IV

As the days went by, Greyhurst, somewhat relieved by the prospect of a

long absence, arranged his affairs, and prepared himself for his journey

to California. Constance Trescot, well aware of his plans, was deep in

thought of the man who was, for a time, to be out of her reach. Her

increasing abstraction, her lessening interest in books,—and she had

never been an eager reader,—her still silent piano, all alike

contributed to increase the anxiety in which the elder sister lived. In

fact, Constance had exhausted her resources; but now an accident came to

her aid, and, doing for her that which she never would have done,

inflicted on her enemy a torture beyond the dream of malice, and

far-reaching in its consequences.

An errand of charity to one of the families now residing on the bluff

had occupied her afternoon. It was dusk and the shadows were deepening

as Constance walked slowly along a wood path which led into the road on

which she lived. As she came out of the forest in the dusk she quickened

her steps, and, deep in thought, moved on, until of a sudden she became

aware of being on the same side of the way and in front of the house in

which Greyhurst resided. She stopped short, recalling that just here she

and her husband had first met him. As she turned quickly to cross the

street, she stumbled on the rough sidewalk, recovered her balance, and

crossed over to her own side of the way. At her garden gate she suddenly

missed a little velvet bag which usually hung from her belt. Instantly

she remembered that it held, besides her cards, a small morocco case in

which was a photograph of her husband in his major’s uniform. Realizing

the fact that she had stumbled and might then have lost it, and much

troubled, she was about to return and look for it, when she saw

Greyhurst, who had just come out of his garden. As she hesitated, he

picked up something which she knew must be her bag. She had a moment of

indecision. To seek him, or to send for it, she felt to be impossible.

She had a larger copy, a duplicate of the photograph. What effect would

this picture of the man he had killed have on the murderer? With a

singular smile on her face, she turned and went into her own house. She

had a wild desire to see that meeting of the slayer and the slain.

Without the least idea of the ownership of the bag, Greyhurst carelessly

laid it on the table of his library. He then lighted a lamp, and, mildly

curious, began to look at the contents of the bag. He came first on the

small case, and drew out the photograph. As he turned it over he saw the

face of George Trescot.

The suddenness of this pictured revival of a face he had of late seen

with less painful clearness gave to it the terrible power of an

apparition. He let it fall. The face lay uppermost. He made a great

effort, and seizing it, threw it from him.

“My God!” he said, “I shall end by killing that woman!”

For a moment he entertained the idea that she had meant him to find it.

Then, as he saw the cards and some memoranda, he knew that she must have

accidentally dropped the bag; and still, the horror of the thing was

increased for him rather than lessened by his certainty that he was the

victim of a chance loss. Was everything against him?

He picked up the photograph, and, resolute not to yield to what he felt

was weakness, he set it before him, and with his head in his hands

stared at the strong, well-bred, kindly face. It was too much for him.

The tears began to gather, and as they rolled down his face he slowly

replaced the portrait in the case, laid it in the bag, and closed the

clasp. The test of endurance had been beyond his powers, and had

produced on his nervous system an effect such as could never have been

anticipated.

“My God!” he cried, as he fell back in his chair, “am I not punished

enough!”

As he spoke, he looked up and saw, as if some ten feet away and a little

to the left, the face of the man he had killed. For a moment he was

simply astonished. It was larger than life and smiling, and not like the

photograph. He rubbed his eyes, closed and opened them, and moved about.

The phantom kept its place; and at last he observed that if he looked

down he lost it. He was, as I have said, intelligent, and recognized in

this vision the effect of long strain and sudden shock. And still it

meant even to his knowledge something sinister, but about which it was

possible to reason. It affected him at the moment less than had done the

letters or telegram, or the presence of the woman who had sent them. His

fear was not so much of what was as of what might follow. What did it

mean? Was he about to be ill? He resolved to see Dr. Eskridge and to

talk to him frankly. He awakened the next day still seeing the face, at

times dimly, at others clearly. Its persistency troubled him. Was it a

symptom of some impending mental disaster? Had his head been clear of

late—his memory unimpaired? When the mind of the sensitive becomes

critical concerning the health of its own processes, there is peril in

the way. He found himself caught in machinery not readily arrested by

the will which set it in motion. He had always been in vigorous health

and had rarely had occasion to consult a physician. He had, however,

lacked power to dismiss unpleasant thoughts, and now the terror of decay

of reason haunted him unceasingly. And it was a woman who had brought

this fear upon him, a woman against whom he was absolutely defenseless.

