The Way of a Man

Chapter XLI - Ellen Or Grace

Presently once more I departed. My mother also ended her visit at Dixiana, preferring to return to the quiet of her two little whitewashed rooms, and the old fireplace, and the sooty pot-hooks which our people's slaves had used for two generations in the past.

As to what I learned at Huntington, which place I reached after some days of travel, I need say no more than that I began to see fully verified my father's daring and his foresight. The matter of the coal land speculation was proved perfectly feasible. Indeed, my conference with our agents made it clear that little remained excepting the questions of a partition of interests, or of joint action between Colonel Meriwether and my father's estate. The right of redemption still remained, and there offered a definite alternative of selling a part of the lands and retaining the remainder clear of incumbrance. We wrote Colonel Meriwether all these facts from Huntington, requesting his immediate attention. After this, I set out for home, not ill-pleased with the outlook of my material affairs.

All these details of surveying and locating lands, of measuring shafts and drifts, and estimating cubic yards in coal, and determining the status of tenures and fees, had occupied me longer than I had anticipated. I had been gone two days beyond a month, when finally, somewhat wearied with stage travel, I pulled up at Wallingford.

As I approached the little tavern I heard much laughing, talking, footfalls, hurrying, as men came or went on one errand or another. A large party had evidently arrived on a conveyance earlier than my own. I leaned against the front rail of the tavern gallery and waited for some stable-boy to come. The postmaster carried away his mail sack, the loungers at the stoop gradually disappeared, and so presently I began to look about me. I found my eyes resting upon a long figure at the farther end of the gallery, sitting in the shade of the steep hill which came down, almost sharp as a house roof, back of the tavern, and so cut off the evening sun. It was apparently a woman, tall and thin, clad in a loose, stayless gown, her face hid in an extraordinarily long, green sun-bonnet. Her arms were folded, and she was motionless. But now and then there came a puff of smoke from within the caverns of the sun-bonnet, accompanied with the fragrant odor of natural leaf, whose presence brooked no debate by the human nose. I looked at this stranger again and yet again, then slowly walked up and held out my hand. No one in all the world who could counterfeit Mandy McGovern, even so far away, and under conditions seemingly impossible for her presence!

Mandy's pipe well-nigh fell from her lips. "Well, good God A'mighty! If it ain't you, son!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," I smiled.

"They told me you-all lived somewheres around here."

"Aunt Mandy," I interrupted. "Tell me, what in the world are you doing here?"

"Why, me and the folks just come down to look around. Her and her Pa was comin', and I come, too."

"Who came with you, Aunt Mandy?"

"Still askin' fool questions like you didn't know! Why, you know who it was. The Colonel's ordered to jine his rigiment at Fort Henry. Gal come along o' him, o' course. I come along with the gal, o' course. My boy and my husband come along with me, o' course."

"Your son, Andrew Jackson?"

"Uh-huh. He's somewheres 'round, I reckon. I see him lickin' a nigger a few minutes ago. Say, that boy's come out to be the fightenest feller I ever did see. Him allowin' he got that there Injun, day we had the fight down on the Platte, it just made a new man out'n him. 'Fore long he whupped a teamster that got sassy with him. Then he taken a rock and lammed the cook 'cause he looked like he was laffin' at him. Not long atter that, he killed a Injun he 'lowed was crawlin' 'round our place—done kilt him and taken his skulp 'fore I had time to explain to him that like enough that Injun was plum peaceful, and only comin' in to get a loaf o' bread."

"Bread? Aunt Mandy, where was all this?"

"Where d'ye suppose it was unlessen at our hotel? My man and me seen there was a good openin' there on the trail this side o' the south fork, and we set up a hotel in a dugout. Them emigrants would give you anything you aste for a piece o' pie, or a real baked loaf o' bread. We may go back there some time. We could make our pile in a couple o' years. I got over three hundred dollars right here in my pocket."

"But I don't quite understand about the man—your husband—"

"Yep, my lastest one. Didn't you know I married ole man Auberry? He's 'round here somewheres, lookin' fer a drink o' licker, I reckon. Colonel Meriwether 'lowed there'd be some fightin' 'round these parts afore long. My man and my son 'lowed the West was gettin' right quiet for them, and they'd just take a chanct down here, to see a little life in other parts."

"I hadn't heard of this last marriage of yours, Aunt Mandy," I ventured.

