Part 20

“No; we exchanged visits, but he was much of the time absent since I came; and for a few weeks I was myself in the East.”

“I am sorry you never met.”

“And I. I think I mentioned that we were related—distant cousins. Perhaps, if Mrs. Trescot knew that, she might be willing to see me. I very much want to help you and her. And there is so much wild talk—”

“Yes, I know; but my sister has opinions which I neither share nor like—oh, excuse me, I fear I must cut short our talk. I see that her gardener is going, and I have to see her before she goes out.”

He rose, saying: “I shall try again. I hope to have better luck.”

“I shall see you to-morrow at the library. The books I ordered should be here to-day.”

“One moment, Miss Hood. May I be pardoned if I ask why Mrs. Trescot never comes to church?”

“That is a long story, and a sad one. Some day we will talk about it, not now.”

“You will not forget the flowers for Sunday?”

“Of course not.”

After he left her, Susan went out into the little conservatory.

Said Constance: “Has your rector, or director, gone? What can you find to talk about? He makes rather long visits. I must admit that he rides well for a preacher. I saw him pass yesterday. He looks to be about twenty-one.”

“He is not young,” said Susan, shortly.

“Oh, preachers never are young. He is rather good-looking.”

“Yes, rather. I wish you would see him when he calls. You see every one else.”

“Oh, some day, if you really want me to see him.”

“I should like it, Conny.”

Susan was indisposed to discuss the rector, or to insist too much on his being received; but why, she would have been unable, or, more likely, unwilling, to say. She changed the subject.

“You had your two beauties, Conny. You think I talk long with Mr. Kent. How you find talk for an hour with that depressing Althea I cannot imagine. Her head wabbles about as if she were a feeble chicken, and her nose—did you ever notice her nose?”

“No,” said Constance. “She is a very good woman, and very unfortunate. I do not see why you make fun of her.”

“I? The fun is ready made; and really, Conny, I can pity, and could, at need, help her, without enjoying her society. What do you talk about?”

“Oh, many things.”

Susan had overheard portions of Althea’s gossip. “I think I could guess. Is it never to end?”

Constance, who had been moving about the room, turned on her.

“I thought, Susan, we had agreed to dismiss that subject.”

“No; or, if we did, I cannot go on in this way. I did not lightly bring this matter up. Oh, Conny, if you only would—”

“I would do anything else for you. But for the present you may be at ease. He is going away—to be gone, perhaps, for two months.”

“I am very glad.”

“And I am not. Oh, there is the lunch-bell.”

She was already deeply engaged in a new scheme, and feared to face any more of Susan’s questions. To plan possible or impossible means of wounding her enemy gave her the only satisfaction her narrowing life afforded. To talk of him was painful, or at least Susan was not the neutral-minded confessor who would see in her course the least shadow of human excuse.

After lunch she went into Trescot’s study. The feeling which rigidly guarded the room from any presence but that of Constance seemed to Susan morbid. Nevertheless, she had respected her sister’s wish. Constance entered and sat down. When there she had at times that sense of the nearness of the dead which many have known—and known with intense longing for the “sound of a voice that is still.”

She had long since brought his sword from her chamber and placed it on his table. She picked it up and dusted it, and laid it down. The room was full of him. She walked about, thinking of her dead, and then, with another thrill of anguish, of the lost child. “And you would have had me forgive!” she cried. “Oh, George, George, how can I! You are dead; I shall see you no more. My baby is dead—and I am dead, too—oh, dead to love, to joy! And it gets worse and not better.”

She sat down and rocked back and forward, clasping her head. “Perhaps to die were better.” Her face twitched around the mouth, her jaw stiffened, and she recalled again the doctor’s warning. Even the luxury of self-abandonment to lonely grief was not for her. She controlled herself, but not readily. The passions are near neighbors. And with the thought of Greyhurst, her anger rose to stormy force. “And he did it!” she cried, “and lives, and is to have years of ease, and at last forgetfulness. Never, never, if I can help it—and no one shall stop me; and, if all else fail, I have always that—that!” She was thinking of the temptation Coffin had crudely set before her.

She grew agitated, looking about her. “Not here; I must not think of it here. Would he forgive me? He would know I had to go my way.”

She went out of the room and met her sister, who, seeing her agitation, said: “My dear Conny, what is the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter. I wish you would let me alone.”

“Oh, Conny, what have I done?”

She was hurt; but was far too wise to say more, for of late her sister had become irritable. As she turned aside, repressing the sharp answer she felt inclined to make, Constance said: “Where is the paper? I have not seen it to-day. You always take it.” It was her habit to run over it daily.

