University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
MATTERS IN ROCKLAND.

WITH quivering lip Mr. Mather told the members
of Company R that their lieutenant was dead;
and strong men as they were they did not deem
themselves unmanly that they wiped the big tears away,
and crowding around their informer anxiously asked for
particulars of their departed comrade, all speaking kindly
of him, and each thinking of the sweet girl-wife at
home on whom the news would fall so crushingly. A
soldier's dying was no novel thing in Washington,
and so, aside from Company R, there were few who
knew or cared that another soul had gone to the God
who gave it,—that another victim was added to the list
which shall one day come up with fearful blackness before
the provokers of the war. The drums beat just the
same,—the bands played just as merrily, and the busy
tide went on as if the quiet chamber in — street
held no stiffened form, once as full of life and hope as
the gay troops marching by.

But away to the Northward there was bitter mourning,
and many a bright eye wept as the sad news ran

along the streets that Rockland's young lieutenant, of
whom the people were justly proud, lay dead in Washington,
and many a heart beat with sympathy for the
young wife who, ever since hearing the fatal news, had
lain upon her bed, more dead than alive, with a look
upon her white face which told better than words of the
anguish she was enduring.

Nothing could induce Rose to leave her for a moment.
“Will had staid by George,” she said, “and she should
stay by Annie.”

With her sitting by, Annie grew stronger, and could
at last talk calmly of what was expected on the morrow.

“It will be terrible,” she said, “to hear the tramp of
feet coming up the walk, and know they are bringing
George! Oh, Mrs. Mather, you'll stay by me, won't
you, even if your husband is among the number?”

Annie did not mean to be selfish. She was too much
benumbed to realize anything fully, and she never
thought what it would cost Rose to stay there, knowing
her husband would seek her at home, and be so disappointed
at not finding her there. Rose could not refuse
a request so touchingly made, but just as the morning
broke she went home for a few moments to see that all
necessary preparations were made for Will's comfort;
then, penning him a note to tell why she was not there
to meet him, she returned again to the cottage, where
Widow Simms was busily at work setting things to rights
for the expected arrival, her tears falling upon the furniture
she was dusting, and her chest heaving with sobs
as she heard in the distance the sound of a gathering
crowd, and thought,

“It may be my boy they'll go up next to meet.”

Poor Annie, too, shuddered and moaned as she caught
the ominous sounds, and knew what they portended.

“It would be better to bring him back quietly,” she
said. “It seems almost like mockery, this parade,
which he can never know. I may be glad, by and by,
that they honored him thus, but it's so hard now,” and
covering her head with her pillow, Annie wept silently as
she heard the mournful beat of the muffled drum, and
knew the march to the depot had commenced.

How Rose wanted to be in the street and see her
husband when he came; but with heroic self-denial, she
forced down every longing to be away, and sitting down
by Annie, busied herself with counting off the minutes
and wondering if the clock would ever point to half-past
ten, or the train ever arrive.

There was a great crowd out that morning to meet the
returning soldier, and George's dream of what might be
when he came back again was more than realized.
There were men and carriages upon the street, and
groups of women at the corners, while the little boys ran
up and down. But in the beat of the muffled drum there
was a tone which made the hearts of those who heard it
overflow with tears, as they remembered what that dirge-like
music meant. Around the jammed white hat of the
man who played the fife there was a badge of mourning,
and in the notes he trilled a mournful cadence far different
from the patriotic strains he played as a farewell to
Rockland soldiers, going forth to battle, with hopes so
sanguine of success. One of that youthful band was
coming back; not full of life and fiery ambition as when he
went away, dreaming bright dreams of the glory he would
win, and the laurels he would wear, when once again he
trod the streets at home. Not as a conquering hero,
with the crown of fame on his brow, though the crown
indeed was won, and where the golden light of Heaven
shines from the everlasting hills, he was wearing it in

glory. But his ear was deaf to all earthly sounds, and
the tribute of respect his friends fain would bestow upon
him, awakened no thrill in his cold, pulseless heart.
Still they felt that all honor was due to the dead, and so
they had come up to meet him, a greater throng than
any of which he had dreamed when ambition burned
within his bosom. There was a carriage waiting, too,
just as he hoped there might be; a carriage sent expressly
for him, but the children on the sidewalk shrank
away and ceased their noisy clamor as it went by, its
sombre appearance somewhat relieved by the gay coloring
of the Stars and Stripes laid reverently upon it.

Slowly up the street the long procession passed, unmindful
of the rain which, mingled with the snow and
sleet, beat upon the pavements, and dashed against the
window-panes, from which many a tear-stained face
looked out upon the gloomy scene, made ten times
gloomier by the sighing of the wind and the rifts of
leaden clouds veiling the November sky. Over the eastern
hills there was a rising wreath of smoke, and a shrill,
discordant scream told that the train was coming, just
as the carriage sent for George drew up to its appointed
place.

