IN ROCKLAND.
The warm, bright November day was wearing to its close. The purple haze
of the Indian summer lay around the hilltops, and the soft, golden
sunlight fell softly upon the grass, and the few autumnal flowers which
had escaped the recent storm. The grounds around the Mather mansion were
looking almost as beautiful as in the early summer, for the grass,
invigorated by the rain, was fresh and green again, and the brilliant
foliage of the trees which dotted the lawn made up for the loss of the
flowers. Even these last were not lacking indoors, for the hot-house had
been robbed of its costliest flowers, which filled the whole house with
perfume, and made Maude De Vere start with surprise when she first
entered the parlors.
“It takes me back to my Southern home,” she said to Rose, who, standing
on tiptoe, fastened a half-open lily in her hair, going into ecstasies
over the effect, and thinking to herself that Maude De Vere was the most
regal creature she had ever seen.
Maude had been in Rockland three weeks, and Rose was already as much in
love with her as if she had known her all her life. At first, she had
dreaded a little to meet the fearless heroine of the mountains. A girl
who had held a revolver at the heads of both Federal and Confederate;
who, in the night, had ridden twenty miles on horseback to conduct a
party of refugees to a place of safety, and had guarded the entrance of
the cave in the face of a furious mob, must be something very
formidable, or, at least, something unlike all Rose’s ideas of what a
lady gently born should be; and both Rose and her mother had waited
nervously for the arrival of one who, they felt sure, was to be the wife
of Tom. Nothing definite had been said upon the subject since Arthur
died, but it was tacitly understood by all parties that Maude De Vere
was, sometime, to be Maude Carleton; and Tom was allowed to pay her
attentions which could only be paid to his _fiancée_.
In a great flutter of spirits, Rose had heard of Maude’s arrival at the
Monteur House, and immediately after dinner had driven down to see her,
accompanied by Will, who, if possible, was more anxious than herself to
pay his respects to Maude.
She was kneeling by Charlie’s couch when the party entered, but she rose
at once and came forward, with the most beautiful carnation staining her
cheeks, and a look of modesty in her brilliant eyes. She wore a long,
trailing dress of heavy silk, and stood so erect, and held her head so
high, that she seemed taller than she really was,—taller than Tom, Rose
feared; but as he stepped up to her, she saw he had the advantage of her
by at least four inches, and thus reassured, she drew a long breath of
relief; then, as thoughts of all her husband and brother had been saved
from by this heroic girl came over her, she sprang toward Maude, and
winding her arms around her neck, sobbed hysterically, but never spoke
one word.
“What is it? What are you crying for?” Maude asked, petting her as if
she had been a little child.
“Oh, I don’t know. The sight of you who have done so much for the war,
and been so brave, makes me seem so little, so small, so mean beside
you, Maude De Vere,” Rose replied, brokenly, and then Maude’s eyes
filled with tears, and she hugged the sobbing little creature, whom,
from that moment, she loved so fondly.
She, too, had dreaded this meeting, for she knew that Rose Mather and
her mother were both women of the highest culture, and she felt that
they might criticise, and perhaps condemn one who had lived so long
among the pines of North Carolina and the mountains of Tennessee. But
Rose’s manner divested her of all fear, and in a moment she resumed that
unconscious air of superiority to all else around her, which was a part
of herself. Queenly was the word which best suited her looks and her
manners, and Rose paid homage to her as to a queen, and told her that
she loved her, and how much she had thought of her, and how anxious her
mother was to see her, and how happy they would all be when Jimmie and
Annie came home.
There had been daily visits to the Monteur since then, and Mrs. Carleton
had met the beautiful Maude, and mentally approved of Tom’s choice.
Charlie too had been petted and caressed, and his blue eyes opened with
wonder as he saw what Northern women were like, and remembered his
prejudice against them. He liked the Northerners, he said, but he was
loyal to the Southern cause, and listened, with flashing eyes and
crimson cheeks, to all he continually heard of the sure defeat and
disgrace of the Confederacy.
Matters were in this wise when the day came on which Annie was expected
home with Jimmie. Great preparations had been made for that arrival. In
Rockland there was more than one prisoner who had been nursed by Annie
Graham, and her name was spoken with reverence and love by the veriest
vagabond that walked the streets. They had not made a demonstration in a
long, long time, but they were going to make one now, and the honors
which poor George saw in fancy awarded to himself were to be given to
his wife. Jimmie, too, whose terrible sufferings had excited so much
commiseration, was to have his share of consideration. Bill Baker, who
had been home for a week, and was as usual the most active spirit of
all, suggested that when they flung out the banner on which was
inscribed, “Honor and welcome to Annie Graham,” they should give three
cheers for Mr. Carleton too. “Bein’,” as he said, “that they are about
as good as one.”
