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 all 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, trying to help, had hindered and vexed so much, were gone, as were their mothers, and 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 very pleasant too, 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 toward men." And Helen felt the peace stealing over her as by the register she sat down 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. She had given Mark Ray up, and giving up had made a cruel wound, but she did not feel it now, although she thought of him in that quiet hour, asking God to keep him in safety wherever he might be, whether in the lonely watch or kneeling as she hoped he might in some house of God, where the Christmas carols would be sung and the Christmas story told.
A movement of her hand as she lifted up her head struck against the pocket of her dress, where lay the letter brought to her an hour or so ago—Bell's letter—which, after glancing at the superscription, she had put aside until a more convenient season for reading it.
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, and understanding now much that was before mysterious to her. Juno's call, too, 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 surely 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 she 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 at last. "I shall feel better by and by. You can go home if you like."
Billy needed no second bidding, but catching up his cap ran down the stairs and out into the porch, just as up the step a young man came hurriedly, the horse he had hitched to a tree smoking from exercise and himself looking eager and excited.
"Hello, boy," he cried, grasping the collar of Bill's roundabout and holding him fast, "who's in the church?"
"Darn yer, old 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, fine-looking man, wearing a soldier's uniform, he changed his tone, and standing still, 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 some time 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 farmhouse in quest of Helen, entered the church, glancing in upon the festooned walls, and then as he heard a sound in the loft, stealing 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 near to the window, and her back was toward 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 hot, trembling 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 there 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 is 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, 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—keeping 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 expired 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 farmhouse, where the supper waited for her. Katy, to whom Mark first communicated his desire, warmly espoused his cause, and that went far toward 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 a while 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, just as churches always are on such occasions, the children occupying the front seats, 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 "flummmeries" 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; but turning 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 the good 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 liquid 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's forte was music, and she 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 sacrifice 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, though, ain't she a brick," and whispering to her: "Didn't we go that strong?"
Katy knew she had made an impression, and her cheeks were very red as she went down to the body of the church, joining the children with whom she was to sing, but she soon forgot herself in the happiness of the little ones, who could scarcely be controlled until the short service was over and the gifts about to be distributed. Much 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 as time passed on it was whispered around that "Miss Lennox had come and was standing with a man back by the register."
After this Aunt Betsy grew very calm. She knew Helen was there and could now 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 bottles 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, the rector holding up the sugar toy before the amused audience, who turned to look at Helen, blushing so painfully, and trying to hold back the real man in 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, over whom he bent, whispering 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.
"Miss Helen Lennox. A sugar heart, from one of her scholars," the rector called again, the titters of the audience almost breaking into cheers as they began to suspect the relation sustained to Helen by the handsome young officer, going up the aisle after Helen's heart and stopping to speak to good Aunt Betsy, who pulled his coat skirt as he passed her.
The tree by this time was nearly empty. Every child had been remembered, save one, and that Billy, 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 toward 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 knowing Billy well, suggested that money would probably be more acceptable than even skates or jackknives, 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, "if I did, 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 toward the plastering just as the last string of popcorn 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, 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 offered arm, and with beating heart and burning cheeks passed between the sea of eyes fixed so curiously upon her, up to where Katy once had stood on the June morning when she had been the bride. Not now, as then, were aching hearts present at that 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. Only Katy seemed sad as she recalled the past, praying that Helen's life might not be like hers.
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 around, holding the reins while Mark helped Helen, and then tucking 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, slowly following the deacon's sleigh, which reached the farmhouse 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 teakettle was placed, 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 well 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 farmhouse, 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.
"Now that you have Mrs. Cameron, you do not need my wife," he said to Mrs. Lennox, with an emphasis upon the last word, which he seemed very fond of using.
Much he wished to stay with the wife so lately his, but as that could not be, he asked at last that she go with him to Washington. It might be some days before his regiment was ordered to the front, and in that time they could enjoy so much. But Helen knew it would not be best, and so she declined, promising, however, to come to him whenever he should need her.
Swiftly now 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-by, 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 farmhouse.