University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE SEVENTH REGIMENT.

DOES the reader remember the pleasant spring
days when the thunder of Fort Sumter's bombardment
came echoing up the Northern hills and
across the Western prairies, stopping for a moment
the pulses of the nation, but quickening them again with a
mighty power as from Maine to California man after man
arose to meet the misguided foe trailing our honored flag
in the dust? Nowhere, perhaps, was the excitement so
great or the feeling so strong as in New York, when the
Seventh Regiment was ordered to Washington, its members
never faltering or holding back, but with a nerving
of the will and a putting aside of self, preparing to do their
duty. Conspicuous among them was Mark Ray, who,
laughing at his mother's fears, kissed her livid cheek, and
then with a pang remembered Helen—wondering how she
would feel, and thinking the path to danger would be so
much easier if he knew that her prayers would go with
him, shielding him from harm and bringing him back
again to the sunshine of her presence.

And before he went Mark must know this for certain, and
he chided himself for having put it off so long. True she
had been sick and confined to her room for a long while
after Aunt Betsy's memorable visit; and when she was
able to go out, Lent had put a stop to her mingling in
festive scenes, so that he had seen but little of her, and
had never met her alone. But he would write that very
day. She knew, of course, that he was going. She
would say that he did well to go; and she would answer
yes to the question he would ask her. Mark felt sure of
that; but still the letter he wrote was eloquent with his

pleadings for her love, while he confessed his own, and
asked that she would give him the right to think of her
as his affianced bride—to know she waited for his return,
and would crown it at last with the full fruition of her
priceless love.

“I meet a few of my particular friends at Mrs. Grandon's
to-night,” he added, in conclusion. “Can I hope
to see you there, taking your presence as a token that I
may speak and tell you in words what I have so poorly
written?”

This note he would not trust to the post, but deliver
himself, and thus avoid the possibility of a mistake, he said;
and half an hour later he rang the bell at No. —, asking
“if Miss Lennox was at home.” She was; and handing the
girl the note, Mark ran down the steps, while the servant
carried the missive to the library, where upon the table
lay other letters received that morning, and as yet unopened;
for Katy was very busy, and Helen was dressing
to go out with Juno Cameron, who had graciously asked
her to drive with her and look at a picture she had set
her heart on having.

Juno had not yet appeared; but Mark was scarcely
out of sight when she came in with the familiarity of a
sister, and entered the library to wait. Carelessly turning
the books upon the table, she stumbled upon Mark's
letter, which, through some defect in the envelope, had
become unsealed, and lay with its edge lifted so that to
peer at its contents was a very easy matter had she been
so disposed. But Juno, who knew the handwriting—
could not at first bring herself even to touch what was
intended for her rival. But as she gazed the longing
grew, until at last she took it in her hand, turning it to
the light, and tracing distinctly the words, “My dear
Helen,” while a storm of pain and passion swept over
her, mingled with a feeling of shame that she had let
herself down so far.

“It does not matter now,” the tempter whispered.
“You may as well read it and know the worst. Nobody
will suspect it,” and she was about to take the folded
letter from the envelope, intending to replace it after it
was read, when a rapid step warned her some one was
coming, and hastily thrusting the letter in her pocket,

she dropped her veil to cover her confusion, and then
confronted Helen Lennox, ready for the drive, and unconscious
of the wrong which could not then be righted.

Juno did not mean to keep the letter, and all that
morning she was devising measures for making restitution,
thinking once to confess the whole, but shrinking
from that as more than she could do. As they were
driving home, they met Mark Ray; but Helen, who
chanced to be looking in an opposite direction, did not
see the earnest look of scrutiny he gave her, scarcely
heeding Juno, whose voice trembled as she spoke of him
to Helen and his intended departure. Helen observed
the tremor in her voice, and pitied the girl whose agitation
she fancied arose from the fact that her lover was
so soon to go where danger and possibly death was
waiting. In Helen's heart, too, there was a pang
whenever she remembered Mark, and what had so
recently passed between them, raising hopes, which now
were wholly blasted. For he was Juno's, she believed,
and the grief at his projected departure was the cause of
that young lady's softened and even humble demeanor,
as she insisted on Helen's stopping at her house for
lunch before going home.

To this Helen consented—Juno still revolving in her
mind how to return the letter, which grew more and more
a horror to her. It was in her pocket, she knew, for she
had felt it there when, after lunch, she went to her room
for a fresh handkerchief. She would accompany Helen
home,—would manage to slip into the library alone, and
put it partly under a book, so that it would appear to be
hidden, and thus account for its not having been seen
before. This seemed a very clever plan, and with her
spirits quite elated, Juno drove round with Helen, finding
no one in the parlor below, and felicitating herself
upon the fact that Helen left her alone while she run up
to Katy.

“Now is my time,” she thought, stealing noiselessly
into the library and feeling for the letter.

