THERE was a golden moon in the purple dusk, and the world was sweet
one night. Delicate odors drifted along the imperceptible current of
the air from the lilies that grew in the fissures of the bomb-riven
stones which had once upheld the sunken terraces. A mocking-bird,
perched somewhere on the shattered cupola, was singing as if he were
a conscientious contractor, pledged to supply the earth with music.
The creamy, gold-centered roses that clambered up the pillars of the
portico caught the dew and glistened. One could look out at the cruel
old battle-field only through their charmed vistas. There was no wind,
and the shadows that thronged the haunted thickets, and lined the
redoubts, and lurked in the rifle-pits, were motionless.
When Brennett and Percy reached the house this evening, a week,
perhaps, after the fishing party, they found the family seated upon
the long, broad portico for the enjoyment of the fresh air. It was not
Brennett’s first visit. Since the day of the excursion he had been
here once by invitation, and had called once. Except for the most
unmeaning conventionalities, he had not spoken to Antoinette, and she
was genuinely astonished that he had made no overture to recur to
the subject of conversation which he had seemed persistently anxious
to pursue on the occasion of their first meeting. This evening,
immediately after the greetings, he took a chair near her and a little
apart from the others. It might have been accident; she thought it
design.
And yet, when he turned and spoke to her, nothing could be more
commonplace than his words and manner; more in accord with this world’s
ways; more antagonistic to the suspicion of plots and such fantastic
vagaries with which she had lately been prone to invest all prosaic
events.
“There is the recompense for the loss of the trees; you can’t get an
adequate idea of the moonlight anywhere else,” he said, looking out at
it, as it lay in a splendid vastness upon the vast plain. “In towns
you have it cut into parallelograms and triangles. You may demonstrate
a theorem at every street corner. In the woods, the shadows are
paramount. At sea, the water asserts itself; it has its reflections,
and its motion, and its suggestions of glancing color. Here, the still
earth takes the moonlight like a benediction. And you can be still,
too, and perhaps blessed. How is that, Miss St. Pierre? Do you feel
its influence? Does the world fall away? Are you ready to renounce the
artificialities?”
A fit rejoinder did not present itself. Her belief that Brennett was
involved in some plot against her interests, and her eager scrutiny
to detect a purpose in all he said, preoccupied her faculties, and
she was conscious of seeming flatly unresponsive, as she replied,
with a little laugh, “No-o, I hardly think I am ready to renounce the
artificialities.”
“That is an essentially feminine conclusion,” he returned lightly.
“Women are all for--not the artificialities, no, I will say,
for--progress. They have no sympathy with that yearning for the more
primitive modes of life, which sends a man to the woods, to ‘rough it’
with his dog and gun. When a woman sighs for nature, the beautiful and
true, she wants it _en fête champêtre_. She predicates upon nature
a parasol. And there must be cavaliers and claret cup.”
Evidently the man had no purpose in his speech. Her interest in the
subject suddenly became more genuine.
“But for our influence, then,” she said, “our civilizing influence, man
might still be in the wilderness. Is that your theory?”
“Perhaps.”
“It is well that somebody is progressive.”
“But am I right? Are women progressive? Are _you_ progressive?”
“Oh, yes; very.”
“So I should judge. And that is why it seems to me strange that you
have not replied to the letter written by Mr. Fortescue’s lawyers.”
He was looking hard at her. His eyes gleamed, two brilliant points
of light, in the dusky shade of the vines which hung above him. At
a little distance were the other members of the party in the full
moonlight, their black shadows impishly foreshortened, but sharply
defined upon the great blocks of limestone that floored the portico.
