Family Pride; Or, Purified by Suffering

by Mary Jane Holmes

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."