"Oh, yes, me and him hooked up right soon atter you and the gal got lost. Don't see how you missed our place when you come East. We done took at least six bits off'n every other man, woman or child that come through there, east or west, all summer long. You see I was tired of that lazy husband o' mine back home, and Auberry he couldn't see nothin' to that woman o' his'n atter he found out how I could bake pie and bread. So we both seem' the chanct there was there on the trail, we done set up in business. Say, I didn't know there was so many people in the whole world as they was of them emigrants. Preacher come along in a wagon one day—broke, like most preachers is. We kep' him overnight, free, and he merried us next mornin' for nothin'. Turn about's fair play, I reckon."

I scarcely heard her querulous confidences. "Where is Colonel Meriwether?" I asked her at last.

"Inside," she motioned with her pipe. "Him and the gal, too. But say, who's that a-comin' down the street there in that little sawed-off wagon?"

I looked. It was my fiancée, Grace Sheraton!

By her side was my friend, Captain Stevenson, and at the other end of the seat was a fluttering and animated figure that could be no one else but Kitty. So then I guessed that Stevenson and his wife had come on during my absence and were visiting at Dixiana. No doubt they had driven down now for the evening mail.

Could anything have lacked now to set in worse snarl my already tangled skein of evil fortune! Out of all the thousand ways in which we several actors in this human comedy might have gone without crossing each other's paths, why should Fate have chosen the only one to bring us thus together?

Kitty seemed first to spy me, and greeted me with an enthusiastic waving of her gloves, parasol, veil and handkerchief, all held confusedly, after her fashion, in one hand. "P-r-r-r-t!" she trilled, school-girl-like, to attract my attention meanwhile. "Howdy, you man! If it isn't John Cowles I'm a sinner. Matt, look at him, isn't he old, and sour, and solemn?"

Stevenson jumped out and came up to me, smiling, as I passed down the steps. I assisted his vivacious helpmeet to alight. I knew that all this tangle would presently force itself one way or the other. So I only smiled, and urged her and her husband rapidly as I might up the steps and in at the door, where I knew they would immediately be surprised and fully occupied. Then again I approached Grace Sheraton where she still sat, somewhat discomfited at not being included in these plans, yet not unwilling to have a word with me alone.

"You sent me no word," began she, hurriedly. "I was not expecting you to-day; but you have been gone more than two weeks longer than you said you would be." The reproach of her voice was not lost to me.

Stevenson had run on into the tavern after his first greeting to me, and presently I heard his voice raised in surprise, and Kitty's excited chatter. I heard Colonel Meriwether's voice answering. I heard another voice.

"Who is in there?" asked Grace Sheraton of me, curiously. I looked her slowly and fully in the face.

"It is Colonel Meriwether," I answered. "He has come on unexpectedly from the West. His daughter is there also, I think. I have not yet seen her."

"That woman!" breathed Grace Sheraton, sinking back upon her seat. Her eye glittered as she turned to me. "Oh, I see it all now—you have been with them—you have met her again! My God! I could kill you both—I could—I say I could!"

"Listen," I whispered to her, putting a hand on her wrist firmly. "You are out of your head. Pull up at once. I have not seen or heard from either of them. I did not know they were coming, I tell you."

"Oh, I say, Cowles," sang out Stevenson, at that moment running out, flushed and laughing. "What do you think, here's my Colonel come and caught me at my leave of absence! He's going across the mountains, over to his home in Albemarle. We're all to be at Henry together. But I suppose you met them—"

"No, not yet," I said. "I've just got in myself."

We both turned to the girl sitting pale and limp upon the seat of the wagonette. I was glad for her sake that the twilight was coming.

The courage of her family did not forsake Grace Sheraton. I saw her force her lips to smile, compel her face to brighten as she spoke to Captain Stevenson.

"I have never met any of the Meriwethers. Will you gentlemen present me?"

I assisted her to alight, and at that time a servant came and stood at the horse's head. Stevenson stepped back to the door, not having as yet mentioned my presence there.

There came out upon the gallery as he entered that other whose presence I had for some moments known, whom I knew within the moment I must meet—Ellen!

Her eyes fell upon me. She stepped back with a faint exclamation, leaning against the wall, her hands at her cheeks as she stared. I do not know after that who or what our spectators were. I presume Stevenson went on into the house to talk with Colonel Meriwether, whom I did not see at all at that time.