With their every gesture these silhouettes moved in a silently
exaggerated excitement, and there were many gestures, for the group was
merry and animated. Edgar was standing between his sister and aunt,
and Percy was drawing from him a naïvely enthusiastic account of the
wonders he had seen at the circus yesterday. The little boy’s shrill
treble rang loud above the other laughing voices, and all together
overpowered the low tones of the two who sat apart. Antoinette glanced
absently at this vivacious quartette, then at the silent, bobbing,
elfish caricature behind it, convulsed with noiseless merriment, and
once more at Brennett. He was still gazing at her. She caught her
breath with a quick start, and the blood rushed to her face. For there
was a sarcastic expression in his eyes, a peculiar intonation in his
voice, as he laughed a little, significantly. What was the import of
the tone and look she could not divine; she did not pause to analyze
them, nor to consider her reply. She was angered suddenly and beyond
endurance, and she spoke upon the impulse of the moment.
“And it seems to me _not_ a little strange, Mr. Brennett, that you
should, uninvited, persistently question me about my own affairs. If
ever I should want your advice, I shall venture to ask for it. Until
then may I beg that you do not interfere in matters with which you have
no concern.”
There was a flash of astonishment in his eyes, and a grave constraint
in the change of his face. She knew, the moment after she had spoken,
that she had been guilty, not only of bad manners, but of great folly,
in permitting herself to fly into a passion without a sufficient
provocation. What so intangible as a tone, what ground of offence so
untenable! And had the man no “concern” in the matter? And yet, for
all her confusion and regret, she felt that his surprise was cleverly
simulated, and that he had wished to produce the result he had so
effectually done,--to make her angry, provoke her to an outbreak, and
put her in the wrong.
“I cannot sufficiently reprobate my rudeness,” he said. “Let me assure
you it was unintentional. It did not occur to me that the mention of
the subject was amiss. I did not suppose that you would consider me an
officious intermeddler, as I have a pecuniary interest involved, being
Mr. Fortescue’s creditor. I took the liberty, you may remember, of
writing to you to that effect some time ago. I thought I might perhaps
talk the matter over with you and learn your intention in regard to
the proposed adjustment. Naturally, I am anxious that it should be
speedily effected, so that I can collect a very bad debt. I don’t say
all this to justify myself--only in some small degree as an excuse. I
can find no words to ask your pardon.”
He was leaning forward with an extreme earnestness of manner. One hand
lay on the balustrade; the other, holding his hat, was upon his knee.
His eager, deprecatory face was plainly shown in the moonlight. She
dropped her eyes, a deep flush burned on her cheeks; the shadow of a
belated humming-bird, still fluttering high among the roses, wavered
now across her fair hair and now across the long black folds of her
dress.
She was fully aware that this was a solemn sham, but with a curious
doubleness she saw the hardship of the position in which he had
adroitly placed himself as if it were real. With her stern ideas of
right she could not let matters thus remain. For what proof--what proof
had she with which to assail his statement. He must have the benefit of
the doubt.
“Mr. Brennett,” she began, “I can’t accept your apology--for I must
offer mine. I was not warranted in what I said--I”--
“Oh, I beg of you”--he interrupted, with a gesture of insistence.
“If you please, I should like to ask you a question about this claim of
Mr. Fortescue’s,” she resumed, thinking this less awkward than a forced
transition to other topics, and besides shrewdly wishing to secure some
advantage since the subject had been broached.
“If I can give you any information I shall be very happy.”
“I should like to know why Mr. Fortescue failed to press his claim
against my half-sister, Mrs. Perrier. He has permitted it to lie idle a
long time.”
She paused for an instant, endeavoring to find fit and intelligible
expressions for her ideas. Then, with a recollection of one of Temple
Meredith’s phrasings, she went on.
“The length of time that has elapsed since the determination of the
estate _per autre vie_ is more than sufficient to bar his claim.
I can’t understand upon what pretext he intends to attack the property
now.”
“It is easily enough explained,” said Brennett. “He was abroad at the
time of the determination of the estate _per autre vie_. He was
not aware of it himself until just before his return last March. The
fact of this absence makes it possible for him to recover now, for, as
you may perhaps know, the statute expressly excepts persons who are
‘without the limits of the United States.’ So, you see, he has three
years from last March to institute proceedings for the recovery of the
property. The law allows three years next after the removal of the
disability.”