Early in the morning he gave the bag to a maid and asked her, much to

her amazement, to leave it at Mrs. Trescot’s. When it was laid on the

breakfast table beside Constance, her sister asked a question in regard

to it. Constance replied: “I lost it yesterday. I suppose that some one,

finding my cards, has returned it.”

“You are fortunate, dear.”

“Yes, am I not?”

V

The town of St. Ann was prospering. There were more horses hitched about

the gnawed posts in front of the grocery-shops; more men in well-worn

grey coming in from the country to buy or sell. In a word, there was

more money. There was also, as a consequence, less anxiety, and more

time, or, rather, more leisure; and the Christmas season was less sad as

the years went on.

Miss Susan Hood had thrown herself with energy and good humor into the

church work, and had reorganized the Sunday-schools. The orphan home had

also her care, and as she had money and a bountiful sense of the

humorous aspects of life, she found ready occasion for the varied forms

of generosity of which she was capable, and constant mild amusement in

what she saw and heard. As concerned Constance she was still uneasy, and

the more so because she was sure that her sister had by no means given

up her designs against Greyhurst. The fact that Constance sedulously

concealed whatever she was doing still further added to her discomfort,

and, except Mrs. Averill, there was no one to whom she felt free to

talk. She resolved once more to reopen the subject with Constance.

On this special morning Miss Althea had been long closeted with Mrs.

Trescot, and when she had gone Constance took up her garden gloves,

flower-basket, and scissors, and, putting on a long white apron, went

out into the little conservatory. Here she found Coffin, who, under her

instructions, was with much labor of mind slowly learning how to care

for flowers. His old, weather-worn face was more eager than usual.

He said: “That man is going away; I thought to come and tell you.”

“Are you sure? I heard that he was. Don’t speak so loud.”

Tom’s voice had the volume needed for great wood spaces.

“Yes, I’m sure. His old black woman she says so. It’ll be for a month or

two.”

“Indeed! So long!” She stood before the lame little woodman, taller by a

head. For him there was the sense of a commanding presence, remembrance

of kindness with flavor of comprehending friendliness, and yet such

sense of aloofness as the statue of a goddess may have had for some

Greek hewer of wood. She stood still in thought; at last he asked:

“Was you worried over that vermin?” Her vengeance had brought her into

singular partnerships.

“No; not while he is here.”

“Thought you would have liked him clean out of sight.”

“No; I mean to ruin him. If he goes away I cannot.”

What she had done or desired to do he did not know; nor, had he known,

would her slow methods have appealed to his coarser conception of what

he called “evenin’ up” things.

He said: “It might be best to do what I said. I’d do it. You see, ma’am,

it’s sure, and it don’t give no trouble.”

Greyhurst’s life hung on the issue of a minute of indecision. A wild

anger came upon her at the thought of his escaping. A little flush grew

on the pale cheek, and then faded.

“No,” she said. “I can wait.”

“Well,” returned Coffin, “it isn’t my notion of things. I’d just kill

him and get done with him.”

“No; you must not do that.”

“It’ll be as you say. ’Bout these rose-bugs, they’re mighty troublesome,

ma’am.”

He dismissed the matter lightly. He was a man of the Tennessee border,

where women do not value a man who cannot shoot straight—a land of

long-nourished hatreds, where men kill but do not steal, where the

vendetta is medieval in the simplicity of its one demand. He could not

comprehend the feeling which stayed his hand, but, nevertheless, he was

entirely the vassal of her will.

She answered one or two questions about the flowers with some

directions, and sent him away with roses for Mrs. March.

While her sister was thus engaged, Susan had been in the parlor in

earnest talk with the new rector of the church at St. Ann. Very soon

after her arrival she had added to her church work some care of the

freed slaves, and, happy in the relief of new duties, had brought

inspiriting good sense and money to aid the many forms of usefulness in

which Mr. Kent was interested.