The first to speak was Grace Sheraton. Tall, thin, darker than ever, it seemed to me, and now with eyes which flickered and glittered as I had never seen them, she approached the girl who stood there shrinking. "It is Miss Meriwether? I believe I should know you," she began, holding out her hand.

"This is Miss Grace Sheraton," I said to Ellen, and stopped. Then I drew them both away from the door and from the gallery, walking to the shadows of the long row of elms which shaded the street, where we would be less observed.

For the first time in my life I saw the two together and might compare them. Without my will or wish I found my eyes resting upon Ellen. Without my will or wish, fate, nature, love, I know not what, made selection.

Ellen had not as yet spoken. "Miss Sheraton," I repeated to her finally, "is the lady to whom I am engaged to be married."

The vicious Sheraton temper broke bounds. There was more than half a sneer on my fiancée's face. "I should easily know who this lady is," she said.

Ellen, flushed, perturbed, would have returned to the gallery, but I raised my hand. Grace Sheraton went on. "An engagement is little. You and he, I am advised, lived as man and wife, forgetting that he and I were already pledged as man and wife."

"That is not true!" broke in Ellen, her voice low and even. She at least had herself in hand and would tolerate no vulgar scene.

"I could not blame either of you for denying it."

"It was Gordon Orme that told her," I said to Ellen.

She would not speak or commit herself, except to shake her head, and to beat her hands softly together as I had seen her do before when in distress.

"A gentleman must lie like a gentleman," went on Grace Sheraton, mercilessly. "I am here to congratulate you both."

I saw a drop of blood spring from Ellen's bitten lip.

"What she says is true," I went on to Ellen. "It is just as Gordon Orme told your father, and as I admitted to you. I was engaged to be married to Miss Sheraton, and I am still so engaged."

Still her small hands beat together softly, but she would not cry out, she would not exclaim, protest, accuse. I went on with the accusation against myself.

"I did not tell you. I had and have no excuse except that I loved you. I am here now for my punishment. You two shall decide it."

At last Ellen spoke to my fiancée. "It is true," said she. "I thought myself engaged to Mr. Cowles. I did not know of you—did not know that he had deceived me, too. But fortunately, my father found us before it was too late."

"Let us spare ourselves details," rejoined Grace Sheraton. "He has wronged both of us."

"Yes, he has done wrong," I heard Ellen say. "Perhaps all men do—I do not want to know. Perhaps they are not always to blame—I do not want to know."

The measure of the two women was there in those words, and I felt it.

"Could you want such a man?" asked Grace Sheraton, bitterly. I saw Ellen shake her head slowly. I heard her lips answer slowly. "No," she said. "Could you?"

I looked to Grace Sheraton for her answer, and as I looked I saw a strange and ghastly change come over her face. "My God!" she exclaimed, reaching out a hand against a tree trunk to steady herself, "Your leavings? No! But what is to become of me!"

"You wish him?" asked Ellen. "You are entirely free. But now, if you please, I see no reason why I should trouble you both. Please, now, I shall go."

But Grace Sheraton sprang to her side as she turned. I was amazed at her look. It was entreaty on her face, not anger! She held out her hands to Ellen, her face strangely distorted. And then I saw Ellen's face also change. She put out her hand in turn.

"There," she said, "time mends very much. Let us hope—" Then I saw her throat work oddly, and her words stop.

No man may know the speech with which women exchange thought. I saw the two pass a few paces apart, saw Grace Sheraton stoop and whisper something.

It was her last desperate resource, a hazard handsomely taken. It won, as courage should, or at least as much as a lie may win at any time; for it was a bitter, daring, desperate shaming lie she whispered to Ellen.

As Ellen's face turned toward me again I saw a slow, deep scorn invade it. "If I were free," she said to me, "if you were the last man on earth, I would not look at you again. You deceived me—but that was only a broken word, and not a broken life! This girl—indeed she may ask what will become of her!"

"I am tired of all these riddles," I broke out, my own anger now arising, and myself not caring to be made thus sport of petticoats.

"Your duty is clear," went on my new accuser, flashing out at me. "If you have a trace of manhood left, then let the marriage be at once—to-morrow. How dare you delay so long!" She choked in her own anger, humiliation, scorn—I know not what, blushed in her own shame.

