up, but finding no comfort in the set face of
her sister, her own eyes full of tears,—for she loved with a deep and
changeless love, and wished to be able to respect as well as to
love,—she rose and said as she stood: “I shall never have a moment’s
peace; I shall always be thinking of what you may do. You have made me
very unhappy.”
“I am sorry,” said Constance.
Susan left her, saying: “I wish you were more sorry.”
Despite her assertion of certainty, Constance was not secure as to what
her future course should be; while Susan, as their life went on in its
usual way, regained her belief that Constance would some day acknowledge
her schemes to be as absurd as they appeared to her own good sense.
In the morning, a few days later, Constance was leaving General
Averill’s house when she saw, for only the second time since her return,
the largely built figure of Greyhurst. He came upon her suddenly as she
stood at the gate between the high rows of box. His face changed. He
half raised his hand in obedience to the habit of salute, dropped it,
and went on.
She turned out of the gate, paused a moment, and followed him. Half-way
down the slope to the main street he looked back. He saw twenty feet
behind him the tall, black-robed woman. He turned to go up the main
street. It was the busy hour near to noon. Both were familiar figures.
People looked after them in wonder. Two gentlemen in talk on the board
sidewalk lifted their hats as she went by, and, observing Greyhurst in
front of her, remarked on it as strange. Did Greyhurst know who was
behind him? Did she recognize the man? They passed on. At his office he
looked back once more. She was very near, and had raised her veil. She
met his gaze with steady eyes. He saw the white face with its look of
immeasurable pain, and, passing into the house, fell on a chair, limp
and wet with the sudden sweat of an emotion akin to terror.
Nor was she less observant. She was aware of the quick change in a face
where all expressions revealed themselves with distinctness, and went on
her way with her share of a moment of agitation, murmuring: “I must be
to him like a ghost. I know now that he suffers—and he shall suffer.”
From that time she was more frequently seen in the morning hours on the
one busy street of the town. Now and then, as if by chance, she came
upon the man she sought, but was careful not to overdo that which would
lose force by repetition. Twice she followed him on his homeward way.
The last time was at dusk. He became aware of her presence as he left
the verge of the town and turned into West Street. She kept her place
some few paces behind him. He did not look back, but was terribly
conscious of her nearness. He could not have described or analyzed the
form of distress which knowledge of her presence brought upon him. He
longed to look back at her, and was sure that to do so would abruptly
freshen the memory of all he desired to forget. Now, for the first time,
he felt fear in its purity—such fear as the child has when going
up-stairs in the dark—fear unassociated with a definite object or
distinct idea.
At his own gate he turned and looked back. The tall black figure was but
ten steps away. Of a sudden, obeying one of those unreasonable impulses
to which he was subject, he went toward her.
For a moment she was afraid, but did not move. He stopped before her and
said: “My God! have you no pity? Cannot you see how I suffer?”
“Suffer!” she cried. “I am glad that you suffer! Pity? I have for you
such pity as you had for him and me!”
With no more words, she crossed the street, and her dark figure was lost
in the deepening gloom. The man looked after her for a moment, and then
walked back to his house, and, moving heavily, went up the steps,
murmuring, “My God! my God!”
Before this he had thought it hardly strange that he met her so often,
for every one met almost daily in the one business street. He had felt
it keenly. But now he became certain that she had of purpose chosen to
meet and follow him. This sudden sense of being causelessly afraid for a
little while occupied his consciousness to the shutting out of other
thought. He was a man who had been in battle fearless, and so rash as to
be blamed for leading his men into needless peril. What now did he
dread? He did not know, and that troubled him. These revelations of what
lies hidden in the abysses of the mind are, at times, startling evidence
of how little we know of the world of self. That it was not physical
fear was what disturbed him most.
When seated in his library, he succeeded in fastening his attention on
the tangled accounts of a bankrupt client’s business. He was apt at
figures and liked to deal with them. After two hours of hard work he
began to consider the situation in which he was placed. To have it
continue would be intolerable. He had to be absent for a week, but must
return for a day to speak at or near the county town. Then he was to go
to California and attend to certain mining interests in which the
governor and other political friends were concerned. He would be away at
least two months, and, for more than one reason, looked forward with
relief to this absence, and with hope as to what it might bring into his
life.
However adroitly Constance managed to make her encounters with Greyhurst
seem to be accidental, the fact that she did not avoid him, as most
women so situated would have done, excited very natural surprise in the
little town.
