The Way of a Man

by Emerson Hough

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  HEARTS HYPOTHECATED

  The next morning at the proper hour I started for the Sheraton mansion.This time it was not my old horse Satan that I rode. My mother told methat Satan had been given over under the blanket chattel mortgage, andsold at the town livery stable to some purchaser, whom she did not know,who had taken the horse out of the country. I reflected bitterly uponthe changes in my fortunes since the last time I rode this way.

  At least I was not so much coward as to turn about. So presently I rodeup the little pitch from the trough road and pulled the gate latch withmy riding crop. And then, as though it were by appointment, precisely asI saw her that morning last spring--a hundred years ago it seemed tome--I saw Grace Sheraton coming down the walk toward me, tall, thin.Alas! she did not fill my eye. She was elegantly clad, as usual. I hadliefer seen dress of skins. Her dainty boots clicked on the gravel. Amoccasin would not.

  I threw my rein over the hook at the iron arm of the stone gate pillarand, hat in hand, I went to meet her. I was an older man now. I was donewith roystering and fighting, and the kissing of country girls allacross the land. I did not prison Grace Sheraton against the stone gatepillar now, and kiss her against her will until she became willing. AllI did was to lift her hand and kiss her finger tips.

  She was changed. I felt that rather than saw it. If anything, she wasthinner, her face had a deeper olive tint, her eyes were darker. Herexpression was gay, feverish, yet not natural, as she approached. Whatwas it that sat upon her face--melancholy, or fear, or sorrow, orresentment? I was never very bright of mind. I do not know.

  "I am glad to see you," she said to me at length, awkwardly.

  "And I to see you, of course." I misdoubt we both lied.

  "It is very sad, your home-coming thus," she added; at which clue Icaught gladly.

  "Yes, matters could hardly be worse for us."

  "Your mother would not come to us. We asked her. We feel deeplymortified. But now--we hope you both will come."

  "We are beggars now, Miss Grace," I said. "I need time to look around,to hit upon some plan of life. I must make another home for myself, andfor--"

  "For me?" She faced me squarely now, eye to eye. A smile was on herlips, and it seemed to me a bitter one, but I could not guess what washidden in her mind. I saw her cheek flush slowly, deeper than was usualwith a Sheraton girl.

  "For my wife, as soon as that may be," I answered, as red as she.

  "I learn that you did not see Colonel Meriwether," she went on politely.

  "How did you know it?"

  "Through Captain Orme."

  "Yes," said I, quietly, "I have heard of Captain Orme--much of him--verymuch." Still I could not read her face.

  "He was with us a long time this summer," she resumed, presently. "Sometwo weeks ago he left, for Charleston, I think. He has much businessabout the country."

  "Much business," I assented, "in many parts of the country. But most ofall with men of the Army. So Captain Orme--since we must call himCaptain and not minister--was so good as to inform you of my privatematters."

  "Yes." Again she looked at me squarely, with defiance. "I know all aboutit. I know all about that girl."

  So there it was! But I kept myself under whip hand still. "I am veryglad. It will save me telling you of myself. It is not always that onehas the good fortune of such early messengers."

  "Go on," she said bitterly, "tell me about her."

  "I have no praises to sound for her. I do not wish to speak of this, ifyou prefer to hear it from others than myself."

  She only smiled enigmatically, her mouth crooking in some confidence sheheld with herself, but not with me. "It was natural," she said at last,slowly. "Doubtless I would have done as she did. Doubtless any other manwould have done precisely as you did. That is the way with men. Afterall, I suppose the world is the world, and that we are as we are. Thegirl who is closest to a man has the best chance with him. Opportunityis much, very much. Secrecy is everything."

  I found nothing which suited me to say; but presently she went on, againleaning on the ivy-covered stone pillar of the gate, her hat held by itsstrings at her side, her body not imprisoned by my arms.

  "Why should you not both have done so?" she resumed, bitterly. "We areall human."

  "Why should we not have done what--what is it that you mean?" I demandedof her.

  "Why, there was she, engaged to Mr. Belknap, as I am told; and therewere you, engaged to a certain young lady by the name of Grace Sheraton,very far away. And you were conveniently lost--very conveniently--andyou found each other's society agreeable. You kept away for some weeksor months, both of you forgetting. It was idyllic--ideal. You were notprecisely babes in the woods. You were a man and a woman. I presume youenjoyed yourselves, after a very possible little fashion--I do not blameyou--I say I might have done the same. I should like to know it for atime myself--freedom! I do not blame you. Only," she said slowly, "insociety we do not have freedom. Here it is different. I supposedifferent laws apply, different customs!"

  "Miss Grace," said I, "I do not in the least understand you. You are notthe same girl I left."

  "No, I am not. But that is not my fault. Can not a woman be free as muchas a man? Have I not right as much as you? Have you not been free?"

  "One thing only I want to say," I rejoined, "and it is this, which Iought not to say at all. If you mean anything regarding EllenMeriwether, I have to tell you, or any one, that she is clean--mind,body, soul, heart--as clean as when I saw her first."

