University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
ROSE AND ANNIE.

ROSE MATHER'S home was a beautiful place,
containing everything which love could devise,
or money purchase, and Rose was very happy
there, dancing like a sunbeam through the handsome

rooms of which she was the mistress, and singing as
gaily as her pet canary in its gilded cage by the door.
No shadow of sorrow or care had ever crossed her pathway,
and the eighteen summers of her short life had
come and gone like so many pleasant memories, bringing
with them one successive round of joys, leaving no blight
behind, and bearing with them, alas, no thanks for the
good bestowed, for Rose was far too thoughtless to think
that the Providence which shielded her so tenderly,
might have dealt more harshly with her. But the shadow
was creeping on apace, and Rose was conscious that the
war-meeting had awakened within her a new and uncomfortable
train of thought. Like many others, she had a
habit of believing that nothing very bad could happen to
her, and so, let what might occur, she was sure her husband
would be spared. Still, in spite of her gaiety, an
undefined something haunted her all the way from the
church, and even when alone with her husband in her
tasteful sitting-room, with the bright gas-light falling
cheerily around her, and adding a fresh lustre to the
elegant furniture, she could not shake it off, nor guess
what it was that ailed her. At last, however, it came to
her, suggested by the sight of her husband's evening
paper, and laying her curly head upon his knee, she gave
vent to her restlessness in the expression:

“I wish there wouldn't be any war. What is it all
for? Tell me, please.”

It was the first interest she had evinced in the matter,
and glad to talk with any one upon the subject which
was beginning to occupy so much of his own thoughts,
Mr. Mather drew her into his lap, and endeavored, as far
as possible, to explain to her what it all was for. Much of
what he said, however, was Greek to Rose, who only
gained a vague idea that the North was contending for a

bit of cloth, such as she had often seen floating over the
dome of the old State House in Boston, and with the remark,
that men's lives were far more valuable than all
the Stars and Stripes in the world, she fell away to sleep,
leaving her husband in the midst of an argument not
quite clear to himself, for, like his wife, he could not then
see exactly what the war was for. Still, inasmuch as there
was war, he would not play the coward's part, nor shrink
from the post of duty if his country should need his services.
But this Rose did not know, and secure in the
belief that whatever might happen, Will would never go,
she soon resumed her wonted cheerfulness, and if she
said anything of the war, was sure to startle her hearers
with some remark quite unworthy of a New England
daughter. She did wish they would stop having so
many meetings, she said, or if they must have them, she
wished they'd get Brother Tom to come and set them
right. He had lived in Charleston. He could tell them
how kind the people were to Mary, his sick wife, and
were it not that 'twas beneath him to lecture, she'd surely
write for him to come. Rose Mather was growing
unpopular by her foolish speeches, and when at last she
was asked to join with other ladies of the town in making
articles of clothing for the volunteers, she added the
last drop to the brimming bucket, by tossing back her
chestnut tresses, and “guessing she shouldn't blister her
hands over that coarse stuff. She couldn't sew much
any way, and as for making bandages and lint, the very
idea was sickening. She'd give them fifty cents if they
wanted, but she positively couldn't do more than that,
for she must have a new pair of lavender kids. She had
worn the old ones three or four times, and Will preached
economy every day.”

With a frown of impatience, the matron who had been

deputed to ask help from Rose, took the fifty cents, and
with feelings anything but complimentary to the silly
little lady, went back to the hall where scores of women
were busily employed in behalf of the company, some of
whom would never return to tell how much good even
the homely housewife, with its pins and needles, and
thread, had done them when far away where no mother
or sister hand could reach them, nor yet how the thought
that perhaps a dear one's fingers had torn the soft linen
band, or scraped the tender lint applied to some gaping
woun, had helped to ease the pain, and cheer the home-sick
heart. It was surely a work of mercy in which our
noble women were then engaged, and if from the group
collected in Rockland Hall, there was much loud murmuring
at Rose Mather's want of sense or heart, it arose
not so much from ill-nature, as from astonishment that
she could be so callous and indifferent to an object of so
much importance.

