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Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Bride of Fort Edward + +Author: Delia Bacon + +Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7235] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on March 30, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team +</pre> + + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<h1>THE BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD.</h1> + +<p align="center"> +FOUNDED ON +<br> +AN INCIDENT OF THE REVOLUTION +</p> + +<p align="center"> +BY +<br> +DELIA BACON +</p> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> +<!--Published 1839--> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h2>PREFACE.</h2> + +<p> +I am extremely anxious to guard against any misconception +of the <i>design</i> of this little work. I therefore +take the liberty of apprising the reader beforehand, +that it is <i>not</i> a <i>Play</i>. It was not intended for the +stage, and properly is not capable of representation. +I have chosen the form of the DIALOGUE as best +suited to my purpose in presenting anew the passions +and events of a day long buried in the past, but +it is the dialogue in scenes arranged simply with +reference to the impressions of the <i>Reader</i>, and +wholly unadapted to the requirements of the actual +stage. The plan here chosen, involves throughout +the repose, the thought, and sentiment of Actual life, +instead of the hurried action, the crowded plot, the +theatrical elevation which the Stage necessarily demands +of the pure Drama. I have only to ask that +I may not be condemned for failing to fulfil the conditions +of a species of writing which I have not attempted. +</p> +<p> +The story involved in these Dialogues is essentially +connected with a well-known crisis in our National +History; nay, it is itself a portion of the historic record, +and as such, even with many of its most trifling +minutiae, is imbedded in our earliest recollections; +but it is rather in its relation to the <i>abstract truth</i> it +embodies,—as exhibiting a law in the relation of the +human mind to its Invisible protector—the apparent +sacrifice of the <i>individual</i> in the grand movements for +the <i>race</i>,—it is in this light, rather than as an historical +exhibition, that I venture to claim for it, as here +presented, the indulgent attention of my readers. +</p> + +<p align="right">THE AUTHOR.</p> +<p><i>New-York, July 7th</i>, 1839.</p> + +<!--NewPage--> + + <br> + <br> + +<h2>THE BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD, +<br> +A DRAMATIC STORY. +</h2> + +<center><b> +SCENE. <i>Fort Edward and its vicinity, on the Hudson, near Lake George</i>. +</b></center> + <br> +<center> +PERSONS INTRODUCED. +</center> + +<p> +<i>British and American officers and soldiers</i>. +</p> +<p> +<i>Indians employed in the British service</i>. +</p> +<p> +ELLISTON—<i>A religious missionary residing in the adjacent woods</i>. +</p> +<p> +GEORGE GREY—<i>A young American</i>. +</p> +<p> +LADY ACKLAND—<i>Wife of an English Officer</i>. +</p> +<p> +MARGARET—<i>Her maid</i>. +</p> +<p> +MRS. GREY—<i>The widow of a Clergyman residing near Fort Edward</i>. +</p> +<p> +HELEN, <i>and</i> ANNIE,—<i>Her daughters</i>. +</p> +<p> +JANETTE—<i>A Canadian servant</i>. +</p> +<p> +<i>Children, &c</i>. +</p> +<center> +<i>Time included—from the afternoon of one day to the close of the +following</i>. +</center> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<p> +<a href="#part1"> +PART I. THE CRISIS AND ITS VICTIM +</a> +</p> +<p> +<a href="#part2"> +PART II. LOVE +</a> +</p> +<p> +<a href="#part3"> +PART III. FATE +</a> +</p> +<p> +<a href="#part4"> +PART IV. FULFILMENT +</a> +</p> +<p> +<a href="#part5"> +PART V. FULFILMENT +</a> +</p> +<p> +<a href="#part6"> +PART VI. RECONCILIATION +</a> +</p> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<!--NewPage--> +<h1> +THE BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD. +</h1> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<a name="part1"><!--MARKER--></a> +<h2>PART FIRST.</h2> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<center> +INDUCTION. +</center> + +<h3>DIALOGUE I.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The road-side on the slope of a wooded hill near Fort Edward. The speakers, two young soldiers,—Students in arms</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>1st Student</i>. These were the evenings last year, when the bell<br> +From the old college tower, would find us still<br> +Under the shady elms, with sauntering step<br> +And book in hand, or on the dark grass stretched,<br> +Or lounging on the fence, with skyward gaze<br> +Amid the sunset warble. Ah! that world,—<br> +That world we lived in then—where is it now?<br> +Like earth to the departed dead, methinks.<br> +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Stud</i>. Yet oftenest, of that homeward path I think,<br> +Amid the deepening twilight slowly trod,<br> +And I can hear the click of that old gate,<br> +As once again, amid the chirping yard,<br> +I see the summer rooms, open and dark,<br> +And on the shady step the sister stands,<br> +Her merry welcome, in a mock reproach,<br> +Of Love's long childhood breathing. Oh this year,<br> +This year of blood hath made me old, and yet,<br> +Spite of my manhood now, with all my heart,<br> +I could lie down upon this grass and weep<br> +For those old blessed times, the times of peace again. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Stud</i>. There will be weeping, Frank, from older eyes,<br> +Or e'er again that blessed time shall come.<br> +Hearts strong and glad now, must be broke ere then:<br> +Wild tragedies, that for the days to come<br> +Shall faery pastime make, must yet ere then<br> +Be acted here; ay, with the genuine clasp<br> +Of anguish, and fierce stabs, not buried in silk robes,<br> +But in hot hearts, and sighs from wrung souls' depths.<br> +And they shall walk in light that we have made,<br> +They of the days to come, and sit in shadow<br> +Of our blood-reared vines, not counting the wild cost.<br> +Thus 'tis: among glad ages many,—one—<br> +In garlands lies, bleeding and bound. Times past,<br> +And times to come, on ours, as on an altar—<br> +Have laid down their griefs, and unto us<br> +Is given the burthen of them all. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Stud</i>. + + + + + And yet,<br> +See now, how pleasantly the sun shines there<br> +Over the yellow fields, to the brown fence<br> +Its hour of golden beauty—giving still.<br> +And but for that faint ringing from the fort,<br> +That comes just now across the vale to us,<br> +And this small band of soldiers planted here,<br> +I could think this was peace, so calmly there,<br> +The afternoon amid the valley sleeps. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Stud</i>. Yet in the bosom of this gentle time,<br> +The crisis of an age-long struggle heaves. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Stud</i>. <i>Age-long?</i>—Why, this land's history can scarce<br> +Be told in ages, yet. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Stud</i>. + + + But this war's can.<br> +In that small isle beyond the sea, Francis,<br> +Ages, ages ago, its light first blazed.<br> +This is the war. Old, foolish, blind prerogative,<br> +In ermines wrapped, and sitting on king's thrones;<br> +Against young reason, in a peasant's robe<br> +His king's brow hiding. For the infant race<br> +Weaves for itself the chains its manhood scorns,<br> +(When time hath made them adamant, alas!—)<br> +The reverence of humanity, that gold<br> +Which makes power's glittering round, ordained of God<br> +But for the lovely majesty of right,<br> +Unto a mad usurper, yielding, all,<br> +Making the low and lawless will of man<br> +Vicegerent of that law and will divine,<br> +Whose image only, reason hath, on earth.<br> +This is the struggle:—<i>here</i>, we'll fight it out.<br> +'Twas all too narrow and too courtly <i>there</i>;<br> +In sight of that old pageantry of power<br> +We were, in truth, the children of the past,<br> +Scarce knowing our own time: but here, we stand<br> +In nature's palaces, and we are <i>men</i>;—<br> +Here, grandeur hath no younger dome than this;<br> +And now, the strength which brought us o'er the deep,<br> +Hath grown to manhood with its nurture here,—<br> +Now that they heap on us abuses, that<br> +Had crimsoned the first William's cheek, to name,—<br> +We're ready now—for our last grapple with blind power. +</p> +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exeunt</i>. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<h3>DIALOGUE II.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The same. A group of ragged soldiers in conference</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>1st Soldier</i>. I am flesh and blood myself, as well as +the rest of you, but there is no use in talking. What +the devil would you do?—You may talk till dooms-day, +but what's to hinder us from serving our time out?— +and that's three months yet. Ay, there's the point. +Show me that. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Three months! Ha, thank Heaven mine is +up to-morrow; and, I'll tell you what, boys, before the +sun goes down to-morrow night, you will see one Jack +Richards trudging home,—trudging home, Sirs! None of +your bamboozling, your logic, and your figures. A good +piece of bread and butter is the figure for me. But you +should hear the Colonel, though, as the time draws +nigh. Lord! you'd think I was the General at least. +Humph, says I. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. Ay, ay,—feed you on sugar-candy till they get +you to sign, and then comes the old shoes and moccasins.— +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. And that's true enough, Ned. I've eaten myself, +no less than two very decent pair in the service. I'll +have it out of Congress yet though, I'll be hanged if I +don't. None of your figures for me! I say, boys, I am +going home. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Well, go home, and—can't any body else +breathe? Why don't you answer me, John?—What +would you have us do?— +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. Ask Will Wilson there. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Will?—Where is he? +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. There he stands, alongside of the picket there, +his hands in his pockets, whistling, and looking as wise +as the dragon. Mind you, there's always something +pinching at the bottom of that same whistle, though its +such a don't-care sort of a whistle too. Ask Will, he'll +tell you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. Ay, Will has been to the new quarters to-day. +See, he's coming this way. +</p> + +<p> +<i>5th Sol</i>. And he saw Striker there, fresh from the Jerseys, +come up along with that new General there, yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. General Arnold? +</p> + +<p> +<i>5th Sol</i>. Ay, ay, General Arnold it is. +</p> + +<p> +<i>6th Sol</i>. [<i>Advancing</i>.] I say, boys— +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. What's the matter, Will? +</p> + +<p> +<i>6th Sol</i>. Do you want to know what they say below? +</p> + +<p> +<i>All</i>. Ay, ay, what's the news? +</p> + +<p> +<i>6th Sol</i>. All up there, Sirs. A gone horse!—and he +that turns his coat first, is the best fellow. +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. No? +</p> + +<p> +<i>6th Sol</i>. And shall I tell you what else they say? +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. Ay. +</p> + +<p> +<i>6th Sol</i>. Shall I? +</p> + +<p> +<i>All</i>. Ay, ay. What is it? +</p> + +<p> +<i>6th Sol</i>. That we are a cowardly, sneaking, good-for-nothing +pack of poltroons, here in the north. There's +for you! There's what you get for your pains, Sirs. +And for the rest, General Schuyler is to be disgraced, and +old Gates is to be set over us again, and—no matter for +the rest. See here, boys. Any body coming? See here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. What has he got there? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. The Proclamation! The Proclamation! +Will you be good enough to let me see if there is +not a picture there somewhere, with an Indian and a +tomahawk? +</p> + +<p> +<i>6th Sol</i>. Now, Sirs, he that wants a new coat, and a +pocket full of money— +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. That's me fast enough. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. If he had mentioned a shirt-sleeve now, or a +rim to an old hat— +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. Or a bit of a crown, or so. +</p> + +<p> +<i>6th Sol</i>. He that wants a new coat—get off from my +toes, you scoundrel. +</p> + +<p> +<i>All</i>. Let's see. Let's see. Read—read. +</p> + +<p> +<i>7th Sol</i>. (<i>Spouting</i>.) "And he that don't want his +house burned over his head, and his wife and children, +or his mother and sisters, as the case may be, butchered +or eaten alive before his eyes—" +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. Heavens and earth! It 'ant so though, Wilson, is it? +</p> + +<p> +<i>7th Sol</i>. "Is required to present himself at the said village +of Skeensborough, on or before the 20th day of August +next. Boo—boo—boo—Who but I. Given under my +hand."—If it is not <i>it</i>—it is something very like it, I can +tell you, Sirs. I say, boys, the old rogue wants his neck +wrung for insulting honest soldiers in that fashion; and +I say that you—for shame, Will Willson. +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. Hush!—the Colonel!—Hush! +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. And who is that proud-looking fellow, by his side? +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. Hush! General Arnold. He's a sharp one—roll +it up—roll it up. +</p> + +<p> +<i>6th Sol</i>. Get out,—you are rumpling it to death. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Two American officers are seen close at hand, in a bend of the ascending road; the soldiers enter the woods</i>.) +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE III.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The same</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>1st Officer</i>. I cannot conceal it from you, Sir; there is +but one feeling about it, as far as I can judge, and I had +some chances in my brief journey— +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Off</i>. Were you at head-quarters? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Off</i>. Yes,—and every step of this retreating army +only makes it more desperate. I never knew any thing +like the mad, unreasonable terror this army inspires. +Burgoyne and his Indians!—"<i>Burgoyne and the Indians</i>"—there +is not a girl on the banks of the Connecticut +that does not expect to see them by her father's +door ere day-break. Colonel Leslie, what were those +men concealing so carefully as we approached just now?—Did +you mark them? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Off</i>. Yes. If I am not mistaken, it was the +paper we were speaking of. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Off</i>. Ay, ay,—I thought as much. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Off</i>. General Arnold, I am surprised you should +do these honest men the injustice to suppose that such +an impudent, flimsy, bombastic tirade as that same proclamation +of Burgoyne's, should have a feather's weight +with any mother's son of them. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. A feather's, ay a feather's, just so; but when +the scales are turning, a feather counts too, and that is +the predicament just now of more minds than you think +for, Colonel Leslie. A pretty dark horizon around us just +now, Sir,—another regiment goes off to-morrow, I hear. +Hey? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. Why, no. At least we hope not. We think +we shall be able to keep them yet, unless—that paper +might work some mischief with them perhaps, and it +would be rather a fatal affair too, I mean in the way of +example.—These Green Mountain Boys— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. Colonel Leslie, Colonel Leslie, this army is +melting away like a snow-wreath. There's no denying +it. Your General misses it. The news of one brave +battle would send the good blood to the fingers' ends +from ten thousand chilled hearts; no matter how fearful +the odds; the better, the better,—no matter how large +the loss;—for every slain soldier, a hundred better would +stand on the field;— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. But then— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. By all that's holy, Sir, if I were head here, +the red blood should smoke on this grass ere to-morrow's +sunset. I would have battle here, though none but the +birds of the air were left to carry the tale to the nation. +I tell you, Colonel Leslie, a war, whose resources are +only in the popular feeling, as now, and for months to +come, this war's must be; a war, at least, which depends +wholly upon the <i>unselfishness</i> of a people, as this war +does, can be kept alive by excitement only. It was +wonderful enough indeed, to behold a whole people, the +low and comfort-loving too, in whose narrow lives that +little world which the sense builds round us, takes such +space, forsaking the tangible good of their merry firesides, +for rags and wretchedness,—poverty that the thought of +the citizen beggar cannot reach,—the supperless night +on the frozen field; with the news perchance of a home +in ashes, or a murdered household, and, last of all, on some +dismal day, the edge of the sword or the sharp bullet +ending all;—and all in defence of—what?—an idea—an +abstraction,—a thought:—I say this was wonderful +enough, even in the glow of the first excitement. But +now that the Jersey winter is fresh in men's memories, +and Lexington and Bunker Hill are forgotten, and all +have found leisure and learning to count the cost; it +were expecting miracles indeed, to believe that this army +could hold together with a policy like this. Every step +of this retreat, I say again, treads out some lingering +spark of enthusiasm. Own it yourself. Is not this +army dropping off by hundreds, and desertion too, +increasing every hour, thinning your own ranks and +swelling your foes?