WITH the loss of her boy, time ceased to exist for Rose. The days came
and went, lengthening into years, full of duties, leaving her as they
found her, outwardly little changed and habitually calm and kind, but
inwardly sunk in apathy. She moved as if in a dream, seeming to live
in a strange world that would never again seem real--this world without
Billy. Occasionally, she would forget and think he was out in the field
or down in the mine; more rarely still, she would slip even further
backward and wonder what he was about in his play. During these moments
she would feel normal, but some object catching her eye would jerk her
back to the present and the cruel truth. She and Martin had less than
ever to say to each other, though in his own grim way he was more
thoughtful, giving her to understand that there were no longer any
restrictions laid upon her purchasing, and even suggesting that they
remodel the house; as if, she thought impassively, at this late day, it
could matter what she bought or in what she lived. His one interest in
making money, just as if they had some one to leave it to, puzzled
her. Always investing, then reinvesting the interest, and spending
comparatively little of his income, his fortune had now reached the
point where it was growing rapidly of its own momentum and, as there was
nothing to which he looked forward, nothing he particularly wanted to
do, he set himself the task of making it cross the half million mark,
much as a man plays solitaire, to occupy his mind, betting against
himself, to give point to his efforts.
Yet, it gave him a most disconcerting, uncanny start, when one bright
winter day, he faced the fact that he, too, was about to be shovelled
into the great dust-bin. Death was actually at his side, his long, bony
finger on his shoulder and whispering impersonally, “You're next.” “Very
much,” thought Martin, “like a barber on a busy Saturday.” How odd
that here was something that had never entered into his schemes, his
carefully worked out plans! It seemed so unfair--why, he had been
feeling so well, his business had been going on so profitably, there
was something so substantial to the jog of his life, there seemed to be
something of the eternal about it. He had taken ten-year mortgages but a
few days ago, and had bought two thousand dollars' worth of twenty-year
Oklahoma municipals when he could have taken an earlier issue which he
had rejected as maturing too soon. He had forgotten that there was a
stranger who comes but once, and now that he was here, Martin felt that
a mean trick had been played on him. He cogitated on the journey he
was to take, and it made him not afraid, but angry. It was a shabby
deal--that's what it was--when he was so healthy and contented, only
sixty-one and ready to go on for decades--two or three at least--forced,
instead, to prepare to lay himself in a padded box and be hurriedly
packed away. It had always seemed so vague, this business of dying, and
now it was so personal--he, Martin Wade, himself, not somebody else,
would suffer a little while longer and then grow still forever.
He would never know how sure a breeder was his new bull--the son of that
fine creature he had imported; two cows he had spotted as not paying
their board could go on for months eating good alfalfa and bran before
a new herdsman might become convinced of their unreadiness to turn the
expensive feed into white gold; he had not written down the dates when
the sows were to farrow, and they might have litters somewhere around
the strawstack and crush half the little pigs. His one hundred and
seventy-five acres of wheat had had north and south dead furrows, but he
had learned that this was a mistake in probably half the acreage, where
they should be east and west. It would make a great difference in the
drainage, but a new plowman might think this finickiness and just go
ahead and plow all of it north and south, or all of it east and west and
this would result in a lower yield--some parts of the field would get
soggy and the wheat might get a rust, and other parts drain too readily,
letting the ground become parched and break into cakes, all of which
might be prevented. And there was all that manure, maker of big crops.
He knew only too well how other farmers let it pile up in the barnyard
to be robbed by the sun of probably twenty per cent of its strength. He
figured quickly how it would hurt the crops that he had made traditional
on Wade land. He considered these things, and they worried him, made
him realize what a serious thing was death, far more serious than the
average person let himself believe.
Martin had gone to the barn a week before to help a cow which was
aborting. It had enraged him when he thought what an alarming thing
this was--abortion among HIS cows--in Martin Wade's beautiful herd!
