A month had gone by. A savage northeast wind was rocking the pines and hurling a thunderous surf on the rock-guarded coast. It was the third of March, the night before the day set for the marriage. Their uncle having as usual gone to bed early, the two sisters sat alone by a bright wood fire in the sitting-room they shared.
Susan rose and went to the window. “What a wild night!” she said, as the rain, wind driven, crashed against the panes, and the casement rattled. “The gardener said this afternoon a ship had gone ashore on Carlton’s Reef. I hope no lives were lost.”
“Yes, Uncle Rufus told me of it, and was gracious enough to observe that going to sea was like getting married—a very uncertain business.”
Susan, as she returned to the fire, remarked: “He has an unequaled capacity for saying unpleasant things, but I really believe that he does not mean to be malicious. The trouble is, he values the product of his own mind too highly to be willing to suppress any of it. I might have had the fancy that the ocean and marriage are uncertain. I should not have thought it fit or worth while to say so.”
“I do not see, Susan, how George has stood it for this last month. What with Uncle Rufus’s endless indirectness and perpetual indecision, I cannot wonder that George is puzzled to understand what he wants. I shall be more than glad to have done with it, and get half a continent between us and uncle.”
“You will never be done with it while he lives,” returned Susan; “and you may be pretty sure that he will some day appear at St. Ann and still further bother George.”
“Well, George is as obstinate as—I ought to say more resolute than—Uncle Rufus.”
“George asked me,” said Susan, “how uncle had been so fortunate in his affairs. I told him what you of course know, that uncle’s fortune was largely inherited, and that as the mills in which most of it was invested are managed by wiser men, and he is almost morbidly cautious, it is easy to see how he became rich. Those lands in and about St. Ann were one of his father’s ventures. They have been the source of constant trouble. I suspect that General Averill could not agree to do as uncle desired, and that when he gave up no one else would accept the agency.”
No sooner had she spoken than she knew that she had been unwise. Constance rose with a quick movement, and turning to her sister, said:
“Uncle said nothing like that to me or to George. Do you mean that he is using George because he could get no one else? I shall go and ask him if he has dared to do that.” As she spoke she moved quickly to the door. Susan was just in time.
“Stop, dear,” she said; “I have no authority for what I said.”
“Then you should not have spoken. You make me unhappy—and now, to-night of all nights. If your suspicion be correct, it is a thing I will not stand. Let me go.”
“No.” Susan set her back to the door. “Listen, dear. Uncle is asleep.”
“I do not care. He must wake up.”
“But you must care; and if I have been foolish or imprudent, it is too late for you to act wildly on a mere fancy of mine. Forget it, dear, and be sure that no matter what may be uncle’s little schemes, George Trescot will succeed where others have failed.”
The tall girl, still flushed, angry, and only half convinced, moved away and stood beside the fire, silent for a moment. Then, as Susan took her hand, she said:
“You are right; but, indeed, if he has put George in a false position I shall never forgive him. I shall not tell George.”
“I should not, dear. Sit down. It is really of no moment, but I was as indiscreetly anxious in George’s interest as you can be. Let us drop it. This is our last talk. What a mad storm, Conny!”
“Yes. Listen to the wind.”
“But you love storms, dear.”
“Yes, but not to-night. Oh, not to-night!”
“I hope you will have sunshine to-morrow.”
“Oh, sister, I do hope so.”
“It does not look like it, Conny; but there is sunshine enough in George Trescot. No one could help liking him; I am half in love with him myself.”
Constance laughed. “I can’t have that, I want him all to myself.”
“That you will not have,” said Susan, quietly. “I am so glad that you concluded to be married in church.”
“He wanted it, and I really did not care.”
“But you will some day, dear. You cannot live with that man year after year and fail to feel the value of the influences which guide and guard his life—and, dear, it was not your fault. I think it was cruel, wicked.”
Constance looked up. “Do you think he is really—I mean because of that—better than I am? Oh, I mean—you know what I mean.”
“I think you know, dear,” said Susan, “or ought to know. He has had a life of trial, you one of ease. Both of you are what nature and the chances of life have made you. I think you were unfairly dealt with. Before I came, and ever since, uncle has had his way.”
“Yes, I know; but, truly, Susan, I am neither religious nor non-religious; I am open-minded.”
“Are you, my dear sister? Has not your open-mindedness left you with the door of the mind very hard to open wide? Time will show. You have never yet found yourself; you have simply the conventional morals and opinions of our own social world. How they will serve you in days of strain and trouble God alone knows.”
“I think you are severe, Susan. I suppose I shall laugh or cry, and grieve or be merry, like others.”
“You are not like others. You are very unlike others.”
“Am I not?”
“No; you are too natural.”
“Too natural. Upon my word, Susan, you are quite too enigmatical for my powers of comprehension.”
“Well, dear, we won’t talk any more. I did not want to trouble you. And how am I to do without you?”
“Oh, you must come to see us after a while, when we are settled.”
“Oh, shall I not? Now to bed, to bed, dear, for a beauty sleep.”