But it was not there, and no amount of search, no shaking
of handkerchiefs, or turning of pocket inside out
could avail to find it. The letter was lost, and in the
utmost consternation Juno returned to the parlor, appearing

so abstracted as scarcely to be civil when Katy
came down to see her; asking if she was going that
night to Sybil Grandon's, and talking of the dreadful
war, which she hoped would not be a war after all.
Juno was too wretched to talk, and after a few moments
she started for home, hunting in her own room
and through the halls, but failing in her search, and
finally giving it up, with the consoling reflection that
were it found in the street, no suspicion could fasten
on her; and as fear of detection, rather than contrition
for the sin, had been the cause of her distress, she grew
comparatively calm, save when her conscience made
itself heard and admonished confession as the only reparation
which was now in her power. But Juno could
not confess, and all that day she was absent-minded and
silent, while her mother watched her closely, wondering
what connection, if any, there was between her burning
cheeks and the letter she had found upon the floor in
her daughter's room just after she had left it; the letter,
at whose contents she had glanced, shutting her lips
firmly together, as she saw that her plans had failed, and
finally putting the document away, where there was less
hope of its ever finding its rightful owner, than if it had
remained with Juno. Had Mrs. Cameron supposed that
Helen had already seen it, she would have returned it at
once; but of this she had her doubts, after learning that
“Miss Lennox did not go up stairs at all.” Juno, then,
must have been the delinquent; and the mother resolved
to keep the letter till some inquiry was made for it at
least.

And so Helen did not guess how anxiously the young
man was anticipating the interview at Sybil Grandon's,
scarcely doubting that she would be there, and fancying
just the expression of her eyes when they first met his.
Alas for Mark, alas for Helen, that both should be so
cruelly deceived. Had the latter known of the loving
words sent from the true heart which longed for some
word of hers to lighten the long march and beguile the
tedious days of absence, she would not have said to
Katy, when asked if she was going to Mrs. Grandon's,
“Oh, no; please don't urge me. I would so much rather
stay at home.”

Katy would not insist, and so went alone with Wilford
to the entertainment, given to a few young men who
seemed as heroes then, when the full meaning of that
word had not been exemplified, as it has been since in
the life so cheerfully laid down, and the heart's blood
poured so freely, by the tens of thousands who have won
a martyr's and a hero's name. With a feeling of chill
despair, Mark listened while Katy explained to Mrs.
Grandon, that her sister had fully intended coming in
the morning, but had suddenly changed her mind and
begged to be excused.

“I am sorry, and so I am sure is Mr. Ray,” Sybil
said, turning lightly to Mark, whose white face froze
the gay laugh on her lips and made her try to shield
him from observation until he had time to recover himself
and appear as usual.

How Mark blessed Sybil Grandon for that thoughtful
kindness, and how wildly the blood throbbed through
his veins as he thought “She would not come. She
does not care. I have deceived myself in hoping that
she did, and now welcome war, welcome anything which
shall help me to forget.”

Mark was very wretched, and his wretchedness showed
itself upon his face, making more than one rally him for
what they termed fear, while they tried to reassure him
by saying that to the Seventh there could be no danger
after Baltimore was safely passed. This was more than
Mark could bear, and at an early hour he left the house,
bidding Katy good-bye in the hall, and telling her he
probably should not see her again, as he would not have
time to call.

“Not call to say good-bye to Helen,” Katy exclaimed.

“Helen will not care,” was Mark's reply, as he hurried
away into the darkness of the night, more welcome in
his present state of mind than the gay scene he had left.

And this was all Katy had to carry Helen, who had
expected to see Mark once more, to bless him as a sister
might bless a brother, speaking to him words of cheer
and bidding him go on to where duty led. But he was
not coming, and she only saw him from the carriage
window, as with proud step and head erect, he passed
with his regiment through the densely crowded streets,

where the loud hurrahs of the multitude, which no man
could number, told how terribly in earnest the great city
was, and how its heart was with that gallant band, their
pet, and pride, sent forth on a mission such as it had
never had before. But Mark did not see Helen, and only
his mother's face as it looked when it said, “God bless
my boy,” was clear before his eyes as he moved on
through Broadway, and down Cortlandt street, until the
ferry-boat received him, and the crowd began to disperse.

Now that Mark was gone, Mrs. Banker turned intuitively
to Helen, finding greater comfort in her quiet
sympathy than in the more wordy condolence offered her
by Juno, who, as she heard nothing from the letter, began
to lose her fears of detection, and even suffer her
friends to rally her upon the absence of Mark Ray, and
the anxiety she must feel on his account. Moments
there were, however, when thoughts of the stolen letter
brought a pang, while Helen's face was a continual reproach,
and she was glad when, towards the first of May,
her rival left New York for Silverton, where, as the spring
and summer work came on, her services were needed.