How Mark blessed Sybil Grandon for that thoughtful 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 by saying 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-bye 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-bye 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 Helen, who 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 loud hurrahs of the multitude, which no man could number, told how terribly in earnest the great city was, and how its heart was with that gallant band, their pet, and pride, sent forth on a mission such as it had never had before. But Mark did not see Helen, and only his mother’s 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 ferry-boat received him, and the crowd began to disperse.
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 her 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, towards the first of May, her rival left New York for Silverton, where, as the spring and summer work came on, her services were needed.
CHAPTER XXIX.
KATY GOES TO SILVERTON.
A summer day in Silverton—a soft, bright August day, when the early rare-ripes by the well were turning their red cheeks to the sun, and the flowers in the garden were lifting their heads proudly, and nodding to each other as if they knew the secret which made that day so bright above all others. Old Whitey, by the hitching-post, was munching at his oats and glancing occasionally at the covered buggy standing on the green sward, fresh and clean as water from the pond could make it; the harness, lying upon a rock, where Katy used to feed the sheep with salt, and the whip standing upright in its socket, were waiting for the deacon, who was donning his best suit of clothes, even to a stiff shirt collar which almost cut his ears, his face shining with anticipations which he knew would be realized. Katy was really coming home, and in proof thereof there were behind the house and barn piles of rubbish, lath and plaster, mouldy paper and broken bricks, the tokens and remains of the repairing process, which for so long a time had made the farm-house a scene of dire confusion, driving its inmates nearly distracted, except when they remembered for whose sake they endured so much, inhaling clouds of lime, stepping over heaps of mortar, tearing their dress skirts on sundry nails projecting from every conceivable quarter, and wondering the while if the masons ever would finish or the carpenters be gone.
As a condition on which Katy might be permitted to come home, Wilford had stipulated an improvement in the interior arrangement of the house, offering to bear the expense even to the furnishing of the rooms. To this the family demurred at first, not liking Wilford’s dictatorial manner, nor his insinuation that their home was not good enough for his wife. But Helen turned the tide, appreciating Wilford’s feelings better than the others could do, and urging a compliance with his request.
“Anything to get Katy home,” she said, and so the chimney was torn away, a window was cut here and an addition made there, until the house was really improved with its pleasant, modern parlor and the large airy bedroom, with bathing-room attached, the whole the idea of Wilford, who graciously deigned to come out once or twice from New London, where he was spending a few weeks, to superintend the work and suggest how it should be done.