FACE TO FACE
I did not see Colonel Meriwether. He passed on through to his seat in
Albemarle without stopping in our valley longer than over night. Part of
the next morning I spent in writing a letter to my agents at Huntington,
with the request that they should inform Colonel Meriwether at once on
the business situation, since now he was in touch by mail. The
alternative was offered him of taking over my father's interests through
these creditors, accepting them as partners, or purchasing their rights;
or of doing what my father had planned to do for him, which was to care
individually for the joint account, and then to allot each partner a
dividend interest, carrying a clear title.
All these matters I explained to my mother. Then I told her fully what
had occurred at the village the night previous between Ellen Meriwether
and my fiancée. She sat silent.
"In any case," I concluded, "it would suit me better if you and I could
leave this place forever, and begin again somewhere else."
She looked out of the little window across our pleasant valley to its
edge, where lay the little church of the Society of Friends. Then she
turned to me slowly, with a smile upon her face. "Whatever thee says,"
was her answer. "I shall not ask thee to try to mend what cannot be
mended. Thee is like thy father," she said. "I shall not try to change
thee. Go, then, thy own way. Only hear me, thee cannot mend the
unmendable by such a wrongful marriage."
But I went; and under my arm I bore a certain roll of crinkled, hairy
parchment.
This was on the morning of Wednesday, in November, the day following the
national election in the year 1860. News traveled more slowly then, but
we in our valley might expect word from Washington by noon of that day.
If Lincoln won, then the South would secede. Two nations would
inevitably be formed, and if necessary, issue would be joined between
them as soon as the leaders could formulate their plans for war. This
much was generally conceded; and it was conceded also that the South
would start in, if war should come, with an army well supplied with
munitions of war and led by the ablest men who ever served under the old
flag--men such as Lee, Jackson, Early, Smith, Stuart--scores and
hundreds trained in arms at West Point or at the Virginia Military
Institute at Lexington--men who would be loyal to their States and to
the South at any cost.
Our State was divided, our valley especially so, peace sentiment there
being strong. The entire country was a magazine needing but a spark to
cause explosion. It was conceded that by noon we should know whether or
not this explosion was to come. Few of us there, whether Unionists or
not, had much better than contempt for the uncouth man from the West,
Lincoln, that most pathetic figure of our history, later loved by North
and South alike as greatest of our great men. We did not know him in our
valley. All of us there, Unionists or Secessionists, for peace or for
war, dreaded to hear of his election.
Colonel Sheraton met me at the door, his face flushed, his brow
frowning. He was all politics. "Have you any news?" he demanded. "Have
you heard from Leesburg, Washington?"
"Not as yet," I answered, "but there should be messages from Leesburg
within the next few hours." We had no telegraph in our valley at that
time.
"I have arranged with the postmaster to let us all know up here, the
instant he gets word," said Sheraton. "If that black abolitionist,
Lincoln, wins, they're going to fire one anvil shot in the street, and
we can hear it up this valley this far. If the South wins, then two
anvils, as fast as they can load. So, Mr. Cowles, if we hear a single
shot, it is war--_war_, I tell you!
"But come in," he added hastily. "I keep you waiting. I am glad to see
you this morning, sir. From my daughter I learn that you have returned
from a somewhat successful journey--that matters seem to mend for you.
We are all pleased to learn it. I offer you my hand, sir. My daughter
has advised me of her decision and your own. Your conduct throughout,
Mr. Cowles, has been most manly, quite above reproach. I could want no
better son to join my family." His words, spoken in ignorance, cut me
unbearably.
"Colonel Sheraton," I said to him, "there is but one way for a man to
ride, and that is straight. I say to you; my conduct has not been in the
least above reproach, and your daughter has not told you all that she
ought to have told."
We had entered the great dining room as we talked, and he was drawing me
to his great sideboard, with hospitable intent to which at that moment I
could not yield. Now, however, we were interrupted.
A door opened at the side of the room, where a narrow stairway ran down
from the second floor, and there appeared the short, stocky figure, the
iron gray mane, of our friend, Dr. Samuel Bond, physician for two
counties thereabout, bachelor, benefactor, man of charity, despite his
lancet, his quinine and his calomel.
