Part 12

Sitting with the book in his hand, he gave a moment’s thought to the little incident. Then with a smile he recalled the fact that once, late at night at Cambridge, when about to go to bed, as he left his table a rose had of a sudden fallen to pieces. He had had a faint sense of unpleasantness in this abrupt ending of a life of beauty, in the unexpectedness of this sudden death. He remembered that it had seemed to him as if an unseen hand had crushed it. He swept the red petals off the open book, and said to himself: “I suppose any one would feel that way. It was natural. I don’t wonder it startled her.” Then recalling an intention, he read again a letter from Susan which purposely he had not shown to his wife.

She wrote:

“Uncle Rufus is very feeble since his return, and continually talks of the way in which he was received at St. Ann. It was like him to be very much frightened when there, and very bold now that he is away. I think you ought to know that he wrote a very imprudent and quite childish letter to Mr. Greyhurst. He showed it to me with an air of triumph. He said in it that his age and weakness had alone prevented him from punishing Mr. Greyhurst for the insulting manner in which he had treated him, and that Mr. Greyhurst had thus made a compromise which he had intended (think of that, George!) quite out of the question. I wonder how you have had the patience to stand him, and I do hope that this inconceivable folly will not add to your troubles.

“Do not tell Constance. She is already quite too needlessly alarmed, and now it is very necessary for her to be free from care.”

“Pretty bad, that,” murmured Trescot. After a few moments’ thought he wrote to Mr. Hood:

“ST. ANN, “Sunday, P.M., October 6.

“DEAR MR. HOOD:

“We shall win, I believe. And now I beg leave to say that it has come to my knowledge that you have again gone by me, your agent, and written to Mr. Greyhurst a most imprudent letter. The general and I think that the poverty of some of the Baptiste heirs, a widow and three orphans, with the misfortune of their loss by natural events of what goes to profit you, ought to induce you to deal charitably with them and avoid for them and you further litigation. If, after the trial, you still refuse and are of a mind to interfere in your own affairs without regard to your agent, I beg leave to give up the care of your property. You may consider this as final and not open to discussion.

“Yours respectfully, “GEORGE TRESCOT.

“RUFUS HOOD, Esq.”

He read the letter with care, and, directing it, left it on his table, where it lay for some days, forgotten during the excitement of the trial.

XIV

The crowd in and about the court-room was so great that it was with difficulty Trescot found for Constance a seat at the front. He then entered within the rail, spoke a word or two to the general, shook hands with Greyhurst and others, sat down, and looked about him.

The room was large and full of people, some of whom he knew, and many, both men and women, of all classes, whom he did not know, from the town and the surrounding country. He arranged his papers and waited. A single case preceded his own. It was soon over, and the crier called the case of Elise Baptiste and others _versus_ Rufus Hood.

The judge said: “The case will now proceed.”

Greyhurst, handsome, soldierly, erect, and clad in Confederate gray, a rose in his coat, stood up and said: “May it please your honor, I appear for the plaintiffs.” Trescot stated that he appeared for the defendant, and regretted that circumstances left him alone in the conduct of the case.

A jury was impaneled. To four jurors Greyhurst objected. Trescot challenged no one, and contented himself with asking each juror if he could decide the case without fear or favor.

The jurors were in place and a deepening stillness fell upon an audience full of interest. As Constance, eager and anxious, looked at the slight figure and refined face of her husband, he seemed, as she thought, to be conscious of her anxiety, and, turning, smiled assurance of the confidence he felt.

Greyhurst opened the case. “May it please your honor and the gentlemen of the jury. It is plain from this great audience that this is a case which excites the interest of every one in this community. It should do so. A writ of ejectment has been served upon Rufus Hood to test his right to lands at the bend of the river.

“Mr. Hood lays claim to certain—I might say uncertain—acres, a part of the large estate known as the Baptiste tract, and held under an indisputable French title, for which I shall produce the original grant.

“No one can define the limits of the defendant’s claim. The defendant will assert that it began inland somewhere and extended to low water.” Where, he asked, did it begin—at what points? He went on to speak of the erosion of the water-front, and of this as the reason why a man already rich was eager to put forward a claim which had no foundation. He was confident that no credible evidence could be produced to uphold the defendant’s pretension.

The direct evidence of ownership by the Baptistes would not keep him long. It would consist merely in the production and proof of the original grant, and of the wills required to prove the present ownership. It was simple. The defendant had no deeds to put in evidence, no proof of undisputed possession, no real knowledge of such bounding monuments as could be sworn to. He was very cool and impressive as he spoke, and dwelt at length upon the unfairness of the defendant’s claim, characterizing it as an attempt to inflict injury on impoverished and unfortunate people.

