Part 6

“As I finished I saw the old general standing in the doorway. He, too, thanked me with his fine, old-mannered way; and, George, I felt what an awful hypocrite I was.”

“Oh, but you are not. You were not. Think what these people have suffered, and what now have they left, except splendid memories and a song? Think of their deaths, their poverty, the humiliation of defeat! I have shared that feeling with a well-whipped army. Imagine it for a whole people.”

“I know—I know; but they hate us. I have heard enough to know what is said of you here. Coffin told me.”

“Oh, hang the fellow! We are doing better than I ever expected to do. If your uncle had any sense we should have no trouble at all. I wrote to him last night after you went to bed.”

“And you were positive?”

“I was; but this is my second letter to the same effect, and the first was unanswered.”

“How like Uncle Rufus! That reminds me I have a letter from Susan. You must hear it. There is a message for you; I will get it.”

While she was gone he reflected, not altogether pleasantly, upon the strong feeling of dislike with which Constance still regarded the people among whom they had chosen to live. He did not comprehend that it rested very largely on her belief that they were hostile to him. Feeling as he supposed her to feel, he did not quite like that for him or in his interest she should do as she had done. In his own intercourse with the men he met he had been simple and natural; and as most of them had been soldiers, they met on a ground of common self-respect, avoiding political discussions. That some of them, and all who had not fought, were still embittered, he knew too well, and knowing, was careful, kindly, and magnanimous.

Susan’s letter was laughingly discussed as they sat in the library.

“DEAR CONNY:

“Come soon and restore decent peace to this household. Imagine my combination of mirth and satisfaction when uncle told me that General Averill had written him he had seen you in church last Sunday and thought you looking well. He was in one of his mild rages. You can imagine a box-turtle angry. I advised him to write to you and complain. He went away declaring he would alter his will. As he has made three wills in a year, this need not alarm you. If there be a disease of indecision, he has it.

“About George’s last letter I really had to fight. ‘There!’ he said; ‘read that. He wants me to pay squatters to leave; he thinks the suit about my title ought to be compromised; he talks about the bad feeling in the town because I will not spend money or improve my property.’

“Then, as our old cook says, I just spoke up. I said George was right, and that uncle ought to want to help his unlucky rebel friends who had lost everything. This quite upset him. ‘Rebels! I presume you to mean Confederates.’ I was advised to study the constitutional history of the United States of America. You know his full phrases. I advised him to read what George Washington wrote about State feeling. I had not the most foggy idea what G. W. wrote, but it stopped him and he went off again on my good brother-in-law. He declared that George’s want of tact, and your opinions, and the general’s weak ways, and George’s despotic management had been responsible for making him, Rufus Hood, unpopular in that strange town of which you write such amusing accounts. He had received the ‘St. Ann Herald’ with an article on absentee owners. Oh, my dear Conny, he was at his loveliest worst. You were to blame, and if you had not gone to church you would not have lost the little common sense you had, and would have conciliated these people. Of course you had been exasperating, and then it was George, George, etc., etc. At last I told him he was like Aunt Nancy, who, as you may recall, fell ill of a plum-cake she had made, and never could settle in her mind whether it was the raisins, the currants, or the citrons. Uncle Rufus has a long-buried fraction of a talent for seeing a joke, and, dear, he really laughed till he looked five years younger, and until he remembered that his mirth was suicidal, and began to go over it all again. At last I said, ‘But you must do something.’ He said he would think it over and write to George, and perhaps he had better go to St. Ann when you return. He had been misunderstood. Some one named Greyhurst (isn’t he one of the claimants?) had written to him about a compromise.”

“What a muddle!” said George. “Confound Greyhurst! Imagine Mr. Hood in an attitude of conciliation! Well, what else?”

She read on:

“I really pity George Trescot. If I were he, I should do what seems best, and take the chance of a back-down, or of my uncle yielding, as he is pretty sure to do. Come soon, Conny; you must need our seaside freshening. The roses say come, and so do I.

“Yours always, “SUSAN HOOD.”

“Constance,” said Trescot, “Susan is right; soon or late, I must have my way or give up a hopeless task.”

“Well, I have always said so; but don’t be in a hurry, George. I feel as if now it will be all easy. The squatters you can manage with Coffin’s help. You cannot try the land case until October. Then in August, when you go home with me, together we can bring Uncle Rufus to some decent sense of what is needed.”