When it became common knowledge that she purposely followed him, the
interest and consequent gossip increased. She had made herself liked,
but now even her closest friends felt her actions to be indecorous and
inexplicably out of relation to an existence so full of good sense and
so notable for well-bred regard for the decencies of life. When Mrs.
Averill, greatly distressed by the gossip which soon came to her ears,
thought proper to talk of Constance to Susan Hood, the latter became
fully awakened to the results of her sister’s behavior.
To reason with her would be vain. For a moment she thought of the new
rector, with whom she had formed friendly relations, but knew, alas! how
futile would be that resort. Mrs. Averill, remembering her former
defeat, was indisposed to renew her own efforts, and at last laid the
matter before her husband, who had already heard quite too much of it.
He said: “My dear Eleanor, a lady without a husband usually relies on
one of two men—her preacher or her doctor. Ask Dr. Eskridge to see her.
He ought to be able to influence her, if any one can. He is a gentleman
and will see this outrageous conduct in a proper light. As concerns
myself, I can do nothing, and whether she annoys that man or not I do
not care. But Constance must not be talked about. I had to stop some
young fellows at the club last night.”
“Do you think, Edward, that the man feels it?”
“Yes; you asked me that before. This, or something, is affecting him
deeply. Ever since he killed poor Trescot he has been—well, softer, less
easily put out. But of late he is moody and silent; every one notices
it.”
“I wish he would go away, or that she would. However, I will talk to
Susan, who is in despair, and I will see the doctor.”
She did both, and, as a consequence, the next morning Dr. Eskridge
called on Mrs. Trescot. He led a busy life, and she had seen but little
of the cheerful, ruddy, rather stout old man with small bright eyes and
alert ways. He had been at one time in charge of the State asylum for
the insane, and then, during the war, a surgeon in Pickett’s division of
the Confederate army.
While waiting for Mrs. Trescot he looked at the pictures, and then fell
with interest upon a magazine, which he laid down as Constance with both
hands made him welcome, reproaching him with neglect of an old patient.
“If I come I stay too long, and I am a busy old fellow. I was reading in
this journal an account of Pickett’s charge. I was behind his line and
got somehow too near. I have still a memorial in my leg. May I take the
journal home?”
“Of course. My husband was on the hill. How strange it all seems!”
He looked at the mournful figure and the sad white face, and said to
her:
“You will not mind my saying that I and others of our old army both
liked and respected your husband.”
“Oh, I know, I know. And he was so sure of the soldiers—so patient with
the feeling against us! Oh, doctor, why did I bring him here? He did not
want to come. I urged it. I am so unhappy!”
It was the usual story. We must confess to some one—a priest, or,
better, to the large, wise charity of the doctor. It was a relief to the
woman, who was indisposed to talk of her husband even to Susan, and
still less to pour out to any one else her abiding regret at having
allowed her eager love to overrule George Trescot’s wish to wait until
he could offer her a home in Boston.
“I was wrong,” she said; “and it was I who killed him. But for me, he
would be alive now—now!”
“My dear,” he said, “we do what seems best to us, and who can predict
the far-away results? I tell a man to go to Europe, and the ship goes
down at sea. Am I to blame?”
“Oh, that is different. I was selfish. I did not do what was best. I
should have known it was not. I loved as few women love. I could not
wait; I wanted him near me always. I should be ashamed to confess how I
felt. How did I come to speak of it? I never do.”
He saw that she was wiping her eyes as he returned:
“You are in a mood to assume blame. You are wrong. Mr. Trescot was fully
advised by older men, his friends, that it was wise to come here. And,
after all, I am right, and there is no use in our vain regrets. If we
use the errors or mistakes of the past to wreck our present and make us
useless—what of that?”
“Am I useless, doctor?”
He saw that he was astray, and said: “No; I must be pardoned—you are
not; but if I am not mistaken, you are doing that which will surely end
in ruining your health and making you useless.”
She drew herself up and regarded him with steady eyes. This man
understood her and the strain to which she was subjecting herself. That,
too, was a relief.
“I am sure that you know I am right,” he urged. “And let me say a few
words more. You are exciting talk and gossip by what you are doing. Your
sister and your friends are hurt and troubled and—pardon me—ashamed.”
“They have asked you to come here and try to make me do as other weak,
helpless women have done?”
