And it did comfort her when she looked up at the clear wintry heavens and thought that her lost one was there. It was her first real trial, and it crushed her with its magnitude, so that she could not submit at once, and many a cry of desolate agony broke the silence of her room, where the whole night through she sat musing of the past, and raining kisses upon the little lock of hair which from the Southern prison had come to her, sole relic of the husband so dearly loved and truly mourned. How faded it was from the rich brown she remembered so well, and Helen gazing at it could realize in part the suffering and want which had worn so many precious lives away. It was strange she never dreamed of him. She often prayed that she might, so as to drive from her mind, if possible, the picture of the prostrate form upon the low, damp field, and the blood-stained face turned in its mortal agony towards the southern sky and the pitiless foe above it. So she always saw him, shuddering as she wondered if the foe had buried him decently or left his bones to bleach upon the open plain.
Poor Helen, she was widowed indeed, and it needed not the badge of mourning to tell how terribly she was bereaved. But the badge was there, too, for in spite of the hope which said, “he is not dead,” Mrs. Banker yielded to Helen’s importunities, and clothed herself and daughter-in-law in the habiliments of woe, still waiting, still watching, still listening for the step she should recognize so quickly, still looking down the street; but looking, alas! in vain. The winter passed away. Captive after captive came home, heart after heart was cheered by the returning loved one, but for the inmates of No. — the heavy cloud grew blacker, for the empty chair by the hearth remained unoccupied, and the aching hearts uncheered. Mark Ray did not come back.
CHAPTER L.
THE DAY OF THE WEDDING.
Those first warm days of March, 1865, when spring and summer seemed to kiss each other and join hands for a brief space of time, how balmy, how still, how pleasant they were, and how bright the farm-house looked, where preparations for Katy’s second bridal were going rapidly forward. Aunt Betsy was in her element, for now had come the reality of the vision she had seen so long, of house turned upside down in one grand onslaught of suds and sand, then, righted again by magic power, and smelling very sweet and clean from its recent ablutions—of turkeys dying in the barn, of chickens in the shed, of loaves of frosted cake, with cards and cards of snowy biscuit piled upon the pantry shelf—of jellies, tarts, and chicken salad—of home-made wine, and home-brewed beer, with tea and coffee portioned out and ready for the evening.
In the dining-room the table was set with the new China ware and silver, a joint Christmas gift from Helen and Katy to their good Aunt Hannah, as real mistress of the house.
“Not plated ware, but the gen-oo-ine article,” Aunt Betsy had explained at least twenty times to those who came to see the silver, and she handled it proudly now as she took it from the flannel bags in which Mrs. Deacon Bannister said it must be kept, and placed it on a side-table.
The coffee-urn was Katy’s, so was the tea-kettle and the massive pitcher, but the rest was “ours,” Aunt Betsy complacently reflected as she contemplated the glittering array, and then hurried off to see what was burning on the stove, stumbling over Morris as she went, and telling him “he had come too soon—it was not fittin’ for him to be there under foot until he was wanted.”
Without replying directly to Aunt Betsy, Morris knocked with a vast amount of assurance at a side door, which opened directly, and Katy’s glowing face looked out, and Katy’s voice was heard, saying joyfully,
“Oh, Morris, it’s you. I’m so glad you’ve come, for I wanted”——
But what she wanted was lost to Aunt Betsy by the closing of the door, and Morris and Katy were alone in the little sewing room where latterly they had passed so many quiet hours together, and where lay the bridal dress with its chaste and simple decorations. Katy had clung tenaciously to her mourning robe, asking if she might wear black, as ladies sometimes did. But Morris had promptly answered no. His bride, if she came to him willingly, must not come clad in widow’s weeds, for when she became his wife she would cease to be a widow.