CHAPTER XXXVI
THE GOAD
It was at last borne in upon me that I must leave without any word fromEllen. She was hedged about by all the stern and cold machinery of anArmy Post, out of whose calculations I was left as much as though Ibelonged to a different world. I cannot express what this meant for me.For weeks now, for months, indeed, we two had been together each hour ofthe day. I had come to expect her greeting in the morning, to turn toher a thousand times in the day with some query or answer. I had made noplan from which she was absent. I had come to accept myself, with her,as fit part of an appointed and happy scheme. Now, in a twinkling, allthat had been subverted. I was robbed of her exquisite dependence uponme, of those tender defects of nature that rendered her most dear. I wasto miss now her fineness, her weakness and trustfulness, which had beena continual delight. I could no longer see her eyes nor touch her hands,nor sit silent at her feet, dreaming of days to come. Her voice was gonefrom my listening ears. Always I waited to hear her footstep, but itcame no longer, rustling in the grasses. It seemed to me that by somehard decree I had been deprived of all my senses; for not one was leftwhich did not crave and cry aloud for her.
It was thus that I, dulled, bereft; I, having lived, now dead; I, latefree, now bound again, turned away sullenly, and began my journey backto the life I had known before I met her.
As I passed East by the Denver stage, I met hurrying throngs alwayscoming westward, a wavelike migration of population now even denser thanit had been the preceding spring. It was as Colonel Meriwether said, thewagons almost touched from the Platte to the Rockies. They came on, avast, continuous stream of hope, confidence and youth. I, who stemmedthat current, alone was unlike it in all ways.
One thing only quickened my laggard heart, and that was the allprevalent talk of war. The debates of Lincoln and Douglas, theconsequences of Lincoln's possible election, the growing dissensions inthe Army over Buchanan's practically overt acts of war--these made thesole topics of conversation. I heard my own section, my own State,criticised bitterly, and all Southerners called traitors to that flag Ihad seen flying over the frontiers of the West. At times, I say, thesethings caused my blood to stir once more, though perhaps it was not allthrough patriotism.
At last, after weeks of travel across a disturbed country, I finallyreached the angry hive of political dissension at Washington. Here I wasnear home, but did not tarry, and passed thence by stage to Leesburg, inVirginia; and so finally came back into our little valley and the quiettown of Wallingford. I had gone away the victim of misfortune; Ireturned home with a broken word and an unfinished promise and a shakenheart. That was my return.
I got me a horse at Wallingford barns, and rode out to Cowles' Farms. Atthe gate I halted and looked in over the wide lawns. It seemed to me Inoted a change in them as in myself. The grass was unkempt, the flowerbeds showed little attention. The very seats upon the distant galleryseemed unfamiliar, as though arranged by some careless hand. I openedthe gate for myself, rode up to the old stoop and dismounted, for thefirst time in my life there without a boy to take my horse. I walkedslowly up the steps to the great front door of the old house. No servantcame to meet me, grinning. I, grandson of the man who built that house,my father's home and mine, lifted the brazen knocker of the door andheard no footstep anticipate my knock. The place sounded empty.
Finally there came a shuffling footfall and the door was opened, butthere stood before me no one that I recognized. It was a smallish,oldish, grayish man who opened the door and smiled in query at me.
"I am John Cowles, sir," I said, hesitating. "Yourself I do not seem toknow--"
"My name is Halliday, Mr. Cowles," he replied. A flush of humiliationcame to my face.
"I should know you. You were my father's creditor."
"Yes, sir, my firm was the holder of certain obligations at the time ofyour father's death. You have been gone very long without word to us.Meantime, pending any action--"
"You have moved in!"
"I have ventured to take possession, Mr. Cowles. That was as your motherwished. She waived all her rights and surrendered everything, said allthe debts must be paid--"
"Of course--"
"And all we could prevail upon her to do was to take up her quartersthere in one of the little houses."
He pointed with this euphemism toward our old servants' quarters. Sothere was my mother, a woman gently reared, tenderly cared for all herlife, living in a cabin where once slaves had lived. And I had come backto her, to tell a story such as mine!
"I hope," said he, hesitating, "that all these matters may presently beadjusted. But first I ask you to influence your mother to come back intothe place and take up her residence."
I smiled slowly. "You hardly understand her," I said. "I doubt if myinfluence will suffice for that. But I shall meet you again." I wasturning away.
"Your mother, I believe, is not here--she went over to Wallingford. Ithink it is the day when she goes to the little church--"
"Yes, I know. If you will excuse me I shall ride over to see if I canfind her." He bowed. Presently I was hurrying down the road again. Itseemed to me that I could never tolerate the sight of a stranger asmaster at Cowles' Farms.