University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
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. “Will 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.