Part 1

CONSTANCE TRESCOT

CONSTANCE TRESCOT

A Novel

BY S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D., LL.D.

NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1905

Copyright, 1905, by THE CENTURY CO.

_Published March, 1905_

THE DE VINNE PRESS

CONSTANCE TRESCOT

PART I

I

“Mr. Hood will see you in the library, sir.”

George Trescot followed the servant, and when left alone began to wander about a large room which looked out on the north coast of Massachusetts Bay. Why it was called a library might well have puzzled the young man. There were few books except those of reference, but on chair and table were mill and railway reports, and newspapers in superabundance.

As the clock struck the hour of noon a woman of some twenty-seven years entered the room. Hearing the door open, Trescot turned from a brief and hopeless effort to comprehend the genealogical tree of the Hood family, which hung on the wall in much splendor of heraldic blazonry.

Miss Hood came in smiling, as if she had just been amused and was enjoying the remembrance. Her face had—what is more often found in plain women than in those to whom nature has been more bountiful—great power of expressing both kindliness and mirth. She was slight, but of admirable figure, and possessed the mysterious gift of grace. For the rest, she was unselfish, seriously religious, and perplexed at times by the comic aspect of things, hardly realizing the fact that a ready sense of humor had often been as useful in helping her to endure the lesser trials of existence as the religious faith which she held to with the simple trust of a child. Life presented itself to her in relentless simplicity, and consisted of things right and things wrong, with over-sensitive self-reproach when either seemed too amusing. She was, socially speaking, fearless, and occasionally outspoken to a degree which embarrassed others, but never Susan Hood.

“Good morning, major,” she said. “I am glad to see you. I consider myself neglected of late.”

“I shall be the best of brothers-in-law, Miss Susan.”

“Oh, that is all very well. The future does not always pay the debts of the present. You will be as good as my sister will let you be; but I am easily satisfied.”

“I ought to be,” he said. “And, by the way, I am only Mr. Trescot, not Major. These labels should have gone when the war ended; but I suppose men like titles. I shed mine long ago.”

“You are quite right,” she returned, smiling with the aid of a large and expressive mouth and show of rather irregular, very white teeth. “I see that I am just in time to save you a fall from the genealogical tree of the Hoods. I incline to think some of the limbs a trifle insecure. My uncle climbs it at least once a week, and believes in its fabulous fruit as he does in nothing else. I told him last night that it was more genial than logical. If he had understood me, I do not know what would have happened.”

Trescot laughed. “Mr. Hood explained it to me last week. I nearly fell asleep on the top branch.”

“Did you? You would never have been forgiven. It is still growing; the mustard-seed was nothing to it.” Then the further temptations offered by the comparison presented themselves to her as irreverent, and she said:

“By the way, I am sent by my uncle to entertain you, as he is just now engaged. As a matter of fact, he is engaged in settling what he will say to you. He is enjoying it, too. Sit down; you will have to put up with me for as long as he chooses to remain agreeably perplexed.”

“Perplexed?” said the young man, as he seated himself. “What is there to perplex? It seems to me very simple.”

“And to me. You have asked my sister to marry you. She desires to do so. My uncle says he is old, and that he has entitled himself to our society until he dies. I have told him that if he would kindly set a time for that event we should know what to do, and that he was pretty secure as to me. He did not like it. Nothing is simple to my uncle.”

“I suppose not,” said Trescot, laughing. “The asking him seemed to me a mere formal matter. Constance is old enough to know her own mind, and, I fancy, to have her own way. I did not ask of him any favors.”

“They should not need to be asked; but he will be sure to think you expect him to provide for Constance,—as, in fact, he ought to do.”

“I expect nothing of the kind, nor does Constance. We are prepared to wait until I can offer her a home. That may be in a year, or even two years. There is no need to discuss it.”

“Indeed! Wait until you know my uncle better. He discusses everything. He would discuss whether two and two make four. He constructs theories, as he calls them, and when it is needful to act does not always abide by them, which, I assure you, is, on the whole, rather fortunate, as I hope you may discover.”

“Well, on this subject, Miss Hood, I have also my theory, and an abiding faith in it.”

She laughed merrily and said: “Wait a bit. You have as yet seen only one side of my uncle. He can be, as you know, a pleasant, rather cynical old gentleman. Now you present yourself to him under a novel aspect, and he will be sure to construct what he calls a theory for himself and you, to fit the occasion. It will be something like this—I may as well prepare you: ‘My theory, sir, is that people never change. These young women have always had all the money they wanted; _therefore_, they will always want it. It must be clear to you that we shall need to discuss the matter at length—at length, sir. Money in my—sir, in my opinion, is developmental; without money,’ etc. He will be delightfully irrelevant. I wish I could overhear the interview. He really does not care about money; but he likes to talk about it. It may be he will light on something else. You will have to be patient.”

