Part 9 (2/2)
Your loving uncle,
”JARED MARTIN.”
Something in this homely letter so deeply affected Rose that she prevailed on her husband, a few days after their marriage, to take her to 'Squire Martin's.
It was nearly sundown when the young wife, accompanied by the 'Squire, entered the room of the dying man. He lay on a low bed by an open window, through which, with hollow hungry eyes, he was gazing into the blue distance that is called the sky of May. Birds were singing in the trees all around the house, and a cool breath of violet-scented air rippled through the window. The widow Jones, worn out with watching by the sick bed, sat sleeping in her rude arm-chair; Sammy had gone after the cow--a gift from the 'Squire.
The visitors entered softly, but Zach heard them and feebly turned his head. He put out a bloodless hand and clasped the warm fingers of Rose, pulling her into a seat by his couch. A wan smile flitted across his face as he fixed his eyes, burning like sparks in the gray ash of a spent fire, on hers, dewy with rising tears.
”The same little Rose you use to wus,” he said, in a low faltering voice, that had in it an unconquerable allegiance to the one dream of his manhood. His unnaturally bright eyes ran swiftly over her face and form, then closed, as if to fasten the vision within, that it might follow him to eternity.
”The same little Rose you use to wus,” he repeated, ”only now you're picked off the vine an' n.o.body can't touch ye but the owner. I'm a poor, no 'count dyin' man, Rose, but you'll never----.” His voice choked a little and he did not finish the sentence. Perhaps he thought it were better not finished.
A few moments of utter silence followed, during which, faintly, far out in the field behind the house, was heard the childish voice of Sammy, singing an old hymn, two lines of which were most distinctly heard by those in the house.
”Ah, yes--
”This world's a wilderness of woe, This world it ain't my home,”
chimed in the trembling voice of the sick man. Then, by an effort that evidently taxed his fading powers to the last degree, he fixed his eyes firmly on those of the young woman. Here was a martyr of the divine sort, true and unchangeable in the flame of the torture.
”Rose, little Rose,” he said, glancing uneasily at the 'Squire, ”I've got something private like to say to you.”
The young woman trembled. Memory was at work.
”'Squire, go out a minute, will ye?” continued Zach.
The sick man's request was promptly obeyed, and Rose sat, drooping, alone beside the bed, while the widow snored away.
Zach now more nervously clasped the hand of the young woman. A spot of faint suns.h.i.+ne glimmered on the pillow close by the man's head. The out-door sounds of the wind in the young gra.s.s, and the rustle of the new soft leaves of the trees, crept into the room gently, as if not to drown the low voice of the dying man.
”It's been on my mind ever since we parted, Rose, and I ort 'a' said it then, but I choked an' couldn't; but I kin say it now and I will.” He paused a moment and Rose looked pitifully at him. His chin was thrust out firmly and his lips had a determined set. He looked just as he did when about to knock the poor old horse on the head over in the dell that day. How vividly the tragic situation was recalled in Rose's mind!
”Yes, I will say it now, so I will,” he resumed. ”Since things turned out jist as they have, Rose, I do wish I'd 'a' paid no 'tention to ye an' jist gone on and knocked that derned ole fistleoed hoss so dead 'at he'd 'a' never kicked--I do--I do, 'i hokey! I don't want to make ye feel bad, but I'm goin' away now, an' it 'pears to me like as if I'd go easy if I know'd you'd----.” He turned away his face and drew just one little fluttering breath. When, after only a few minutes' absence, the 'Squire came in, the widow still slept, the sweet air still rippled through the room, but Rose held a dead hand; Zach was at rest! The 'Squire placed his hand on the bright hair of Rose and gazed mournfully down into the pinched, pallid face of the dead. How awfully calm a dead face is!
The widow stirred in her chair, groaned, and awoke. For a moment she bent her eyes wonderingly, inquiringly on the young woman; then, rising, she clasped her in her great bony arms.
”You are the Rose, the little Rose he's been goin' on so about. O, honey, I'm orful glad you've come. You ort jist to 'a' heerd him talk about ye when he got flighty like----but O--O--my! O Lor'! Zach--Zachy, dear! O, Miss, O, he's dead--he's dead!”
”Dead, yes, dead!” echoed the 'Squire, his words dropping with the weight of lead.
Across the fields of young green wheat ran waves of the spring wind, murmuring and sighing, while the dust of blossoms wheeled, and rose and fell in the last soft rays of the going sun. A big yellow b.u.t.terfly flitted through the room.
Presently Sammy entered. He came in like a gust of wind, making things rattle with his impetuous motion.
”O, mammy! O, Zach! I's got s'thin' to tell ye, an' I'll bet a biscuit you can't guess what 't is!” he cried breathlessly.
”O, Sammy, honey, O, dear!” groaned the widow.
”S-s-h!” said the 'Squire solemnly.
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