The Way of a Man

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  THE FURROW

  I Found her at the churchyard of the old meetinghouse. She was justturning toward the gate in the low sandstone wall which surrounded theburying ground and separated it from the space immediately about thelittle stone church. It was a beautiful spot, here where the sun camethrough the great oaks that had never known an ax, resting upon bluegrass that had never known a plow--a spot virgin as it was before oldLord Fairfax ever claimed it hi his loose ownership. Everything about itspoke of quiet and gentleness.

  I knew what it was that she looked upon as she turned back toward thatspot--it was one more low mound, simple, unpretentious, added to themany which had been placed there this last century and a half; one morelittle gray sandstone head-mark, cut simply with the name and dates ofhim who rested there, last in a long roll of our others. The slightfigure in the dove-colored gown looked back lingeringly. It gave a newache to my heart to see her there.

  She did not notice me as I slipped down from my saddle and fastened myhorse at the long rack. But when I called she turned and came to me withopen arms.

  "Jack!" she cried. "My son, how I have missed thee! Now thee has comeback to thy mother." She put her forehead on my shoulder, but presentlytook up a mother's scrutiny. Her hand stroked my hair, my unshavenbeard, took in each line of my face.

  "Thee has a button from thy coat," she said, reprovingly. "And what isthis scar on thy neck--thee did not tell me when thee wrote, Jack, whatails thee?" She looked at me closely. "Thee is changed. Thee isolder--what has come to thee, my son?"

  "Come," I said to her at length, and led her toward the steps of thelittle church.

  Then I broke out bitterly and railed against our ill-fortune, and cursedat the man who would allow her to live in servants' quarters--indeed,railed at all of life.

  "Thee must learn to subdue thyself, my son," she said. "It is only sothat strength comes to us--when we bend the back to the furrow God setsfor us. I am quite content in my little rooms. I have made them veryclean; and I have with me a few things of my own--a few, not many."

  "But your neighbors, mother, the Sheratons--"

  "Oh, certainly, they asked me to live with them. But I was not moved todo that. You see, I know each rose bush and each apple tree on our oldplace. I did not like to leave them.

  "Besides, as to the Sheratons, Jack," she began again--"I do not wish tosay one word to hurt thy feelings, but Miss Grace--"

  "What about Miss Grace?"

  "Mr. Orme, the gentleman who once stopped with us a few days--"

  "Oh, Orme! Is he here again? He was all through the West with me--I methim everywhere there. Now I meet him here!"

  "He returned last summer, and for most of his time has been living atthe Sheratons'. He and Colonel Sheraton agree very well. And he and MissGrace--I do not like to say these things to thee, my son, but they alsoseem to agree."

  "Go on," I demanded, bitterly.

  "Whether Miss Grace's fancy has changed, I do not know, but thy motherought to tell thee this, so that if she should jilt thee, why, then--"

  "Yes," said I, slowly, "it would be hard for me to speak the first wordas to a release."

  "But if she does not love thee, surely she will speak that word. So thensay good-by to her and set about thy business."

  I could not at that moment find it in my heart to speak further. We roseand walked down to the street of the little town, and at the tavern barnI secured a conveyance which took us both back to what had once been ourhome. It was my mother's hands which, at a blackened old fireplace, in aformer slave's cabin, prepared what we ate that evening. Then, as thesun sank in a warm glow beyond the old Blue Ridge, and our little valleylay there warm and peaceful as of old, I drew her to the rude porch ofthe whitewashed cabin, and we looked out, and talked of things whichmust be mentioned. I told her--told her all my sad and bitter story,from end to end.

  "This, then," I concluded, more than an hour after I had begun, "is whatI have brought back to you--failure, failure, nothing but failure."

  We sat in silence, looking out into the starry night, how long I do notknow. Then I heard her pray, openly, as was not the custom of herpeople. "Lord, this is not my will. Is this Thy will?"

  After a time she put her hand upon mine. "My son, now let us reason whatis the law. From the law no man may escape. Let us see who is thecriminal. And if that be thee, then let my son have his punishment."

  I allowed the edge of her gentle words to bite into my soul, but I couldnot speak.

  "But one thing I know," she concluded, "thee is John Cowles, the son ofmy husband, John; and thee at the last will do what is right, what thyheart says to thee is right."

  She kissed me on the cheek and so arose. All that night I felt herprayers.