Part 5

“No, I can’t go in, George. I never before saw such a storm. I love it. I should like to be once in an earthquake.”

“Not I,” he returned, laughing. “I saw one in New Mexico. I prefer to face again the worst fire I was ever under. I got out of a window on to a shed, and the house went down behind me.”

Again a vast flare of lightning made every drop of rain in the air a moment’s jewel.

“The rain blows in here; get your rain-cloak,” he said. “Wait, I shall get it—or better to go in.”

“Oh, no; I must see it. You could not find the cloak.”

She left him where he stood enjoying the storm. As the quick-coming flashes lighted the hill slope he saw a man moving, very slowly as it seemed to him for one storm-caught, some thirty feet beyond the garden fence. He called out, “Halloa! come in here.”

Surprised to receive no reply, he called again. A moment after, amid still more vivid light, Trescot was aware of a flash lower down on the hillside, and of the sound, once familiar, of a rifle-shot. The broken glass of the window just to the left jangled. As the instant lightning flared, Trescot, seeing the man moving down the hill, ran through the garden and out of the gate in hot pursuit, thinking quickly as he caught sight of him at moments, “It was the old-fashioned rifle; he can’t reload. By George! he is lame; I shall have him.”

He was not twenty feet away when Trescot’s foot caught in a tangle of briers and he fell. He rolled over on his lame shoulder, and in some pain got up to find he had lost his man in the wood at the foot of the hill. He stood still a moment in the rain, and then walked back up the rise of ground.

His wife was on the porch. “Where have you been? What was that, George? I heard glass break.”

Concealment was impossible. “I am all right. A man shot at me; one of those squatters, I suppose. I saw him plainly; he was lame. Come in, dear. I should have had him in a moment if I had not fallen.”

“You are not hurt?” she asked anxiously.

“No; but come in. The shot went quite wide and broke the glass. Do not mention it to those blacks. It must appear to have been an accident while I was closing the shutters.”

When they were in the lighted room and the house shut up, he saw how pale she was. He put his arm around her. “Constance, love,” he said, “this will not occur again.” He was by no means sure. “Do not be worried; I am to see these men with Averill in a day or two. We shall settle with them in some way.”

“But what will you do? and how can I live here with the chance of having you brought home to me dead? Oh, this barbarous country! And I made you come—and my uncle, I shall never forgive him.”

At last he persuaded her to go to bed. She passed a restless night, almost without sleep—perhaps for the first time in her life of vigorous health.

When, next day, she insisted on his not leaving her, he said at last: “We shall walk to the Averills’, and I shall call for you after I have gone over some of the old French deeds. I shall not be long.” Her very visible anxiety troubled him, and the more because it was reasonable. She was not easily answered.

“But what will you do, George?” she went on. “Can’t you arrest him? Something must be done, and without delay. I shall write to uncle.”

“No, you must not do that; it would be of no use. Before he could reply I shall have consulted with the general and done something.” He had no clear idea of what he should do, except that he still meant to visit the squatters with Averill. He said as much.

“But I cannot sit still and wait,” she returned. “I simply cannot.”

Such reassurance as he was able to give quite failed to satisfy her. She went slowly up-stairs, step by step, deep in thought, and then, making a sudden decision, dressed herself with unusual care and came down to join him. Although she commonly talked much when with her husband, as they walked on she barely answered him, and finally left him at Mrs. Averill’s gate.

During the night, as Constance lay awake, she had reproached herself again and again for having urged her husband to accept her uncle’s offer. What now he would do had not satisfied her. As she walked by his side she kept on perplexing herself about a situation in which, as a woman, she felt herself powerless. After an uneasy half-hour with Mrs. Averill, to whom she said nothing of what had happened, she took her leave, and with a sudden and well-defined resolution in her mind went down the steep road from the bluff, and leaving the busy cotton-marts and -presses behind her, followed the river bank. The path led through scrubby undergrowth on to rudely cultivated clearings. Here were two well-built log cabins. In front of the nearer one a man well beyond middle age was seated on a stump engaged in oiling the lock of a rifle. As she came upon him he stood up in wonder at the loveliness of the wandering stranger.

She said: “Will you kindly give me a drink of water, and may I sit down? I am tired.”

“Would you come in, ma’am, out of the sun?”

She followed him, and took the chair he offered, and the tin cup.

“What good water you have! Thank you.”

As he moved she observed his lameness, and sharply observant, saw about her no evidence of a woman’s care. This was the man she sought.

“Yes, ma’am; it’s a spring below the bluff.”