She kissed her, and Constance went away. The elder woman remained long in thought by the fire, reflecting upon her own imprudent frankness. The younger lay awake for a time, wondering a little what Susan meant by calling her too natural. She awoke early to hear the surf and the constant rain, and the wail of the wind among the pines.
* * *
Trescot had never been his former vigorous self since he was wounded, and now, a resolute doctor insisting upon a long holiday, five happy weeks went by, much to the betterment of his health and looks. As they got out of the train at St. Ann early in April, on a Saturday afternoon, a gentleman approached them, and in the soft Southern tongue said:
“Mrs. Trescot, I believe. I am General Averill. Allow me to make you welcome to St. Ann.”
As Trescot gave him his left hand he added in a cordial way:
“Have you met with an accident? Nothing very bad, I hope.” He seemed really distressed. “And in your honeymoon, too.”
“You are very kind,” said Trescot. “I am afraid that you are in a way responsible; it was a Confederate bullet.”
“Oh, indeed? It is too late for apologies, but not for regret. So you were a soldier. Well, I am glad of that. It is not the men who fought who are making mischief now. My carriage is here. This way, madam. Here, boy,” to an aged black, and he gave some directions concerning their baggage.
“But we are going to the hotel,” said Trescot. “I wrote and arranged for rooms.”
The general laughed. “You are going to your own house, sir. My wife has been busy there, or she would have met Mrs. Trescot.”
“But we have no house,” said Constance.
“A little surprise, madam—as I understand, a wedding-gift from Mr. Hood. Mrs. Averill wrote and wished to be allowed to put it in order. Then Miss Hood came to St. Ann. Your uncle and I are old friends, as you know; and now that I see you, Mrs. Trescot, it is more than a pleasure—it is a privilege—to have been thus allowed to be of use. Ah! here is the carriage. Permit me.”
Trescot could only express formal thanks, and they chatted as they drove through the old Creole settlement, with its ill-kept gardens and new wooden houses.
Trescot was much amazed by the uncle’s sudden and secret liberality. They had been five weeks away from home, and except that Susan had written, soon after they left, that St. Ann would surprise them, they had been unprepared for what now they heard.
Unable, for the time, to discuss matters, they drove on for a half-mile through the dust of the main street; and when a little way out of the fast-growing southwestern town the general said, “This is what we call Raeburn’s addition.” Where the road began to slope to the broad river a too sanguine speculator had put up a half-dozen scattered cottages.
“This is your home, Mrs. Trescot. No, I shall leave you to enjoy it alone. Mrs. Averill has gone away, and hopes you will be pleased. You will find supper ready in an hour.”
They stood a moment on the roadside. A neat old black woman in a gay bandana head-kerchief stood at the open door; the general, hat in hand, kind, genial, courteous, a little profuse in talk. The two young people thanked him, and they were left alone.
Constance had misgivings as to what she might expect in this new home. She said nothing of the feeling she had that she should have been consulted as to the furniture. But much of what was needed had been chosen by Susan, and some simple but refined taste had presided over the rest. As she looked about her, she cried: “Oh, George, when I heard I was afraid; but it is really so very pretty and so simple; and was it not considerate to leave us alone? And wasn’t it like Susan just to go away and leave us to ourselves, and Mrs. Averill too?”
“You do not yet know the best of these Southern people, Constance. It will be both pleasant and desirable that you and I learn to like them. I am sure you will. Imagine the kindness of it, and the trouble!”
They went from room to room in the little house, looking out on the roses already in bloom, the grass slopes, and the river beyond. At last they found their way into the dining-room, and then into an apartment where were shelves and a businesslike table; but here the cases sent on by Trescot and Constance had been left unopened. Again husband and wife recognized the feeling which had left their personal belongings untouched.
One of the servants, an old woman once a slave of the Averills, conducted Constance over the kitchen, and up-stairs and down again, and was delighted when, after supper, the cooking was praised.
Then, as the shadows came, and they sat on the back porch among clustering Cherokee roses, she brought him a match, and as his pipe glowed or darkened they talked of the new life before them; she recognizing with fresh happiness the man’s gain in health and vigor; he, at moments, in thought with certain reasonable fears. Would this distinguished-looking woman, with her music, her social ties, her unchecked expenditures, her familiar Boston circle—would she be contented here in this simpler life? Would every one be as kind as Mrs. Averill? He became more and more silent as they sat in the twilight. She, too, had her less distinct doubts, but heretofore they had said little of the life which lay before them. Now she spoke, touching his brown hair as he sat on the step below her. She was strangely intuitive as concerned George Trescot.
“I know what you are thinking of, my dear, dear George.”
“Oh! What, love?”
“You are wondering whether I shall be satisfied here in this new life amid the people you fought and I hated.”
“I was; but you will not hate them. I never did.”
“And I shall not if they are good to you.”
“Oh, whether or not; and you won’t miss the ease of home, the varied life, your carriage and riding-horse?”
“I—I have you.”
“But you will not have me always as you have had for these happy weeks.”
“But you will be always thinking of me.”
“Even that may not be possible. I sometimes fancy it would have been better—”
“No, no; we did wisely, and love is my only answer.”