“I hate to tell you, Constance; but I cannot go East this summer. The general and Mrs. Averill are going to New York on the third of August and will take care of you. He has asked me to remain in charge of his own work, and on the tenth to go to New Orleans about a claim for damaged cotton sent here last year. It is a great compliment and involves the sharing of a large fee if I can settle the matter. I am sorry.”

“Oh, George, how can I leave you?”

“I know, dear; I hesitated to tell you, but it is really a turning-point in my career. If I win I shall oblige several people of importance and make friends; and, Constance, I am sure that we need them, or that I do. Right or wrong, the way people feel has much to do with the settlement of land cases. Juries are human, and here, I fancy, they are far too readily affected by public opinion. This is why I welcome every chance of making friends.”

“I see; but I don’t like it. Could not you join us later?”

“No. On my return I must give myself up entirely to the land case. The general will, of course, act as my senior, but he looks to me to collect evidence. The man who surveyed the land is dead, and I have to go to Indiana to see his widow and secure her evidence and his books. There is really no more time than I require, and you would not wish me to fail.”

“I see perfectly,” she said. “I must go and you must stay. I am feeling this moist heat, and you are, too.”

“No, even my wicked arm is less ill behaved. I really think the heat suits it, and I never was better.”

Her intelligence was convinced, but not her heart. And with some people it requires a good deal of head to keep the heart from revolt. That for every reason it was best for him to remain was the one thing that aided her to submit. Before she finally yielded, the increasing heat of July made excuses difficult, and she began to feel, for the first time in her life, a sense of languor which she had to acknowledge as a cry of the body for her native air.

She had made up her mind that the summer plans, which for a time would separate them, were such as to serve her husband’s interests. Had they been able to do without what his profession began to bring in, her real desire would have been to cut off his work entirely, and to leave him no relations to life except those of a love which on her side she felt to be boundlessly sufficient. She had been trained to certain habits which passed for duties; but being without any ultimate beliefs by which to test her actions when called upon by the unusual, the instincts of a too natural creature were apt to be seen in what she did or felt. She would possibly have denied even to herself that she had no interests in life which did not consider George Trescot, and would have smiled at the idea that her jealousy of whatever took him from her side might in the end injure the man she loved, and would in time become selfishly exacting.

As Trescot expected to act only as junior counsel, he had, of course, many consultations with Averill. On one of these occasions the general said to him: “When I leave, you may have occasion to see and talk with Greyhurst. He tells me that he has called on you.”

“Yes, but we were out. I returned his visit, but I have seen very little of him. I suppose we shall try the case in October.”

“Yes, unless he contrives to put it off as he has done before. I think he is doubtful—as, in fact, he ought to be. Is he waiting for some offer from us? I think that likely.”

“He will not get it; but he would if I had my way.”

“Well, he will call on you about it. He said as much. Be a little careful. He is like some of the rest of the bar, a trifle indifferent as to the right or the wrong of his client’s case; but he did not suggest this suit, and he is a better fellow outside of his profession than in it.”

“Do you think he believes that Mr. Hood does not own that land?”

“Certainly not; but he is willing to make Mr. Hood pay for what the river did when it ate away the Baptiste water-frontage. It is not a highly moral attitude, and yet there is something to be said for it.”

“Yes, as to that I entirely agree with you,” said Trescot. “Considering what we know and he does not, he ought to lose the suit. If Mr. Hood were reasonable, I should like to put all our evidence before Greyhurst, and then offer some form of compromise. As it is, we must try it, and take the risk of failure.”

“Yes; but I do not feel quite so secure as you do. Well, that is all. You will take care of our case this summer, while I am away, and you will, of course, write to me if you need advice. And, my dear fellow, be a little careful of our noon sun, and of the evening coolness.”

“Thanks, general. I have every reason to want both health and life.”

VII

Trescot felt more than was convenient Constance’s too steady call upon his time during the three weeks which passed before she left him. With both will and wish to gratify her, it was not always easy or even possible. The general had become attached to him, won by his considerate ways and the charm of a kindliness interpreted by manners which were winning and gracious. He was industrious, and possessed of that form of legal intellect which reaches conclusions with a swiftness due to unusual rapidity of thought, but which to slower minds appears to have the quality of intuition. The older lawyer, who reasoned slowly, began more and more to admire and to trust him, and spoke of the possibility of a partnership in the near future.

