SAN JUAN
Notwithstanding it was a hot day in the first week of July, Mrs. Spillkins had decided to have a "quilting-bee." Having made up her mind, after consulting with Miss Melissa and Miss Elvira, she lost no time in summoning Uncle Israel from the barn, and making known her plans. Uncle Israel mildly objected.
"Kinder hot fer er quiltin'-bee, ain't it, Hannah?"
"'Tis pretty hot," Mrs. Spillkins admitted, wiping the perspiration from her face with her apron, "but we 'll have it to-morrow 'long 'bout four. You get the frames and rollers out, Israel, from the back garret, an' then I want you to go up to Mis' Blossom's an' ask 'em to come, an' get word to the other folks on the Mountain."
"I 'll go, Hannah, but I dunno 'bout Mis' Blossom 'n' Rose comin' ter er quiltin'-bee jest 'bout this time. They 're feelin' pretty low 'bout Chi off thar in Cuby; news hez come thet ther 's ben fightin'--"
"I know that, Israel; I 've thought of that, too; but, mebbe, it 'll do 'em good, just to change the scene a little. Anyway, you ask 'em."
"Jest ez ye say, Hannah."
The sun was setting when Uncle Israel made his appearance on the porch where the whole family was assembled with Alan Ford. They had but one topic for conversation.
Uncle Israel gave his invitation, and added: "Hannah thought ye 'd better come 'n' change the scene a leetle--she knowed ye 'd be kinder low-spereted 'bout now."
Mrs. Blossom held out her hand. "Thank you, Uncle Israel. Tell Mrs. Spillkins we will both come."
"Hannah wants your folks ter come, tew, Alan."
"Much obliged, Uncle Israel. I 'll tell mother and Ruth; I 'm sure they will enjoy it. Ruth said the other day she wished she might have a chance to see a quilting-bee while we are here. Shall I take your message over to Aunt Tryphosa?"
"Much obleeged, Alan. Thank ye, Rose,"--as Rose brought out the large arm-chair and placed it for him; "I 'll set a spell 'n' rest me."
It was a typical northern midsummer night. Across the valley the mountains loomed, softly luminous, against the pale green translucent stretch of open sky in the west. There were no clouds; but high above and around there swept a long trail of motionless mist, flame-colored over the mountain tops, but darkening, with the coming of the night, into gray towards the east. The stars were not yet out. The veeries were choiring antiphonally in the woodlands.
An hour afterwards Alan Ford rose to go, and Uncle Israel soon followed his example.
"I 'll go down the woods'-road a piece with you, Uncle Israel," said Rose.
As she came back up the Mountain a cool breath drew through the pines, and the spruces gave forth their resinous fragrance upon the dewless night. The stars were brilliant in the dark blue deeps.
A midsummer night among the mountains of New England! And far away in the sickening heat and wet, the fever-laden exhalations of the tropics rose into the nostrils of a man, who sat motionless in the rude field-hospital, hastily improvised on the slope of San Juan, watching, with his knees drawn up to his chin and his hands clasping them, for some faint tremor in the still face on the army blanket spread upon the ground.
The lantern cast its light full upon that still face. Suddenly the watcher bent forward; his keen eyes had detected a twitch of an eyelid--a flutter in the muscles of the throat. "Don't move him," the surgeon had said; "the least movement will cause the final hemorrhage."
There was a catch of the breath--the eyes opened, partly filmed.
"Jack!" The watcher spoke, bending lower; his ear over the other's lips.
"Chi--" it was a mere breath, but the man heard--"I'm--done for."
The watcher's hand, muscular, toil-hardened, sought the nerveless one that was lying on the other's breast, and closed upon it with a brooding pressure. There was silence for a few minutes. Then the horny hand felt a feeble stirring of the fingers beneath the hardened palm--they were fumbling weakly at a button.
The strong hand undid the button, gently--very gently, without apparent movement. There was a motion of the nerveless fingers towards the place. Another breath:--
"Give--love--"
A long silence fell.
