Late in the morning Miss Wilson arrived at her cousin’s home at Trois
Îles, and, anxiously intent on her purpose, took the afternoon
ferry-boat to St. Ann.
She had been in the town just after the war, and when it was half in
ruins. When about to ask the way to General Averill’s she met Mrs.
Dudley. “Why, this must be Jeanette Wilson,” said that lady. “So glad to
see you! How well you look, and how young!” It was true. The blonde
little woman still kept the childlike look which is the peculiar
privilege of her type.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dudley. May I ask you to tell me where the Averills
live?”
“Up on the hill. And so you are engaged to be married to Mr. Greyhurst.”
“No. I am not.”
“Bless me, my dear! I could not have misunderstood my husband.”
“I fear that you have done so. Mr. Greyhurst, I am quite sure, never
could have said that.”
Mrs. Dudley would have been shocked had any one accused her of intention
to deceive, but she was so habitually inaccurate as to have obtained for
herself the credit of want of veracity. Like most inaccurate persons,
she was exceedingly positive.
When, therefore, Miss Wilson denied her engagement, Mrs. Dudley
returned: “Oh, that is always the way with young women. I suppose it
amounts to the same thing.”
“Hardly; and I must ask that you do me the favor to contradict any rumor
to that effect. I am not engaged.”
“Certainly; of course,” said Mrs. Dudley, not at all convinced. “What
stay do you make in St. Ann?”
“Only a day or two.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, that is all.” Then she paused, and resolved of a sudden, and not
very wisely, to take Mrs. Dudley into her confidence.
“Would you mind my asking you to tell me something?”
“Certainly not. What is it?” She was at once eager and curious. “Come
in, my dear. It is only a step to our house. Ah, here we are.” When they
were seated she said promptly:
“And now, my dear, what can I do for you?”
“You can help me, I hope. Mr. Greyhurst is, I believe, a friend of
Colonel Dudley.”
“My husband has charge of his affairs while he is absent, but I could
hardly say they were friends. You see, Miss Wilson, in St. Ann they—”
and she checked herself.
“They what?” returned Miss Wilson, too greatly concerned to accept Mrs.
Dudley’s prudent arrest of speech.
“Oh, nothing; it is of no moment.”
“Mrs. Dudley, Mr. Greyhurst had a very serious trouble more than a year
ago. I have urgent reasons to know all about it. May I ask you frankly
to tell me the whole story?”
For once, Mrs. Dudley was cautious. What she might say would possibly go
back to Greyhurst, and as he had never quite lost the evil reputation of
being quarrelsome, the colonel might, as had once happened, be asked to
answer for his wife’s words.
She replied: “Oh, that is an old story, and we never talk about such
things, Miss Wilson.”
“I know, I know; but oh, Mrs. Dudley, I am in great trouble. I hoped
that, as an older woman, and without my saying more, you would help me.
I should consider whatever you told me as absolutely confidential.”
Mrs. Dudley had no firm trust in the possibility of any woman preserving
under temptation the virtue of entire silence. Moreover, she was
becoming alarmed at a situation too perilous to permit of the luxury of
gossip. She said therefore: “Help you, my dear? Indeed, I would if I
could; but really I cannot.”
“I fear, Mrs. Dudley, that when you say you do not like to tell me, it
means that you will not tell me. If that is so, I—”
Mrs. Dudley, interrupting, said, “Oh, yes, if you like to put it that
way.” To pour out the whole sad story was her dear desire.
“Thank you,” said Miss Wilson, seeing how vain was her quest. “Thank
you. I am at least your debtor for being frank with me. I think I
understand.”
Mrs. Dudley was not so clear, and said awkwardly: “Oh, yes, of course. I
thought you would. What a lovely gown!”
Poor Miss Wilson, sad as was her case, came near to smiling.
It was a crude method of dismissing the subject, but it answered the
purpose; and seeing that she had failed, and urging her hostess no
further, the younger woman accepted the change of conversational base.
She skilfully put aside some rather intrusive questions, and finally
went away unsatisfied, and leaving Mrs. Dudley eagerly desirous to know
more.
