The writing utensils were brought, and then sitting where George could look into his face, Mr. Mather wrote as the dying man dictated:
My dear, dear, darling Annie:—It will be days, perhaps, before you see this letter, and ere it reaches you somebody will have told you that your poor George is dead! Are you crying, darling, as you read this? Do the tears fall upon the words, ‘poor George is dead?’ Don’t cry, my precious Annie. It makes my heart ache to think how you will sorrow and I not there to comfort you. It’s hard to die away from home, but not so hard as it would once have been, for I hope I am a different man from the one who bade you good-bye a few short months ago; and, darling, it must comfort you to know that your prayers, your sweet influence have led the wanderer home to God. We shall meet again in Heaven, Annie,—meet where partings are unknown. It may be many years, perhaps, and the grass upon my grave may blossom many times ere you will sleep the sleep which knows no waking but at the last you’ll come where I am waiting you. I know I shall be there, Annie. All the harassing doubts and fears are gone. Simple faith in the Saviour’s promise has taken them away, and left me perfect peace. God bless you, Annie darling, and grant that as you have guided me, so you may guide others to that home above, where I am going so fast. You have made me very happy since you have been my wife, and I bless you for it. It makes my death pillow easier to know that not one bitter word has ever passed between us,—nothing but perfect confidence and love. I was not good enough for you, darling. None knows that better than myself. You should have married one of gentler blood and higher birth than I, a poor mechanic. I have always felt this more than you, perhaps, and have tried so hard not to shame you with my homespun ways, had I lived, I should have improved constantly beneath your refining influence, but that is all past now, and it is well, perhaps, that it is so. As you grew older you might have felt there was a lack in me, a something which did not satisfy the cravings of your higher nature, and though you might not have loved me less, you would have seen that we were not wholly congenial. I am well enough in my way, but I am not a suitable companion for a girl of culture like yourself, and I’ve often wondered that you should have chosen me. But you did, and again I bless you for it. Never, never, was year so happy as the one I spent with you, my darling, darling Annie, and I was looking forward to many such, but God has decreed it otherwise, and what he does we know is right. I shall never see you again! and though they will bring me back to you, I shall not feel your tears upon my face, or see you bending over my coffin-bed! Still I know you will do this, and that makes it necessary for me to tell what, perhaps, has been too long withheld, because I would spare you if possible.
“Annie, had I lived, I never could have toiled for you as I once did, for where the right arm, which has held your light form so often, used to be, there is nothing now but a scarred stump, and this is why I have not written. Does it make you sicken and shrink away from me? Don’t, Annie. Your crippled husband’s heart is as full of tenderness now as ever. I was too proud of my figure, Annie, and the thought that you might love me less when you knew how maimed I was, hurt more than the cold, sharp steel, cutting into my throbbing flesh.
“And now, dear Annie, I come to the hardest part of all. I know just how you’ll start and shudder at what you deem so cruel a suggestion,—know just how keen the pang will be, for I have felt the same and my spirit well nigh fainted as I thought of the time when another’s caressess than mine would call the sweet love light to your eye and kindle the soft blushes on your cheek. Listen to me, Annie. You’ll be glad one day to remember that I told you what I did. You are young and beautiful, and though you do not believe it now, the time will surely come when my grave will not be visited as often as at first, and the flowers you will plant above me when next spring’s sun is shining will wither for want of care, and the rank grass growing there will not be trodden down by your dear little feet, for they will be waiting by another fireside than ours in the Hollow, and my Annie will bear another name than mine. Do you discredit me, darling? It will surely be, and I am willing that it should, but you will never know the anguish it costs me to be willing. It is the bitterest drop in all the bitter cup, but I drank it with tears and prayers, and now I can calmly say to you what I am saying,—can even from my death-bed give you to another, whoever he may be. You can never forget me, I know; never forget your soldier husband, who fell in his country’s cause, but by and by thoughts of him will cease to give you pain, and our short married life will seem like some far-off dream.
“I cannot say how it would be with me were you taken and I left, but I am much like other men, and judging from their example I should do just as they do, so if in after years another asks you, as I once did, to be his guiding star, don’t refuse for me. Think that from my low grave I bless you in your new relations, and will welcome you to Heaven all the same, though you come fettered and bound with other links than those my love has thrown around you.
“I am almost done now, Annie. There is a gathering film before my eyes, and I feel the death chill creeping through my veins. It would be sweet to have you here, as I go down the brink up which no traveler has ever come; but it cannot be, and I will not repine. There is One with me whose presence is dearer far than yours could be; One whose everlasting arm will be beneath me as I pass over Jordan. Leaning on Him I need no other stay, but shall go fearlessly down to death. There is another with me, too,—an earthly friend, who has been kinder than a brother, and my heart clings to him more fondly than he can ever guess. Always respect William Mather, Annie, for what he has been to me. Pray that prosperity may attend him all his days, and that at the last he may find a place in Heaven. He is thinking of these things, I know, and from the dreary hours spent with me there may yet spring up plants of everlasting growth.
“My mind begins to wander, darling. There’s a rushing sound in my ears, while thoughts of you and thoughts of that terrible Sabbath battle are blended together. Good-bye, my precious one. Don’t cry too much when you read this. It is not good-bye forever. A few more years of earth to you, a moment of heavenly bliss to me and then we meet again, where golden harps are ringing. I can almost hear them now,—almost see the shining throngs sent out to meet me, just as I once vainly dreamed the Rockland people would come to welcome me home from war. In fancy I put my arms around your neck just as I used to do; in fancy hold you to my bosom; in fancy kiss your girlish lips, and smooth your pale brown hair.
“I don’t know how you’ll live without me; don’t know who will earn your bread, but the God of the widow and fatherless will surely care for my darling and keep her heart from breaking. With him I leave you, knowing you are safer there than elsewhere.
“Good-bye, good-bye.”
There were great tear blots upon this letter, for Mr. Mather, as he penned it, had wept over it like a child, forming a resolution which he wondered had not suggested itself before. Kneeling by the dying George, he said, “God will care for your darling, and I shall be His instrument. So long as I have a home, Annie shall not suffer. Rose’s love was given to her long ago and mine will follow soon. She shall be a sister to us both.”