Rose Mather: A tale

by Mary Jane Holmes

Annie did not think it would. In her opinion Jimmie was not deserving of such honor, and she said so, as delicately as possible, adding that “were it Tom it would be a very different thing.”

Rose knew that Annie was right, and so the Stars and Stripes were not brought out to welcome the young man now rapidly approaching. Annie was the first to catch the sound of the carriage wheels, and when Rose turned to ask if she really supposed Jimmie was there, she found herself alone.

“She’s gone to meet him, of course,” she said, “but I most wish she had staid here, for I wanted to introduce her myself. I hope she won’t dislike him.”

Meantime in the parlor below, Mrs. Carleton sat waiting for her boy,—not as Spartan mothers were wont to wait for their sons returning from the war, but with a yearning tenderness for the loved prodigal, blended with loyal indignation for his sin. He was not coming to her as a hero who had done what he could for his country, but with a traitor’s stain upon his fair name, which she would gladly have wiped out. She heard the carriage as it stopped, and heard the step on the piazza, not rapid and bounding as it used to be, but slow and heavy, as if uncertain which way to turn.

“I must go out to meet him,” she said, but all her strength forsook her, and sinking upon the sofa, she could only call out faintly, “Jimmie, my boy.”

He heard her, and almost before the words had left her lips her Jimmie boy was kneeling at her feet, with his face buried for an instant in her lap; then, with one burning kiss upon her forehead, the proud James Carleton, who in his early boyhood was scarcely ever known to acknowledge that he was wrong, asked to be forgiven and restored again to the confidence and love he had forfeited, and with her hand upon his bowed head, the mother forgave her boy, bidding him look up, that she might see again the face she had once thought so handsome. It was tear-stained now, and worn, and Mrs. Carleton sighed as she detected upon it unmistakable marks of reckless dissipation. Still it was Jimmie’s face, and it grew each moment more natural as the flush of excitement deepened on the cheeks, and lent an added brightness to the saucy, laughing eyes. The lines upon the forehead and about the mouth would wear away in time, Mrs. Carleton hoped, and parting the soft, black curls clustering around the broad, white brow, she told him why Rose was not there to meet him, and asked if he would go up then to see her.

Rose heard them coming, and at the sound of the familiar voice calling her name, the tears flowed in torrents, and with her face buried in her pillows she received her brother’s first embrace. Very gently he lifted up her head, and taking in his the little hot hands, kissed again and again her childish face, and wiping her tears away, asked, half seriously, half playfully, “if they met in peace or war?”

“Oh, in peace, in peace!” Rose answered, and winding her arms around his neck, she hugged and cried over him, asking why he had been so naughty, when he knew how badly they would feel, and why he had not interfered to save poor Tom from a prisoner’s fate.

He explained to her how that was impossible, but for his treachery he had no excuse; he could only answer that he was sorry, and ask again to be forgiven.

“I do not now believe the South all wrong,” he said. “Many of them sincerely think they are fighting for their firesides; others hardly know what they are fighting for; while others again are impressed into the army and cannot help themselves. As for me, I would gladly blot out the past, for which I have no apology; but as that cannot be, I would rather talk as little of it as possible. Try, Rose, to forget that you ever had a rebel brother. Will you?”