The rector had been talking of George Trescot.

“You must have met him,” said Susan.

“No; we exchanged visits, but he was much of the time absent since I

came; and for a few weeks I was myself in the East.”

“I am sorry you never met.”

“And I. I think I mentioned that we were related—distant cousins.

Perhaps, if Mrs. Trescot knew that, she might be willing to see me. I

very much want to help you and her. And there is so much wild talk—”

“Yes, I know; but my sister has opinions which I neither share nor

like—oh, excuse me, I fear I must cut short our talk. I see that her

gardener is going, and I have to see her before she goes out.”

He rose, saying: “I shall try again. I hope to have better luck.”

“I shall see you to-morrow at the library. The books I ordered should be

here to-day.”

“One moment, Miss Hood. May I be pardoned if I ask why Mrs. Trescot

never comes to church?”

“That is a long story, and a sad one. Some day we will talk about it,

not now.”

“You will not forget the flowers for Sunday?”

“Of course not.”

After he left her, Susan went out into the little conservatory.

Said Constance: “Has your rector, or director, gone? What can you find

to talk about? He makes rather long visits. I must admit that he rides

well for a preacher. I saw him pass yesterday. He looks to be about

twenty-one.”

“He is not young,” said Susan, shortly.

“Oh, preachers never are young. He is rather good-looking.”

“Yes, rather. I wish you would see him when he calls. You see every one

else.”

“Oh, some day, if you really want me to see him.”

“I should like it, Conny.”

Susan was indisposed to discuss the rector, or to insist too much on his

being received; but why, she would have been unable, or, more likely,

unwilling, to say. She changed the subject.

“You had your two beauties, Conny. You think I talk long with Mr. Kent.

How you find talk for an hour with that depressing Althea I cannot

imagine. Her head wabbles about as if she were a feeble chicken, and her

nose—did you ever notice her nose?”

“No,” said Constance. “She is a very good woman, and very unfortunate. I

do not see why you make fun of her.”

“I? The fun is ready made; and really, Conny, I can pity, and could, at

need, help her, without enjoying her society. What do you talk about?”

“Oh, many things.”

Susan had overheard portions of Althea’s gossip. “I think I could guess.

Is it never to end?”

Constance, who had been moving about the room, turned on her.

“I thought, Susan, we had agreed to dismiss that subject.”

“No; or, if we did, I cannot go on in this way. I did not lightly bring

this matter up. Oh, Conny, if you only would—”

“I would do anything else for you. But for the present you may be at

ease. He is going away—to be gone, perhaps, for two months.”

“I am very glad.”

“And I am not. Oh, there is the lunch-bell.”

She was already deeply engaged in a new scheme, and feared to face any

more of Susan’s questions. To plan possible or impossible means of

wounding her enemy gave her the only satisfaction her narrowing life

afforded. To talk of him was painful, or at least Susan was not the

neutral-minded confessor who would see in her course the least shadow of

human excuse.

After lunch she went into Trescot’s study. The feeling which rigidly

guarded the room from any presence but that of Constance seemed to Susan

morbid. Nevertheless, she had respected her sister’s wish. Constance

entered and sat down. When there she had at times that sense of the

nearness of the dead which many have known—and known with intense

longing for the “sound of a voice that is still.”

She had long since brought his sword from her chamber and placed it on

his table. She picked it up and dusted it, and laid it down. The room

was full of him. She walked about, thinking of her dead, and then, with

another thrill of anguish, of the lost child. “And you would have had me

forgive!” she cried. “Oh, George, George, how can I! You are dead; I

shall see you no more. My baby is dead—and I am dead, too—oh, dead to

love, to joy! And it gets worse and not better.”

She sat down and rocked back and forward, clasping her head. “Perhaps to

die were better.” Her face twitched around the mouth, her jaw stiffened,

and she recalled again the doctor’s warning. Even the luxury of

self-abandonment to lonely grief was not for her. She controlled

herself, but not readily. The passions are near neighbors. And with the

thought of Greyhurst, her anger rose to stormy force. “And he did it!”

she cried, “and lives, and is to have years of ease, and at last

forgetfulness. Never, never, if I can help it—and no one shall stop me;

and, if all else fail, I have always that—that!” She was thinking of the

temptation Coffin had crudely set before her.