Jeanette was fortunate in finding Mrs. Averill at home, and was grateful
for the cordial welcome she received, as that lady at once remembered
her, and that her visitor’s father had served during the war on the
general’s brigade staff.
Seeing the miniatures of the dead sons on the table, Jeanette admired
them, and asked how Mrs. Averill came to be so fortunate as to possess
them. Mrs. Averill, suddenly recalling the fact that Miss Wilson was
said to be engaged to Greyhurst, hoped that she would be content with
the answer that they were done in Italy, the kind gift of friends.
Unluckily, Miss Wilson turned over the one she held, and saw on the
back, “From Susan Hood and Constance Trescot.”
She laid it down and, looking up, said: “Mrs. Trescot is a friend of
yours?”
“Yes, she is my friend; and her sister, too.”
Miss Wilson, somewhat embarrassed, said: “I never knew them. They came
to St. Ann long after my last visit”; and after a brief pause added:
“And—and he was killed—I mean Mr. Trescot.”
Mrs. Averill saw her disturbed face. Leaning forward, she took her hand
and said in her low, sweet voice: “Let us talk of something else, my
dear. That is a matter too sad to discuss. He, too, was our friend.”
“Oh, no, no; I came to talk of—of this: but it is hard. You won’t mind,
will you? You see, I must; I have to.”
Mrs. Averill knew too well what was in the younger woman’s mind.
“Don’t be worried, my dear. What is it? What can I do for you?”
“I do not know. I am in trouble. Mrs. Dudley tells me that I am said to
be engaged to Mr. Greyhurst, and I am not; I may never be. Oh, dear Mrs.
Averill, I am in deep waters. I care for him,—oh, very much,—but we are
not engaged. I have had in my life much sorrow, and I cannot now think
of marrying him without knowing all of that awful story. I came here to
know. He has given me his own account of it; but it is natural he should
make the best of it; and, oh, won’t you, dear Mrs. Averill—won’t you
help me? Won’t you tell me all about what you and General Averill think
should guide me? I have no one to turn to—no one. I want some one who
knows to tell me—plainly—all about it.”
Mrs. Averill knew that all social relations between Greyhurst and her
husband had ceased from the time of Trescot’s death. However much she
pitied the young woman who thus appealed to her, she was reasonably
unwilling to be frank. She hesitated just long enough for Miss Wilson to
note the tardiness of reply and to feel what it implied. Mrs. Averill
usually spoke with ease and readiness; now she said slowly, with care as
to her words:
“I am very sorry, but I cannot—I do not feel quite free to answer you.
The general does not now know Mr. Greyhurst. They do not speak. In fact,
I would rather not discuss this subject. I think the general will also
be unwilling.”
It is a little to be feared that she knew with what entire unreserve her
husband would have told all he knew and what he thought of Greyhurst.
“I see, I understand,” said the blonde little lady. “You must pardon
me.” The unusual caution of one older woman, and the obvious
indisposition of a far different one, told her almost as much of what
she wished and yet feared to know as if they had been rashly outspoken.
Mrs. Averill said: “There is, my dear, nothing to pardon. I am honestly
sorry to be unable to help you, and I think that you must see why I
cannot.”
“Yes. Thank you. I will not trouble you any further; but, somehow, I
_must_ know. Will you be so kind as to read this letter?”
She opened the envelop and laid Mrs. Trescot’s letter on Mrs. Averill’s
lap, who said innocently:
“Of course, my dear; what is it?” She put on her glasses, recognized the
handwriting at once, and with surprise and pain read the letter. She was
shocked and sorry. “That is very terrible, my dear child; how could she
have done it—or done it as she has?”
“If what she says be true, Mrs. Averill, and I were in her place, I
should have done it. I will ask but one more question—a harmless one.
Was Mr. Trescot a man to—to provoke or grossly insult another?”
“No, no; he was not.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“He was all that a man ought to be—a gentleman to the core, and in no
way to blame; and now, Miss Wilson, you must not ask me any more
questions. I do not feel free to reply. I wish I could help you, but I
cannot; nor can I tell you who will be willing to do so. I beg that you
will not embarrass my husband by asking him.”
