BEFORE THE LOW GREEN DOOR.
Matilda Bent was dying; there was no doubt of that now, if there hadbeen before. The gruff old physician--one of the many overworked andunderpaid country doctors--shook his head and pushed by Joe Bent, herhusband, as he passed through the room which served as dining room,sitting room, and parlor. The poor fellow slouched back to his chair bythe stove as if dazed, and before he could speak again the doctor wasgone.
Mrs. Ridings was just coming up the walk as the doctor stepped out ofthe door.
"O doctor, how is she?"
"She is a dying woman, madam."
"Oh! don't say that, doctor. What's the matter?"
"Cancer."
"Then the news was true----"
"I don't know anything of the news, Mrs. Ridings, but Mrs. Bent is dyingfrom the effects of a cancer primarily, which she has had foryears--since her last child, which died in infancy, you remember."
"But, doctor, she never told me----"
"Neither did she tell me. But no matter now. I have done all I can forher. If you can make death any easier for her, go and do it. You willfind some opiate powders there with directions. Keep the pain down atall hazards. Don't let her suffer; that is useless. She is likely tolast a day or two--but if any change comes to-night, send for me."
When the good matron entered the dowdy, suffocating little room whereMatilda Bent lay gasping for breath, she was sick for a moment withsympathetic pain. There the dying woman lay, her world narrowed to fourclose walls, propped up on the pillows near the one little window. Hereyes seemed very large and bright, and the brow, made prominent by thesinking away of the cheeks, gave evidence that it was an uncommon womanwho lay there quietly waiting the death angel.
She smiled, and lifted her eyebrows in a ghastly way.
"O Marthy!" she breathed.
"Matildy, I didn't know you was so bad, or I'd 'a' come before. Whydidn't you let me know?" said Mrs. Ridings, kneeling by the bed andtaking the ghostly hands of the sufferer in her own warm and soft palms.She shuddered as she kissed the thin lips.
"I think you'll soon be around agin," she added, in the customarymockery of an attempt at cheer. The other woman started slightly,turned her head, and gazed on her old friend long and intently. Thehollowness of her neighbor's words stung her.
"I hope not, Marthy--I'm ready to go. I want to go. I don't care tolive."
The two women communed by looking for a long time in each other's eyes,as if to get at the very secretest desires and hopes of the heart. Tearsfell from Martha's eyes upon the cold and nerveless hands of herfriend--poor, faithful hands, hacked and knotted and worn by thirtyyears of ceaseless daily toil. They lay there motionless upon thecoverlet, pathetic protest for all the world to see.
"O Matildy, I wish I could do something for you! I want to help you so.I feel so bad that I didn't come before. Ain't they somethin'?"
"Yes, Marthy--jest set there--till I die--it won't be long," whisperedthe pale lips. The sufferer, as usual, was calmer than her visitor, andher eyes were thoughtful.
"I will! I will! But oh! must you go? Can't somethin' be done. Don't yo'want the minister to be sent for?"
"No, I'm all ready. I ain't afraid to die. I ain't worth savin' now. OMarthy! I never thought I'd come to this--did you? I never thought I'ddie--so early in life--and die--unsatisfied."
She lifted her head a little as she gasped out these words with anintensity of utterance that thrilled her hearer--a powerful,penetrating earnestness that burned like fire.
"Are you satisfied?" pursued the steady lips. "My life's a failure,Marthy--I've known it all along--all but my children. O Marthy, what'llbecome o' them? This is a hard world."
The amazed Martha could only chafe the hands, and note sorrowfully thefrightful changes in the face of her friend. The weirdly calm, slowvoice began to shake a little.
"I'm dyin', Marthy, without ever gittin' to the sunny place wegirls--used to think--we'd git to, by an' by. I've been a-gittin' deeper'n' deeper--in the shade--till it's most dark. They ain't been norest--n'r hope f'r me, Marthy--none. I ain't----"
"There, there! Tillie, don't talk so--don't, dear. Try to think howbright it'll be over there----"
"I don't know nawthin' about over there; I'm talkin' about here. I ain'thad no chance here, Marthy."
"He will heal all your care----"
"He can't wipe out my sufferin's here."
"Yes, He can, and He will. He can wipe away every tear and heal everywound."
"No--he--can't. God himself can't wipe out what has been. O Mattie, if Iwas only there!--in the past--if I was only young and purty agin! Youknow how tall I was! how we used to run--O Mattie, if I was only there!The world was all bright then--wasn't it? We didn't expect--to work allour days. Life looked like a meadow, full of daisies and pinks, and thenicest ones and the sweetest birds was just a little ways on--where thesun was--it didn't look--wasn't we happy?"
"Yes, yes, dear. But you mustn't talk so much." The good woman thoughtMatilda's mind was wandering. "Don't you want some med'cine? Ain't yourfever risin'?"
"But the daisies and pinks all turned to weeds," she went on, waiting alittle, "when we picked 'em. An' the sunny place--has been always behindme, and the dark before me. Oh! if I was only there--in the sun--wherethe pinks and daisies are!"
"You mustn't talk so, Mattie! Think about your children. You ain't sorryy' had them. They've been a comfort to y'. You ain't sorry you had 'em."
"I ain't glad," was the unhesitating reply of the failing woman; andthen she went on, in growing excitement: "They'll haf to grow old jestas I have--git bent and gray, an' die. They ain't ben much comfort tome; the boys are like their father, and Julyie's weak. They ain't nohappiness--for such as me and them."
