25. CHAPTER XXV.
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.”