—and that, too, at a crisis—Colonel +Leslie, retreat a little further, some fifty miles further; +let Burgoyne once set foot in Albany, and the business +is done,—we may roll up our pretty declaration as fast +as we please, and go home in peace. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. General Arnold, I have heard you to the +end, though you have spoken insultingly of councils in +which I have had my share. Will you look at this little +clause in this paper, Sir. The excitement you speak of +will come ere long, and that at a rate less ruinous than +this whole army's loss. There's a line—there's a line, +Sir, that will make null and void, very soon, if not on +the instant, all the evil of these golden promises. +There'll be excitement enough ere long; but better blood +than that shed in battle fields must flow to waken it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. I hardly understand you, Sir. Is it this threat you point at? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. Can't you see?—They have let loose these +hell-hounds upon us, and butchery must be sent into our +soft and innocent homes;—beings that we have sheltered +from the air of heaven, brows that have grown pale at +the breath of an ungentle word, must meet the red knife +of the Indian now. Oh God, this is war! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. I understand you, Colonel Leslie. There +was a crisis like this in New Jersey last winter, I know, +when our people were flocking to the royal standard, as +they are now, and a few fiendish outrages on the part of +the foe changed the whole current in our favor. It may +be so now, but meanwhile— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. Meanwhile, this army is the hope of the +nation, and must be preserved. We are wronged, Sir. +Have we not done all that men could do? What were +twenty pitched battles to such an enemy, with a force +like ours, compared with the harm we have done them? +Have we not kept them loitering here among these hills, +wasting the strength that was meant to tell in the quivering +fibres of men, on senseless trees and stones, +paralyzing them with famine, wearying them with unexciting, +inglorious toil, until, divided and dispirited, at +last we can measure our power with theirs, and fight, +not in vain? Why, even now the division is planning +there, which will bring them to our feet. And what to +us, Sir, were the hazards of one bloody encounter, to +the pitiful details of this unhonored warfare?—We are +wronged—we are wronged, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. There is some policy in the plan you speak +of,—certainly, there is excellent policy in it if one had +the patience to follow it out; but then you can't make +Congress see it, or the people either; and so, after all, +your General is superseded. Well, well, at all events he +must abandon this policy now,—it's the only chance left +for him. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. Why; howso? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. Or else, don't you see?—just at the point +where the glory appears, this eastern hero steps in, +and receives it all; and the laurels which he has been +rearing so long, blow just in time to drop on the brow of +his rival. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. General Arnold,—excuse me, Sir—you do +not understand the man of whom you speak. There +is a substance in the glory he aims at, to which, +all that you call by the name is as the mere shell +and outermost rind. Good Heavens! Do you think +that, for the sake of his own individual fame, the +man would risk the fate of this great enterprize?—What +a mere fool's bauble, what an empty shell of honor, +would that be. If I thought he would— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. It might be well for you to lower your voice +a little, Sir; the gentleman of whom you are speaking is +just at hand. + +<p align="center"> +[<i>Other officers are seen emerging from the woods</i>.] +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Off</i>. Yes, if this rumor holds, Lieutenant Van +Vechten, your post is likely to become one of more honor +than safety. Gentlemen—Ha!—General Arnold! You +are heartily welcome;—I have been seeking you, Sir. +If this news is any thing, the movement that was planned +for Wednesday, we must anticipate somewhat. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. News from the enemy, General? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Gen. Schuyler</i>. Stay—those scouts must be coming +in, Van Vechten. Why, we can scarce call it news yet, I +suppose; but if this countryman's tale is true, Burgoyne +himself, with his main corps, is encamping at this moment +at the Mills, scarce three miles above us. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. Ay, and good news too. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. But that cannot be, Sir—Alaska— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Gen. Schuyler</i>. Alaska has broken faith with us if it is, +and the army have avoided the delay we had planned +for them.—That may be.—This man overheard their +scouts in the woods just below us here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. And if it is,—do you talk of retreat, General +Schuyler? In your power now it lies, with one hour's +work perchance, to make those lying enemies of yours +in Congress eat the dust, to clear for ever your blackened +fame. Why, Heaven itself is interfering to do you right, +and throwing honor in your way as it were! Do you talk +of retreat, Sir, now? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Gen. Schuyler</i>. Heaven has other work on hand just +now, than righting the wrongs of such heroes as you and I, +Sir. Colonel Arnold—I beg your pardon, Sir, Congress +has done you justice at last I see,—General Arnold, you +are right as to the consequence, yet, for all that, if this +news is true, I must order the retreat. My reputation +I'll trust in God's hands. My honor is in my own keeping. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exeunt Schuyler, Leslie, and Van Vechten</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. There's a smoke from that chimney; are those houses inhabited, my boy? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Boy</i>. Part of them, Sir. Some of our people went oft +to-day. That white house by the orchard—the old parsonage +there? Ay, there are ladies there Sir, but I heard +Colonel Leslie saying this morning 'twas a sin and a +shame for them to stay another hour. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. Ay, Ay. I fancied the Colonel was not dealing +in abstractions just now. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exeunt</i>. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE IV.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>A room in the Parsonage,—an old-fashioned summer parlor.—-On the side a door and windows opening into an orchard, in front, a yard filled with shade trees. The view beyond bounded by a hill partly wooded. A young girl, in the picturesque costume of the time, lies sleeping on the antique sofa. Annie sits by a table, covered with coarse needlework, humming snatches of songs as she works</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>, (<i>singing</i>.)<br> + + <i>Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away. +<br> + Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away. +<br> + And flies weeping away. +<br> + The red cloud of war o'er our forest is scowling, +<br> + Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away. +<br> + Come blow the shrill bugle, the war dogs are howling, +<br> + Already they eagerly snuff out their prey— +<br> + The red cloud of war—the red cloud of war</i>— +</p> + +<p> +<br> +Yes, let me see now,—with a little plotting this might +make two—two, at least,—and then— +<br> + +<br> + <i>The red cloud of war o'er our forest is scowling, +<br> + Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away, +<br> + The infants affrighted cling close to their mothers, +<br> + The youths grasp their swords, and for combat prepare; +<br> + While beauty weeps fathers, and lovers, and brothers, +<br> + Who are gone to defend</i>— +</p> + +<p> +—Alas! what a golden, delicious afternoon is blowing +without there, wasting for ever; and never a glimpse of +it. Delicate work this! Here's a needle might serve for +a genuine stiletto! No matter,—it is the cause,—it is +the cause that makes, as my mother says, each stitch in +this clumsy fabric a grander thing than the flashing of +the bravest lance that brave knight ever won. +<br> + +<br> +(<i>Singing</i>) +<br> + <i>The brooks are talking in the dell, +<br> + Tul la lul, tul la lul, +<br> + The brooks are talking low, and sweet, +<br> + Under the boughs where th' arches meet; +<br> + Come to the dell, come to the dell, +<br> + Oh come, come</i>. +<br> + +<br> + <i>The birds are singing in the dell, +<br> + Wee wee whoo, wee wee whoo; +<br> + The birds are singing wild and free, +<br> + In every bough of the forest tree, +<br> + Come to the dell, come to the dell, +<br> + Oh come, come</i>. +<br> + +<br> + <i>And there the idle breezes lie, +<br> + Whispering, whispering, +<br> + Whispering with the laughing leaves. +<br> + And nothing says each idle breeze, +<br> + But come, come, come, O lady come, +<br> + Come to th' dell</i>. +<br> +</p> + +<p align="center"> +[<i>Mrs. Grey enters from without</i>.] +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Do not sing, Annie. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Crying would better befit the times, I know,—Dear mother, what is this? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Hush,—asleep—is she? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. This hour, and quiet as an infant. Need +enough there was of it too. See, what a perfect damask +mother! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Draw the curtain on that sunshine there. +This sleep has flushed her. Ay, a painter might have +dropped that golden hair,—yet this delicate beauty is but +the martyr's wreath now, with its fine nerve and +shrinking helplessness. No, Annie; put away your hat, +my love,—you cannot go to the lodge to-night. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Mother? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. You cannot go to the glen to-night. This is +no time for idle pleasure, God knows. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Why, you have been weeping in earnest, and +your cheek is pale.—And now I know where that sad +appointment led you. Is it over? That it should be in +our humanity to bear, what in our ease we cannot, <i>cannot</i> +think of! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Harder things for humanity are there than +bodily anguish, sharp though it be. It was not the boy,—the +mother's anguish, I wept for, Annie. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Poor Endross! And he will go, to his dying +day, a crippled thing. But yesterday I saw him springing +by so proudly! And the mother— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. "<i>Words, words</i>," she answered sternly +when I tried to comfort her; "ay, words are easy. +<i>Wait till you see your own child's blood</i>. Wait till you +stand by and see his young limbs hewn away, and the +groans come thicker and thicker that you cannot soothe; +and then let them prate to you of the good cause." +Bitter words! God knows what is in store for us;—all +day this strange dread has clung to me. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Dear mother, is not this the superstition you +were wont to chide? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Ay, ay, we should have been in Albany ere +this. In these wild times, Annie, every chance-blown +straw that points at evil, is likely to prove a faithful index; +and if it serve to nerve the heart for it, we may call +it heaven-sent indeed. Annie,—hear me calmly, my +child,—the enemy, so at least goes the rumor, are nearer +than we counted on this morning, and—hush, not a word. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. She is but dreaming. Just so she murmured +in her sleep last night; twice she waked me with the +saddest cry, and after that she sat all night by the window +in her dressing-gown, I could not persuade her to +sleep again. Tell me, mother, you say <i>and</i>—and what? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. I cannot think it true, 'tis rumored though, +that these savage neighbors of ours have joined the enemy. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. No! no! Has Alaska turned against us? +Why, it was but yesterday I saw him with Leslie in +yonder field. 'Tis false; it must be. Surely he could +not harm us. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. And false, I trust it is. At least till it is +proved otherwise, Helen must not hear of it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. And why? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. Grey</i>. She needs no caution, and it were useless +to add to the idle fear with which she regards them all, +already. Some dark fancy possesses her to-day; I have +marked it myself. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. It is just two years to-morrow, mother, since +Helen's wedding day, or rather, that sad day that should +have seen her bridal; and it cannot be that she has quite +forgotten Everard Maitland. Alas, he seemed so noble! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Hush! Never name him. Your sister is +too high-hearted to waste a thought on him. Tory! +Helen is no love-lorn damsel, child, to pine for an unworthy +love. See the rose on that round cheek,—it +might teach that same haughty loyalist, could he see her +now, what kind of hearts 'tis that we patriots wear, +whose strength they think to trample. Where are you +going, Annie? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Not beyond the orchard-wall. I will only +stroll down the path here, just to breathe this lovely air +a little; indeed, there's no fear of my going further now. + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Did I say right, Helen? It cannot be feigned. +Those quick smiles, with their thousand lovely +meanings; those eyes, whose beams lead straight to the +smiling soul. Principle is it? There is no principle in +this, but joy, or else it strikes so deep, that the joy grows +up from it, genuine, not feigned; and yet I have found +her weeping once or twice of late, in unexplained agony. +Helen! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Oh mother! is it you? Thank God. I thought— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. What did you think? What moves you thus? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I thought—'tis nothing. This <i>is</i> very strange. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Why do you look through that window thus? +There's no one there! What is it that's so strange? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Is it to-morrow that we go? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. To Albany? Why, no; on Thursday. You +are bewildered, Helen! surely you could not have forgotten that. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I wish it was to-day. I do. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. My child, yesterday, when the question was +debated here, and wishing might have been of some +avail, 'tis true you did not say much, but I thought, and +so we all did, that you chose to stay. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Did you? Mother, does the road to Albany +wind over a hill like that? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Like what, Helen? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Like yonder wooded hill, where the soldiers +are stationed now? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Not that I know of? Why? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Perhaps we may cross that very hill,—no—could we? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Not unless we should turn refugees, my +love; an event of which there is little danger just now, I +think. That road, as indeed you know yourself, leads +out directly to the British camp. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes—yes—it does. I know it does. I will +not yield to it. 'Tis folly, all. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. You talk as though you were dreaming still; +my child. Put on your hat, and go into the garden for +a little, the air is fresh and pleasant now; or take a ramble +through the orchard if you will, you might meet Annie +there,—no, yon she comes, and well too. It's quite +time that I were gone again. I wish that we had nothing +worse than dreams on hand. Helen, I must talk with +you about these fancies; you must not thus unnerve +yourself for real evil. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. It were impossible,—it could not be!—how +could it be?—Oh! these are wild times. Unseen powers +are crossing their meshes here around us,—and, what +am I—Powers?—there's but one Power, and that— +<br> + —"He careth for the little bird, +<br> + Far in the lone wood's depths, and though dark weapons +<br> + And keen eyes are out, it falleth not +<br> + But at his will." +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. + +</p> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<a name="part2"><!--MARKER--></a> +<h2>PART SECOND</h2> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<center> +LOVE +</center> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<h3>DIALOGUE I.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>A little glen in the woods near Fort Edward. A young British Officer appears, attended by a soldier in the American uniform; the latter with a small sealed pacquet in his hand</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Hist! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Sol</i>. Well, so I did; but— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Hist, I say! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Sol</i>. A squirrel it is, Sir; there he sits. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. By keeping this path you avoid the picket on +the hill. It will bring you out where these woods skirt +the vale, and scarcely a hundred rods from the house itself. + +<p align="center"> +[<i>Calling without</i>.] +</p> + +<p> +<i>Sol</i>. Captain Andre—Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. It were well that the pacquet should fall into no +other hands. With a little caution there is no danger. +It will be twilight ere you get out of these woods— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Sol</i>. I beg your pardon, Sir; but here is that young +Indian guide of mine, after all, above there, beckoning me. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Stay—you will come back to the camp ere midnight? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Sol</i>. Unless some of these quick-eyed rebels see through my disguise. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Do not forget the lodge as you return. A little +hut of logs just in the edge of the woods, but Siganaw +knows it well. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit the Soldier</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>The call in the thicket above is repeated, and another young officer enters the glen</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Off</i>. Hillo, Maitland! These woods yield fairies,—come this way. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Off</i>. For God's sake, Andre! (<i>motioning silence</i>.) Are you mad? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Well, who are they? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. <i>Who</i>? Have you forgotten that we are on the +enemy's ground? Soldiers from the fort, no doubt. +They have crossed that opening twice since we stood here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Well, let them cross twice more. I would run +the risk of a year's captivity, at least, for one such glimpse. +Nay, come, she will be gone. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Stay,—not yet. There, again! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Such a villainous scratching as I got in that +pass just now. It must have cost the rogues an infinite +deal of pains though. A regular, handsome sword-cut +is nothing to a dozen of these same ragged scratches, +that a man can't swear about. After all, Captain Maitland, +these cunning Yankees understand the game. +They will keep out of our way, slyly enough, until we +are starved, and scratched, and fretted down to their proportions, +meanwhile they league the very trees against us. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. As to that, we have made some leagues ourselves, +I think, quite as hard to be defended, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. It may be so. Should we not be at the river by this? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Sunset was the time appointed. We are as +safe here, till then. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. 'Tis a little temple of beauty you have lighted +on, in truth. These pretty singers overhead, seem to +have no guess at our hostile errand. Methinks their +peaceful warble makes too soft a welcome for such warlike +comers. Hark! [<i>Whistling</i>.] That's American. +One might win bloodless laurels here. Will you stand +a moment just as you are, Maitland;—'tis the very thing. +There's a little space in my unfinished picture, and with +that <i>a la Kemble</i> mien, you were a fitting mate for this +young Dian here, (<i>taking a pencil sketch from his +portfolio</i>,)—the beauty-breathing, ay, beauty-breathing, it's no +poetry;—for the lonesome little glen smiled to its darkest +nook with her presence. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. What are you talking of, Andre? Fairies and +goddesses!—What next? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. I am glad you grow a little curious at last. +Why I say, and your own eyes may make it good if you +will, that just down in this glen below here, not a hundred +rods hence, there sits, or stands, or did some fifteen +minutes since, some creature of these woods, I suppose +it is; what else could it be? Well, well, I'll call no +names, since they offend you, Sir; but this I'll say, a young +cheek and smiling lip it had, whate'er it was, and +round and snowy arm, and dimpled hand, that lay +ungloved on her sylvan robe, and eyes—I tell you plainly, +they lighted all the glen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Ha? A lady?—there? Are you in earnest? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. A lady, well you would call her so perchance. +Such ladies used to spring from the fairy nut-shells, in the +old time, when the kings' son lacked a bride; and if this +were Windsor forest that stretches about us here, I might +fancy, perchance, some royal one had wandered out, to +cool the day's glow in her cheek, and nurse her love-dream; +but here, in this untrodden wilderness, unless +your ladies here spring up like flowers, or drop down on +invisible pinions from above, how, in the name of reason, +came she here? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. On the invisible pinions of thine own lady-loving +fancy; none otherwise, trust me. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Come, come,—see for yourself. On my word +I was a little startled though, as my eye first lighted on +her, suddenly, in that lonesome spot. There she sat, so +bright and still, like some creature of the leaves and +waters, such as the old Greeks fabled, that my first +thought was to worship her; my next—of you, but I +could not leave the spot until I had sketched this; I +stood unseen, within a yard of her; for I could see her +soft breath stirring the while. See, the scene itself was +a picture,—the dark glen, the lonesome little lodge, on the +very margin of the fairy lake—here she sat, motionless +as marble; this bunch of roses had dropped from her +listless hand, and you would have thought some tragedy +of ancient sorrow, were passing before her, in the invisible +element, with such a fixed and lofty sadness she +gazed into it. But of course, of course, it is nothing to <i>your</i> +eye; for me, it will serve to bring the whole out at +my leisure. Indeed, the air, I think, I have caught a little +as it is. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. A little—you may say it. She is there, is she?—sorrowful; +well, what is't to me? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. What do you say?—There?—Yes, I left her +there at least. Come, come. I'll show you one will +teach you to unlearn this fixed contempt of gentle woman. +Come. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Let go, if you please, Sir. She who gave me +my first lesson in that art, is scarcely the one to bid me +now unlearn it, and I want no new teaching as yet, +thank Heaven. Will you come? We have loitered +here long enough, I think. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. What, under the blue scope—what the devil +ails you, Maitland? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Nothing, nothing. This much I'll say to you, +—<i>that lady is my wife</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Nonsense! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. There lacked—three days, I think it was, three +whole days, to the time when the law would have given +her that name; but for all that, was she mine, and is; +Heaven and earth cannot undo it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Are you in earnest? Why, are we not here +in the very heart of a most savage wilderness, where +never foot of man trod before,—unless you call these +wild red creatures men? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. You talk wildly; that path, followed a few +rods further, would have brought you out within sight of +her mother's door. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Ha! you have been in this wilderness then, ere now? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Have you forgotten the fortune I wasted once +on a summer's seat, some few miles up, on the lake above? +These Yankees did me the grace to burn it, just as the +war broke out. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Ay, ay, that was <i>here</i>. I had forgotten the +whereabouts. Those blackened ruins we passed last +evening, perchance;—and the lady—my wood-nymph, +what of her? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Captain Andre, I beg your pardon, Sir. That +sketch of yours reminded me, by chance perhaps, of one +with whom some painful passages of my life are linked; +and I said, in my haste, what were better left unsaid. +Do me the favor not to remind me that I have done so. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. So—so! And I am to know nothing more of +this smiling apparition; nay, not so much as to speak +her name? Consider, Maitland, I am your friend it is +true; but, prithee, consider the human in me. Give her +a local habitation, or at least a name. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. I have told you already that the lady you speak +of resides not far hence. On the border of these woods +you may see her home. I may point it out to you securely, +some few days hence;—to-night, unless you +would find yourself in the midst of the American army, +this must content you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. A wild risk for a creature like that! Have +these Americans no safer place to bestow their daughters +than the fastnesses of this wilderness? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. It would seem so. Yet it is her home. Wild +as it looks here, from the top of that hill, where our men +came out on the picket just now so suddenly, you will +see as fair a picture of cultured life as e'er your eyes +looked on. No English horizon frames a lovelier one. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. <i>Here</i>? No! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Between that hill and the fort, there stretches a +wide and beautiful plain, covered with orchards and meadows +to the wood's edge; and here and there a gentle +swell, crowned with trees, some patch of the old wilderness. +The infant Hudson winds through it, circling in +its deepest bend one little fairy isle, with woods enough +for a single bower, and a beauty that fills and characterizes, +to its remotest line, the varied landscape it centres; +and far away in the east, this same azure mountain-chain +we have traced so long, with its changeful light and +shade, finishes the scene. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. You should have been a painter, Maitland. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. The first time I beheld it—one summer evening +it was, from the woods on the hill's brow;—we were a +hunting party, I had lost my way, and ere I knew it +there I stood;—its waters lay glittering in the sunset +light, and the window-panes of its quiet dwellings were +flashing like gold,—the old brown houses looked out +through the trees like so many lighted palaces; and even +the little hut of logs, nestling on the wood's edge, borrowed +beauty from the hour. I was miles from home; +but the setting sun could not warn me away from such +a paradise, for so it seemed, set in that howling wilderness, +and— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Prithee, go on. I listen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. I know not how it was, but as I wandered slowly +down the shady road, for the first time in years of +worldliness, the dream that had haunted my boyhood revived +again. Do you know what I mean, Andre?—that +dim yearning for lovelier beings and fairer places, whose +ideals lie in the heaven-fitted mind, but not in the wilderness +it wakes in; that mystery of our nature, that +overlooked as it is, and trampled with unmeaning things +so soon, hides, after all, the whole secret of this life's dark +enigma. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. But see,—our time is well-nigh gone,—this is +philosophy—I would have heard a love tale. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. It was then, that near me, suddenly I heard the +voice that made this dull, real world, thenceforth a richer +place for me than the gorgeous dream-land of childhood +was of old. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Ay, ay—go on. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Andre, did you ever meet an eye, in which the +intelligence of our nature idealized, as it were, the very +poetry of human thought seemed to look forth? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. One such. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>.—That reflected your whole being; nay, revealed +from its mysterious depths, new consciousness, that +yet seemed like a faint memory, the traces of some old +and pleasant dream? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Methinks the heavenly revelation itself doth that. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Such an eye I saw then shining on me. A +clump of stately pines grew on the sloping road-side, and, +looking into its dark embrasure, I beheld a group of merry +children around a spring that gurgled out of the hillside +there, and among them, there sat a young girl clad +in white, her hat on the bank beside her, tying a wreath +of wild flowers. That was all—that was all, Andre. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Well, she was beautiful, I suppose? Nay, if it +was the damsel I met just now I need not ask. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Beautiful? Ay, they called her so. <i>Beauty</i> +I had seen before; but from that hour the sun shone with +another light, and the very dust and stones of this dull +earth were precious to me. <i>Beautiful?</i> Nay, it was +<i>she</i>. I knew her in an instant, the spirit of my being; +she whose existence made the lovely whole, of which +mine alone had been the worthless and despised fragment. +There are a thousand women on the earth the +artist might call as lovely,—show me another that I can +worship. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Worship! This is Captain Everard Maitland. +If I should shut my eyes now— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Well, go on; but I tell you, ne'ertheless, there +have been times, even in this very spot,—we often wandered +here when the day was dying as it is now,—here +in her soft, breathing loveliness, she has stood beside me, +when I have,—<i>worshipped?</i>—nay, feared her, in her +holy beauty, as we two should an angel who should +come through that glade to us now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. True it is, something of the Divinity there is +in beauty, that, in its intenser forms, repels with all its +winningness, until the lowliness of love looks through it. +Well—you worshipped her. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Nay, you have told the rest. I would have worshipped; +but one day there came a look from those beautiful +eyes, when I met them suddenly, with a gaze that +sought the mystery of their beauty,—a single look, and +in an instant the drooping lash had buried it forever; +but I knew, ere it fell, that the world of her young being +was all mine already. Another life had been forever +added unto mine; a whole creation; yet, like Eden's +fairest, it but made another perfect; a new and purer <i>self</i>; +and in it grew the heaven, and the fairy-land of +my old dreams, lovelier than ever. You have loved +yourself, Andre, else I should weary you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Not a bit the more do I understand you +though. You talk most lover-like; that's very clear, yet I +must say I never saw the part worse played. Why, +here's your ladye-love, this self-same idol of whom you +rave, at this moment perchance, breathing within these +woods,—years too—two mortal years it must be, since +you have seen her face; and yet—you stand here yet, +with folded arms;—a goodly lover, on my word! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Softly, Sir! you grace me with a title to which +I can lay no claim. Lover I <i>was</i>, may be. I am no +lover now, not I—not I; you are right; I would not walk +to that knoll's edge to see the lady, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Well, I must wait your leisure, I see. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. And yet, the last time that we stood together +here, her arm lay on mine, my promised wife. A few +days more, and by <i>my</i> name, all that loveliness had gone. +There needed only that to make that tie holy in all +eyes, the holiest which the universe held for us; but +needed there that, or any thing to make it such in ours. +Why, love lay in her eye, that evening, like religion, +solemn and calm.—We should have smiled then at +the thought of any thing in height or depth, ending, what +through each instant seemed to breathe eternity from +its own essence;—we were one, <i>one,</i>—that trite word +makes no meaning in your ear.—to me, life's roses burst +from it; music, sunshine, Araby, should image what it +means; what it meant rather, for it is over. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. What was it, Maitland? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mail</i>. Oh,—well,—she did not love me; that was all. +So far my story has told the seeming only, but ere long +the trial came, and then I found it <i>was</i> seeming, in good +sooth. The Rebellion had then long been maturing, as +you know; but just then came the crisis. It was the +one theme everywhere. Of course I took my king's +part against these rebels, and at once I was outraged, +wronged beyond all human bearing. Her mad brother, +her's, <i>her's</i> what a world of preciousness, Andre, that little +word once enshrined for me; and still it seems like +some broken vase, fragrant with what it held. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. And ever with that name, a rosy flash +Paints, for an instant, all my world. +Nay, 'tis a little love-poem of my own; go on, Maitland. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. This brother I say, quarrelled with me, though +I had borne from him unresentingly, what from another +would have seemed insult. We quarrelled at last, and +the house was closed against me, or would have been +had I sought access; for I walked sternly by its pleasant +door that afternoon, though I remember now how the +very roses that o'erhung the porch, the benched and +shaded porch, that lovely lingering place, seemed to +beckon me in. It was a breathless summer day, and the +vine curled in the open window,—even now those lowly +rooms make a brighter image of heaven to me than the +jewelled walls that of old grew in the pageant of our +sabbath dreams. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. And thus you abandoned your love? A quarrel +with her brother? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. I never wronged her with the shadow of a +doubt. Directly, that same day, I wrote to her to fix +our meeting elsewhere, that we might renew our broken +plans in some fitter shape for the altered times. +She sent me a few lines of grave refusal, Sir; and the +next letter was returned unopened. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. 'Twas that brother! Pshaw! 'twas that brother, +Maitland. I'll lay my life the lady saw no word of it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. I might have thought so too, perchance; but that +same day,—the morning had brought the news from Boston,—I +met her by chance, by the spring in the little grove +where we first met; and—Good Heavens! she talked of +brothers! Brothers, mother, sisters!—What was their +right to mine? All that the round world holds, or the +universe, what could it be to her?—that is, if she had +loved me ever; which, past all doubt, she never did. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Maitland! Heavens, how this passion blinds +you! And you expected a gentle, timid girl like that to +abandon all she loved. Nay, to make her home in the +very camp, where death and ruin unto all she loved, was +the watchword? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. I beg your pardon, Sir. I looked for no such +thing. I offered to renounce my hopes of honor here for +her; a whole life's plans, for her sake I counted nothing. +I offered her a home in England too, the very real of her +girlhood's wish; my blighted fortunes since, or a home +in yonder camp,—never, never. But if I had, ay, if I +had,—that is not <i>love</i>, call it what you will, it is not love, +to which such barriers were any thing. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Oh well, a word's a word. That's as one +likes. Only with your definition, give me leave to say, +marvellous little love, Captain Maitland, marvellous little +you will find in this poor world of ours. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. I'll grant ye. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. If there is any thing like it outside of a poet's +skull, ne'er credit me. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Strange it should take such shape in the creating +thought and in the yearning heart, when all reality +hath not its archetype. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Hist! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. A careful step,—one of our party I fancy. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. 'Tis time we were at the rendezvous. If we +have to recross the river as we came, on the stumps of +that old bridge, we had best keep a little day-light with +us, I think. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exeunt</i>. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE II.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>A chamber in the Parsonage. Helen leaning from the open window</i>.</h4> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Annie enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Helen Grey, where on earth have you been? <i>Wood flowers!</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Come and look at this sunset. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Surely you have not, you cannot have been in +those woods, Helen: and yet, where else could this periwinkle +grow, and these wild roses?—Delicious! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Hear that flute. It comes from among those +trees by the river side. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. It is the shower that has freshened every +thing, and made the birds so musical. You should +stand in the door below, as I did just now, to see the fort +and the moistened woods stands out from that black sky, +with all this brightness blazing on them. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. 'Tis lovely—all. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. There goes the last golden rim over the blackening +woods; already even a shade of tender mourning +steals over all things, the very children's voices under this +tree,—how soft they grow. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Will the day come when we shall see him +sink, for the last time, behind those hills? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Nay, Helen, why do you mar this lovely hour +with a thought like that? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. And in another life, shall we see light, when +his, for us, shines no more?—What sound is that? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. That faint cry from the woods? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. No,—more distant,—far off as the horizon, like +some mighty murmur, faintly borne, it came. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. I wish that we had gone to-day. I do not +like this waiting until Thursday;—just one of that elder +brother's foolish whims it was. I cannot think how your +consent was won to it. Did you meet any one in your +walk just now? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. No—Yes, yes, I did. The little people where +I went, I met by hundreds, Annie. Through the dark +aisles, and the high arches, all decked in blue, and gold, +and crimson, they sung me a most merry welcome. +And such as these—see—You cannot think how like +long-forgotten friends they looked, smiling up from their +dark homes, upon me. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. You have had chance enough to forget them, +indeed,—it is two years, Helen, since you have been in +those woods before. What could have tempted you there +to-day? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Was there <i>danger</i> then?—was there danger +indeed?—I was by the wood-side ere I knew it, and +then,—it was but one last look I thought to take—nay, +what is it, Annie? George met me as I was coming +home, and I remember something in his eye startled me +at first; but if there was danger, I should have known of +it before. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. How could we dream of your going there +this evening, when we knew you had never set your +foot in those woods since the day Everard Maitland left +Fort Edward? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Annie! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. For me, I would as soon have looked to see +Maitland himself coming from those woods, as you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Annie! Annie Grey! You must not, my sister—do +not speak that name to me, never again, <i>never</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Why, Helen, I am sorry to have grieved you +thus; but I thought—Look! look! There go those officers +again,—there, in the lane between the orchards, +Scarcely half an hour ago they went by to the fort in +just such haste. There is something going on there, I +am sure. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Helen rises from the window, and walks the room</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. In truth there was a rumor this afternoon,—you +are so timid and fanciful, our mother chose you +should not hear it while it was rumor only; but 'tis said +that a party of the enemy have been seen in those woods +to-day, and, among them, the Indians we have counted +so friendly. Do you hear me, Helen? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. That he should <i>live</i> still! Yes, it is all real +still! That heaven of my thought, that grows so like a +pageant to me, is still <i>real</i> somewhere. Those eyes—they +are darkly shining now; this very moment that +passes <i>me</i>, drinks their beauty;—that voice,—that tone,—that +very tone—on some careless ear, even now it wastes +its luxury of blessing. Continents of hail and darkness, +the polar seas—all earth's distance, could never have +parted me from him; but now I live in the same world +with him, and the everlasting walls blacken between +us. Those looks may shine on the dull earth and senseless +stones, but not on me; on uncaring eyes, but not on +mine; though for one moment of their lavished wealth, +I could cheaply give a life without them; never again, +never, never, never shall their love come to me. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Who would have thought she could cherish in +secret a grief like this? Dear sister, we all believed +you had forgotten that sad affair long ago,—we thought +that you were happy now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Happy?—I am, you were right; but I have been +to-day down to the very glen where we took that last +lovely walk together, and all the beautiful past came +back to me like life.—I <i>am</i> happy; you must count me +so still. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. With what I have just now heard, how can I? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. It is this war that has parted us; and so, this +is but my part in these noble and suffering times, and +that great thought reaches overall my anguish. But for +this war I might have been—hath this world such flowers, +and do they call it a wilderness?—I might have been, +even now, you know it, Annie, his wife, his wife, <i>his</i>. +But our hearts are cunningly made, many-stringed; and +often much good music is left in them when we count +them broken. That which makes the bitterness of this +lot, the inconceivable, unutterable bitterness of it, even +that I can bear now, calmly, and count it God's kindness +too. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. I do not understand you, sister. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. What if this young royalist, Annie, when he +quarrelled with my brother, and took arms against my +country, what if he had kept faith to <i>me?</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Well. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen. Well?</i> Oh no, it would not have been well. +Why, my home would have been with that pursuing +army now, my fate bound up with that hollow cause,—these +very hands might have fastened the sword of oppression; +nay, the sword whose edge was turned against +you, against you all, and against the cause, that with +tears, night and morning, you were praying for, and with +your heart's best blood stood ready to seal every hour. +No, it is best as it is; or if my wish grows deeper still, if +in my heart I envy, with murmuring thought, the blessed +brides, on whose wedding dawns the laughing sun of +peace, then with a wish I cast away the glory of these +suffering times.—It is best as it is. I am content. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. I wish I could understand you, Helen. You +say, "if he had kept faith to you;"—carried you off, you +mean! Do you mean, sister Helen, that of your own +will you would ever have gone with him, with Everard +Maitland,—that traitor? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen. Gone with him</i>? Would I not? Would I +not? Dear child, we talk of what, as yet, you know nothing +of. Gone with <i>him</i>? Some things are holy, Annie, +only until the holier come. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. (<i>looking toward the door</i>.) Stay, stay. What +is it, George? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>George Grey comes in</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. I was seeking our mother. What should it +be, but ill news? This tide is against us, and if it be +not well-nigh full, we may e'en fold our arms for the rest. +There, read that. (<i>Throwing her a letter</i>.) +</p> +<p> +Every face you see looks as if a thunder-cloud were +passing it. I heard one man say, just now, as I came in, +that the war would be over in a fortnight's time. +There'll be some blood spilt ere then, I reckon though. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. What paper is that that reddens her cheek so suddenly? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. The McGregor's!—think of it, Helen,—gone +over to the British side, and St. John of the Glens, and—who +brought you this letter, George? 'Tis false! I +do not believe it, not a word of it. Why, here are twenty +names, people that we know, the most honorable, +too,—forsaking us now, at such a crisis! +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Self-defence, self-defence, sister; their lands +and their houses must be saved from devastation. What +sort of barracks think you, would that fine country-seat of +McGregor's make?—and St. John's—<i>he</i> is a farmer you +know, and his fields are covered with beautiful grain, +that a week will ripen, and so, he is for turning his sword +into a sickle;—besides, there are worse things than pillage +threatened here. Look, (<i>unfolding a hand-bill</i>.) +Just at this time comes this villainous proclamation +from Skeensborough, scattered about among our soldiers +nobody knows how, half of them on the eve of desertion +before, and the other half—what ails you, Helen? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. There he stands! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Is she crazed? Why do you clasp your hands +so wildly? for Heaven's sake, Helen!—her cheek is +white as death.—Helen! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Is he gone, Annie? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. As I live, I do not know what you are talking +of. Nay, look; there is no one here, none that you +need fear, most certainly. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I saw him, his eye was on me; there he +stood, looking through that window, smiling and beckoning me. +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Saw him? Who, in Heaven's name? This is fancy-work. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I saw him as I see you now. He stood on +that roof,—an Indian,—I saw the crimson bars on his +face, and the blanket, and the long wild hair on his +shoulders; and—and, I saw the gleaming knife in his +girdle,—Oh God! I did. +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Ay, ay, 'twas that scoundrel that dogged us +in our way home, I'll lay my life it was. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. In our way home? An <i>Indian</i>, I said. +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Well, well, and I say an Indian, a rascal Indian, +was watching and following us all the way home just now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. George! +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Then you did not see him after all. In truth, +I did not mean you should, for we could not have hurried +more, but all the time we sat in that shanty, while it +rained, about as far off as that chair from me, stood this +same fellow among the bushes, watching us, or rather +you. And you saw him here t He might have crept +along by that orchard wall. What are you laughing at, +Annie?—I will go and see what sort of a guard we +have. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. If you knew as much of Helen's Indians as I +do, you would hardly be in such a hurry, George, I mean +about this one that was here just now, for there are Indians +in yonder forest I suppose; but since we were so +high, I never walked in the woods with her once, but +that we encountered one, or heard his steps among the +bushes at least; and if it chanced to be as late as this, +there would be half a dozen of them way laying us in +the road,—but sometimes they turned out squirrels, +and sometimes logs of wood, and sometimes mere air, +air of about this color. We want a little light, that is all. +There is no weapon like that for these fancy-people. I +can slay a dozen of them with a candle's beams. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>George goes out</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Do not laugh at me to-night, Annie. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. But what should the Indians want of you, +pry'thee; tell me that, Helen? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. God knows. Wait till the sun sets to-morrow, +and I will laugh with you if you are merry then. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Why to-morrow?—because it is our last day +here? Tuesday—Wednesday—yes; the next day we +shall be on the road to Albany. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I am awake now. Watched me in the glen?—followed +me home? Those woods are full of them.—But +what has turned their wild eyes on me? +</p> +<p> +It is but one day longer;—we have counted many, in +peril and fear, and <i>this</i>, is the last;—even now how softly +the fearful time wastes. <i>One day!</i>—Oh God, thou +only knowest what its shining walls encircle. (<i>She leans +on the window, musing silently</i>.) Two years ago I +stood here, and prayed to die.-On that same tree my +eye rested then. With what visions of hope I played +under it once, building bowers for fairies I verily thought +would come, and dreaming, with yearning heart, of glorious +and beautiful things this world <i>hath not</i>. But, that wretched +day, through blinding tears, I saw the sunlight on its glossy leaves, +and I said, 'let me see that light no more.' Surely the bitterness +is deep when that which hath colored all our unfolded being, is a +weariness. For what more hath life for me I thought, its lesson is +learned and its power is spent,—it can please, and it can +trouble me no more; and why should I stay here in vain +and wearily? +</p> +<p> +It was sad enough, indeed, to see the laughing spring +returning again, when the everlasting winter had set in +within, to link with each change of the varied year, +sweet with a life's memories, such mournfulness; laying +by, one by one, all hope's blessed spells, withered and +broken forever,—the moonlight, the songs of birds, the +blossom showers of April, the green and gold of autumn's +sunset,—it was sad, but it was not in vain.—Not in vain, +Oh God, didst thou deny that weeping prayer. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A merry voice is heard without, and a child's face peeps through the window that overlooks the orchard</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Child</i>. Look! look! sister Helen! see what I have +found on the roof of the piazza here,—all covered with +wampum and scarlet, and here are feathers too—two +feathers in it, blue and yellow—eagle's feathers they are, +I guess. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i> (<i>approaching the window</i>.) Let me see, Willy. +What, did you find it here? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Willy.</i> Just under the window here. Frank and I +were swinging on the gate; and—there is something +hard in it, Helen,—feel. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes, it is very curious; but— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Willy</i>. There comes Netty with the candle; now we +can see to untie this knot. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Willy, dear Willy, you must give it to me, you +must indeed, and—I will paint you a bird to-morrow. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Willy</i>. A blue-bird, will you? A real one? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes, yes;—run down little climber; see how +dark it grows, and Frank is waiting, see. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Willy</i>. Well. But mind you, it must be a blue bird +then. A real one. With the red on his breast, and all. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>She walks to the table, unfastening the envelope</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. What sent that thrill of forgotten life through +me then?—that wild, delicious thrill? This is strange, +indeed. A sealed pacquet within! and here— +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>She glances at the superscription, and the pacquet drops from her hand</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +No—no. I have seen that hand-writing in my dreams +before, but it dissolved always. What's joy better than +grief, if it pierce thus? Can never a one of all the soul's +deep melodies on this poor instrument be played out, then +—trembling and jarring thus, even at the breath of its +most lovely passion.—And yet, it is some cruel thing, I +know. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>The pacquet opened, discovers Helen's miniature, a book, a ring, and other tokens</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<br> +Cruel indeed! That little rose!—He might have spared +me this. A dull reader I were, in truth, if this needed +comment,—but I knew it before. He might have spared +me this. + +<p align="center"> +(<i>She leans over the recovered relics with a burst of passionate weeping</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<br> +Yet, who knows—(<i>lifting her head with a sudden +smile</i>,) some trace, some little curl of his pencil I may +find among these leaves yet, to tell me, as of old,— +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A letter drops from the book, she tears it eagerly open</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<br> +(<i>Reading</i>.) These cold words I understand, but—<i>letters!</i>—He +wrote me none! Was there ever a word between +us, from the hour when he left me, his fancied bride, to +that last meeting, when, at a word, and ere I knew what +I had said, he turned on me that cold and careless eye, +and left me, haughtily and forever? And now—(<i>reading</i>)—misapprehension, +has it been! Is the sun on +high again?—in this black and starless night—the noonday +sun? He loves me still.—Oh! this joy weighs like +grief. +</p> +<p> +Shall I see him again? Joy! joy! Beautiful sunshine +joy! Who knows the soul's rich depths till joy +hath lighted them?—from the dim and sorrowful haunts +of memory will he come again into the living present! +Shall I see those eyes, looking on me? Shall I hear my +name in that lost music sound once more?—His?—Am +I his again? New mantled with that shining love, like +some glorious and beautiful stranger I seem to myself, <i>Helen</i>—the +bright and joy-wreathed thing his voice +makes that name mean—My life will be all full of that +blest music. I shall be Helen, evermore his—his. +</p> +<p> +No,—it would make liars of old sages,—and all books +would read wrong. A life of such wild blessedness? It +would be fearful like living in some magic land, where +the honest laws of nature were not. A life?—a moment +were enough. Ages of common life would shine in it. +(<i>Reading again</i>.) "Elliston's hut?"—"If I choose that +the return should be mutual,—and the memorials of a despised +regard can at best be but an indifferent possession;—a +pacquet reinclosed directly in this same envelope, +and left at the hut of the missionary, cannot fail to reach +him safely." +</p> +<p> +"Safely."—Might he not come there safely then? +And might I not go thither safely too, in to-morrow's +light? +</p> +<p> +O God, let not Passion lead me now. The centre +beaming truth, not passion's narrow ray, must light me +here!—But am I not his? +</p> +<p> +Once more, one horizon circles, for a day, our long-parted +destinies; another, and another wave of these +wild times will drift them asunder again, forever; and +I count myself his wife. His wife?—nay, his bride, his +two years' bride, to-night, his wife, to-morrow. He must +meet me there, (<i>writing</i>) at noon, I will say.—I did not +think that little hut of logs should have been my marriage-hall;—he +must meet me there, and to-morrow is +my bridal day. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<a name="part3"><!--MARKER--></a> +<h2>PART THIRD.</h2> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<center> +FATE. +</center> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<h3>DIALOGUE I.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The hill—Night—Large fires burning—Sentinels dimly seen in the back-ground. A young Indian steals carefully from the thicket. He examines the ground and the newly-felled trees.</i></h4> + +<p> +<i>Indian</i>. One, two, three. And this is ringed. The +dogs have spoiled the council-house. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Soldiers rush forward</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. So, Mr. Red-skin! would not you like a scalp +or two now, to string on your leggings? Maybe we can +help you to one or so. Hold fast. Take care of that +arm, I know him of old. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>The Indian, with a violent struggle, disengages himself, and darts into the thicket</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<br> +No? well,—dead or alive, we must have you on our side +again. (<i>Firing</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. <i>He's</i> fixed, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Hark. Hark,—off again! Let me go. +What do you hold me for, you scoundrel? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Don't make a fool of yourself, Will Wilson. +There will be a dozen of them yelling around you there. +Besides, he is half way to the swamp by this. Look +here; what's this, in the grass here? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. There was something in his hand, but he +clenched it through it all,—this is a letter. Bring it to +the fire. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. (<i>reading</i>.) "<i>This by the Indian, as in case +I am taken, he may reach the camp in safety. Not +over three thousand men in all, I should think,—very +little ammunition, soldiers mostly discouraged.—In +Albany, they are tearing the lead off the windows of the +houses, and taking the weights from the shops for ball. +Talk of retreating on Thursday to the new encampment, +five miles below. More when I get to you</i>." +</p> + +<p> +<i>More!</i> Humph! A pretty string of lies he has got +here already. This must go to the General, Dick. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exeunt</i>. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE II.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>Chamber in the Parsonage. Moonlight. Annie sitting by the window, the door open into an adjoining room</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. (<i>Calling</i>.) Come, come,—why do you sit +there scribbling so late, Helen? Come, and enjoy this +beautiful night with me. Ay, what a world of invisible +life amid the dew and darkness utters its glad voices; +even the little insect we never saw by day, makes us feel +for once the great brotherhood of being. This day week +we shall be in Albany,—no more such scenes as this +then. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Helen approaches the window, and puts her arm gently around her sister</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. No more!—It was a sad word you were saying, Annie. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. How you startled me. Your hands are cold,—cold +as icicles, and trembling too. What ails you, Helen? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. 'Tis nothing.—How often you and I have +stood together thus, looking down on that old bridge.—Summer +and winter.—Do you remember the cold snowy +moonlights of old, when the sound of the distant bell +had hope in it? We shall stand together thus, no more. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Do not speak so sadly, Helen. I cannot think +they will destroy our home in mere wantonness. Was +there not some one coming up the path just now? +Hark! there is news with that tone. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. A little more, an hour perchance, and he will +read my letter. Why do I tremble thus? Is it because +I have done wrong, that these dark misgivings haunt +me? No,—it is not remorse—'tis very like—yet remorse +it is not. Danger, there is none. I shall but walk to the +wood-side as to-day, that little path to the hut is quickly +trod, and he will be waiting there. I shall be safe then, +safe as I care to be.—Why do I stand here reasoning +thus? Safe? And if I were not, what is it to me now? +The dark plan is laid. The fearful acting now is all +that's left for me. +</p> +<p> +This must go to the lodge to-night, and ere my mother +returns;—to tell them now, would be to make my scheme +impossible. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>She begins, with a reluctant air, to fold the dresses, which are lying loosely by her</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<br> +Oh God! whence do these dark and horrible thoughts +grow?—Nay, feeling not born of thought. That wedding +robe looks like a shroud to me! I cannot. Shadows +from things unseen are upon me. The future is a +night of tempest, where I hear nothing but the breaking +boughs, and the whirl and crash of the mourning blast. +Oh God! there is no refuge for the fearful, but in thee.—To +thee—no. If there is power in prayer of mine, hath +it not already doomed that wicked cause, my fate is linked +with now. I cannot pray.—Can I not?—How the +pure strength comes welling up from its infinite depths. +</p> +<p> +Hear me—not with lip service, I beseech thee now, +but with the earnestness that stays the rushing heart's +blood in its way.—Hear me. Let the high cause of +right and freedom, whose sad banner, now, on yonder +hill, floats in this summer air; whose music on this soft +night-breeze is borne—let it prevail—though <i>I</i>, with all +this sensitive, warm, shrinking life; with all this new-found +wealth of love and hope, lie on its iron way. +</p> +<p> +I am safe now.—This life that I feel now, steel cannot +reach. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Annie enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Dear Helen, dress yourself. It is all true! +We must go to-night, we must indeed. They are dismantling +the fort now.—Come to the door, and you can +hear them if you will; and here is word from Henry, we +must be ready before morning—the British are within +sight. Do you hear me, Helen? Do not stand looking +at me in that strange way. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. To-night! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. I was frightened myself at first, sadly; but +there is no danger, not the least. We shall be in Albany +to-morrow, Henry says. Come, Helen, there is no one +to see to any thing but ourselves. They are running +about like mad creatures there below, and the children, +are crying, and such a time you never saw. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. To-night! That those beautiful lips should +speak it! Take it back. It cannot be. It must not be. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Why do you look so reproachfully at me? +Helen, you astonish and frighten me! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes—yes—I see it all. And why could I not +have known this one hour sooner?—Even now it may +not be too late. Annie— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Thank Heaven,—there is my mother's voice at last. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Annie, stay. Do not mark what I have +said in the bewilderment of this sudden fear. Is George +below?—Who brought this news? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. One of the men from the fort.—George has +not been home since you sent him to Elliston's. She is +calling me. Make haste and come down, Helen. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. They will leave me alone. They will leave +me here alone. And why could I not have known this +one hour sooner?—I could have bid him come to-night—If +the invisible powers are plotting against me, it is well. +Could I have thought of this?—and yet, how like something +I had known before, it all comes upon me.—Can I +stay here alone?—Could I?—No never, never! He +must come for me to-night. Perchance that pacquet +still lies at yonder hut, and it is not yet too late to recal +my letter;—if it is—if it is, I must find some other messenger. +Thank God!—there is one way. Elliston can +send to that camp to-night. He can—even now,—He +can—he will.— +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE III.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The porch. Helen waiting the return of her messenger from the hut</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. How quiet and soft it all lies in this solemn +light. Is it illusion?—can it be?—that old, familiar look, +that from these woods and hills, and from this moon-lit +meadow, seems to smile on me now with such a holy +promise of protection and love?—The merry trill in this +apple-tree is the very sound that, waking from my infant +sleep in the hush of the summer midnight, of old lulled, +nay, wakened my first inward thought. Oh that my heart's +youngest religion could come again, the feeling with +which a little child looks up to these mighty stars, as the +spangles on his home-roof, while he stands smiling beneath +the awful shelter of the skies, as under a father's +dome. But these years show us the evil that mocks that +trust. +</p> +<p> +'Tis he,—What a mere thread of time separates me +from my fate, and yet the darkness of ages could not hide +it more surely. Already he has reached the lane. Another +minute will show me all. Will the pacquet be in +his hand, or will it not? I will be calm—it shall be like +a picture to me. +</p> +<p> +Ah! there is an immeasurable power about us, a foreign +and strange thing, that answers not to the soul, that +seems to know or to heed nothing of the living suffering, +rejoicing being of the spirit. Why should I struggle +with it any longer? From my weeping childhood to this +hour, it hath set its iron bars about me; no—softly yielding, +hath it not sometimes, the long, undreamed-of vistas +opened, bright as heaven,—and now, maybe—how +slow he moves—even now perchance.—This is wrong. +The Infinite is One. The Goodness Infinite, whose +everlasting smile lighteth the inner soul, and the Power +Infinite, whose alien touch without, in darkness comes, +they are of One, and the good know it. +</p> + +<center> +<i>The Messenger</i>. (<i>Coming up the path</i>.) +</center> + +<p> +Bless you, Miss! The pacquet had been gone this hour! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Gone! Well.—And Elliston—what said he? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mess</i>. I brought this note of yours back, Miss Helen. +Father Elliston was gone. Here has been an Indian +killed on Sandy Hill this evening, Alaska's own son as +it turns out, and such a hubbub as they are making about +it you never heard. I met a couple of squaws myself, +yelling like mad creatures, and the woods are all alive +with them. The priest has gone down to their village +to pacify them if it may be,—so I brought the note back, +Miss Helen, for there was no one there but a little rascal +of an Indian, and I would not trust the worth of a feather +with one of them. Was I right? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes. Give it to me. How far is it to the British camp? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mess</i>. Why, they are just above here at Brandon's +Mills they say, that is, the main body. It can't be over +three miles, or so. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen. Three</i> miles! only three miles of this lovely +moonlight road between us.—William McReady, go to +that camp for me to-night. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mess</i>. To the British camp? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Ay. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mess</i>. To the British camp! Lord bless you, Miss. +I should be shot—I should be shot as true as you are a +living woman. I should be shot for a deserter, or, what's +worse, I should be hanged for a spy. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. What shall I do! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mess</i>. And besides, there's Madame Grey will be +wanting me by this time. See how the candles dance +about the rooms there. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes, you are right. We must go in and help them. Come. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>They enter the house</i>.) +</p> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE IV.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The British camp. Moonlight. A lady in a rich travelling dress, standing in the door of a log-hut</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Lady Ackland</i>. (<i>Talking to her maid within</i>.) +What is the matter, Margaret? What do you go stealing +about the walls so like a mad woman for, with that +shoe in your hand? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. (<i>Within</i>.) There, Sir!—your song is done!—there's +one less, I am certain of that. <i>Coming to the +door</i>.) If ever I get home alive, my lady—Ha!