University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
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. “Tomorrow
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.”