Orme was right. I have always been a stupid ass. It took me moments to grasp the amazing truth, to understand the daring stroke by which Grace Sheraton had won her game. It had cost her much. I saw her standing there trembling, tearful, suffering, her eyes wet. She turned to me, waiting for me to save her or leave her damned.

I would not do it. All the world will say that I was a fool, that I was in no way bound to any abhorrent compact, that last that any man could tolerate. Most will say that I should have turned and walked away from both. But I, who have always been simple and slow of wit, I fear, and perhaps foolish as to certain principles, now felt ice pass through all my veins as my resolution came to me.

I could not declare against the woman who had thus sworn against me. With horror I saw what grotesque injustice was done to me. I broke out into a horrible laughter.

I had said that I had come for my punishment, and here it was for me to take. I had told Orme that one day I would pay him for my life. Here now was Orme's price to be paid! If this girl had not sinned with me, she had done so by reason of me. It was my fault; and a gentleman pays for his fault in one way or another. There seemed to me, I say, but one way in which I could pay, I being ever simple and slow of wit. I, John Cowles, without thinking so far as the swift consequences, must now act as the shield of the girl who stood there trembling, the girl who had confessed to her rival her own bitter sin, but who had lied as to her accomplice in her sin!

"It is true," I said, turning to Ellen. "I am guilty. I told you I deserved no mercy, and I ask none. I have not asked Miss Sheraton to release me from my engagement. I shall feel honored if she will now accept my hand. I shall be glad if she will set the date early as may be."

Night was now coming swiftly from the hills.

Ellen turned to pass back toward the door. "Your pardon!" I exclaimed to Grace Sheraton, and sprang after Ellen.

"Good-by," I said, and held out my hand to her. "Let us end all these heroics, and do our best. Where is your husband? I want to congratulate him."

"My husband!" she said in wonder. "What do you mean?"

Night, I say, was dropping quickly, like a shroud spread by a mighty hand.

"Belknap—" I began.

"Ah," she said bitterly. "You rate me low—as low as I do you!"

"But your father told me himself you two were to be married," I broke out, surprise, wonder, dread, rebellion now in every fiber of my body and soul.

"My father loves me dearly," she replied slowly. "But he cannot marry me until I wish. No, I am not married, and I never will be. Good-by."

Again I heard my own horrible laughter.

Night had fallen thick and heavy from the mountains, like a dark, black shroud.

Chapter XLII - 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.

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!"

Chapter XLIII - The Reckoning

So it was war. We drew apart into hostile camps. By midwinter South Carolina, Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, Louisiana, Texas, had withdrawn from the Union. There arose two capitals, each claiming a government, each planning war: Washington and Richmond.

As for me, I had seen the flag on our far frontiers, in wide, free lands. It was a time when each must choose for himself. I knew with whom my own lot must be cast. I pledged myself to follow the flag of the frontier, wherever it might go.

During the winter I busied myself, and when the gun of Sumpter came on that sad day of April, I was ready with a company of volunteers who had known some months of drill, at least, and who had been good enough to elect me for their captain. Most of my men came from the mountains of Western Virginia, where geography made loyalty, and loyalty later made a State. I heard, remotely, that Colonel Meriwether would not join the Confederacy. Some men of Western Virginia and Eastern Kentucky remained with the older flag. Both the Sheratons, the old Colonel and his son Harry, were of course for the South, and early in January they both left home for Richmond. On the other hand, again, our friend Captain Stevenson stood for the Federal government; and so I heard, also indirectly, did young Belknap of the Ninth Dragoons, Regulars, a gallant boy who swiftly reached distinction, and died a gallant man's death at Shiloh later on.

My mother, all for peace, was gray and silent over these hurrying events. She wept when she saw me in uniform and belt. "See," she said, "we freed our slaves long ago. We thought as the North thinks. This war is not for the Society of Friends." But she saw my father's blood in me again, and sighed. "Go, then," she said.

All over the country, North and South, came the same sighed consent of the women, "Go, then." And so we went out to kill each other, we who should all have been brothers. None of us would listen. The armies formed, facing each other on Virginia soil. Soon in our trampled fields, and broken herds, and ruined crops, in our desolated homes and hearts, we, brothers in America, learned the significance of war.