She grew agitated, looking about her. “Not here; I must not think of it

here. Would he forgive me? He would know I had to go my way.”

She went out of the room and met her sister, who, seeing her agitation,

said: “My dear Conny, what is the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter. I wish you would let me alone.”

“Oh, Conny, what have I done?”

She was hurt; but was far too wise to say more, for of late her sister

had become irritable. As she turned aside, repressing the sharp answer

she felt inclined to make, Constance said: “Where is the paper? I have

not seen it to-day. You always take it.” It was her habit to run over it

daily.

“I will get it,” said Susan. “Wait, dear; I know where it is.”

When she returned Constance took the little sheet. Presumably she found

what she sought.

“The land sale we mentioned some time ago includes a long stretch of

shore to the south of the Hood estate. It was, we understand, bought by

Mr. Greyhurst; but whether for himself or others is not known. The water

at this place on the river-front is shallow; but if, as we hear, the

deep-water front between it and the Hoods’ has also been acquired from

the Baptistes, it would give Mr. Greyhurst’s frontage all it needs, and

add much to its value.”

For a little while Constance sat thinking. Then she rose, dressed

herself for the street, and went out.

She had more than enough to think about. Althea had heard that Mr.

Greyhurst was bent on other business than mines. They did say that there

was a lady in Sacramento who had refused to marry him while his divorced

wife lived. But now, that lady being dead a year or more, it might be

that she would reconsider her refusal. No; Althea did not know her name.

She was said to be rich.

At first Constance thought it an unlikely bit of gossip; but if it were

true her foe might escape. She had fed the flame of her anger with the

fuel of grief, and, as was usual with her, this surrender to passionate

sorrow left her set and resolute. She must know more. And so Althea was

petted and flattered, and bidden to listen and report all she heard.

Meanwhile there was this other matter.

She had told Susan that she would not ride, and now walked away into the

town, passing Greyhurst on the main street. He had again the sense of

being haunted as the tall black figure went by, almost touching him.

Well, he would soon be far away from it all. The face of Trescot went

with him still, misty and delicate.

Mrs. Trescot soon found what she sought, and reading on the sign, “Paul

Marcel, Land Agent, Second Story,” went up-stairs and, knocking, was

bidden to enter.

“I am Mrs. Trescot,” she said, throwing back her veil.

Marcel’s daughter had spoken of her, but he himself knew her only by

sight. She accepted a chair and began at once:

“You will be so kind, Mr. Marcel, as to consider my business

confidential, or at least for the present.”

“Certainly, madame.” He was an old man, brisk and alert, with hair cut

short and upstanding in a way that gave an aggressive expression to a

not unkindly, clean-shaven face. His accent was distinctly that of the

old Creole French.

“How can I oblige you?” he said.

She unrolled a small plan of the river-front.

“Here,” she said, “Mr. Marcel, are our lands. You may be aware that we

gave Mrs. Baptiste the half of our river-frontage nearest to the city.”

“It was more than generous,” he said. “The land should be improved.”

“Yes; that will come. Our own land lies next, you observe. We have—I do

not now recall how many feet. It is ample; but we would be better off if

we owned the next lots to the south of us—I think there is about four

hundred feet.”

“I see,” he said. “It has the deepest water on the entire frontage—very

desirable. It belongs to a niece of Madame Baptiste. I have heard

something about it lately. It can be bought—no doubt it can be bought.

The land beyond it is of very little value because of the shallowness of

the water.”

“But with this,” she asked quickly, “it would become valuable?”

“Yes, very, of course. I fancy it to have been acquired with a view to

subsequent purchase of Mademoiselle Baptiste’s water-front. The sale may

have been already made; I think not.”

“I should like to know as soon as possible.”

“If madame will wait a minute—ten minutes, to be more accurate? The

agent of the Baptistes is near by.”