“I will not. You have been most kind to me, and I thank you; but some
one must help me. May I come again? I promise not to speak of this—this
subject.”
The old lady rose. “You will always be welcome—always. And I do trust
that God may guide you in the right way.”
She went with her to the hall door, saying: “The general will be glad to
hear of you, and I know he will like to talk with you about your
father.”
Mrs. Averill went back to her knitting, and reflected with womanly
compassion upon the strength and maturity of the character which could
thus resolutely determine the fullness of love impossible without
complete trust and entire respect.
Miss Wilson was, in fact, just what Mrs. Averill supposed her to be. She
had longed to say to the girl, “Do not marry that man.” Even on her
door-step, as they parted, she had felt that she had not done her duty
to a soul in deep distress.
Miss Wilson paused a moment in thought outside of the gate, and then
returning, found Mrs. Averill in the parlor and asked her where she
could find Mr. Kent. Mrs. Averill replied, “At the church, my dear,” and
gave her the needed directions, adding that he would probably be in the
vestry-room, which he used as a study, or possibly in the library-room
of the parish Sunday-school. Could she desire to ask his advice? That
might be the case. He would, she thought, be prudent.
The clergyman had occurred to the young woman as for her a natural and
final resort. Her friends had written of him in their letters as a man
of high character and much liked. Where else could she go? At all
events, she would tell her story and ask his aid.
When she rang at the library door, it was opened by Miss Hood, who had
been busy with a case of new books she had just received. She went with
her to the vestry, saying, as Kent opened the door, “Here is a lady to
see you, Mr. Kent.”
As he made her welcome and she sat down, she was for a moment
disappointed, having, for no reason, expected to see a man of full
middle age. The pleasant, smiling face, and something, she knew not
what, in his eyes, reassured her. When she apologized for troubling him,
and he said, “No, I am not busy; I am much at your service,” she felt at
once that here, at least, she would find a sympathetic hearing, and
making no further excuses, said simply:
“I am a woman, Mr. Kent, in great perplexity. I am Jeanette Wilson. I
may add that I am an Episcopalian. For some time I was in more than
doubt as to whether I ought to marry a gentleman. It is about him I wish
to speak. While his wife lived—you know, he had been divorced—I could
not even consider the matter. Now that she has died, he has again asked
me to share his life.”
Kent listened with interested attention. She was young, pretty, and
evidently under the influence of deep emotion. After a moment of pause
she added:
“And now again I hesitate.”
“May I, without indiscretion, ask his name, or can I advise or aid your
decision without that?”
“You may know him. He is Mr. John Greyhurst.”
Kent was more than surprised.
“Yes; I met him once in Colonel Dudley’s office. I can hardly say I know
him, in any fuller personal sense. But, pray, go on, and be sure that I
shall be most glad to give you any help in my power.”
“I was sure you would. I am in the utmost perplexity. I know much of his
life. He has told me of the—the death of Mr. Trescot. I want to believe
his account of it; but oh, Mr. Kent, at the best it is terrible, and I
fear to trust his statement. If he has not been entirely truthful, I
must know it. With so much at stake, it is—it must be—natural for a man
to find excuses for so awful a sin. I want to help him to a better life.
I want to be able to marry him. Before I let myself go,—and I could,—I
am resolved to learn from some one the whole truth. If he had repented
in your sense and mine, I should believe him; he has not. He regrets and
has suffered, that is sure; but oh, Mr. Kent, that is so little—so very
little. I have been to two women to ask—to know more of Mr. Greyhurst,
to hear the whole story of this dreadful thing. I have come from
Sacramento to learn, and now no one will tell me. If they are afraid of
him, that is bad; but at all events I must know. I do not want advice; I
want only full knowledge; then I shall decide for myself.”
“Is this all, Miss Wilson?”
“No; while I was still in doubt, after Mr. Greyhurst left California, I
received a letter from Mrs. Trescot. I can put myself in her place,
different as our views must be. I might, God help me! have done the
same. Have the kindness to read it, sir. If she tells the exact truth,
he has not told all of it, and it had been more wise to have wholly
trusted a woman’s love and pity.”
