Part 23

The night before her departure she received Mrs. Trescot’s letter. Her future darkened as she ran over the pages. She had never before realized that which, when thus told by an agonized eye-witness, dismissed for her at once the merciful vagueness of a thing unseen. Once more considering the letter, she read between the lines, as she had read between the words her lover had used. It was natural that an unfortunate woman should overstate the guilt of the man who had cost her so dear. Again she doubted, again wondered where the truth lay, and found new distress in the thought of the young wife alone with her grief. Had Greyhurst ever thought, after that day of death, of the woman alone with the sorrow he had created? He had never mentioned her.

VIII

Late in the morning Miss Wilson arrived at her cousin’s home at Trois Îles, and, anxiously intent on her purpose, took the afternoon ferry-boat to St. Ann.

She had been in the town just after the war, and when it was half in ruins. When about to ask the way to General Averill’s she met Mrs. Dudley. “Why, this must be Jeanette Wilson,” said that lady. “So glad to see you! How well you look, and how young!” It was true. The blonde little woman still kept the childlike look which is the peculiar privilege of her type.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dudley. May I ask you to tell me where the Averills live?”

“Up on the hill. And so you are engaged to be married to Mr. Greyhurst.”

“No. I am not.”

“Bless me, my dear! I could not have misunderstood my husband.”

“I fear that you have done so. Mr. Greyhurst, I am quite sure, never could have said that.”

Mrs. Dudley would have been shocked had any one accused her of intention to deceive, but she was so habitually inaccurate as to have obtained for herself the credit of want of veracity. Like most inaccurate persons, she was exceedingly positive.

When, therefore, Miss Wilson denied her engagement, Mrs. Dudley returned: “Oh, that is always the way with young women. I suppose it amounts to the same thing.”

“Hardly; and I must ask that you do me the favor to contradict any rumor to that effect. I am not engaged.”

“Certainly; of course,” said Mrs. Dudley, not at all convinced. “What stay do you make in St. Ann?”

“Only a day or two.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, that is all.” Then she paused, and resolved of a sudden, and not very wisely, to take Mrs. Dudley into her confidence.

“Would you mind my asking you to tell me something?”

“Certainly not. What is it?” She was at once eager and curious. “Come in, my dear. It is only a step to our house. Ah, here we are.” When they were seated she said promptly:

“And now, my dear, what can I do for you?”

“You can help me, I hope. Mr. Greyhurst is, I believe, a friend of Colonel Dudley.”

“My husband has charge of his affairs while he is absent, but I could hardly say they were friends. You see, Miss Wilson, in St. Ann they—” and she checked herself.

“They what?” returned Miss Wilson, too greatly concerned to accept Mrs. Dudley’s prudent arrest of speech.

“Oh, nothing; it is of no moment.”

“Mrs. Dudley, Mr. Greyhurst had a very serious trouble more than a year ago. I have urgent reasons to know all about it. May I ask you frankly to tell me the whole story?”

For once, Mrs. Dudley was cautious. What she might say would possibly go back to Greyhurst, and as he had never quite lost the evil reputation of being quarrelsome, the colonel might, as had once happened, be asked to answer for his wife’s words.

She replied: “Oh, that is an old story, and we never talk about such things, Miss Wilson.”

“I know, I know; but oh, Mrs. Dudley, I am in great trouble. I hoped that, as an older woman, and without my saying more, you would help me. I should consider whatever you told me as absolutely confidential.”

Mrs. Dudley had no firm trust in the possibility of any woman preserving under temptation the virtue of entire silence. Moreover, she was becoming alarmed at a situation too perilous to permit of the luxury of gossip. She said therefore: “Help you, my dear? Indeed, I would if I could; but really I cannot.”

“I fear, Mrs. Dudley, that when you say you do not like to tell me, it means that you will not tell me. If that is so, I—”

Mrs. Dudley, interrupting, said, “Oh, yes, if you like to put it that way.” To pour out the whole sad story was her dear desire.

“Thank you,” said Miss Wilson, seeing how vain was her quest. “Thank you. I am at least your debtor for being frank with me. I think I understand.”

Mrs. Dudley was not so clear, and said awkwardly: “Oh, yes, of course. I thought you would. What a lovely gown!”

Poor Miss Wilson, sad as was her case, came near to smiling.

It was a crude method of dismissing the subject, but it answered the purpose; and seeing that she had failed, and urging her hostess no further, the younger woman accepted the change of conversational base. She skilfully put aside some rather intrusive questions, and finally went away unsatisfied, and leaving Mrs. Dudley eagerly desirous to know more.

Jeanette was fortunate in finding Mrs. Averill at home, and was grateful for the cordial welcome she received, as that lady at once remembered her, and that her visitor’s father had served during the war on the general’s brigade staff.

