Part 19

As she spoke the doctor considered her resolute face. He had an insecure belief that she would in some way compass her ends. She would collect this debt of vengeance, with usury thereto. How she would do it he could not imagine. He expressed his doubts, and even more than he felt, in the hope of inducing her to give up altogether her use of means full of danger to her mental health. She turned on him at last with her reply:

“You say that I am powerless and that I shall not only harm myself, but hurt all who love me, and yet do this man no real injury. I want one friend who will credit me with not being a fool, and what I say is for you alone.”

“That, of course, Mrs. Trescot.”

She then told him what she had done with the telegram and the letter.

“I cannot blame you,” he said, as she finished a perfectly calm statement. “I do not blame you. I shall say no more. I had far rather you left vengeance to Him who soon or late is sure to punish as man cannot. I see that I, at least, am unable to convince you. But take care; you are on a dark and dangerous way. I shall say no more to Mrs. Averill than that you will occasion no further talk by what you do.”

“Yes,” she said, rising; “thank you, my good doctor. I shall be glad to have you put an end to this gossip. Good-by.”

He went out to his gig, saying to himself as he drove away: “The man is doomed. If she persists he will do something—God knows what. He will be unable to bear it. These sensitive people never can stand still and wait. They are always nettled into doing something.” He began to consider, as he drove into the country, whether he had ever seen any one like Constance Trescot. He at last smiled with the satisfied nod of a man who has found what he was looking for. There was something feline in her delicate ways, her grace of movement, her neatness, the preservation of primitive passions and instincts, her satisfaction in the chase and in torturing. “Let us add,” said the old doctor, “the human intelligence, and we have her. Get up, Bob! It is as near as we shall ever get.”

Two days later the doctor received a note:

“MY DEAR DOCTOR:

“Yesterday, as Susan wanted to hear a real stump-speech, Colonel Dudley rode with us to Ekron; and there, on the edge of the woods, he got us a standing-place (every one was very kind) close to the speakers. I soon had enough of the sectional eloquence; but Susan, who was taken with the humor of it, would not go. I had been told that that man was not to be present. When he got on the stump, not ten feet from us, for a moment he spoke to the people behind him. Colonel Dudley said to me: ‘Come away; I did not expect this.’ Susan said: ‘I must go.’ I said: ‘No; I will not go; I will not be driven away.’ As I refused he turned and saw me. I cannot describe to you with what satisfaction I saw what before I had only guessed. I cannot describe how his face changed. His voice broke for a moment, and then he went on. He was embarrassed. That might well be; but there was more. He got confused and then was clear again. Some one said he was drunk. Although he tried not to look at me, the speech was evidently a failure, and the crowd surprised. As he stepped down I said: ‘Now we will go.’

“I write because I was seen by many who will think that I went purposely or should have left at once. I wish you, who will hear of it, to know that I did not break my promise.

“Believe me, with grateful remembrance, “CONSTANCE TRESCOT.”

“But she stayed, for all that,” said the doctor. “How will it end?”

Others were as curious; and over the cocktails and juleps at the club on the evening of the stump-speaking, the ex-Confederates and others discussed this novel vendetta. As the doctor entered with Colonel Dudley, a young fellow was describing the scene and the evident effect upon Greyhurst. Another, a little older, said: “I saw her follow him down the street. How the deuce could she want to come back here? It must be awful.”

“Yes; for him.”

Said Dudley: “You boys had better drop that. I took this lady to the meeting. No one knew that Mr. Greyhurst was to speak. And let me, as an old fellow, remind you that we do not discuss ladies here.”

“Oh, but, colonel, this was such an amazing thing.”

“Would make a good article,” said the editor, as they sat down.

“But never will, sir,” remarked the doctor, sharply, over the shrubbery of his julep.

“Of course not,” said the editor.

The young fellows apologized, and the colonel began to chat with the doctor.

A few minutes later Greyhurst entered the smoke-filled room. Without speaking to any one else, he went over to where Dudley sat. “Will you do me the favor to speak to me a few minutes? Not outside,” he added a little louder, as men looked around. The old Confederate rose, saying, “Of course; but let no one take away my julep.”

“Not outside,” Greyhurst repeated. “Up-stairs, colonel.”

Dudley followed him to the room above, where were two candles, some chairs, a poker-table, and mildewed walls.

“Let us sit down,” said Greyhurst. “I shall not keep you long.”

“Very good; it is chilly here. What is it?”

Greyhurst said: “You will, I know, pardon me if I am wrong; but you as much as told me I must leave the board of the orphan home. I have since learned, or inferred, that Mrs. Trescot was behind the matter.”

“Yes, in a way; indirectly. In fact, I have no reason to conceal from you that she declined to leave in the hands of the managers the money she gave, because you were on the board. I thought her justified, but of course I could not bring a lady’s name into the matter when I talked to you.” Dudley was not a man to excuse his actions. He expected an angry answer. To his surprise, Greyhurst said quietly:

“Yes, she was justified. May I ask if, when you rode out with her to the meeting this afternoon, you were aware that I was to speak?”

