heavily, wondered why neither the bright, warm sun nor the heavy,
handsome camel’s-hair shawl in which, to the surprise of her neighbors,
she was closely wrapped this warm day, could conquer that little,
creeping chill in her blood that every now and then developed into a
shiver. But she gave that matter scant thought. Weary and dull to her,
the very bells seemed to ring out over and over again the one word,
“A-lone! A-lone!”
She had her comfortable, even handsome, home; ample means to keep it
up, but it was so empty! There was no one to watch for, to dress for,
to plan for, cook for! No one to give her greeting, or loving thanks
for loving service. She was utterly alone, and she was only forty-four,
and might live--good God! how long? If it were not unlawful so to do,
she would kneel here in the church she was entering and pray to die at
once, that she might fill her appointed place between her husband and
her son, and be at rest.
With such thoughts, these women approached the church and each other.
Foolish, wicked thoughts, you say. Perhaps, but for a woman who is
growing old, whose heart is bleeding from many wounds, it is so hard
a thing to face the great world alone. But so it came about that as
Mrs. Martha Swift, of Ohio, sat in pew 71, an usher waved into pew 72
Mrs. Marion Wallace, of Georgia, who was no sooner comfortably seated
than a quick shiver shaking the shoulders of the woman in front of
her drew her attention to the shoulders and to the shawl about them.
And then an odd thing happened. Her glance, at first a merely casual
one, had quickly intensified into a prolonged and piercing stare. Then
she had raised her veil and studied the shawl as if it had been the
horoscope of one she loved; studied it until from the seeming confusion
of the innumerable morsels of rich, dim colors tossed together, there
came order and a clear design. Then, to the wonderment of two or three
observers, she drew off her glove and, leaning forward, passed her bare
forefinger eagerly along the edge of that bit of solid color always
found in the centre of these precious shawls; did it carefully, as does
a woman who searches for some faint stain or mark, and suddenly the
blood rushed to her face; she drew back swiftly into her place, resumed
her glove, but from “Dearly Beloved,” clear through to “Let Your Light
so Shine,” she never took her eyes from that shawl in front of her.
As Mrs. Swift passed out of church, she thought herself rather
unnecessarily crowded by a tall woman in black. She answered two or
three friendly comments on her bundled-up appearance by saying that,
“heavy shawl and all, she was still cold, at least part of the time,”
and, “yes, come to think of it, she was shivering half her time
yesterday”; “yes, it was a lovely day,” and so slipped away as quickly
as she could, and started to walk across the Public Square, that she
might be alone; and then a woman in black was at her side--a woman
whose eyes were big and bright with anger; whose trembling finger
tapped her on the arm, as she swiftly said: “Madam, this shawl is not
your property; it is mine!”
Mrs. Swift was so startled--so utterly taken aback--that at first she
could only stare at the stranger and say, stupidly: “What--what did you
say?”
And the stranger, in increasing anger, repeated: “This shawl
is not your property--it is mine, I tell you! My most precious
treasure--_mine_--and I can prove it, too, by marks you cannot gainsay!”
But Mrs. Swift drew away from the tapping finger, exclaiming: “Do you
know who you are talking to? You must be crazy! Why, I’ve owned this
shawl these five years!”
“Five years?” scornfully cried the other, “I owned it long enough to
know its full design--the dealer’s private mark--that my boy showed me
when he brought it to me from his first trip abroad--and in the corner,
here on the under side, beneath a rough seam in the border, you will
find two letters worked in white silk--an ‘M’ and a ‘W,’ and beneath
them both a tiny star in many-colored threads. See, then--” She caught
swiftly at the corner of the shawl nearest her--turned it back--scanned
it closely, and then triumphantly pointed out two small, imperfect
letters in white silk--“M” and “W,” with the star beneath, as she had
said.
Mrs. Swift felt her face flush, but she bravely looked the excited
woman in the face: “I do not understand,” she said. “This shawl was a
gift to me from my only son!”
“A poor gift that--of ill-gotten property!” cried the woman in black,
and then Martha Swift lifted stern, blue eyes and said: “Madam, my son
was a soldier! He lies out there, beneath his tombstone now! Do not
insult his memory!”
And she of the black, burning eyes said quickly: “My son fell at the
Bloody Angle--he was not identified--and fills some corner of a trench
that is marked, if marked at all, by a stone bearing the cruel word,
‘Unknown!’ I insult the memory of no soldier, and I pray you pardon me!”
