University of Virginia Library

41. CHAPTER XLI.
CHRISTMAS EVE AT SILVERTON.

THERE was to be a Christmas tree at St.
John's, and all the week the church had been
the scene of much confusion. But the work
was over now; the church was swept and dusted,
the tree with its gay adornings was in its place, the
little ones, who had hindered so much, were gone, as
were their mothers, and Helen only tarried with the
organ boy to play the Christmas Carol, which Katy was

to sing alone, the children joining in the chorus as they
had been trained to do. It was very quiet there, and
pleasant, with the fading sunlight streaming through the
chancel window, lighting up the cross above it, and falling
softly on the wall where the evergreens were hung
with the sacred words, “Peace on earth and good will
towards men.” And Helen felt the peace stealing over
her as she sat down by the register for a moment ere
going to the organ loft where the boy was waiting for
her. Not even the remembrance of the dark war-cloud
hanging over the land disturbed her then, as her thoughts
went backward eighteen hundred years to Bethlehem's
manger and the little Child whose birth the angels sang.
And as she thought, that Child seemed to be with her,
a living presence to which she prayed, leaning her head
upon the railing of the pew in front, and asking Him to
keep her in the perfect peace she felt around her now.
For Mark Ray, too, she prayed, asking God to keep him
in safety wherever he might be, whether in the lonely
watch, or in some house of God, where the Christmas
carols would be sung and the Christmas story
told.

As she lifted up her head her hand struck against
the pocket of her dress, where lay the letter brought
to her an hour or so ago—Bell's letter—which she had
put aside to read at a more convenient season.

Taking it out, she tore open the envelope, starting
suddenly as another letter, soiled and unsealed, met her
eye. She read Bell's first, and then, with a throbbing
heart, which as yet would not believe, she took up
Mark's, understanding now much that was before mysterious
to her. Juno's call came to her mind, and
though she was unwilling to charge so foul a wrong
upon that young lady, she could find no other solution
to the mystery. There was a glow of indignation—
Helen had scarcely been mortal without it;—but that
passed away in pity for the misguided girl and in joy at
the happiness opening so broadly before her. That
Mark would come to Silverton she had no hope, but he
would write—his letter, perhaps, was even then on the
way; and kissing the one she held, she hid it in her
bosom and went up to where the organ-boy had for several

minutes been kicking at stools and books, and whistling
Old John Brown by way of attracting attention.
The boy was in a hurry, and asked in so forlorn a tone,
“Is we going to play?” that Helen answered good-humoredly,
“Just a few minutes, Billy. I want to try
the carol and the opening, which I've hardly played at
all.”

With an air of submission Bill took his post and Helen
began to play, but she could only see before her, “I have
loved you ever since that morning when I put the lilies in
your hair,” and played so out of time and tune that Billy
asked, “What makes 'em go so bad?”

“I can't play now; I'm not in the mood,” she said.
“I shall feel better by and by. You can go home if you
like.”

Billy needed no second bidding, but catching up his cap
ran down the stairs and out into the porch, just as up
the steps a young man came hurriedly.

“Hallo, boy,” he cried, grasping the collar of Bill's
roundabout and holding him fast, “who's in the
church?”

“Darn yer, Jim Sykes, you let me be, or I'll—” the
boy began, but when he saw his captor was not Jim Sykes,
but a tall man, wearing a soldier's uniform, he changed
his tone, and answered civilly, “I thought you was Jim
Sykes, the biggest bully in town, who is allus hectorin'
us boys. Nobody is there but she—Miss Lennox—up
where the organ is,” and having given the desired information,
Bill ran off, wondering first if it wasn't Miss Helen's
beau, and wondering next, in case she should sometime
get married in church, if he wouldn't fee the organ-boy
as well as the sexton. “He orto,” Bill soliloquized,
“for I've about blowed my gizzard out sometimes, when
she and Mrs. Cameron sings the Te Deum.”

Meanwhile Mark Ray, who had driven first to the farm-house
in quest of Helen, entered the church, and stole
noiselessly up the stairs to where Helen sat in the dim
light, reading again the precious letter withheld from her
so long. She had moved her stool nearer to the window,
and her back was towards the door, so that she neither
saw, nor heard, nor suspected anything, until Mark,
bending over her so as to see what she had in her hand,

as well as the tear she had dropped upon it, clasped both
his arms about her neck, and drawing her face over back,
kissed her fondly, calling her his darling, and saying to
her, as she tried to struggle from him,

“I know I have a right to call you darling, by that tear
on my letter, and the look upon your face. Dear Helen,
we have found each other at last.”

