Part 22

“Mrs. Trescot,” he said, “as you have spoken of that sad calamity, may I venture to say that I am a distant cousin of George Trescot? My grandfather went from Massachusetts to Carolina.”

Then Constance understood. There was some occasional reminder in Kent of her husband’s face. She said, with something of her old interest: “There is a likeness; it is very, very pleasant to me. I wonder that Susan never spoke of it.” Susan had her own reasons for saying very little to her sister. “But Susan is so wrapped up in her poor, and your Bible-class, and the freedmen, that very little else interests her,”—which was not Reginald Kent’s opinion.

Then the talk fell upon the stormy politics of the day, and the last novel of Thackeray, which she had not read. As he talked—and he talked well—he felt, rather than saw, that he soon failed to interest Mrs. Trescot.

As he rose, Constance said: “You will come again?”

“Yes,” he said; “it will give me great pleasure.”

She watched him as he went, and said to herself:

“Well, for a clergyman, that is an unusual man.”

He had said not a word of her absence from church—nor, in fact, anything to remind her that he was a clergyman. That he rode well, could rough it with the mountain-men, hunt on snowshoes—all were to Constance’s liking; but, above all, that he had been in the army of the North pleased her. She spoke pleasantly of him that evening at dinner, for they kept to their late Northern hours. She thought him a gentleman and interesting. Susan was of like opinion, but was discreetly careful, as was advisable with Constance, for a variety of reasons.

She said to Susan: “He told me of his distant relationship to George.”

“Indeed!” said the sister, surprised, for of Trescot Constance rarely spoke.

“Yes; did you not observe the resemblance, Susan? It is slight.”

“Now that you mention it, I do,” returned the sister, mildly disingenuous, and looking down at her plate. “I am glad you liked him.”

“Do you? Oh, of course you do. You like all clergymen.”

“Yes, more or less.”

The man of whom they talked was pleased with his visit. He had made himself agreeable, as he had meant to do, and now went on his way, whistling softly in unclerical fashion. He was wise enough not to call soon again on Mrs. Trescot. There were other chances of seeing Susan Hood, and as her sister now rode more rarely, he found added opportunities of being alone with the woman he loved.

The month of January passed, and the first two weeks of February. Greyhurst was still absent, and Constance was moodily brooding over the sudden termination of her means of carrying out her purpose. It had become so despotic in its rule as to make all else secondary in value, and, as is the case with the domination of a fixed idea, to impair, in time, the competence of will and of reason. Thought is then emotionally disturbed, and, soon or late, mere indecision and indefinite craving replace resolute and well-considered plans of action. Constance was near the verge of such a condition, but still far enough away to feel alarmed at her lessened efficiency. She was irritable, spent more time alone, rode less frequently, and became indifferent as regarded her charities—all of which the watchful, worried sister saw with the alarm of undiminished affection. The pale face was thinner, the set look, as she stood at times listless and unoccupied, more intense. Meanwhile gossip ceased, or, for lack of novel occasion, became uninteresting; and, because of heavy rain, the river was rising and causing alarm and excitement. There was something more serious to occupy attention than Mrs. Trescot’s strange ways.

Miss Althea Le Moine still called on Constance; but, her visits being no longer helpful, Constance sat still while she talked feebly about the home and the floods, dimly conscious that her useful patroness was losing interest.

VII

Late in February occurred the monthly meeting of the women who managed the home for orphans.

After the session, Althea was called in to answer questions and receive directions. The business having been concluded, the ladies lingered.

Mrs. Dudley said: “I hear that the river is falling. It dropped five inches last night.”

“Indeed!” returned Miss Bland. “That is good news. But, dear me, what a dull winter it has been! I was driving yesterday when I met Susan Hood, on horseback, with Mr. Kent. I cannot imagine what he sees in that homely old maid. They can’t talk Sunday-school all the time.”

“She is anything but homely,” said Mrs. Averill, who loved Susan and disliked gossip. “Plain, if you like, but surely not homely; and any one must admit that she has a perfect figure.”

“Oh, that’s her gowns,” remarked Miss Marcel.

Mrs. Averill smiled as she regarded Miss Marcel’s gaunt outlines, but was too kindly to do more than whisper to her neighbor, Mrs. March, who smiled in answer as Mrs. Dudley remarked aloud: “She is not too much of an old maid either for fine gowns or for a clerical flirtation.”

“Oh, that would be too absurd!” exclaimed Miss Bland, who had of late developed a novel interest in altar decorations and Sunday-schools.

“He is certainly very handsome,” said Mrs. Averill, a little annoyed and more than a little amused.

Mrs. March laughed. “My dear Eliza,”—this was to Miss Bland,—“Miss Hood may be plain, but her fortune is also plain; and, really, clergymen do seem to capture the rich girls in a remarkable way.”