“Wait till her husband goes, and she won't mince
along so daintily, taking all that pains to show her Balmoral,
when it isn't one bit muddy,” muttered the Widow
Simms, pointing out, to those near the window, the lady
in question, tripping down the street in quest of lavender
kids, perhaps, or more likely, bound for her husband's
office, where, now that everybody worked all day long at
the Hall, she spent much of her time, it was so lonely at
home, with nobody to call. “I hope he'll be drafted and
have to go, upon my word!” continued the widow, whose
heart was very sore with thinking of the three seats at
her fireside, so soon to be vacated by her darling boys, Eli,
John, and Isaac. “Yes, I do hope he'll be drafted, don't
you, Mrs. Graham?” and she turned toward Annie, who
was rolling up bandages of linen, and weaving in with every
coil a prayer that the poor soldier, whose lot it should

be to need that band, might return again to the loved
ones at home, or else be fitted for that better home,
where war is unknown.

Annie shook her head, but made no answer. There
was no bitterness now in her heart against Rose Mather.
She had prayed that all away, and only hoped the anguish
which had come to her, making her brain giddy,
and her heart faint, might never be borne by another, if
that could be. George had volunteered,—was to be second
lieutenant, and Annie, oh, who shall tell of the
gloom which had fallen so darkly around the cottage she
had called hers for one brief year. It was a neat, cozy
dwelling, and to Annie it never seemed so cheerful as on
that memorable night of the war-meeting, when she had
lighted the lamp, and sat down with George upon the
chintz-covered lounge he had helped her make when first
she was a bride. It is true the carpet was not of velvet,
like that Rose Mather trod upon; neither was there in
all the house one inch of rosewood or of marble, but
there was domestic love, pure and deep as any Rose ever
experienced, and there was something better far than
that, a patient, trusting faith in One who can shed light
upon the dreariest home, and make the heaviest trial
seem like nought. It was this trusting faith which made
Annie Graham the sweet, gentle being she was, shedding
its influence over her whole life, and softening down a
disposition which otherwise might have been haughty
and resentful. Annie was naturally high-spirited and
proud, and Rose's remarks concerning volunteers in general,
and George in particular, had stung her to the
quick, but with the indignant mood there came another
impulse, and ere the cottage had been reached, the bitter
feeling had gone, leaving nothing but sorrow that it had
ever been there. Like Rose, she wished there would be

no war, but wishing was of no avail, and long after
George Graham was asleep and dreaming, it may be, of
glories won on battle-fields, Annie lay awake, questioning
within herself, whether she ought, by word or deed, to
prevent her husband's going, if he felt as he seemed to
feel, that it was as much his duty as that of others to
join in his country's defence. Annie was no great reasoner,
logically; all her decisions were made to turn upon
the simple question of right and wrong, and on this occasion
she found it hard to tell, so evenly the balance
seemed adjusted. More than once she stole from her
pillow, and going out into the fresh night air, knelt in the
moonlight, and asked for guidance to choose the right,
even though that right should take her husband from
her.

“If I knew he would not die, it would not be so hard
to give him up,” she murmured, as sickening visions of
fields strewn with the dead, and hospitals filled with the
dying, came over her, and for an instant her brain reeled
with the thought of George dying thus, and leaving her
no hope of meeting him again, for George's faith was
not like hers.

Anon, however, something whispered to her that the God
she loved was on the field of carnage, and in the camp and in
the hospital, and everywhere as much as there in Rockland,
that prayers innumerable would follow the brave volunteers,
and that the evil she so much feared might be the
means of working the great good she so desired. And thus
it was that Annie came to a decision. Stealing back to her
husband's side, she bent above him as he lay sleeping,
and with a heart which throbbed to its very core, though
the lip uttered no sound, she gave him to his country
asking, if it could be, that he might come back again, but
if it were ordered otherwise—“God's will be done.”

There was no shrinking after that sacrifice was made,
though when the morning came, the death-white face
and the dark circle beneath the eyes, told of a weary
vigil, such as many and many a woman kept both North
and South, during the dark hours of the Rebellion. But
save the death-white face, and heavy eyes, there was no
token of the inner struggle, as with a desperate effort at
self-command, Annie wound her arms around her husband's
neck, and whispered to him, “You may go,—I
give my free consent,” and George, who cared far more
to go than he had dared express, kissed the lips which
tried so hard to smile, little dreaming what it cost his
brave young wife to tell him what she had. To one of
his temperament, there was no danger to be feared
for himself. The bullet which might strike down a
brother at his side would be turned away from him.
Others would, of course, be killed, but he should escape
unharmed. In the language of one speaker, whose eloquent
appeal had done much to fire his youthful enthusiasm,
“He was not going to be shot, but to shoot somebody!”

