The Way of a Man by Emerson Hough (best motivational novels TXT) 📖

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

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!"