"Ah, Doctor," began Colonel Sheraton, "here is our young friend back
from his travels again. I'm going to tell you now, as I think I may
without much risk, that there is every hope the Cowles family will win
in this legal tangle which has threatened them lately--win handsomely,
too. We shall not lose our neighbors, after all, nor have any strangers
breaking in where they don't belong. Old Virginia, as she was, and
forever, gentlemen! Join us, Doctor. You see, Mr. Cowles," he added to
me, "Doctor Bond has stopped in as he passed by, for a look at my
daughter. Miss Grace seems just a trifle indisposed this
morning--nothing in the least serious, of course."
We all turned again, as the front door opened. Harry Sheraton entered.
"Come, son," exclaimed his father. "Draw up, draw up with us. Pour us a
drink around, son, for the success of our two families. You, Doctor, are
glad as I am, that I know."
We stood now where we had slowly advanced toward the sideboard. But
Doctor Bond did not seem glad. He paused, looking strangely at me and at
our host. "Harry," said he, "suppose you go look in the hall for my
saddle-bags--I have left my medicine case."
The young man turned, but for no reason apparently, stopped at the door,
and presently joined us again.
"May I ask for Miss Grace this morning, Doctor," I began, politely.
"Yes," interjected Colonel Sheraton. "How's the girl? She ought to be
with us this minute--a moment like this, you know."
Doctor Bond looked at us still gravely. He turned from me to Colonel
Sheraton, and again to Harry Sheraton. "Harry," said he, sternly.
"Didn't you hear me? Get out!"
We three were left alone. "Jack, I must see you a moment alone," said
Doctor Bond to me.
"What's up," demanded Colonel Sheraton. "What's the mystery? It seems to
me I'm interested in everything proper here. What's wrong, Doctor? Is my
girl sick?"
"Yes," said the physician.
"What's wrong?"
"She needs aid," said the old wire-hair slowly.
"Can you not give it, then? Isn't that your business?"
"No, sir. It belongs to another profession," said Doctor. Bond, dryly,
taking snuff and brushing his nose with his immense red kerchief.
Colonel Sheraton looked at him for the space of a full minute, but got
no further word. "Damn your soul, sir!" he thundered, "explain yourself,
or I'll make you wish you had. What do you mean?" He turned fiercely
upon me.
"By God, sir, there's only one meaning that I can guess. You, sir,
what's wrong? _Are you to blame_?"
I faced him fairly now. "I am so accused by her," I answered slowly.
"What! _What_!" He stood as though frozen.
"I shall not lie about it. It is not necessary for me to accuse a girl
of falsehood. I only say, let us have this wedding, and have it soon. I
so agreed with Miss Grace last night."
The old man sprang at me like a maddened tiger now, his eyes glaring
about the room for a weapon. He saw it--a long knife with ivory handle
and inlaid blade, lying on the ledge where I myself had placed it when I
last was there. Doctor Bond sprang between him and the knife. I also
caught Colonel Sheraton and held him fast.
"Wait," I said. "Wait! Let us have it all understood plainly. Then let
us take it up in any way you Sheratons prefer."
"Stop, I say," cried the stern-faced doctor--as honest a man, I think,
as ever drew the breath of life. He hurled his sinewy form against
Colonel Sheraton again as I released him. "That boy is lying to us both,
I tell you. I say he's not to blame, and I know it. I _know_ it, I say.
I'm her physician. Listen, you, Sheraton--you shall not harm a man who
has lied like this, like a gentleman, to _save_ you and your girl."
"Damn you both," sobbed the struggling man. "Let me go! Let me alone!
Didn't I _hear_ him--didn't you hear him _admit_ it?" He broke free and
stood panting in the center of the room, we between him and the weapon.
"Harry!" he called out sharply. The door burst open.
"A gun--my pistol--get me something, boy! Arm yourself--we'll kill
these--"
"Harry," I called out to him in turn. "Do nothing of the sort! You'll
have me to handle in this. Some things I'll endure, but not all things
always--I swear I'll stand this no longer, from all of you or any of
you. Listen to me. Listen I say--it is as Doctor Bond says."
So now they did listen, silently.
"I am guiltless of any harm or wish of harm to any woman of this
family," I went on. "Search your own hearts. Put blame where it belongs.
But don't think you can crowd me, or force me to do what I do not freely
offer."
"It is true," said Doctor Bond. "I tell you, what he says could not by
any possibility be anything else but true. He's just back home. _He has
been gone all summer._"
Colonel Sheraton felt about him for a chair and sank down, his gray face
dropped in his hands. He was a proud man, and one of courage. It irked
him sore that revenge must wait.
