TOM’S RECEPTION.
The people of Rockland had become somewhat accustomed to the “Rebel
lion,” as they had playfully called Jimmie Carleton, and the latter
could now go quietly through the streets without attracting attentions
which at first had been vastly disagreeable to the sensitive young man.
Gradually, as he mingled more with the people, they had learned to like
him, and were fast forgetting that he had ever joined the ranks of the
foe and struck at his mother country. With the rabble who had met him at
the depot on his first arrival at Rockland he was vastly popular, for
forcing down his pride, he had been very conciliatory toward them, and
they still adhered to their olden promise of making him their next
police justice, provided he would consent to run.
With his usual impudence, Bill Baker continued to annoy the proud
Bostonian with his good-humored familiarities, some of which Jimmie
permitted, while others he quietly repulsed, for Bill’s constant
allusions to the past were exceedingly disagreeable, and as far as
possible he avoided his quondam associate, who, without the least
suspicion that his manner was disgusting in the extreme, would hail him
across the street, addressing him always as “Corp’ral,” and if strangers
were in hearing, inviting him to “call ’round and see a fellar once in a
while for old acquaintance sake.”
At the Mather mansion matters remained about the same as when Jimmie
first came home. Mrs. Carleton was still there, waiting for her other
son, and Rose, as usual, was ever on the alert, seeking ways and means
by which the soldiers might be benefited, compelling Jimmie to be
interested in all her plans, dragging him from place to place, sending
him on errands; and once, when in a great hurry to get a box in
readiness for the hospitals at Washington, actually coaxing him into
helping _tie_ a _comfortable_, which was put up in her back parlor, and
which she “must send immediately, for some poor fellow was sure to need
it.” “Jimmie could learn to tie as well as herself,” she said, when he
pleaded his ignorance as an excuse for refusing his services. “She
didn’t know how once, but Widow Simms and Annie had taught her a heap,
and Annie would teach him, too. All he had to do was to put the big
darning needle through twice, tie a weaver’s knot, cut it off, and the
thing was done; besides that, ’twas a real pretty quilt, made from
Annie’s calico dress, which she used to wear last summer and look _so_
sweetly in. Annie was tying on one side and Jimmie must tie on the
other; he needn’t be so lazy. He ought to do something for the war.”
By the time Rose had reached the last points in her argument, Jimmie had
closed the book he was reading, and concluded that there might be duties
required of him a great deal worse than tying a soldier’s comfortable
with Annie to oversee! It was strange how much teaching he needed, and
how often Annie was called to the rescue. The needle would stick so in
the cotton, and he could not remember just how to tie that knot. So
Annie, never dreaming that he knew how to tie the knot as well as she,
would come to his aid, her hands sometimes touching his, and his black
curls occasionally brushing her pale, brown braids as he bent over her
to see how she did it so as to know himself next time! There was a world
of mischief in Jimmie’s saucy eyes as he demurely apologized to Mrs.
Graham for the trouble he was giving her, but Annie never once looked
up, neither did the color deepen in the least upon her cheek, and when
Jimmie, on purpose to draw her out, suggested that “he was more bother
than help,” she answered that he “had better return to his reading, as
she could get on quite as well alone.”
After this, Jimmie thought proper to learn a little faster, and soon
outstripped his teacher, who rewarded him with no word of approval save
a cool “Thank you,” when the comfortable was done and taken from the
awkward frames. And this was a fair specimen of the nature of the
intercourse existing between Jimmie and Annie. Secure now in the belief
that she would never be recognized as the “Pequot of New London,” Annie
regarded Jimmie as any ordinary stranger, in whom she had no particular
interest, save that which her kind heart prompted her to feel for all
mankind. She could not dislike him, and she always defended him from the
aspersions of the widow, who could not quite conquer her repugnance to a
Rebel, and who frequently gave vent to her ill will toward Jimmie, whom
she thought so proud.
“Stuck-up critter!” she said, “struttin’ round as if he was good as
anybody, and feelin’ above his betters. Of course he felt above her, and
Susan, and Annie, she knew he did; and if she’s Annie she _vummed_ if
she’d stay there, and be looked at as Jim looked at her.”
Although making due allowance for the widow’s prejudice, these remarks
were not without their effect upon Annie, who, imperceptibly to herself,
began to feel that probably Jimmie did regard her as merely a poor
dependent on his sister’s bounty, and she unconsciously assumed toward
him a cool reserved manner, which led him to fancy that she entertained
for him a deep-rooted prejudice on account of his past error. Twenty
times a day he said to himself he did not care what she thought of him,
and as many times a day he knew he did care much more than was at all
conducive to his peace of mind. Where this caring might end he never
stopped to consider. He only felt now that he respected the Quaker-like
Annie more than he ever respected a woman before, and coveted her good
opinion more earnestly than he ever remembered to have coveted anything
in his life, unless, indeed, it were his freedom when a prisoner in Bill
Baker’s power.
