GETTYSBURGH.
Rose Mather had brought her husband home as soon as it was safe to move
him, and with the good nursing of Mrs. Carleton and Annie, he grew
strong enough to rejoin his regiment in May, and the last which Rose
heard from him directly was a few words hastily written and sent off to
Washington just as the Army of the Potomac was moving on to Gettysburgh.
Then came the terrible battle, when the summer air was full of smoke,
and dust, and flying splinters, with clouds of torn-up earth which
blinded the horror-stricken men, who vainly sought for shelter behind
the trees and the headstones of the graveyard, where the dead must
almost have heard the fierce commotion around them as wail after wail of
human anguish, mingled with the awful shrieks of dying horses, went up
to the blackened heavens and then died away in silence. Where the battle
was the hottest, and the carnage the most terrible, Will Mather
followed, or rather led, and when the fight had ceased he lay upon his
face, unconscious of the pitiless rain beating upon his head, or the two
savage looking Texans bending over him, and turning him to the light.
Among the list of killed, the Rockland _Chronicle_ of July 10th had the
name of William Mather, while in another column, designated by long
lines of black, was a eulogy upon the deceased, who was known to have
fought so bravely. Then every blind of the Mather mansion was closed,
and knots of crape streamed from the door-knob, and the villagers missed
the roll of the carriage wheels which were wont to carry so much comfort
and sunshine to the hearts of the poor soldiers; and the little airy,
dancing creature, whose bright smile and rare beauty had done quite as
good service as her generous gifts, lay in her darkened room, never
weeping, never speaking, except to moan so piteously, “Oh, Will, my
darling, my poor, poor husband.”
They could not comfort her, for she did not seem to hear, or at least to
understand one word they said, and the soft, dark eyes had in them a
wild, scared look, which troubled the watchers at her side, and made
them tremble for her safety.
The knots of crape were taken from the doors, and the blinds were opened
at last, and the light of heaven let into the dreary house; but there
came no change to poor little Rose, whose white face grew so thin that
Tom, when in September he came home to see her, would scarcely have
known the little sister, of whose beauty he had been so proud. As if the
sight of him in his uniform had brought back the horror of the past, she
uttered a piercing shriek, and hid her face for a moment in her pillows;
then, with a sudden movement lifted her head, and shedding back her
tangled curls from her pale forehead, she stretched her arms toward him
and whispered:
“Take me, Tom; hold me as you used to do; let me be a little girl again
in the old home in Boston, for Will, you know, is dead.”
And Tom took her in his strong, brotherly arms, and laid her head
against his breast, and caressed and smoothed her tumbled hair, and
petted and loved her just as he did when she was a little child, with no
shadow around her like that which enfolded her now. And then he spoke of
Will, and the dark eyes fastened eagerly upon his as he told her how the
very night before the battle, Will knelt down with him and prayed that
whether he lived or died, all might be well with him.
“And Rose,” he continued, “he bade me tell you, in case he was killed,
that all was well, and you must think of him as in Heaven, not far, as
some suppose, but near to you,—with you,—he said, and you must meet him
there. You must bear bravely what God chooses to send; not give up like
this when there is so much to be done. Will my darling little sister
heed what poor Will said? Will she try to rally and be a brave woman?”
“Yes, Tom, I’ll try,” came gaspingly from the white lips, and Rose’s
voice was broken with sobs, as the first tears she had shed since she
heard the fatal news, ran in torrents down her face.
Tom only staid a week, but he did them a world of good, and Annie felt
she had never known one half how noble a man he was until she saw how
tender he was with Rose, and how kind to his mother, whose heart was
aching to its very core for her youngest son. He had been removed from
Salisbury to Andersonville when they last heard from him, and was dead,
perhaps, by this time. Poor Jimmie! The year he had asked Tom to wait
would be up before very long, but Tom would still keep faith with him.
Annie was sacred to Jimmie’s memory, and once, when talking with her of
the captive, he alluded to what would probably be when Jimmie came home
again. And Annie did not turn from him now, as she would once have done
had such a thing been suggested.
“God only knows how I might feel,” she said, and by the look in her blue
eyes, and the tone of her voice, Tom knew there was no hope for _him_.
With many kisses and loving words of sympathy, he bade his sister
good-bye when his leave had expired, and then in the hall stood a moment
while his mother whispered something to him which made him start, and
turn pale as he said:
“Poor Will! he would have been so glad!”
Then, as if the news had brought Rose nearer to him, and made her more
the object of his special care, he went back to her a second time, and
wound his arms about her lovingly, as he said, “Poor little wounded
dove! God’s promises are for the widow and fatherless, and He will care
for you;” and Rose guessed to what he referred, but there was no
answering joy upon her face, and her hands were pressed upon her heart
as she watched him from the window, going from her just as Will had
gone, and whispered to herself, “It would have been too much happiness
if Will had lived; but now I cannot be glad.”