Seeing the miniatures of the dead sons on the table, Jeanette admired them, and asked how Mrs. Averill came to be so fortunate as to possess them. Mrs. Averill, suddenly recalling the fact that Miss Wilson was said to be engaged to Greyhurst, hoped that she would be content with the answer that they were done in Italy, the kind gift of friends. Unluckily, Miss Wilson turned over the one she held, and saw on the back, “From Susan Hood and Constance Trescot.”

She laid it down and, looking up, said: “Mrs. Trescot is a friend of yours?”

“Yes, she is my friend; and her sister, too.”

Miss Wilson, somewhat embarrassed, said: “I never knew them. They came to St. Ann long after my last visit”; and after a brief pause added: “And—and he was killed—I mean Mr. Trescot.”

Mrs. Averill saw her disturbed face. Leaning forward, she took her hand and said in her low, sweet voice: “Let us talk of something else, my dear. That is a matter too sad to discuss. He, too, was our friend.”

“Oh, no, no; I came to talk of—of this: but it is hard. You won’t mind, will you? You see, I must; I have to.”

Mrs. Averill knew too well what was in the younger woman’s mind.

“Don’t be worried, my dear. What is it? What can I do for you?”

“I do not know. I am in trouble. Mrs. Dudley tells me that I am said to be engaged to Mr. Greyhurst, and I am not; I may never be. Oh, dear Mrs. Averill, I am in deep waters. I care for him,—oh, very much,—but we are not engaged. I have had in my life much sorrow, and I cannot now think of marrying him without knowing all of that awful story. I came here to know. He has given me his own account of it; but it is natural he should make the best of it; and, oh, won’t you, dear Mrs. Averill—won’t you help me? Won’t you tell me all about what you and General Averill think should guide me? I have no one to turn to—no one. I want some one who knows to tell me—plainly—all about it.”

Mrs. Averill knew that all social relations between Greyhurst and her husband had ceased from the time of Trescot’s death. However much she pitied the young woman who thus appealed to her, she was reasonably unwilling to be frank. She hesitated just long enough for Miss Wilson to note the tardiness of reply and to feel what it implied. Mrs. Averill usually spoke with ease and readiness; now she said slowly, with care as to her words:

“I am very sorry, but I cannot—I do not feel quite free to answer you. The general does not now know Mr. Greyhurst. They do not speak. In fact, I would rather not discuss this subject. I think the general will also be unwilling.”

It is a little to be feared that she knew with what entire unreserve her husband would have told all he knew and what he thought of Greyhurst.

“I see, I understand,” said the blonde little lady. “You must pardon me.” The unusual caution of one older woman, and the obvious indisposition of a far different one, told her almost as much of what she wished and yet feared to know as if they had been rashly outspoken.

Mrs. Averill said: “There is, my dear, nothing to pardon. I am honestly sorry to be unable to help you, and I think that you must see why I cannot.”

“Yes. Thank you. I will not trouble you any further; but, somehow, I _must_ know. Will you be so kind as to read this letter?”

She opened the envelop and laid Mrs. Trescot’s letter on Mrs. Averill’s lap, who said innocently:

“Of course, my dear; what is it?” She put on her glasses, recognized the handwriting at once, and with surprise and pain read the letter. She was shocked and sorry. “That is very terrible, my dear child; how could she have done it—or done it as she has?”

“If what she says be true, Mrs. Averill, and I were in her place, I should have done it. I will ask but one more question—a harmless one. Was Mr. Trescot a man to—to provoke or grossly insult another?”

“No, no; he was not.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“He was all that a man ought to be—a gentleman to the core, and in no way to blame; and now, Miss Wilson, you must not ask me any more questions. I do not feel free to reply. I wish I could help you, but I cannot; nor can I tell you who will be willing to do so. I beg that you will not embarrass my husband by asking him.”

“I will not. You have been most kind to me, and I thank you; but some one must help me. May I come again? I promise not to speak of this—this subject.”

The old lady rose. “You will always be welcome—always. And I do trust that God may guide you in the right way.”

She went with her to the hall door, saying: “The general will be glad to hear of you, and I know he will like to talk with you about your father.”

Mrs. Averill went back to her knitting, and reflected with womanly compassion upon the strength and maturity of the character which could thus resolutely determine the fullness of love impossible without complete trust and entire respect.

Miss Wilson was, in fact, just what Mrs. Averill supposed her to be. She had longed to say to the girl, “Do not marry that man.” Even on her door-step, as they parted, she had felt that she had not done her duty to a soul in deep distress.