In this state of affairs it required all Rose’s tact to sustain anything
like sociability between her brother and Annie, and the little lady was
perfectly delighted when the joyful tidings was received that _Tom_ was
coming home. Annie would like Tom, for everybody did; besides, Tom had
written as if he were _almost_ a good man himself, and Annie was sure to
be pleased with that; they, at least, would be fast friends; and secure
on this point. Rose, with her usual impulsiveness, plunged into the
preparations for Tom’s reception. Even Annie did not think any
reasonable honor too great for him, particularly after Isaac wrote from
Washington to his mother, telling her of Tom’s generous sacrifice, and
how he might have been home long before if he had not chosen to stay and
care for a poor, sick boy. How the widow’s heart warmed toward the
Carletons, taking the whole family into its hitherto rather limited
dimensions. Even Jimmie was not excluded, the widow admitting to Mrs.
Baker, between whom and herself there had been many a hot discussion
touching the so-called Rebel, that when he laughed, “he was uncommon
handsome for a Secessioner,” and she presumed that “at the bottom he was
as good they would average.”
But if the widow were thus affected by Tom’s kind act, how much more
were the mother and sister pleased to know how noble and good he was,
while Annie, amid the tears she could not repress, said to Rose,
“You should be proud of such a brother! There are few like him, I am
sure!”
How Jimmie envied Tom, as he heard, on all sides, praises for his noble
unselfishness, and the resolution to welcome him and Isaac with military
honors. Once more in his element, Bill Baker industriously drilled _his_
clique, who were to answer no earthly purpose save to swell the throng
and prolong the deafening cheers. Bill began to feel related to the
Carletons, and regularly each day he called at the Mather mansion to
keep Rose posted with regard to the progress of affairs. They were to
bring out the new gun, he said, and as it was minus a name, the
villagers had concluded to call it the “_Thomas Carleton_,” asking “how
she thought the _’Square_ would like it, and how many times it ought to
be fired. The band would serenade Tom in the evening,” he said, “and
_we_ shall have bonfires kindled in the streets,” talking as if instead
of being merely cannon-tender, he were head manager of the whole, and
that all the responsibility was resting on himself. Rose understood him
perfectly, and with the utmost good nature listened to his suggestions,
and scolded Jimmie for calling him her prime minister and confidant.
From the cupola of the Mather mansion the Stars and Stripes were to be
hung out, and on the morning of Tom’s expected arrival, Jimmie and Annie
climbed the winding stairs and fastened the staff securely to its place.
There were tears in Annie’s eyes as the graceful folds shook themselves
to the breeze, for she remembered the coming of another soldier when
this same banner was wrapped around a coffin. Across the valley and
beyond the confines of the village she could see where that coffin with
its loved inmate was buried, and as the past came rushing over her, she
suddenly gave way, and sitting down beneath the flag wept bitterly,
while Jimmie, with a vague idea as to what might have caused her tears,
stood looking at her, wishing he could comfort her. But what should he
say? As yet they had scarcely passed the bounds of the most scrupulous
politeness to each other, and for him to attempt to comfort her seemed
preposterous, while to leave her without a word, seemed equally unkind.
Perhaps it was the beautiful glossy braids of hair which brought him at
last to a decision, causing him to lay his hand involuntarily upon the
bowed head, while he said:
“I am sorry for you, Mrs. Graham, for I know how much the contrast
between my brother’s return and that of your husband must affect you,
and gladly would I spare you the pain, if I could. I am not certain but
the good people of Rockland, in their intended kindness to Tom, are
doing you an injury, and surely Lieutenant Graham, having been a
resident of this place, should receive their first thought with all
pertaining to him.”
There was no mistaking the genuine sympathy which thrilled in every tone
of Jimmie’s voice, and for a moment Annie wept more passionately than
before. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her of her husband,
and his words touched a responsive chord at once.
“It is not that so much,” she answered, at last. “I am glad they are
honoring your brother thus; he richly deserves it for his noble
adherence to his country in her hour of peril, and for his generous
treatment of poor Isaac Simms. I would do much myself to show him my
respect; but oh, George, George, I am so desolate without him!” and
covering her face with her hands, Annie wept again, more piteously than
before.