“I can be that. But as concerns money, I do not want it—or, rather, I want it very much, but not from him. I mean in time to get it myself. Confound it! Pardon me, but really—”

“Oh, that is a very mild expletive; if it applies to Uncle Rufus, it is quite unnecessary: he is just now sufficiently confounded. And, after all, if you were an old man like my uncle, would you willingly part with so delightful an inmate as my sister?”

“No,” laughed Trescot; “no, indeed.”

“Well, that is honest. You may be surprised to learn that he would object quite as much to part with me as to part with my sister. I am not malicious enough to ask you to explain that.”

Trescot was relieved from need to reply when, awaiting no answer, she continued:

“The fact is, he likes me because we disagree radically about everything, from religion to politics, and Constance because they agree about most things, except politics. There they are far apart. His opinions about the war have been to both of us a matter of real unhappiness. Had he lived in the South he would have been bitter against secession. He is always in the opposition, but he despises people who yield.”

“Then he will certainly fall in love with me. Thank you for the hint.”

“Oh, I did not mean it for that, and I suspect it was not needed. After all, it is not that you have no money that troubles my uncle; it is really far more the idea that Constance is ungrateful, and shows great lack of taste in being willing to desert him for you, or for any one. I think I hear his voice. I must go; but when you are through with uncle my sister wants to see you in the garden. If you make yourself very disagreeable you will find that Uncle Rufus will find some ingenious excuse for being reasonable. He will think it proper, after he has posed a little as a shrewd man of business, to pose as the good uncle.”

Trescot stood with her in the window recess while they talked, and now, turning, glanced at the shrewd, kind face, with its readiness of humorous comment, and said: “I should like to hear what might be the character of George Trescot you would present to Mr. Hood.”

“Would you, indeed?” she returned, looking up. It was a strong face she saw, and more serious just now than the quality of the question suggested. Yet it smiled in pleased fellowship of mirth as she answered, laughing:

“Ah, there is my uncle! I have half a mind not to tell you.”

“Perhaps I had better not insist. You are sure to be painfully honest, and I may have cause to regret.”

“But I will. I should say—well, I should say—‘Uncle Rufus, I like him.’”

“Thank you. I shall put that with what Sheridan once said to me.”

“What did he say? Do tell me.”

“Oh, he said, ‘That was well done, Major Trescot; very well done.’ I blushed like a girl.”

“What had you done?”

“What had I done? Ah,” he laughed, “you must ask Sheridan.”

“But I may never see him.” She was curious about large things, rarely about little ones or mere social trivialities. “Of course you will tell me.”

“Perhaps if, some day, on trial, you prove to be a quite perfect sister-in-law.”

“Am I not good enough now? I said I liked you. Isn’t that a form of goodness? I assure you that there are no better judges of men than old maids and sisters-in-law.”

“Indeed! But you are only a sort of brevet sister-in-law. And why—shall I dare to say—are old maids good judges of men?”

“Oh, they look down from a heaven of neutrality where there is no giving in marriage. Goodness! what am I saying?”

Hearing her uncle’s step on the stair, she turned to leave. Trescot saw with approval her trim, neat figure, and said, laughing, “The basis of opinion is not altogether secure.”

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed. “I am already on the family tree, my destiny predetermined,—‘Susan Hood, spinster.’ But here is Uncle Rufus. If he does not first indulge in vain genealogies I shall be surprised. Good-by! I wonder what St. Paul meant by vain genealogies?”

As she spoke, a small, very thin man of some seventy years entered, with a too obvious affectation of youthful briskness.

“I leave Mr. Trescot to your tender mercies, uncle.”

“Ah, good morning. Fine day. Sit down,” said Mr. Hood, as she left them. “Pray, sit down.” He began at once, with an air of decision, “I suppose this matter of which my niece has spoken to me appears to you very simple.”

“It did not at one time. It does now. I have asked Miss Constance to be my wife. She has done me the honor to say yes. What else is there?”

“Everything, sir; everything. I do not propose that my niece shall leave me. She owes to me the affection of a child. I am old and cannot live long. Her sense of duty should forbid her to desert me. If it does not, I must act for her, and prevent what is both criminal and foolish. I must create for her a virtue which she has not.”