“Do not you think,” said Mrs. Averill, in her most quiet manner—“do not you think that we are gossiping just a little more than is advisable?”

“You are quite right,” said Mrs. March; “I agree with you, Eleanor. But I do love a good talk about our neighbors; and, after all, we have not been very vicious.”

Mrs. Dudley, eager for an opportunity, remarked: “Well, we shall see. But have you heard the latest news?”

“Oh, what is it?” said Miss Marcel.

“Colonel Dudley consented to take charge of Mr. Greyhurst’s affairs while he was away—but that is not all.”

“Was he not terribly broken up by that extraordinary land purchase?” asked Mrs. March.

“Oh, awfully.”

“It has always seemed to me,” said Miss Bland, “that Constance Trescot’s conduct was most unwomanly.”

“And unchristian, I should say,” added Miss Marcel, tartly.

“I am sure that you will pardon me,” said Mrs. Averill, rising, “if I remind you that you are speaking of a woman to whom our home is deeply indebted, and also that she is my friend.”

“I know,” said Miss Bland. “But, really, Mrs. Averill—”

“No matter, my dear,” returned the old lady. “Let us drop it. I am sure you must agree with me when you come to think about it.”

“But I really must tell you my news,” said Mrs. Dudley, as they stood, about to leave. “Mr. Greyhurst is engaged to be married.”

Even Mrs. Averill stopped, surprised into interest.

“Who is it?” asked two or three in a breath.

“I am sorry for her, whoever she may be,” Mrs. Averill. “Can she know the man?”

“She is a Miss Jeanette Wilson. I think you know her, Mrs. Averill. They were Mobile people. She is very well off, and—”

“Oh, I remember her,” broke in Miss Marcel. “She was here, staying in the country, just after the war—a little woman, a blonde. You met her, Eliza,” she added, turning to Miss Bland.

“Yes, a very quiet girl. I thought her mighty dull. Well, that is news!”

Miss Marcel went out with Miss Bland, talking volubly as to what that terrible Mrs. Trescot would think of it.

Mrs. Averill walked homeward with Mrs. March. For a few moments both were busy with their own reflections concerning what they had just heard. At last Mrs. March said:

“Eleanor, I wonder if it is really true? You know the quality of Jane Dudley’s gossip. I have had reason to remember it.”

“I should be glad if it were true, for—well, for Constance Trescot’s sake. It would put an end to this unnatural vendetta.”

“Is it unnatural, Eleanor? Unusual, I grant you that; but only too natural. Think of the other woman! I shall want more certain information before I believe it. You must recall the girl.”

“I do, of course. She was here just after the war; a very pretty blonde, with very gentle ways. She must be by this time about twenty-five.”

“Old enough to know better.”

“Yes; but—ah, well, it is vain to discuss love-affairs; no one ever knows the why and the wherefore—least of all the people most concerned.”

“Yes; I suppose one must admit that. I shall be glad on account of Constance, and sorry for the girl.”

“Her father was on the general’s staff, and I believe it is at least true that since his death the girl has had money left her.”

“A strange business,” said Mrs. March. “Good-by.”

Althea, who had listened eagerly, was delighted to have, at last, something of moment to say to Mrs. Trescot. She was entirely without moral sense of the right or wrong of Mrs. Trescot’s ways, but distinctly aware of that lady’s useful relation to Althea Le Moine.

Mrs. Dudley sat down with those who remained, profusely ready to discuss this matter, and to pour out all she knew, with surmises in regard to what she did not know.

When, late in the afternoon, Althea found Mrs. Trescot alone on the back porch, that lady rose to greet her, saying rather wearily:

“Ah, Miss Althea, sit down. Were you at the meeting?”

“No; I am not allowed to be present, as I think would be fitting. I was called in afterward, and I am glad I was, because I know you will be interested.”

Constance thought it unlikely, but said languidly: “Have the orphans got over the mumps, or refused hash?”

“It is much more important, Mrs. Trescot,” replied Althea, with a clear conviction that the news would reflectively add to her own value.

“Well, what is it?”

“It is really surprising—most surprising.”

“Well, go on. What is it?”

“You will be interested.”

“Good heavens!” said Constance, irritably. “Will you have the goodness to say what you mean?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Althea, with a little start, “I beg pardon, Mrs. Trescot.”

“Well, will you never go on?”

“Mr. Greyhurst is going to marry Miss Jeanette Wilson. She is a blonde. She lives in San Francisco—no, I mean Sacramento. She is rich. She is very small. I thought you would wish to know. She lives with an old aunt, Miss Ruth Wilson. Isn’t it horrid?”

As Miss Althea delivered herself of this news, in her usual inconsecutive manner, Constance sat up, and, grasping the arms of her chair, listened. Her languor was gone.