“Yes; but I should not so state it.”
“Doctor, you are the one person I can or will talk to freely of this
matter. Listen to me.”
“I will.”
“This man murdered my husband. If he had killed your wife, you would
have shot him as you would any other wild beast.”
“I would,” he said.
“This accursed town goes through the farce of a trial. He is free. He
prospers. Except a few, who cares for the death of a Yankee officer? The
man will go to the legislature—perhaps, some day, to Congress. At first
people are a little shocked. It was pretty bad, they say. Does no one
here punish a murderer? No one! I, at least, cannot sit down and do
nothing. I am still too much of a woman to kill him; and, after all,
death does not punish—or, if it does, should I ever know? I mean to ruin
this man, and I can. These mild women who love in their weak way are
shocked. What does that matter to me?”
“I will tell you how it matters,” he said. “I have heard you rave in
your illness. I, at least, can understand; I, at least, cannot
altogether blame you. But there are two or three things I want to urge
upon you. I do not propose to discuss the right and wrong of this
matter; but I entreat you to listen to me as patiently as I have
listened to you.”
“I will do so.”
“You are following Greyhurst at times. No, do not interrupt me; let me
have my say. It has excited unpleasant talk—too unpleasant to repeat. At
the club and among the women it is discussed”—he hesitated—“even laughed
at.” He knew how bitter was the medicine. “I wish to be frank with you.
I know this man. He is by birth and early breeding a gentleman. I am
making no plea for him. Who, indeed, could? I am sure that not only has
he not escaped self-torment, but that your following him is probably a
severe punishment. But what of yourself?”
“Of myself, doctor? I have never in this matter given myself a thought.”
“No, no; and that is the trouble. You are thinking of one thing, and are
regardless of everything else, of every one else—of sister, friends, of
all who love you. If any woman I did not know and like as I do you were
to take so petty a mode of avenging a wrong as great as you have
suffered, I should not hesitate to say how it looks to me and to those
you cannot fail to respect.”
“What do you mean, doctor?”
“I mean that it is vulgar.”
She colored slightly. “You have certainly the courage of your opinions—”
“And, too,” he said, “a very great regard for a lady who should be far
above the use of such means.”
Nothing he had said or could have said affected her as did this
sentence. She saw it all in a minute, and gave way at once.
“If it be true that he suffers through me, I am glad to have hurt the
man. But I see the force of what you say. I shall not do as I have done;
and there are other ways which will neither annoy my friends nor make me
seem ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” he said, well pleased. “But that is not all. You speak of
other ways. Take care. The steady thinking on anything that involves
emotion is full of peril to a woman like you; in fact, to any one, man
or woman.”
“I know that. It is true, and I am guarding myself with care. I have
taught myself to deal coldly with this matter. I keep myself busy. I
ride; I read; I draw; I go among your poor. I have had my lesson.”
“But what do you mean to do?”
“Now there, my dear doctor, I must stop. I do not know. I mean to ruin
this man, to drive him to despair.”
As she spoke the doctor considered her resolute face. He had an insecure
belief that she would in some way compass her ends. She would collect
this debt of vengeance, with usury thereto. How she would do it he could
not imagine. He expressed his doubts, and even more than he felt, in the
hope of inducing her to give up altogether her use of means full of
danger to her mental health. She turned on him at last with her reply:
“You say that I am powerless and that I shall not only harm myself, but
hurt all who love me, and yet do this man no real injury. I want one
friend who will credit me with not being a fool, and what I say is for
you alone.”
“That, of course, Mrs. Trescot.”
She then told him what she had done with the telegram and the letter.
“I cannot blame you,” he said, as she finished a perfectly calm
statement. “I do not blame you. I shall say no more. I had far rather
you left vengeance to Him who soon or late is sure to punish as man
cannot. I see that I, at least, am unable to convince you. But take
care; you are on a dark and dangerous way. I shall say no more to Mrs.
Averill than that you will occasion no further talk by what you do.”
“Yes,” she said, rising; “thank you, my good doctor. I shall be glad to
have you put an end to this gossip. Good-by.”
He went out to his gig, saying to himself as he drove away: “The man is
doomed. If she persists he will do something—God knows what. He will be
unable to bear it. These sensitive people never can stand still and
wait. They are always nettled into doing something.” He began to
consider, as he drove into the country, whether he had ever seen any one
like Constance Trescot. He at last smiled with the satisfied nod of a
man who has found what he was looking for. There was something feline in
her delicate ways, her grace of movement, her neatness, the preservation
of primitive passions and instincts, her satisfaction in the chase and
in torturing. “Let us add,” said the old doctor, “the human
intelligence, and we have her. Get up, Bob! It is as near as we shall
ever get.”