Here was a point which Jimmie could not touch, and an awkward silence
ensued, broken at last by Annie, who, resuming her usual calm demeanor,
frankly offered Jimmie her hand, saying:
“I thank you, Mr. Carleton, for your sympathy. It has made me believe
you are my friend, and as such I would rather consider you.”
“Your friend! Did you ever deem me other than that?” Jimmie replied in
some surprise, involuntarily pressing the little hand which only for an
instant rested in his, and then was quietly withdrawn just as Rose from
the foot of the stairs called out to know “what they were doing up there
so long.”
It was strange how differently Jimmie felt after this incident, and how
fast his spirits rose. The few words said to him by Annie up in his
sister’s cupola had made him very happy, for he felt that a better
understanding existed between himself and Annie, that she did not so
thoroughly despise him as he had at first supposed, and that the winning
her respect was not a hopeless task.
As early as two the crowd began to gather in the streets, and half an
hour later Rose’s carriage, with Jimmie in it, was on its way to the
depot. Mrs. Carleton did not care to go, and so Rose, too, remained at
home, and mounting to the cupola, watched for the first wreath of smoke
which should herald the approach of the train.
“I see it,—he’s coming!” she screamed, as a feathery mist was
discernible over the distant plains, and in a few moments more the cars
swept round the curve, while a booming gun told that Bill Baker was
faithful to his duty.
There was a swaying to and fro of the throng at the depot, a pushing
each other aside, a trilling of fife, a beating of drums, and then a
deafening shout went up as Tom Carleton and John Simms appeared upon the
platform, carefully supporting the tottering steps of the weak, excited
boy, who stood between them. At sight of Isaac, there was a momentary
hush, and then, with a shriek such as a tigress might give when it saw
its young in danger, the Widow Simms rushed frantically forward, and
catching the light form of her child in her arms, tried to bear him
through the crowd, but her strength was insufficient, and she would have
fallen had not Jimmie relieved her of her burden, which he sustained
with one hand, while the other was extended to welcome the stranger who
came near.
Half bewildered, Tom looked around upon the multitude, asking in a
whisper what it meant. He could not think they had come to welcome him,
and when assured by Jimmie that such was the fact, his lip quivered for
an instant, and his tongue refused its office. Then, in a few
well-chosen words, he thanked the people for the undeserved surprise, so
far as he was himself concerned. _Isaac_ was more worthy of such
welcome, he said, and more than half of it was meant, he knew, for their
townsman, who had shown himself equally brave in camp, in battle, and in
prison, while, had they known that Lieutenant Simms, too, was coming, he
was sure they would not have thought of him a stranger to them all.
The brief speech ended, and Rose, listening at home, clapped her hands
in ecstasy as she heard the terrific cheers and caught the name of
“Carleton” mingled with “Isaac Simms.”
“Poor boy!” she said, “I wonder how he’ll get home? I wish I had told
Jimmie to drive that way, and take him in the carriage.”
She need have given herself no uneasiness, for what she had forgotten
was remembered by Jimmie, who, after a hurried consultation with Tom,
insisted that both Isaac and his mother should take seats in the
carriage, while he and Tom mingled with the crowd.
“And your other son, there’s room for him,” he said, looking round in
quest of John, who, at the last moment, had obtained permission to visit
his bride, and so came on with Isaac.
At a glance his eye had singled out _Susan_, and the young couple were
now standing apart from the rest, exchanging mutual caresses, and words
of love, the tall lieutenant kissing fondly the blushing girl who could
not realize that she stood in the presence of her husband. After a
little it was decided that Tom and Jimmie, Mrs. Simms and Isaac, should
occupy the carriage, while John and Susan walked, and so from her lofty
stand-point, Rose watched the long procession winding down the streets,
amid the strains of music and the cannon’s bellowing roar. It was very
exciting to Isaac, and by the time the cottage was reached he was glad
to be lifted out by Jimmie, who bore the tired boy tenderly into the
house and laid him down on the soft, warm bed he had dreamed about so
many nights in the dark, filthy prison corner. How faint and weak he
was, and how glad to be home again! Winding his arms around his mother’s
neck, he sobbed out his great joy, saying amid his tears, “God was so
kind to let me come back to you.”
It was a very happy group the villagers left behind in that humble
cottage, and neither John nor Susan thought it out of place when the
mother called on them to kneel with her and thank the Giver of all good
for his great mercy in granting them this blessing.
Meantime the procession passed on until it reached the Mather mansion,
where, with three cheers for Captain Carleton, the crowd dispersed,
leaving Tom at liberty to join the mother and sister waiting so
impatiently for him, one on the steps, and the other in the parlor just
where she had welcomed Jimmie.