This was his idea, and ere the clinging arms had unclasped
themselves from his neck, his imagination had
leaped forward to the future, and in fancy George
Graham wore, if not a Colonel's, at least a Captain's uniform,
and the cottage on the hill, which Annie so much
admired, and for the purchase of which a few hundreds
were already saved, was his,—bought with the money he
would earn. The deed should be drawn in her name,
too, he said, and he pictured her to himself coming down
the walk to meet him, with the rose-blush on her cheek,
just as she looked the first time he ever saw her. Something
of this he told her,—and Annie tried to smile, and
think it all might be. But her heart that morning was

far too heavy to be lightned by a picture of what
seemed so improbable. Still, George's hopeful confidence
did much to reassure her, and when, a few days
after, she started for the Hall, she purposely took a
longer walk for the sake of passing the cottage on the
hill, thinking, as she leaned over the low iron fence, how
she would arrange the flower-beds more tastefully than
they were now arranged, and teach the drooping vines
to twine more gracefully around the slender columns
supporting the piazza in front. She would have seats,
too,—willow-twisted chairs beneath the trees, where she
and George could sit at twilight, and watch the shadows
creeping across the hollow where the old cottage was,
and up the opposite hill, where the cupola of Rose
Mather's home was plainly visible, blazing in the April
sunshine. It was a very pleasant castle which Annie
built, and for a time the load of pain which, since George
volunteered, had lain so heavy at her heart, was gone;
but it returned again when, as she passed a turn in the
road, her eye wandered down to the hollow, and that
other cottage standing there so brown and small, and
looking already so desolate, because she knew that ere
many days were over, she should wait in vain for the
loved footsteps coming down the road,—should miss the
pleasant, cheery laugh, the teasing joke and words of
love which made the world all sunshine. The cottage on
the hill became a worthless thing as poor Annie forced
back her tears, and with quickened steps hurried on to
join the group of ladies busy at the Hall.

Taking her seat by the window, she commenced the
light work imposed on her, that of tearing and winding
bandages for those who might be wounded.

“Maybe there'll never be no fight, but it's well enough
to be prepared,” was the soothing remark of the kindhearted

woman who gave the work to Annie, noting, as
she did so, how the lip quivered and the cheek paled at
the very idea.

“What if George should need them?” kept suggesting
itself to her as she worked industriously on, hoping that
if he did, some one of the rolls she was winding might
come to him, or better yet, if he could only have the bit
of soft linen she had brought herself,—a piece of her
own clothing, and bearing on it her maiden name, Annie
Howard. He would be sure to know it, she said, it was
written so plainly with indelible ink, and it would make
him feel so glad. But there might be other Annie Howards,
it was not an uncommon name, was suggested
next to her, as she tore the linen in strips, and quick as
thought, her hand sought the pocket of her dress for the
pencil which she knew was there. Glancing around to
see that no one observed her, she touched the pencil to
her lips and wrote after the name, “It's your Annie,
George. Try to believe I'm there. Rockland, April,
1861.”

There were big tear-drops on that bit of linen, but
Annie brushed them away, and went on with her rolling,
just as Widow Simms called her attention to Rose
Mather, as mentioned several pages back.

Annie could not account for it to herself, but ever
since Rose's arrival at Rockland, she had felt a strange
inexplicable interest in the fashionable belle; an interest
prompted by something more than mere curiosity, and
now that there was an opportunity of seeing her without
being herself seen, she straightened up and smoothing
the soft braids of her pale brown hair, waited for the
entrance of the little lady, who, with her pink hat set
jauntily on her chestnut curls, and her rich fur collar
buttoned gracefully over her handsome cloth cloak,

tripped into the room, doing much by her sunny smile
and pleasant manner to disarm the ladies of their recent
prejudice against her. She was nothing but a child,
they reflected; a spoiled, petted child; she would improve
as she grow older, and came more in contact with
the sharp corners of the world, so those who had the
honor of her acquaintance, received her with the familiar
deference, if we may be allowed the expression,
which had always marked their manner toward William
Mather's bride. Rose was too much accustomed to society
to be at all disconcerted by the hundred pair of eyes
turned scrutinizingly toward her. Indeed, she rather
enjoyed being looked at, and she tossed the coarse garments
about with a pretty playfulness, saying that
“since the ladies had called upon her she had thought
better of it, and made up her mind to martyr herself
one afternoon at least, and benefit the soldiers. To be
sure there wasn't much she could do. She might hold
yarn for somebody to wind, she supposed, but she
couldn't knit, and she didn't want to sew on such ugly,
scratchy stuff as those flannel shirts, but if somebody
would thread her needle, and fix it all right, she'd try
what she could do on a pair of drawers.”