The original French grant was produced and submitted to the court and the jury. The wills proving title by descent were exhibited, and Trescot, admitting their validity, offered no objections. All the evidence for the plaintiffs was before the court, although the details occupied considerable time, and Greyhurst sat down, stating that the plaintiff rested the case.

Trescot rose, cast a smiling glance at Constance, and went on to state his case. He had declined to question the validity of the grant or the wills. He accepted both for his client. He wished neither to delay nor to obstruct. His business was to prove that forty years ago the holder of the Baptiste grant had sold to James Hood, the father of his client, a certain tract of land, for which a deed had been given. He would deal frankly with the matter. The war and the great cotton fire had destroyed the records and also the deeds and surveys once in possession of Mr. Hood’s former agent, General Averill. Even the tax receipts were gone. He would prove, however, that such a deed had existed, that a survey had been made. He would produce the surveyor’s notes, giving the bounds, and prove by his widow his handwriting; and also would produce a plot of the survey appended to the notes.

This survey set forth that from an oak at one time on the bluff the line ran due east sixty-seven perches, more or less, to a tree, a certain live-oak; thence north one hundred perches to a third tree, a walnut; and west again sixty-seven perches to an oak on the bluff. A line carried south between the two trees originally on the bluff completed the original bounds of the tract. Observe, he said, that this left the Baptistes in possession of a tract between Mr. Hood’s land and the river, partly bluff and partly the shore below.

He would produce a witness who assisted the surveyor, and prove that the said surveyor had with him as a guide a deed or paper defining the bounds, and that the witness saw him consult the said paper. He would prove what no doubt opposing counsel would admit,—indeed had admitted,—the erosion of the bluff. He would prove, past dispute, the present existence of the two trees marking the eastern line of the survey, and thus show that lines drawn due westward from said trees the number of perches stated in the survey would carry his client’s claim far out beyond the present low-water mark.

The great storm and flood of seven years before had carried away the projecting headland, had taken the Baptiste shore, their upland on the bluff, Mr. Hood’s front, and his western boundary trees. All of the Baptiste land had gone and a part of Mr. Hood’s. He trusted that he had made it entirely clear.

Greyhurst at first assumed an attitude of careless inattention, but as Trescot went on he began to listen intently, and to take notes.

The fact of Averill’s being no longer of counsel in the case left Trescot free to use his evidence as he could not otherwise have done. He felt that the affection and respect with which the general was regarded by all men were sure to give great weight to what he would say, and enabled Trescot to do without some other and feebler witnesses. As the general, when called, took his oath, Greyhurst said to Colonel Dudley, who sat beside him: “A fortunate illness that, and not very lasting.”

“You do not mean, sir, that General Averill—”

“Oh, no,” said Greyhurst, interrupting him; “of course not.”

Dudley was silent.

“Were you,” asked Trescot, “Mr. Hood’s agent?”

“Yes, I was from the year 1852. I am not now.”

“Did you at any time hold for the defendant a deed for land on the bluff at the bend of the river?”

“I did—both a deed and the survey, made by one Hazewell.”

After further questions he went on to say that, to the best of his remembrance, this deed described the holding as extending westward to land retained by the Baptistes on the bluff. He had paid taxes on the land, but the receipts and his own books had been burned during his absence in the war. He also bore witness to the erosion of the bend.

Greyhurst cross-examined him with extreme courtesy on his failure to remember accurately the terms of the deed.

At last he asked, “What taxes have been paid on this land by you since the war?”

“None; the property was in dispute, and, as the jury knows, taxes may run on unpaid for years without finally affecting the title. That means nothing.”

“Pardon me,” said Greyhurst; “but I object to the witness instructing the jury. It is facts, not opinions, we want.”

The general smiled and was dismissed, when Trescot, interposing, said, “Did the Baptistes, at any time since the war, pay taxes?”

Greyhurst objected, but not in time to prevent the witness from saying, “They did not.”

Mrs. Hazewell, the widow of the surveyor, and now brought from Indiana, produced a book containing, with other matters, a statement of the boundaries and area of a survey, made by her husband, of land on the Baptiste property for James Hood in October, 1830. With it was a neat plot of the property, indicating certain trees as monuments at the corners. There was also a memorandum of receipt of payment for the work. She identified the book and swore to the handwriting as that of her husband. So carefully had Trescot guarded his witnesses that the utmost surprise was created as the case went on. The book and plot were submitted to the jury, and although the witness was sharply cross-examined, her evidence was not shaken. As the young lawyer developed his case, and it was seen how the dates as given by the witnesses coincided, the elder members of the bar began to listen with growing interest, and to exchange glances of surprise, or whispers of astonishment, that Greyhurst should have ventured to try the case at all.