As the days went by, Trescot, seeing his wife’s languor and her increasing sense of disappointment at his absence during the hours of business, gave her all the time he could spare from wearisome study of the old French titles, and the other work in which the general asked his aid, and for which he was fairly paid.

Whatever absence the daylight hours exacted, the evening belonged to Constance, and he resisted every increasing temptation to carry home for completion the unfinished work of the day, unless it was of a nature to interest her. While to the tired man at evening her music was restful, and to the mind that which change of climate may be to the body, he also enjoyed when with her an ever widening satisfaction in awakening to larger appreciation a nature long shut up within too limited intellectual bounds. Under the thoughtful guidance of a man whom war and a keen sense of responsibility had helped to mature, the mind of the woman was slowly unfolding. On one of these cherished evenings, shortly before her departure, she was perched on the arm of Trescot’s chair and sharing the delightful fun of “Milkanwatha,” that best of all parodies. They were laughing, merry as two children, when the black maid appeared and said there was a gentleman in the parlor waiting to see Mr. Trescot.

“This is too bad, George,” said Constance; “can we never be left alone?”

In fact, they were rarely disturbed in the evening; but of this he did not remind her, and said merely: “Take to your piano, dear; I shall not be long.” She smiled, and he went into the parlor, where he found Greyhurst moving about or pausing to look at the engravings hung on the walls.

“Good evening,” he said, as Trescot welcomed him. “It is pleasant to hear people with a talent for laughter.”

“Oh, you heard us? We laugh a good deal in this house. Sit down. I am glad to see you. Or will you come into the library and see Mrs. Trescot?”

“With pleasure; but first may I ask for a few minutes’ talk over the business of those lands? The general is soon going away and I thought it well to ask you to consider the matter again.”

“Certainly; if you want to say anything I shall be most ready to hear. We have already discussed it pretty fully. You must, of course, be aware that I am not acting altogether as I should desire to do, but am more or less hampered by the owner’s instructions.” As he looked at his guest there was something about him which put Trescot suspiciously on guard. He added: “But pray go on,” and said to himself, “The man is anxious.”

Greyhurst said: “I want first to say to you once more that the case you propose to try in October you will lose. Even a man like Mr. Hood may be brought to reason. The deeds were lost in the war. There are no records; the office was burned, and you have to fall back on surveys of which there is no evidence except brief memoranda, if even these are to be had.”

Trescot knew well the value of silence. He made no sign of dissent, and, as he meant to try the case, had no idea of enlightening a man who might profit by what Trescot, the general, and Coffin alone knew.

“There is another consideration. You have not been here long, Mr. Trescot, and perhaps are not fully aware of the dangerous hostility provoked by Mr. Hood’s foreclosures, and the cruelty of his intention to drive out those old Confederate soldiers from their homes.”

And still Trescot held his tongue; but, as Greyhurst seemed to pause for a reply, he said:

“Well, Mr. Greyhurst, what else?”

The persistent, entirely courteous listening began to embarrass the older man, who was some ten years the senior of his host. He hesitated a moment, and then, setting his large, dark eyes on Trescot, went on:

“You will pardon me, I am sure, if I repeat that you are a stranger to our ways and feelings, and that you are a young man put by Mr. Hood in a false position.”

And still the cooler man failed to speak.

“I have already said to the general that we are open to settle this matter by some equitable division of the lands at the bend. I now come to you, and, sir, I represent the public sentiment of this community. These lands are now useless, and will be till this matter is settled.”

“Mr. Greyhurst,” said Trescot, “I am greatly obliged by your friendly visit, and am sorry to be unable to meet you on a common ground. My client refuses to compromise or to surrender any part of his land on deep water at the bend. The courts must decide, and we are instructed to try the case in October.”

“You will be sure to lose it.”

“So much the better for you,” laughed Trescot. “If winning be so certain, why seek for a compromise? The foreclosures are the only remedy for years of unpaid interest or of absolutely illegal possession. As, however, you are naturally interested in these poor people, I have no hesitation in telling you that some of the mortgages have been amicably arranged, and that time will be given to others. I hope to have no trouble with the squatters.”

He was indisposed to say more.

“Then your man Hood must all of a sudden have become damned amiable.”

