Rose Mather :: :: University of Virginia Library

THAT night, as Rose sat alone in her cheerful
boudoir, musing upon the strange events which
had occurred within the last few months, a letter
was brought to her, bearing her mother's handwriting.
It had passed hers on the road, and Rose tore it open,
starting, as a soiled, tear-stained note dropped from the
inside upon the floor. Intuitively she felt that it was
from Jimmie, and catching it up, she read the home-sick,
heart-sick, remorseful cry of penitence and contrition
which the weary Rebel-boy had at last sent to his mother.

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Stubborness and proud reserve could hold out no longer,
and he had written, confessing his error, and begging
earnestly for the forgiveness he knew he did not deserve.

“I am not all bad,” he said; “and on that quiet morning, when
beneath the cover of the Virginia woods I lay, watching the Union
soldiers coming so bravely on, there was a dizziness in my brain, and
a strange, womanly feeling at my heart, while a sensation I cannot
describe thrilled every nerve when I saw in the distance the Stars and
Stripes waving in the summer wind. How I wanted to warn them of
their danger, to bid them turn back from the snare so cunningly devised,
and how proud I felt of the Federal soldiers when contrasting
them with ours. I fancied I could tell which were the Boston boys,
and there came a mist before my eyes, as I thought how your dear
hands and those of little Rose had possibly helped to make some portion
of the dress they wore.

“You know about the battle. You read it months ago, and wept,
perhaps, as you thought of Jimmie firing at his own brother, it might
be, but, mother, I did not. I scarcely fired at all, and when I was
compelled to do so to avoid suspicion, it was so high that neither
the wounded nor the dead can accuse me as their murderer; and I'm
glad now that it is so. It makes my prison bed softer to know there
is no stain of blood upon my soul.

“Poor Tom, I dare say, has written to you of our encounter
in the woods, but he does not know the shock it was to me to
meet him there, and know I could not help him. Dear Tom, my
heart aches more for him than for myself, for the Richmond Prison
Guards are not like those who keep watch over us. There are humane
people there,—kind, tender hearts,—which feel for any one in
distress, but the jailers, the common soldiers, and the rabble, are
not, I fear, as considerate as they might be. Many of them have
been made to believe the war entirely of the North's provoking, that
Hamlin is a mulatto, and Lincoln a foul-hearted knave, whose whole
aim is to set the negroes free. But enough of Southern politics. It
will all come clear at last, and the Star-Spangled Banner wave
again over every revolted State.

“Write to me, mother. Say you forgive your Rebel-boy. Say
that, when I am exchanged, as I hope to be, I may come home, and
that you will not turn away from your sinful, erring

“Jimmie.”

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There was a message of love for Rose, and then the
letter closed with one last, touching entreaty that the
mother would forgive her child and take him back again
to her confidence and love.

“Of course she'll do it,” Rose said, vehemently, and
seizing a pen and paper she wrote to Will, inclosing a
note to Jimmie, full of pardon and tender love, bidding
him when he should be released come directly to Rockland,
where their mother should be waiting for him, and
where she, forgetting all the past, would nurse him back
to health.

Nearly a week went by, and then there came a letter
from Will, telling how he had visited the Rebel Jimmie in
his prison, and Rose wept frantically as she read the particulars
of that interview when her brother first met the
sister's husband, of whom he had never heard.

“I found him sitting apart from the others,” William wrote, “apparently
absorbed in disagreeable reflections, for there was an abstracted
look upon his face and deep wrinkles upon his forehead. If
he had not been pointed out to me, I should have known him by his
striking resemblance to your family. The Carleton features could
not be mistaken, particularly the proud curve about the mouth, and
the arching of the eyebrows, while I recognized at once the soft,
curling hair and brilliant complexion, which you will remember once
attracted me toward a certain little girl, who is now all the world to
the old bachelor Will.

“But this isn't a love letter, darling. I'm only going to tell you
how sorry your brother looked sitting there alone in that noisy multitude,
whose language and manners are not the most refined that
could be desired, and how my heart warmed toward the solitary being,
and forgave him at once for all his errors past. Very haughtily
he bowed to me when I was introduced, and then in silence awaited
to hear my errand, the proud curve around his mouth deepening as
he surveyed me with a hauteur which, under ordinary circumstances,
would have annoyed me exceedingly. As it was, I could almost fancy
myself the prisoner and he the freeman, he seemed so cool, so
collected, while I was embarrassed and uncertain how to act.

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“`Is your visit prompted by curiosity to see how a so-called Rebel
can bear confinement, or did you come on business?' he asked, and
then all my embarrassment was at an end.

“`I came,' I said, `partly at your sister's request, and partly to ascertain
how much you are willing to do toward the attainment of
your freedom.'