“I will get it,” said Susan. “Wait, dear; I know where it is.”

When she returned Constance took the little sheet. Presumably she found what she sought.

“The land sale we mentioned some time ago includes a long stretch of shore to the south of the Hood estate. It was, we understand, bought by Mr. Greyhurst; but whether for himself or others is not known. The water at this place on the river-front is shallow; but if, as we hear, the deep-water front between it and the Hoods’ has also been acquired from the Baptistes, it would give Mr. Greyhurst’s frontage all it needs, and add much to its value.”

For a little while Constance sat thinking. Then she rose, dressed herself for the street, and went out.

She had more than enough to think about. Althea had heard that Mr. Greyhurst was bent on other business than mines. They did say that there was a lady in Sacramento who had refused to marry him while his divorced wife lived. But now, that lady being dead a year or more, it might be that she would reconsider her refusal. No; Althea did not know her name. She was said to be rich.

At first Constance thought it an unlikely bit of gossip; but if it were true her foe might escape. She had fed the flame of her anger with the fuel of grief, and, as was usual with her, this surrender to passionate sorrow left her set and resolute. She must know more. And so Althea was petted and flattered, and bidden to listen and report all she heard. Meanwhile there was this other matter.

She had told Susan that she would not ride, and now walked away into the town, passing Greyhurst on the main street. He had again the sense of being haunted as the tall black figure went by, almost touching him. Well, he would soon be far away from it all. The face of Trescot went with him still, misty and delicate.

Mrs. Trescot soon found what she sought, and reading on the sign, “Paul Marcel, Land Agent, Second Story,” went up-stairs and, knocking, was bidden to enter.

“I am Mrs. Trescot,” she said, throwing back her veil.

Marcel’s daughter had spoken of her, but he himself knew her only by sight. She accepted a chair and began at once:

“You will be so kind, Mr. Marcel, as to consider my business confidential, or at least for the present.”

“Certainly, madame.” He was an old man, brisk and alert, with hair cut short and upstanding in a way that gave an aggressive expression to a not unkindly, clean-shaven face. His accent was distinctly that of the old Creole French.

“How can I oblige you?” he said.

She unrolled a small plan of the river-front.

“Here,” she said, “Mr. Marcel, are our lands. You may be aware that we gave Mrs. Baptiste the half of our river-frontage nearest to the city.”

“It was more than generous,” he said. “The land should be improved.”

“Yes; that will come. Our own land lies next, you observe. We have—I do not now recall how many feet. It is ample; but we would be better off if we owned the next lots to the south of us—I think there is about four hundred feet.”

“I see,” he said. “It has the deepest water on the entire frontage—very desirable. It belongs to a niece of Madame Baptiste. I have heard something about it lately. It can be bought—no doubt it can be bought. The land beyond it is of very little value because of the shallowness of the water.”

“But with this,” she asked quickly, “it would become valuable?”

“Yes, very, of course. I fancy it to have been acquired with a view to subsequent purchase of Mademoiselle Baptiste’s water-front. The sale may have been already made; I think not.”

“I should like to know as soon as possible.”

“If madame will wait a minute—ten minutes, to be more accurate? The agent of the Baptistes is near by.”

Madame would wait. He went out. She got up and moved about, impatient.

When he came back he said: “I have learned that, as I supposed, it is for sale. An offer has been made for it.” Then he hesitated, and said very courteously: “I think Madame Trescot should be made to know who is the person who is bidding.”

“I do know,” she returned coldly. “It is a pure matter of business.”

“_Eh bien!_ It is a matter of business. He offers twelve thousand; they ask fifteen. I could not advise that. It is too much.”

“Buy it,” she said; “and, if you please, without delay—now—at once.”

“But, madame, it is inordinate. May I ask is it for the Hood estate? You will pardon me if I say that in that case you should consult General Averill.”

“It is for me, personally.”

“Ah! that is so; and is madame resolved?”

“She is,” said Constance, smiling.

“It can be bought,” he said, and went out. In a few moments he was back again. “It is an affair finished; but I have saved you eight hundred dollars.”

“Then it is secure? There can be no mistake? It is my property?”

Her anxiety struck him as singular; but he made haste to reassure her. “Yes, it is yours. I will see to the titles; but I know them as my hand. In a few days I shall ask for madame’s check.”

“Thank you; but there must be no mistake.”

“There can be none. I have it in writing, here in my hand.”

She thanked him and went out.

“_Diable!_” he said. “_Quelle femme!_”

On his way to the doctor’s that evening, Greyhurst called at the house of the agent of Mademoiselle Baptiste. He said: “Monsieur Pierre, I leave to-morrow, to be gone about two months. Before I go I should like to settle about those water-lots. I left you an offer; you refused it. What will you take? I must leave part of the payment on mortgage?”