“If _Will_ were only here, it would be the happiest day I ever knew,”
Rose said, as, seating herself on Tom’s knee with her chubby arm around
his neck, she asked him numerous questions concerning her absent
husband. Then, as she saw in him signs of weariness she said, “You are
tired, I know. Suppose you go to your room till dinner-time. It’s the
one right at the head of the stairs,” she continued, and glad of an
opportunity to rest, Tom went to the room where Annie Graham just then
chanced to be. She had discovered that the servant had neglected to
supply the rack with towels, and so she had brought them herself,
lingering a moment after they were arranged, to see if everything were
in order. She did not hear Tom’s step, until he opened the door upon
her, and uttered an exclamation of surprise and apology. He had no idea
who the little black-robed figure was, for though he knew the wife of
George Graham was an inmate of his sister’s family, he had her in his
mind as a very different person from this one before him. Mrs. Graham
was young, he supposed, and possibly good-looking, but she did not bear
the stamp of refinement and elegance which this graceful creature did,
and fancying he had made a mistake and stumbled into the apartment of
some city visitor, he was about to withdraw, when Annie came toward him,
saying:
“Excuse me, sir, I came in to see that all was right in your room. Mr.
Carleton, I presume?”
This last Annie spoke doubtingly, for in the tall, handsome stranger
before her there was scarcely a vestige of the “greyish haired, oldish,
fatherly-looking man” she had in fancy known as Captain Carleton, and
but for the eyes, so much like Mrs. Mather’s, and the unmistakable
Carleton curve about the mouth, she would never have dreamed that it was
_Tom_ to whom she was speaking. As it was, she waited for him to confirm
her suspicions, which he did by bowing in the affirmative to her
interrogation, “Mr. Carleton, I presume?”
Then holding the door for her to pass out, he stood watching her till
she disappeared at the extreme end of the hall, wondering who she was,
and why a mere visitor should take so much interest in his room. Once he
thought of Annie Graham; but this could not be a widow, though the deep
mourning dress told of recent bereavement. Still Annie Graham was a
different personage, he knew; and thus perplexed, Tom, instead of
resting, commenced his toilet for dinner, determining, as soon as it was
completed, to go down and have the mystery unravelled.
Restless and impatient to know just what his brother thought of his late
treachery to the Federal Flag, Jimmie paced the parlors below until he
could wait no longer and knowing by the sounds which came from the
chamber above, that Tom was not trying to sleep, he finally ran up the
stairs, and knocking at the chamber door, was soon closeted with Tom. It
was an awkward business to speak of the past, but Jimmie plunged into it
at once, stating some reasons which had led him to abjure his own
government, expressing his contrition for having done so, and ending by
saying he hoped Tom, if possible, would forget that he ever had a rebel
brother.
It had taken Tom a long time to recover from the shock of meeting his
brother in the Virginia woods, and knowing he was a traitor to his
country, but the same generous feeling which led him to refrain from any
allusion to that meeting in the messages sent to his mother and sister
from his Richmond prison, now prompted him to treat with kind
forbearance the brother whom he had loved and grieved over since the
days of his mischievous boyhood.
“I should have found it very hard to forgive you if you had staid in the
Southern army,” he said, “but as it is we will never mention the subject
again.”
Jimmie knew, by the warm pressure of Tom’s hand, that he was forgiven,
and with a burden lifted from his mind he was about leaving the room,
when Tom, with a preliminary cough, said:
“By the way, Jimmie, who has Rose got here,—what visitor, I mean?” and
Tom tried to look vastly indifferent as he buttoned his vest and hung
across it the chain made from Mary’s hair.
But the ruse did not succeed. Jimmie knew he had seen Annie, and with a
sudden uprising of something undefined he answered in apparent surprise:
“Visitor! what visitor! He must have come to-day, then. Where did you
see him?”
“I saw _her_ in here,” Tom replied, and Jimmie laughingly rejoined:
“A pretty place for a _her_ in _your_ quarters! Pray, what was she
like?”
“Some like Mary, as she used to be when I first knew her,—a little body
dressed in black.”
“With large, handsome, blue eyes?” interrupted Jimmie, while Tom,
without suspecting that his brother’s object was to ascertain how
closely he had observed the figure in black, replied:
“Yes, very handsome, dreamy eyes.”
“And pale, brown _curls_?” was the teasing Jimmie’s next query, to which
Tom quickly responded:
“Curls, no. The hair was braided in wide plats and twisted around the
head, falling low in the neck.”