Prompt to the moment when it was due, the train swept round the Rockland
curve and stopped at the depot where a large concourse of people was
gathered. They had not expected the Widow Simms, and when her green veil
and straw bonnet appeared on the platform, the foremost of the group
looked a little disappointed, while the widow’s face darkened as she saw
the waiting multitude, and guessed why they were there.
Annie had appeared by this time, and at sight of her the tongues were
loosened, and deafening shouts of welcome greeted her on every side. The
flag bearing her name was held aloft, the cannon in the adjoining field
sent forth its bellowing roar, and the band struck up the sweet refrain
of “Annie Laurie;” while the voices of the Andersonville prisoners, who
had been Annie’s charge, sang the last line:
“And for bonnie _Annie Graham_ I would lay me down and die.”
Surely this was a coming home which Annie had never looked for, and with
her face flushed with excitement, and her eyes shining with tears, she
stood in the midst of the shouting throng, gazing wonderingly from one
to the other, and realizing nothing clearly, except the firm clasp upon
her arm.
It was Jimmie’s hand, and Jimmie himself leaned upon her, as the crowd
coupled his name with hers, and hurrahed for “James Carleton and Annie
Graham.”
“And the Widder Simms,—I swan if it’s fair to leave her out. She did
some tall nussin’ down to Annapolis,” Bill Baker said; and then the
widow was cheered, and she acknowledged the compliment with a grim
smile, and wondered when “folks would quit making fools of themselves,
and if Susan wasn’t up there, somewhere, in the jam. Of course she was;
’twas like them Ruggleses to go where the doins was.”
And while she shook the hand of her neighbors, she kept her eyes on the
watch for Susan, and felt a little chagrined that she did not find her.
Susan was at home in the neat little house which John had bought with
his captain’s wages, so carefully saved. The same house it was at which
Annie Graham had looked with longing eyes, in the commencement of the
war; and in the pleasant chamber which overlooked the town there was _a
little boy_ who had been in Rockland only a week, and whose existence
was as yet unknown to the widow. They had purposely kept it from her, so
she had no suspicion that he was expected; and the first genuine feeling
of happiness she had known since Isaac died, she experienced when she
was ushered into Susan’s room, and the little red-faced thing was laid
in her lap. She had looked askance at the new house, and neat furniture,
and the pretty curtains, as so many proofs of “them Ruggleses”
extravagance; but she was not proof against the white face which, from
the pillows, smiled so kindly upon her, and called her mother. And she
was guilty of kissing her daughter-in-law, even before she saw the baby,
her first grandchild, whom Susan called _Isaac_, although she hated the
name, and had tacked on to it _Adolphus_, with the hope that the future
would adjust the name into _Adolph_, or something more fanciful than the
good, plain Bible Isaac. And while the widow kissed and wept over her
grandson, and felt herself growing young, and soft, and gentle again,
the crowd around the depot had dispersed, a part going to their own
homes, and a part following the soldiers and band which escorted Annie
Graham and Jimmie Carleton to the Mather mansion, where everything had
been made so beautiful for them.
It was a pleasant coming home, and a most ample compensation for all the
weariness and privation which Annie, as hospital nurse, had endured, and
she felt that far more was awarded to her than she deserved.
“Mr. Carleton was the one to be honored,” she said, and her soft, blue
eyes rested upon the pale, tired man, who, exhausted with his journey
and the excitement, lay down at once upon the sofa, while his mother and
Rose knelt beside him and kissed, and pitied, and cried over his poor
white face, and long, bony hands, which were almost transparent in their
whiteness.
Maude was not one of the party at the Mather mansion that night.
“You ought to be alone the first night,” she said, when Rose insisted
that she should join them. “To-morrow I will come round and call on Mrs.
Graham and your brother.”
She had been greatly interested in all the arrangements, and was curious
to see the woman who had almost been her rival, while Annie was quite as
curious to see her, the heroine of the mountains. In her letters to
Annie, Rose had purposely refrained from mentioning Tom’s name with
Maude’s, so that Annie was ignorant of the real state of things. But she
did not remain so long.
“Is she so very beautiful?” she said to Rose, when, after supper, they
were all assembled in the parlor, and Maude was the subject of
conversation.
“Ask Tom; he can tell you,” Rose replied, and by the conscious look on
Tom’s face, Annie guessed the truth at once.
That night, when the two brothers were alone in their room, Tom said to
Jimmie:
“Well, my boy, I’ve kept my word,—I’ve waited a year and more. I’ve
given you every chance a reasonable man could ask. Have you made a
proper use of your privileges? Would it do me any good to try and win
Annie now?”
“You can try if you like,” Jimmie said, with a smile. And then Tom told
him of his hopes concerning Maude De Vere, and Jimmie said to him
saucily:
“Don’t you remember I told you once you had had your day? But some lucky
dogs have two, and you, it seems, are one of them.”