Antoinette was silent, and for a moment he was silent too. She was
canvassing what he had said--reasonable, credible enough, but for one
discrepancy--a fatal discrepancy. For how could it be, if Fortescue
remained abroad since ’57, that that locket, a woman’s gift, with his
name and hers engraved in it, was lost on the battle-field; that it
was found in an empty grave from which a soldier, killed in the great
struggle, had been afterward removed. This was some strange imposture.
She was sure of it.
His voice recalled her attention. He had returned to the subject of the
statute of limitations. At first it seemed to her that he was disposed
to talk discursively. “In Tennessee,” he said, “for rather more than
five years and a half--during the war and some time afterward--the
operation of the statute of limitations was intermitted. Well, pending
this intermission, when, by reason of the suspension of the courts, he
could by no possibility have instituted suit, Mr. Fortescue returned to
this country, entered the army, was badly wounded at this battle out
here, and”--
She started so violently that he suddenly stopped speaking and looked
at her in surprise. He gave her no time to recover. He asked a curt
question which necessitated an instant reply. “Did you never hear that
he was wounded at this battle?”
“Yes--no”--she faltered. “I know little about him,” she went on,
striving to muster her composure. “He is a very distant relative. I
have never seen him, and have rarely heard him mentioned.”
“You seemed surprised. What did I say to surprise you?” asked Brennett
quickly.
She answered precipitately, still startled and confused.
“I was surprised that you should say he was wounded here--so near to us
now. I was--I was--a little nervous,” she concluded, inconsequently.
Brennett laughed carelessly, as if the matter involved only a young
lady’s morbidly delicate sensibilities.
“You must be very nervous, indeed, to shudder at the idea that a man
was wounded near this place so many years ago. Reassure yourself, Miss
St. Pierre, by remembering how many were killed.”
Still his eyes were intent upon the shifting expressions on her face.
There was no imposture, she was thinking now. The finding of that
trinket was accounted for so readily--so naturally. Her secret was
rendered of no avail when this man knew and mentioned the fact that
Fortescue had borne a part in the great conflict. What was more
probable than that he had lost the locket when he was wounded? She had
always fancied that the bit of watch-chain by which it was suspended
had been cut smoothly off by a bullet, but the wound was not of
necessity mortal. Now she realized how simple and likely a thing it
was that the locket had fallen unnoticed, and that afterward, as the
earth was shovelled away, it slipped into a soldier’s grave, where,
among the clods and withered leaves, it had since lain undisturbed. She
said to herself that she must discard the idea that Brennett had deftly
constructed an ingenious plot, and that this locket was the clue to its
weak point. She had a sense of loss, for she had relied upon it as a
masked battery, certain in some way to demolish the imposture she had
so strongly suspected.
As her wandering glance came back from the west, where Fort Despair and
the haunted thickets rose starkly up, silent and lonely in the white
moonlight, she became conscious that he was still watching her, and
she detected in his face a certain speculation. She wondered at his
surprise as he had wondered at hers.
“Why does he find it so strange?” she thought.
“There are depths here still unsounded,” Brennett argued within
himself. “The lead-line has not reached the bottom.”
“As I was saying,” he continued, “Fortescue was wounded and captured.
He remained in prison until the surrender, when he went immediately to
France, and did not come back to this country until March, 1871. Under
ordinary circumstances, even a temporary return would operate as a
removal of the disability, but the suspension was prescribed in view of
an abnormal state of affairs, and he has three years from the time he
landed last March in which to bring suit.”
Fortescue certainly seemed to command the situation. Her recollections
of Meredith’s exposition in regard to the state of the title only
confirmed her in this conclusion. It was with some vague idea of
appearing undismayed by these formidable representations that she
said,--
“But suppose the court should decide that the return during the
suspension did operate as a removal of the disability?”