“Not a very white neck, was it?” Jimmie continued, with imperturbable
gravity.
“Indeed, it was,” Tom said, industriously scraping his thumb nail with
his penknife. “White as snow, or looked so from the contrast with her
dress. Who is she?”
“One question more,—had she big feet or little, slippers or boots?” and
this time Jimmie’s voice betrayed him.
Tom knew he was being teased, and bursting into a laugh, he answered:
“I confess to having observed her closely, but not enough so to tell the
size of her slipper. Come now, who is she? Some lady you spirited away
from Secessiondom? Tell me,—you know you’ve nothing to fear from steady
old Tom.”
For an instant the eyes of the two brothers met, with a curious
expression in each. Both were conscious of something they were trying to
conceal, while a feeling akin to a pang shot through Jimmie’s heart as
he thought how much more worthy of Annie Graham’s respect was steady old
Tom than a rollicking young scapegrace like himself.
“From your rather minute description I think you must have stumbled upon
the _Widow Graham_,” he said. “Rose has taken her up, you know, and as a
word of brotherly advice, let me say that if you wish to raise Rose to
the seventh heaven you have only to praise her protégée. We, that is the
widow and I, do not get on very well, for she is a staunch patriot, and
until this morning I verily believe she looked on me as a kind of
monster. She’s a perfect little Puritan, too, and if she stays here
long, will make a straight-laced Methodist of Rose, under the garb of an
Episcopalian, of course, as she is the strictest kind of a church
woman.”
“I shall not esteem her less for that,” Tom said, and in rather a
perturbed state of mind, as far as the Widow Graham was concerned, he
went with Jimmie to the parlor, half hoping his brother had
mischievously misled him, and that the stranger would prove after all to
be some visitor from Boston.
But the first object he saw on entering the parlor was the dainty figure
in black, standing by the window, and on the third finger of the hand
raised to adjust the heavy curtain glittered the wedding ring. Tom knew
now that Jimmie had not deceived him, and with a feeling of
disappointment he addressed _Mrs. Graham_, when introduced by Jimmie,
making some playful allusion to their having met before, but saying
nothing to her then of George, for remembering his own feelings when
Mary died, he knew that Annie would not thank him, a stranger, to bring
up sad memories of the past by talking of her husband. Still, in his
manner toward her there was something which told how he pitied and
sympathized with her, and Annie, grateful always for the smallest
kindness threw off her air of quiet reserve and talked with him freely,
asking many questions concerning Isaac Simms and the condition of the
Richmond prisoners generally.
“She was going round after dinner to call on Isaac,” she incidentally
said, whereupon Tom rejoined that wishing to know how Isaac bore the
journey and the excitement, he had intended going there himself, and
would, with her permission, time his visit to suit her convenience, and
so accompany her.
Instantly Jimmie’s black eyes flashed upon Annie a look of inquiry,
which brought the bright color to her cheeks, for she knew he was
thinking of the night when she had refused his escort, and she felt her
present position a rather embarrassing one. Still the circumstances were
entirely different. There was a reason why Tom should call on Widow
Simms, while with Jimmie there was none, and bowing to Captain Carleton,
she replied that “she presumed Mrs. Simms would be glad of an
opportunity to thank him for his kindness to Isaac, and that, though not
in the least afraid to go alone, she had no objection to showing him the
way.”
“What! going off the first night, and they are coming to serenade you,
too? You must not go, Tom. Shall he, mother?” cried Rose, who at first
had been too busy with her duties as hostess, clearly to comprehend what
Tom was saying to Annie.
“It will look as if you do not appreciate the people’s attention,” Mrs.
Carleton replied, while Jimmie vehemently protested against the
impropriety of the act, and so Tom was compelled to yield, thinking the
while that a walk to the Widow Simms’ might possibly afford him quite as
much satisfaction as staying at home for a serenade.
“I always surrender to the majority,” he said, playfully, while Jimmie’s
spirits rose perceptibly, and Annie had never before seen him so witty
or gay since he came home from Washington as he was during the dinner.