Madame would wait. He went out. She got up and moved about, impatient.

When he came back he said: “I have learned that, as I supposed, it is

for sale. An offer has been made for it.” Then he hesitated, and said

very courteously: “I think Madame Trescot should be made to know who is

the person who is bidding.”

“I do know,” she returned coldly. “It is a pure matter of business.”

“_Eh bien!_ It is a matter of business. He offers twelve thousand; they

ask fifteen. I could not advise that. It is too much.”

“Buy it,” she said; “and, if you please, without delay—now—at once.”

“But, madame, it is inordinate. May I ask is it for the Hood estate? You

will pardon me if I say that in that case you should consult General

Averill.”

“It is for me, personally.”

“Ah! that is so; and is madame resolved?”

“She is,” said Constance, smiling.

“It can be bought,” he said, and went out. In a few moments he was back

again. “It is an affair finished; but I have saved you eight hundred

dollars.”

“Then it is secure? There can be no mistake? It is my property?”

Her anxiety struck him as singular; but he made haste to reassure her.

“Yes, it is yours. I will see to the titles; but I know them as my hand.

In a few days I shall ask for madame’s check.”

“Thank you; but there must be no mistake.”

“There can be none. I have it in writing, here in my hand.”

She thanked him and went out.

“_Diable!_” he said. “_Quelle femme!_”

On his way to the doctor’s that evening, Greyhurst called at the house

of the agent of Mademoiselle Baptiste. He said: “Monsieur Pierre, I

leave to-morrow, to be gone about two months. Before I go I should like

to settle about those water-lots. I left you an offer; you refused it.

What will you take? I must leave part of the payment on mortgage?”

The agent—like M. Marcel, of Creole descent—was by no means friendly to

Greyhurst; but he was also very much afraid of him.

“_C’est dommage_, monsieur. I too deeply regret. I was about to write.”

“What do you regret? Can you Frenchmen never speak out and say what you

mean!”

“But I was sorry, Monsieur Greyhurst, for to disappoint you. Paul Marcel

was here to-day, and—the land is sold.”

“Sold!”

“Yes; I have consult mademoiselle, who live near by, as you know, and

she say take it. I could only advise to do the same. The offer was

large, and it was yes or no.”

“This seems to me very strange; I should have been told.”

“Yes, I say so. Marcel he say, ‘We offer twelve thousand.’ I say, ‘No.’

He say, ‘How much?’ I say, ‘Fifteen thousand.’ He offer fourteen

thousand. I say we split. Then he say, ‘Fourteen thousand two hundred’;

and mademoiselle, who was there, she say very quick, ‘I take it.’ _Mais,

mon Dieu!_ monsieur, what could I do? It is sold.”

Pierre was surprised and relieved that Greyhurst showed no anger. In

fact, he was restraining himself with a great effort. He said: “Offer to

take it off Marcel’s hands. I will give him fifteen thousand. It is

worth that to me; but any one else is a fool to take it at your price.”

“They will not sell. It is to hold.”

“Who bought it?”

Pierre was maliciously enjoying the situation, and was made less timid

by Greyhurst’s unusually quiet manner.

“It was bought for a lady.” He was tormenting his big mouse, and liked

the game.

“‘A lady!’ Why the mischief can’t you answer? What lady?”

“It was Madame Trescot.”

“Damnation! You two cursed Frenchmen have sold me between you!”

“_Mais_, monsieur, what could be done? You set a limit.”

Greyhurst made no reply, but turned and went out, leaving the old Creole

still apologetic, gesticulating, and by no means ill pleased. As he

passed into the street, he pulled down his hat and walked on, looking

downward because of the vision of the smiling, silvery face.

“Always that devil of a woman!” he said. “When will it end?” Suppressed

anger divided his mind with the fear of some sudden bodily disaster such

as the phantom seemed to threaten. He must live, must be well. There was

his child, far away at school, and the one cherished hope—the little

woman in Sacramento. He put aside the business of the land. It was

ruinous, and he began too fully to realize what money may do to aid a

revengeful purpose. Forgetting for a moment, he looked up. The face was

there, in the bustling street as elsewhere. He walked faster, speaking

to no one, his head bent down. He lost the face as he stood on Dr.

