Family Pride Or Purified by Suffering Part 54

"No, Robert is at home; I have just come from there, and he told me--oh!

Helen, can you bear it?--Mark is dead--shot twice as he jumped from the train taking him to another prison, Robert saw it, and knew that he was dead."

Bell could get no further, for Helen, who had never fainted in her life, did so now, lying senseless so long that the physician began to think it would be a mercy if she never came back to life, for her reason, he fancied, had fled. But Helen did come back to life with reason unimpaired, and insisted upon hearing every detail of the dreadful story, both from Bell and Tom. The latter confirmed all Lieutenant Reynolds had said, besides adding many items of his own. Mark was dead, there could be no doubt of it; but with the tenacity of a strong, hopeful nature, the mother clung to the illusion that possibly the ball stunned, instead of killing--that he would yet come back; and many a time, as the days went by, that mother started at a step upon the walk or ring of the bell, which she fancied might be his, hearing him sometimes calling in the night storm for her to let him in, and hurrying down to the door only to be disappointed, and go back to her lonely room to weep the dark night through.

With Helen there were no such illusions. After talking calmly and rationally with both Robert and Tom, she knew her husband was dead, and never watched and waited for him as his mother did. She had heard from Mark's companions in suffering all they had to tell, of his captivity, and his love for her which manifested itself in so many different ways.

Pa.s.sionately she had wept over the tress of faded hair which Tom Tubbs brought to her, saying: "He cut it from his head just before we left the prison, and told me if he never got home and I did, to give the lock to you, and say that all was well between him and G.o.d--that your prayers had saved him. He wanted you to know that, because, he said, it would comfort you most of all."

And it did comfort her, so that she could almost say with a full heart: "Thy will be done," when she looked up at the clear, wintry heavens and thought that her lost one was there. It was her first real trial, and it crushed her with its magnitude so that she could not submit at once, and many a cry of desolate agony broke the silence of her room, where the whole night through she sat musing of the past, and raining kisses upon the little lock of hair which from the Southern prison had come to her, sole relic of the husband so dearly loved and truly mourned. How faded it was from the rich brown she remembered so well, and Helen gazing at it could realize in part the suffering and want which had worn so many precious lives away. It was strange she never dreamed of him. She often prayed that she might, so as to drive from her mind, if possible, the picture of the prostrate form upon the low, damp field, and the blood-stained face turned in its mortal agony toward the Southern sky and the pitiless foe above it. So she always saw him, shuddering as she wondered if the foe had buried him decently or left his bones to bleach upon the open plain.

Poor Helen, she was widowed indeed, and it needed not the badge of mourning to tell how terribly she was bereaved. But the badge was there, too, for in spite of the hope which said "he is not dead," Mrs. Banker yielded to Helen's importunities, and clothed herself and daughter-in-law in the habiliments of woe, still waiting, still watching, still listening for the step she should recognize so quickly, still looking down the street; but looking, alas! in vain. The winter pa.s.sed away. Captive after captive came home, heart after heart was cheered by the returning loved one, but for the inmates of No. ---- the heavy cloud grew blacker, for the empty chair by the hearth remained unoccupied, and the aching hearts uncheered. Mark Ray did not come back.

CHAPTER LIV.

THE DAY OF THE WEDDING.

Those first warm days of March, 1865, when spring and summer seemed to kiss each other and join hands for a brief s.p.a.ce of time, how balmy, how still, how pleasant they were, and how bright the farmhouse looked, where preparations for Katy's second bridal were going rapidly forward.

Aunt Betsy, as chief directress, was in her element, for now had come the reality of the vision she had seen so long, of house turned upside down in one grand onslaught of suds and sand, then righted again by magic power, and smelling very sweet and clean from its recent ablutions--of turkeys dying in the barn, of chickens in the shed, of ovens heating in the kitchen, of loaves of frosted cake, with cards and cards of snowy biscuit piled upon the pantry shelf--of jellies, tarts and chicken salad--of home-made wine and home-brewed beer, with tea and coffee, portioned out and ready for the pots, the latter mixed with fresh-laid eggs, and smelling strongly of old Java, and the former as fragrant as two and one-half dollars per pound could buy.