That was Kent’s opinion as he considered the childlike sweetness of the
face below the blonde hair. Without a word he took the letter. He
frowned, annoyed and displeased, as he read; and folding the sheet,
returned it.
“You are right,” he said gravely. “As a clergyman, and also as a man,
you have a right to all I know.”
“If,” she said, “it will make trouble for you with Mr. Greyhurst—”
He interrupted her with, “That is no part of the matter. I shall write
to him and tell him what I shall now say; and I may say to you that I
know the whole of this sad story, although at the time it happened I was
not in St. Ann.”
“Is it necessary that you do this—I mean tell him?”
“Yes, for me it is. Mr. Greyhurst was angry at the loss of his case.
There were some sharp passages between Trescot and himself, such as
occur in trials. Of these I know least. As I have said, I was not in St.
Ann at that time. I believe that he said things of Mr. Trescot—and to
his wife, whom he called as a witness—things no man should have said. I
do not wish to overstate the matter. Mr. Greyhurst was said to be in
debt. This suit was of great moment to him, and I suppose that the
verdict was a serious disappointment. When he came out of the court,
Mrs. Trescot was near by, waiting for her husband.”
“Oh, sir, did he see her?” asked Miss Wilson, anxiously.
“I do not know. He saw Mr. Trescot coming to meet him, and, without
warning, killed him.”
“But he was drawing a pistol,” she said quickly.
“No; he never so much as owned a pistol. His right arm was crippled from
a wound, as was generally known because he usually rested it caught in
his waistcoat. As he approached he was smiling. You see, he was pleased
to be able to be generous.”
“My God!” she exclaimed. “Go on; tell me all!”
“Yes; he had just received a telegram authorizing him to divide the land
in dispute, in order to treat more liberally Mr. Greyhurst’s clients. He
raised his lame arm to take out the telegram from his pocket, and was,
as is known, advancing to make the offer. He had it in his hand when Mr.
Greyhurst fired.”
“Is that all?” she said faintly.
“No; on his desk was found a letter to Mr. Hood, stating that he would
give up the agency unless Mr. Hood, the owner, would, after the trial,
consent to a compromise as an act of equitable justice to people who had
no legal claim. Mr. Hood’s sudden death enabled Miss Hood, the sister of
Mrs. Trescot, to give Mr. Trescot full authority to settle the matter.
Mrs. Trescot called him out of the court to give him the telegram, and
to beg him at once to offer Mr. Greyhurst the adjustment they desired.
That is all. I have been long, but it seemed to me that you had a right
to know the whole. I believe that I have stated it correctly.”
“Then,” she said, as her head drooped, “it was murder, and without
shadow of excuse.” She fell back, appalled at her verdict, murmuring
again, “It was murder, and without excuse.”
“Yes, as I see it, it was murder; whether premeditated, or the sudden
outcome of anger and disappointment, God alone knows.”
“One word more, Mr. Kent. There had been ill feeling between them? Sharp
words had passed. You said so. Mr. Greyhurst believed himself to have
been insulted.”
“Yes, I have so heard.”
“What kind of man was Mr. Trescot? You see,” she said, eager to find
excuses, “I want to know all—both sides.”
“I never saw him; but as to that there was but one opinion. He was a
sweet-tempered, kindly, and most honorable gentleman, a servant of your
Master and mine.”
“That is enough, and too much. God pity him and me!”
She rose as she spoke, and standing with bowed head, looking down,
added: “I cannot thank you too much. You have done me the greatest
service a man could render a woman. I think that you ought to know that
I shall never marry John Greyhurst. I meant to ask your advice, but now
I do not need it. The way of my duty is plain. Good-by.”
She let fall her veil and went out, passing Miss Hood, who was still
busy with her books.
“I shall be jealous, Reginald, if you are so long closeted with pretty
women.”
“Don’t begin quite so soon,” he said, “or the supply of jealousy may not
equal the demand. Come and walk with me; I have had a rather grim
half-hour.”
She looked up at him, curious, but asked no questions.