"Now," said I, "I have something to add to the record. I hoped that a
part of my story could be hid forever, except for Miss Grace and me
alone. I have not been blameless. For that reason, I was willing,
freely--not through force--to do what I could in the way of punishment
to myself and salvation for her. But now as this thing comes up, I can
no longer shield her, or myself, or any of you. We'll have to go to the
bottom now."
I flung out on the table the roll which I had brought with me to show
that morning to Grace Sheraton--the ragged hide, holding writings placed
there by my hand and that of another.
"This," I said, "must be shown to you all. Colonel Sheraton, I have been
very gravely at fault. I was alone for some months in the wilderness
with another woman. I loved her very much. I forgot your daughter at
that time, because I found I loved her less. Through force of
circumstances I lived with this other woman very closely for some
months. We foresaw no immediate release. I loved her, and she loved
me--the only time I knew what love really meant, I admit it. We made
this contract of marriage between us. It was never enforced. We never
were married, because that contract was never signed by us both. Here it
is. Examine it."
It lay there before us. I saw its words again stare up at me. I saw
again the old pictures of the great mountains; and the cloudless sky,
and the cities of peace wavering on the far horizon. I gazed once more
upon that different and more happy world, when I saw, blurring before my
eyes, the words--_"I, John Cowles--I, Ellen Meriwether--take thee--take
thee--for better, for worse--till death do us part."_ I saw her name,
"_E-l-l-e-n_."
"Harry," said I, turning on him swiftly. "Your father is old. This is
for you and me, I think. I shall be at your service soon."
His face paled. But that of his father was now gray, very old and gray.
"Treachery!" he murmured. "Treachery! You slighted my girl. My God, sir,
she should not marry you though she died! This--" he put out his hand
toward the hide scroll.
"No," I said to him. "This is mine. The record of my fault belongs to
me. The question for you is only in regard to the punishment.
"We are four men here," I added, presently, "and it seems to me that
first of all we owe protection to the woman who needs it. Moreover, I
repeat, that though her error is not mine, it was perhaps pride or
sorrow or anger with me which led her to her own fault. It was Gordon
Orme who told her that I was false to her, and added lies about me and
this other woman. It was Gordon Orme, Colonel Sheraton, I do not
doubt--sir, _I found him in your yard, here, at midnight_, when I last
was here. And, sir, there was a light--a light--" I tried to smile,
though I fear my face was only distorted. "I agreed with your daughter
that it was without question a light that some servant had left by
chance at a window."
I wish never to hear again such a groan as broke from that old man's
lips. He was sunken and broken when he put out his hand to me. "Boy,"
said he, "have mercy. Forgive. Can you--could you--"
"Can you yourself forgive this?" I answered, pointing to the scroll. "I
admit to you I love Ellen Meriwether yet, and always will. Sir, if I
married your daughter, it could only be to leave her within the hour."
Silence fell upon all of us. Harry set down his glass, and the clink on
the silver tray sounded loud. None moved but Doctor Bond, who, glasses
upon nose, bent over the blurred hide, studying it.
"Colonel Sheraton," said he at length, "it seems to me that we have no
quarrel here among ourselves. We all want to do what is best done now to
make amends for what has not always been best done. Mr. Cowles has given
every proof we could ask--we could not ask more of any man--you have no
right to ask so much. He wishes, at great cost to himself, I think, to
do what he can to save your girl's happiness and honor. He admits his
own fault." He looked at me, savagely shaking a finger, but went on.
"Perhaps I, a physician, unfortunately condemned to see much of the
inner side of human nature, am as well equipped as any to call him more
guiltless than society might call him. I say with him, let him who is
without guilt first cast a stone. Few of us are all we ought to be, but
why? We speak of double lives--why, we all lead double lives--the entire
world leads a double life; that of sex and of society, that of nature
and of property. I say to you, gentlemen, that all the world is double.
So let us be careful how we adjudge punishment; and let us be as fair to
our neighbor as we are to ourselves. This is only the old, old question
of love and the law.
"But wait a minute--" he raised a hand as Colonel Sheraton stirred. "I
have something else to say. As it chances, I am curious in other
professions than my own sometimes--I read in the law sometimes, again in
theology, literature. I wish to be an educated man so far as I may be,
since a university education was denied me. Now, I say to you, from my
reading in the law, a strong question arises whether the two who wrote
this covenant of marriage are not at this moment _man and wife_!" He
rapped a finger on the parchment.