“What a handsome bearskin! Did you shoot him?”

“Yes; last winter, up in the Virginia hills.”

“Are you a good shot?”

“I reckon I am.”

“But you missed my husband last night.”

“Great Scott!” he exclaimed, “who told you that?”

“He saw you. It is useless to deny it, and the fact is, Mr.—what is your name?”

“I’m Tom Coffin, and I just want—”

“Wait a little. If you had killed him you would have killed your best friend.”

“Well, now, that’s pretty good. My friend! ’Tain’t a matter to talk over with women. He’s got to let me alone. My father, that’s dead, and me, we have been here eighteen years, and now comes your man and says git out.”

“Is the land so good?”

“No, it isn’t; but it’s mine, and it’s all I have.”

“Suppose my husband were to offer to do one of two things?”

“Well,” he said, “he ain’t offered nothing.”

“If he wins our suit about the bounds of the land below you on the river, and would give you a deed for five acres on the bluff,—good land, too,—would you take it in exchange for what does not belong to you?”

“I would; but he hasn’t got it. Mr. Greyhurst says he won’t git it.”

Then the man became of a sudden suspicious.

“Look here, ma’am; I ain’t used to dealing with ladies. Did Mr. Trescot send you? He needn’t have been afraid.”

“Afraid!” she said proudly, rising as she spoke. “George Trescot, my husband, afraid! It was not he who ran last night. Who was it ran from an unarmed man?”

Then in a moment she was back in a well-played part.

“Mr. Coffin, I came here just because I am a woman and a young wife. My husband does not know, or I never should have been allowed to come. I want to make sure that you will not kill an unarmed, crippled man. I can’t stand by and wait to see what will happen. I will not go until you promise me that you will agree, if we win, to exchange your clearing for the better land below; or if you will not do that, tell me now what you will take to move if we—I mean my uncle—does not win his suit.”

Coffin weakened. This gracious woman with her soft voice and eyes full of tears captured the man.

“Who’s going to make sure of the pay?”

“I shall pay. Come, now, let us be friends. I am really on your side. You can’t fight the law. Some day you will have to go and get nothing for all you have done. Come, now, what will you take?”

“Would you say three hundred, ma’am?”

“No; four hundred,” she said quickly. It was the half of her little personal savings.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

She put out her hand. He took it shyly, as she said:

“Are you busy all day?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Could you come up in the afternoons and help me in my garden, for three dollars a week?”

“I will if your man wants me; he won’t want me.”

“Yes, he will. You should have come at first and talked to him. You are both old soldiers; and, Mr. Coffin, you must be a Northern man—you have a good old New England name.”

“No; my father was. He came from Massachusetts.” Then he was silent.

She saw that he was still unsatisfied. “Ah, my own State. Is there anything else? I want it all clear.”

“Well, it isn’t, and I want to know. The fact is, ma’am, Mr. Greyhurst told me you folks wouldn’t do anything, but just drive me out. Father and I have been here eighteen years, and my sister has the cabin just below here. Her man’s sick, and there’s two children, and go was the word, just like we were dogs.”

“If Mr. Greyhurst told you that, he said what was not true. He knew nothing about it, or what Mr. Trescot would do. My husband was coming here with General Averill to-morrow.”

“Was he?—he and my old captain?”

“Yes, and you come like a coward and shoot at an unarmed man, who is ready to help you.”

“O Lord, drop that! I was just fooled by that man Greyhurst. I’ll get even with him. I was thinking—me and another man—that we’d go and see Mr. Trescot. Greyhurst he said it was no good. You can tell your husband, if he’s minded not to be hard on us, I can help him about those bounds down below. I won’t say no more till we talk—me and him.”

Constance, surprised, returned: “I’ll leave you to settle that with him, but don’t go and what you call get even with Mr. Greyhurst.” She saw mischief in this. “Keep it all to yourself; do not let him know that you are on our side. Promise me; you know I trust you.”

“I can hold my tongue, ma’am. Darn that lawyer chap!”

“Well,” she said, “here is your first week’s wages.”

“No; I don’t take money I haven’t earned.”

“Yes, you must,” and she left the notes in his great rough hand.

“Of course Mr. Greyhurst will see you in my garden.”

“Well, it ain’t none of his business. Guess I’ll be the fooler this time. When will I come? I don’t half like it.”

“But you will. Come to-day at six. It is too late for work, but I want Mr. Trescot to talk to you.”

“Well, I’ll come. I’ve said it, and I’ll come.”

“Good-by.”