It was so unexpected that Helen could not speak, but
she let her head rest on his bosom, where he had laid it,
and her hand crept into his, so that he was answered,
and for a moment he only kissed and caressed the fair
girl he knew now was his own. They could not talk
together very long, for Helen must go home; but he
made good use of the time he had, telling her many
things, and then asking her a question which made her
start away from him as she replied. “No, no, oh! no, not
to night—not so soon as that!”

“And why not, Helen?” he asked, with the manner
of one who was not to be denied. “Why not to-night, so
there need be no more misunderstanding? I'd rather
leave you as my wife than my betrothed. Mother will
like it better. I hinted it to her and she said there was
room for you in her love. It will make me a better man,
and a better soldier, if I can say `my wife,' as other soldiers
do. You don't know what a charm there is in that word,
Helen. It keeps a man from sin, and if I should die I
would rather you should bear my name, and share in my
fortune. Will you, Helen, when the ceremonies are
closed, will you go up to that altar and pledge your
vows to me. I cannot wait till to-morrow; my leave of
absence expires to-day. I must go back to-night, but
you must first be mine.”

Helen was shaking as with a chill, but she made him
no reply, and wrapping her cloak and furs about her,
Mark led her down to the sleigh, and taking his seat
beside her, drove back to the farm-house where the
family were waiting for her. Katy, to whom Mark first
communciated his desire, warmly espoused his cause,
and that went far towards reassuring Helen, who for
some time past had been learning to look up to Katy as
to an older sister, so sober, so earnest, so womanly had
Katy grown since Wilford went away.

“It is so sudden, and people will talk,” Helen said,
knowing, while she said it, how little she cared for people,
and smiling at Katy's reply.

“They may as well talk about you awhile as me. It
is not so bad when once you are used to it.”

After Katy, Aunt Betsy was Mark's best advocate.
It is true this was not just what she had expected when
Helen was married. The infair which Wilford had declined
was still in Aunt Betsy's mind; but that, she reflected,
might be yet. If Mark went back on the next
train there could be no proper wedding party until his
return, when the loaves of frosted cake, and the baked
fowls she had seen in imagination should be there in
real, tangible form, and as she expressed it they would
have a “high.” Accordingly she threw herself into the
scale beginning to balance in favor of Mark, and when
at last old Whitey stood at the door, ready to take the
family to the church, Helen sat upon the lounge listening
half bewildered while Katy assured her that she
could play the voluntary, even if she had not looked at
it, that she could lead the children without the organ,
and in short do everything Helen was expected to do
except go to the altar with Mark.

“That I leave for you,” and she playfully kissed Helen's
forehead, as she tripped from the room, looking
back when she reached the door, and charging the lovers
not to forget to come, in their absorption of each
other.

St. John's was crowded that night, the children occupying
the front seat, with looks of expectancy upon their
faces, as they studied the heavily laden tree, the boys wondering
if that ball, or whistle, or wheelbarrow was for them,
and the girls appropriating the tastefully-dressed dolls
showing so conspicuously among the dark green foliage.
The Barlows were rather late, for upon Uncle Ephraim
devolved the duty of seeing to the license, and as he had
no seat in that house, his arrival was only known by Aunt
Betsy's elbowing her way to the front, and near to the
Christmas tree which she had helped to dress, just as she
had helped to trim the church. She did not believe in such
“flummeries” it is true, and she classed them with the
“quirks,” but rather than “see the gals slave themselves

to death,” she had this year lent a helping hand. Donning
two shawls, a camlet cloak, a knit scarf for her head,
and a hood to keep from catching cold, she had worked
early and late, fashioning the most wonderfully shaped
wreaths, tying up festoons, and even trying her hand at
a triangle; she turned her back resolutely upon crosses,
which were more than her Puritanism could endure.
The cross was a “quirk,” with which she'd have nothing
to do, though once, when Katy seemed more than usually
bothered and wished somebody would hand her tacks,
Aunt Betsy relented so far as to bring the hoop she was
winding close to Katy, holding the little nails in her
mouth, and giving them out as they were wanted; but
with each one given out, conscientiously turning her
head away, lest her eyes should fall upon what she conceived
the symbol of the Romish Church. But when the
whole was done, none were louder in their praises than
Aunt Betsy, who was guilty of asking Mrs. Deacon Bannister,
when she came in to inspect, “why the Orthodox
couldn't get up some such doin's for their Sunday school.
It pleased the children mightily.”

