Rose Mather: A tale

by Mary Jane Holmes

Rose meant nothing disparaging to Jimmie’s suit. She did think Tom, with his thirty-two years, better suited to Annie, who had been a wife, than saucy-faced teasing Jimmie of only twenty-four. But love never consults the suitability of a thing, and Jimmie was desperately in love by this time. It was not possible for one of his temperament to live a whole month with Annie as he had lived, and not be in love with her. Her graceful beauty, brightened by the auxiliaries of dress and improved health, and the thousand little attentions she paid him just because he was a soldier, had finished the work begun when he was home before, and he could not go back without hearing from her own lips whether there was any hope for him,—the scamp, the scapegrace, the rebel, as he had been called by turns. What Rose said of Tom brought a shadow to his face, and as he walked rapidly toward Widow Simms’, not limping now, or scarcely touching his cane to the ground, he thought of Tom,—old Tom he called him,—wondering how much he had been interested in Annie Graham, and asking himself if it were just the thing for him to take advantage of Tom’s absence, and supplant him in the affections of one whom he might, perhaps, have won had he an opportunity.

“But Tom has had his day,” Jimmie thought. “He can’t expect another wife as nice as Mary was, and it is only fair for me to try my luck. I never loved any one before.”

Jimmie stopped suddenly here; stopped in his soliloquy and his walk, and looking up into the starry sky, thought of the boy at New London, and the hills beyond, and the hotel on the beach, and the white-robed little figure with the blue ribbons in the golden hair, and the soft light in the violet eyes, which used to watch for his coming, and look so bright and yet so modest withal when he came. Louise her aunt had called her, and he had designated her as Lu, or Lulu, just as the fancy took him.

“I did love her some,” Jimmie thought. “Yes, I loved her as well as a boy of seventeen is capable of loving, and I deceived her shabbily. I wonder where she is? She must be twenty or more by this time, and a woman much like Annie. If I could find her, who knows that I might not like her best?” And for a moment Jimmie revolved the propriety of leaving Annie to Tom, while he sought for his first love of the Pequot House.

But Annie Graham had made too strong an impression upon him to be given up for a former love, who might be dead for aught he knew, and so Tom was cast overboard, and Jimmie resumed his walk in the direction of Widow Simms’ cottage.

The widow’s trunks were all packed and ready: every thing was done in the cottage which Annie could do, and with a tired flush on her cheek, a tumbled look about her hair, and a rent in the black dress, made by a nail on one of the boxes, Annie was waiting for the carriage, and half wishing, as she looked out into the bright moonlight, that she was going to walk home instead of riding. The fresh air would do her good, she thought, just as Jimmie appeared at the door. He had come to see if there was anything he could do for Mrs. Simms, he said, and to escort Mrs. Graham home.

Annie’s cheeks were very red as she went for her shawl, and then bade good-bye to Mrs. Simms, whom she did not expect to see on the morrow. As soon as they were outside the gate, Jimmie drew her shawl close round her neck, and taking her arm in his, said to her: “The night is very fine and warm, too, for the first of November. You won’t mind taking the longest route home, I am sure, as it is the last time I may ever walk with you, and there is something I must tell you before I go back to danger and possible death.”

He had turned into a long, grassy lane or newly opened street, where there were but few houses yet, and Annie knew the route would at least be a mile out of the way, but she could not resist the man who held her so closely to his side. She must hear what he had to say, and with an upward glance at the clear blue sky where she fancied George was looking down upon her, she nerved herself to listen.

“Annie,” he began, “I’ve called you Mrs. Graham heretofore, but for to-night you must be Annie, even if you give me no right to call you by that name again. Annie, I have been a scamp, a wretch, a rebel, and almost everything bad. I deceived a young girl in New London years ago when I was a boy. Rose told you something about it once. Her name was Louise,—Lulu I called her,—and I made her think I loved her.”

“And didn’t you love her?” Annie asked suddenly, her voice ringing clear in the still night and making Jimmie start, there was something so quiet and determined in its tone.