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 farmhouse looked,
where preparations for Katy's second bridal were going rapidly forward.
Aunt Betsy, as chief directress, 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
ovens heating in the kitchen, 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 pots, the latter mixed with
fresh-laid eggs, and smelling strongly of old Java, and the former as
fragrant as two and one-half dollars per pound could buy.
Aunt Betsy was very happy, for this, the brightest, balmiest day of all,
was Katy's wedding day, and in the dining-room the table was already set
with the new chinaware 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 where Mrs.
Deacon Bannister said it must be kept, and placed it on a side table.
The coffee-urn was Katy's, so was the teakettle and the massive pitcher,
but the rest was "ours," Aunt Betsy complacently reflected as she
contemplated the glittering array, end then hurried off to see what was
burning on the stove, or "spell" Uncle Ephraim, working industriously at
the ice-cream, out on the back stoop, 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.
Morris probably thought he was wanted, by one member of the family at
least, and without replying directly to Aunt Betsy, he 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, not telling
him he was not wanted, but saying, joyfully:
"Oh, Morris, it's you. I'm so glad you've come, for I wanted--"
But what she wanted was drowned by a succession of certain mysterious
sounds, such as are only produced by a collision of lips, and which made
Aunt Betsy mutter to herself:
"It's all right, I know, but so much kissin' as I've seen the last
fortni't is enough to turn a body's stomach. I guess old bachelders and
widders is commonly wus than fresh hands at it."
And having thus expressed her thoughts, Aunt Betsy seized the handle of
the ice-cream freezer and turned it vigorously, thinking, perhaps, of
Joel Upham, and what might have been but for a freak of hers. Meanwhile
Morris and Katy sat 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 robes, asking, half tearfully, 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 the black was laid aside, and Katy, in soft tinted colors, with
her bright hair curling in 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 closely 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 so darkly 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 day more dark and dreary as she went more 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 a sound 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 the long, white ledge of rocks where with Katy she used to
play, and where Bell Cameron had come with Lieutenant Bob, while Morris,
too, had more than once led Katy there since the weather was so fine.
"The Lovers' Rock," some called it, for village boys and maidens knew
the place, repairing to it often, 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 to him who
tells.
Just underneath the spreading 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 foul dishonor, she hid her
face in her hands and sobbed bitterly:
"God help me not to begrudge the price or think I paid too dearly for my
country's rights. Oh, Mark, my murdered 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 even now float up to us
from the South will not waken you in that grave which I can never see.
Oh, Mark, my darling, my darling, I loved you so much, I miss you so
much, I want you so much. God help me to bear. God help me to say, 'Thy
will be done.'"
She was rocking to and fro in her grief, with her hands pressed over her
face, as she thus moaned out a prayer that God would help her to feel,
as well as to say, "Thy will be done," and for a long time she sat there
thus, while the sun crept on further toward 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 in the earnest prayer she breathed for entire submission
to God's will, nor did she 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 else 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 sunburned
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 on 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 starlight 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, and lying in Mark's lap, with her head pillowed on
Mark's arm, she whispered:
"Let us thank God together. You, too, have learned to pray."
Reverently Mark bent his face 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 half an hour was gone, and Helen had begun to realize
that the arm which held her so tightly was genuine flesh and blood, and
not a 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,
and who also fired, they said. I have tried so hard 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 them hellhounds
off the scent."
This was the last he knew for many weeks, and when again he awoke to
consciousness he found himself on the upper floor of a dilapidated hut,
which stood in the center of a little wood, his bed a pile of straw,
over which was spread a clean patchwork 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, my darling, 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, where the
rafters, festooned with cobwebs and dust, could be touched by stretching
out my hand, and where the sunlight only found an entrance through an
aperture in the roof, which admitted the rain as well, 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 man at my side said to me, cheerily: 'Well, old chap, you've
come through it like a major, though I was mighty dubious 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 Jennin's, the rarinest, red-hottest secesh thar is in these yere
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 sewed inside of my boots,
and every night before sleepin' I prays Lord gin Abe the victory,' and
raise Cain generally in t'other camp, and forgive Jack Jennin's for
tellin' so many lies, and makin' b'leeve he's one thing, when you know
and he knows he's t'other. 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 bony 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
under ground 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
Jennin's is agwine 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 stayed 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-by, promising,
if he survived the war, to find his way to the North and visit me in New
York. I should be prouder, Helen, to welcome him to our home than to
entertain the Emperor of France, while Bab should have a seat at my own
table, and I be honored by it. There are many such noble spirits there,
and when I remember them, I wish to spare a land which I once hoped
might be burned with fire until no trace was left. We found them
everywhere, and especially among the mountains of Tennessee, where, but
for their timely aid, we had surely been recaptured. The negroes, too,
were powerful helps, and in no single case has a black man proved
treacherous to his suffering white brother, I was not an Abolitionist
when the war broke out, but I am one now, and to see the negro free I
would almost spill my last drop of blood. They are a patient,
all-enduring, faithful race, and without them the bones of many a poor
wretch who now sits by his own fireside and recounts the perils he has
escaped, would whiten in the Southern swamps or on the Southern
mountains. Three times were we chased by bloodhounds, and in every case
the negroes were the means of saving us from certain death. For weeks we
were hidden in a cave, hunted by the Confederates by day, and fed at
night by negroes, who told us when and where to go. 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 which
whispered:
"Yes, I have been so sorry, Mark--so tired, so sad, and life was such a
burden, I would gladly have laid it down."
"The burden is now removed," Mark said, and then 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. Does my darling remember it?"
He knew she did by the clasp of her hand, and he continued:
"Had a dead body risen from its grave, and walked into the farmhouse,
carrying its coffin with it, it could not have created greater
consternation, or made worse havoc with the people's wits than did my
sudden appearance in their midst. Good Aunt Betsy, I am sorry to say,
fell the entire length of the cellar stairs, spraining her ankle,
bruising her elbow shockingly, and, direst calamity of all, in her
estimation, breaking the dish of charlotte russe she was holding in her
hand. There is a wedding in progress, 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 arose and slowly retraced their steps to the farmhouse, it seemed
to Mark that Helen's cheeks were rounder, fuller, than when he found
her, while Helen knew that the arm on which she leaned was stronger than
when it first inclosed her an hour or two ago.