But Mrs. Deacon Bannister answered with some
severity,

“We don't believe in shows and plays, you know,”
thus giving a double thrust, and showing that the opera
had never been quite forgotten. “Here's a pair of skates,
though, and a smellin' bottle I'd like to have put on for
John and Sylvia,” she added, handing her package to
Aunt Betsy, who, while seeing the skates and smelling
bottle suspended from a bough, was guilty of wondering
if “the partaker wasn't most as bad as the thief.”

This was in the afternoon, and was all forgotten now,
when with her Sunday clothes she never would have
worn in that jam but for the great occasion, Aunt Betsy
elbowed her way up the middle aisle, her face wearing a
very important and knowing look, especially when Uncle
Ephraim's tall figure bent for a moment under the hemlock
boughs, and then disappeared in the little vestry
room where he held a private consultation with the rector.
That she knew something her neighbors didn't was evident,
but she kept it to herself, turning her head occasionally
to look up at the organ where Katy was presiding.

Others too, there were, who turned their heads as the
soft music began to fill the church, and the heavy bass
rolled up the aisles, making the floor tremble beneath
their feet and sending a thrill through every vein. It
was a skillful hand which swept the keys that night,
for Katy played with her whole soul—not the voluntary
there before her in printed form, nor any one thing she
had ever heard, but taking parts of many things, and
mingling them with strains of her own improvising she
filled the house as it had never been filled before, playing
a soft, sweet refrain when she thought of Helen, then
bursting into louder, fuller tones, when she remembered
Bethlehem's Child and the song the angels sang, and then
as she recalled her own sad life since she knelt at the
altar a happy bride, the organ notes seemed much like
human sobs, now rising to a stormy pitch of passion,
wild and uncontrolled, and then dying out as dies the
summer wind after a fearful storm. Awed and wonder-struck
the organ boy looked at Katy as she played, almost
forgetting his part of the performance in his amazement,
and saying to himself when she had finished,

“Guy, ain't she a brick?” and whispering to her, “Didn't
we go that strong?”

The people had wondered where Helen was, as, without
the aid of music, Katy led the children in their
carols, and this wonder increased when it was whispered
round that “Miss Lennox had come, and was standing
with a man back by the register.”

After this Aunt Betsy grew very calm, and could
enjoy the distributing of the gifts, going up herself two
or three times, and wondering why anybody should
think of her, a good-for-nothing old woman. The skates
and the smelling bottle both went safely to Sylvia and John,
while Mrs. Deacon Bannister looked radiant when her
name was called and she was made the recipient of a jar
of butternut pickles, such as only Aunt Betsy Barlow
could make.

“Miss Helen Lennox. A soldier in uniform, from one
of her Sunday-school scholars,”

The words rang out loud and clear, as the Rector held
up the sugar toy before the amused audience, who
turned to look at Helen, blushing so painfully, and trying

to hold back the man in a soldier's dress who went
quietly up the aisle, receiving the gift with a bow and
smile which turned the heads of half the ladies near
him, and then went back to Helen, to whom he whispered
something which made her cheeks grow brighter
than they were before, while she dropped her eyes modestly.

“Who is he?” a woman asked, touching Aunt Betsy's
shoulder.

“Captain Ray, from New York,” was the answer, as
Aunt Betsy gave to her dress a little broader sweep, and
smoothed the bow she had tried to tie beneath her chin,
just as Mattie Tubbs had tied it on the memorable opera
night.

The tree, by this time, was nearly empty. Every child
had been remembered, save one, and that the organ boy,
who, separated from his companions, stood near Helen,
watching the tree wistfully, while shadows of hope and
disappointment passed alternately over his face, as one
after another the presents were distributed and nothing
came to him.

“There ain't a darned thing on it for me,” he exclaimed
at last, when boy nature could endure no longer; and
Mark turned towards him just in time to see the gathering
mist, which but for the most heroic efforts would
have merged into tears.

“Poor Billy!” Helen said, as she too heard his comment,
“I fear he has been forgotten. His teacher is
absent, and he so faithful at the organ too.”