It was joy at his brother’s return, she thought, never suspecting that
Tom’s decision had anything to do with it, and Jimmie hardly knew
himself that it had. He only felt relieved that Tom was not to receive a
favor which had once been denied to himself, and glad also that Annie
was to spend the evening with them. But in this he was mistaken. There
was no necessity for Annie’s deferring her visit. The serenade was not
for her, and with that nice sense of propriety which prompted her to
shrink from anything like intrusion, she felt that on this first night
of their reunion, the Carleton family would rather be alone. This rule
would apply also to Mrs. Simms, but Annie knew she was always welcome to
the widow, and wishing to see the boy who had led her husband from the
battle-field, she went to her room, and throwing on her cloak and hood,
stole quietly down stairs just as Jimmie was crossing the hall. He
guessed where she was going, and coming quickly to her side, said,
“I supposed you had given up that call, but if you persist in going, it
must not be alone, this night of all others, when the streets are likely
to be full of men and boys. You accepted my brother’s escort, you
cannot, of course, refuse mine,” and seizing his hat from the hall stand
he led her out upon the steps and placed her arm in his with an air of
so much authority that Annie had no word to offer in remonstrance.
It was not a very comfortable walk to either party, or a very sociable
one either, but ere it was ended Annie had reason to be glad that she
was not alone, for as Jimmie had predicted, the streets were full of men
and boys, following the band up to the Mather Mansion, and as they met
group after group of the noisy throng, Annie timidly drew closer to her
companion, who pressed more tightly the arm trembling in his own.
“I am glad you came with me,” she said, when at last the friendly gleam
of the widow’s candle appeared in view, “but if you please I think you
had better not go in to-night. You are so much a stranger to the family,
and Mrs. Simms’ boys have but just returned. John will see me safely
home, and I’ll excuse you now. You must feel anxious to rejoin your
brother.”
But Jimmie was not to be disposed of so easily. He had no intention of
entering the house, but he should wait outside, he said, until Annie’s
visit was over. Annie had no alternative save submission, and parting
from Jimmie at the gate, she hurried up the walk and was soon bending
over the couch of the sick boy, whose eyes beamed the welcome his pale
lips could scarcely speak. How many questions she had to ask him, and
how much he had to tell her of that day when her husband received his
fatal wound. Altogether it was a sad interview, and Annie’s eyes were
nearly blistered with the hot tears she shed while listening to Isaac’s
touching account of George ere the woods were gained, and Tom Carleton
generously gave up his seat to the bleeding man, thereby becoming
himself a prisoner. Much, too, was said in praise of Tom, and Annie felt
that she could not do too much for one who had shown himself so generous
and brave. Talking of _Tom_ reminded her of Jimmie stalking up and down
the icy walks, waiting patiently for her, and when at last the music of
Tom’s serenade had ceased she arose to go, wishing to get away ere the
band came there, as she knew they were intending to do. As John arose to
accompany her, she had to say that “Jimmie Carleton was waiting for her
by the gate.” Instantly the sharp eyes of the widow shot at her a
curious glance, which brought the hot blood to her cheek, while John and
Susan exchanged a smile, the meaning of which she could not fail to
understand. Poor Annie! How her heart throbbed with pain as she guessed
of what they were thinking! Could they for a moment believe her so
heartless and cold? The mere idea made her dizzy and faint, and scarcely
articulating her good-night, she hastened out into the cool night air,
feeling half tempted to refuse outright the arm offered for her support.
If she only dared tell him to leave her there alone,—leave her to flee
away through the dark, lonely streets to the still more lonely yard,
where on George’s grave she could lay herself down and die. But not thus
easily could life’s heavy burden be shaken off, she could not lay it
down at will,—and conquering the emotions which, each time she thought
of John Simms’ significant smile, threatened to burst out into a fierce
storm of passionate sobs, she apologized for having kept Jimmie waiting
so long, and taking his arm left the cottage gate just as the throng of
serenaders turned into that street. Jimmie knew she had been crying, and
conjecturing that she had been talking of her husband, he, too, began to
speak of George, asking her many questions about him, and repeating many
things he had heard in his praise from the Rockland citizens. It seemed
strange that this should comfort her, but it did. The hard, bitter
feeling insensibly passed away while listening to Jimmie, and by the
time the Mather Mansion was reached the tears were dried on Annie’s
cheeks, and outwardly she was cheerful and patient as ever.
After that night Rose had no cause for complaint that Jimmie was rude to
Annie, or Annie cool toward him, for though Annie talked to him but
little, she did not forget the sympathy so delicately manifested for
her, and treated him with as much respect as she awarded Tom, who grew
each day more and more interested in the black-robed figure, reminding
him so much of his lost Mary. Jimmie _knew_ he did, and watched narrowly
for the time when she would know it, too; but such time did not come,
for Annie had no suspicion that either of the brothers regarded her with
the shadow of a feeling save that of ordinary friendship. As much of her
time as possible was spent with the Widow Simms, and a great part of
Isaac’s visible improvement was owing to her gentle care and the
sunshine of her presence. John’s furlough had expired, and now that he
was gone, the disconsolate Susan turned to Annie for comfort, while
Isaac watched daily for the sound of the little feet coming up the walk,
and bringing with them so much happiness to the lonely cottage.