“Then, once and for all let us put away the past, and accept our new life with thankfulness.”
“Yes. Ah, letters! Thank you,” she said to the maid. “Let us go in, George, and read them.” As they sat down, she cried: “Gracious! oh, do listen to this, George. It is from uncle.”
“My dear Constance:
“Major-General Averill will give you the title-deeds of the house. It will, I hope, make you less discontented, for you will have to economize as you never did here. I trust also that my generosity will be an inducement to that obstinate young man to give the fullest attention to my affairs.
“Susan will, no doubt, tell you that she made me give you the house; but her religion is too vague a thing to have taught her accuracy. What she calls faith, I am happy to say I am without; it is too vague for intellectual assimilation.
“Yours affectionately,
“Rufus Hood.”
“Of which has he none—faith or intellectual assimilation?” laughed Trescot. “Upon my word, Constance, what about the blind belief we call love? No one knows everything of any one. The rest we call trust, faith; and without the mystery of the unknowable in man, woman, and God, the half of the charm of life and love were gone.”
She did not answer him directly, but said: “Uncle Rufus is plain enough, and I know you, and you me.”
“No, not altogether; what you would do or be in certain contingencies of this changeful life, I do not know.”
“You? No, no,” he laughed. “But what does Susan say?”
She read:
“Dear Conny:
“As soon as you were engaged I set to work to make Uncle Rufus behave decently. He is not mean or ungenerous, but you were to be punished for preferring George to him, and to have a narrow income as a reminder of your iniquity. We had it about and about. He enjoyed the row and, as usual, backed down. I made him groan when the bills came in; but he had to pay, and now he tells every one about the pleasure he had in surprising you with the house. I send a few books of reference for George—the cyclopedia he wanted, and a few other books.”
She said nothing of what further she had done.
Constance looked up. “But I meant to give you that cyclopedia myself. I told her so.”
She had a childlike disappointment because of having been thus anticipated. He saw and understood.
“But I want far more—the new biographical dictionary, and how many other books I dare not tell you. To-morrow we shall see when we unpack the boxes. What else is there in your sister’s letter?”
“Nothing of moment. She wishes to know if the house, our house—isn’t that delightful—needs any other furniture.”
“I should think not,” said Trescot, faintly jealous of the liberality which had provided what in time he had hoped to give. He said, however: “I confess, dear, to being very glad that you are to be so pleasantly nested. I feared a little the long stay at an inn or in lodgings, where you would have all manner of unavoidable contacts.”
“Yes,” she said, “that would have been dreadful. To have been able all one’s life to choose or avoid, to say ‘At home’ or not, and then to be obliged to meet, all the time, the chance acquaintances of a boarding-house! I did not expect to have a house for a year at least.”
George Trescot reflected anew upon the sacrifices she had made, and on how less than little she knew of what she was saved by Susan’s persistency and self-sacrifice.
“We owe Susan a great debt,” he said; “and I am as grateful as a man ought to be; but I wish I had been able to do all this for you myself. I have been so anxious that you should be satisfied.”
Constance slipped down on to the step beside him, cast an arm around him, and laid her head on his shoulder. “You need not have been afraid, George. Life can ask nothing of me, large or small, which I would not give or be or do for you.” The voice became low and measured as she went on. “I could beg, or do anything. You will see how I shall help you. I shall make all these St. Ann people our friends—oh, whether I like them or not; but, George, I am scared sometimes when I think of how all other love has shrunk to nothing, as if it had all gone to make up one great love for you. If any one—man or woman—loves you, I shall be jealous; if any one does not, I shall hate him. Oh, I am a fine fool of love! I am half jealous of the company you find in your pipe.”
He said, “Are you, indeed?”
“Yes, I am, really. Oh, you may laugh, but I am.”
The stress of passion in her words was broken by this half-humorous reflection, and a little to the man’s relief, even if he hardly knew it. The quality of his affection was governed by temperament, and, never reaching the instinctive freedom of her passion, was nobler, in that it looked forward to being always the true lover, and also the friend who guides and counsels; for already he saw that both guidance and counsel might be needed. He smiled as he kissed her.
“Well, shall I give up my friend of many campfires, of sad days, of long night-rides?”
“What a pretty defense! No, indeed; I like it because it can comfort and cannot love.”
She rose as she spoke, and standing before him, threw up her hands with a gesture of emphatic abandonment and cried: “Oh, George, I am so happy! Come, let us walk in the garden. Isn’t it little?—but do look at the roses.”
He went with her, and they talked more quietly of the kindness of the general and his wife; of their own plans, and of his work. To his surprise, she said no word of Susan. At last he said, “It is early, but you must be tired.”
“Oh, I am never tired; but I have to unpack, and what the colored women can do I have yet to learn.”
“To-morrow will be Sunday, Constance.”
“I am going to church with you. You will have to find the places for me in your prayer-book; but I am going because—because you are going.”
“Thank you! You are very good to me, my love! Good night.”
She left him, and he lighted his pipe, and for an hour moved about in thought.