“I do not think he understood the last. He only caught at the
words, `your sister,' and grasping my arm, he whispered hoarsely,
`What of my sister? Have you seen her? Do you know her, and
does she hate me now?'

“I told him I was your husband, and with quivering lip, he
asked me, `Is she well, my precious little Rose, whom I remember as
almost a child, and mother—has she cast me off? Oh, if she only
knew how I am punished for my sin, she would forgive her wayward
boy.'

“Here he broke down in such a wild storm of sobs and tears, that
the inmates of the prison gathered in groups around him, their looks
indicative of their surprise at witnessing so much emotion in one who up
to that moment had appeared haughtily indifferent to everything
around him. With an authoritative gesture he waved them off,
and then, passing him your note, I, too, walked away, leaving him
alone while he read it, but even where I stood I could hear the
smothered sobs he tried in vain to suppress. I am inclined to think
he is right in saying that joining the Confederate army was the
best lesson he ever learned. I am sure he must be greatly changed
from the reckless, daring boy, whose exploits you have described so
often. He is very anxious to swear allegiance to the Stars and
Stripes, even though he should be doomed to prison life for five
more weary months, and as I am not a mere private now, and have
considerable influence in Washington, I hope, ere long, to write that
he is free, and on his way to Rockland, whither he will go first.

Jimmie expresses the utmost sympathy for Tom, and says he would
gladly take his place, if that could be, for he fears the inmates of
those Richmond tobacco houses are not always cared for, as he has
been at Washington. Poor Tom, I hope he will be among the list
of the exchanged, and if so, you may expect soon to welcome both
your brothers.'

No wonder Rose wept tears of joy over his letter,
while her thoughts went after her rebellious, but repentant

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brother, nor tarried there, for, farther to the South,
another weary captive pined, and every fibre of her heart
bleed with sympathy for Tom—poor Tom, she always
called him—and as the days of sickening suspense went
by she grew so nervous and so ill that her mother came
up from Boston to attend her, while Annie shook off her
own feelings of weary languor, and did for Rose the same
offices which Rose had once done for her.

“I do so wish you had been my sister,” Rose said
to her one day, when she had been kinder than usual.
“I know I should be a better woman, and so would all of
us.”

Annie made no reply, except to twine around her fingers
the coils of chestnut hair, lying in such profusion
upon the pillows. For a few moments Rose lay perfectly
still, with her eyes fixed upon the paper bordering, as if
counting the fanciful flowers, but her thoughts were intent
upon a far different subject. Turning to her mother,
she suddenly asked:

“How old is Jimmie, twenty-three, or twenty-four?”

“Twenty-three last May,” was the reply, and, with
rather a troubled expression upon her face, Rose continued,
“Will is thirteen years older than I am,” and the little
curly head shook doubtfully.

“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Carleton asked,
but Rose did not answer at once.

There was another interval of silence, and then starting
quickly, Rose called out, “Mother, don't you remember
that affair of Jimmie's ever so long ago, when he was
a boy at school in New London?” There was a little
girl that he fancied, and you took him home for fear of
what would come of it; when you found she was poor and
nobody?”

Glancing quickly at Annie, who was attentively examining

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the hem-stitch of the fine linen pillow-case, Mrs.
Carleton said, reprovingly:

“You should not parade our family matters before
strangers, my daughter.”

“Oh, Annie is no stranger,” Rose answered, laughingly.
“She's one of our folks now, besides, she is not
enough interested in the love affair of a seventeen years
old boy ever to repeat it.”

“Love affair!” Mrs. Carleton rejoined, a little scornfully.
“Not very much love about it, I imagine. She
was stopping with her aunt at the Pequot House, and
Jimmie saw her a few times, passing himself off by another
name than his own. If he had cared for this
child he would never have done that.”

“He seems to have a penchant for assuming names,”
Rose rejoined, playfully. “He called himself John
Brown, at Washington, while to this little Pequot girl he
was, let me see, what was it? Can't you think, mother?”

Rose was bent on talking about Jimmie and his Pequot
girl, and knowing that she could not stop her, Mrs.
Carleton replied:

“Richard Lee, or something like that.”

“Oh, yes, `Dick!' I remember now; and her name
was,—what was it, mother? It makes my head ache so
trying to recall it.”

“If I ever knew, I've forgotten,” Mrs. Carleton said,
and after trying in vain to think, Rose dismissed the
name, but not the subject.