“I was not. Is that all?” asked the colonel, as he stood up.

“Yes, that is all,” said Greyhurst, in tones both sad and gentle; “and, sir, I trust that you will accept my excuses for such unusual questions.”

“It is all right,” said the colonel. Then, seeing that Greyhurst still lingered, standing, with one thumb on the table, something struck him in this large, square-shouldered man with the dark eyes. Either curiosity or faintly felt pity, or both, made him say:

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes; if I may keep you a few minutes.”

“Pray, go on.”

“I am in a situation, Colonel Dudley, which is very unusual. I was unfortunate a year ago—most unfortunate; and since Mrs. Trescot has returned to St. Ann I fear that my presence, our accidental encounters, our—well, I find it difficult to avoid her. I put it as a man must do about a lady. It has become unendurable.” He did not wish to complain that he was haunted by this living ghost. He looked steadily at the old colonel, and added: “I hope I make myself understood?” He was unwilling to say that she followed him.

“I suppose,” said Dudley, coldly, “that I must admit that you do. It is plain enough as you put it—unusual, too, as you state; but let me add that I do not propose to discuss with you this lady’s course.”

Greyhurst said promptly: “I did not expect you to do that. I wish to ask advice of an older man as to what, as a gentleman, I should do.”

“I can’t give it, Mr. Greyhurst. There are reasons why even to be asked is disagreeable to me. I allowed you to question me in regard to my presence with Mrs. Trescot at that meeting. I answered you frankly. But I did not like it, sir; I did not like it. If I had declined to reply we should have quarreled. I think this talk had better end before my temper gives out—or yours.”

Greyhurst had been looking down as they talked, seeming to weigh his words. Now, with something like a wan smile on his dark face, he said quickly, as he looked up: “No man, Colonel Dudley, can ever quarrel with me again, or make me quarrel.”

Dudley’s face cleared as he said at once, in his frank, pleasant way: “I misunderstood. You must pardon me. I am free to say to you that, little as I like or approve this lady’s course, you, sir, can do nothing. I did not mean to advise, but now I have done so, and I have only this to add. None of us who know Mrs. Trescot are likely to stop her. I saw her at the meeting. If ever a woman hated a man, she hates you. Whether she is justified in her course or not, you know best. You have made me speak out, and I have had to express myself in a way, sir, which is not agreeable to me and cannot be pleasant to you.”

“I have said that she is justified,” said Greyhurst, slowly. “I have had no day since—since I killed that man which has not been full of regret. I do not hesitate to say so to you. But a man must live. I cannot go away; I have not the means. What can I do?”

“Do? Damn it! you can do nothing.”

“Thank you; that is my own unhappy conclusion. At all events, I shall be released for a time. I go to California next week, and shall be gone a month, or even two. You know, it is about Dexter’s mines.”

He said next, with a certain timidity: “Would you do me the great favor to allow me to refer to you some business matters while I am absent?”

Dudley hesitated, and then replied shortly: “Yes; tell them to come to me.”

“Thank you,” said Greyhurst.

Upon this, they went down-stairs in silence. As Greyhurst turned to go out, the old colonel, for the first time, put out his hand, saying: “I am sorry for you, Greyhurst, both for the past and for the present. Good night.”

The lawyer made no reply, and the colonel went back to his euchre and the julep and the doctor.

“I was afraid,” said the old army comrade, “that there might be something unpleasant.”

“No; but I had to speak my mind. He was as sweet-tempered as—well, as you are, doctor.”

“Then he is changed. In fact, since he killed Trescot he is strangely patient. Every one notices it.”

“Damn him!” said Dudley. “I don’t think he would even kill a fly now. Your deal, doctor.”

The game went on to the end, and the colonel, who had won, said, laughing: “You are not in your usual form, Eskridge.”

“No; my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking of Greyhurst, and what a mess he has made of his life. I do not believe the man has a friend in the world; and I suppose he quarrels with John Greyhurst as often as with others. Many of us are not our own friends. I doubt a little if he is even his own acquaintance.”

Dudley laughed. “You have a queer way of putting things.”

The doctor was in his speculative vein. He went on.

“It was simple murder, that good fellow’s death. I wonder how a man feels after he has done a thing like that. If he is educated and imaginative, and has power to feel, it must set him apart, as it were, in a kind of awful loneliness—a sort of solitary imprisonment in himself.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose men take it that way, Eskridge.”

“Some; not all. Of course there are brutes who have no power to suffer for what they do.”

“And you think this man does suffer?”

“I do. I am sure of it.”

“And so am I. Another julep, doctor?”

“No; I must go. I have one dying man to see, and there is another soul about to fill up the ranks. You see, I live on the skirmish-line of life.”

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“Oh, I leave you to digest my remark.” He went out, laughing.

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.