Aunt Betsy was very happy, for this, the brightest, balmiest day of all, was Katy's wedding day, and in the dining-room the table was already set with the new chinaware and silver, a joint Christmas gift from Helen and Katy to their good Aunt Hannah, as real mistress of the house.

"Not plated-ware, but the gen-oo-ine article," Aunt Betsy had explained at least twenty times to those who came to see the silver, and she handled it proudly now as she took it from the flannel bags where Mrs.

Deacon Bannister said it must be kept, and placed it on a side table.

The coffee-urn was Katy's, so was the teakettle and the ma.s.sive pitcher, but the rest was "ours," Aunt Betsy complacently reflected as she contemplated the glittering array, end then hurried off to see what was burning on the stove, or "spell" Uncle Ephraim, working industriously at the ice-cream, out on the back stoop, stumbling over Morris as she went, and telling him he had come too soon--it was not fittin' for him to be there under foot until he was wanted.

Morris probably thought he was wanted, by one member of the family at least, and without replying directly to Aunt Betsy, he knocked with a vast amount of a.s.surance at a side door, which opened directly, and Katy's glowing face looked out, and Katy's voice was heard, not telling him he was not wanted, but saying, joyfully:

"Oh, Morris, it's you. I'm so glad you've come, for I wanted--"

But what she wanted was drowned by a succession of certain mysterious sounds, such as are only produced by a collision of lips, and which made Aunt Betsy mutter to herself:

"It's all right, I know, but so much kissin' as I've seen the last fortni't is enough to turn a body's stomach. I guess old bachelders and widders is commonly wus than fresh hands at it."

And having thus expressed her thoughts, Aunt Betsy seized the handle of the ice-cream freezer and turned it vigorously, thinking, perhaps, of Joel Upham, and what might have been but for a freak of hers. Meanwhile Morris and Katy sat alone in the little sewing-room, where latterly they had pa.s.sed so many quiet hours together, and where lay the bridal dress, with its chaste and simple decorations. Katy had clung tenaciously to her mourning robes, asking, half tearfully, if she might wear black, as ladies sometimes did. But Morris had promptly answered no. His bride, if she came to him willingly, must not come clad in widow's weeds, for when she became his wife she would cease to be a widow.

And so the black was laid aside, and Katy, in soft tinted colors, with her bright hair curling in her neck, looked as girlish and beautiful as if in Greenwood there were no pretentious monument, with Wilford's name upon it, nor any little grave in Silverton where Baby Cameron slept. She had been both wife and mother, but she was quite as dear to Morris as if she had never borne other name than Katy Lennox, and as he held her for a moment closely to his heart, he thanked G.o.d, who had at last given to him the idol of his boyhood and the love of his later years. Across their pathway no shadow was lying, except when they remembered Helen, on whom the mantle of widowhood had so darkly fallen just as Katy was throwing it off.

Poor Helen, the tears always crept to Katy's eyes when, she thought of her, and now as she saw her steal across the road and strike into the winding path which led to the pasture where the pines and hemlock grew, she nestled closer to Morris, and whispered:

"Sometimes I think it wrong to be so happy when Helen is so sad. I pity her so much to-day."

And Helen was to be pitied, for her heart was aching to its very core.

She had tried to keep up through the preparations for Katy's bridal, tried to seem interested, and even cheerful, while all the time a hidden agony was tugging at her heart, and life seemed a heavier burden than she could bear.