“Pardon me,” said Trescot, rising; “Mr. Hood is Mrs. Trescot’s uncle. Allow me to close the door.” It had been left on a crack, and the piano had just ceased to be heard. “One moment,” he added, as Greyhurst, flushing deeply at the implied reproof, was about to reply. “One moment. I have listened to you patiently, although I fail to see what the other cases in my charge have to do with the issue we shall try in the fall. I shall, however, again advise my client of your desire to settle our case, and I may say also that if he is willing I shall gladly present to him any offer you may make.”

“Then let him make one.”

“Frankly, Mr. Greyhurst, I do not think he will, nor do I believe that he would accept one. You are an older lawyer than I, and must know that we cannot always make our clients reasonable.”

“Perhaps if he knew the state of feeling here he would understand the gravity of the situation. I am sure that—”

“Excuse me if I interrupt you. Public opinion has nothing to do with the matter; and, as you spoke a little while ago of what I suppose I may call hostility to me, I may add that it will in no way affect the course I shall take.”

Greyhurst moved uneasily as he listened, and then said abruptly: “You will find out when you come before a jury of Southern men.”

“I shall feel sure they will do what is right, and I am glad to say that, personally, I have met with much kindness in St. Ann, nor do I think political feeling will affect your courts or the course of justice. Let me add that I have not of late been aware of any personal hostility such as you speak of.”

“Well, you will see,” said Greyhurst; “and soon, too.”

“I do not quite understand you.”

“Indeed! You will know better when I tell you that you were blackballed last night at the club.”

Trescot flushed and returned instantly: “I asked the general not to present my name, and if you or any one presumes to suppose that this annoys me, he is much mistaken, and yet more so if he ventures to believe that it will in any way deter me from doing my duty as a lawyer. I do not see what motive you can possibly have in telling me, unless you really suppose that I am to be moved by fear of—” His voice rose as he spoke, but his speech was suddenly checked by the entrance of Mrs. Trescot.

“Mr. Greyhurst, I believe. Do not let me interrupt you. I came in to get a book. How you men can talk with my piano going I do not understand. When you are through, George, perhaps I may have a little visit.”

Greyhurst cooled instantly. He was in the presence of one of the rare women who, for good or ill, attract because of some inexplicable quality of sex. Incapable of analysis, it accounts for divorces and ruined households, even for suicides or murders. It may be faithful to a great passion, and be modified by character and education, and even by religion; but it is felt, whether the woman wishes it or not, and she who has it instinctively knows its power.

As Mrs. Trescot spoke she cast her large blue eyes on the man, and for an instant he was dumb and stood in mute admiration; nor was Trescot sorry for her coming.

“I think we have finished,” he said, but did not urge Greyhurst to accept the invitation his wife had given.

“I shall hope for the pleasure another time,” said Greyhurst. He knew that he should like to see her again, and he had said enough to Trescot to make a sudden return to cordiality difficult.

“You won’t forget, Mr. Greyhurst.”

He said something pleasant as he stood facing her—a strongly built man of soldierly carriage, dark-skinned, with large, regular features, and the high cheek-bones which told of his remote strain of Indian blood. As he left Trescot at the outer door he turned and said, rather to his host’s surprise: “If I have been abrupt or indiscreet I hope you will pardon me. I sometimes say or do things on the impulse of the moment, and then regret them. You will excuse me.”

“Oh, we all do that sort of thing now and then; and as for the club, it is of no moment, although I am sorry you told me. Good-by.”

As he went toward the drawing-room he said to himself: “What a strange man! Was he trying to scare me, or was it a game of bluff? And then his apology! Confound the fellow!”

Meanwhile, Greyhurst walked away with as complete dismissal of the lawsuits and all other earthly interests as if he were Adam in the garden alone with the new-born Eve. He was thinking of the woman.

It was the effect she was apt to produce on men, young or old. He felt it, even although it recalled to his mind a woman of quite different type. Then he turned to thought of the suit. “Damn my temper!” he exclaimed. “That confounded Yankee was as cold-blooded as a frog. It has its uses.” He felt his defeat.

* * * * *

“Well, Constance,” said Trescot, as he reëntered the library, “how much did you hear of that fellow’s agreeable talk?”

“A good deal of it—pretty much all.”

“I am sorry you heard him. I did not want to be in their club; but it is the civilians, not the soldiers, who are unfriendly, and really it is of no moment.”

“None,” she said. “But what did the man mean by it all?” And then she added: “But the things he said—oh, George, do you think you are still in any danger here? Since that awful night I cannot get it out of my mind. How am I to go away?”