They crossed our little valley, passing through Alexandria, coming from Harper's Ferry, these raw ninety-day men of McDowell and Patterson, who thought to end the Confederacy that spring. Northern politics drove them into battle before they had learned arms. By midsummer all the world knew that they would presently encounter, somewhere near Manassas, to the south and west, the forces of Beauregard and Johnston, then lying within practical touch of each other by rail.

My men, most of them young fellows used to horse and arms, were brigaded as infantry with one of the four divisions of McDowell's men, who converged along different lines toward Fairfax. For nearly a week we lay near the front of the advance, moving on in snail-like fashion, which ill-suited most of us Virginians, who saw no virtue in postponing fight, since we were there for fighting. We scattered our forces, we did not unite, we did not entrench, we did not advance; we made all the mistakes a young army could, worst of all the mistake of hesitancy.

It was not until the twentieth of July that our leaders determined upon a flanking movement to our right, which was to cross Bull Run at the Sudley Ford. Even so, we dallied along until every one knew our plans. Back of us, the battle opened on the following day, a regiment at a time, with no concert, no plan. My men were with this right wing, which made the turning movement, but four brigades in all. Four other brigades, those of Howard, Burnside, Keyes and Schenck, were lost somewhere to the rear of us. Finally, we crossed and reached the left flank of the Confederates under Beauregard, and swung south along Bull Run. Our attack was scattering and ill-planned, but by three o'clock of the next day we were in the thickest of the fighting around the slopes which led up to the Henry House, back of which lay the Confederate headquarters.

I saw the batteries of Rickett and Griffin of our Regulars advance and take this height against the steadily thickening line of the Confederates, who had now had full time to concentrate. There came a hot cavalry charge upon the Zouave regiment on my left, and I saw the Zouaves lie down in the woods and melt the line of that charge with their fire, and save the battery for a time. Then in turn I saw that blunder by which the battery commander allowed Cummings' men—the Thirty-third Virginia, I think it was—deliberately to march within stone's throw of them, mistaken for Federal troops. I saw them pour a volley at short range into the guns, which wiped out their handlers, and let through the charging lines now converging rapidly upon us. Then, though it was but my first battle, I knew that our movement must fail, that our extended line, lying upon nothing, supported by nothing, must roll back in retreat along a trough road, where the horses and guns would mow us down.

Stuart's men came on, riding through us as we broke and scattered. Wheat's Louisiana Tigers came through our remnants as well. We had no support. We did not know that back of the hill the Confederate recruits were breaking badly as ourselves, and running to the rear. We were all new in war. We of the invading forces caught the full terror of that awful panic which the next day set the North in mourning, and the South aflame with a red exultation.

All around us our lines wavered, turned and fled. But to some, who knew the danger of the country back of us, it seemed safer to stay than to run. To that fact I owe my life, and at least a little satisfaction that some of us Virginians held our line for a time, even against those other Virginians who came on at us.

We were scattered in a thin line in cover of heavy timber, and when the pursuit came over us we killed a score of their men after they had passed. Such was the confusion and the madness of the pursuit, that they rolled beyond our broken line like a wave, scarce knowing we were there. Why I escaped I do not know, for I was now easily visible, mounted on a horse which I had caught as it came through the wood riderless. I was passing along our little front, up and down, as best I could in the tangle.

The pursuit went through us strung out, scattered, as disorganized as our own flight. They were practically over us and gone when, as I rode to the right flank of the remaining splinter of my little company, I saw, riding down upon us, a splendid soldier, almost alone, and apparently endeavoring to reach his command after some delay at the rear. He was mounted on a fine horse—a great black animal. His tall figure was clad in the gray uniform of the Confederates, with a black hat sweeping back from his forehead. He wore cavalry boots and deep gauntleted gloves, and in all made a gallant martial figure as he rode. A few of our men, half witless with their terror, crossed his path. I saw him half rise, once, twice, four times, standing in the stirrups to enforce his saber cuts, each one of which dropped a man. He and his horse moved together, a splendid engine of ruthless, butchery.

"Look out, Cap!" I heard a squeaking voice behind me call, and looking down, I saw one of my men, his left arm hanging loose, resting his gun across a log with his right. "Git out 'o the way," he repeated. "I'm goin' to kill him." It was that new-made warrior, Andrew Jackson McGovern, who had drifted back into our valley from some place, and joined my company soon after its organization. I ordered the boy now to drop his gun. "Leave him alone!" I cried. "He belongs to me."