A sigh broke in concert from all within that room. The next moment, I
know not how, we were all four of us bending above the scroll. "See
there," went on the old doctor. "There is a definite, mutual promise, a
consideration moving from each side, the same consideration in each
case, the promise from each bearing the same intent and value, and
having the same qualifying clauses. The contract is definite; it is
dated. It is evidently the record of a unanimous intent, an identical
frame of mind between the two making it at that time. It is signed and
sealed in full by one party, no doubt in his own hand. It is written and
acknowledged by the other party in her own hand--"
"But not _signed_!" I broke in. "See, it is not _signed_. She said she
would sign it one letter each week--weeks and weeks--until at last,
this, which was only our engagement, should with the last letter make
our marriage. Gentlemen," I said to them, "it was an honest contract. It
was all the formality we could have, all the ceremony we could have. It
was all that we could do. I stand before you promised to two women.
Before God I was promised to one. I loved her. I could do no more--"
"It was enough," said Doctor Bond, dryly, taking snuff. "It was a
wedding."
"Impossible!" declared Colonel Sheraton.
"Impossible? Not in the least," said the doctor. "It can be invalid only
upon one ground. It might be urged that the marriage was not
consummated. But in the courts that would be a matter of proof. Whatever
our young friend here might say, a court would say that consummation was
very probable.
"I say, as this stands, the contract is a definite one, agreeing to do a
definite thing, namely, to enter into the state of marriage. The
question of the uncompleted signature does not invalidate it, nor indeed
come into the matter at all. It is only a question whether the
signature, so far as it goes, means the identity of the Ellen Meriwether
who wrote the clause preceding it. It is a question of identification
solely. Nothing appears on this contract stipulating that she must sign
her full name before the marriage can take place. That verbal agreement,
which Mr. Cowles mentions, of signing it letter by letter, does not in
law affect a written agreement. This written contract must, in the law,
be construed just as It stands, and under its own phrasing, by its own
inherent evidence. The obvious and apparent evidence is that the person
beginning this signature was Ellen Meriwether--the same who wrote the
last clause of the contract. The handwriting is the same--the
supposition is that it is the same, and the burden of proof would lie on
the one denying it.
"Gentlemen," he went on, taking a turn, hands behind back, his big red
kerchief hanging from his coat tails, "I take Mr. Cowles' word as to
acts before and after this contract. I think he has shown to us that he
is a gentleman. In that world, very different from this world, he acted
like a gentleman. In that life he was for the time freed of the covenant
of society. Now, in this life, thrown again under the laws of society,
he again shows to us that he is a gentleman, here as much as there. We
cannot reason from that world to this. I say--yes, I hope I am big
enough man to say--that we cannot blame him, arguing from that world to
this. We can exact of a man that he shall be a gentleman in either one
of those worlds; but we cannot exact it of him to be the _same_
gentleman in _both_!
"Now, the question comes, to which of these worlds belongs John Cowles?
The court will say that this bit of hide is a wedding ceremony.
Gentlemen," he smiled grimly, "we need all the professions here
to-day--medicine, ministry and law! At least, Colonel Sheraton, I think
we need legal counsel before we go on with any more weddings for this
young man here."
"But there is no record of this," I said. "There is no execution in
duplicate."
"No," said the doctor. "It is only a question of which world you elect."
I looked at him, and he added, "It is also only a question of morals. If
this record here should be destroyed, you would leave the other party
with no proof on her side of the case."
He brushed off his nose again, and took another short turn from the
table, his head dropped in thought. "It is customary," he said as he
turned to me, "to give the wife the wedding certificate. The law, the
ministry, and the profession of medicine, all unite in their estimate of
the relative value of marital faithfulness as between the sexes. It is
the _woman_ who needs the proof. All nature shields the woman's sex. She
is the apple of Nature's eye, and even the law knows that."
I walked to the mantel and took up the knife that lay there. I returned
to the table, and with a long stroke I ripped the hide in two. I threw
the two pieces into the grate.
"That is my proof," said I, "that Ellen Meriwether needs no marriage
certificate! I am the certificate for that, and for her!"
Colonel Sheraton staggered to me, his hand trembling, outstretched.