Then, all suddenly, they stood with working faces, holding hard to one
another’s hands, while their tears ran swiftly. They were too deeply
moved to speak much then, and they drew down their veils that they
might not attract attention.
They had exchanged names and addresses, then walked silently as far
as the monument in the centre of the Square. As they were about to
separate, Mrs. Swift said: “Mrs. Wallace, this dear shawl is yours,
beyond the shadow of a doubt--and back it goes to you, be sure of
that--but won’t you come to my house, in a day or two, and tell me its
story?” Then, seeing refusal dawning on the other’s face, she quickly
added, “I would so like to hear about your boy!”
Ah, subtle tempter! What mother could resist such sweet flattery! Not
this one, who for two long years had not named aloud that beloved
son--who entering the army as an elegant young _beau_, had died in
broken shoes and tattered clothing--fighting like a demoniac!
Yes, she would come, and Mrs. Swift would tell her side of the story
too--would she not? And then it would all come clear between them about
the shawl--and there would be blame to no one but herself, perhaps, for
her too hasty speech!
And with these promises they parted--each thinking compassionately of
the other: “How she must suffer, it is so terrible a thing to lose
husband and child too!”
The following Tuesday, on starting out to make the promised visit, Mrs.
Wallace became conscious of a lightness, an alertness of movement--of
a genuine feeling of interest in the approaching interview, as
pleasant as unusual to her. And she wondered a little that she felt
in her heart no enmity for this Northern woman who had, beyond a
doubt, done her small best to help conquer the South and destroy the
beloved “Cause”! But, considered simply as individuals, they were both
conquered--beaten--broken down forever! In tastes, up-bringing and
experience, they were as far apart as the poles, but between those
two great cries of motherhood--one wrung from the body’s anguish at
the man-child’s birth, and the other from the soul’s anguish at his
death--the women understood and sympathized passionately with each
other! With these thoughts in her mind, Mrs. Wallace made her way to
the pretty house, with its bit of lawn, choice shrubs and late flowers,
that belonged to Mrs. Swift, and had the door, after some delay,
thrown open for her by an elderly and very angry gentleman--evidently
a doctor--who continued an unequal contest with two hysterical and
belligerent maidens from the “Old Isle”--one of whom, with the
maddening iteration peculiar to her class, repeated again and again:
“’Twas meself that heard it!--the Banshee! Bad ’cess to yees--’twas
meself that heard it--the Banshee!--the Banshee!” while the other, with
maudlin tears, vowed she’d “lave that minute for she couldn’t stand
hearin’ talkin’ of blood and--shootin’ and such-like things--besides,
when a woman was crazy, she might kill the lot of them--and such
rucktions she couldn’t stand at all--at all! and lave she must and
would!”
Then the doctor locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and
turning to the astonished looker-on, said: “Let us get out of this
hul-a-ba-loo! Come in here, please, where we can escape from that
infernal Banshee! Now, Madam, Mrs. Swift is a very sick woman!” (“Oh,”
thought Mrs. Wallace, “here is the meaning of those shiverings, last
Sunday!”) “She is going to be worse before she’s better; she is
absolutely alone save for these rattle-brained servants, who were bad
enough to begin with, but are for leaving the poor soul here alone
because she has been a bit delirious. You look like a sensible woman
and a kind one. Are you an old friend, and can you by chance help
her and me now, in this emergency?” Remember, you could not “push
the button” then, and let the trained nurse do the rest. There was
no button to push, and no trained nurse to answer it. Each family
had to care for its own sick. To go to the hospital was looked upon
as a degradation. Such nurses as could be had were mostly poor, old,
homeless bodies, as ignorant as they were disobedient, and Mrs. Swift’s
case was not a very uncommon one.
Mrs. Marion Wallace paused--before she answered. She literally could
not say, “I am a stranger.” At her first slow words, “I am not an
_old_ friend,” such a look of despair came into the doctor’s face that
she hurriedly added, “but still a friend, and--,” slowly removing her
bonnet and shawl, she stepped to the hall, took the Banshee’s white
apron from her, tied it about her own waist, sent the Banshee herself
upstairs for a pair of slippers--“anyone’s would do”--and returning
to the parlor, said, quietly: “Now, Doctor, if you will kindly give
me your first instructions in writing, please. You see, I shall have
to get this demoralized household set right again. When all is going
smoothly, I shall only need to be told your wishes, but just at first--”
And the doctor had stared a moment, and then he had caught her hands
and shook them half off, crying: “You’ll stay--you’ll take charge here?