It was Gordon Orme. At last, fate had relented for me. My enemy was at hand. No man but Orme could thus ride my old horse, Satan. Now I saw where the horse had gone, and who it was that owned him, and why Orme was here.

I rode out to meet him. The keenness of the coming, encounter for the time almost caused me to forget my anger. I seem never to have thought but that fate had brought me there for that one purpose. He saw me advance, and whirled in my direction, eager as myself; and presently I saw also that he recognized me, as I did him.

This is to be said of Gordon Orme, that he feared no man or thing on earth. He smiled at me now, showing his long, narrow teeth, as he came, lightly twirling his long blade. Two pistols lay in my holsters, and both were freshly loaded, but without thought I had drawn my sword for a weapon, I suppose because he was using his. He was a master of the sword, I but a beginner with it.

We rode straight in, and I heard the whistle of his blade as he circled it about his head like a band of light. As we joined he made a cut to the left, easily, gently, as he leaned forward; but it came with such swiftness that had it landed I doubt not my neck would have been shorn like a robin's. But at least I could ride as well as he or any other man. I dropped and swerved, pulling out of line a few inches as we passed. My own blow, back-handed, was fruitless as his.

We wheeled and came on again, and yet again, and each time he put me on defense, and each time I learned more of what was before me to do. My old servant, Satan, was now his servant, and the great black horse was savage against me as was his rider. Wishing nothing so much as to kill his own rival, he came each time with his ears back and his mouth open, wicked in the old blood lust that I knew. It was the fury of his horse that saved me, I suppose, for as that mad beast bored in, striving to overthrow my own horse, the latter would flinch away in spite of all I could do, so that I needed to give him small attention when we met in these short, desperate charges. I escaped with nothing more than a rip across the shoulder, a touch on the cheek, on the arm, where his point reached me lightly, as my horse swerved away from the encounters. I could not reach Orme at all.

At last, I know not how, we clashed front on, and his horse bore mine back, with a scream fastening his teeth in the crest of my mount, as a dog seizes his prey. I saw Orme's sword turn lightly, easily again around his head, saw his wrist turn gently, smoothly down and extend in a cut which was aimed to catch me full across the head. There was no parry I could think, but the full counter in kind. My blade met his with a shock that jarred my arm to the shoulder.

I saw him give back, pull off his mad horse and look at his hand, where his own sword was broken off, a foot above the hilt. Smiling, he saluted with it, reigning back his horse, and no more afraid of me than if I were a child. He did not speak, nor did I. I pulled up my own horse, not wishing to take the advantage that now was mine, but knowing that he would not yield—that I must kill him.

He did so at his own peril who took Orme for a dullard. I watched him closely. He saluted again with his broken sword, and made as though to toss it from him, as indeed he did. Then like a flash his hand dropped to his holster.

I read his thought, I presume, when he made his second salute. His motion of tossing away the sword hilt gave me the fraction of time which sometimes is the difference between life and death. Our fire was almost at the same instant, but not quite. His bullet cut the epaulet clean from my left shoulder; but he did not fire again, nor did I. I saw him straighten up in his saddle, precisely as I had once seen an Indian chieftain do under Orme's own fire. He looked at me with a startled expression on his face.

At that moment there came from the edge of the woods the crack of a musket. The great horse Satan pitched his head forward and dropped limp, sinking to his knees. As he rolled he caught his rider under him. I myself sprung down, shouting out some command toward the edge of the wood, that they should leave this man to me.

Whether my men heard me or not I do not know. Perhaps they heard rather the hoarse shouts of a fresh column in gray which came up in the pursuit, fagged with its own running. When these new men passed me all they saw was a bit of wood torn with shot and ball, and in the open two figures, both dusty and gray, one helping the other from what seemed to be a fall of his horse. Scenes like that were common. We were not disturbed by the men of either side. We were alone presently, Gordon Orme and I.

I stooped and caught hold of the hind leg of the great black horse, and even as I had once turned a dead bull, so now I turned this carcass on its back. I picked up the fallen rider and carried him to the woods, and there I propped his body against a tree. Slowly he opened his eyes, even pulled himself up more fully against the support.

"Thank you, old man," he said. "The horse was deucedly heavy—spoiled that leg, I think." He pointed to his boot, where his foot lay turned to one side. "I suffer badly. Be a good fellow and end it."