Mrs. Spillkins heaved a sigh of satisfaction: "We 've done an awful sight of work," she said, surveying the five quilts "run" and "tacked" and "knotted" in even rows and mathematically true squares; "but it seems as if they did n't eat a mite of supper, an' that strawberry shortcake was enough to melt in your mouth."
"What'd I tell ye, Hannah? They're worretin' 'bout Chi," said Uncle Israel. "They've fit agin; Ben told me while he wuz waitin' with the team fer the womin-folks. He hed the mail, 'n' er telegram thet thet young feller, we see ridin' 'roun' here las' summer, wuz mortal wounded. He did n't want the womin-folks ter know it till he got 'em hum. They sot er sight by him."
Mrs. Spillkins threw up her hands: "Dear suz'y me!" she exclaimed in a distressed voice. "What 'll they do! I hope an' pray Malachi Graham ain't hurt none. I feel as if I ought to go right up there, an' see if there 's anything I can do."
"Better wait till the Cap'n comes hum, Hannah; he 'll hev the papers."
"I guess 't would be better," and Mrs. Spillkins proceeded to fold up her quilts and "clear up" the best room.
The hot July days warmed the breast of the Mountain. Over in the corn-patch the stalks had spindled and the swelling ears were ready to tassel. By word or look Rose had given no sign--and her mother wondered. The days wore on; the routine of daily work and life went on; but the younger children's voices were subdued when they spoke lovingly and longingly of Chi, and Rose sang no longer when she kneaded bread. They were days of suspense and heart misery for them all.
Two weeks had passed since that evening when Mr. Blossom had read to them the fatal despatch. No word had come from anyone save Hazel, who wrote that her father and Uncle John had started at once for Cuba, and that she hoped to be with the Blossoms the third week in July, for by that time they would know the whole truth.
They had been making ready Hazel's little bedroom, for she was expected in a few days. Rose was tacking up a white muslin curtain at the small window, when she heard her father call:
"Rose, come here a minute."
"Yes, father."
She went out on the porch with the hammer in her hand. "What is it, Popsey dear?--Why, father, what--oh what--!"
With shaking hand her father held out a letter to her. Rose looked once--it was from Chi!
"I wish mother were here, daughter--but she'll be back soon. Let me know how it is with them all--." Mr. Blossom could say no more, for Malachi Graham was as near to him as a brother, and he was agonizing for his child. He went off to the barn, leaving Rose standing on the porch, staring as if fascinated at the superscription of the letter:
To Miss Rose Blossom, Mill Settlement, Barton's River,Vermont.
N.B.B.O.O.--To be opened by nobody but her.
Rose laid down the hammer mechanically, opened the envelope, and unfolded the piece of brown paper from out of which fluttered to the floor another and thicker slip, stained almost beyond recognition. With staring eyes and face as white as driven snow she read the few words scrawled in pencil on the brown slip:--
DEAR ROSE-POSE,--I ain't no wish to meddle with anybody's business--but I 'm just obeying orders. The last words I heard Jack Sherrill speak, was "Give--love," and he fumbled at his breast to get out this enclosed. I ain't read it--but it's his heart's blood that's on it. Give my love to all.
Yours forever,CHI.
"His heart's blood!" For a moment the words conveyed no meaning. She picked up the iron-rusty brown slip from the floor; unfolded it; read--Barry Cornwall's love-song in her own handwriting!
"His heart's blood!" She pressed one hand hard upon her own heart, crushing with the other the dark-stained slip. Then, with one wild look around her as if searching for help, she ran down the steps, across the mowing, over into the pasture and up into the woodlands. Deep, deep into the heart of them she made her way, as her mother, Mary Blossom, had done before her; but now there was no kneeling, no prayer, no petition to take from her the intolerable pain.
She was young, and she loved as the young love. It was not God whom she wanted; it was "Jack! Jack! Jack!" She cast herself face down upon the ground, and moaned in her agony: "His heart's blood--his heart's blood." She pressed the stained paper to her lips, over and over again. Then she opened her blouse and baring her bosom, laid the love-song against it--"His heart's blood--his heart's blood!"
So her mother found her.