For a time no one seemed inclined to volunteer her
services, and Widow Simms's shears clicked spitefully
loud as they cut through the cotton flannel. At last,
however, Mrs. Baker, who had more than once officiated
as washerwoman at the Mather mansion, came forward
and arranged some work for Rose, who, untying the
strings of her pink hat, and adjusting her tiny gold thimble,
labored on until she had succeeded in sewing up
and joining together a long leg with one some inches
shorter, which had happened to be lying near. Loud
was the shout which a discovery of this mistake called

forth, nor was it at all abated when Rose demurely asked
if it would not answer for some soldier who should
chance to have a limb shot off just below the knee.

“The little simpleton!” muttered the widow, while
Mrs. Baker pointed out to the discomfited lady that one
division of the drawers was right side out and the other
wrong!

There was no alternative save to rip the entire thing,
and with glowing cheeks, Rose began the task of undoing
what she had done, incidentally letting out, as she worked,
that Will might have known better than to send her
there,—she shouldn't have come at all if he had not insisted,
telling her people would call her a secessionist unless
she did something to benefit the soldiers. She didn't
care what they called her; she knew she was a democrat,
or used to be before she was married; but now that Will
was a republican, she hardly knew what she was; any
way, she was not a secessionist, and she wasn't particularly
interested in the war either; why should she be?—Will
was not going, nor Brother Tom, nor any of her friends.

“But somebody's friends are going,—somebody's Will,
somebody's Tom; as dear to them as yours are to you,”
came in a rebuking tone from a straight-forward, outspoken
woman, who knew from sad experience that
“somebody's Tom was going.”

“Yes, I know,” said Rose, a shadow for an instant
crossing her bright face, “and its dreadful, too. Will
says everything will be so much higher, and it will be so
dull at Saratoga and Newport next summer, without the
Southern people. One might as well stay at home.
The war might have been avoided, too, by a little mutual
forbearance from both parties, until matters could be
amicably adjusted, for Brother Tom said so in his letter
last night, and a heap more which I can't remember.”

Here Rose paused quite exhausted, with the effort she
had made to repeat the opinion of Brother Tom. She
had read all his last letter, fully indorsing as much of it
as she understood, and after a little she went on:

“Wasn't it horrid, though, their firing into the Massachusetts
boys?—and they were from right 'round Boston,
too. Tom saw them when they started. They were
fine looking men, he says, and Will thinks I ought to be
proud that I'm a Bay State girl, and so I am, but it isn't
as if my friends had gone. Tom is a democrat, I know,
but it's quite another kind that join the army.”

Widow Simms could keep silent no longer, and brandishing
her polished shears by way of adding emphasis to
what she said, she began:

“And s'posin' 'tis folks as poor as poverty struck, haint
they feelin's, I'd like to know? Haint they got bodies
and souls, and mothers, and wives, and sisters? And
s'posin' 'tis democrats,—more shame for t'other side that
helped get up the muss. Where be they now, them
chaps that wore the big black capes, and did so much toward
puttin' Lincoln in that chair? Why don't they help
to keep him settin' there, and not stand back with their
hands tucked in their trouses' pockets? Both my boys,
Eli and John, voted t'other ticket, and Isaac would, but
he wasn't twenty-one. They've all jined, and I won't say
I'm sorry, for if there's anything I hate, it's a sneak!
It makes me so mad!” and the big shears again clicked
savagely, as Widow Simms resumed her work, after having
thus delivered her opinion of the black republicans,
besides having, in her own words, given “that puckerin'
Miss Mathers a piece of her mind.”

Obtuse as Rose was on many points, she saw there
was some homely truth in what the widow had said, but
this did not impress her so much as the fact that she

had evidently given offence, and she was about trying to
extricate herself from the dilemma when George Graham
appeared, ostensibly to bring some trivial message to the
President of the Society, but really to see if his wife
were there, and speak to her some kind word of encouragement.
Rose recognized him as the young man she
had seen at the war meeting, and the moment he left the
hall, she broke out impetuously,

“Isn't he handsome?—so tall, so broad-shouldered,
and such a splendid mark for a bullet,—I most know he
will be shot?”