Two days later the doctor received a note:
“MY DEAR DOCTOR:
“Yesterday, as Susan wanted to hear a real stump-speech, Colonel
Dudley rode with us to Ekron; and there, on the edge of the woods, he
got us a standing-place (every one was very kind) close to the
speakers. I soon had enough of the sectional eloquence; but Susan,
who was taken with the humor of it, would not go. I had been told
that that man was not to be present. When he got on the stump, not
ten feet from us, for a moment he spoke to the people behind him.
Colonel Dudley said to me: ‘Come away; I did not expect this.’ Susan
said: ‘I must go.’ I said: ‘No; I will not go; I will not be driven
away.’ As I refused he turned and saw me. I cannot describe to you
with what satisfaction I saw what before I had only guessed. I cannot
describe how his face changed. His voice broke for a moment, and then
he went on. He was embarrassed. That might well be; but there was
more. He got confused and then was clear again. Some one said he was
drunk. Although he tried not to look at me, the speech was evidently
a failure, and the crowd surprised. As he stepped down I said: ‘Now
we will go.’
“I write because I was seen by many who will think that I went
purposely or should have left at once. I wish you, who will hear of
it, to know that I did not break my promise.
“Believe me, with grateful remembrance,
“CONSTANCE TRESCOT.”
“But she stayed, for all that,” said the doctor. “How will it end?”
Others were as curious; and over the cocktails and juleps at the club on
the evening of the stump-speaking, the ex-Confederates and others
discussed this novel vendetta. As the doctor entered with Colonel
Dudley, a young fellow was describing the scene and the evident effect
upon Greyhurst. Another, a little older, said: “I saw her follow him
down the street. How the deuce could she want to come back here? It must
be awful.”
“Yes; for him.”
Said Dudley: “You boys had better drop that. I took this lady to the
meeting. No one knew that Mr. Greyhurst was to speak. And let me, as an
old fellow, remind you that we do not discuss ladies here.”
“Oh, but, colonel, this was such an amazing thing.”
“Would make a good article,” said the editor, as they sat down.
“But never will, sir,” remarked the doctor, sharply, over the shrubbery
of his julep.
“Of course not,” said the editor.
The young fellows apologized, and the colonel began to chat with the
doctor.
A few minutes later Greyhurst entered the smoke-filled room. Without
speaking to any one else, he went over to where Dudley sat. “Will you do
me the favor to speak to me a few minutes? Not outside,” he added a
little louder, as men looked around. The old Confederate rose, saying,
“Of course; but let no one take away my julep.”
“Not outside,” Greyhurst repeated. “Up-stairs, colonel.”
Dudley followed him to the room above, where were two candles, some
chairs, a poker-table, and mildewed walls.
“Let us sit down,” said Greyhurst. “I shall not keep you long.”
“Very good; it is chilly here. What is it?”
Greyhurst said: “You will, I know, pardon me if I am wrong; but you as
much as told me I must leave the board of the orphan home. I have since
learned, or inferred, that Mrs. Trescot was behind the matter.”
“Yes, in a way; indirectly. In fact, I have no reason to conceal from
you that she declined to leave in the hands of the managers the money
she gave, because you were on the board. I thought her justified, but of
course I could not bring a lady’s name into the matter when I talked to
you.” Dudley was not a man to excuse his actions. He expected an angry
answer. To his surprise, Greyhurst said quietly:
“Yes, she was justified. May I ask if, when you rode out with her to the
meeting this afternoon, you were aware that I was to speak?”
“I was not. Is that all?” asked the colonel, as he stood up.
“Yes, that is all,” said Greyhurst, in tones both sad and gentle; “and,
sir, I trust that you will accept my excuses for such unusual
questions.”
“It is all right,” said the colonel. Then, seeing that Greyhurst still
lingered, standing, with one thumb on the table, something struck him in
this large, square-shouldered man with the dark eyes. Either curiosity
or faintly felt pity, or both, made him say:
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes; if I may keep you a few minutes.”
“Pray, go on.”