You’re a mighty fine woman, I can tell you that--and what I call a good
Christian, by--!” And so this strange, Southern woman came to nurse
faithfully her Northern sister in sorrow--to guide her household into
ways of clocklike regularity, and so heard the story of the shawl, not
once, but many times--but always told with fever-cracked lips--with
burning eyes and hands wandering and restless, and alas, always with
hoarse entreaties to believe her--her boy could not steal--no, not even
for her, his mother! He had bought the shawl from one who swore he had
come by it honestly! If only the strange woman with the angry eyes
would believe her! “You see, it came about like this”--she would say,
and wearily begin all over again, to explain--to convince--to defend!
Then one day the subject of her rambling talk was changed. She seemed
to be reading some account of a Northern victory--over and over again,
she repeated all the details--the calmness of the great General--the
wild delight of the victorious troops!--the rags and hunger of the
prisoners--and always ended with: “The enemy lost two thousand men
killed and five thousand wounded!”
Mrs. Wallace had listened to the harassing repetition of this Northern
triumph until her strained nerves could bear no more, and was turning
with a flushed face to leave the bedside, when a sort of gasping sob
stopped her. Once more the sick woman repeated: “The enemy lost two
thousand men killed--” and then, in a tone lowered almost to a whisper,
she added: “Oh, the wives and the mothers!--two thousand killed! Oh,
dear God, be merciful to the poor mothers--the heartbroken mothers
of the South!” and Mrs. Wallace sank upon her knees, and taking the
burning hand of the sick woman in her own, she cried: “Great heart! I
will love you all my life, for that gentle prayer!”
The words seemed to reach the inner consciousness of the sufferer--her
hot, blue eyes turned their glance upon the calm, brown ones beside
her, where they wavered for a moment--steadied--rested, and then
recognition dawned in them, and a weak voice whispered: “You said--?”
“I said I loved you for your great heart!” answered Mrs. Wallace.
A faint brightness came to the sick face, and she said: “Then don’t
leave me ever! We can love and mourn our dead together! Life is so
hard--to bear alone--be my sister--Marion!”
They looked long into each other’s eyes. They must have thought of many
things! But it was as if the hands of their dear, dead boys drew them
together. And Mrs. Wallace gently answered: “I will not leave you while
you want me, Martha! We will walk together, if you will it, till we are
called to join our dear ones;” their hands met in a close clasp, and
in ten minutes Mrs. Swift was asleep. After Mrs. Swift had recovered,
the neighbors spent all their spare time, and a good deal that was not
spare, in wondering “when that Southern woman was going away?”
Early in the winter they had seen two trunks and a large picture
brought to the house, but they watched in vain for the exit of the
aforesaid two trunks and picture. What could it mean? They all declared
Mrs. Swift too active a woman to want a housekeeper--too strong to
need a nurse--too proud and too well off to have a boarder! But surely
she would have to go soon, now that spring was almost upon them! And
lo! one sunny spring morning, both ladies, with garden hats firmly
tied on, and loose old gloves protecting their hands, were out in the
garden, making life a misery and bewilderment to the harmless, nearly
useless old gardener, who, doddering about, accepted their orders with
a respectful misunderstanding of them that promised rare developments
for the future. One thing they did, though, with their own hands. Mrs.
Swift had obtained a fine, young magnolia--a gift for Mrs. Wallace. It
was a pretty thought, and Mrs. Wallace accepted shrub and thought with
warm gratitude. And together, with smiles, and may be a tear or two,
they planted the magnolia on the lawn, and at the same time filled the
souls of the neighbors with a very anguish of curiosity.
When summer came, notes from a well-played piano floated from the open
windows of Mrs. Swift’s house, and no matter what classic composition
Mrs. Wallace might begin with, she always closed her playing with “In
the Hazel Dell,” because that had been the favorite song of the young
Northern soldier, and his mother loved to hear the simple, old air for
his dear sake.
Winter came, and the two trunks and the picture had not been removed.
The neighbors had fallen into a sort of torpor. Then, one day, one
rushed to the others, declaring: “They call each other by their first
names! Yes, Mrs. Swift said: ‘Marion, there must be double windows for
your room this winter!’ and that Southern woman answers up: ‘Oh, no,
Martha, that’s not necessary!’ What do you think of that?” Evidently
there was no use in watching the house, after that, for the departure
of the Southern woman.
