Rose Mather: A tale

by Mary Jane Holmes

The more humane of Captain Carleton’s captors had repeated what the dying officer said of Tom’s kindness to him, and for this Tom had at last found opportunity for sending a note to Charlie’s mother, telling her how her darling died, and asking her to write for him to his mother, his sister and the Widow Simms. This the grateful woman had done, but Rose had not received her letter yet, and she listened eagerly while the widow read the very words which Tom had written concerning himself and Isaac. There was but little said of suffering or privation. Tom, it would seem, was tolerably well cared for, but he told of days and nights when his heart went out in earnest longings for the loved ones at home, and then he spoke of Isaac, saying,

“Tell his mother that he does not bear prison confinement well, and she would hardly know her boy. He is very popular among his fellow prisoners, and does more good, I verily believe, than half our army chaplains. One poor fellow, who died the other day, blessed Isaac Simms as the means of leading him to Heaven.”

“Oh, I’m so glad he’s there, ain’t you?” and the tears shone in Rose’s eyes as she involuntarily paid this tribute to Christianity.

“On some accounts I am, and then again I ain’t,” was the widow’s reply, as she wiped the moisture from her glasses and returned them to her pocket. “I’m glad he’s doing good, but I don’t want him sick there alone, without his mother. It’s hard to see why these things are so, but that’s nothin’ to do with the goin’ to Washington. Will you take me, Mrs. Marthers? I know I’m homespun and ignorant, but you may call me waitin maid, or anything you like, if you’ll only take me.”

The widow’s voice was full of entreaty, and Rose could not resist it. It would be grander, she thought, to have a woman from Boston, but then Mrs. Simms wanted to go so badly, while Annie, too, preferred her, she was sure. So it was settled that as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made, Mrs. Simms, Annie and Rose were to start for the Federal Capital. Had the care of an entire regiment devolved upon Rose, she could not have been busier or have felt a greater responsibility than she did in planning and arranging the journey, and between times trying to initiate Widow Simms into the mysteries of travelling, telling her not to be frightened and think they’d run off the track each time the whistle blew,—not to show undue anxiety about her baggage, as she—Rose—should hold the checks, little brass pieces, which they would get at the depot,—not to bother the conductor by asking questions, or let the people know that she had never been further in the cars than Rochester.

To all these directions the widow gravely promised compliance, saying, in an aside to Annie, “It does me good to see the little critter patternize me, as if she s’posed I was a tarnal fool, and didn’t know a steam locofoco from a canal boat.”

The day before the one appointed for the commencement of the journey came at last. Rose’s three trunks, of the size which makes the porters swear, were packed to their utmost capacity, for Rose meant to make a winter’s campaign, and display her numerous dresses at parties and levees. So everything which she could possibly and impossibly need, even to her skating dress, was stowed away in the huge boxes, together with various luxuries for her husband and George, and then, as the afternoon was drawing to a close, she started for the cottage in the Hollow, to see that everything there was in readiness.

It had not taken the widow long to pack up her three dresses, and her small, old-fashioned hair trunk, locked and tied round with a bit of rope, was standing near the door ready for the morrow’s early train. On Annie’s face there was a hopeful, expectant expression, which told how glad she was at the prospect of meeting her husband so soon.

“Two days more and I shall see him,” she thought, picturing to herself the meeting, and fancying what she would do, what she would say, and how carefully she would nurse him when once she was there with him. It was a bright picture she drew of that meeting with her husband,—of the kisses, the caresses, she would lavish upon him, and she was almost as impatient as Rose herself to have the November day come to an end, knowing that with the darkness she was nearer to the asked-for to-morrow.

Just as the sun was setting, Rose took her leave, saying, as she bade Annie good-bye, “I mean to drive round by the depot and get the tickets to-night, so as to save time in the morning.”