Rose Mather: A tale

by Mary Jane Holmes

“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.”