Gently, carefully, tenderly they lifted him out, and set
him down in their midst; but no loud cheering rent the
air, no acclamations of applause, nothing save that
dreadful muffled beat, and the soft notes of the fife, telling
to the passengers leaning from the windows that the
dead, as well as the living, had been their fellow-traveller.
The banner upon the hearse told the rest of the
sad story, and with a sigh to the memory of the unknown
soldier, the passengers resumed their seats, and the train
sped on its way, leaving the Rockland people alone with
their dead.

Reverently they placed him in the carriage which none
cared to share with him. Carefully they wrapped around
him the Stars and Stripes, and dropping the heavy curtains,
followed through the streets to the cottage in the
Hollow, which he had left so full of life and hope.
Around that cottage there was a gathered multitude
next day, and though on the unsheltered heads of those
without, the driving rain was falling, they waited patiently
while the prayer was said, and the funeral anthem
chanted. Then there came a bustling moment,—people
passing beneath the Star Spangled Banner, and pausing
to look at the dead. There were sobs and tears, and
words of fond regret, and then the coffin-lid was closed,
and once more that muffled beat was heard, as with arms
reversed the Rockland Guards marched up the walk,
where, leaning upon their guns they stood, while strong
men carried out their late companion, and placed him in
the hearse, the carriage sent for him. There was no relative
to go with him to the grave,—none in whose veins
his blood was flowing, so Mr. Mather and Rose took the
lead, followed by a promiscuous crowd of carriages and
pedestrians, the very horses keeping time to the solemn
music beaten by the drum, and played by the man in the
jammed white hat.

Slowly through the November rain, — through the
November sleet, and through the November mist they
bore him on through the streets which he so oft had
trodden; on past the cottage he meant to buy for poor
Annie, whispering to herself with every note of the tolling
bell, “George has gone to Heaven.” Onward, still
onward, till streets and cottage were left behind, and
they came to where the marble columns, gleaming
through the autumnal fog, told who peopled that silent
yard. Just by the gate, the bearers paused, and

stood with uncovered heads while the solemn words
were uttered, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to
dust!” Then, when it was all over, the long procession
moved through the spacious churchyard, past the tall
monuments betokening worldly wealth; past the less
imposing stones, whose lettering told of treasure in
Heaven; past the group of cedar trees and pine; past the
graves of the nameless dead, and so out upon the highway,
Rose Mather starting in alarm as the band struck up a
quicker, merrier march, whose stirring, jubilant notes
seemed so much like mockery. She knew it was the
custom, but the music grated none the less harshly, and
drawing her veil over her face, she wept silently, occasionally
glancing backward to the spot of freshly upturned
earth where Rockland's first soldier was buried,
—the brave, self-denying George,—who gave all he had
for his country, and died in her behalf.

Four weeks after George's death, Annie left the cottage
in the Hollow, and went to live for a time with Mrs.
Mather. Early orphaned, and thrown upon the charities
of a scheming aunt, who, after her marriage with George,
had cast her off entirely, there was now no one to whom
she could look for help and sympathy save Rose, and
when the latter insisted that her home should be Annie's
also, while William, too, joined his entreaties with those
of his wife, and urged as one reason his promise made
to George, Annie consented on condition that as soon as
her health was sufficiently restored, she should do something
for herself, either as teacher, or governess in some
private family.

Amid a wild storm of sobs and tears she had read her
husband's dying message, growing sick and faint just as
he knew she would when first she learned of his loss,
and why it was he had never written to her himself. But

this was naught compared to the horror which crept
round her heart as she read what George had written of
a coming time when the long grave by the gate would not
be visited as often as at first, or he who slept there
remembered as tearfully.

“Oh, George, George!” she cried, “it was cruel to
tell me so,” and sinking to her knees, she essayed to
breathe a vow that other love than that she had borne
for George Graham should never find entrance to her
bosom. But something sealed her lips,—the words she
would have uttered were unspoken, and the rash vow
was not made.

Still there was an added drop to her already brimming
cup of sorrow, and a sadder, more loving note in the tone
of her voice when she spoke of her husband, as if she would
fortify herself against the possibility of his prediction coming
true. It was a sorry day when she finally left her
cottage home, and only God was witness to the parting;
but the dim, swollen eyes and colorless cheeks attested
to its bitterness, as, with one great upheaving sob, she
crossed the threshold and entered the carriage where
Rose sat waiting for her, while the motherly Widow
Simms wrapped around her the pile of shawls which
were to shield her from the cold, and bade her god-speed
to her new home.

Rapidly the carriage drove away, while the widow returned
to the cottage to perform the last needful office of
fastening down the windows and locking up the doors,
then, with a sigh at the changes a few short months had
wrought, she went back to her own long deserted home.
And the busy tide of life rolled on in Rockland just the
same as if in the churchyard there was no new-made
grave, holding the buried love of Annie, who, in Rose
Mather's beautiful home, was surrounded with every

possible comfort and luxury, and treated with as much
consideration as if she were a born princess, instead of
the humble woman, who, a few months before, was wholly
unknown to the little lady of the Mather Mansion.