She paused for breath, and Mrs. Ridings, not knowing what to say, didbetter than speak. She fell to stroking the poor face, and the handsgetting more restless each moment. It was as if Matilda Fletcher hadbeen silent so long, had borne so much without complaint, that now itburst from her in a torrent not to be stayed. All her most secret doubtsand her sweetest hopes seemed trembling on her lips or surging in herbrain, racking her poor, emaciated frame for utterance. Now that deathwas sure, she was determined to rid her bosom of its perilous stuff.Martha was appalled.
"I used to think--that when I got married I'd be perfectly happy--but Inever have been happy sence. It was the beginning of trouble to me. Inever found things better than they looked; they was always worse. I'vegone further an' further from the sunshiny meadow, an' the birds an'flowers---- and I'll never git back to 'em again, never!" She ended with asob and a low wail.
Her face was horrifying with its intensity of pathetic regret. Herstraining, wide-open eyes seemed to be seeing those sunny spots in themeadow.
"Mattie, sometimes when I'm asleep I think I am back there ag'in--andyou girls are there--an' we're pullin' off the leaves of the wildsunflower--'rich man, poor man, beggar man'--and I hear you all laughwhen I pull off the last leaf; an' when I come to myself--and I'm anold, dried-up woman, dyin' unsatisfied!"
"I've felt that way a little myself, Matildy," confessed the watcher ina scared whisper.
"I knew it, Mattie; I knew you'd know how I felt. Things have beenbetter for you. You ain't had to live in an old log house all yourlife, an' work yourself to skin an' bone for a man you don't respect norlike."
"Matildy Bent, take that back! Take it back, for mercy sake! Don't youdare die thinkin' that--don't you dare!"
Bent, hearing her voice rising, came to the door, and the wife, knowinghis step, cried:
"Don't let him in! Don't! I can't bear him--keep him out; I don't wantto see him ag'in."
"Who do you mean? Not Joe?"
"Yes. Him."
Had the dying woman confessed to murder, good Martha could not have beenmore shocked. She could not understand this terrible revulsion infeeling, for she herself had been absolutely loyal to her husbandthrough all the trials which had come upon them.
Bu
t she met Bent at the threshold, and, closing the door, went out withhim into the summer kitchen, where the rest of the family were sitting.A gloomy silence fell on them all after the greetings were over. The menwere smoking; all were seated in chairs tipped back against the wall.Joe Bent, a smallish man, with a weak, good-natured face, asked in ahoarse whisper:
"How is she, Mis' Ridings?"
"She seems quite strong, Mr. Bent. I think you had all better go to bed;if I want you I can call you. Doctor give me directions."
"All right," responded the relieved man. "I'll sleep on the lounge inthe other room. If you want me, just rap on the door."
When, after making other arrangements, Martha went back to the bedroom,she was startled to hear the sick woman muttering to herself, or perhapsbecause she had forgotten Martha's absence.
"But the shadows on the meadow didn't stay; they passed on, and then thesun was all the brighter on the flowers. We used to stringsweet-williams on spears of grass--don't you remember?"
Martha gave her a drink of the opiate in the glass, adjusted her on thepillow, and threw open the window, even to the point of removing thescreen, and the gibbous moon flooded the room with light. She did notlight a lamp, for its flame would heat the room. Besides, the moonlightwas sufficient. It fell on the face of the sick woman, till she lookedlike a thing of marble--all but her dark eyes.
"Does the moon hurt you, Tilly? Shall I put down the curtain?"
The woman heard with difficulty, and when the question was repeated saidslowly:
"No, I like it." After a little--"Don't you remember, Mattie 'howbeautiful the moonlight seemed? It seemed to promise happiness--andlove--but it never come for us. It makes me dream of the past now--justas it did o' future then; an' the whip-poor-wills too----"
The night was perfectly beautiful, such a night as makes dying aninfinite sorrow. The summer was at its liberalest. Innumerable insectsof the nocturnal sort were singing in unison with the frogs in thepools. A whip-poor-will called, and its neighbor answered it like anecho. The leaves of the trees, glossy from the late rain, movedmusically to the light west wind, and the exquisite perfume of manyflowers came in on the breeze.
When the failing woman sank into silence, Martha leaned her elbow on thewindow sill, and, gazing far into the great deeps of space, gave herselfup to unwonted musings upon the problems of human life. She sigheddeeply at times. She found herself at moments in the almost terrifyingposition of a human soul in space. Not a wife, not a mother, but just asoul facing the questions which harass philosophers. As she realized hercondition of mind she apprehended something of the thinking of the womanon the bed. Matilda had gone beyond or far back of the wife and mother.
The hours wore on; the dying woman stirred uneasily now and then,whispering a word or phrase which related to her girlhood--never to herlater life. Once she said:
"Mother, hold me. I'm so tired."
Martha took the thin form in her arms, and, laying her head close besidethe sunken cheek, sang, in half breath, a lullaby till the sufferer grewquiet again.
The eastern moon passed over the house, leaving the room dark, andstill the patient watcher sat beside the bed, listening to the slowbreathing of the dying one. The cool air grew almost chill; the eastbegan to lighten, and with the coming light the tide of life sank in thedying body. The head, hitherto restlessly turning, ceased to move. Theeyes grew quiet and began to soften like a sleeper's.
"How are you now, dear?" asked the watcher several times, bending overthe bed, and bathing back the straying hair.
"I'm tired--tired, mother--turn me," she murmured drowsily, with heavylids drooping.
Martha adjusted the pillows again, and turned the face to the wall. Thepoor, tortured, restless brain slowly stopped its grinding whirl, andthe thin limbs, heavy with years of hopeless toil, straightened out inan endless sleep.
Matilda Fletcher had found rest.