“Such a decision would be contrary both to the spirit and letter of the
enactment. How could the man bring an action at law when no courts were
held, and the whole country was filled with contending armies? Such
a decision would be very unjust, and law, you know, is not only ‘the
perfection of reason,’ but justice besides. Then there is precedent
in his favor. His counsel think his case very strong. You see, I have
posted myself, having an interest involved, and hearing from him that
a proposal to adjust the matter amicably was under consideration. His
lawyers were averse to making the proposition. They endeavored to
dissuade him. No one else with such a case would think of a compromise.
But you know with a man like Fortescue argument is futile and common
sense thrown away.”
“I don’t know, for I don’t know Mr. Fortescue at all.”
“I remember now that you told me that before. _I_ know him,
though. But _I_ made no effort to dissuade him. If I could I
wouldn’t.”
He laughed after a moment’s reflection; then turned his head and
glanced about him.
“It is a lapse, certainly, from the eternal fitness of things, that
in the presence of this moonlight and these roses a man should find
nothing better to talk to you about than his paltry three thousand
dollars, and your property, and Mr. Fortescue’s claim.”
Perhaps she had no realizing sense of this incongruity. She pursued the
subject with grave intentness.
“Why wouldn’t you advise him against a settlement if you and his
lawyers think it impolitic.”
“Because I am not a disinterested man, Miss St. Pierre. He owes me
money. I shall get it sooner if you and he can come to terms, than at
the end of a lawsuit.”
She said nothing, and after a little he resumed,--
“Honestly, it is the best solution for all concerned. He prefers ready
money now to the property after long litigation. I want his debt paid.
And you have a large estate in jeopardy--as good as lost if you go into
court. And then you have, besides the financial interests, a matter of
feeling involved.”
“A matter of feeling!” she exclaimed.
He turned his eyes upon her with a vague doubt in his face.
“Well,” he said, “one person cannot judge for another, but it seems
to me it would be more--more--politic, it would be wiser--to give
Fortescue what he will take and get him out of the country, for
the sake of the past--you know--of your family. There’s no way
of--of--muzzling _him_, you know.”
“What--what--do you mean?” she asked, her heart beating fast, her color
fluctuating.
“I hope--I hope--I haven’t offended you,” he said with great eagerness.
“The allusion escaped me in viewing the question from all its
standpoints.”
“What do you mean?” she asked again.
“I only meant a caution. Fortescue is a drunkard. He has no remorse,
nor pity, nor shame. And drunken men tell secrets. They got him out of
the country once to hush him up. And this affair has brought him back.
He ought to be induced to go again, and to go forever. But now there is
no one who cares--except you.”
“I! why should I care?”
He looked at her with an expression of sudden comprehension.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “you don’t know?”
“No,” she faltered, shaken with a wild terror.
“Well, then, let it go! I thought you surely knew. But it is better as
it is, perhaps.”
She was trembling in every fibre, her lips were parted, and her breath
came fast. There was a cruel dismay and horror in her blanching face.
“Take care,” he said hastily. “Those people will observe your
agitation. You don’t want everybody speculating, you know. Suppose
we walk to the end of the portico for a moment. It will give you an
opportunity to recover your self-control.”
She rose in silence. As he removed to one side the chair which stood
in her way, he turned his head toward the others of the party. “We
are going to get some of the Cloth-of-gold roses, Mrs. Kirby,” he
said. Then the two walked together down to the end of the portico. The
sentimental old lady looked rather wistfully at Antoinette standing
silent and motionless in the moonlight, her black skirt trailing in
sombre contrast upon the white floor, and observed Mr. Brennett’s
deferential care in trimming the thorns from the stems of the flowers
before handing them to her. The tableau addressed itself strongly to
Mrs. Kirby’s imagination, and the hypothetical romance she sought to
foster had her best wishes.
“It is singularly unfortunate,” Brennett was saying in low tones, “that
I should have chanced to broach that subject, so calculated to disturb
your peace of mind. But let it be as it was before I spoke. Remain in
ignorance. You will be happier.” He still had the flowers and his
penknife in his hand. He raised his head slightly, and she caught his
swift glance. Somehow she fancied he looked to see how she was taking
it.