The agent—like M. Marcel, of Creole descent—was by no means friendly to Greyhurst; but he was also very much afraid of him.

“_C’est dommage_, monsieur. I too deeply regret. I was about to write.”

“What do you regret? Can you Frenchmen never speak out and say what you mean!”

“But I was sorry, Monsieur Greyhurst, for to disappoint you. Paul Marcel was here to-day, and—the land is sold.”

“Sold!”

“Yes; I have consult mademoiselle, who live near by, as you know, and she say take it. I could only advise to do the same. The offer was large, and it was yes or no.”

“This seems to me very strange; I should have been told.”

“Yes, I say so. Marcel he say, ‘We offer twelve thousand.’ I say, ‘No.’ He say, ‘How much?’ I say, ‘Fifteen thousand.’ He offer fourteen thousand. I say we split. Then he say, ‘Fourteen thousand two hundred’; and mademoiselle, who was there, she say very quick, ‘I take it.’ _Mais, mon Dieu!_ monsieur, what could I do? It is sold.”

Pierre was surprised and relieved that Greyhurst showed no anger. In fact, he was restraining himself with a great effort. He said: “Offer to take it off Marcel’s hands. I will give him fifteen thousand. It is worth that to me; but any one else is a fool to take it at your price.”

“They will not sell. It is to hold.”

“Who bought it?”

Pierre was maliciously enjoying the situation, and was made less timid by Greyhurst’s unusually quiet manner.

“It was bought for a lady.” He was tormenting his big mouse, and liked the game.

“‘A lady!’ Why the mischief can’t you answer? What lady?”

“It was Madame Trescot.”

“Damnation! You two cursed Frenchmen have sold me between you!”

“_Mais_, monsieur, what could be done? You set a limit.”

Greyhurst made no reply, but turned and went out, leaving the old Creole still apologetic, gesticulating, and by no means ill pleased. As he passed into the street, he pulled down his hat and walked on, looking downward because of the vision of the smiling, silvery face.

“Always that devil of a woman!” he said. “When will it end?” Suppressed anger divided his mind with the fear of some sudden bodily disaster such as the phantom seemed to threaten. He must live, must be well. There was his child, far away at school, and the one cherished hope—the little woman in Sacramento. He put aside the business of the land. It was ruinous, and he began too fully to realize what money may do to aid a revengeful purpose. Forgetting for a moment, he looked up. The face was there, in the bustling street as elsewhere. He walked faster, speaking to no one, his head bent down. He lost the face as he stood on Dr. Eskridge’s step and, looking at his watch, rang the bell. He had written asking the doctor to receive him at this hour.

The doctor had never had any liking for the man for whom he was now waiting, and his feeling had been much intensified by the fatal consequences of Greyhurst’s ungoverned temper. He had, however, a fund of pitiful charity, kept full by sad personal experiences and by the physician’s vast explanatory knowledge of the lives of men and women, which accepts heredity, education, and environment as matters not to be left out of the consideration of disease or of the motives of men’s actions.

He was reflecting upon what had made Greyhurst what he was, when the man who thus occupied his thoughts entered the room. As they had met of late, on the street or elsewhere, he had casually noticed the slight loss of soldierly carriage, and the absence of a certain defiant challenge in his expression. Now, as they sat down, he cast on Greyhurst a quick look of observant attention, and saw that the large frame had lost flesh. He began to be curious as to the object of this visit; but, as the lawyer had in the past consulted him in regard to minor matters of health, he knew him to be free from grave organic maladies, and was quite unprepared for the abrupt statement with which he began.

“Doctor,” he said as he sat down, “I am going away to-morrow, and I want to ask you a question. I have of late been troubled—not all the time, I ought to say—by an occasional sensation of quite causeless fear—well, something like the terror a timid child has when alone in the dark.”

“Indeed!” said the doctor. “Is that all, or is there anything else?”

“No; that is not all. I have also been annoyed by seeing a face in the air, a little to the left. It is lost when I look down. It appears as if made of gossamer, and I see things through it. Does it or the other trouble represent any probability of mental failure?”

He was sweating as he spoke, and wiped his forehead repeatedly.

The doctor toyed with a paper-cutter, a habit he had when intensely interested.

“You are well otherwise?”

“Yes. I have lost appetite and flesh, but otherwise I am as usual. I should add that I still have at times that inexplicable fear; the vision is nearly always present. I cannot get rid of it.”

“Indeed! No headaches?”

“No, never; a slight vertigo now and then. I never drank to excess, and less now than ever. I smoke too much; but, you see, I have been worried about business matters and—about other things.”