“Now be careful, Miss Althea,” she said. “Is this true? Is there any doubt about it?”

Althea repeated her tale with slight variations. “Yes, Colonel Dudley has had a letter. It was an old affair. Miss Wilson had once been in St. Ann, or near it; but Miss Wilson is very strict in her views, and would not listen to him while Mrs. Greyhurst was alive. You know she was divorced.”

Mrs. Trescot rose. “I am sorry that I cannot ask you to stay. I am not very well.” In fact, she was greatly agitated, and was eager to be alone.

“Yes; it is quite upsetting,” said Althea. “One never knows what will happen.”

“Thank you for coming, and oblige me by saying nothing to any one of your having told me. Pray pardon my abruptness.”

“Certainly. You do look upset.”

“Yes; I am not quite myself to-day. Come soon again, or if you hear more let me know at once.”

Althea had made mischief. She was morally as innocent as the slow-match between the engineer’s hand and the gunpowder in the mine.

Constance returned to the porch and walked slowly to and fro.

Greyhurst had left St. Ann a half-ruined man, and, she was sure, an unhappy man. She had had in mind a dozen schemes to be worked out on his return—some utterly vain, some grave enough. She had heard that his house was mortgaged, and the interest in arrears. What if she bought the mortgage? She had been, however, lavishly wasteful, and to do that she must trench on her capital. Now he was about to escape, and, with a new hope in life, to find love, and the power of flight, or the means of resistance money would give.

As usual, and more and more of late, too intense thought brought on emotion. To sit still and see this murderer unpunished and perhaps happy, able to live on and forget, would, she felt, be unendurable. Oh, rather should he die! and she laughed a laugh that startled her as though it were a ghost of mirth. She walked faster up and down the porch, thinking of what she could do, until of a sudden, realizing the completeness of her defeat, she stood still, staring at the distant river. Suddenly, as she sat down, she saw with vividness the man with the revolver, the little haze of smoke rising as he stood, the dead man, the dearly loved face, the crowd. She caught her head in her hands, clutching it in the agony of a hysterical vision which reproduced the anguish of life’s darkest hour. Her hair fell about her, over the black dress. She staggered to her feet, and, swaying, dropped on the floor.

An hour later, Susan, glowing and happy, came home from a ride with Reginald Kent. She gathered her skirts and went in, asking for Constance. Not finding her in the house, she went out to the porch, and saw Constance lying, with clenched hands, rigid and motionless. She understood at once that it was a return of the former trouble, and, being a woman of sense and resource, knew what was to be done.

When Dr. Eskridge arrived, he found Constance on a lounge in the parlor, already better and asking what was the matter. Had she fainted? There were slight returns of rigidity and forgetfulness, but before morning she was herself. A few days of rest would be needed. She assented willingly, relieved that Susan asked no questions.

In a day or two she recognized that she had been strangely eased by this riotous outbreak of emotion, but felt as if bruised in every inch of her strong body.

“And now, Miss Susan,” said the doctor, after his second visit, as they went down-stairs, “what caused this trouble?”

“Wait a little, doctor. She has the hearing of an animal.”

He was silent until they had entered the parlor and she had closed the door.

“Now,” she said, “we can talk unheard. Constance hears everything. You asked what caused it. I do not know. Nothing unusual happened. Miss Althea Le Moine was here, but she comes very often to see Constance—a furtive, childish, dried-up woman, one of the helpless wrecks of the war. Constance is good to her, I fancy.”

The doctor asked questions concerning Mrs. Trescot, few of which Susan was able to answer. Sorry for both sisters, he went away in doubt, as he had gone so often from among the griefs and perplexities of many in his long life of honest service.

When, in the afternoon, Mrs. Averill called, Susan heard of the gossip at the home, and began to suspect that it was Miss Le Moine’s visit which had been the cause of Constance’s attack. She disliked to question Miss Le Moine, and felt herself powerless. It was unadvisable to reopen the subject with her sister. She would learn nothing. Kent was as little able to advise her.

Meanwhile the days went by and Constance was up and about the house. She was evidently better, and submitted to every order with patience, longing to regain her full strength and decide upon what she should do.

At the close of a fortnight, she mailed the following letter to Miss Jeanette Wilson, in the care of Miss Ruth Wilson, Sacramento, California:

“ST. ANN, WEST STREET, March 12, 1872.

“DEAR MISS WILSON:

“I have learned of late that you are engaged to be married to Mr. Greyhurst of St. Ann. If it be not true, I simply offer my apologies for this letter. If, on the other hand, it be true, I should be wanting in my sense of duty if I failed to do what probably no one else will do. Believe me, I have no motive except that, as a woman who has greatly suffered by this man’s act, I cannot leave another woman ignorant.