“I wish you’d stay home more; we miss you so much, and it’s so dismal
without you. Mother nods over her knitting, Tom just walks the floor, or
reads some stiff Presbyterian book, while Jimmie thrums the piano and
teases my kitten awfully,” Rose said to Annie one night when the latter
came in from a tour of calls, the last of which had been on Mrs. Baker,
now a much happier, better woman, than when we first made her
acquaintance. “It’s so different when you are here,” Rose continued, as
Annie came and sat down by her side. “Tom is a heap more entertaining,
while Jimmie is not half so mischievous and provoking.”
“I did not suppose my absence could affect your happiness, or I would
certainly have staid with you more,” Annie replied; and Rose continued:
“Well, it just does, and now that both Tom and Jimmie are going so soon,
I shall need you to oversee the things I must get ready for them.”
“Captain Carleton and Jimmie going away soon!” Annie repeated, in some
surprise. “Where are they going? The Captain’s furlough has not yet
expired.”
“I know it,” Rose continued, “but as he is perfectly well, he thinks it
right to go back, and has fixed on one week from to-day.”
“Yes, but Jimmie. You spoke of his leaving, too,” Annie said, and Rose
rejoined:
“Jimmie is going with Tom to join the Federal Army on the Potomac, and,
as he says, retrieve, if possible, the character he lost by turning
traitor once.”
“Oh, I am _so_ glad! and I like him so much for that!” Annie exclaimed,
her white face lighting up with a sudden animation, which made it seem
very beautiful to the young man just entering the door.
“I would brave the cannon’s mouth for another look like that,” was
Jimmie’s mental comment as he stepped into the room, and advanced to the
ladies’ side. “So you are glad I am going?” he said, half playfully, to
Annie, who answered frankly:
“Yes, very glad.”
“And won’t you miss me a bit? Folks like to be missed, you know, if they
are ever so bad. It makes one think better of himself, and consequently
do better if he knows that his absence will cause a feeling of regret,
however slight, to the friends left behind,” Jimmie remarked, while in
his eyes there was a peculiar expression which Annie failed to see, as
he stood looking down upon her.
She would miss Jimmie, she knew, for she had become accustomed to his
merry whistle, his ringing laugh, his teasing jokes at Rose’s expense,
and his going would leave them very lonely, and so she frankly admitted,
adding that “it was not because she wished to be rid of him that she was
glad; it pleased her to see him in the path of duty, even though that
path led to danger and possible death.”
“Oh, don’t, Annie, don’t talk of death to Jimmie!” Rose cried, with a
shudder. “You can’t begin to guess how it makes me feel, or how terrible
it would seem if either he or Tom should die!”
“Can’t I?” Annie asked, with such a depth of mournful pathos, that
Rose’s tears flowed at once.
Of course Annie knew how it felt, and every fibre of her heart was
bleeding now, as she remembered one who left her as full of life and
hope as either Tom or Jimmie, but who came back no more, save as the
dead come back, shrouded and coffined for the grave. But Annie would not
give way to her own feelings then. She would comfort Rose, and encourage
the young man, who, she felt, shrank from the perils spread out before
him. So she told how few there were, comparatively, who died on the
battle-field, while the chances for life in the hospitals were greater
now that better care and skill had been procured.
“Annie,—excuse me, Mrs. Graham?” and Jimmie spoke vehemently, while his
eyes kindled with a strange gleam. “Why don’t you go as nurse? You might
be the means of untold good to the poor fellows who need such care as
you could give.”
“I have thought of it,” said Annie, while Rose exclaimed:
“_You_ turn hospital nurse,—ridiculous! You never shall, so long as I
can prevent it. Shall she, Tom?” And she appealed to the latter, who had
just come in. “Shall Annie go into those horrid hospitals?”
“I am not Mrs. Graham’s keeper,” Tom replied, “but I should be sorry to
see her acting in the capacity of hospital nurse, even though I know
that some of our noblest, best women are engaged in that work.”
“Yes, old chap,” and Jimmie laughed a merry laugh. “It’s mighty easy
talking that way now, but suppose _you_ Captain Carleton, are some day
among the terribly wounded, thigh shot through, arm splintered above the
elbow, jaw-bone broken, and all that, wouldn’t the pain be easier to
bear, if the nurse should happen to be Mrs. Graham, or somebody just
like her?”
“Undoubtedly it would,” Tom answered. “Still I should be sorry to have
her there amid the sickening horrors.”