“As you look up, now, do you see the face?”

“I do.”

“Is this phantasm that of a face you have ever seen?”

The question was natural and innocent, the reply startling.

“My God! doctor. It is the face of the man I killed!”

“I beg pardon, Mr. Greyhurst. I am sorry—sorry I asked, and very sorry for you. I could not have dreamed of this. I am sorry.”

“I am glad one man is sorry. I am in a hell of sorrow.”

“That can’t be helped, I fear.”

“No, I suppose not; but I have got to live—and there is Mathilde, my child. Does this mean anything serious—that is what I want to know—this specter—that fear? I can stand it if it does not imply the nearness of some mental failure.”

“Before I answer, may I venture to ask if this spectral illusion came only at times and then more and more often, and was there any immediate cause? Do not reply if to do so annoys you.”

Greyhurst read in the grave and kindly face, so keen and attentive, sympathy which included in its charity alike the weaknesses and the crimes of men. He, too, like others, felt the human craving to escape by confession from the loneliness of remembered sin. For a moment he reflected, and then said: “I may as well tell you all.”

“Not unless it will help me to help you.” He distrusted his own increasing curiosity, and was therefore careful as to how far he should invite confidences.

“Yes, you may help me. God knows, I need advice—counsel.”

“But first,” said Eskridge, “let me say that the face you see will fade away in time, unless the cause which occasioned it is repeated.”

“Of that I cannot be sure. I may as well tell you all.”

“Very well. That may be better.”

“I came by mere chance upon a photograph of Mr. Trescot. I came on it abruptly, unprepared; and then as I looked up I saw the face—that face—not at all that of the photograph, but the same man, only—smiling.”

The doctor had heard in his long life many strange things, but this was the strangest. He repressed his astonishment and said quietly: “Is that all?”

“No; and I want to tell you the rest—all of it—all. I have been, since my unchecked, spoiled boyhood, a passionate man. It wrecked my married life, and did me evil service during the war, and later in my career at the bar. My Western life made it worse—that was before the war. The Hood lawsuit found me embarrassed as to money matters. I lost it, and I knew I ought to have lost it. Things passed in the trial which—well, no matter. I was insulted; I was told by—by Trescot that he was responsible—you know what that means with us. I shot that man. I did think he was drawing his pistol, if I thought at all.” He wiped his forehead. “I did not think. I was sorry for my haste. Since then I have more and more bitterly regretted. But it was done—and I must live. I went on hoping that, with time, I should suffer less. Then Mrs. Trescot came back; and from the time of her return I have been in hell—no demon could be more ingeniously cruel than that woman.”

He went on to relate all that she had done, including the ruining purchase of the land on the river. Both men were silent for a moment, and then Greyhurst added:

“I can do nothing. Regret—remorse, if you like—is the only thing a man can give. I know what I have done; but I must live.”

“Yes, yes,” said the doctor, reflectively. “Could you not go away and live elsewhere?”

“No, I cannot. I have my girl at school in Cincinnati, as you know. I am, or I was, better off; but this land business seriously embarrasses me, and I must take care of the child. All my interests are here; I cannot go away; I fear for what that woman may do. At first it troubled me, but I said to myself that she could do no more; now I am honestly afraid. I credit her intelligence, doctor, with terrible capacity to hurt me. Can I bear this strain? Am I now breaking under it? I have reason to hope that I may marry again. The lady lives in Sacramento. I hope to be able to explain to her—I—” He hesitated.

“Indeed!” exclaimed the doctor. “But you mean to tell her? She will have heard, of course. You will do well to be frank.”

“Yes, of course. She knows what my life has been. She, at least, is a woman. This other is a devil.”

The doctor became yet more grave. “Whatever she is, you may count on her unending hatred. If you marry,—and I hope you may,—you will not—must not—live here.”

“No; not if I marry. And let me say that Miss Wilson shall know in the frankest way just what you know. Our acquaintance began through my carrying her wounded brother out of a heavy fire at Antietam. He died, and I got a ball in the side. I was able to write to her at Mobile of his death, at a time when I was pretty near it myself. You may trust me as a gentleman that she shall know all. I believe that she will feel for me.”

The doctor rose. Would he—could he—be really frank to her? He had a good deal of doubt as to Greyhurst’s power to confess the actual facts as others saw them.

“I must go now. This phantom will fade. It is really of no great moment, and is no indication of failure in mind or body. But stay away as long as you can; better if you were never to return to St. Ann.”

Greyhurst left him with a great sense of relief, and, walking homeward, observed that he had lost the smiling face of George Trescot.