Very tenderly George Graham’s strong arm encircled the girlish form, and when he saw how fast the tears came to the great dreamy eyes of blue, and thought how frail was the wife of little more than a year, he bent down until his chin rested on her pale brown hair, and whispered softly to her,
“Don’t, Annie, darling, you know I will never go unless you think I ought, and give your free consent.”
Had George Graham wished, he could not have chosen a more powerful argument than the words, “Unless you think I ought.”
Annie repeated them to herself again and again, until consciousness of all else around her was forgotten in that one question of duty. She heard no longer the second speaker, whose burning eloquence was stirring up hitherto reluctant young men to place their names beside others already pledged to their country’s cause. Leaning forward so that her forehead rested on the railing in front, she tried to pray, but flesh and strength were weak, and the prayer ended always with the unuttered cry, “I cannot let George go,” while the fingers twined more and more closely around the broad, warm hand, which sought awhile to reassure her, and then was withdrawn from her grasp as George arose and politely offered his seat to a lady who had just arrived, and who, after glancing an instant at his coat, accepted his civility as a matter of course, but withheld the thanks she would have accorded to one whom she considered her equal.
Spreading out her wide skirt of rich blue silk so that it nearly covered poor Annie, she threw her crimson scarf across the railing in front, hitting Widow Simms, and so diverting the attention of Mrs. Baker, that the latter ceased her crying, while the widow turned with an expression half curious, half indignant. Annie, too, attracted by the heavy fringe and softly-blended colors of the scarf, a part of which had fallen upon her lap, as the widow shook it from her shoulder with a jerk, stole a glance at the new comer, in whom she recognized the bride, the beauty, the envied belle of Rockland, Rose Mather, from Boston,—and wife of the wealthy and aristocratic William Mather, who three months before had ended the strife between the Rockland ladies as to what fair hand should spend his gold, and drive his iron greys, by bringing to his elegant mansion a fairy little creature with whose exquisite beauty even the most fastidious could not find fault. Childish in proportions, and perfect in form and feature, she would have been handsome without the aid of the dancing brown eyes, and chestnut curls which shaded her girlish brow. Rose knew she was pretty,—knew she was stylish,—knew she was fascinating,—knew she was just then the rage, and as such could do and say what she pleased. Sweeping back her chestnut hair with her snowy hand, she gave one rapid glance at the sea of heads around her, and then, in a half petulant tone, exclaimed to her companion!
“I don’t believe Will is here. I can’t see him anywhere.”
“Didn’t you know he had enlisted?” asked a young man, who had made his way through the crowd, and joined her.
For an instant the bright color faded from Rose Mather’s cheek, but it quickly returned as she read in Mr. Wentworth’s eye, a contradiction of his words.
“Will enlisted!” she repeated. “Such people as Will don’t go to the war. It’s a very different class, such, for instance, as that one going up to sign. Upon my word, it’s the boy who saws our wood!” and she pointed at the youth, offering himself up that just such people as Rose Mather, radiant in silks and diamonds, and lace, might rest in peace at home, knowing nothing of war, and its attendant horrors, save what came to her through the daily prints.
Widow Simms heard the remark, and with a swelling heart turned toward the boy who sawed Rose Mather’s wood, for she knew who it was, and it did not need the loud whisper of Mrs. Baker to tell her that it was her boy, the youngest of the three, the one she loved the best, the baby, who kept the milk of human kindness from turning quite sour within her breast by his many acts of filial love, and his gentle, caressing ways. How could she give him up, her darling, her idol, the one so like his father, dead ere he was born? Who would comfort her as he had done? Who would give her the good-night kiss, timidly, stealthily, lest the older ones should see and laugh at his girlish weakness? Who would bring his weekly earnings, and empty them slily into her lap? Who would find her place in the prayer book on Sunday, and pound her clothes on Monday, long before it was light? Who would split the nice fine kindlings for the morning fire or bring the cool fresh water in the summer from the farther well, and who, when her head was aching sadly would make the cup of tea she liked so much? Homely offices, many of them, it is true, but they made up the sum of that mother’s happiness, and it is not strange that, for a moment, the iron will gave way, and the poor widow wept over her cruel bereavement, not noisily, as Mrs. Baker had done, but silently, bitterly, her body trembling nervously, and her whole attitude indicative of keen, unaffected anguish.