I answered him by tossing down one of his own pistols, both of which I had secured against need. He looked at it, but shook his head.

"Let's talk it over a bit first," he said. "I'm done. I'll not make any trouble. Did you ever know me to break parole?"

"No," said I, and I threw down the other weapon on the ground. "In mercy to us both, Orme, die. I do not want to kill you now; and you shall not live."

"I'm safe enough," he said. "It's through the liver and stomach. I can't possibly get over it."

He stared straight ahead of him, as though summoning his will. "Swami!" I heard him mutter, as though addressing some one.

"There, that's better," he said finally. He sat almost erect, smiling at me. "It is Asana, the art of posture," he said. "I rest my body on my ribs, my soul on the air. Feel my heart."

I did so, and drew away my hand almost in terror. It stopped beating at his will, and began again! His uncanny art was still under his control!

"I shall be master here for a little while," he said. "So—I move those hurt organs to ease the flow. But I can't stop the holes, nor mend them. We can't get at the tissues to sew them fast. After a while I shall die." He spoke clearly, with utter calmness, dispassionately. I never saw his like among men.

I stood by him silently. He put his own hand on his chest. "Poor old heart," he said. "Feel it work! Enormous pumping engine, tremendous thing, the heart. Think what it does in seventy years—and all for what—that we may live and enjoy, and so maybe die. What few minutes I have now I owe to having trained what most folk call an involuntary muscle. I command my heart to beat, and so it does."

I looked down at a strange, fascinating soul, a fearsome personality, whose like I never knew in all my life.

"Will you make me a promise?" he said, smiling at me, mocking at me.

"No," I answered.

"I was going to ask you, after my death to take my heart and send it back to my people at Orme Castle, Gordon Arms, in England—you know where. It would be a kindness to the family." I gazed at him in a sort of horror, but he smiled and went on. "We're mediaeval to-day as ever we were. Some of us are always making trouble, one corner or the other of the world, and until the last Gordon heart comes home to rest, there's no peace for that generation. Hundreds of years, they've traveled all over the world, and been lost, and stolen, and hidden. My father's is lost now, somewhere. Had it come back home to rest, my own life might have been different. I say, Cowles, couldn't you do that for me? We've nearly always had some last friend that would—we Gordons."

"I would do nothing for you as a favor," I answered.

"Then do it because it is right. I'd rather it should be you. You've a wrist like steel, and a mind like steel when you set yourself to do a thing."

"I say, old man," he went on, a trifle weary now, "you've won. I'm jolly well accounted for, and it was fair. I hope they'll not bag you when you try to get out of this. But won't you promise what I've asked? Won't you promise?"

It is not for me to say whether or not I made a promise to Gordon Orme, or to say whether or not things mediaeval or occult belong with us to-day. Neither do I expect many to believe the strange truth about Gordon Orme. I only say it is hard to deny those about to die.

"Orme," I said, "I wish you had laid out your life differently. You are a wonderful man."

"The great games," he smiled—"sport, love, war!" Then his face saddened. "I say, have you kept your other promise to me?" he asked. "Did you marry that girl—what was her name—Miss Sheraton?"

"Miss Sheraton is dead."

"Married?" he asked.

"No. She died within two months after the night I caught you in the yard. I should have killed you then, Orme."

He nodded. "Yes, but at least I showed some sort of remorse—the first time, I think. Not a bad sort, that girl, but madly jealous. Fighting blood, I imagine, in that family!"

"Yes," I said, "her father and brother and I, all three, swore the same oath."

"The same spirit was in the girl," he said, nodding again. "Revenge—that was what she wanted. That's why it all happened. It was what I wanted, too! You blocked me with the only woman—"

"Do not speak her name," I said to him, quietly. "The nails on your fingers are growing blue, Orme. Go with some sort of squaring of your own accounts. Try to think."

He shrugged a shoulder. "My Swami said we do not die—we only change worlds or forms. What! I, Gordon Orme, to be blotted out—to lose my mind and soul and body and senses—not to be able to enjoy. No, Cowles, somewhere there are other worlds, with women in them. I do not die—I transfer." But sweat stood on his forehead.

"As to going, no ways are better than this," he mused, presently. "I swear I'm rather comfortable now; a trifle numb—but we—I say, we must all—all go some time, you know. Did you hear me?" he repeated, smiling. "I was just saying that we must all go, one way or another, you know."

