University of Virginia Library

40. CHAPTER XL.
MARK AND HELEN.

THERE was much talk in Silverton when it was
known that Katy had come to stay until her husband
returned from the war, and at first the
people watched her curiously as she came among
them again, so quiet, so subdued, so unlike the Katy of old
that they would have hardly recognized her but for the
beauty of her face and the sunny smile she gave to all,
and which rested oftenest on the poor and suffering, who
blessed her as the angel of their humble homes, praying
that God would remember her for all she was to them.
Wilford had censured her at first for going to Silverton,
when he preferred she should stay in New York, hinting

darkly at the reason of her choice, and saying to her
once, when she told him how the Sunday before her
twenty-first birthday she had knelt before the altar and
taken upon herself the vows of confirmation, “Your
saintly cousin is, of course, delighted, and that I suppose
is sufficient, without my congratulations.”

Perhaps he did not mean it, but he seemed to take delight
in teasing her, and Katy sometimes felt she should
be happier without his letters than with them. He never
said he was sorry he had left her so suddenly—indeed he
seldom referred to the past in any way; or if he did, it
was in a manner which showed that he thought himself
the injured party, if either.

Katy did not often go to Linwood, and seldom saw
Morris alone. After what had passed she thought it
better to avoid him as much as possible, and was glad
when early in June he accepted a situation offered him
as surgeon in a Georgetown hospital, and left Silverton
for his new field of labor.

True to her promise, Bell came the last of July to Silverton,
proving herself a dreadful romp, as she climbed
over the rocks in Aunt Betsy's famous sheep-pasture, or
raked the hay in the meadow, and proving herself, too, a
genuine woman, as with blanched cheek and anxious
heart she waited for tidings from the battles before Richmond,
where the tide of success seemed to turn, and the
North, hitherto so jubilant and hopeful, wore weeds of
mourning from Maine to Oregon. Lieut. Bob was there,
and Wilford, too; and so was Captain Ray, digging in
the marshy swamps, where death floated up in poisonous
exhalations—plodding on the weary march, and fighting
all through the seven days, where the sun poured down
its burning heat and the night brought little rest. No
wonder, then, that three faces at the farm-house grew
white with anxiety, or that three pairs of eyes grew dim
with watching the daily papers. But the names of neither
Wilford, Mark, nor Bob were ever found among the
wounded, dead or missing, and with the fall of the first
autumn leaf Bell returned to the city more puzzled, more
perplexed than ever with regard to Helen Lennox's real
feelings toward Captain Ray.

The week before Christmas, Mark came home for a few

days, looking ruddy and bronzed from exposure and
hardship, but wearing a disappointed, listless look which
Bell was quick to detect, connecting it in some way with
Helen Lennox. Only once did he call at Mr. Cameron's,
and then as Juno was out Bell had him to herself, talking
of Silverton, of Helen and Katy, in the latter of
whom he seemed far more interested than her sister.
Many questions he asked concerning Katy, expressing his
regret that Wilford had left her, and saying he believed
Wilford was sorry, too. He was in the hospital now, with
a severe cold and a touch of the rheumatism, he said; but
as Bell knew this already she did not dwell long upon
that subject, choosing rather to talk of Helen, who, she
said, was “as much interested in the soldiers, as if she
had a brother or a lover in the army,” and her bright
eyes glanced meaningly at Mark, who answered carelessly,

“Dr. Grant is there, and that may account for her interest.”

Mark knew he must say something to ward off Bell's
attacks, and he continued talking of Dr. Grant and how
much he was liked by the poor wretches who needed
some one like him to keep them from dying of home-sickness
if nothing else; then, after a few bantering
words concerning Lieutenant Bob and the picture he carried
into every battle, buttoned closely over his heart,
Mark Ray took his leave, while Bell ran up to her
mother's room as a seamstress was occupying her own.
Mrs. Cameron was out that afternoon, and that she had
dressed in a hurry was indicated by the unusual confusion
of her room. Drawers were left open and various
articles scattered about, while on the floor, just as it had
fallen from a glove-box, lay a letter which Bell picked up,
intending to replace it.

“Miss Helen Lennox,” she read in astonishment. “How
came Helen Lennox's letter here, and from Mark Ray too,”
she continued, still more amazed as she took the neatly
folded note from the envelope and glanced at the name.
“Foul play somewhere. Can it be mother?” she asked,
as she read enough to know that she held in her hand
Mark's offer of marriage, which had in some mysterious
manner found its way to her mother's room. “I don't
understand it,” she said, racking her brain for a solution

of the mystery. “But I'll send it to Helen this very day,
and to-morrow I'll tell Mark Ray.”

Procrastination was not one of Bell Cameron's faults,
and for full half an hour before her mother and Juno
came home, the stolen letter had been lying in the mail
box where Bell herself deposited it, together with a few
hurriedly-written lines, telling how it came into her
hands, but offering no explanation of any kind.

“Mark is home now on a leave of absence which expires
day after to-morrow,” she wrote, “I am going round
to see him, and if you do not hear from him in person
I am greatly mistaken.”

The next day a series of hindrances kept Bell from
making her call as early as she had intended, so that
Mrs. Banker and Mark were just rising from dinner when
told she was in the parlor.

“I meant to have come before,” she said, seating herself
by Mark, “but I could not get away. I have brought
you some good news. I think,—that is,—yes, I know there
has been some mistake, some wrong somewhere. Mark
Ray, yesterday afternoon I found,—no matter where or
how—a letter intended for Helen Lennox, which I am
positive she never saw or heard of; at least her denial
to me that a certain Mark Ray had ever offered himself
is a proof that she never saw what was an offer made
just before you went away. I read enough to know that,
and then I took the letter and—”

She hesitated, while Mark's eyes turned dark with excitement,
and even Mrs. Banker, scarcely less interested,
leaned eagerly forward, saying,

“And what? Go on, Miss Cameron. What did you
do with that letter?”

“I sent it to its rightful owner, Helen Lennox. I
posted it myself. But why don't you thank me, Captain
Ray?” she asked, as Mark's face was overshadowed with
anxiety.

“I was wondering whether it were well to send it—
wondering how it might be received,” he said, and Bell
replied.

“She will not answer no. As one woman knows another,
I know Helen Lennox. I have sounded her on
that point. I told her of the rumor there was afloat,

and she denied it, seeming greatly distressed, but showing
plainly that had such offer been received she would
not have refused it. You should have seen her last
summer, Captain Ray, when we waited so anxiously for
news from the Potomac. Her face was a study as her
eyes ran over the list of casualties, searching not for her
amiable brother-in-law, nor yet for Willard Braxton, their
hired man. It was plain to me as daylight, and all you
have to do is to follow up that letter with another, or go
yourself, if you have time,” Bell said, as she rose to go,
leaving Mark in a state of bewilderment as to what he
had heard.

Who withheld that letter? and why? were questions
which troubled him greatly, nor did his mother's assurance
that it did not matter so long as it all came right
at last, tend wholly to reassure him. One thing, however,
was certain. He would see Helen before he returned
to his regiment. He would telegraph in the
morning to Washington, and then run the risk of being
a day behind the time appointed for his return to duty.

“Suppose you have three children when I return, instead
of two, is there room in your heart for the third?”
he asked his mother when next morning he was about
starting for Silverton.

“Yes, always room for Helen,” was the reply, as with
a kiss of benediction Mrs. Banker sent her boy away.