Miss Wilson paused a moment in thought outside of the gate, and then returning, found Mrs. Averill in the parlor and asked her where she could find Mr. Kent. Mrs. Averill replied, “At the church, my dear,” and gave her the needed directions, adding that he would probably be in the vestry-room, which he used as a study, or possibly in the library-room of the parish Sunday-school. Could she desire to ask his advice? That might be the case. He would, she thought, be prudent.

The clergyman had occurred to the young woman as for her a natural and final resort. Her friends had written of him in their letters as a man of high character and much liked. Where else could she go? At all events, she would tell her story and ask his aid.

When she rang at the library door, it was opened by Miss Hood, who had been busy with a case of new books she had just received. She went with her to the vestry, saying, as Kent opened the door, “Here is a lady to see you, Mr. Kent.”

As he made her welcome and she sat down, she was for a moment disappointed, having, for no reason, expected to see a man of full middle age. The pleasant, smiling face, and something, she knew not what, in his eyes, reassured her. When she apologized for troubling him, and he said, “No, I am not busy; I am much at your service,” she felt at once that here, at least, she would find a sympathetic hearing, and making no further excuses, said simply:

“I am a woman, Mr. Kent, in great perplexity. I am Jeanette Wilson. I may add that I am an Episcopalian. For some time I was in more than doubt as to whether I ought to marry a gentleman. It is about him I wish to speak. While his wife lived—you know, he had been divorced—I could not even consider the matter. Now that she has died, he has again asked me to share his life.”

Kent listened with interested attention. She was young, pretty, and evidently under the influence of deep emotion. After a moment of pause she added:

“And now again I hesitate.”

“May I, without indiscretion, ask his name, or can I advise or aid your decision without that?”

“You may know him. He is Mr. John Greyhurst.”

Kent was more than surprised.

“Yes; I met him once in Colonel Dudley’s office. I can hardly say I know him, in any fuller personal sense. But, pray, go on, and be sure that I shall be most glad to give you any help in my power.”

“I was sure you would. I am in the utmost perplexity. I know much of his life. He has told me of the—the death of Mr. Trescot. I want to believe his account of it; but oh, Mr. Kent, at the best it is terrible, and I fear to trust his statement. If he has not been entirely truthful, I must know it. With so much at stake, it is—it must be—natural for a man to find excuses for so awful a sin. I want to help him to a better life. I want to be able to marry him. Before I let myself go,—and I could,—I am resolved to learn from some one the whole truth. If he had repented in your sense and mine, I should believe him; he has not. He regrets and has suffered, that is sure; but oh, Mr. Kent, that is so little—so very little. I have been to two women to ask—to know more of Mr. Greyhurst, to hear the whole story of this dreadful thing. I have come from Sacramento to learn, and now no one will tell me. If they are afraid of him, that is bad; but at all events I must know. I do not want advice; I want only full knowledge; then I shall decide for myself.”

“Is this all, Miss Wilson?”

“No; while I was still in doubt, after Mr. Greyhurst left California, I received a letter from Mrs. Trescot. I can put myself in her place, different as our views must be. I might, God help me! have done the same. Have the kindness to read it, sir. If she tells the exact truth, he has not told all of it, and it had been more wise to have wholly trusted a woman’s love and pity.”

That was Kent’s opinion as he considered the childlike sweetness of the face below the blonde hair. Without a word he took the letter. He frowned, annoyed and displeased, as he read; and folding the sheet, returned it.

“You are right,” he said gravely. “As a clergyman, and also as a man, you have a right to all I know.”

“If,” she said, “it will make trouble for you with Mr. Greyhurst—”

He interrupted her with, “That is no part of the matter. I shall write to him and tell him what I shall now say; and I may say to you that I know the whole of this sad story, although at the time it happened I was not in St. Ann.”

“Is it necessary that you do this—I mean tell him?”

“Yes, for me it is. Mr. Greyhurst was angry at the loss of his case. There were some sharp passages between Trescot and himself, such as occur in trials. Of these I know least. As I have said, I was not in St. Ann at that time. I believe that he said things of Mr. Trescot—and to his wife, whom he called as a witness—things no man should have said. I do not wish to overstate the matter. Mr. Greyhurst was said to be in debt. This suit was of great moment to him, and I suppose that the verdict was a serious disappointment. When he came out of the court, Mrs. Trescot was near by, waiting for her husband.”

“Oh, sir, did he see her?” asked Miss Wilson, anxiously.

“I do not know. He saw Mr. Trescot coming to meet him, and, without warning, killed him.”

“But he was drawing a pistol,” she said quickly.

“No; he never so much as owned a pistol. His right arm was crippled from a wound, as was generally known because he usually rested it caught in his waistcoat. As he approached he was smiling. You see, he was pleased to be able to be generous.”

“My God!” she exclaimed. “Go on; tell me all!”