“How angry Jimmie was,” she continued, “when you
brought him home, and how awfully he swore. It makes
you shudder, don't it?” and she turned to Annie, who
had shivered either with cold or horror at Jimmie's profanity.
“He was a bad boy once, but I most know he's
better now. Maybe, mother, this was a real nice girl,

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and if you'd let Jimmie alone he might have become attached
to her, and she have been his wife by this time.
Then he would not have joined the Rebel army. Don't
you think you and Tom were a little too severe on Jimmie
sometimes?”

“Perhaps so,” was the faint response, as Mrs. Carleton
looked out upon the wintry landscape, seeing there
visions of a handsome, boyish, tearful face, flushed with
anger and entreaty as its owner begged of her not to
take him back to Boston, which he hated, but leave him
where he was, saying that the little girl at the Pequot
House had already done him more good than all the
sermons preached from the pulpits of the Bay State
Capital.

But she had disregarded Jimmie's wishes, and from
that time forward he had pursued a course of recklessness
ending at last in prison. With a half-regretful sigh
Mrs. Carleton thought of all this, and in her heart she
blamed herself for some of her boy's disobedience. But
it could not now be helped, and with another sigh, she
turned toward Rose, still speculating as to what the result
might have been, had Jimmie been suffered to follow
up his first, and so far as she knew, only fancy.

“What do you suppose would have happened if Jimmie
had staid in New London, and this scheming aunt,
whom mother feared far more than the Pequot, had staid
there too?” she asked of Annie, forgetting that the particulars
of the affair had not been repeated.

But it did not matter, for Annie answered all the
same. She was sitting now with her back to Mrs. Carleton,
while, so far as Rose was concerned, her face was in
the shadow. Consequently Rose could not see its expression,
as she replied:

“Nothing probably would have come of it. I imagine

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the Pequot, as you call her, was not more than fourteen,
and you know how easily we forget the fancies of that
age. She was undoubtedly pleased with the evident admiration
of your handsome brother, and watched anxiously,
it may be, for the evenings when, with others of
his comrades, he came to the hotel; but a closer acquaintance
would have resulted in her knowing the deception
about the name, and after that she would not have cared
for him. If he really liked her he would not have imposed
upon her thus. She's forgotten him ere this, and
is probably a married woman.”

“Perhaps so,” Rose replied; “I wish I knew. Jimmie
didn't mean to deceive her long. He took the name
Dick Lee, partly in sport, and partly because he didn't
wish his teacher to know how often Jim Carleton was at
the Pequot House, when he thought him somewhere else.
After he began to like her, and saw how pure and good
and truthful she was, he hated to tell her, but had made
up his mind to do so when mother took him away.”

“He might have written,” Annie said, “and she may
have been silly enough to cry over his abrupt and unexplained
departure.”

“Mother wouldn't let him write,” Rose rejoined, laughingly.
“She watched him closely, and got Tom interested
too. Poor Jimmie, I wonder if that girl ever
thinks of him now?”

“She may, but I dare say she is glad your mother
took him home. She has outlived all that fancy,” and
Annie's white fingers, on one of which the wedding-ring
was shining, worked nervously together.

As if bent on tormenting both her auditors by talking
of Jimmie, Rose kept on, wondering how he looked, if
she should know him, what he would say, how he would
act, and if he ever would come.

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“I'm so glad you are here, Annie,” she said, “for you
do everybody good you come in contact with, and I want
you to talk to Jimmie, will you?”

Annie only smiled, but her cheeks burned with excitement,
and Rose was about asking if her head didn't
ache, when a letter was brought in bearing the Washington
postmark. Eagerly Rose broke it open, screaming
with joy as she read that Jimmie had been released,
—had taken the oath of allegiance, and was coming home
to Rockland.

“He'll be here,—let me see,—Thursday, on the three
o'clock train. That's to-morrow. Oh, I'm so glad!”
and in her delight the little lady forgot that for the last
week she had been playing sick, and leaping upon the
carpet, danced about the room, kissing alternately her
mother and Annie, and asking if they were ever so
pleased in their lives.

“Oh, I forgot!” she suddenly exclaimed, as she saw
the great tears dropping from Annie's eyes, and guessed
of what she was thinking. “I did not mean to make
you sorry contrasting Jimmie's coming home with that
of poor George. Dear Annie, don't cry,” and the chubby
arms closed coaxingly round the now sobbing Annie's
neck. “Don't cry. You'll like Jimmie, I know, and if
you don't, I know you'll like dear Tom. He's perfectly
splendid, and he gave his place to George, you know.”

