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?”
He comforted her as best he could, not in the least degree sharing her apprehensions.
At last she said: “What do you suppose he wanted?”
“I think, dear, it would be hard to say.” He did not choose to admit that it had appeared to him to be an attempt to alarm him. He added that the man had been foolish, and yet was not a fool. “I fancy him to be in debt,” he said, “and to depend too anxiously on the issue of this suit.”
“I do not like him.”
He laughed. “Would you like any one who did not think George Trescot a legal angel?”
“I should not,” she cried, and kissed him. “He is very handsome, but he made me uncomfortable.”
“Oh, he is quite harmless.”
“So is a poor little dead snake on the road, but I jump when I see it.”
“Go to bed, Mrs. Eve,” he said, laughing.
A moment after she put her charming head through the half-open doorway and cried: “I hate him!”
“Oh, go to bed, you bad child. You don’t hate anybody.”
“But I do,” she murmured, as she went up the stair.
Her weekly letter to Susan went next day. She wrote:
“Dear Susan:
“In two weeks I shall be at Eastwood, but how I am to live there two months with uncle, and without George, I do not yet see. I am sometimes surprised to recognize how completely he is all of life to me; and then I am glad. I rejoice in my good looks and my voice because they are for him, and because they help him among these strange people who are still sullen and bitter about the war they brought upon us, and about what it cost them. As if we, too, had not had our share! George expects me to be very tender of their feelings, and I am—indeed I am; but when I see George nursing that crippled arm, and evidently in pain of which I am never to speak, I sometimes—But I will say no more to you, my only confessor. When George says that I am to forget and, what I cannot forget, forgive, I can almost do it. Indeed, I go to church because he goes, and sing the hymns—you should hear me. If it would make him more happy I could almost pretend to believe what he believes. It cannot be only a creed which makes him so tender, so entirely true, so thoughtful, and, above all, what I am not, so magnanimous concerning these people. He brings home no stories of his annoyances, but I have heard and seen more than enough to make me cry at times because I urged him to come to this place. He only says: ‘Why, all this is natural, and must pass away with time.’ But still I feel that we are in a hostile land.
“Knowing what he has to endure, I said to him last week that his religion nowhere orders us to forgive the enemies of those we love. You should have seen his face. I got a proper scolding; and oh, I love him to scold me. Can you understand that?
“Last night we had a visit from a Mr. Greyhurst, who is the lawyer of the people who dispute uncle’s land claims. I overheard them talking rather high, and suddenly appeared as peacemaker. The man looked at me and was quiet. It was like a charm; but the way he looked was not quite pleasant. A dark, Spanish-looking person, with overbold eyes, and very handsome, with a strong, uneasy face—a curious contrast to the refinement and intellectual beauty of George, who looked slight and almost frail beside this man’s massive figure. Sometimes I am anxious when I look at George and know that he has to remain in this heat. When, in your last letter, you said that I had no resource in me or my beliefs against the sorrows of life, I had a sudden and horrible fear lest you might have been thinking of George, and then I felt it was cruel of you, and as if I never could write to you again; but I ought to have known better. This strained, anxious life is, I suppose, making me morbid, and perhaps something else is having a like effect.
“George has heard from uncle, who either does not or will not realize the state of affairs here among his dear rebels, who hate him, and no wonder. At first I disliked the idea of his coming to St. Ann; but, on the whole, it may be as well. He can be stiff enough in a letter, but not when he is face to face with a resolute man. He will learn a little when he comes.
“Yours always,
“Constance.
“P.S.—I have been rather depressed of late, but this is largely because of the prospect of leaving George. In truth, we have been making some friends, and just now the town is lovely with flower-gardens.
“C.”