All her portion of the work was finished now, and in the balmy brightness of that warm April afternoon she went into the fields where she could be alone beneath the soft, summer-like sky, and pour out her pent-up anguish into the ear of Him who had so often soothed and comforted her when other aids had failed. Last night, for the first time since she heard the dreadful news, she had dreamed of Mark, and when she awoke she still felt the pressure of his lips upon her brow, the touch of his arm upon her waist, and the thrilling clasp of his warm hand as it pressed and held her own. But that was a dream, a cruel delusion, and its memory made the day more dark and dreary as she went more slowly up the beaten path, pausing once beneath a chestnut tree and leaning her throbbing head against the s.h.a.ggy bark as she heard in the distance the shrill whistle of the downward train from Albany, and thought, as she always did when she heard that whistle, "Oh, if that heralded Mark's return, how happy I should be." But many a sound like that had echoed across the Silverton hills, bringing no hope to her, and now, as it again died away in the Cedar Swamp, she pursued her way up the path till she reached the long, white ledge of rocks where with Katy she used to play, and where Bell Cameron had come with Lieutenant Bob, while Morris, too, had more than once led Katy there since the weather was so fine.

"The Lovers' Rock," some called it, for village boys and maidens knew the place, repairing to it often, whispering their vows beneath the overhanging pines, which whispered back again, and told the winds the story which, though so old, is always new to her who listens to him who tells.

Just underneath the spreading pine there was a large, flat stone, and there Helen sat down, gazing sadly upon the valley below, and the clear waters of Fairy Pond gleaming in the April suns.h.i.+ne, which lay so warmly on the gra.s.sy hills and flashed so brightly from the cupola at Linwood, where the national flag was flying. For a time Helen watched the banner as it shook its folds to the breeze, then, as she remembered with what a fearful price that flag had been saved from foul dishonor, she hid her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly:

"G.o.d help me not to begrudge the price or think I paid too dearly for my country's rights. Oh, Mark, my murdered husband, I may be wrong, but you were dearer to me than many, many countries, and it is hard to give you up--hard to know that the notes of peace which even now float up to us from the South will not waken you in that grave which I can never see.

Oh, Mark, my darling, my darling, I loved you so much, I miss you so much, I want you so much. G.o.d help me to bear. G.o.d help me to say, 'Thy will be done.'"

She was rocking to and fro in her grief, with her hands pressed over her face, as she thus moaned out a prayer that G.o.d would help her to feel, as well as to say, "Thy will be done," and for a long time she sat there thus, while the sun crept on further toward the west, and the freshened breeze shook the ta.s.seled pine above her head and kissed the bands of rich brown hair, from which her hat had fallen. She did not heed the lapse of time in the earnest prayer she breathed for entire submission to G.o.d's will, nor did she hear the footstep coming up the pathway to the ledge where she was sitting, the footstep which paused at intervals, as if the comer were weary, or else in quest of some one, but which at last came on with rapid bounds as an opening among the trees showed where Helen sat. It was a tall young man who came, a young man sunburned and scarred, with uniform soiled and worn, but with the fire in his brown eyes unquenched, the love in his true heart unchanged, save as it was deeper, more intense for the years of separation, and the long, cruel suspense which was all over now. The grave had given up its dead, the captive was released, and through incredible suffering and danger had reached his Northern home, had sought and found his girl-wife of a few hours, for it was Mark Ray speeding up the path, and holding back his breath as he came close to the bowed form on the rock, feeling a strange throb of awe when he saw the mourning dress, and knew it was worn for him. A moment more, and she lay in his arms, white and insensible, for with the sudden winding of his arms around her neck, the pressure of his lips upon her cheek, the calling of her name, and the knowing it was really her husband, she had uttered a wild, impa.s.sioned cry, half of terror, half of joy, and fainted entirely away, just as she did when told that he was dead! There was no water near, but with loving words and soft caresses, Mark brought her back to life, raining both tears and kisses upon the dear face which had grown so white and thin since the Christmas Eve when the wintry starlight had looked down upon their parting. For several moments neither could speak for the great choking joy which wholly precluded the utterance of a word. Helen was the first to rally, and lying in Mark's lap, with her head pillowed on Mark's arm, she whispered:

"Let us thank G.o.d together. You, too, have learned to pray."

