GETTING READY.
“Oh, I’ve such perfectly splendid news this morning. We are going to
Washington right away, you and I, for Will says so in his letter. You
see George is a great deal,—George can’t,—well, _George isn’t very
well_;” and quite delighted with the happy turn she had given her words,
Rose skipped around Annie’s cottage like a bird, lighting at last upon a
stool at Annie’s feet, and asking if she were not glad. “Why, how white
you are!” she exclaimed, as she observed the paleness of Annie’s cheek.
“What makes you? Don’t you want to go?”
Annie was not deceived by Rose’s abrupt turn. She knew that George was
worse, else he had never sent for her: and hence the sudden faintness,
which Rose’s gay badinage could not shake off at once.
“Did your husband write, or mine?” she asked, and Rose replied,
“Will, of course. George has never written, you know.”
“Yes, I know;” and in Annie’s voice there was a tone approaching nearer
to bitterness than any that Rose had ever heard from her. “Where is the
letter? Let me read it for myself.”
But Rose had found it convenient to leave the letter at home, and so she
answered,
“I did not bring it with me. I can tell you all there is in it.”
“But will you?” and Annie grasped her shoulder firmly. “Win you tell me
all? Tell me what it is about my husband, and why he never writes? Is
George dying, and is that the reason why he sends for me? Tell me, Mrs.
Mather, for I will not be put off longer.”
There was a look in the blue eyes before which Rose fairly quailed, and
turning her face away she answered truthfully,
“Yes, George is very sick. He will never come home again; and he wants
you there when he dies.”
Softly the quivering lips repeated, “When he dies!” poor Annie wondering
if it could be George who was meant. _Had_ the evil she most dreaded
come upon her at last? Must she give her husband up and live without
him? How dark, how cheerless the future looked, stretching before her
through many years it might be! Was there no hope,—no help? It was
Annie’s darkest hour of trial, and for a moment the spirit fainted,
refusing to bear the load which, though more than half-expected, had
come so sudden at the last. But Annie was not one to murmur long, and
Rose Mather never forgot the sweet submissive smile which played over
her white face as she said,
“Whether George lives or dies, God will do all things well.”
After this there was no more repining, no more bitterness of tone,
nothing save humble submission to whatever might be in store for her.
Rose was very enthusiastic on the subject of the Washington trip, and
Annie listened eagerly to her suggestions.
“It is absurd for two young ladies like us to travel alone,” Rose said.
“We must have some nice elderly woman to matronize the party. I mean to
write to mother to send up one from Boston.”
“Miss Marthers,” interrupted the Widow Simms, who sat by the window
knitting for some soldier boy, “Miss Marthers, don’t be a simpleton, a
sendin’ down to Boston for somebody to marternize you and Miss Graham,
when you can find forty of ’em nearer home. Let _me_ go. Eli and John
are there, you know; and ’tain’t such a great ways to Richmond, where my
poor Isaac is. Did I tell you I got a letter last night from a strange
woman up in New Hampshire, whose boy was in the battle? The rascals let
your brother write to her, because there was something between her
Charlie and a rebel officer who was good to the child, when he was
dyin’. There’s now and then a streak of good amongst ’em.”
“Yes; but what of _Tom_?” Rose asked eagerly, forgetting Washington in
her anxiety to hear from her brother, of whom not one word had been
known after his name had appeared in the paper as one of the prisoners
at Richmond, together with that of a boy called “Isaac Simpson.”
The more humane of Captain Carleton’s captors had repeated what the
dying officer said of Tom’s kindness to him, and for this Tom had at
last found opportunity for sending a note to Charlie’s mother, telling
her how her darling died, and asking her to write for him to his mother,
his sister and the Widow Simms. This the grateful woman had done, but
Rose had not received her letter yet, and she listened eagerly while the
widow read the very words which Tom had written concerning himself and
Isaac. There was but little said of suffering or privation. Tom, it
would seem, was tolerably well cared for, but he told of days and nights
when his heart went out in earnest longings for the loved ones at home,
and then he spoke of Isaac, saying,
“Tell his mother that he does not bear prison confinement well, and she
would hardly know her boy. He is very popular among his fellow
prisoners, and does more good, I verily believe, than half our army
chaplains. One poor fellow, who died the other day, blessed Isaac Simms
as the means of leading him to Heaven.”
“Oh, I’m so glad he’s there, ain’t you?” and the tears shone in Rose’s
eyes as she involuntarily paid this tribute to Christianity.
“On some accounts I am, and then again I ain’t,” was the widow’s reply,
as she wiped the moisture from her glasses and returned them to her
pocket. “I’m glad he’s doing good, but I don’t want him sick there
alone, without his mother. It’s hard to see why these things are so, but
that’s nothin’ to do with the goin’ to Washington. Will you take me,
Mrs. Marthers? I know I’m homespun and ignorant, but you may call me
waitin maid, or anything you like, if you’ll only take me.”