During the long winter evenings, this elderly couple used to talk
unceasingly of the war, and they would tell one another of this or
that engagement, illustrating the positions of the troops with spools
of thread, the scissors always coming handy for streams that had to be
crossed. Then Mrs. Swift never tired of hearing what the war had meant
to the women of the South. She wept over the burned houses, the looted
property, the hunger, the make-shift for clothing, and would draw her
rocker closer to Mrs. Wallace, as she told how the last precious ounces
of real coffee had been hidden--as people hide gold or jewels--only to
be brought forth in tiny portions for a sick or wounded soldier--told
how she had cut up old garments of her husband’s to make herself shoes,
and had worn skirts made from her sitting-room curtains!
When spring came again, and Decoration Day arrived, Mrs. Wallace
felt that Mrs. Swift, for the first time, showed a lack of tact--of
proper feeling--in insisting upon having her accompany her to the
cemetery that day. It would be very painful to see the graves, all
flower-covered, and to think of her own dear, unhonored dead, lying so
far away. This insistence was so unlike Mrs. Swift’s usual manner, too!
Well, she must bear it! and so she entered the carriage, with a heavy
heart, to drive to the cemetery, and wondered a little why Mrs. Swift
had two great wreaths, instead of one, to lay upon the grave.
When they arrived, she wished to remain in the carriage, but again Mrs.
Swift insisted upon having her company, and together they made their
way to the family plot, and there stood the explanation of Mrs. Swift’s
strange conduct--a fair, white stone, bearing the name of Wallace
instead of Swift. And Mrs. Wallace knelt humbly down to read that this
monument was in memory of the young captain, Marion Wallace, whose body
lay in the distant State where he had fallen fighting for the “cause”
he loved! As she pressed her lips upon the name on the stone, she
solemnly vowed that the welfare of the woman who had done this thing
should be the one object of her life hereafter.
And so they faced the world together. A gentle pair, helping the poor
or the troubled; trusting and admiring each other; Mrs. Swift honestly
believing Mrs. Wallace was the greatest pianist in the city, and that
her feeble little sketches were remarkable works of art, while Mrs.
Wallace stood in speechless wonder at Mrs. Swift’s ability, with only
the help of an inch or two of stubby pencil and a morsel of paper, to
bring perfect order out of the chaos of her accounts. And though she
had something less than three hundred a year, it was really astonishing
the muddle she could get her affairs into! So it’s no wonder that she
respected Mrs. Swift as an mathematician of parts.
The shawl was worn by one as often as the other, though it was
acknowledged to be Mrs. Wallace’s property, since she owned it for
years before that day when young Lieutenant Swift had purchased it from
a soldier who declared he had bought it for a few dollars from an old
contraband camp-follower. And as they shared the shawl, so they shared
everything--duties, pleasures, or personal belongings. Each acted as
housekeeper, month about. If one was daintier, the other had more
executive ability. They came to understand each other so perfectly that
when Mrs. Wallace sometimes sat completely lost in thought, Mrs. Swift
could tell, from the expression of her face, whether she was thinking
of her son’s young manhood and soldierly death or of his baby days when
within the tender circle of her arms he found a very tower of defence
against the world.
The last time I saw them they were in church--the same church where
they first saw each other. Two sweet-faced, old women; one blue-eyed,
one dark-eyed, but both with whitened hair, each anxious to serve the
other; Mrs. Swift a trifle quicker about wraps and foot-stools, but
Mrs. Wallace smilingly ahead in the finding of places in hymnal or
prayer book. As they sat with attentive, uplifted faces, I thought they
looked like two ancient children who had walked hand in hand over a
long, rough road that _alone_ either would have shrunk from.
True sympathy had drawn all bitterness from their grief, while
their unshakable faith in the resurrection of the body and the Life
everlasting, had kept Hope alive in their souls! Hope for that “Life
of the world to come”! And Hope’s sweetness was in their old eyes and
about their paled, tremulous lips, as they worshipped there.
The last prayer said, each instinctively put out her hand to assist
the other to rise. Their hands met; so did their eyes, and they smiled
at each other, and at that very moment the sunlight, striking on the
stained-glass window, flung a very halo of splendid color about their
dear, white heads, the church thus smiling upon them as they smiled
upon each other; and I said to myself: “The Aftermath--truly they have
garnered their Life’s Aftermath!”
PRINTED AT THE WINTHROP PRESS
NEW YORK, FOR BRENTANO’S
MDCCCXCIX
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.