Eskridge’s step and, looking at his watch, rang the bell. He had written

asking the doctor to receive him at this hour.

The doctor had never had any liking for the man for whom he was now

waiting, and his feeling had been much intensified by the fatal

consequences of Greyhurst’s ungoverned temper. He had, however, a fund

of pitiful charity, kept full by sad personal experiences and by the

physician’s vast explanatory knowledge of the lives of men and women,

which accepts heredity, education, and environment as matters not to be

left out of the consideration of disease or of the motives of men’s

actions.

He was reflecting upon what had made Greyhurst what he was, when the man

who thus occupied his thoughts entered the room. As they had met of

late, on the street or elsewhere, he had casually noticed the slight

loss of soldierly carriage, and the absence of a certain defiant

challenge in his expression. Now, as they sat down, he cast on Greyhurst

a quick look of observant attention, and saw that the large frame had

lost flesh. He began to be curious as to the object of this visit; but,

as the lawyer had in the past consulted him in regard to minor matters

of health, he knew him to be free from grave organic maladies, and was

quite unprepared for the abrupt statement with which he began.

“Doctor,” he said as he sat down, “I am going away to-morrow, and I want

to ask you a question. I have of late been troubled—not all the time, I

ought to say—by an occasional sensation of quite causeless fear—well,

something like the terror a timid child has when alone in the dark.”

“Indeed!” said the doctor. “Is that all, or is there anything else?”

“No; that is not all. I have also been annoyed by seeing a face in the

air, a little to the left. It is lost when I look down. It appears as if

made of gossamer, and I see things through it. Does it or the other

trouble represent any probability of mental failure?”

He was sweating as he spoke, and wiped his forehead repeatedly.

The doctor toyed with a paper-cutter, a habit he had when intensely

interested.

“You are well otherwise?”

“Yes. I have lost appetite and flesh, but otherwise I am as usual. I

should add that I still have at times that inexplicable fear; the vision

is nearly always present. I cannot get rid of it.”

“Indeed! No headaches?”

“No, never; a slight vertigo now and then. I never drank to excess, and

less now than ever. I smoke too much; but, you see, I have been worried

about business matters and—about other things.”

“As you look up, now, do you see the face?”

“I do.”

“Is this phantasm that of a face you have ever seen?”

The question was natural and innocent, the reply startling.

“My God! doctor. It is the face of the man I killed!”

“I beg pardon, Mr. Greyhurst. I am sorry—sorry I asked, and very sorry

for you. I could not have dreamed of this. I am sorry.”

“I am glad one man is sorry. I am in a hell of sorrow.”

“That can’t be helped, I fear.”

“No, I suppose not; but I have got to live—and there is Mathilde, my

child. Does this mean anything serious—that is what I want to know—this

specter—that fear? I can stand it if it does not imply the nearness of

some mental failure.”

“Before I answer, may I venture to ask if this spectral illusion came

only at times and then more and more often, and was there any immediate

cause? Do not reply if to do so annoys you.”

Greyhurst read in the grave and kindly face, so keen and attentive,

sympathy which included in its charity alike the weaknesses and the

crimes of men. He, too, like others, felt the human craving to escape by

confession from the loneliness of remembered sin. For a moment he

reflected, and then said: “I may as well tell you all.”

“Not unless it will help me to help you.” He distrusted his own

increasing curiosity, and was therefore careful as to how far he should

invite confidences.

“Yes, you may help me. God knows, I need advice—counsel.”

“But first,” said Eskridge, “let me say that the face you see will fade

away in time, unless the cause which occasioned it is repeated.”

“Of that I cannot be sure. I may as well tell you all.”

“Very well. That may be better.”

“I came by mere chance upon a photograph of Mr. Trescot. I came on it

abruptly, unprepared; and then as I looked up I saw the face—that

face—not at all that of the photograph, but the same man, only—smiling.”

The doctor had heard in his long life many strange things, but this was

the strangest. He repressed his astonishment and said quietly: “Is that

all?”