—(<i>striking +the door with her slipper</i>.) If ever—you are there, +are you? I believe I have broken my ear in two. The +matter? Will your ladyship look here? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Well. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. And if ever I get back to London, I'll say well +too. If ever I get back to London alive, my lady,—I'll see— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. What will you see, Margaret? Nothing +lovelier than this, I am sure. Are you not ashamed to +stand muttering there? Come here, and look at this +beautiful night. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. La, Lady Harriet! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Listen! How still the camp is now! You +can hear the rush of those falls we passed, distinctly. +How pretty the tents look there, in that deep shade. +These tuneful frogs and katy-dids must be our nightingales +to-night. Indeed, as I stand now, I could almost +fancy that fine wood there was my father's park; nay, methinks +I see the top of the old gray turrets peeping out +among the shadows there. Look, Margaret, do you see? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. La! I can see woods enough, my lady, if that +is what you mean,—nothing else, and I have seen +enough of them already to last me one life through. Yes, +here's a pretty tear I have got amongst them!—Two +guineas and a half it cost me in London,—I pray I may +never set my eyes on a wood again, +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. This was some happy home once, I know. +See that rose-bush, and this little bed of flowers.—Here +was a pretty yard—there went the fence,—and there, +where that waggon stands, by that broken pear-tree, +swung the gate. And pleasant meetings there have +been at this door, no doubt, and sorrowful partings too,—and +hearts within have leaped at the sound of that +gate, and merry tales have been told by that desolate +hearth. In this little lonely unthought-of place, the mysterious +world of the human soul has unfolded,—the drama +of life been played, as grandly in the eyes of angels as +in the proud halls where my life dawned. And there are +hearts that cling to this desolate spot as mine does to +that far-off home. We have driven them away in sorrow +and fear. This is war! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. I wonder who is fluting under that tree there, +so late. They are serenading that Dutch woman, as I live. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. The Baroness, are you talking of, Margaret? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. A baroness! Good sooth!—she looks like it, +in that yellow silk, and those odious beads, fussing about. +If your ladyship will believe me, I saw her sitting in +her tent to-night, ay, in the door, feeding that wretched +child with her own hands. We can't be thankful +enough they did not put her in here with us, I'll own. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Hush, hush, for shame! We might well +have spared that empty room. Come, we'll go in—It's +very late. Strange that Sir George should not be here +ere this. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. Look, my lady! Here's some one at the gate. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>An officer enters the little court, with a hasty step</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Officer</i>. Good evening to your ladyship.—Is Captain +Maitland here?—Sir George told me that he left him here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Ay, but he has been gone this hour. Stay, +it is Andre's flute you hear below there, and some one +has joined him just now—yes, it is he. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Under that tree;—thank you, my lady. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Stay, Colonel Hill,—I beg your pardon, but +you spoke so hastily.—This young Maitland is a friend +of ours, I trust there is nothing that concerns him painfully.— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Oh nothing, nothing, except that he is ordered +off to Fort Ann to-night. There are none of us that +know these wild routes as well as he. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Good Heavens! What noise is that? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. Lord 'a mercy! The battle is coming? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Hush! (<i>To a sentinel who goes whistling +by</i>.) Sirrah, what noise is that? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Sentinel</i>. It's these Indians, my lady; they have found +the son of some chief of theirs murdered in these woods, +and they are bringing him to the camp now. That's the +mourning they make. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. The Lord protect us! +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>They enter the house</i>.) +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE V.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The interior of a tent. Maitland, in travelling equipments, pacing the floor</i>.</h4> + + +<p> +<i>Maitland</i>. William! Ho there! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Servant</i>. (<i>Looking in</i>.) Your honor? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Is not that horse ready yet? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ser't</i>. Presently, your honor. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. So the fellow has been here, it seems, and returned +again to Fort Edward without seeing me. Of +course, my lady deigns no answer.—An answer! Well, +I thought I expected none. Ten minutes ago I should +have sworn I expected none. Why, by this time that +letter of mine has gone the rounds of the garrison, no +doubt. William! +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>The servant enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +Bring that horse round, you rascal,—must I be under +your orders too, forsooth? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ser't</i>. Certainly, your honor,—but if he could but just, +—I am a-going, Sir,—but if he could but just take a +mouthful or two more. There's never a baiting-place till— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Do you hear? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>The Servant retreats hastily</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. The curse of having lived in these wilds cleaves +to me in all things. Here are Andre and Mortimer, and +a hundred more, and none but I for this midnight service. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ser't</i>. (<i>Re-entering</i>.) The horse is waiting, Sir,—but +here's two of these painted creturs hanging about the +door, waiting to see you. (<i>Handing him a packet</i>.) +There's no use in swearing at them, Sir, they don't understand it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. (<i>Breaking the seals hastily, he discovers the +miniature</i>.) Back again! Well, we'll try drowning +next,—nay, this is as I sent it! That rascal dropped it +in the woods perhaps! Softly,—what have we here! +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>He discovers, and reads the letter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +Who brought this? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ser't</i>. The Indian that was here yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Alaska! Here's blood on the envelope, on the +letter too, and here—This packet has been soaked in +blood. (<i>Re-reading the letter</i>.) +</p> +<p> +"To-morrow"—"twelve o'clock" to-morrow—Look +if the light be burning in the Lady Ackland's window,—she +was up as I passed. "Twelve o'clock"—There are +more horses on this route than these cunning settlers +choose to reckon. Why, there are ten hours yet—I +shall be back ere then. Helen—do I dream?—This is +love!—How I have wronged her.—This <i>is</i> love! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ser't</i>. (<i>At the door</i>.) The horse is waiting, Sir,—and +this Indian here wont stir till he sees you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Alaska—I must think of it,—<i>risk?</i>—I would +pledge my life on his truth. He has seen her too,—I remember +now, he saw her—with me at the lake. Let him +come in.—No, stop, I will speak with him as I go. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exeunt</i>. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE VI.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>Lady Ackland's door</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Lady Ackland</i>. Married!—His wife?—Well, I think +I'll not try to sleep again. There goes Orion with +his starry girdle.—Married—is he? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. Was not that Captain Maitland that was talking +here just now, Lady Harriet? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Go to bed, Margaret,—go to bed,—but look +you though. To-morrow with the dawn that furnishing +gear we left in the tent must be unpacked, and this +empty room—whose wife, think you, is my guest tomorrow, +Margaret? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. Bless me! If I were to guess till daylight, my lady— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. This young Maitland, you think so handsome, Margaret— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. I?—la, it was not I, my lady, I am sure. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>.—He will bring us his wife home here tomorrow, +a young and beautiful wife. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. Wife?— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Poor child,—we must give her a gentle welcome. +Do you remember those flowers we saw in the +glen as we passed?—I will send for them in the morning, +and we will fill the vacant hearth with these blossoming +boughs.— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maid</i>. But, here—in these woods, a wife!—where on +earth will he bring her from, my lady? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Ay, we shall see, to-morrow we shall see,—go +dream the rest. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit the maid</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Who would have thought it?—so cold and +proud he seemed, so scornful of our sex.—And yet I +knew something there lay beneath it all.—Even in that +wild, gay mood, when the light of mirth filled and o'er-flowed +those splendid eyes,—deeper still, I saw always +the calm sorrow-beam shining within. +</p> +<p> +That picture he showed me—how pretty it was!—The +face haunts me with its look of beseeching loveliness.—Was +there anything so sorrowful about it though?—Nay, +the look was a smile, and yet a strange mourn-fulness +clings to my thought of it now. Well, if the painter +hath not dissembled in it—the <i>painter</i>?—no. The +spirit of those eyes was of no painter's making. From +the <i>Eidos</i> of the Heavenly Mind sprung that. +</p> +<p> +I shall see her to-morrow.—Nay, I must meet her in +the outskirts of the camp,—so went my promise,—if +Maitland be not here ere then. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>THOUGHTS.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The Hill. The Student's Night-watch</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<br> + How beautiful the night, through all these hours +<br> + Of nothingness, with ceaseless music wakes +<br> + Among the hills, trying the melodies +<br> + Of myriad chords on the lone, darkened air, +<br> + With lavish power, self-gladdened, caring nought +<br> + That there is none to hear. How beautiful! +<br> + That men should live upon a world like this, +<br> + Uncovered all, left open every night +<br> + To the broad universe, with vision free +<br> + To roam the long bright galleries of creation, +<br> + Yet, to their strange destiny ne'er wake. +<br> + Yon mighty hunter in his silver vest, +<br> + That o'er those azure fields walks nightly now, +<br> + In his bright girdle wears the self-same gems +<br> + That on the watchers of old Babylon +<br> + Shone once, and to the soldier on her walls +<br> + Marked the swift hour, as they do now to me. +<br> + <br> + Prose is the dream, and poetry the truth. +<br> + That which we call reality, is but +<br> + Reality's worn surface, that one thought +<br> + Into the bright and boundless all might pierce, +<br> + There's not a fragment of this weary real +<br> + That hath not in its lines a story hid +<br> + Stranger than aught wild chivalry could tell. +<br> + There's not a scene of this dim, daily life, +<br> + But, in the splendor of one truthful thought +<br> + As from creation's palette freshly wet, +<br> + Might make young romance's loveliest picture dim, +<br> + And e'en the wonder-land of ancient song,— +<br> + Old Fable's fairest dream, a nursery rhyme. +<br> + How calm the night moves on, and yet +<br> + In the dark morrow, that behind those hills +<br> + Lies sleeping now, who knows what waits?—'Tis well. +<br> + He that made this life, I'll trust with another. +<br> + To be,—there was the risk. We might have waked +<br> + Amid a wrathful scene, but this,—with all +<br> + Its lovely ordinances of calm days, +<br> + The golden morns, the rosy evenings, +<br> + Its sweet sabbath hours and holy homes,— +<br> + If the same hidden hand from whence these sprung, +<br> + That dark gate opens, what need we fear there?— +<br> + Here's wrath, but none that hath not its sure pathway +<br> + Upward leading,—there are tears, but 'tis +<br> + A school-time weariness; and many a breeze +<br> + And lovely warble from our native hills, +<br> + Through the dim casement comes, over the worn +<br> + And tear-wet page, unto the listening ear +<br> + Of our home sighing—to the <i>listening</i> ear. +<br> + Ah, what know we of life?—of that strange life +<br> + That this, in many a folded rudiment, +<br> + With nature's low, unlying voice, doth point to. +<br> + Is it not very like what the poor grub +<br> + Knows of the butterfly's gay being?— +<br> + With its colors strange, fragrance, and song, +<br> + And robes of floating gold with gorgeous dyes, +<br> + And loveliest motion o'er wide, blooming worlds. +<br> + That dark dream had ne'er imaged!— +<br> + + + + + + + Ay, sing on, +<br> + Sing on, thou bright one, with the news of life, +<br> + The everlasting, winging o'er our vale. +<br> + Oh warble on, thy high, strange song. +<br> + What sayest thou?—a land o'er these dark cliffs, +<br> + A land all glory, where the day ne'er setteth— +<br> + Where bright creatures, mid the deathless shades, +<br> + Go singing, shouting evermore? And yet +<br> + 'Twere vain. That wild tale hath no meaning here, +<br> + Thou warbler from afar. Like music +<br> + Of a foreign tongue, on our dull sense, +<br> + The rich thought wastes.—We have been nursed in tears, +<br> + Thro' all we've known of life, we have known grief, +<br> + And is there none in life's deep essence mixed? +<br> + Is sorrow but the young soul's garment then?— +<br> + A baby mantle, doffed forever here, +<br> + Within these lowly walls. +<br> + + + + + And we were born +<br> + Amid a glad creation!—-then why hear we ne'er +<br> + The silver shout, filling the unmeasured heaven?— +<br> + Why catch we e'er the rich plume's rustle soft, +<br> + Or sweep of passing lyre! Our tearful home +<br> + Hung 'mid a gay, rejoicing universe, +<br> + And ne'er a glimpse adown its golden paths?— +<br> + Oh are there eyes, soft eyes upon us, +<br> + In the dark and in the day, shining unseen, +<br> + And everlasting smiles, brightening unfelt +<br> + On all our tears: News sweet and strange ye bring. +<br> + Hither we came from our Creator's hands, +<br> + Bright earnest ones, looking for joy, and lo, +<br> + A stranger met us at the gate of life, +<br> + A stranger dark, and wrapped us in her robe, +<br> + And bore us on through a dim vale.—Ah, not +<br> + The world we looked for,—for an image in. +<br> + Our souls was born, of a high home, that yet +<br> + We have not seen. And were our childhood's yearnings, +<br> + Its strange hopes, no dreams then,—dim revealings +<br> + Of a land that yet we travel to?— +<br> + But thou, oh foster-mother, mournful nurse, +<br> + So long upon thy sable vest we're leaned, +<br> + Thou art grown dear to us, and when at last +<br> + At yonder blue and burning gate +<br> + Thou yieldest up thy trust, and joy at last +<br> + In her own wild embrace enfolds us once, e'en +<br> + From the jewelled bosom of that dazzling one, +<br> + From the young roses of that smiling face, +<br> + Shall we not turn to thee, for one last glimpse +<br> + Of that wan cheek, and solemn eye of love, +<br> + And watch thy stately step, far down +<br> + This dim world's fading paths? Take us, kind sorrow! +<br> + We will lean our young head meekly on thee; +<br> + Good and holy is thy ministry, +<br> + Oh handmaid of the Halls thou ne'er mayst tread. +<br> + And let the darkness gather round that world, +<br> + Not for the vision of thy glittering walls +<br> + We ask, nor glimpse of brilliant troops that roam +<br> + Thine ancient streets, thou sunless city,— +<br> + Wrap thy strange pavillions still in clouds, +<br> + Let the shades slumber round thy many homes, +<br> + By faith, and not by sight, through lowly paths +<br> + Of goodness, sorrow-led, to thee we come. +<br> +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<a name="part4"><!--MARKER--></a> +<h2>PART FOURTH.</h2> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<center> +FULFILMENT. +</center> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<h3>DIALOGUE I.</h3> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The ground before the fort. Baggage wagons. Cannon dismounted. Confused sounds within. A soldier is seen leaning on his rifle</i>.</h4> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Another soldier enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. It's morning! Look in the east there. What +are we waiting for? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Eh! The devil knows best, I reckon, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Hillo, John! What's the matter there? +Here's day-break upon us! What are we waiting for? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Another soldier enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. To build a bridge—that is all. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. A bridge? +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. We shall be off by to-morrow night, no doubt of +it,—if we don't chance to get cooked and eaten before +that time,—some little risk of that. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. But what's the matter below there, I say? +The bridge? what ails it? +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. Just as that last wagon was going over, down +comes the bridge, Sirs, or a good piece of it at least.—What +else could it do?—timbers half sawn away! +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Some of that young jackanape's work! <i>Aid-de-camp!</i> +I'd <i>aid</i> him. He must be ordering and fidgetting, +and fuming.—Could not wait till we were over. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. All of a piece, boys! +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. Humph. I wish it had been,—the bridge, I mean. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. But, I say, don't you see how every thing, +little and great, goes one way, and that, against us? +Chance has no currents like this! It's a bad side that +Providence frowns on. I think when Heaven deserts a +cause, it's time for us poor mortals to begin to think about it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. Now, if you are going to do so mean a thing +as that, don't talk about Heaven—prythee don't. + +<p align="right"> +[<i>They pass on</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Two other soldiers enter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. (<i>singing</i>.) +<br> + + <i>Yankee doodle is the tune +<br> + + Americans delight in, +<br> + + 'Twill do to whistle, sing, or play, +<br> + + And just the thing for fighting. +<br> + + Yankee doodle, boys, huzza—</i> +<br> + <br> +(<i>Breaking off abruptly</i>.) I do not like the looks of it, Will. +</p> + +<p> +<i>5th Sol</i>. Of what? +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. Of the morning that begins to glimmer in the east there. +</p> + +<p> +<i>5th Sol</i>. No? Why, I was thinking just now I never +saw a handsomer summer's dawning. That first faint +light on the woods and meadows, there is nothing I like +better. See, it has reached the river now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. But the mornings we saw two years ago +looked on us with another sort of eye than this,—it is not +the glimmer of the long, pleasant harvest day that we see +there. +</p> + +<p> +<i>5th Sol</i>. We have looked on mornings that promised +better, I'll own. I would rather be letting down the bars +in the old meadow just now, or hawing with my team +down the brake; with the children by my side to pick +the ripe blackberries for our morning meal, than standing +here in these rags with a gun on my shoulder. Let +well alone.—We could not though. +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. (<i>Handing him a glass</i>.) See, they are beginning +to form again. It looks for all the world like a funeral train. +</p> + +<p> +<i>5th Sol</i>. What was the Stamp Act to us, or all the +acts beyond the sea that ever were acted, so long as +they left us our golden fields, our Sabbath days, the quiet +of the summer evening door, and the merry winter +hearth. <i>The Stamp Act?</i> It would have been cheaper +for us to have written our bills on gold-leaf, and for +tea, to have drunk melted jewels, like the queen I read +of once; cheaper and better, a thousand times, than the +bloody cost we are paying now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. It was not the money, Will,—it was not the +money, you know. The wrong it was. We could not +be trampled on in that way,—it was not in us—we could not. +</p> + +<p> +<i>5th Sol</i>. Ay, ay. A fine thing to get mad about was +that when we sat in the door of a moonlight evening and +the day's toils were done. It was easy talking then. +<i>Trampled on!</i> I will tell you when I was nearest being +trampled on, Andros,—when I lay on the ground below +there last winter,—on the frozen ground, with the blood +running out of my side like a river, and a great high-heeled +German walking over my shoulder as if I had +been a hickory log. I can tell you, Sir, that other was a +moon-shiny sort of a trampling to that. I shall bear to be +trampled on in figures the better for it, as long as I live. +Between ourselves now— +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. There's no one here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>5th Sol</i>. There are voices around that corner, though. +Come this way. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>They pass on</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Another group of Soldiers</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Then if nothing else happens, we are off now. +Hillo, Martin! Here we go again—skulking away. +Hey? What do you say now? Hey, Mr. Martin, what do you say now? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. (<i>Advancing</i>.) What I said before. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. But where is all this to end, Sir? Tell us +that—tell us that. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. Yes, yes,—tell us that. If you don't see Burgoyne +safe in Albany by Friday night, never trust me, Sirs. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. A bad business we've made of it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. Suppose he gets to Albany;—do you think +that would finish the war? +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. Well, indeed, I thought that was settled on all +hands, Sir. I believe the General himself makes no secret +of that. +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. And what becomes of us all then? We +shall go back to the old times again, I suppose;—weren't +so very bad though, Sam, were they? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. We have seen worse, I'll own. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. And what becomes of our young nation here, +with its congress and its army, and all these presidents, +and generals, and colonels, and aide-de-camps?—wont it +look like a great baby-house when the hubbub is over, +and the colonies settle quietly down again? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Faith, you take it very coolly. Before that +can happen, do you know what must happen to you? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Nothing worse than this, I reckon. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. (<i>makes a gesture to denote hanging</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. What would they hang us though? Do you +think they would really hang us, John? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Wait and see. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Nonsense! nonsense! A few of the ringleaders, +Schuyler, and Hancock, and Washington, and a +few such, they will hang of course,—but for the rest,—we +shall have to take the oath anew, and swallow a few +duties with our sugar and tea, and— +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. You talk as if the matter were all settled already. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. There is no more doubt of it, than that you +and I stand here this moment. Why, they are flocking +to Skeensborough from all quarters now, and this poor +fragment,—this miserable skeleton of an army, which is +the only earthly obstacle between Burgoyne and Albany, +why, even this is crumbling to pieces as fast as one can +reckon. Two hundred less than we were yesterday at +this hour, and to-morrow—how many are off to-morrow? +Ay, and what are we doing the while? Bowing and +retreating, cap in hand, from post to post, from Crown +Point to Ticonderoga, from Ticonderoga to Fort Edward, +from Fort Edward onward; just showing them +down, as it were, into the heart of the land. Let them +get to Albany—Ah, let them once get to Albany, they'll +need no more of our help then, they'll take care of themselves +then and us too. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. They'll never get to Albany. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Hey? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. They'll never get to Albany. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. What's to hinder them? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. We,—yes we,—and such as we, craven-hearted +as we are. They'll never get to Albany until we +take them there captives. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. Then they'll wait till next week, I reckon. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! How many prisoners +shall we have a-piece, John? How many regiments, +I mean? They'll open the windows when we get there, +won't they? I hope the sun will shine that day. How +grandly we shall march down the old hill there, with our +train behind us. I shall have to borrow a coat of one of +them though, they might be ashamed of their captor else. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. When is this great battle to be, John? This +don't look much like it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. I think myself, if the General would only give +us a chance to fight— +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. A chance to throw your life away,—he will +never give you. A chance to fight, you will have ere +long,—doubt it not. Our General might clear his blackened +fame, by opposing this force to that,—this day he +might;—he will not do it. The time has not yet come. +But he will spare no pains to strengthen the army, and +prepare it for victory, and the glory he will leave to his +rival. Recruits will be pouring in ere long. General +Burgoyne's proclamation has weakened us,—General +Schuyler will issue one himself to-day. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Will he? will he? What will he proclaim?—As +to the recruits he gets, I'll eat them all, skin and +bone. What will he proclaim? You see what Burgoyne +offers us. On the one hand, money and clothing, +and protection for ourselves and our families; and on the +other, the cord, and the tomahawk, and the scalping-knife. +Now, what will General Schuyler set down over +against these two columns?—What will he offer us?—To +lend us a gun, maybe,—leave to follow him from one +post to another, barefooted and starving, and for our +pains to be cursed and reviled for cowards from one end +of the land to the other. And what will he threaten? +Ha, we were cowards indeed, if we feared what he could +threaten. What thing in human nature will he speak +to?—say. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. I will tell you. To that spirit in human nature +which resists the wrong, the fiendish wrong threatened +there. Ay, in the basest nature that power sleeps, +and out of the bosom of Omnipotence there is nothing +stronger. It has wakened here once, and this war is its +fruit. It slumbers now. Let Burgoyne look to it that +he rouse it not himself for us. Let him look to it. For +every outrage of those fiendish legions, thank God.—It +lays a finger on the spring of our only strength. <i>What</i> +will he offer us? I will tell you.—A chance to live, or to +die,—<i>men</i>,—ay, to leave a sample of manhood on the +earth, that shall wring tears from the selfish of unborn +ages, as they feel for once the depths of the slumbering +and godlike nature within them. And Burgoyne,—oh! +a coat and a pair of shoes, he offers, and—how many +pounds?—Are you men? +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. What do you say, Sam?—Talks like a minister, don't he? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Come, come,—there's the drum, boys. You +don't bamboozle me again! I've heard all that before. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. Nor me.—I don't intend to have my wife and +children tomahawked,—don't think I can stand that, refugee or not. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Here they come. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Other Soldiers enter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>5th Sol</i>. All's ready, all's ready. +</p> + +<p> +<i>6th Sol</i>. (<i>singing</i>.) +<br> +"<i>Come blow the shrill bugle, the war dogs are howling</i>,"— +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exeunt</i>. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE II.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>Before the door of the Parsonage. Trunks, boxes, and various articles of furniture, scattered about the yard. Two men coming down the path</i>.</h4> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>George Grey enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Those trunks in the forward team. Make +haste. We've no time to lose. This box in the wagon +where the children are.—Carefully—carefully, though. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A Soldier enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Sol</i>. Hurra, hurra, the house there! Are you ready? +Ten minutes more. +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Get out. What do you stand yelling there +for? We know all about it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Sol</i>. But your brother, the Captain, says, I must hurry +you, or you'll be left behind. +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Tell my brother, the Captain, I'll see to that. +We want no more hurrying. We have had enough of +that already, and much good it has done us too. Stop, +stop,—not that. We must leave those for the Indians to +take their tea in. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Workman</i>. But the lady said— +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Never mind the lady. Well, Annie, are you +ready? Don't stand there crying; there's no use. We +may come back here again yet, you know. Many a +pleasant sunrise we may see from these windows yet. +Heaven defend us, here is this aunt of ours.—What on +earth are they bringing now? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A Lady in the door with a couple of portraits, followed by others bringing baskets and boxes, etc</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady</i>. That will do, set them down; now, the Colonel +and his lady, on the back room wall, just over against +the beaufet. Stop a moment. I'll go with you myself. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Betty</i>. (In, the door.) Lord 'a mercy! Here it is +broad day-light. What are we waiting for? I am all +ready. Why don't we go? +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. I tell you, Aunt Rachael, the thing is impossible. +This trumpery can't go, and there's the end of it. +St. George and the Dragon— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Miss Rachael</i>. Never mind this young malapert—do as I bid you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Betty</i>. Lord 'a mercy, we shall all be murdered and +scalped, every soul of us. Bless you—there it is in the +garret now!—just hold this umberell a minute, Mr. +George,—think of those murderous Indians wearing my +straw bonnet. Lord bless you! What are you doing? +a heaving my umberell over the fence, in that fashion! +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. These women will drive me mad I believe. +Let that box alone, you rascal. Lay a finger on that +trumpery there I say, and you'll find whose orders you +are under; as for the Colonel and his lady, they'll get a +little drink out of the first puddle we come to, I reckon. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Goes out</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Miss R</i>. (<i>Coming from the house</i>.) That will do. +That is all,—in the green wagon, John— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ser't</i>. But the children— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Miss R</i>. Don't stand there, prating to me at a time +like this. Make haste, make haste! +</p> +<p> +How perfectly calm I am! I would never have believed +it;—just tie this string for me, child, my hands +twitch so strangely,—they say the British are just down +in the lane here, with five thousand Indians, Annie. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. It is no such thing. Aunt Rachael. The British +are quietly encamped on the other side of the river; +three miles off at least. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Miss R</i>. I thought as much. A pretty hour for us to +be turned out of house and home to be sure. Not a wink +have I slept this blessed night. Hark! What o'clock +is that? George, George! where is that boy? Just run +and tell your mother, Annie, just tell her, my dear, will +you, that we shall all be murdered. Maybe she will make +haste a little. Well, are they in? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ser't</i>. The pictures? They are in,—yes'm. But +Miss Kitty's a crying, and says as how she won't go, +and there's the other one too; because, Ma'am, their toes—you +see there's the trunk in front gives 'em a leetle slope +inward, and then that chest under the seat—If you +would just step down and see yourself, Ma'am. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Miss R</i>. I desire to be patient. + +<p align="right"> +[<i>They go out</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Annie sits on the bench of the little Porch, weeping. Mrs. Gray enters from within</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Shall I never walk down that shady path +again? Shall I enter those dear rooms no more? +There are voices there they cannot hear. From the life +of buried years, ten thousand scenes, all vacancy toother +eyes, enrich those walls for us; the furniture that money +cannot buy, that only the joy and grief of years can purchase. +They will spoil our pleasant home,—will they +not, mother? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Pleasant, ay, pleasant indeed, has it been to +us. God's will be done. Do not weep, Annie. We +have counted the cost;—many a safe and happy home +there will be in the days to come, whose light shall spring +from this forgotten sorrow. God's will be done. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Mother, they are all ready now; is Helen in +her room still? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Go call her, Annie. Hours ago it was I sent +her there. I thought she might get some little sleep ere +the summons came. Call her, my child. How deadly +pale she was! +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Annie goes in</i>. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE III.