"You're free to marry my poor girl--" he began.
"It is proof also," I went on, "that I shall never see Ellen Meriwether
again, any more than I shall see Grace Sheraton again after I have
married her. What happens after that is not my business. It is my
business, Colonel Sheraton, and yours--possibly even your son's"--I
smiled at Harry--"to find Gordon Orme. I claim him first. If I do not
kill him, then you--and you last, Harry, because you are least fit."
"Gentlemen, is it all agreed?" I asked. I tossed the knife back on the
mantel, and turned my back to it and them.
"Jack," said my old wire-hair, Doctor Bond, "I pray God I may never see
this done again to any man. I thank God the woman I loved died years
ago. She was too good--they're all too good--I, a physician, say they
are all too good. Only in that gap between them and us lies any margin
which permits you to lie to yourself at the altar. To care for them--to
shield them--they, the apple of the Eye--that is why we men are here."
He turned away, his face working.
"Is it agreed?" I asked of Colonel Sheraton, sternly.
His trembling hand sought mine. "Yes," he said. "Our quarrel is
discharged, and more than so. Harry, shake hands with Mr. Cowles. By
God! men, our quarrel now runs to Gordon Orme. To-morrow we start for
Carolina, where we had his last address. Mr. Cowles, my heart bleeds, it
bleeds, sir, for you. But for her also--for her up there. The courts
shall free you quickly and quietly, as soon as it can be done. It is you
who have freed us all. You have been tried hard. You have proved
yourself a man."
But it was not the courts that freed us. None of us ever sought actual
knowledge of what agency really freed us. Indeed, the time came swiftly
for us all to draw the cloak of secrecy about one figure of this story,
and to shield her in it forever.
Again we were interrupted. The door at the stair burst open. A black
maid, breathless, broke into the room.
[Illustration: WHEN THE WAY OF WOMEN PASSETH A MAN'S UNDERSTANDING]
"She's a-settin' there--Miss Grace just a-settin' there--" she began,
and choked and stammered.
"What is it?" cried Doctor Bond, sharply, and sprang at the door. I
heard him go up the stairs lightly as though he were a boy. We all
followed, plying the girl with questions.
"I went in to make up the room," blubbered she, "an' she was just
settin' there, an' I spoke to her an' she didn't answer--an' I called to
her, an' she didn't answer--she's just a-settin' there right _now_."
As a cloud sweeps over a gray, broken moor, so now horror swept upon us
in our distress and grief. We paused one moment to listen, then went on
to see what we knew we must see.
I say that we men of Virginia were slow to suspect a woman. I hope we
are still slower to gossip regarding one. Not one of us ever asked
Doctor Bond a question, fearing lest we might learn what perhaps he
knew.
He stood beyond her now, his head bowed, his hand touching her wrist,
feeling for the pulse that was no longer there. The solemnity of his
face was louder than speech. It seemed to me that I heard his silent
demand that we should all hold our peace forever.
Grace Sheraton, her lips just parted in a little crooked smile, such as
she might have worn when she was a child, sat at a low dressing table,
staring directly into the wide mirror which swung before her at its
back. Her left arm lay at length along the table. Her right, with its
hand under her cheek and chin, supported her head, which leaned but
slightly to one side. She gazed into her own face, into her own heart,
into the mystery of human life and its double worlds, I doubt not. She
could not tell us what she had learned.
Her father stepped to her side, opposite the old doctor. I heard sobs as
they placed her upon her little white bed, still with that little
crooked smile upon her face, as though, she were young, very young
again.
I went to the window, and Harry, I think, was close behind me. Before me
lay the long reaches of our valley, shimmering in the midday autumn sun.
It seemed a scene of peace and not of tragedy.
But even as I looked, there came rolling up our valley, slowly, almost
as though visible, the low, deep boom of the signal gun from the village
below. It carried news, the news from America!
We started, all of us. I saw Colonel Sheraton half look up as he stood,
bent over the bed. Thus, stunned by horror as we were, we waited. It was
a long time, an interminable time, moments, minutes, it seemed to me,
until there must have been thrice time for the repetition of the signal,
if there was to be one.
There was no second sound. The signal was alone, single; ominous.
"Thank God! Thank God!" cried Colonel Sheraton; swinging his hands
aloft, tears rolling down his old gray cheeks. "_It is war_! Now we may
find forgetfulness!"