  "Do you know, I like you for saying that!" she retorted. "I would nevermarry a man who knew nothing of other women--I don't want a milksop; andI would not marry a man who would not lie for the sake of a sweetheart.You lie beautifully! Do you know, Jack, I believe you are a bit of agentleman, after all!

  "But tell me, when is the wedding to be?" This last with obvious effort.

  "You have not advised me."

  "Oh, I beg your pardon. I meant your marriage with Ellen Meriwether. Isupposed of course you had quite forgotten me!"

  "Ellen Meriwether is already married," I said to her, with a calmnesswhich surprised myself. But what surprised me most was the change whichcame upon her face at the words--the flush--the gleam of triumph, ofsatisfaction. I guessed this much and no more--that she had had certainplans, and that now she had other plans, changed with lightningswiftness, and by reason of my words.

  "Lieutenant Lawrence Belknap and Miss Ellen Meriwether were married, Ipresume, some time after I started for the East," I went on. "But theywere never engaged before our return to the settlements. It was all verysuddenly arranged."

  "How like a story-book! So he forgot her little incidents with you--allsummer--side by side--day and night! How romantic! I don't know that Icould have done so much, had I been a man, and myself not guilty of thesame incidents. At least, he kept his promise."

  "There had never been any promise at all between them."

  "Then Captain Orme was quite mistaken?"

  "Captain Orme does not trouble himself always to be accurate."

  "At least, then, you are unmarried, Jack?"

  "Yes, and likely to be for some years."

  Now her face changed once more. Whether by plan of her own or not, Icannot say, but it softened to a more gentle--shall I say a morebeseeching look? Was it that I again was at her side, that oldassociations awakened? Or was it because she was keen, shrewd and incontrol of herself, able to make plans to her own advantage? I cannottell as to that. But I saw her face soften, and her voice was gentlewhen she spoke.

  "What do you mean, Jack?" she asked.

  If there was not love and caress in her tones, then I could not detectthe counterfeit. I reiterate, if I should live a thousand years, Ishould know nothing of women, nothing. We men are but toys with them. Asin life and in sex man is in nature's plan no master, no chooser, butmerely an incident; so, indeed, I believe that he is thus always with awoman--only an incident. With women we are toys. They play
with us. Wenever read them. They are the mystery of the world. When they woulddeceive us it is beyond all our art to read them. Never shall man, eventhe wisest, fathom the shallowest depths of a woman's heart. Theirsuperiors? God! we are their slaves, and the stronger we are as men, themore are we enslaved.

  Had it been left to my judgment to pronounce, I should have called heremotion now a genuine one. Mocking, cynical, contemptuous she might havebeen, and it would have suited my own mood. But what was it now on theface of Grace Sheraton, girl of a proud family, woman I once had kissedhere at this very place until she blushed--kissed until shewarmed--until she--

  But now I know she changed once again, and I know that this time I readher look aright. It was pathos on her face, and terror. Her eye was thatof the stricken antelope in dread of the pursuer.

  "Jack," she whispered, "don't leave me! Jack, _I shall need you!_"

  Before I could resolve any questions in my mind, I heard behind us thesound of approaching hoofs, and there rode up to the gate her brother,Harry Sheraton, who dismounted and hitched his horse near mine, salutingme as he pushed open the great gate. It was the first time I had seenhim since my return.

  "Am I intruding?" he asked. "I'm awfully glad to see you, Cowles--Iheard below you were home. You've had a long journey."

  "Yes," I answered, "longer than I had planned, by many weeks. And now Iam glad to be back once more. No--" in answer to his turning toward hishorse as though he would leave us. "You are looking well, Harry. Indeed,everything in old Virginia is good to see again."

  "Wish I could be as polite with you. Have you been sick? And, I say, youdid meet the savages, didn't you?"

  I knew he meant the scar on the side of my neck, which still was ratherevident, but I did not care to repeat the old story again. "Yes," Ianswered a bit shortly, "rather a near thing of it. I presume CaptainOrme told you?" I turned to Miss Grace, who then admitted that she hadheard something of the surgery which had thus left its mark. Harryseemed puzzled, so I saw it was news to him. Miss Grace relieved thesituation somewhat by turning toward the house.

  "I am sure you will want to talk with Jack," she said to him. "Andlisten, Harry, you must have him and Mrs. Cowles over here this veryevening--we cannot think of her living alone at the old place. I shallsend Cato down with, the carriage directly, and you may drive over afterMrs. Cowles." She held out her hand to me. "At dinner to-night, then?"

  I bowed, saying that we would be very happy, by which I meant that wewould be very miserable.

  This, then, was all that had been determined by my visit. I was still anengaged man. Evidently nothing otherwise had been discussed in theSheraton family councils, if any such had been held. If never suitor inOld Virginia rode up in sorrier case than mine that morning, as I cameto call upon my fiancee, certainly did never one depart in moreuncertain frame of mind than mine at this very moment. I presume thatyoung Sheraton felt something of this, for he began awkwardly to speakof matters related thereto.