Several persons swore to the fact of the great flood, and the amount of erosion of the bluffs; and a map showing these changes was also put in evidence. This was not disputed.

To the evident amazement of Greyhurst, the next witness called was Thomas Coffin. After the usual preliminaries, Trescot asked:

“What do you know of the survey of this tract on the bluff?”

“I helped my father. He was a chain-bearer, and blazed the bounds.”

“How old were you at that time?”

“Well, it’s forty years ago. I am fifty-eight now, come February. I was eighteen years old. That was in October, 1830.”

“How were you employed in the survey?”

“I helped; I carried the ax.”

“Can you swear to the trees marking the eastward bound? Those which were blazed?”

“I can.”

“How do you know them?”

“Saw father blaze them. He made two blazes—one on the west side and one on the east. He always did that. He was a mighty careful man.”

“Did he blaze only with the ax?”

“No; he burned the blaze, too, with a hot crowbar. I made the fire.”

Showing him the surveyor’s plot, Trescot asked:

“Do you understand this map?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you say where on it the trees would be you have spoken of—those on the inland side? Look at it carefully; take your time.”

After a little hesitation, during which the stillness of the crowded room deepened, he replied, pointing:

“Yes, sir,—there and there.”

“Here are two pins; put them in at the places.” He did so, and the plot of the survey was submitted to the jury.

“How do you know the trees are those said to have been blazed?”

“I cut them down yesterday, both of them,—those I showed you—me and another man cut them down. Mr. Douglas, he was there. I sawed them through and found the blazes. But before they was felled I knew them by the sinking in of the bark over the blazes.”

“Where are the trees?”

“The blazed parts—that’s the sections with the bark off—is in a wagon back of the court.”

“I shall ask your honor,” said Trescot, “to have them brought in, or, as they are heavy, that the jury shall go out and examine them.”

Greyhurst rose to object that there was no proof of these being the trees in question. Being overruled, the jury went out, inspected the sections, and returned to their seats.

With this unlooked-for evidence the interest became intense, while Constance watched steadily the face of her husband.

“That is all,” said Trescot to Coffin.

“One moment,” said Greyhurst. “I prefer, if counsel does not object, to cross-examine the witness after all the defendant’s evidence is concluded.”

Trescot said, “Although this is unusual, I shall urge no objection.”

Peter Douglas, the county surveyor, was next called. He had been present when the trees were felled and sawed. He had himself driven with the sections to the court-house. He swore that the survey shown him gave correctly the distance between the two trees marking the eastern bound, and that lines carried west as required on the survey shown him would now end far out in the river.

Greyhurst’s cross-questioning of the county surveyor was brief, and served only to make that official angry and to weaken the plaintiffs’ case.

As link on link was added to the chain of evidence, murmurs of surprise ran through the audience; for Greyhurst had talked confidently of the utter weakness of the defendant’s case.

Trescot bowed to the Judge, and then said: “I have done. My witnesses are in your hands, Mr. Greyhurst.”

Coffin was recalled for cross-examination. Greyhurst, unprepared for the ability with which evidence had been collected and guarded, was, as usual, annoyed and even angered.

“Your name is Thomas Coffin?”

“Yes, that’s my name.”

“What’s your business?”

“I cut and haul wood; been lumbering ’most all my life.”

“You must have a good memory.”

“I always did have.”

“Then perhaps you remember who paid you to find trees you saw in a big wood when you were a boy.”

Trescot was on his feet in a moment. “I protest, your honor, against the form of the question—against a grave insinuation.”

The judge suggested that counsel put the question differently.

Greyhurst then asked: “How did you happen to inform Mr. Trescot as to these very convenient trees?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Did he on this occasion pay you, or make any promise of pay, if you would find these much-needed trees?”

“He didn’t make any promise, and he didn’t pay me.”

Greyhurst smiled and went on. “Did Mr. Trescot send any one to you about these boundaries?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Now, take care,” said Greyhurst, advancing. He towered above the small, lean woodman. “You have sworn to tell the truth and the whole truth. Did not Mrs. Trescot come to your house in the peanut-patch?”

“She did.”

“What day?”

“I ain’t sure of the day. Guess you know.”

“I want an answer—not insolence. Was it on the sixth of June?”

“Yes, I reckon it was.”

At this bringing of his wife into the case Trescot was, for the moment, annoyed; and then, catching a look from Constance, was strangely set at ease. She was evidently undisturbed. In the court-room almost motionless attention told how increasingly deep was the concern with which the audience watched the unexpected developments of the case.

“Now, take care,” said Greyhurst. “What did Mrs. Trescot say to you? I want all of it. What did she say first?”

“I won’t tell you.”