Yes, Annie knew, but it only made her tears flow faster
as she thought of Rose, so full of hope, her husband
yet alive, and her brothers coming home, while she,
without a friend on whom she could lean, was alone in
her desolate widowhood. Excusing herself from the
room, she sought her own pleasant chamber, and there
alone poured out her grief into the ear of One who almost
since she could remember had been the recipient

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of all her sorrows. And Annie had far more need of
help than Rose suspected. She could not stay there and
meet Jimmie Carleton face to face after what she had
heard, while a return to the lonely cottage seemed impossible.
Widow Simms's home suggested itself to her
mind; but if the prisoners were exchanged, and Isaac
came home, she might be an intruder there, and besides,
what truthful reason could she give to Rose for her strange
conduct? It was a sad dilemma in which Annie found
herself so suddenly placed, and more than an hour of
solitary and prayerful reflection, found her still uncertain
as to the course duty would dictate in the present
emergency. It seemed expedient that she should go
away, and when in the evening she joined Rose, who
chanced to be alone, she suggested leaving her house, at
least during Jimmie's stay, and going either to the cottage
in the Hollow, or to stay with Widow Simms.

In the utmost astonishment Rose listened to the proposal,
and then replied:

“You go away because Jimmie is coming! Preposterous!
Why, I want you here on his account, if nothing
more. Besides, where will you go? Widow Simms
has taken Susan to live with her at John's request, and
that little teenty place will not begin to hold three women
with hoops!”

“You forget the widow does not wear them,” Annie
suggested, her heart beginning to sink, notwithstanding
her playful words.

“Yes, I know,” Rose replied; “but you are not going
there. If you are in the way here with Jimmie, you'd
surely be more in the way there with Isaac. Don't you
see?” and Rose looked as if this argument were altogether
conclusive.

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“I can go home,” Annie said, faintly. “The cottage
is mine till the first of April.”

Rose colored, and hesitated somewhat, as if a little
uncertain how what she had to say on this subject might
be received; then, resolving to put a bold face upon it,
she said:

“I ought to have told you before, I suppose. Don't
you remember the day you had the sick headache, more
than a week ago? Well, while you were asleep, a man
came to know if you'd let him into the cottage till spring,
as he was obliged to leave where he was, and could find
no other place. I did not wish to wake you, and as I
knew you would not care, I said yes on my own responsibility,
and sent Bridget down to pack all your things
in the chamber, as he only wanted the lower rooms.
She put them away real carefully, Bridget did, for I've
been myself to see,” Rose added, quickly, as she saw the
color mounting to Annie's cheeks, and feared she might
be indignant at the liberty.

“And is he there?” Annie asked, conquering all emotion,
and speaking in her natural tone.

“Yes, he's there,” Rose answered. “You are not
angry, are you? He's a nice man, and so is his wife.”

“I am not angry,” Annie replied, “but more sorry
than I can express, though, had I been consulted, I
should undoubtedly have done as you did.”

“Oh, I'm so glad, for it has bothered me a heap, wondering
what you'd say!” Rose cried, throwing her arms
around Annie's neck. “And now you'll stay with us,
for you see you have nowhere else to go; shan't she,
mother?” and she appealed to Mrs. Carleton, who had
just come in.

“Of course Mrs. Graham will stay,” was Mrs. Carleton's
reply; for, during the few days of her sojourn at

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Rockland, she had become greatly interested in the
sweet young Annie, and already foresaw the benefit she
would be to Rose, who needed some such influence to
keep her in check.

Mrs. Carleton was proud, and at first her daughter's growing
intimacy with the wife of a mechanic had given her
pride a pang, but a closer acquaintance had dispelled the
foolish prejudice, for she saw in the gentle Annie unmistakable
marks of education and refinement, while she was
not insensible to the charm thrown round the beautiful
stranger by the lovely Christian character which shone
so brightly now in the dark hour of affliction. Coming
nearer to her, and laying her hand in a motherly way
upon her pale brown hair, she said:

“We all want you, Mrs. Graham, and as Rose, by an
act which I will admit was too presuming, has virtually
closed your own doors against you, I see no alternative
but for you to stay with us. Rose needs you, and as
she says, you may do Jimmie good, while Tom, if he ever
comes, will be glad to meet the wife of one in whom he
was greatly interested.”

After this, Annie offered no further remonstrance,
though in her heart she hoped Jimmie's residence in
Rockland would not be very long. Of Tom she had no
dread. She rather wished to see him than otherwise,
for he had been kind to George, and in fancy she had
enshrined him as a middle-aged, greyish-haired man,
stooping a little, perhaps, and withal very fatherly and
venerable in his appearance! This was Tom,—but Jimmie,
handsome, saucy-eyed, mischievous Jimmie, putting
angle worms in Rose's bosom, and frightening the little
Pequot with a mud-turtle, found on New London beach,
was a very different thing, and though trusting much to

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the lapse of years and change of name, Annie shrank
nervously from the dreaded to-morrow, which was to
bring the Rebel home.