Meanwhile Mark Ray, who had driven first to the farm-house in quest of Helen, entered the church, and stole 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 nearer to the window, and her back was towards 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 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 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 was 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, and 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. It keeps 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 expires 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 farm-house where the family were waiting for her. Katy, to whom Mark first communicated his desire, warmly espoused his cause, and that went far towards 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 awhile 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, the children occupying the front seat, 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 “flummeries” 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; she turned 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 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.”