  "It's awfully hard," he began, "to see strangers there in your ownhouse--I know it must be hard. But I say, your father must have plungedheavily on those lands over West in the mountains. I've heard they'revery rich in coal, and that all that was necessary was simply cash orcredit enough to tide the deal over till next year's crops."

  "My father always said there was a great fortune in the lands," Ireplied. "Yes, I think another year would have seen him through; butthat year was not to come for him."

  "But couldn't funds be raised somehow, even yet?"

  I shook my head. "It is going to be hard in these times to raise fundsin any way. Values are bad now, and if the Republican party electsLincoln next month, there will be no such things as values left inVirginia. I don't see how anything can save our property."

  "Well, I'm not so sure," he went on, embarrassed. "My father and I havebeen talking over these matters, and we concluded to ask you if we mightnot take a hand in this. At least, we have agreed all along that--inthis case you know--you and my sister--we have planned definitely thatyou should live in your old place. We're going to take that over. Theredemption time has plenty of margin, and we can't allow those people tocome in here and steal one of the old Virginia places in that way. Weare going to arrange to hold that for you and my sister, and we thoughtthat perhaps in time something could be worked out of the rest of theproperty in the same way. That is, unless Colonel Meriwether, yourfather's partner, shall offer some better solution. I suppose you talkedit over with him?"

  "I did not talk with him about it at all," said I, dully. For manyreasons I did not care to repeat all of my story to him. I had told itoften enough already. "None the less, it seems very generous of you andyour father to take this interest in me. It would be very churlish of meif I did not appreciate it. But I trust nothing has been done as yet--"

  "You trust not? Why, Cowles, you speak as though you did not want us todo it."

  "I do not," said I.

  "Oh, then--"

  "You know our family well enough."

  "That's true. But you won't be offended if I suggest to you that thereare two sides to this, and two prides. All the country knows of yourengagement, and now that you have returned, it will be expected that mysister will set the day before long. Of course, we shouldn't want mysister to begin too far down--oh, damn it, Cowles, you know what Imean."

  "I presume so," said I to him, slowly. "But suppose that your sistershould offer to her friends the explanation that the change in myfortunes no longer leaves desirable this alliance with my family?"

  "Do you suggest that?"

  "I have not done so."

  "Has she suggested it?"

  "We have not talked of it, yet it might be hard for your sister to sharea lot so humble and so uncertain."

  "That I presume will be for her to decide," he said slowly. "I admit itis a hard question all around. But, of course, in a matter of this kind,the man has to carry the heavy end of the log if there is one. If thatfalls to you, we know you will not complain."

  "No," said I, "I hope not."

  His forehead still remained furrowed with the old Sheraton wrinkles. Heseemed uneasy. "By Jove," he broke out at length, flushing as he turnedto me, "it is hard for a fellow to tell sometimes what's right, isn'tit? Jack, you remember Jennie Williams, across under Catoctin?"

  I nodded. "I thought you two were going to make a match of it sometime,"I said.

  "Prettiest girl in the valley," he assented; "but her family is hardlywhat we would call the best, you know." I looked at him very hard.

  "Then why did you go there so often all last year?" I asked him. "Mightshe not think--"

  He flushed still more, his mouth twitching now. "Jack," he said, "it'sall through. I want to ask you. I ought to marry Jennie Williams, but--"

  Now I looked at him full and hard, and guessed. Perhaps my face wasgrave. I was beginning to wonder whether there was one clean thing inall the world.

  "Oh, she can marry," went on Harry. "No difficulty about that. She hasanother beau who loves her to distraction, and who doesn't in the leastsuspect--a decent sort of a fellow, a young farmer of her own class."

  "And, in your belief, that wedding should go on?"

  He shifted uneasily.

  "When is this wedding to be?" I asked.

  "Oh, naturally, very soon," he answered. "I am doing as handsome a thingas I know how by her. Sometimes it's mighty hard to do the handsomething--even mighty hard to know what is the handsome thing itself."

  "Yes," said I. But who was I that I should judge him?

  "If you were just where I am," asked Harry Sheraton, slowly, "what wouldyou do? I'd like to do what is right, you know."

  "Oh no, you don't, Harry," I broke out. "You want to do what is easiest.If you wanted to do what is right, you'd never ask me nor any one else.Don't ask me, because I don't know. Suppose you were in the case of thatother young man who loves her? Suppose he did not know--or suppose he_did_ know. What would be right for him?"

  "Heavy end
of the log for him," admitted he, grimly. "That's true, sureas you're born."

  "When one does not love a girl, and sees no happiness in the thought ofliving with her all his life, what squares that, Harry, in youropinion?"

  "I've just asked you," he rejoined. "Why do you ask me? You say oneought to know what is right in his own case without any such asking, andI say that isn't always true. Oh, damn it all, anyway. Why are we madethe way we are?"

  "If only the girl in each case would be content by having the handsomething done by her!" said I, bitterly.