“But, Mr. Hood—” said Trescot, raising a hand in appeal.

“No, sir; do not interrupt me. I object to it altogether. You have no money, and she has none. You know nothing of each other—nothing. As to waiting a year—two years—until you can provide for her, it is nonsense. When she mentioned this highly absurd proposition I told her as much. Now, sir, you have my decision, and my niece has already had it.”

“May I ask what was Miss Constance’s reply?”

“She said she meant to marry you if she had to sew for a living. By George! she can’t sew on a button. I was quite prepared for her reply. She has the obstinacy of my people.”

“Then, Mr. Hood, you may rest assured that I shall marry her. I can wait.”

“But I cannot wait. Do you suppose I mean to have a love-sick girl maundering about my house for two years? No, sir; you do not know her. From a child she has been obstinate when she wanted anything; I should have no peace.”

“I am sorry for you,” said Trescot, much amused; “but I can only repeat what I have said already. Unless Miss Constance changes her mind—”

“She never changes her mind; we never do—it is a family trait.”

“I hope not; and in that case I trust you will see this matter in a more favorable light. But in any case, to be frank, I mean to marry her.”

“I suppose, then, there is no help for it,” said the elder man, with a curious collapse of resolution. “I am old and feeble”—which was true. “The girl is ungrateful. I rely upon her for everything. Susan is wrapped up in her poor and her parson—she calls him her rector, I believe. I find it inconsistent with my sense of duty to let you go on in blind ignorance. You will discover Constance to be efficient, obstinate; and as I am told by Susan that you are what is called religious, you ought also to know that my niece and I agree in the entire absence of that adjective.”

“That,” said Trescot, coldly, “is a matter I prefer not to discuss.” He knew very well by this time that the woman he loved had, unlike himself, no distinct creed.

“Well, I desire that you should understand her. She is very like me.”

“Indeed!” he returned, much amused. “Then I shall be sure to end by liking you, Mr. Hood. I presume that I may consider it as settled.”

“No, sir; I may yield, but I will never consent; and I consider it my duty to warn you. I have said as much. This girl, this woman, is a creature of instincts. As a child her temper was terrible; under my wise rule it has been tamed. She loves and hates with animal fidelity; and once she is set on doing anything, neither saint nor devil can change her.”

“That is rather gratifying,” said Trescot, between suppressed mirth and annoyance. Certainly this was an extraordinary old man.

“She was an unreasoning Union woman, and I am of opinion that the South was altogether in the right. But neither reason nor respect for me has ever altered what she calls her views.”

“You will pardon me if I say that I am very glad to hear it.”

“Ah, well, well, that is as you please. A pity you agree. It is a theory of mine that difference of opinion is a basis of true happiness in married life; otherwise it becomes monotonous.”

Trescot sat still, studying the self-pleased face, and amused himself with thought of the mirth with which Susan would have heard her uncle giving Constance a character for her new place. He kept a respectful silence as the old man wandered on; but by what paths he reached an expression of opinion as to the constitutional rights of States and cities to secede, Trescot never could remember. At last he was given to understand that the right of States to secede was based on the undoubted right of individuals to secede from States. Here, as the old man’s voice rose to political levels of emphasis, it recalled Trescot from the dreaming mood which was taking him somewhere into the fairyland of love.

He recovered power to listen, but at last, disappointed by the absence of exhilarating difference of opinion, Mr. Hood said: “We seem to have strayed. I was about to add that my niece and I have always agreed, except as regards one subject; and, I regret to say, as concerns that matter, even the unfortunate closure of the war has in no degree abated her feeling—a child, sir, instinctive and, as I observed, obstinate. I think I have already dwelt on that peculiarity.”

“Yes, I so understood you. And now, Mr. Hood, that you have sufficiently warned and informed me, and have decided to consent—I beg pardon, yield—”

“I did nothing of the kind. I sometimes give way, but I never yield. I do not like this marriage. But I do not propose that you shall cause my niece to quarrel with me. She cannot stay here and make me uncomfortable; she cannot marry you and starve; I won’t permit it.”

“Then may I ask what you propose to do?”

“Well, first I desire to state that, although I am said to be a rich man, I do not intend to leave to my nieces more than a very small competence. I have a theory on this subject. It is interesting. At another time I shall be happy to set it before you—at length.”

Trescot rose. “I assure you, sir, that I should have been glad to feel that in case of anything going wrong with my power to provide for my wife,—such as my death, or what not,—she would be at ease. I should be a fool if I told you I do not care what you do with your money; but if you imagine, as you seem to take for granted, that it is influencing me in my relation to Miss Constance, we had better drop the matter of money altogether.”