Reverently Mark bent his face to hers, and the pine boughs overhead heard, instead of mourning notes, a prayer of praise, as the reunited wife and husband fervently thanked G.o.d, who had brought them together again.

Not until nearly half an hour was gone, and Helen had begun to realize that the arm which held her so tightly was genuine flesh and blood, and not a mere delusion, did she look up into the face, glowing with so much of happiness and love. Upon the forehead, and just beneath the hair, there was a savage scar, and the flesh about it was red and angry still, showing how sore and painful it must have been, and making Helen shudder as she touched it with her lips, and said:

"Poor, darling Mark! that's where the cruel ball entered; but where is the other scar--the one made by the man who went to you in the fields, and who also fired, they said. I have tried so hard to hate him for firing at a fallen foe."

"Rather, pray for him, darling. Bless him as the savior of your husband's life, the n.o.ble fellow but for whom I should not have been here now, for he was a Unionist, as true to the old flag as Abraham himself," Mark Ray replied; and then, as Helen looked wonderingly at him, he laid her head in an easier position upon his shoulder, and told her a story so strange in its details that but for the frequent occurrence of similar incidents it would be p.r.o.nounced wholly unreal and false.

Of what he suffered in the Southern prisons he did not speak, either then or ever after, but began with the day when, with a courage born of desperation, he jumped from the moving train, and was shot down by the guard. Partially stunned, he still, retained sense enough to know when a tall form bent over him, and to hear the rough but kindly voice which said:

"Play 'possum, Yank. Make b'lieve you're dead, and throw them h.e.l.lhounds off the scent."

This was the last he knew for many weeks, and when again he awoke to consciousness he found himself on the upper floor of a dilapidated hut, which stood in the center of a little wood, his bed a pile of straw, over which was spread a clean patchwork quilt, while seated at his side, and watching him intently, was the same man who had bent over him in the field, and shouted to the rebels that he was dead.

"I shall never forget my sensations then," Mark said, "for, with the exception of this present hour, when I hold you, my darling, in my arms, and know the danger is over, I never experienced a moment of greater happiness and rest than when, up in that squalid garret, where the rafters, festooned with cobwebs and dust, could be touched by stretching out my hand, and where the sunlight only found an entrance through an aperture in the roof, which admitted the rain as well, I came back to life again, the pain in my head all gone, and nothing left save a delicious feeling of languor, which prompted me to lie quietly for several minutes, examining my surroundings, and speculating upon the chance which brought me there. That I was a prisoner I did not doubt, until the man at my side said to me, cheerily: 'Well, old chap, you've come through it like a major, though I was mighty dubious a spell about that pesky ball. But old Aunt Bab and me fished it out, and since then you've begun to mend.'

"'Where am I? Who are you?' I asked, and he replied: 'Who be I? Why, I'm Jack Jennin's, the rarinest, red-hottest secesh thar is in these yere parts, so the rebs thinks; but 'twixt you and me, boy, I'm the tallest kind of a Union--got a piece of the old flag sewed inside of my boots, and every night before sleepin' I prays Lord gin Abe the victory,' and raise Cain generally in t'other camp, and forgive Jack Jennin's for tellin' so many lies, and makin' b'leeve he's one thing, when you know and he knows he's t'other. If I've spared one Union chap, I'll bet I have a hundred, me and old Bab, a black woman who lives here and tends to the cases I fotch her, till we contrive to git 'em inter Tennessee, whar they hev to s.h.i.+ft for themselves.'

"I could only press his bony hand in token of my grat.i.tude, while he went on to say: 'Them was beans I fired at you that day, but they sarved every purpose, and them scalliwags on the train s'pose you were put under ground weeks ago, if, indeed, you wasn't left to rot in the sun, as heaps and heaps on 'em is. n.o.body knows you are here but Bab and me, and n.o.body must know if you want to git off with a whole hide. I could git a hundred dollars by givin' you up, but you don't s'pose Jack Jennin's is agwine to do that ar infernal trick? No, sir,' and he brought his brawny fist down upon his knee with a force which made me tremble, while I tried to express my thanks for his great kindness. He was a n.o.ble man, Helen, while Aunt Bab, the colored woman, who nursed me so tenderly, and whose black, bony hands I kissed at parting, was as true a woman as any with a fairer skin and more beautiful exterior.

