THE FURROW
I Found her at the churchyard of the old meetinghouse. She was just
turning toward the gate in the low sandstone wall which surrounded the
burying ground and separated it from the space immediately about the
little stone church. It was a beautiful spot, here where the sun came
through the great oaks that had never known an ax, resting upon blue
grass that had never known a plow--a spot virgin as it was before old
Lord Fairfax ever claimed it hi his loose ownership. Everything about it
spoke of quiet and gentleness.
I knew what it was that she looked upon as she turned back toward that
spot--it was one more low mound, simple, unpretentious, added to the
many which had been placed there this last century and a half; one more
little gray sandstone head-mark, cut simply with the name and dates of
him who rested there, last in a long roll of our others. The slight
figure in the dove-colored gown looked back lingeringly. It gave a new
ache to my heart to see her there.
She did not notice me as I slipped down from my saddle and fastened my
horse at the long rack. But when I called she turned and came to me with
open arms.
"Jack!" she cried. "My son, how I have missed thee! Now thee has come
back to thy mother." She put her forehead on my shoulder, but presently
took up a mother's scrutiny. Her hand stroked my hair, my unshaven
beard, took in each line of my face.
"Thee has a button from thy coat," she said, reprovingly. "And what is
this scar on thy neck--thee did not tell me when thee wrote, Jack, what
ails thee?" She looked at me closely. "Thee is changed. Thee is
older--what has come to thee, my son?"
"Come," I said to her at length, and led her toward the steps of the
little church.
Then I broke out bitterly and railed against our ill-fortune, and cursed
at 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 so
that strength comes to us--when we bend the back to the furrow God sets
for us. I am quite content in my little rooms. I have made them very
clean; 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 to
do that. You see, I know each rose bush and each apple tree on our old
place. I did not like to leave them.
"Besides, as to the Sheratons, Jack," she began again--"I do not wish to
say 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 met
him everywhere there. Now I meet him here!"
"He returned last summer, and for most of his time has been living at
the Sheratons'. He and Colonel Sheraton agree very well. And he and Miss
Grace--I do not like to say these things to thee, my son, but they also
seem to agree."
"Go on," I demanded, bitterly.
"Whether Miss Grace's fancy has changed, I do not know, but thy mother
ought 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 word
as to a release."
"But if she does not love thee, surely she will speak that word. So then
say good-by to her and set about thy business."
I could not at that moment find it in my heart to speak further. We rose
and walked down to the street of the little town, and at the tavern barn
I secured a conveyance which took us both back to what had once been our
home. It was my mother's hands which, at a blackened old fireplace, in a
former slave's cabin, prepared what we ate that evening. Then, as the
sun sank in a warm glow beyond the old Blue Ridge, and our little valley
lay there warm and peaceful as of old, I drew her to the rude porch of
the whitewashed cabin, and we looked out, and talked of things which
must 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 what
I have brought back to you--failure, failure, nothing but failure."
We sat in silence, looking out into the starry night, how long I do not
know. Then I heard her pray, openly, as was not the custom of her
people. "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 what
is the law. From the law no man may escape. Let us see who is the
criminal. 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 could
not speak.
"But one thing I know," she concluded, "thee is John Cowles, the son of
my husband, John; and thee at the last will do what is right, what thy
heart says to thee is right."
She kissed me on the cheek and so arose. All that night I felt her
prayers.