“Noble boy. You must be proud of him,” was Mrs. Carleton’s comment, while Rose, ever impulsive, seized upon a new idea.
It would be so nice for the Rockland ladies to fit up a box of things and send to Company R, reserving a corner for Tom and Will. She should do it, anyway, on her own responsibility, if nobody chose to help her, and she whispered to Annie that George should have a large share of the delicacies she would provide.
“You may send that candy to Tom, if you choose,” she said to the widow, “though I think cod liver oil would be better. And the ointment too,—only it mustn’t sit near my preserves, for fear the two will get mixed.”
Rose had found something to do, and so absorbed was she in a plan which every one approved, that she forgot to cry all the time for Will, as she had fully intended doing. Up the streets and down she went, sometimes walking, sometimes riding, but always in a flurry, always excited, now tumbling over dry-goods boxes in quest of one large enough to hold the many articles preparing in Rockland for the then ill-fed, suffering soldiers of the 13th Regiment, now up at the express office, bargaining about the expense, which she meant to bear herself, and now down at the Hall, adroitly smoothing over little bickerings frequently arising among the ladies assembled there, concerning the articles sent in, some declaring the fried apple pies brought by Mrs. Baker should not go, nor yet the round balls of Dutch cheese she had saved sour milk two weeks to make, just because “Billy relished it so much, ’long with apple turnovers.”
Poor old Mrs. Baker! It was the best she could do, and when Rose saw how the tears came at the prospect of Billy’s losing the feast she had prepared with so much care, she declared the cheese should go if she had to send it in a separate box. It was just so with the widow’s poke ointment, some of the ladies wondering what next would be brought in and what it could be for. Rose knew exactly what ’twas for; Tom had corns, and the despised salve was for him, so that should go if nothing else. But when Susan Ruggles Simms, her thoughts intent on John, brought in a round of roasted veal, which her mother-in-law said would be in a most lively condition by the time it reached Washington, Rose, after suggesting that it be packed in ice and put in a refrigerator, yielded for once, and persuaded the girl-wife to carry home her veal, which would most surely be spoiled ere John came to see it.
“You can write him a nice long letter,” she said, when she saw how disappointed Susan looked. “You can tell him your intentions were good until we old experienced married ladies persuaded you out of them.”
So Susan, with a sigh, carried back her nice stuffed roast, the widow muttering in an aside tone, “That’s all them shiftless Ruggleses know! Might as well send maggits and done with it.”
It was a strange medley that huge box contained, for every member of Company R was remembered, thanks to the indefatigable Rose, who procured a list of the names, and when she found any without friends in that immediate vicinity, she supplied the deficiency from her own store of luxuries. Of course Will and Tom fared the best, while next to them came Lieutenant Graham and Isaac Simms, Rose writing a tiny note to the latter, telling him how much she liked him for speaking so of Tom, and sending him a pair of her fine linen sheets, because she couldn’t think of anything else, and thought these would be cool to sleep in on hot summer nights. Dear little Rose! how fast she grew in popularity, the people wondering they had never seen before how good she was, and imputing some portion of her present interest to the presence of her mother, who had made arrangements to remain for an indefinite length of time in Rockland, and who, far less demonstrative than her active daughter, did much by her sensible advice to keep the wheel in motion, and Rose from overdoing the matter so zealously taken in hand.
The box was packed at last;—every chink and crevice was full. Mrs. Baker’s Dutch cheese and fried apple pies were there, wrapped by Rose Mather in innumerable folds of paper, tied around with yards of the strongest twine she could find, and safely stowed away where they could not be harmed; Widow Simms’s ointment too, and the candy she had made, occupied a corner, together with her daguerreotype sent to Isaac, and a letter to Captain Carleton. That letter was a mammoth undertaking, but the widow felt it her duty to write it, groaning and sweating, and consulting Perry’s old leathern-bound dictionary for every word of which she felt at all uncertain, and driving poor Annie nearly distracted with asking “if this were grammar, and if that were too lovin’ like, for a widder to send a widower.” Not a little amused, Annie gave the required advice, smiling in spite of herself, as she read the note the widow handed her, and which ran as follows:
“My dear Mr. Captin Carleton:—I can’t help puttin’ dear before your name, you seem so nigh to me since Isaac told how kind you was to him. I’m nothin’ but a shrivelled, dried up widder, fifty odd years old, but I’ve got a mother’s heart big enough to take you in with my other boys. I know you are a nice, clever man, but whether you’re a good one, as I call good, I don’t know, though bein’ you come from Boston I’m afraid you’re a Unitarian, and I’ll never quit prayin’ for you till I know. That’s about all I can do, for I’m poor a’most as Job’s turkey; but if there’s any shirts or trouses, or the like o’ that wants makin’, let me know, for I don’t believe your mother or sister is great at sewin’. Mrs. Marthers ain’t, I know, though as nice a little body as ever drawed the breath. Your wife is dead, too, they say, and that comes hard agin. I know just how that feels, for my man died eighteen years ago last October, a few weeks before Isaac was born.