FINDING SOMETHING TO DO FOR THE WAR.
The next morning the Mather carriage, containing both Mrs. Carleton and
Rose, drove down the Hollow, and stopped in front of Annie’s gate. Mrs.
Carleton’s business was with Widow Simms, who was mixing bread in the
kitchen, and who experienced considerable trepidation when told “the
grand Boston lady” had asked for her.
“I’m pesky glad I hain’t tattled about Jim,” she thought, as washing the
flour from her hands and hooking her sleeves at the wrist she entered
the sitting-room, and with a low courtesy, waited to hear the lady’s
errand.
Mrs. Carleton had come with a request that the widow should not repeat
what Rose had so heedlessly told her the previous night.
“You may think it strange that I care so much,” Mrs. Carleton said, “and
until you are placed in similar circumstances you cannot understand how
I shrink from having it known that my son could fall so low, or do so
great injustice to his early training.”
If the widow had possessed one particle of prejudice against the
Carletons, this would have disarmed her entirely, but she did not.
Isaac’s letter had swept that all away, and she replied that “Jimmie’s
secret was as safe with her as if locked up in an iron chest.”
“I did feel blazin’ mad at you, though, for a spell,” she said, “for I
thought you might have brung him up better; but this cured me entirely,”
and she handed Isaac’s letter to Rose, bidding her read it aloud.
“Noble boy. You must be proud of him,” was Mrs. Carleton’s comment,
while Rose, ever impulsive, seized upon a new idea.
It would be so nice for the Rockland ladies to fit up a box of things
and send to Company R, reserving a corner for Tom and Will. She should
do it, anyway, on her own responsibility, if nobody chose to help her,
and she whispered to Annie that George should have a large share of the
delicacies she would provide.
“You may send that candy to Tom, if you choose,” she said to the widow,
“though I think cod liver oil would be better. And the ointment
too,—only it mustn’t sit near my preserves, for fear the two will get
mixed.”
Rose had found something to do, and so absorbed was she in a plan which
every one approved, that she forgot to cry _all_ the time for _Will_, as
she had fully intended doing. Up the streets and down she went,
sometimes walking, sometimes riding, but always in a flurry, always
excited, now tumbling over dry-goods boxes in quest of one large enough
to hold the many articles preparing in Rockland for the then ill-fed,
suffering soldiers of the 13th Regiment, now up at the express office,
bargaining about the expense, which she meant to bear herself, and now
down at the Hall, adroitly smoothing over little bickerings frequently
arising among the ladies assembled there, concerning the articles sent
in, some declaring the fried apple pies brought by Mrs. Baker should not
go, nor yet the round balls of Dutch cheese she had saved sour milk two
weeks to make, just because “Billy relished it so much, ’long with apple
turnovers.”
Poor old Mrs. Baker! It was the best she could do, and when Rose saw how
the tears came at the prospect of Billy’s losing the feast she had
prepared with so much care, she declared the cheese should go if she had
to send it in a separate box. It was just so with the widow’s poke
ointment, some of the ladies wondering what next would be brought in and
what it could be for. Rose knew exactly what ’twas for; Tom had corns,
and the despised salve was for him, so that should go if nothing else.
But when Susan Ruggles Simms, her thoughts intent on _John_, brought in
a round of roasted veal, which her mother-in-law said would be in a most
lively condition by the time it reached Washington, Rose, after
suggesting that it be packed in ice and put in a refrigerator, yielded
for once, and persuaded the girl-wife to carry home her veal, which
would most surely be spoiled ere John came to see it.
“You can write him a nice long letter,” she said, when she saw how
disappointed Susan looked. “You can tell him your intentions were good
until we old experienced married ladies persuaded you out of them.”
So Susan, with a sigh, carried back her nice stuffed roast, the widow
muttering in an aside tone, “That’s all them shiftless Ruggleses know!
Might as well send _maggits_ and done with it.”
It was a strange medley that huge box contained, for every member of
Company R was remembered, thanks to the indefatigable Rose, who procured
a list of the names, and when she found any without friends in that
immediate vicinity, she supplied the deficiency from her own store of
luxuries. Of course _Will_ and _Tom_ fared the best, while next to them
came Lieutenant Graham and Isaac Simms, Rose writing a tiny note to the
latter, telling him how much she liked him for speaking so of Tom, and
sending him a pair of her fine linen sheets, because she couldn’t think
of anything else, and thought these would be cool to sleep in on hot
summer nights. Dear little Rose! how fast she grew in popularity, the
people wondering they had never seen before how good she was, and
imputing some portion of her present interest to the presence of her
mother, who had made arrangements to remain for an indefinite length of
time in Rockland, and who, far less demonstrative than her active
daughter, did much by her sensible advice to keep the wheel in motion,
and Rose from overdoing the matter so zealously taken in hand.
The box was packed at last;—every chink and crevice was full. Mrs.