Mark knew now who the boy was, and after a hurried
consultation with Helen, who suggested that money
would probably be more acceptable than even skates or
jack-knives, neither of which were possible now, folded
something in a bit of paper, on which he wrote a name,
and then sent it to the Rector.

“Billy Brown, our faithful organ boy,” sounded
through the church; and with a brightened face Billy
went up the aisle and received the little package, ascertaining
before he reached his standpoint near the door,
that he was the owner of a five dollar bill, and mentally
deciding to add both peanuts and molasses candy to the
stock of apples he daily carried into the cars.

“You gin me this,” he said, nodding to Mark, “and
you,” turning to Helen, “poked him up to it.”

“Well then, if I did,” Mark replied, laying his hand
on the boy's coarse hair, “you must take good care of
Miss Lennox when I am gone. I leave her in your
charge. She is to be my wife.”

“Gorry, I thought so;” and Bill's cap went towards
the plastering, just as the last string of pop-corn was
given from the tree, and the exercises were about to
close.

It was not in Aunt Betsy's nature to keep her secret
till this time; and simultaneously with Billy's going up
for his gift, she whispered it to her neighbor, who whispered
it to hers, who whispered it to hers, until nearly all
the audience knew of it, and kept their seats after the
benediction was pronounced.

At a sign from the rector, Katy went with her mother
to the altar, followed by Uncle Ephraim, his wife, and
Aunt Betsy, while Helen, throwing off the cloud she had
worn upon her head, and giving it, with her cloak and
fur, into Billy's charge, took Mark's arm, and with beating
heart and burning cheeks passed between the sea of
eyes fixed so curiously upon her, up to where Katy once
stood on the June morning, when she had been the
bride. Not now, as then, were aching hearts present at
the bridal. No Marian Hazelton fainted by the door;
no Morris felt the world grow dark and desolate as the
marriage vows were spoken; and no sister doubted if it
were all right and would end in happiness.

The ceremony lasted but a few moments, and then the
astonished audience pressed around the bride, offering
their kindly congratulations, and proving to Mark Ray
that the bride he had won was dear to others as well as
to himself. Lovingly he drew her hand beneath his arm,
fondly he looked down upon her as he led her back to
her chair by the register, making her sit down while he
tied on her cloak, and adjusted the fur about her neck.

“Handy and gentle as a woman,” was the verdict pronounced
upon him by the female portion of the congregation,
as they passed out into the street, talking of the
ceremony, and contrasting Helen's husband with the
haughty Wilford, who was not a favorite with them.

It was Billy Brown who brought Mark's cutter round,
and held the reins, while Mark helped Helen in, and then
he tucked the buffalo robes about her with the remark,
“It's all-fired cold, Miss Ray. Shall you play in church
to-morrow?”

Assured that she would, Billy walked away, and Mark
was alone with his bride, and slowly following the deacon's
sleigh, which reached the farm-house a long time
before the little cutter, so that a fire was already kindled
in the parlor when Helen arrived, and also in the kitchen
stove, where the tea-kettle was boiling; for Aunt
Betsy said “the chap should have some supper before he
went back to York.”

Four hours he had to stay, and they were spent in
talking of himself, of Wilford, and of Morris, and in planning
Helen's future. Of course she would spend a portion
of her time at the farm-house, he said; but his
mother had a claim upon her, and it was his wish that
she should be in New York as much as possible.

Swiftly the last moments went by, and a “Merry
Christmas” was said by one and another as they took
their seats at the plentiful repast Aunt Betsy had provided,
Mark feasting more on Helen's face than on the
viands spread before him. It was hard for him to leave
her, hard for her to let him go; but the duty was imperative,
and so when at last the frosty air grew keener as
the small hours of night crept on, he stood with his arms
about her, nor thought it unworthy of a soldier that his
own tears mingled with hers, as he bade her good-bye,
kissing her again and again, and calling her his precious
wife, whose memory would make his camp life brighter,
and shorten the days of absence. There was no one with
them, when at last Mark's horse dashed from the yard
over the creaking snow, leaving Helen alone upon the
doorstep, with the glittering stars shining above her
head, and her husband's farewell kiss wet upon her lips.

“When shall we meet again?” she sobbed, gazing up
at the clear blue sky, as if to find the answer there.

But only the December wind sweeping down from the
steep hillside, and blowing across her forehead, made
reply to that questioning, as she waited till the last

faint sound of Mark Ray's bells died away in the distance,
and then, shivering with cold, re-entered the farm-house.