“Please stop, I can’t bear to hear about it!” Rose exclaimed. “I know it
would be nice to be a Florence Nightingale, and Annie would make a
splendid one, but I’ll never let her go, unless you, or Jimmie, or Will
are wounded, and then we’ll come together, won’t we, Annie?”
There was no response from Annie, until Jimmie said:
“Say, Mrs. Graham, if I am ever wounded, and you hear I am suffering in
some dismal hole, will you come and care for me?”
He did not join Will’s or Tom’s name with his own. It was “Jimmie
Carleton” whom Annie was to nurse. But it did not matter. Lifting up her
head so that her soft, blue eyes looked into his, Annie answered,
unhesitatingly:
“Providence permitting, I will, and I would do the same for any brave
fellow who follows, as my husband did, where duty to his country leads.”
“So you see you will fare no better than I, after all,” Tom laughingly
rejoined, while Jimmie thought within himself:
“Why need she always bring that husband in? It’s bad enough to know
she’s had one, without eternally hearing about him.”
Foolish Jimmie. It was folly for him to lie awake so long as he did that
night, or to dream, when at last he slept, of hospital walls expanding
into a palace as an angel form with hair and eyes like Annie’s bent over
his feverish pillow, while soft, white hands dressed some gaping wound
where the enemy’s bullet had been. Sheer folly, too, was it for
“dignified old Tom,” to watch from his window the young moon, until it
set in the western sky, thinking of _Mary_, as he tried to make himself
believe, wondering why it was that Annie reminded him so much of her,
and why he should be so deeply interested in one who, until a few weeks
past, had been to him a stranger.
To Annie, Captain Carleton and Jimmie were nothing more than friends,
and if, during the week preceding their departure, she was quite as busy
as Rose, and apparently as much interested in the various preparations
for their comfort, it was only because they were soldiers, and not, as
Widow Simms once suggested to Susan, “because they were Carletons, and
handsome and rich, and,—and,—well, there’s no tellin’ what will happen,
when a widder’s young and handsome, but this I know, _I’ve_ never
married, and my man’s been dead this nineteen years! Nobody need tell me
she’d be so busy for anybody but them Carletons. If ’twas the Cap’n, I
wouldn’t mind, but that _sassy_-faced _Jeems_. Ugh!” and in her ire at
Annie’s supposed preference for “sassy-faced Jeems,” the widow spilled
more than half of the spiced chocolate she was carrying to Isaac.
Never was the widow more mistaken. Annie Graham would have done for Eli,
John, and Isaac Simms, or possibly William Baker, the same offices she
was doing for “the Carletons,” and her voice would have been just as
sweet and hopeful when she bade them farewell, as it was that bright
spring morning, when, in the parlor of the Mather mansion, Tom and
Jimmie were waiting to say good-bye.
At the very last moment Bill Baker had announced his intention of going
too.
“Thirteen dollars a month and dog’s fare was better than layin’ round
hum,” he said; “and livin’ on the old gal, who was gittin’ most too
straight and blue for his notions. Besides that, he felt kinder ’tached
to the Corp’ral, and wanted to be where he could see him and wait on him
like any other nigger.”
Jimmie would gladly have dispensed with such a singular attaché, but
Bill could not be shaken off, and as he did in various ways evince a
strong regard for his former captive, Jimmie was forced to submit to
what he termed “his thorn in the flesh,” giving from his own purse money
for Billy’s outfit, and furnishing the mother with means to repair her
dwelling and make it far more comfortable than at present. This he was
sure pleased Annie, and no sacrifice was too costly if it won her
regard. She had prayed for him, he knew, for Rose had told him so, and
prayers like hers, though they did not avail to save her George’s life,
would surely shield him from danger. _He_ should come back again when
the war was over,—come back to find an _older_ grave by Rockland’s
churchyard gate, while the wife, who daily watered that grave with
tears, would be as young, as beautiful, and far more girlish-looking
than now, when, in her widow’s weeds, she offered him her hand at
parting, bidding God speed to him and the noble Tom, who stood beside
him.
There were tears, and kisses, and blessings from Rose and her mother, a
few low-spoken words of sympathy and good will from Annie, and then the
two young men were gone.
Half an hour later, and the eastern train thundered through the town,
bearing away to the fields of bloody carnage, three more young, vigorous
lives, and leaving desolate two homes, one the lonely cottage, where
Bill’s mother wept alone, the other the Mather mansion, where Mrs.
Carleton and Rose sobbed bitterly, while Annie strove in various ways to
comfort them.