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
homesickness 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.