"No," he said, stretching out his hand with something like one of his old gestures—"no, I'm going too far, Jane. We are all obedient to natural laws, as Ann used to say. Your laws have made you do just as you have, and so have mine. Away back there in the joy-time of youth my laws made me say too much to you. As you say, I planted the seed. I did; I planted the seed that bore all the fruit; I planted it when I kissed you, Jane, and said them things to you that night which I forgot the next day. Ann could have made something out of me better than this. As long as I had her to manage me, I did well. You see what I am now."
"Yes, I see; and I'm as sorry as I know how to be." Jane sighed as she passed out into the open sunlight. "I'm going home, Joe. I may never lay eyes on you again in this life. If you can say anything to make me feel better, I'd be thankful."
"There isn't anything, except what I said just now about our natural laws, Jane," he said, as he stood shading his eyes from the glare of the sun. "Sometimes I think that nobody hain't to blame for nothing they do, and that all of this temporary muddle is just the different ways human beings have of struggling on to a better world beyond this."
"I thought maybe you might, in so many words, say plain out that you'd forgive me, Joe." She had turned her face towards the road she was to travel, and her once harsh lip was quivering like that of a weeping child.
"The natural law would come in there, too," Boyd sighed. "Forgiveness, of the right sort, don't spring to the heart in such a case as this like a flash of powder in the pan. If I'm to forgive, I will in due time, I reckon; but right now, Jane, I feel too weak and tired, even for that—too weak and heartsick and undone."
"Well, I'm going to pray for it, Joe," she said, as she started away. "Good-bye. May the Lord above bless you."
"Good-bye, Jane; do the best you can," he said, "and I'll try to do the same."
[XXXIX]
The following Sunday afternoon Mrs. Waycroft hastened over to Ann Boyd's. She walked very rapidly across the fields and through the woods rather than by the longer main road. She found Ann in her best dress seated in her dining-room reading Luke King's paper, which had come the day before. She looked up and smiled and nodded to the visitor.
"I just wish you'd listen to this," she said, enthusiastically. "And when you've heard it, if you don't think that boy is a genius you'll miss it by a big jump. On my word, such editorials as this will do more good than all the preaching in Christendom. I've read it four times. Sit down and listen."