"For three weeks longer I stayed up in that loft, and in that time three more escaped prisoners were brought there, and one Union refugee from North Carolina. We left in company one wild, rainy night, when the storm and darkness must have been sent for our special protection, and Jack Jennings cried like a little child when he bade me good-by, promising, if he survived the war, to find his way to the North and visit me in New York. I should be prouder, Helen, to welcome him to our home than to entertain the Emperor of France, while Bab should have a seat at my own table, and I be honored by it. There are many such n.o.ble spirits there, and when I remember them, I wish to spare a land which I once hoped might be burned with fire until no trace was left. We found them everywhere, and especially among the mountains of Tennessee, where, but for their timely aid, we had surely been recaptured. The negroes, too, were powerful helps, and in no single case has a black man proved treacherous to his suffering white brother, I was not an Abolitionist when the war broke out, but I am one now, and to see the negro free I would almost spill my last drop of blood. They are a patient, all-enduring, faithful race, and without them the bones of many a poor wretch who now sits by his own fireside and recounts the perils he has escaped, would whiten in the Southern swamps or on the Southern mountains. Three times were we chased by bloodhounds, and in every case the negroes were the means of saving us from certain death. For weeks we were hidden in a cave, hunted by the Confederates by day, and fed at night by negroes, who told us when and where to go. With blistered feet and bruised limbs, we reached the lines at last, when fever attacked me for the second time and brought me near to death. Somebody wrote to you, but you never received it, and when I grew better I would not let them write again, as I wanted to surprise you. As soon as I was able I started North, my thoughts full of the joyful meeting in store--a meeting which I dreaded, too, for I knew you must think me dead, and I felt so sorry for you, my darling, knowing, as I did, you would mourn for your soldier husband. That my darling has mourned is written on her face, and needs no words to tell it; but that is over now," Mark said, folding his wife closer to him, and kissing the pale lips which whispered:

"Yes, I have been so sorry, Mark--so tired, so sad, and life was such a burden, I would gladly have laid it down."

"The burden is now removed," Mark said, and then he told her how, arrived at Albany, he had telegraphed to his mother, asking where Helen was.

"In Silverton," was the reply, and so he came on in the morning train, meeting his mother in Springfield, as he had half expected to do, knowing that she could leave New York in time to join him there.

"No words of mine," he said, "are adequate to describe the thrill of joy with which I looked again upon the hills and rocks so identified with you that I loved them for your sake, hailing them as old, familiar friends, and actually growing sick and faint with excitement when, through the leafless woods, I caught the gleam of Fairy Pond, where I gathered the lilies for you. Does my darling remember it?"

He knew she did by the clasp of her hand, and he continued:

"Had a dead body risen from its grave, and walked into the farmhouse, carrying its coffin with it, it could not have created greater consternation, or made worse havoc with the people's wits than did my sudden appearance in their midst. Good Aunt Betsy, I am sorry to say, fell the entire length of the cellar stairs, spraining her ankle, bruising her elbow shockingly, and, direst calamity of all, in her estimation, breaking the dish of charlotte russe she was holding in her hand. There is a wedding in progress, I learned from mother, and it seems very meet that I should come at this time, making, in reality, a double wedding, when I can truly claim my bride," and Mark kissed Helen pa.s.sionately, laughing to see how the blushes broke over her white face, and burned upon her neck.

Those were happy moments which they pa.s.sed together upon that ledge of rocks, happy enough to atone for all the dreadful past, and when at last they arose and slowly retraced their steps to the farmhouse, it seemed to Mark that Helen's cheeks were rounder, fuller, than when he found her, while Helen knew that the arm on which she leaned was stronger than when it first inclosed her an hour or two ago.