“I am in a situation, Colonel Dudley, which is very unusual. I was
unfortunate a year ago—most unfortunate; and since Mrs. Trescot has
returned to St. Ann I fear that my presence, our accidental encounters,
our—well, I find it difficult to avoid her. I put it as a man must do
about a lady. It has become unendurable.” He did not wish to complain
that he was haunted by this living ghost. He looked steadily at the old
colonel, and added: “I hope I make myself understood?” He was unwilling
to say that she followed him.
“I suppose,” said Dudley, coldly, “that I must admit that you do. It is
plain enough as you put it—unusual, too, as you state; but let me add
that I do not propose to discuss with you this lady’s course.”
Greyhurst said promptly: “I did not expect you to do that. I wish to ask
advice of an older man as to what, as a gentleman, I should do.”
“I can’t give it, Mr. Greyhurst. There are reasons why even to be asked
is disagreeable to me. I allowed you to question me in regard to my
presence with Mrs. Trescot at that meeting. I answered you frankly. But
I did not like it, sir; I did not like it. If I had declined to reply we
should have quarreled. I think this talk had better end before my temper
gives out—or yours.”
Greyhurst had been looking down as they talked, seeming to weigh his
words. Now, with something like a wan smile on his dark face, he said
quickly, as he looked up: “No man, Colonel Dudley, can ever quarrel with
me again, or make me quarrel.”
Dudley’s face cleared as he said at once, in his frank, pleasant way: “I
misunderstood. You must pardon me. I am free to say to you that, little
as I like or approve this lady’s course, you, sir, can do nothing. I did
not mean to advise, but now I have done so, and I have only this to add.
None of us who know Mrs. Trescot are likely to stop her. I saw her at
the meeting. If ever a woman hated a man, she hates you. Whether she is
justified in her course or not, you know best. You have made me speak
out, and I have had to express myself in a way, sir, which is not
agreeable to me and cannot be pleasant to you.”
“I have said that she is justified,” said Greyhurst, slowly. “I have had
no day since—since I killed that man which has not been full of regret.
I do not hesitate to say so to you. But a man must live. I cannot go
away; I have not the means. What can I do?”
“Do? Damn it! you can do nothing.”
“Thank you; that is my own unhappy conclusion. At all events, I shall be
released for a time. I go to California next week, and shall be gone a
month, or even two. You know, it is about Dexter’s mines.”
He said next, with a certain timidity: “Would you do me the great favor
to allow me to refer to you some business matters while I am absent?”
Dudley hesitated, and then replied shortly: “Yes; tell them to come to
me.”
“Thank you,” said Greyhurst.
Upon this, they went down-stairs in silence. As Greyhurst turned to go
out, the old colonel, for the first time, put out his hand, saying: “I
am sorry for you, Greyhurst, both for the past and for the present. Good
night.”
The lawyer made no reply, and the colonel went back to his euchre and
the julep and the doctor.
“I was afraid,” said the old army comrade, “that there might be
something unpleasant.”
“No; but I had to speak my mind. He was as sweet-tempered as—well, as
you are, doctor.”
“Then he is changed. In fact, since he killed Trescot he is strangely
patient. Every one notices it.”
“Damn him!” said Dudley. “I don’t think he would even kill a fly now.
Your deal, doctor.”
The game went on to the end, and the colonel, who had won, said,
laughing: “You are not in your usual form, Eskridge.”
“No; my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking of Greyhurst, and what a mess
he has made of his life. I do not believe the man has a friend in the
world; and I suppose he quarrels with John Greyhurst as often as with
others. Many of us are not our own friends. I doubt a little if he is
even his own acquaintance.”
Dudley laughed. “You have a queer way of putting things.”
The doctor was in his speculative vein. He went on.
“It was simple murder, that good fellow’s death. I wonder how a man
feels after he has done a thing like that. If he is educated and
imaginative, and has power to feel, it must set him apart, as it were,
in a kind of awful loneliness—a sort of solitary imprisonment in
himself.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose men take it that way, Eskridge.”
“Some; not all. Of course there are brutes who have no power to suffer
for what they do.”
“And you think this man does suffer?”
“I do. I am sure of it.”
“And so am I. Another julep, doctor?”
“No; I must go. I have one dying man to see, and there is another soul
about to fill up the ranks. You see, I live on the skirmish-line of
life.”
“What the deuce do you mean?”
“Oh, I leave you to digest my remark.” He went out, laughing.