Rose Mather: A tale

by Mary Jane Holmes

“It may be my boy they’ll go up next to meet.”

Poor Annie, too, shuddered and moaned as she caught the ominous sounds, and knew what they portended.

“It would be better to bring him back quietly,” she said. “It seems almost like mockery, this parade, which he can never know. I may be glad, by and by that they honored him thus, but it’s so hard now,” and covering her head with her pillow, Annie wept silently as she heard the mournful beat of the muffled drum, and knew the march to the depot had commenced.

How Rose wanted to be in the street and see her husband when he came; but with heroic self-denial, she forced down every longing to be away, and sitting down by Annie, busied herself with counting off the minutes and wondering if the clock would ever point to half-past ten, or the train ever arrive.

There was a great crowd out that morning to meet the returning soldier, and George’s dream of what might be when he came back again was more than realized. There were men and carriages upon the street, and groups of women at the corners, while the little boys ran up and down. But in the beat of the muffled drum there was a tone which made the hearts of those who heard it overflow with tears, as they remembered what that dirgelike music meant. Around the jammed white hat of the man who played the fife there was a badge of mourning, and in the notes he trilled a mournful cadence far different from the patriotic strains he played as a farewell to Rockland soldiers, going forth to battle, with hopes so sanguine of success. One of that youthful band was coming back; not full of life and fiery ambition as when he went away, dreaming bright dreams of the glory he would win, and the laurels he would wear, when once again he trod the streets at home. Not as a conquering hero, with the crown of fame on his brow, though the crown indeed was won, and where the golden light of Heaven shines from the everlasting hills, he was wearing it in glory. But his ear was deaf to all earthly sounds, and the tribute of respect his friends fain would bestow upon him, awakened no thrill in his cold, pulseless heart. Still they felt that all honor was due to the dead, and so they had come up to meet him, a greater throng than any of which he had dreamed when ambition burned within his bosom. There was a carriage waiting, too, just as he hoped there might be; a carriage sent expressly for him, but the children on the sidewalk shrank away and ceased their noisy clamor as it went by, its sombre appearance somewhat relieved by the gay coloring of the Stars and Stripes laid reverently upon it.

Slowly up the street the long procession passed, unmindful of the rain which, mingled with the snow and sleet, beat upon the pavements, and dashed against the window-panes, from which many a tear-stained face looked out upon the gloomy scene, made ten times gloomier by the sighing of the wind and the rifts of leaden clouds veiling the November sky. Over the eastern hills there was a rising wreath of smoke, and a shrill, discordant scream told that the train was coming, just as the carriage sent for George drew up to its appointed place.

Gently, carefully, tenderly they lifted him out, and set him down in their midst; but no loud cheering rent the air, no acclamations of applause, nothing save that dreadful muffled beat, and the soft notes of the fife, telling to the passengers leaning from the windows that the dead, as well as the living, had been their fellow-traveller. The banner upon the hearse told the rest of the sad story, and with a sigh to the memory of the unknown soldier, the passengers resumed their seats, and the train sped on its way, leaving the Rockland people alone with their dead.

Reverently they placed him in the carriage which none cared to share with him. Carefully they wrapped around him the Stars and Stripes, and dropping the heavy curtains, followed through the streets to the cottage in the Hollow, which he had left so full of life and hope. Around that cottage there was a gathered multitude next day, and though on the unsheltered heads of those without, the driving rain was falling, they waited patiently while the prayer was said, and the funeral anthem chanted. Then there came a bustling moment,—people passing beneath the Star Spangled Banner, and pausing to look at the dead. There were sobs and tears, and words of fond regret, and then the coffin-lid was closed, and once more that muffled beat was heard, as with arms reversed the Rockland Guards marched up the walk, where, leaning upon their guns they stood, while strong men carried out their late companion, and placed him in the hearse, the carriage sent for him. There was no relative to go with him to the grave,—none in whose veins his blood was flowing, so Mr. Mather and Rose took the lead, followed by a promiscuous crowd of carriages and pedestrians, the very horses keeping time to the solemn music beaten by the drum, and played by the man in the jammed white hat.

Slowly through the November rain,—through the November sleet, and through the November mist they bore him on through the streets which he so oft had trodden; on past the cottage he meant to buy for poor Annie, whispering to herself with every note of the tolling bell, “George has gone to Heaven.” Onward, still onward, till streets and cottage were left behind, and they came to where the marble columns, gleaming through the autumnal fog, told who peopled that silent yard. Just by the gate, the bearers paused, and stood with uncovered heads while the solemn words were uttered, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!” Then, when it was all over, the long procession moved through the spacious churchyard, past the tall monuments betokening worldly wealth; past the less imposing stones, whose lettering told of treasure in Heaven; past the group of cedar trees and pine; past the graves of the nameless dead, and so out upon the highway, Rose Mather starting in alarm as the band struck up a quicker, merrier march, whose stirring, jubilant notes seemed so much like mockery. She knew it was the custom, but the music grated none the less harshly, and drawing her veil over her face, she wept silently, occasionally glancing backward to the spot of freshly upturned earth where Rockland’s first soldier was buried,—the brave, self-denying George,—who gave all he had for his country, and died in her behalf.

Four weeks after George’s death, Annie left the cottage in the Hollow, and went to live for a time with Mrs. Mather. Early orphaned, and thrown upon the charities of a scheming aunt, who, after her marriage with George, had cast her off entirely, there was now no one to whom she could look for help and sympathy save Rose, and when the latter insisted that her home should be Annie’s also, while William, too, joined his entreaties with those of his wife, and urged as one reason his promise made to George, Annie consented on condition that as soon as her health was sufficiently restored, she should do something for herself, either as teacher, or governess in some private family.