“No; and I want to tell you the rest—all of it—all. I have been, since

my unchecked, spoiled boyhood, a passionate man. It wrecked my married

life, and did me evil service during the war, and later in my career at

the bar. My Western life made it worse—that was before the war. The Hood

lawsuit found me embarrassed as to money matters. I lost it, and I knew

I ought to have lost it. Things passed in the trial which—well, no

matter. I was insulted; I was told by—by Trescot that he was

responsible—you know what that means with us. I shot that man. I did

think he was drawing his pistol, if I thought at all.” He wiped his

forehead. “I did not think. I was sorry for my haste. Since then I have

more and more bitterly regretted. But it was done—and I must live. I

went on hoping that, with time, I should suffer less. Then Mrs. Trescot

came back; and from the time of her return I have been in hell—no demon

could be more ingeniously cruel than that woman.”

He went on to relate all that she had done, including the ruining

purchase of the land on the river. Both men were silent for a moment,

and then Greyhurst added:

“I can do nothing. Regret—remorse, if you like—is the only thing a man

can give. I know what I have done; but I must live.”

“Yes, yes,” said the doctor, reflectively. “Could you not go away and

live elsewhere?”

“No, I cannot. I have my girl at school in Cincinnati, as you know. I

am, or I was, better off; but this land business seriously embarrasses

me, and I must take care of the child. All my interests are here; I

cannot go away; I fear for what that woman may do. At first it troubled

me, but I said to myself that she could do no more; now I am honestly

afraid. I credit her intelligence, doctor, with terrible capacity to

hurt me. Can I bear this strain? Am I now breaking under it? I have

reason to hope that I may marry again. The lady lives in Sacramento. I

hope to be able to explain to her—I—” He hesitated.

“Indeed!” exclaimed the doctor. “But you mean to tell her? She will have

heard, of course. You will do well to be frank.”

“Yes, of course. She knows what my life has been. She, at least, is a

woman. This other is a devil.”

The doctor became yet more grave. “Whatever she is, you may count on her

unending hatred. If you marry,—and I hope you may,—you will not—must

not—live here.”

“No; not if I marry. And let me say that Miss Wilson shall know in the

frankest way just what you know. Our acquaintance began through my

carrying her wounded brother out of a heavy fire at Antietam. He died,

and I got a ball in the side. I was able to write to her at Mobile of

his death, at a time when I was pretty near it myself. You may trust me

as a gentleman that she shall know all. I believe that she will feel for

me.”

The doctor rose. Would he—could he—be really frank to her? He had a good

deal of doubt as to Greyhurst’s power to confess the actual facts as

others saw them.

“I must go now. This phantom will fade. It is really of no great moment,

and is no indication of failure in mind or body. But stay away as long

as you can; better if you were never to return to St. Ann.”

Greyhurst left him with a great sense of relief, and, walking homeward,

observed that he had lost the smiling face of George Trescot.

Returning in an hour, the doctor sat down with his pipe and his

thoughts. Both the personages in this sad drama had told him their

stories. The mixture of good and evil in these two lives struck him.

Both were without that steadying faith which had been his from

childhood. Greyhurst was simply unreligious by habit. Constance had no

religion, and, as Susan had told him, declared herself simply

indifferent. Motives such as might otherwise have helped them were

absent. The contrasts of Greyhurst’s life interested him—his unchecked

boyhood, his passionate nature, his intelligence, his impulsiveness, his

sensitiveness, the incidentally told act of self-exposing courage. He

felt how vain it was to judge of human actions without the largest

knowledge.

Then he reflected upon the calm, steadily pursued revenge of the woman,

with its dreadful inventiveness, its implacable hatred.

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe as he wondered what manner of woman

might she be whom Greyhurst desired to marry. The man had been scourged

by vain regret. His repentance had so modified and gentled his life that

all men saw it. If the woman loved him, and he could live elsewhere than

in St. Ann, it might be the final solution of serious questions; but

there was one incalculable factor in this tangle of human passions—the

strong personality of Constance Trescot. He lighted his candle and went

up to bed, more than a little pitiful for the woman who suffered, and

for the man who had caused her to suffer.