Baker’s Dutch cheese and fried apple pies were there, wrapped by Rose
Mather in innumerable folds of paper, tied around with yards of the
strongest twine she could find, and safely stowed away where they could
not be harmed; Widow Simms’s ointment too, and the candy she had made,
occupied a corner, together with her daguerreotype sent to _Isaac_, and
a letter to Captain Carleton. That letter was a mammoth undertaking, but
the widow felt it her duty to write it, groaning and sweating, and
consulting Perry’s old leathern-bound dictionary for every word of which
she felt at all uncertain, and driving poor Annie nearly distracted with
asking “if this were grammar, and if that were too lovin’ like, for a
widder to send a widower.” Not a little amused, Annie gave the required
advice, smiling in spite of herself, as she read the note the widow
handed her, and which ran as follows:
“MY DEAR MR. CAPTIN CARLETON:—I can’t help puttin’ _dear_ before your
name, you seem so nigh to me since Isaac told how kind you was to him.
I’m nothin’ but a shrivelled, dried up widder, fifty odd years old,
but I’ve got a mother’s heart big enough to take you in with my other
boys. I know you are a nice, clever man, but whether you’re a _good_
one, as I call good, I don’t know, though bein’ you come from Boston
I’m afraid you’re a Unitarian, and I’ll never quit prayin’ for you
till I know. That’s about all I can do, for I’m poor a’most as Job’s
turkey; but if there’s any shirts or trouses, or the like o’ that
wants makin’, let me know, for I don’t believe your mother or sister
is great at sewin’. Mrs. Marthers ain’t, I know, though as nice a
little body as ever drawed the breath. Your wife is dead, too, they
say, and that comes hard agin. I know just how that feels, for my man
died eighteen years ago last October, a few weeks before Isaac was
born.
“I send you some ’intment for your feet, and some bits of linen rags
to bind round your toes; also, some red pepper candy, and my likeness
to Isaac. He’ll let you see it if you want to. It don’t ’pear to me
that my eyes is as dull as that, or my lips so puckered up, but we
can’t see as others see us, and I ain’t an atom proud. Heaven bless
you for being kind to Isaac, and if an old woman’s prayers and
blessin’s is of any use, you may be sure you have mine. If you come to
battle, be so good as to oversee him, won’t you, and git him put way
back, if you can. Excuse haste and a bad pen.
“Yours with regret,
“MRS. BELINDA SIMMS,”
This was the widow’s letter, sent with Tom’s parcel to Washington, where
the box was greeted by the company with exclamations of joy, and could
those who sent it have seen the eager, happy faces of each one as he
found he was remembered, they would have felt doubly repaid for all the
trouble and annoyance it had cost them. Only one growl of
dissatisfaction was heard, and that from Harry Baker, who, with a
muttered oath, exclaimed, as he undid his paper parcel,
“Apple turnovers, by jing! Sourer than swill, and mouldier than the rot.
Halloo, Bill, got some too, I see. What in fury is this? _Dutch cheese_,
as I’m alive. Make good bullets for Secesh, so here goes!” and the next
moment there whizzed through the air the cheese poor old Mrs. Baker had
found so hard to smuggle in. The apple pies followed next, and then the
reckless Harry amused himself with jeering at Bill, who, after carefully
stowing away in his pocket, the large, strong twine Rose Mather had
bound around the paper parcel, seated himself upon the ground, and was
munching away at his pie, not because he liked it, but because his
mother had sent it, and Billy’s mother was dearer to him now than when
he was at home.
Meanwhile, in another part of the camp, Tom Carleton was opening his
parcel, while around him stood a group of officers, some his personal
friends whom he had known in Boston.
“There must be some mistake,” he said, as he daubed his white fingers
with the sticky candy. But Rose had packed his things in a separate box,
and directed it herself. There could be no mistake, and he continued his
investigations, coming next upon the widow’s picture, which Rose had
carelessly placed in his parcel.
It would be impossible to describe Tom’s look of amazement and
perplexity, as his eye fell upon the face which looked out upon him from
its glass covering. Precise, puckered, and prim, with a decided
best-clothes air. Who could it be? Tom asked this question aloud, while
his companions laughingly declared it some lady love he had left behind,
suggesting at last that he read the note which lay just beneath it, as
that might explain the mystery. So Tom did read it, with a
fellow-officer looking over his shoulder, and reading too. But there was
too much of the anxious, genuine mother-tone about that letter to cause
more than three or four hearty laughs at the expense of Tom and the
widow. Tom knew now for whom the picture was intended, and he carried it
to Isaac, but it was many a day ere Tom Carleton heard the last of _Mrs.
Belinda Simms_!
Numerous were the thanks sent by Company R to Rose for her kind
thoughtfulness in setting afloat a plan which brought them so much good,
and Rose, as she received the messages, wished it was all to be done
again, and wondered what she could find to do next. One of Will’s
letters told her at last what to do. She could be kind to the soldiers,
if there were any in Rockland. She could visit their families, speak to
them words of comfort, and supply, if needful, their necessities. This
was just what suited her, and she commenced her task with a right good
will, startling many an awkward youth wearing a soldier’s dress, by
accosting him in the street, inquiring into his history, and frequently
ending the interview by offering him her soft white hand, and leaving in
his rougher one a piece of money, which affected him less than the
brightness of the brilliant eyes he remembered long after the silver was
spent. Every soldier’s wife and every soldier’s mother was looked after,
and the Mather carriage was oftener seen in the muddy Hollow and by
lanes in Rockland, than at the gates of more pretentious dwellings.
Harry’s mother and Bill’s, and others of her standing, blessed the
little lady, for the sunshine brought so often to their squalid homes,
while Annie and Widow Simms prayed from a full heart that no evil should
befall the husband or the brother of the heroic Rose.