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 ran 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 he 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.