Well pleased, she went away across the clearing and up the bluff, determined that her uncle should agree to pay, or that she herself must do so. “I have bought a man and saved a man’s life,” she said joyously. She was glad, elate, and at ease.

She had been so long with Coffin that her husband had gone home. She hurried her steps and entered the house just after him. A great joy was in her heart. She would tell him in this way—no, it should be in that way. The adventure delighted her, and the feeling that she had been able to help her husband and make him secure.

“I missed you,” he said, as they sat down in the little library; “what made you so late?”

“I went for a walk. I went down to the river and then through the woods to where your squatters live.”

“Constance, you must not do that again. God knows what might happen among those lawless men. This fellow Coffin—I know him now—is one of the worst of them. Promise me, love.”

“I can—I do. But I saw your lame scoundrel.”

“Saw him! You saw him!”

“Yes.” And she poured out the whole story, while he listened amazed, and not too well pleased. She saw the gravity of his look, the slight frown as she finished.

“Was I wrong, George?” she said anxiously.

He hesitated and then replied:

“Yes; this is not a woman’s business. You have pledged me without thought to what your uncle will never agree to do; and the money—where is it to come from?”

“I have it, George, and more than enough. I will not,—oh, I cannot let this state of things go on. My uncle must give you freedom to act as seems best. It is he who put you in peril. I won’t stand it.”

“And still, Constance, this must not occur again. It was thoughtless and unwise.”

“Thoughtless! Oh, George,” she cried, with a sudden passion of tears, “it was anything but thoughtless. I scarcely closed my eyes last night. I have been in an agony of apprehension. I could not wait to see what would happen. If I had been a man, and loved you as no man can love—oh, I should have killed him! Do you think this kind of thing will go on? And I brought you here, I made you come, I bribed you with my love, myself. Now I can sleep, you are safe. I have found an enemy and made him a friend. Oh, this horrible town! Let us go. Let us give up.”

She went on with broken phrases and disconnected words, and was soothed only when, at last, as she lay sobbing on his breast, he said: “Try, dear, to control yourself; we must talk this over quietly. Now, wait a little; do not speak.”

By degrees she steadied herself, and at last, wiping her eyes, said: “There, it is over; but I must finish, and I won’t be so weak again. I do think you must see, George, that this was not with me a matter of choice. I had to do it. You are the one thing in life for me. There is no other. Oh, you have your work and your enlarging future, your religion. I have _you_. That is my sole excuse. To-morrow I would do it again. That is all. And if I have done what my love made me do, at least you must see that out of it comes some good.”

He had been amazed and annoyed by her abrupt interference, but as she talked he quieted himself, and while in wonder at the abandonment of a passion so all-possessing, began to feel that her pledges must be kept to the letter. He said so, to her joy, and added, as he kissed her tears away: “I am sorry you went, but I love you the more for the courage that carried you through.”

She smiled. “Ah, George, it was the courage of selfishness; it was the courage of love. And I am forgiven? I want you to say it.”

“Hush! We shall never need the word—never. And so I am to see that scamp to-day at six. He must be a pretty cool fellow.” The humor of it struck him. “Do you expect to be present?” he asked, laughing. “To be shot at overnight by a man who proposes to attend to your garden the day after is something delightfully unusual.”

There was no laugh in it for Constance. The man was back again in his every-day calm. The woman remained excited, restless, and even exhausted by the strain of the morning and the talk with her husband. Her mind was still on the matter.

“You must write to Uncle Rufus and simply say you mean to have your way.”

“I will think it over. Probably I shall do so, but you, in the meantime, must not do what I alone ought to do.”

“No,” she returned, somewhat meekly; “I am out of the business now. But, George, don’t tell that man he is a scoundrel. He is the captive of my bow and spear.”

“No, I think I shall manage it; but I hardly think I can apologize for not being hit.”

“Please don’t,” she said, and went up to her room, glad then, and again after lunch, to lie down and rest with a mind at ease. The rather grim humor of the situation did not strike her as it would have done her sister.

VI

A little before six Coffin stood hesitating at the gate in front of the house. He, too, had some reasonable sense of embarrassment. As Trescot walked across the front room he saw him, and, understanding, went out at once, and said, “Come in; glad to see you.” Coffin advanced, with his halting gait, until they met at the door. “No, Mr. Trescot; I don’t go in till I’ve said my word. I was told you were a hard man and meant to kick me out. I was bred up in the Tennessee mountains, and I’ve seen men shot for less things than that. I’ve been on that ground, me and father, eighteen years; and I just want to say right here that, believing what that cuss told me, I was justified.”

