Holmes Rose Mather A Tale

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-3-98826-286-8
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 365 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Rose Mather: A Tale is a novel written by Mary Jane Holmes and published in 1871. The story takes place in a small New England town and follows the life of the titular character, Rose Mather, a young woman who is orphaned at a young age and forced to navigate the challenges and complexities of life on her own. As the story unfolds, we learn that Rose is a kind and compassionate woman, who is deeply committed to her family and friends. She is also fiercely independent, and refuses to be defined by the narrow expectations of society. Despite the many hardships she faces, including poverty, illness, and the disapproval of her conservative community, Rose remains determined to live life on her own terms. She works hard to support herself and her family, and forms deep and meaningful relationships with the people around her. Throughout the novel, Holmes explores a range of themes, including the importance of family, the role of women in society, and the power of love and friendship to overcome even the most difficult challenges. She also offers a vivid and highly detailed portrait of life in small-town America during the mid-19th century, with all its joys, sorrows, and complexities. Rose Mather: A Tale is a classic work of American literature that has been widely praised for its engaging characters, vivid descriptions, and powerful themes. It is a poignant and uplifting story of resilience, determination, and the triumph of the human spirit, and remains a beloved classic of the genre.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Holmes, Mary Jane

Leseproben

CHAPTER I.
THE WAR MEETING.
The long disputed point as to whether the South was in earnest or not was settled, and through the Northern States the tidings flew that Sumter had fallen and the war had commenced. With the first gun which boomed across the waters of Charleston bay, it was ushered in, and they who had cried, “Peace! peace!” found at last “there was no peace.” Then, and not till then, did the nation rise from its lethargic slumber and shake off the delusion with which it had so long been bound. Political differences were forgotten. Republicans and Democrats struck the friendly hand, pulse beat to pulse, heart throbbed to heart, and the watchword everywhere was, “The Union forever.” Throughout the length and breadth of the land were true, loyal hearts, and as at Rhoderic Dhu’s command the Highlanders sprang to view from every clump of heather on the wild moors of Scotland, so when the war-cry came up from Sumter our own Highlanders arose, a mighty host, responsive to the call; some from New England’s templed hills, with hands inured to toil, and hearts as strong and true as flint; some from the Empire, some the Keystone State, and others from the prairies of the distant West. It mattered not what place had given them birth; it mattered little whether the Green Mountains of Vermont, the granite hills of New Hampshire, or the shadowy forests of Wisconsin had sheltered their childhood’s home; united in one cause they rallied round the Stars and Stripes, and went forth to meet, not a foreign foe, but alas, to raise a brother’s arm against another brother’s arm in that most dreadful of all anarchies, a national civil war. In the usually quiet village of Rockland the utmost interest was felt, and though there, as elsewhere, were many whose hearts beat as warmly for their Southern friends as when the sun shone on a nation at peace, all felt the necessity of action, and when at last the evening came in which the first war meeting of that place was to be held, a dense and promiscuous crowd wended its way to the old brick church, whose hallowed walls echoed to the sound of fife and drum, strange music for the house of God, but more acceptable, in that dark hour, than songs of praise sung by vain and thoughtless lips. In the centre of the church, the men were mostly congregated, while the seats nearest the door were occupied by the women,—the wives and mothers and sisters who had come with aching hearts to see their brothers, sons and husbands give their signatures to what seemed their sure death warrant. Conspicuous among these was Widow Simms, whose old-fashioned leghorn, with its faded green veil, was visible at all public gatherings, its broad frill of lace shading a pair of sharp grey eyes, and a rather peculiar face. It was very white now, and the thin lips were firmly compressed as the widow tried to look resolute and unconcerned when two of her sons went forward, their faces glowing with youthful enthusiasm, as they heard the President repeat their names, “John Simms,—Eli Simms.” The widow involuntarily said it after him, her mother’s heart whispering within her, “Isaac won’t go. He’s too young. I can’t give Isaac up,” and her eye wandered to where her youngest boy was sitting, twirling his old cloth cap, and occasionally exchanging a word with the young man next to him, William Baker, who, together with his brother, arose, to follow John and Eli Simms. Scarcely, however, had they risen to their feet, when a woman occupying the same seat with Widow Simms, uttered a cry more like the moaning howl of some wild beast, than like a human sound. “No, Harry, no, Bill—no, no,” and the bony arms were flung wildly toward the two young men, who, with a dogged, indignant glance at her, fell back among the crowd where they could not be seen, muttering something not very complimentary to “the old woman,” as they called her. But the old woman did not hear it, and if she had, it would have made no difference. It mattered not to her that they had ever been the veriest pests in the whole village, the planners of every grade of mischief, the robbers of barns and plunderers of orchards,—they were her boys, and she didn’t want them shot, so she continued to moan and cry, muttering incoherently about the rich treading down the poor, and wondering why Judge Warner didn’t send his own white fingered sons, if he thought going to war was so nice. “I wouldn’t make such a fuss, let what would happen to me,” said the Widow Simms, casting a half contemptuous glance upon the weeping woman, whom she evidently considered far beneath her, and adding, “They had ‘nough-sight better be shot than hung,’ as an aside to the young woman just behind her,—sweet Annie Graham, who was holding fast to her husband’s hand, as if she would thus keep him in spite of the speaker’s eloquent appeals, and the whispers of his companions, who were urging him to join the company forming so rapidly before the altar. There was a terrible struggle going on in Annie Graham’s breast,—duty to her country and love for her husband waging a mighty conflict, the former telling her that if the right would triumph, somebody’s husband must go, and the wife-heart crying out, “Yes, somebody’s husband must go, I know, but not mine, not George.” 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...