“Hush-sh!” came warningly from several individuals,
but came too late. The mischief was done. Ere Rose
could collect her thoughts a group of frightened women
had gathered around poor Annie, who had fainted.

“What's the matter? do tell!” cried Rose, standing on
tip-toe and clutching at the dress of Widow Simms, who
angrily retorted,

“I should s'pose you'd ask. It's enough to make the
poor critter faint clean away to hear a body talk about
her husband's being a fust rate mark for a bullet!”

With all her thoughtlessness, Rose had the kindest
heart in the world; and forcing her way through the
crowd, she knelt by the white-faced-Annie, and taking
the drooping head in her lap, pushed back the
thick braids of hair, noticing, with her quick eye for the
beautiful, how soft and luxuriant they were, how pure
was the complexion, how perfect were the features, how
small and delicate the fingers, and how graceful was the
slender neck.

“I'm so sorry! I wish I'd staid at home; I am so
sorry,” she kept repeating; and when at last Annie returne
tod consciousness, Rose Mather's was the first
voice she heard, Rose's the first face she saw.

With an involuntary shudder she closed her eyes wearily,
while Rose anxiously asked of those about her how
they should get her home. “Oh, Jake,” she suddenly exclaimed,
as, towering above the female heads, she saw
her colored coachman looking for her, and remembered
that her husband was to call and take her out to ride,
“oh, Jake, lift this lady up, careful as you can, and put
her in our carriage. Is Will there? Well, no matter,
he'll just have to get out. Stand back, won't you, and
let Jake come,” she continued, authoritatively to the
group of ladies who, half-amused and half-surprised at
this new phase in Rose Mather's character, made way
for burly Jake, who lifted Annie's light form as if it had
been a feather's weight, and bore it down the stairs, followed
by Rose, who, with one breath, told Annie not to
be a bit afraid, for Jake certainly would not drop her,
and with the next asked Jake if he were positive and
sure he was strong enough not to let her fall.

Lazily reclining upon the cushions of his carriage, William
Mather was smoking his Havana, and admiring
the sleek coat of his iron greys, when Rose appeared,
and seizing him by the arm, peremptorily ordered him
to alight, and help Jake lift the lady in.

“I don't know who 'tis, but it's somebody I made faint
away with my silly talk,” she replied in answer to Mr.
Mather's question, “Who have you there?”

“You made faint away!” he repeated, as he found
himself rather unceremoniously landed upon the flagging
stones, his Havana rolling at his feet, and his wife
preparing to follow Annie, whom Jake had placed inside.

“Yes; I talked about her husband's being a splendid
mark for a bullet, and all that, without ever thinking she
was his wife. He looked so tall, and big, and nice, that
I couldn't help thinking his head would come above all

the rest in a fight, but I don't believe it will. There,
Jake, we are ready now, drive on,” said Rose, while poor
Annie groaned afresh at this doubtful consolation.

“Drive whar?” asked Jake. “I dun know whar they
lives.”

“To be sure, nor I either,” returned Rose, turning
inquiringly to her husband, who gave the information,
adding, as he glanced down the street,

“Mr. Graham himself is coming, I see. I think, Rose,
you had best give your place to him.”

Rose, who was fond of adventures, wanted sadly to go
with Annie, but George, when he came up, seemed so
concerned, and asked so many questions, that she
deemed it best to leave it for his wife to make the necessary
explanations, merely saying, as she stepped upon
the walk,

“I am so sorry, Mr. Graham; I really did not mean
anything wrong in saying I knew you'd be shot, for you
are so—”

“Rose, your dress is rubbing the wheel,” interrupted
Mr. Mather, by way of diverting Rose from repeating
the act for which she was expressing sorrow.

“No, it ain't rubbing the wheel, either. It isn't any
where near it,” said Rose, wondering what Will could
mean; while George, taking a seat by Annie, smiled at
what he saw to be a ruse.

Bent upon reconciliation, Rose pressed up to the carriage,
and said to Annie, “You won't be angry at me always,
will you? I shouldn't have thought of it, only he
does look so—”

“Go on, Jake,” Mr. Mather called out, cutting short
Rose's speech, and the next moment Annie was driving
down the street in Rose Mather's carriage, and behind

the iron greys, an honor she had never dreamed in store
for her when she saw the stylish turnout passing the
door of her cottage in the Hollow.