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.