THE SEVENTH REGIMENT.
Does the reader remember the pleasant spring days of four years ago, when the thunder of Fort Sumter's bombardment came echoing up to 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 smite the maddened 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 on to Washington, its members, who so often had trodden the streets with a proud step, never faltering or holding back, but with a nerving of the will and a putting aside of self, prepared 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—dearer even than his mother—wondering how she would feel, and thinking the path to danger would be so much easier if he knew her love was his, that her prayers, her wishes 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, chiding 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, bidding him Godspeed he was sure, for her whole heart was with the gallant men who had stood so nobly against the enemy, surrendering only because they must. 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 be his wife—would give him the right to carry her in his heart—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?"
"She surely will be there, as it is the last, perhaps, she'll ever see of some of us poor wretches," Mark said, his hand trembling a little as he sealed the note, which he would not trust to the post.
He would deliver it himself, avoiding 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 by the penny post, 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 that morning 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 over the books upon the table, she stumbled over 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, though indignant and jealous—for she 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 so, led on step by step, she was about to take the folded letter from the envelope, intending fully 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 all unconscious of the wrong which could not then be righted.
Juno was unusually kind and familiar that morning, delicately complimenting Helen's taste with regard to pictures, and trying in various ways to forget the letter which lay upon her conscience like a leaden weight, driving all other thoughts from her mind, and leaving only the torturing one, "How can I return it without detection?" Juno did not mean to keep the letter, and all that morning she was devising measures for making restitution, even 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 face was all ablaze with guilt as she returned his bow, and 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 were waiting. In Helen's heart, too, there was a cutting 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 humbled 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 yet, 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 it not having been seen before; or better yet, she would catch it up playfully and banter Helen on her carelessness in leaving her love letters so exposed. This last seemed a very clever plan, and with her spirits quite elated, Juno drove around 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. It was missing, gone, and no amount of search, no shaking of handkerchief, 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, still hunting for the letter, and 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, as seemed quite probable, 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 she 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 upstairs at all." Juno, then, must have been the delinquent; and though the mother shrank from the act as unladylike, if nothing more, she resolved to keep the letter till some inquiry was made for it at least. And so Helen, sitting by her window, and looking dreamily out into the street, with a feeling of sad foreboding as she thought of the dark cloud which had burst so suddenly upon the nation's horizon, enveloping Mark Ray in its dark fold, and bearing him away, possibly never to return again, had no suspicion of the truth, and 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, also 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 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. Curiously, eagerly Mark Ray scanned each new arrival, feeling his lips grow white and his pulses faint when he at last caught sight of Wilford's tall figure, and looked for what might be beside it. But only Katy was there. Helen had not come, and 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," Sybil said, "and so I am sure is Mr. Ray," 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 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 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-by 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-by 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 to Helen, who beat the window pane nervously, fighting back the tears wrung out by her disappointment, for she 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 wailing cries and the loud hurrahs of the multitude, which no man could number, rent the air and told how terribly in earnest the great city was, and how its heart was with that gallant band, their pet, their pride, sent forth on a mission such as it had never had before. But Mark did not see Helen, and only his mother's white 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 ferryboat received him, and the crowd began to disperse.
There was more than one pillow wet with tears that night as mothers, wives and sisters wept for the loved ones gone, but nowhere were sadder, bitterer tears shed than in the silent chamber where Helen Lennox prayed that God would guard that regiment and bring it back again as full of life and vigor as it had gone away. For them all she prayed, in a general kind of way, but there was one whose image was in her heart, whose name was ever on her lip, breaking the silence of the room, which echoed the name of Mark, who, could he have heard that prayer, would have cast aside the heavy pain, so hard to bear during those first days when his cruel disappointment was fresh and the soldier duty new.
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 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 toward the first of May her rival left New York for Silverton, where, as the spring and summer work came on, her services were needed.