“But,” said Hood, testily, “I am not going to be bullied into dropping it. I mean to have my own way.”

Trescot was a man not merely good-tempered, but of a certain gay sweetness of disposition which captured men and women. He began, however, to be a little impatient, and in reply said:

“I have been for a half-hour endeavoring, sir, to find out what it is you want. That I am to marry appears to be settled.”

“I suppose so. I know Constance too well to oppose it. I am told by my niece that you cannot marry at present. But if you choose to accept the position of my agent in St. Ann, Missouri, I will insure my niece an income for five years—say, two thousand dollars. You would be called upon to manage my property, and I should expect that you would eject squatters, bring suits, and otherwise care for my interests.” He fell back in his chair with an air of having settled the matter.

For a moment Trescot was silent, and regarded the feeble, shrunken old man, who sat watching him and pulling nervously at his thin gray side-whiskers. With some sense of the niece being sold to him for a consideration, he returned quietly:

“No; I do not wish to leave Boston. I am not a land agent, and, to be plain, Mr. Hood, I cannot accept your offer.”

“But you will.”

“No, I think not; I cannot. What you please to give your niece or not to give her must have no relation to any business interests you may choose to confide to me, in the very doubtful case of my considering your offer.”

“You had better talk first to Constance. I think she must know you already, for she declared that you would not accept my offer, and then she made me another.”

“Indeed!” Trescot did not like this any better.

“She says that if I give her two thousand a year, and put my affairs at St. Ann in your hands on a pure business basis, you will, perhaps, think of it.”

Trescot would have much preferred to have had the offer made directly to himself. He said he would speak to Constance about it. It was not a thing to settle without time and thought.

“But it is settled,” said the old man. “You will find that out. Constance usually knows her own mind.”

“But not mine,” returned Trescot, rising. He had had by this time as much of the uncle’s indecisions and feeble display of business sharpness as a nearly perfect temper would bear. He had learned that his own tender and respectful love had been met by a passion of affection which had seemed to take as small thought of the future as a bird might do, and yet here was a certain competence in her dealings with her uncle for which he was unprepared.

As he went away to meet her he said to himself, “It seems reasonable,” but felt again that he should have preferred to be left to arrange matters involving business and so complete a change of residence.

II

George Trescot was, like Constance, an orphan, and of the same old New England breed as the woman he loved. With slender means, he had made his way in college, unassisted, by aiding duller men as a tutor, and had passed through the law school with unusual distinction. Then the war broke out, and, enlisting in the ranks, he rose rapidly, as death cleared the way, until in the final struggle he was so wounded as partially to disable his right shoulder, which he commonly eased by carrying his hand caught in his waistcoat. Although five years had gone by, at times it gave him pain, and he felt this as he passed through the drawing-room and out into the garden. Constance’s appearance of being tall struck him as she passed across the path and disappeared behind a row of shrubs which sheltered the garden from the rough sport of the east winds. In reality, admirable symmetry was responsible, for she was not of more than full middle height.

As he turned to meet her she was joyously flushed, a glad welcome in her eyes. In a moment she was in his arms. “A whole week!” she cried.

Conscious that the embrace was as much hers as his, he cast an uneasy glance about him, fearful of profane eyes, of which she was, to appearance, heedless.

The moment was expressive. He loved her with some sense that she was a thing apart from other women. A great respect went with it—a delicate, shy tenderness which passed into delicious wonder at the deep passion which he had awakened. They had met first at a dance, where, as he crossed the room, an awkward partner in the waltz had brought her roughly against his wounded shoulder. In extreme pain he had dropped into a chair. She caught sight of his face. “Who is he?” she said. Her partner replied, “He is George Trescot, my old major in the Sixth. I must have hurt his wounded arm. Excuse me a moment.”

“No, take me to him.”

“Trescot,” said his friend, “I am sorry; I was awkward.”

“May I, too, apologize?” said she.

As they spoke, Trescot, pale with pain, looked up and tried to rise. He met a pair of violet eyes and a face of anxious interest he was never to forget.

“Pardon me,” he said; “I shall be all right in a little while. It was worth some pain to know Miss Hood.”

“Thank you. That is a great deal to say.”

He asked for a glass of wine, and, as his friend went for it, she sat down beside him.

“I am more sorry,” she said, “than I can tell you. Were you hurt in the war? I think Mr. Ware said so.”

“Yes; but pardon me, I cannot talk—not now, not just yet. But do not go.”