“I see,” said Trescot; “but were you not a little hasty?”

“I don’t say I mightn’t of been, and I’m not a man that crawls easy; but I’m that damn glad to-day I didn’t git you that if I was a prayin’ cuss I’d be down on my knees and thank the Lord. That there woman of yours, she’s a wonder.” Then Trescot understood, and liked it.

“Mr. Coffin,” he said, “I have a Confederate’s bullet in my shoulder, and bear no malice. I certainly have none for the many who missed me. I want to say that I stand by my wife’s bargain.”

“Then I’ll come in.”

The two men shook hands and passed into the library. When they were seated, Trescot said: “Do you want it now in black and white?”

“No; if I trust a man, I trust him. I’ve got something to say to you about those lands, and just you listen. You’ve got a good title to the land I’m on; we all know that. A little money will clear off the other squatters if I give up and go. I can settle them. I understand from General Averill that it’s the big deep-water front below that’s the trouble.”

“Yes, that is so. You will do me a great service if you can help us.”

“I can. The bounds were set by blazing trees. My father helped run that line before ever we settled here. The blazed trees on the west was washed away nigh ten years ago, clean gone down the river. Now, about the ones back on the bluff that mark the bound to eastward—”

Trescot broke in: “No one can find the blazed trees where they ought to be. There are no end of big ones, but no blaze on any of them.”

“Well, there’s ways of looking. Fact is, those blazes is growed over. Why, it’s near on to forty years. The blazes leave a hollow like. The bark grows over and hides them. I can find the trees; they’re oaks. Cut them down and saw them up, and you have your blaze plain as day. One is a walnut.”

“If you can do that when I’m ready, Mr. Coffin, you will get a bigger farm than my wife promised; but, meanwhile, you must hold your tongue, and tell no one, and not quarrel with Greyhurst. Did you tell him of this?”

“No, I didn’t. It wasn’t any concern of mine, and I don’t like him none too well. I’m your man, sir; and if you don’t mind a poor chap like me saying it, I’m her man, too. I never saw no woman like her.”

“Nor I,” said Trescot, pleasantly. “And now she wants you here to-morrow, about four o’clock, for her garden work.”

“I’ll come.”

Trescot knew the habits of the place too well to fail to say:

“Have a little bourbon, Mr. Coffin?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Your health,” said Trescot.

“And yours, too.”

His host laughed.

“I see,” said Coffin, grinning; “I wasn’t wishing you much health last night; but if you can afford to lay that to one side, I guess I can. And I don’t want you to think I can’t shoot better than that. It was the lightning bothered me.”

Much amused at this odd form of vanity, Trescot made a light reply, laughed, and the woodsman went away, leaving him doubly at ease, and astonished at the luck which had brought him the evidence so long desired.

When it became plain to Constance that she had not only turned a foe into a friend, but had also been the means of adding valuably to the proof needed to insure her uncle’s title, she was overjoyed, and began to make more sure the adhesion of her garden helper.

She explained to him with patience the work she required, helped with such luxuries as were needed by the brother-in-law who was slowly dying, and soon bound to her a man who had been unlucky, and had at last fallen into a state of despondency and become reckless and vindictive.

One warm evening early in July, Trescot said to her, “I shall become jealous of the general, Constance. He says you are capturing all these old rebels.”

She laughed gaily. “Yes, men are easy game, but not their womankind. But I did have my little triumph this afternoon. I walked in quite by chance on their society meeting. It was at Mrs. Averill’s—something for the orphans of Confederate soldiers. They were pretty cool, and I was all sweetness. At last I got up and apologized for my intrusion, and said I must go. But then the dear old lady asked me if I would not sing for them while they sewed. One or two of them were civil enough to say they would be glad to hear me. I sat down at that queer old piano, and what do you think I did?”

“Heaven knows!”

“You could never guess.”

“I admit it as hopeless.”

“I sang ‘Dixie’ for them. Oh, George, I sang it as they never, never heard it before. They quit sewing and just sat and listened. When I turned half round on the stool some of them were crying. One old lady came and kissed me, and they crowded around the piano thanking me. Then another, a shy little old maid, said, ‘Would you mind playing “My Maryland”?’ I had to say I did not know it—and then, George, I had an inspiration. I turned to the piano, and broke out into that really fine rebel song you like, and I sang—oh, I sang it well—‘Stonewall Jackson’s Way.’ That time they really gave up. They clapped and praised me, and were so surprised when I said you liked it.