University of Virginia Library

50. CHAPTER L.
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 space of time, how
balmy, how still, how pleasant they were, and
how bright the farm-house looked, where preparations for
Katy's second bridal were going rapidly forward. Aunt
Betsy 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 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 evening.

In the dining-room the table was set with the new
China ware 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 in which Mrs. Deacon
Bannister said it must be kept, and placed it on a side-table.

The coffee-urn was Katy's, so was the tea-kettle and
the massive pitcher, but the rest was “ours,” Aunt Betsy
complacently reflected as she contemplated the glittering
array, and then hurried off to see what was burning on
the stove, 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.”

Without replying directly to Aunt Betsy, Morris
knocked with a vast amount of assurance at a side-door,
which opened directly, and Katy's glowing face looked
out, and Katy's voice was heard, saying joyfully,

“Oh, Morris, it's you. I'm so glad you've come, for I
wanted”—

But what she wanted was lost to Aunt Betsy by the
closing of the door, and Morris and Katy were alone in
the little sewing room where latterly they had passed so
many quiet hours together, and where lay the bridal dress
with its chaste and simple decorations. Katy had clung
tenaciously to her mourning robe, asking 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 black was laid aside, and Katy, in soft tinted
colors, with her bright hair curling on 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 to his heart
he thanked God 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 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 more dark
and dreary as she went slowly up the beaten path, pausing
once beneath a chestnut tree and leaning her throbbing
head against the shaggy 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 sounds 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 a long white
ledge of rocks—“The lovers' Rock,” some called it, for
village boys and maidens knew the place, repairing to it
often, and 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
and to him who tells.

Just underneath the 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 sunshine which lay so warmly on the grassy 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 dishonor, she hid her face in her hands and
sobbed bitterly.

“God help me not to think I paid too dearly for my
country's rights. Oh, Mark, my 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 float up from the South
will not waken you in that grave which I can never
see. Oh, Mark, my darling, my darling, I love you so
much, I miss you so much, I want you so much. God
help me to bear. God help to say, `Thy will be done.”'

She was rocking to and fro in her grief, with her hands
pressed over her face, and for a long time she sat thus,
while the sun crept on further towards the west, and the
freshened breeze shook the tasseled 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, nor
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 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, sun-burned
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 upon 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, impassioned 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 star light 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. With her head lying
in Mark's lap and pillowed on Mark's arm, she whispered,

“Let us thank God together. You, too, have learned
to pray.”

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

Not until nearly a half hour was gone, and Helen had
begun to realize that the arm which held her so tightly
was genuine flesh and blood, and not 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. I have tried so hard
not 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 noble 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
pronounced 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 'em off the scent.”

This was the last he knew for many weeks, and when
again he woke to consciousness he found himself on the
upper floor of a dilapidated hut, which stood in the centre
of a little wood, his bed a pile of straw, over which
was spread a clean patch-work 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 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, 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 old man at my side said to me cheerily,

“Well, old chap, you've come through it like a major
though I was mighty dubus 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 Jennins, the rarinest,
redhotedest secesh there is in these yer 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 sowed inside of my
boots, and every night before sleepin' I prays the Lord
to gin Abe the victory, and raise Cain generally in t'other
camp, and forgive Jack Jennins for tellin' so many lies,
and makin' b'lieve he's one thing when you know and he
knows he's tother. 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 shift
for themselves.'

“I could only press his hand in token of my gratitude
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 underground
weeks ago, if indeed you wasn't left to rot in the sun, as
heaps and heaps on 'em is. Nobody knows you are here
but Bab and me, and nobody 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 Jennins is a
gwine 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 noble 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 staid 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-bye, promising, if he survived the war,
to find his way to the North and visit me in New York.

“We found these Unionists everywhere, and especially
among the mountains of Tennessee, where, but for their
timely aid, we had surely been recaptured. 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, while 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. There is a
wedding in progress at the farm-house, 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 passionately,
laughing to see how the blushes broke over her
white face, and burned upon her neck.

Those were happy moments which they passed together
upon that ledge of rocks, happy enough to atone
for all the dreadful past, and when at last they rose and
slowly retraced their steps to the farm-house, it seemed
to Mark that Helen's cheeks were rounder than when he
found her, while Helen knew that the arm on which she
leaned was stronger than when it first encircled her an
hour or two before.