A faint stir in the hall told of astonishment.

Trescot instantly understood that Coffin was naturally unwilling to confess that he had shot at him. It was this which stopped him.

“Pardon me, Mr. Greyhurst,” he said. “I think I can assist your cross-examination. I am desirous that the witness conceal nothing.”

“I do not ask your assistance, Mr. Trescot. When I want a junior counsel you shall have your chance.”

“Very good,” returned Trescot, and sat down.

“Come, now,” said Greyhurst, “I want an answer. What did Mrs. Trescot say to you, and what did you say to her?”

“I reckon you got my answer.”

“Do you know what will happen if you do not reply as you are sworn to do?”

“I do. I’ll go to jail.”

“Did any one tell you not to answer?”

“Yes,” and Coffin grinned.

“Indeed! Who was it?”

“Thomas Coffin.” The audience laughed.

As Greyhurst turned to address the judge, Trescot rose again. “May I ask your honor if the witness is bound to state what would tend to criminate him? I know and comprehend his difficulty. It has no direct connection with the case. If the learned counsel will ask my witness what passed in relation to the boundary trees, and leave Mrs. Trescot out of the matter, he will attain his end, and I shall be grateful.”

He was most unwilling that his wife should be known to have tried to secure him from the anger of Coffin. He knew what these people, or many of them, would think. He was smiling and courteous as he spoke of his wife, and a murmur of approbation was audible.

“Perhaps,” said Greyhurst, “Mr. Trescot may like to conduct both sides of this case. May it please your honor, I accept this suggestion, and for the present we will leave Mrs. Trescot out of the matter.

“Now, Coffin, what did you say to the lady about the bounds?”

Coffin’s face cleared. “There wasn’t a word said of those trees or this claim until Mrs. Trescot was going away, and then I told her to tell Mr. Trescot I knew about them trees—and I did.”

Greyhurst was disappointed. He said: “Your honor, when I call witnesses in rebuttal I shall deal further with this mystery. That will do, my man.”

“I am nobody’s man but my own. Why don’t you ask me what you said to me about Mr. Trescot the week before I told about the trees?”

The counsel within the rail smiled; the audience tittered; and Greyhurst said angrily: “You may go, do you hear?”

Coffin turned to Trescot. “Do you want me any more?”

“No; certainly not.”

So long as Greyhurst felt his case to be a good one, his very able mind acted well; but in the presence of impending defeat he became irritable, and lost the tranquillity which is needful for quick and perfect use of the mental mechanism.

He had been surprised by the evidence of Coffin. The secret had been well kept, and now he feared that his case was lost. He stated to the court that he was through with the defendant’s witnesses, and at noon the court adjourned to meet at one-and-a-half o’clock.

No trial in years had so interested St. Ann. It was a rich Northern man against poor Southern people who were desperately battling for valuable land. It involved well-known questions of technical interest; erosion of river-frontage, lumber interests, and the value of old blazes as evidence—all these were familiarly discussed as the audience came out; but above all was the excitement caused by Coffin’s refusal to speak freely of what Mrs. Trescot had said.

The lawyers saw which way the case was going, and several of them congratulated Trescot as he joined his wife. They stayed to lunch with the Averills in place of going home. Mrs. Trescot was in high spirits. Her husband’s success satisfied her pride. The dramatic character of the trial, and, above all, Coffin’s refusal to commit himself, and his pleasure in baffling Greyhurst, interested and amused her, so that altogether the trial was to her both novel and entertaining.

The general was as well pleased. Trescot had justified his opinion both of the young lawyer’s legal mind and of his readiness and coolness. He said, turning to Trescot as they smoked alone after the meal:

“If I know Greyhurst, he will lose his head as he loses his case. He _will_ lose it, too; I kept my eye on the jury; but what he will do in summing up will be sure to be unpleasant. You will have no opportunity to answer, and I am sorry for that. He seems to have the skill of the devil in breeding anger. And I very deeply regret that I am not actively in this case.”

“I shall reply beforehand to his summing up, general. I think I know what he will say. It will be a personal attack on Mr. Hood’s harshness. I have my answer, as you are aware. For the rest, I am not easily stirred. What he can do in examining witnesses in rebuttal I do not know. How can he damage us? If Coffin were the worst of men, he is so sustained by facts and by the surveyor’s evidence that to prove he never before in his life had told the truth would not help the case.”

“I do not know. This suit means much to Greyhurst. He will go to all lengths. He is angry. I saw that. He is a proud, over-sensitive man who makes no allowance for the feelings of others, and desires to have his own attentively considered. Now he is hard hit, and, by Jove! do you know, I think he will call Mrs. Trescot.”

“Oh, hardly.”