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 fiancee.  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.

“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!”