“God Almighty!” he had exclaimed, deciding as he took the calf from the
mother to begin doctoring her at once. He would fight this disease
before it could establish a hold. Locking the cow's head in an iron
stanchion, he had shed his coat, rolled up his right sleeve almost to
the shoulder, washed his hand and arm in a solution of carbolic and hot
water, carefully examining them to make sure there was no abrasion
of any kind. But despite his caution, a tiny cut so small that it had
escaped his searching, had come in contact with the infected mucous
membrane and blood poisoning had set in. And here he was, lying in bed,
given up by Doctor Bradley and the younger men the older physician had
called into consultation and who had tried in vain to stem the spread of
poison through his system. Martin was going to die, and no power could
save him. The irony of it! This farm to which he had devoted his life
was taking it from him by a member of its herd.
Martin made a wry little grimace of amusement as he realized suddenly
that even at the very gate of death it was still on life, his life,
that his thoughts dwelt. In these last moments, it was the tedious,
but stimulating, battle of existence that really occupied his full
attention. He would cling to it until the last snap of the thin string.
This cavern of oblivion that was awaiting him, that he must enter--it
was black and now more than ever his deep, simple irreligion refused
to let fairy tales pacify him with the belief that beyond it was
everlasting daylight. Scepticism was not only in his conscious thought
but in the very tissues of his mind.
He remembered how his own father had died on this farm--he had had
no possessions to think about; only his loved ones, his wife and his
children; but he had brought them here that they might amass property
out of Martin's sweat and the dust of the prairie. Now he, the son,
dying, had in his mind no thought of people, but of this land and of
stock and of things. And how strangely his mind was reacting to it. His
concern was not who should own them all, but what would actually be
the fate of each individual property child of his. Why, he had not even
written a will. It would all go to his wife, of course, and how little
he cared to whom she left it. He would have liked, perhaps, to have
given Rose Mall twenty-five thousand or so--so she could always be
independent of that young husband of hers--snap her fingers at him if he
got to driving her too hard, and crushing out the flower-like quality of
her--but his wife wouldn't have understood, and he had hurt her enough,
in all conscience. The one thing he might have enjoyed doing, he
couldn't. Outside of that he didn't care who got it. She could leave it
to whomever she liked when her turn came. Not to whom it went, but what
would happen to it--that was what concerned him.
By his side, Rose, sitting so motionless that he was scarcely conscious
of her presence, was dying with him. With that peculiar gift of
profoundly sympathetic natures she was thinking and feeling much of what
he was experiencing. It seemed to her heart-breaking that Martin must
be forced to abandon the only things for which he cared. He had even
sacrificed his lovely Rose of Sharon for them--she had never been in any
doubt as to the reason for that sudden emotional retreat of his seven
years before. And she knew his one thought now must be for their
successful administration.
He had worked so hard always and yet had had so little happiness,
so little real brightness out of life. She felt, generously, with a
clutching ache, that with all the disappointments she had suffered
through him--from his first broken promises about the house to his lack
of understanding of their boy which had resulted in Billy's death--with
even that, she had salvaged so much more out of living than he. A great
compassion swelled within her; all the black moments, all the long, gray
hours of their years together, seemed suddenly insignificant. She saw
him again as he had been the day he had proposed marriage to her and for
the first time she was sure that she could interpret the puzzling look
that had come into his eyes when she had asked him why he thought she
could make him happy. What had he understood about happiness? With a
noiseless sob, she remembered that he had answered her in terms of the
only thing he had understood--work. And she saw him again, too, as he
had been the night he had so bluntly told her of his passion for Rose.
It seemed to her now, free of all rancor, unutterably tragic that the
only person Martin had loved should have come into his life too late.
He was not to be blamed because he had never been able to care for
herself. He should never have asked her to marry him--and yet, they had
not been such bad partners. It would have been so easy for her to love
him. She had loved him until he had killed her boy; since then, all her
old affection had withered. But if it really had done so why was she so
racked now? She felt, desperately, that she could not let him go
until he had had some real joy. To think that she used to plan,
cold-bloodedly, when Billy was little, all she would do if only Martin
should happen to die! The memory of it smote her as with a blow. She
looked down at the powerful hand lying so passively, almost, she would
have said, contentedly, in her own. How she had yearned for the comfort
of it when her children were born. She wondered if Martin realized her
touch, if it helped a little. If it had annoyed him, he would have said
so. It came to her oddly that in all the twenty-seven years she and her
husband had been married this was the very first time he had let her
be tender to him. Oh, his life had been bleak. Bleak! And she with such
tenderness in her heart. It hadn't been right. From the depths of her
rebellion and forgiveness, slow tears rose. Feeling too intensely, too
mentally, to be conscious of them she sat unmoving as they rolled one by
one down her cheeks and dropped unheeded.