The widow’s voice was full of entreaty, and Rose could not resist it. It
would be _grander_, she thought, to have a woman from Boston, but then
Mrs. Simms wanted to go so badly, while Annie, too, preferred her, she
was sure. So it was settled that as soon as the necessary arrangements
could be made, Mrs. Simms, Annie and Rose were to start for the Federal
Capital. Had the care of an entire regiment devolved upon Rose, she
could not have been busier or have felt a greater responsibility than
she did in planning and arranging the journey, and between times trying
to initiate Widow Simms into the mysteries of travelling, telling her
not to be frightened and think they’d run off the track each time the
whistle blew,—not to show undue anxiety about her baggage, as
she—Rose—should hold the checks, little brass pieces, which they would
get at the depot,—not to bother the conductor by asking questions, or
let the people know that she had never been further in the cars than
Rochester.
To all these directions the widow gravely promised compliance, saying,
in an aside to Annie, “It does me good to see the little critter
patternize me, as if she s’posed I was a tarnal fool, and didn’t know a
steam _locofoco_ from a canal boat.”
The day before the one appointed for the commencement of the journey
came at last. Rose’s three trunks, of the size which makes the porters
_swear_, were packed to their utmost capacity, for Rose meant to make a
winter’s campaign, and display her numerous dresses at parties and
levees. So everything which she could possibly and impossibly need, even
to her skating dress, was stowed away in the huge boxes, together with
various luxuries for her husband and George, and then, as the afternoon
was drawing to a close, she started for the cottage in the Hollow, to
see that everything there was in readiness.
It had not taken the widow long to pack up her three dresses, and her
small, old-fashioned hair trunk, locked and tied round with a bit of
rope, was standing near the door ready for the morrow’s early train. On
Annie’s face there was a hopeful, expectant expression, which told how
glad she was at the prospect of meeting her husband so soon.
“Two days more and I shall see him,” she thought, picturing to herself
the meeting, and fancying what she would do, what she would say, and how
carefully she would nurse him when once she was there with him. It was a
bright picture she drew of that meeting with her husband,—of the kisses,
the caresses, she would lavish upon him, and she was almost as impatient
as Rose herself to have the November day come to an end, knowing that
with the darkness she was nearer to the asked-for to-morrow.
Just as the sun was setting, Rose took her leave, saying, as she bade
Annie good-bye, “I mean to drive round by the depot and get the tickets
to-night, so as to save time in the morning.”
Annie smiled at the little lady’s restlessness, and after kissing her
good-night, stood by the window watching her, as she drove down the
street, and thinking to herself,
“When I see her again it will be _to-morrow_.”
Rapidly Rose Mather’s iron greys bore her to the depot, where but a few
idlers were lounging, as it was past the hour for the cars. The window
between the ladies’ sitting-room, and the office was closed, and Rose
knocked against it in vain. The ticket agent had gone to his tea, and
with a feeling of dissatisfaction Rose was turning away, when a sharp,
clicking sound from an adjoining apartment reached her ear, and stepping
to the open door, she stood looking in, while the telegraphic operator
received a communication. What was it that made him start so, and utter
an exclamation of surprise? Was it bad news the wires had brought to
him? Had there been another battle? Was Washington in danger? Rose
wished she knew, and she was about to inquire, when the operator turned
upon her, and asked if she knew _Mrs. Graham_, wife of the Lieutenant?
“Yes, yes; has anything happened to him?” she answered, grasping the now
written message, which the agent handed her, saying:
“Break it to her as gently as possible. He was the finest fellow in all
the company,” and the kind-hearted man, not yet accustomed to the
horrors entailed by the war, wiped a tear away, as he muttered to
himself, “Poor George!”
There was no need for Rose to open the envelope, for she knew well
enough what it contained, but her fingers mechanically tore it apart,
and with streaming eyes she read the fatal message which would break
poor Annie’s heart.
“Oh, I _cannot_ tell her,” she cried, sinking down upon the hard settee,
and sobbing bitterly. “How can I take this to her, when I left her so
happy half an hour ago?”
But it must be done, and summoning all her courage she bade Jake drive
back to the Hollow, shivering as she saw the cheerful light shining from
the window, and shrinking more and more from the task imposed upon her,
when, as she drew nearer, she saw Annie’s bright, joyous face as she put
together the garments for to-morrow, pausing occasionally to speak to
Widow Simms, who sat before the blazing fire, dreaming visions of what
might be could she but get a pass to Richmond!
“Don’t you hear wheels?” the widow asked as the carriage stopped before
the gate.
Annie thought she did, and going to window she saw Rose as she came up
she walk.
“Why, it’s Mrs. Mather,” she cried. “What can have brought her back
to-night?” and hastening to the door she led Rose in, asking why she was
there.
“Oh, Annie,” Rose replied, winding her arms around Annie’s neck, “I wish
I did not have to tell, but I must, and I know it will kill you dead.
I’m sure it would me, and I don’t see why you should be served so
either. We shall not go to-morrow, for Will is going to bring him home.
Don’t you know now? Can’t you guess?” and Rose thrust the dispatch into
the hands of the bewildered Annie, who clutched it eagerly, and bending
to the lamplight, read what Rose had read before her.
It came to her like a thunderbolt, striking all the deeper because it
found her so full of eager expectation; and the November wind, as it
swept past the door, and down the lonely Hollow, took with it one
wailing cry of anguish, and then all was still within the cottage, save
the sobbing whispers of Widow Simms and Rose bending over the
unconscious form which lay upon the bed, so white and still that a
terrible fear entered the hearts of both lest the stricken Annie, too,
were dead.