“Yes; he had just received a telegram authorizing him to divide the land in dispute, in order to treat more liberally Mr. Greyhurst’s clients. He raised his lame arm to take out the telegram from his pocket, and was, as is known, advancing to make the offer. He had it in his hand when Mr. Greyhurst fired.”

“Is that all?” she said faintly.

“No; on his desk was found a letter to Mr. Hood, stating that he would give up the agency unless Mr. Hood, the owner, would, after the trial, consent to a compromise as an act of equitable justice to people who had no legal claim. Mr. Hood’s sudden death enabled Miss Hood, the sister of Mrs. Trescot, to give Mr. Trescot full authority to settle the matter. Mrs. Trescot called him out of the court to give him the telegram, and to beg him at once to offer Mr. Greyhurst the adjustment they desired. That is all. I have been long, but it seemed to me that you had a right to know the whole. I believe that I have stated it correctly.”

“Then,” she said, as her head drooped, “it was murder, and without shadow of excuse.” She fell back, appalled at her verdict, murmuring again, “It was murder, and without excuse.”

“Yes, as I see it, it was murder; whether premeditated, or the sudden outcome of anger and disappointment, God alone knows.”

“One word more, Mr. Kent. There had been ill feeling between them? Sharp words had passed. You said so. Mr. Greyhurst believed himself to have been insulted.”

“Yes, I have so heard.”

“What kind of man was Mr. Trescot? You see,” she said, eager to find excuses, “I want to know all—both sides.”

“I never saw him; but as to that there was but one opinion. He was a sweet-tempered, kindly, and most honorable gentleman, a servant of your Master and mine.”

“That is enough, and too much. God pity him and me!”

She rose as she spoke, and standing with bowed head, looking down, added: “I cannot thank you too much. You have done me the greatest service a man could render a woman. I think that you ought to know that I shall never marry John Greyhurst. I meant to ask your advice, but now I do not need it. The way of my duty is plain. Good-by.”

She let fall her veil and went out, passing Miss Hood, who was still busy with her books.

“I shall be jealous, Reginald, if you are so long closeted with pretty women.”

“Don’t begin quite so soon,” he said, “or the supply of jealousy may not equal the demand. Come and walk with me; I have had a rather grim half-hour.”

She looked up at him, curious, but asked no questions.

IX

Mrs. Trescot received no acknowledgment of the receipt of her letter, nor had the unhappy woman to whom it was sent any intention of answering it. She desired never again to hear of the writer.

Making such excuses as were possible to her astonished friends, Miss Wilson took the train to the North on the day after her visit to Mr. Kent, and thence returned to Sacramento. She was wise enough to avoid a meeting with Greyhurst.

From Chicago she wrote to Mr. Kent a note of renewed thankfulness, and earnestly asked that he would not feel it necessary to mention to Mr. Greyhurst what he, Mr. Kent, had told her. “I am most grateful to you,” she wrote, “for the courage of what you did for me, a stranger; but I cannot rest easy under the idea that, in his anger and disappointment, a man as passionate may again do something as rash as that which has parted us forever. It will be altogether unnecessary for you to speak of what you said to me, because Mrs. Trescot’s letter will suffice to explain to him the reasons for my decision. It is an unfeeling letter, but it will so justify my decision as to relieve you from need to speak.”

Her request had no effect on Kent’s intention. He had taken on himself a grave responsibility, and meant to abide by it. He had neither fear of unpleasant consequences nor belief that they would occur. The thought that Mrs. Trescot’s letter would reach Greyhurst made him far more uneasy. He resolved to speak to the lawyer on his return, which took place two days later.

Greyhurst had found difficulty in satisfying the bankers on whom he relied. The money-market was unsettled, and men were indisposed to go into even the most promising ventures. He was advised to wait, to return in a month. He left New York a much disappointed man, and went home to meet conditions which he knew must result in ruin.

Thinking sadly of his affairs, and with some relieving hope in regard to Jeanette Wilson, whom he very honestly loved and sincerely respected, he left the station at St. Ann. The phantom face had been seen of late but rarely, and had lost distinctness.

On his way he called to see Colonel Dudley. His wife was in the hall. “Glad to see you back,” she said. “My husband is out.”

“Tell the colonel that I was detained in New York. I will call to-night.”

“You have just missed Miss Wilson.”

“Miss Wilson! Has she been in St. Ann?”

“Yes; but she stayed only two or three days. She has gone.”

“Did you see her, Mrs. Dudley?”

“Oh, yes; she was looking very pretty and very well. We had a little talk. I hope I may soon be able to congratulate you.”

If she desired to make him speak of Miss Jeanette, she was mistaken.

“You may not,” he returned abruptly.