It was very lonely at the Mather mansion after the departure of the soldiers, and it required all Annie’s tact to keep Rose from sinking entirely under the sense of desolation which crept over her as she began more and more to realize what the war meant, and to tremble for the safety of her husband and her brothers. They were still in Washington, but they might be ordered to advance at any moment; and, in a tremor of distress, Rose waited and watched for every mail which could bring her tidings of them. Next to her husband’s letters, Jimmie’s did her the most good, for Jimmie had in his nature a world of hopefulness and humor; and his letters were full of fun, and quaint description of the life he was leading. And still of the three young men,—Will Mather, Tom Carleton, and Jimmie,—the latter suffered the most acutely, for in addition to his dislike of military life he was compelled to endure the jokes and jeers which the coarser and more unfeeling of his comrades heaped upon him when, from Bill Baker, they heard that his first experience in arms-bearing had been learned in the army of the enemy. To one of Bill’s instincts it seemed a great thing that he had captured and brought to Washington so illustrious a prisoner as the “Corp’ral,” as he persisted in calling him, and the story was repeated with such wonderful additions, that Jimmie, when once by accident he was a listener to the tale failed utterly to recognize himself in the “chap who had run so many miles, from, and then fought so many hours with, the redoubtable Bill,” who, while annoying his quondam captive so terribly, still, under all circumstances, evinced for him an attachment as singular as it was sincere. Everything which he could do for Jimmie he did, becoming literally his servant and drudge, and thus saving him from many a hardship which, as a private, he would otherwise have encountered. It was a fancy of Jimmie’s that by serving as a private in the army against which his hand had once been lifted, he should in some way expiate his sin, and, perhaps, be surer of winning favor from Annie Graham, whose blue eyes were constantly before him just as they had looked when, in her dress of black, she stood in the spring sunshine, bidding him good-bye. Soon after his arrival in Washington, he had been offered a second lieutenancy in Captain Carleton’s company, but he steadily declined the office, giving no explanation to any one except his brother and his sister Rose, to whom he wrote:
“Perhaps I was foolish to decline the offer, and for a moment I was horribly tempted to accept it, especially when, by doing so, I could to some degree escape my ‘thorn in the flesh,’ who, notwithstanding that he does me many a kindness, annoys me excessively. But I could not feel that I deserved that post. It ought to belong to some one who had never spurned the Old Flag, and so I stood firm, and suggested as a substitute that other Simms chap from Rockland, Hophni, or Phineas, or Eli,—hanged if I know what his name is. Any way, he is that crabbed widow’s son, that used to pucker her mouth so when she saw ‘that young reb of a Carleton,’ and snatch away her gown for fear it should hit me. I reckon he’ll get the office, with its twelve hundred a year, which he can use for his mother’s support. One of her sons, you know, is married, and as good as lost to her; while that boy Isaac is not long for this world. Prison life at Richmond did the business for him, or I’m mistaken, so let Eli be lieutenant, and James Carleton only a private. Do you think I did right, and will that paragon of yours, Mistress Graham, think so, too?”
This was what Jimmie wrote to Rose after he had been gone for three or four weeks, and what Rose, with her usual impetuous thoughtlessness, read to her mother and Annie, who were both in her room when the letter came. Annie had made an attempt to leave, but Rose had insisted that there could be no secret in Jimmie’s letter. If there was, she would skip it, she said, and she read on, stumbling dreadfully, and mispronouncing words, for Jimmie’s handwriting was never very plain: and this letter, written with a soft lead pencil, with a bit of slate-stone for a table, was his very worst. She made out, however, that he had declined the office of second lieutenant because he thought he did not deserve it; that he had named Eli Simms as a fitter person for it than himself, and that he had called the widow a “crab-apple,” or something like it. All this was very clear; and, after exclaiming against Jimmie’s morbid sense of justice in one breath, and pronouncing him “perfectly splendid” in another, she kept on till she reached the “paragon,” which she rendered “Pequot,” making the sentence read, “Will that Pequot of yours, Mistress Graham, think I did right?”
“What did he call me?” Annie exclaimed, her face turning very white, as she leaned toward Rose, who, startled at her vehemence, tried again to make out the word, which was strangely distorted, from the fact that just as Jimmie was writing it, his shadow, Bill, had struck him familiarly upon the shoulder, saying, with a laugh,
“Writin’ to your gal, I s’pose? Give her Bill Baker’s regrets.”
“It looks like Pequot, and some like Patagonian,” Rose said, deciding at last that it was paragon, and adding by way of an explanation to herself of Annie’s evident surprise, “you did not like the idea of his calling you a Pequot, did you Annie? It wouldn’t have meant anything if he had, and it was natural that I should make the blunder, for that’s the name he gave the young girl at the Pequot House,—the one he liked, and to whom he passed himself off as Dick Lee. You remember I told you about her.”
“Yes, I remember,” and Annie’s voice was a little husky—“the little girl who was not happy with her aunt, and so listened the more willingly to the boy’s kind winning words.”
Annie did not know why she said that, unless it were wrung from her by some sudden and bitter memory of what had been a bright sun-spot in her cheerless childhood. When the Pequot girl was mentioned in her presence once before, she had gathered that it was mostly Mrs. Carleton’s pride which had taken the boy away from any more rambles on the beach or moonlight sails upon the bay, and perhaps it was a desire to defend and excuse the girl which prompted her to advance a reason why Dick Lee’s attentions had been so acceptable. She would have given much to recall her words, which made Mrs. Carleton dart a quick, curious glance at her, while Rose exclaimed: “How do you know she was not happy with her aunt? Did Jimmie ever tell you about her?”
“Never,” Annie replied, feeling glad that a servant appeared just at that moment, telling Rose a little girl was in the kitchen asking to see her.
It was a daughter of one of the soldiers whose mother was sick and had sent to Mrs. Mather for some little delicacy. Such calls were frequent at the Mather house, for the soldiers did not receive their pay regularly, and there was much destitution among their families, who, but for Rose’s liberality, would have suffered far more than they did. As freely as water, her money was used to relieve their wants, and now, forgetting Jimmie and his Pequot, she entered at once into the little girl’s story, and when told that the sick woman had expressed a wish to see her she said, “I’ll go now; there’s Jake just come in. I’ll have him harness the horses and take you home. It must be a mile or more to your house.”