“Rose,” he called with a soft hoarseness, “I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, Martin,” and she gave his fingers a slight squeeze as though to
convince him that she was there at his side. He felt relieved. It was
good to feel her hand and be sure that if his body were to give its
final sign that life had slipped away someone would be there to know the
very second it had happened. It was a satisfactory way to die; it took a
little of the loneliness away from the experience.
“Rose,” he repeated. It sounded so new, the yearning tone in which he
said it--“Rose!” It hurt. “Isn't it funny, Rose, to go like this--not
sick, no accident--just dying without any real reason except that I
absorbed the poison through a cut so small my eyes couldn't see it.”
“It's a mystery, dear,” the little word limped out awkwardly, “but God's
ways are not ours.”
“Not a mystery,” he corrected, “just a heap of tricks; funny ones, sad
ones, sensible ones, and crazy ones--and of all the crazy ones this is
the worst. But, what's the use? If there's a God, as you believe,
it doesn't do any good to argue with Him, and if it's as I think and
there's no God, there's no one to argue with. But never mind about that
now--it's no matter. You'll listen carefully, won't you, Rose?”
“Yes, Martin.”
“This abortion in the herd. You know what a terrible thing it is.”
“I certainly do; it's the cause of your leaving me.”
“Rose, I know you'll be busy during the next few days--me dying, the
things that have to be arranged, the funeral and all that. But when it's
all over, you'll let that be the first thing, won't you?”
“Yes, the very first thing, if you wish it.”
“I do. Get Dr. Hurton on the job at once, and have him fight it. He
knows his business. Let him come twice a day until he's sure it's out
of the herd. Keep that new bull out of the pasture. And if Hurton can't
clean it up, you'd better get rid of the herd before it gets known
around the country. You know how news of that kind travels. Don't try to
handle the sale yourself. If you do, it'll be a mistake. The prices will
be low if you get only a county crowd.”
“Neighbors usually bid low,” she agreed.
“Run up to Topeka and see Baker--he's the sales manager of the Holstein
Breeders' Association. Let him take charge of it all--he's a straight
fellow. He'll charge you enough--fifteen per cent of the gross receipts,
but then he'll see to it that the people who want good stuff will be
there. He knows how and where to advertise. He's got a big list of
names, and can send out letters to the people that count. He'll bring
buyers from Iowa down to Texas. Remember his name--Baker.”
“Yes, Martin--Baker.”
“I think you ought to sell the herd anyway,” he went on. “I know you,
Rose; you'll be careless about the papers--no woman ever realizes how
important it is to have the facts for the certificates of registry
and transfer just right. I'm afraid you'll fall down there and get the
records mixed. You won't get the dates exact and the name and number of
each dam and sire. Women are all alike there--they never seem to realize
that a purebred without papers is just a good grade.”
Rose made no comment, while Martin changed his position slowly and lost
himself in thought.
“Yes, I guess it's the only thing to do--to get rid of the purebred
stuff. God Almighty! It's taken me long enough to build up that herd,
but a few weeks from now they'll be scattered to the four winds. Well,
it can't be helped. Try to sell them to men who understand something
of their value. And that reminds me, Rose. You always speak of them as
thoroughbreds. It always did get on my nerves. That's right for horses,
but try to remember that cows are purebreds. You'll make that mistake
before men who know. Those little things are important. Remember it,
won't you?”
“Thoroughbred for a horse, and purebred for a cow,” Rose repeated
willingly.
“When you get your money for the stock put it into mortgages--first
mortgages, not seconds. Let that be a principle with you. Many a holder
of a second mortgage has been left to hold the sack. You must remember
that the first mortgage comes in for the first claim after taxes, and
if the foreclosure doesn't bring enough to satisfy more than that, the
second mortgage is sleeping on its rights.”
“First mortgages, not seconds,” said Rose.
