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.”
Bill 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 communicated 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 wonderstruck 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.