“Mr. Greyhurst’s first marriage resulted in a divorce caused by his ill-temper. On the ninth of October, 1870, he murdered my husband, shooting down in cold blood an unarmed man, partly crippled, and who, at the moment, was going forward to meet him with a message of peace and an offer to settle generously the case Mr. Greyhurst had just lost.

“If, for your misfortune, you doubt my statement, General Averill will, I am sure, indorse all I have said. Probably Mr. Greyhurst has told you his own story. Whether you can trust it or not you must decide. His only excuse can be that what he did was an act of sudden anger, the fatal result of a life without moral law and without religion.

“I leave you to imagine what prospect of happiness a union with such a man may offer. I trust, at least, to hear that you have received this letter. To write it has cost me dear, and has renewed for me a scene I saw and can never forget.

“Very truly yours, “CONSTANCE TRESCOT.

“MISS JEANETTE WILSON.”

Having shot her arrow, Constance waited with the patience of a hunting animal. The letter thus sent was not such as she could have written in her earlier months of desire for retributive punishment. Certainly her motives in writing it were untruly stated, and she had once been truthful. The cunning it displayed was a sad illustration of the failure of a character which, in the presence of one consuming purpose, had ceased to be influenced by anything else.

What pain she was to inflict on this unseen woman gave her no concern. Of Susan’s opinion she did think at times; but Susan would never know of this letter, nor, at this time, would it in the least degree have affected her own course of action. Her power of self-trial and self-condemnation was lost. If she had any doubts she put them aside, and, as usual with her, was set at ease for the time by a decisive act.

Meanwhile, her letter crossed the continent and passed the train in which Greyhurst returned to St. Ann. He lingered a day to see Colonel Dudley, and then went East to meet certain bankers in New York, whom he hoped to interest in the mines, and who were to advance money to open and develop them. His fee was to be a share in the property, and he looked forward with confidence to such a favorable result of his negotiations as would in some degree release him from his increasing embarrassments.

He felt that he had been terribly punished for an act of rashness and passion; but now, with gain of health and freedom from material reminders of guilt, he began to feel a return of belief in a more happy future. Time has for crime, as well as for grief, its alleviating helpfulness, and even the sharpest remorse may be dulled as the years go by.

He honestly loved the woman, who had long refused to consider his suit. When again he saw her in Sacramento, she was shocked and pitiful as she observed how greatly he was altered. She had heard of the death of Trescot, and he was wise enough to face the matter. He told her of his own life, of his boyhood, of the temptations and rude existence in the mining-camps of the West. He described, with every sign of regret, his sudden meeting with Trescot, and told of his belief that he was about to use a weapon, and of how the man who had insulted him came forward with a smile of triumph, and then of his own quick anger, and of the fatal consequence. He was profoundly moved, and she hardly less so.

She was, and had long been, on the border-line of that complete abandonment to love which, once it is passed, excuses all things, and has cost women so much unhappiness. Being, however, a person of great good sense, of ready decision, and possessed of that quick apprehension which is so mysterious to the male mind, his statement checked her. Something in it—and she acknowledged the feeling with pain—did not ring true. She refused finally to commit herself; he must wait. She gave no distinct reason, except that she was not sure of herself; and he went away, not altogether dissatisfied. She had been so tender, so sorry not to be able to say yes; so full of what, in fact, was yearning pity afraid to trust itself to speech.

When he had gone she would have had him back. Had he returned, she would have had no more to say than she had already said. She approved her own decision, but knew it to be insecure; and, fully comprehending the gravity of the question, felt that, for her sake and his, she ought not to leave him long without a definite answer. But how could she become more reasonably sure of what this man was? How could she be certain that he had told her the facts as they had appeared to less partial witnesses? She was a woman in her twenty-fifth year, and more than usually mature. Her religious convictions were positive, her beliefs distinct. It was not possible for her to fail to consider so grave a matter apart from the views which had been influential in a life not free from trials. She knew that her lover was, by habit, indifferent to what she regarded as of the utmost moment. She smiled sadly as she thought of St. Paul’s advice, and felt that under ordinary circumstances she would have been free to yield, trusting with affectionate hope to what influence time and love might have. But this other matter made her pause; no, that must be seen by her as others saw it—those in whose hearts there was no constant advocate willing or wishing to believe John Greyhurst innocent and the sad victim of circumstances.

Resolute at last to put an end to her doubt, and accustomed for years to independence of action, she decided to go to St. Ann, and, in Greyhurst’s absence, to see the Averills, whom she had known as a girl, and who had been friends of her dead father. She cherished a tender hope that here would be the friends who would incline to think the best possible of Greyhurst. She justified that night the Eastern proverb, “In the Inn of Decision men sleep well,” and awakened self-assured that she was right. She wrote to her cousins at Trois Îles, on the river below St. Ann, that she would make them a short visit.