“And while I'm on that, let me warn you about Alex Tracy, four miles
north and a half mile east, on the west side of the road. He's a
slippery cuss and you'll have to watch him.”
“Alex Tracy, four miles north--”
“You'll find my mortgage for thirty-seven hundred in my box at the bank.
He's two coupons behind in his interest. I made him give me a chattel on
his growing corn. Watch him--he's treacherous. He may think he can sneak
around because you're a woman and stall you. He's just likely to turn
his hogs into that corn. Your chattel is for growing corn, not for corn
in a hog's belly. If he tries any dirty business get the sheriff after
him.”
“It's on the GROWING corn,” said Rose.
“And here's another important point--taxes. Don't pay any taxes on
mortgages. What's the use of giving the politicians more money to waste?
Hold on to your bank stock and arrange to have all mortgages in the
name of the bank, not in your own. They pay taxes on their capital and
surplus, not on their loans. But be sure to get a written acknowledgment
on each mortgage from Osborne. He's square, but you can't ever tell what
changes might take place and then there might be some question about
mortgages in the bank's name.”
“Keep them in the bank's name,” said Rose.
“And a written acknowledgment,” Martin stressed.
“A written acknowledgment,” she echoed.
For probably fifteen minutes he lay without further talk; then, a little
more weariness in his voice than she had ever known before, he began to
speak again.
“I've been thinking a great deal, Rose.” There was still that new
tenderness in the manner in which he pronounced her name, that new
tone she had never heard before and which caused her to feel a little
nervous. “I've been thinking, Rose, about the years we've lived together
here on a Kansas prairie farm--”
“It lacks just a few months of being twenty-eight years,” she added.
“Yes, it sounds like a long time when you put it that way, but it
doesn't seem any longer than a short sigh to me lying here. I've been
thinking, Rose, how you've always got it over to me that you loved me or
could love me--”
“I've always loved you, Martin--deeply.”
“Yes, that's what's always made me so hard with you. It would have been
far better for you if you hadn't cared for me at all. I've never loved
anybody, not even my own mother, nor Bill, nor myself for that matter.”
Their eyes shifted away from each other quickly as both thought of one
other whom he did not mention. “I wasn't made that way, Rose. Now you
could love anything--lots of women are like that, and men, too. But I
wasn't. Life to me has always been a strange world that I never got over
thinking about and trying to understand, and at the same time hustling
to get through with every day of it as fast as I could by keeping at the
only thing I knew which would make it all more bearable. There's a lot
of pain in work, but it's only of the muscles and my pain has always
been in the things I've thought about. The awful waste and futility of
it all! Take this farm--I came here when this was hardly more than a
desert. You ought to have seen how thick the dust was the first day
we got down here. And I've built up this place. You've helped me. Bill
didn't care for it--even if he had lived, he'd never have stayed here.
But you do, in spite of all that's happened.”
“Yes, Martin, I do,” she returned fervently. “It's a wonderful monument
to leave behind you--this farm is.”
His eyes grew somber. “That's what I've always thought it would be,” he
answered, very low. “I've felt as if I was building something that would
last. Even the barns--they're ready to stand for generations. But this
minute, when the end is sitting at the foot of this bed, I seem to see
it all crumbling before me. You won't stay here. Why should you--even
if you do for a few years you'll have to leave it sometime, and there's
nothing that goes to rack and ruin as quickly as a farm--even one like
this.”
“Oh, Martin, don't think such thoughts,” she begged. “Your fever is
coming up; I can see it.”
“What has it all been about, that's what I want to know,” he went on
with quiet cynicism. “What have I been sweating about--nothing. What
is anyone's life? No more than mine. We're all like a lot of hens in a
backyard, scratching so many hours a day. Some scratch a little deeper
than those who aren't so skilled or so strong. And when I stand off
a little, it's all alike. The end is as blind and senseless as the
beginning on this farm--drought and dust.”
Martin closed his eyes wearily and gave a deep sigh. To his wife's
quickened ears, it was charged with lingering regret for frustrated
plans and palpitant with his consciousness of life's evanescence and of
the futility of his own success.
She waited patiently for him to continue his instructions, but the
opiates had begun to take effect and Martin lapsed into sleep.
Although he lived until the next morning, he never again regained full
consciousness.