“You are very right,” she said, still in a tremor. “I have no desire to
know. Pray don’t mention it again.”
His face was half averted, but she detected in it a suggestion of
disappointment. And as she turned her fast-filling eyes to the moonlit
vastness of the battle-field, all blurred and swaying before her, she
began to understand the situation.
This was what the newspapers called “blackmail.”
She had read of such dastardly things, but they had hardly seemed
possible. This man and his coadjutor, Fortescue, had concocted together
some frightful lie that would force money from her. She had given up
at last the theory of an imposture. She now believed their purpose
grew out of the fact that Fortescue’s case was in some way fatally
defective and could not stand in court. Should she defy them, they
might find an appropriate sequel to their scheme in breaking rock in
the State Prison. For she remembered having heard once an incident
bearing upon a certain fierce Tennessee statute, by which an effort to
extort money by threatening to impute to another an offence or crime
is made a felony, and is punished by five years’ imprisonment in the
penitentiary. This man was playing a desperate game,--more desperate,
perhaps, than he knew. For one moment she felt that she could not
forego this revenge. To compass it she could pursue them to the ends of
the earth. Then her characteristic caution returned, with its complex
elements of pusillanimity and a just regard of consequences. This lie
involved some one near and dear to her,--her father, her mother, or how
could it be efficacious with her? And how could she combat it? They
had died in her early infancy. She had never known them. But Fortescue
had known them. Would his word be more credible as to them in public
estimation, or hers? That anything disgraceful to them was true, she
did not believe for an instant. But if a specious lie were promulgated
and not disproved, it would be true to the world. A heavy sense of
responsibility had descended upon her. It was not for herself alone
that she must act; it was for those who were dead, and who could not
speak.
If only she had some advice! She began to cast about in her mind as to
whom she might apply. There was only General Vayne. On his good faith
and his friendship she knew she could rely. But he was a man without
policy or prudence; his life throughout had given evidence of this
fact, and the mere recollection of that fantastically rash episode at
the court-house so short a time ago was enough to deter her. The story
would be elicited, and if General Vayne should look upon it only as an
iniquitous attempt to extort money from her,--a helpless woman, and his
daughter’s guest,--proved or unproved, Maurice Brennett would never get
out of the town alive. Then there would be a great commotion, and the
wicked fabrication would come out.
She determined that never, if it could be prevented, should that
lie be divulged. Never should it be put into words. Money was no
object, and it could not be again, except as it might be used to keep
down that black calumny which could not be refuted now. She would
compromise,--she would give up anything, everything, when Temple
Meredith should come to carry out her wishes. He had said that he
would be here on the 28th of June, and it was not so far away. She was
aware that her position, weak as it was, had its strong point. That
cruel lie would not be made public so long as they hoped to effect a
compromise through its agency, held _in terrorem_ over her. Thus
she could safely postpone taking action.
Brennett’s finesse was a weapon of which every edge cut, but he could
form no idea of the depth of the wounds left by its keen strokes this
time. She had been startled, agitated at first. That was only natural,
and of no special import. Now she had recovered her composure; and her
calmly inexpressive face, as they walked down the portico to rejoin the
others, gave him no indication of the effect of what he had said, and
no augury as to how it would influence the future. He could not pursue
the subject. Her reply had effectually closed it. He could only wait,
and wait in doubt.
After the visitors were gone, the home-circle sat some time longer
in the moonlight. Mrs. Kirby noticed that Antoinette was silent and
abstracted, and when they had at last risen to go within, she still
listlessly lingered outside. The old lady, chancing to turn at the
door, saw her at a moment when she thought herself unobserved; it
was with a gesture of disdainful rejection that she was throwing her
flowers away, the fresh and beautiful roses which Maurice Brennett had
cut for her.
They fell upon the bomb-riven pavement, and there the next day, when
the sun was hot, they withered.