"I heard you," I said. "You are going now."

"Yes," he admitted, "one can't hold together forever under a pull like this. You're an awfully decent sort. Give me a bit of paper. I want to write." I found him a pencil and some pages of my notebook.

"To please you, I'll try to square some things," he said. "You've been so deuced square and straight with me, all along. I'm—I'm Gordon, now, I'm English. Word of a fighting man, my—my friend."

He leaned forward, peering down at the paper as though he did not clearly see; but he wrote slowly for a time, absorbed in thought.

In all the death scenes which our country knew in thousands during those years, I doubt if any more unbelievable than this ever had occurrence. I saw the blood soaking all his garments, lying black on the ground about him. I saw his face grow gray and his nails grow blue, his pallor deepen as the veins lost their contents. I saw him die. But I swear that he still sat there, calm as though he did not suffer, and forced his body to do his will. And—though I ask a rough man's pardon for intruding my own beliefs—since he used his last superb reserves to leave the truth behind him, I myself thought that there must be somewhere an undying instinct of truth and justice, governing even such as Gordon Orme; yes, I hope, governing such as myself as well. Since then I have felt that somewhere there must be a great religion written on the earth and in the sky. As to what this could offer in peace to Gordon Orme I do not say. His was a vast debt. Perhaps Truth never accepted it as paid. I do not know.

There he sat, at last smiling again as he looked up. "Fingers getting dreadfully stiff. Tongue will go next. Muscles still under the power for a little time. Here, take this. You're going to live, and this is the only thing—it'll make you miserable, but happy, too. Good-by. I'll not stop longer, I think."

Like a flash his hand shot out to the weapon that lay near him on the ground. I shrank back, expecting the ball full in my face. Instead, it passed through his own brain!

His will was broken as that physical instrument, the brain, wonder seat of the mysteries of the mind, was rent apart. His splendid mind no longer ruled his splendid body. His body itself, relaxing, sank forward, his head at one side, his hand dropping limp. A smile drew down the corner of his mouth—a smile horrible in its pathos; mocking, and yet beseeching.

* * * * *

At last I rubbed the blood from my own face and stooped to read what he had written. Then I thanked God that he was dead, knowing how impossible it would have been elsewise for me to stay my hand. These were the words:

It was he, then, who had in cold blood killed my father! That horrid riddle at last was read. In that confession I saw only his intent to give me his last touch of misery and pain. It was some moments before I could read all the puzzle of his speech, half of which had promised me wretchedness, and half happiness. Then slowly I realized what I held in my hand. It was the proof of his guilt, of my innocence. He had robbed me of my father. He had given me—what? At least he had given me a chance. Perhaps Ellen Meriwether would believe!

* * * * *

It was my duty to care for the personal belongings of Gordon Orme; but regarding these matters a soldier does not care to speak. I took from his coat a long, folded leather book. It was hours later, indeed late the following morning, before I looked into it. During the night I was busy making my escape from that fated field. As I came from the rear, mounted, I was supposed to be of the Confederate forces, and so I got through the weary and scattered columns of pursuit, already overloaded with prisoners. By morning I was far on my way toward the Potomac. Then I felt in my pockets, and opened the wallet I had found en Orme's body.

It held various memoranda, certain writings in cipher, others in foreign characters, pieces of drawings, maps and the like, all of which I destroyed. It contained also, in thin foreign notes, a sum large beyond the belief of what an ordinary officer would carry into battle; and this money, for the time, I felt justified in retaining.

Orme was no ordinary officer. He had his own ways, and his own errand. His secret, however great it was—and at different times I have had reason to believe that men high in power on both sides knew how great it was, and how important to be kept a secret—never became fully known. In all likelihood it was not his business actually to join in the fighting ranks. But so at least it happened that his secret went into the unknown with himself. He was lost as utterly as though he were a dark vision passing into a darker and engulfing night. If I learned more than most regarding him, I am not free to speak. He named no heirs beyond myself. I doubt not it was his wish that he should indeed be held as one who long ago had died.

Should Gordon Orme arise from his grave and front me now, I should hardly feel surprise, for mortal conditions scarce seem to give his dimensions. But should I see him now, I should fear him no more than when I saw him last. His page then was closed in my life forever. It was not for me to understand him. It is not for me to judge him.