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>A Chamber partly darkened, the morning air steals faintly through the half-open shutters. Helen before the mirror, leaning upon the toilette, her face buried in her hands, her long hair unbound, and flowing on her shoulders</i>.</h4> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Annie enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Helen! Why, Helen, are you asleep there? +Come, we are going now. After keeping us on tiptoe +for hours, the summons has come at last. Indeed, there +is hardly time for you to dress. Shall I help you? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. (<i>Rising slowly</i>.) God help me. Bid my +mother come here, Annie. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. What ails you, Helen?—there is no time,—you +do not understand me,—there is not one moment to +be lost. Let me wind up this hair for you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Let go!—Oh God— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Helen Grey! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. It was a dream,—it was but a foolish dream. +It must not be thought of now,—it will never do. Bid +my mother come here, I am ready now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Ready, Helen!—ready?—in that dressing-gown, +and your hair—see here,—are you ready, Helen? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes,—bid her come. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Heaven only knows what you mean with this +wild talk of yours, but if you are not mad indeed, I intreat +you, sister, waste no more of this precious time. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. No, no,—we must not indeed. It was wrong, +but I could not—go,—make haste, bid her come. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. She is crazed, certainly! +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Goes out</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Helen stands with her arms folded, and her eye fixed on the door</i>.) +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Mrs. Grey enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. My child! Helen, Helen! Why do you stand there thus? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Mother— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Nay, do not stay to speak. There—throw +this mantle around you. Where is your hat?—not here!—Bridal gear! +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>George enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. On my word! Well, well, stand there a +little longer, to dress those pretty curls of yours, and +—humph—there's a style in vogue in yonder camp +for rebels just now; we'll all stand a chance to try, I think. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. George!—George Grey!—Be still,—be still.— +We must not think of that. It was a dream. +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Is my sister mad? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Mother— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Speak, my child. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Mother—my blessed mother,—(<i>aside</i>.) 'Tis +but a brief word,—it will be over soon. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Speak, Helen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I cannot go with you, mother. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Helen? +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Not go with us? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Helen, do you know what you are saying? +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. You are in jest, Helen; or else you are +mad,—before another sunset the British army will be encamping here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Hear me, mother. A message from the British +camp came to me last night,— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. The British camp?—Ha!—ha! Everard +Maitland! God forgive him. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Do not speak thus. It was but a few cold +and careless lines he sent me,—my purpose is my own. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. And—what, and he does not know?—Helen +Grey, this passes patience. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. He does, Here is the answer that has just +now come; for I have promised to meet him to-day at +the hut of the missionary in yonder woods.—I can +hardly spell these hasty words; but this I know, he will +surely come for me,—though he bids me wait until I +hear his signal,—so I cannot go with you, mother. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Where will you go, Helen? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Everard is in yonder camp;—where should the +wife's home be? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. The wife's? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. These two years I have been his bride;—his +wedded wife I shall be to-day. Yonder dawns my bridal day. +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. What does she say? What does Helen say? +I do not understand one word of it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. She says she will go to the British camp. +Desertions thicken upon us. Hark!—they are calling us. +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. To the British camp? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Go down, George, go down. Your sister +talks wildly and foolishly, what you should not have +heard, what she will be sorry for anon; go down, and +tell them they must wait for us a little,—we will be there +presently. +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Hark! (<i>going to the door</i>.)—another message. +Do you hear?—Helen may be ready yet, if she will. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Blessed delay! Go down, George; say +nothing of this. There is time yet. Tell them we will +be there presently. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>George goes out</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Did you think I should leave you here to accomplish +this frantic scheme?—Did you dream of it, and +you call me mother?—but what do you know of that +name's meaning? Do not turn away from me thus, my +child; do not stand with that fixed eye as though some +phantom divinity were there. I shall not leave you here, +Helen, never. +</p> +<p> +Come, come; sit down with me in this pleasant window, +there is time yet,—let us look at this moonlight +scheme of yours a little. Would you stay here in this +deserted citadel, alone? My child, our army are already +on their march. In an hour more you would be the only +living thing in all this solitude. Would you stay here +alone, to meet your lover too?—Bethink yourself, Helen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. This Canadian girl will stay with me, and— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. A girl!—Helen, yesterday an army's +strength, the armies of the nation, the love of mother, +and brothers, and sisters, all seemed nothing for protection +to your timid and foreboding thought; and now, +when the enemy are all around us,—do you talk of a +single girl? Why, the spirit of some strange destiny is +struggling with your nature, and speaks within you, but +we will not yield to it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. You have spoken truly, mother. There is one +tie in these hearts of ours, whose strength makes destiny, +and where that leads, there lie those iron ways that are +of old from everlasting. This is Heaven's decree, not +mine. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Do not charge the madness of this frantic +scheme on Heaven, my child. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen. Everard!</i>—no, no, I cannot show to another +the lightning flash, that with that name reveals my destiny,—yet +the falling stone might as soon—question of its +way. Renounce him?—you know not what you ask! +all there is of life within me laughs at the wild impossibility. +</p> +<p> +Mother, hear me. There is no danger in my staying +here,—none real. The guard still keep their station on +yonder hill, and the fort itself will not be wholly abandoned +to-day. Everard will come for me at noon.—It is +impossible that the enemy should be here ere then; nay, +the news of this unlooked-for movement will scarce have +reached their camp.—<i>Real</i> danger there is none, and—Do +not urge me. I know what you would say; the bitter +cost I have counted all, already, all—<i>all</i>. That Maitland +is in yonder camp, that—is it not a strange blessedness +which can sweeten anguish such as this?—that he +loves me still, that he will come here to-day to make me +his forever,—this is all that I can say, my mother. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Will you go over to the British side, Helen? +Will you go over to the side of wrong and oppression? +Would you link yourself with our cruel and pursuing +enemy? Oh no, no no,—that could not be—never, +Amid the world of fearful thoughts that name brings, how +could we place your image? Oh God, I did not count +on this. I knew that this war was to bring us toil, and +want, and fear, and haply bloody death; and I could have +borne it unmurmuringly; but—God forgive me,—that the +child I nursed in these arms should forsake me, and join +with our deadly foes against us—I did not count on this. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes—that's the look,—the very look—all night +I saw it;—it does not move me now, as it did then. It is +shadows of these things that are so fearful, for with the real +comes the unreckoned power of suffering. +Mother, this dark coil hath Heaven wound, not we. +The tie which makes his path the way of God to me, +was linked ere this war was,—and war cannot undo it +now. It is a bitter fate, I know,—a bitter and a fearful one. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Ay, ay,—thank God! You had forgotten, +Helen, that in that army's pay, nay, all around us even now +are hordes and legions. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I know it,—I know it all. I do indeed. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Helen, will you place yourself defenceless +amidst that savage race, whose very name from your +childhood upwards, has filled you with such strange fear? +Yesterday I chid you for those fancies,—I was wrong,—they +were warnings, heaven-sent, to save you from this +doom. What was that dream you talked of then? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Dreams are nothing. Will you unsay a life's +lessons now when most I need them? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Yesterday, all day, a shadow as of coming +evil lay upon me, but now I remember the forgotten vision +whence it fell. Yesternight I had a dream, Helen, +such as yours might be; for in my broken and fevered +slumbers, wherever I turned, one vision awaited me. +There was a savage arm, and over it fell a shower of +golden hair, and ever and anon, in the shadowy light of +my dream, a knife glittered and waved before me. We +were safe, but over one,—some young and innocent and +tender one it was—there hung a hopeless and inexorable +fate. Once methought it seemed the young English girl +that was wedded here last winter, and once she turned +her eye upon me—Ha!—I had forgotten that glance of +agony—surely, Helen, it was <i>yours</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Helen! my child—(<i>Aside</i>.) There it is, +that same curdling glance,—'twas but a dream, Helen. +Why do you stand there so white and motionless—why +do you look on me with that fixed and darkening eye?—'twas +but a dream! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. And where were you?—tell me truly. Was it +not by a gurgling fountain among the pine trees there? +and was it not noon-day in your dream, a hot, bright, sultry +noon, and a few clouds swelling in the western sky, +and nothing but the trilling locusts astir? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. How wildly you talk; how should I remember +any thing like this? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I will not yield to it; tempt me not. 'Tis folly +all, I know it is. Danger there is none. Long ere yonder +hill is abandoned, Everard will be here; and who +knows that I am left here alone, and who would come +here to seek me out but he? Oh no, I cannot break +this solemn faith for a dream. What would he give to +know I held my promise and his love lighter than a +dream? I must <i>stay</i> here, mother. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. No, my child. Hear me. If this must be indeed, +if all my holy right in you is nothing, if you will indeed +go over to our cruel enemy, and rejoice in our sorrows +and triumph in our overthrow— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Hear her— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Be it so, Helen,—be it so; but for all that, do +not stay here to-day. Bear but a little longer with our +wearisome tenderness, and wait for some safer chance +of forsaking us. Come. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. If I could—Ah, if I could— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. You can—you will. Here, let me help you, +we shall be ready yet. No one knows of this wild +scheme but your brother and myself, no one else shall +ever know it. Come. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. If I could. 'Tis true, I did not know when I +sent him this promise you would leave me alone ere the +hour should come. Perhaps—no, it would never do. +When he comes and finds that, after all, I have deserted +him, once with a word I angered him, and for years it +was the last between us;—and what safer chance will +there be in these fearful times of meeting him? No, no. +If we do not meet now, we are parted for ever;—if I do +not keep my promise now, I shall see him no more. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. See him no more then. What is he to us—this +stranger, this haughty, all-requiring one? Think of +the blessed days ere he had crossed our threshold. You +have counted all, Helen? The anguish that will bring +tears into your proud brother's eyes, your sister's comfortless +sorrow?—did you think of her lonely and saddened +youth? You counted the wild suffering of this +bitter moment,—did you think of the weary years, the +long sleepless nights of grief, the days of tears; did you +count the anguish of a mother's broken heart, Helen? +God only can count that. +</p> +<p> +You did not—there come the blessed tears at last. +Here's my own gentle daughter, once again. Come, +Helen, see, they are waiting for us. There stands the +old chaise under the locust tree. You and I will ride +together. Come, 'tis but a few steps down that shady +path, and we are safe—a few steps and quickly trod. +Hark! the respite is past even now. Do you stand +there marble still? Helen, if you stay here, we shall +see you no more. This lover of yours hates us all. He +will take you to England when the war is over if you +outlive its bloody hazards, and we are parted for ever. +I shall see you no more, Helen, my child; my child, I shall +see you no more. (<i>She sinks upon the chair, and +weeps aloud</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Has it come to this? Will you break my +heart? If it were continents and oceans that you bade +me cross, but those few steps—Ah, they would sever me +from him for ever, and I cannot, I cannot, I can <i>not</i> take +them,—there is no motion so impossible. Yes, they are +calling us. Do not stay. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Annie enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Mother, will you tell me what this means? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Yes, come in. We will waste no more time +about it. She will stay here to meet her lover, she will +forsake us for a traitor. We have nursed an enemy +among us. The babe I cherished in this bosom, whose +sleeping face I watched with a young mother's love, +hath become my enemy. Oh my God—is it from thee? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Helen! my sister! Helen! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Ay, look at her. Would you think that the +spirit which heaves in that light frame, and glances in +those soft eyes, held such cruel power? Yesterday I +would have counted it a breath in the way of my lightest +purpose, and now—come away, Annie—it is vain, you +cannot move her. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>George enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Mother, if Helen will not go now, we must +leave her to her fate or share it with her. Every wagon +is on the road but ours. A little more, and we shall be +too late for the protection of the army. Shall I stay with her? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. No, never. That were a sure and idle +waste of life. Helen, perhaps, may be safe with them. +Oh. yes, the refugees are safe, else desertion would grow +out of fashion soon. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Refugees! Refugee! Helen! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. It sounds strange for one of us I know. You +will grow used to it soon. Helen belongs to the British +side, she will go over to them to-day, but she must go +alone, for none of us would be safe in British hands, at +least I trust so—this morning's experience might make +me doubtful, but I trust we are all true here yet beside. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Have I heard aright, Helen?—or is this all +some fearful dream? You and I, who have lived together +all the years of our lives, to be parted this moment, +and for ever,—no, no! +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A young American Officer enters hastily</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Capt. Grey</i>. Softly, softly! What is this? Are you in +this conspiracy to disgrace me, mother? Oh, very well; +if you have all decided to stay here, I'll take my leave. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Oh, Henry, stay. You can persuade her it may be. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Capt. G. Persuade</i>! What's all this! A goodly +time for rhetoric forsooth! Who's this that's risking all +our lives, waiting to be persuaded now? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. That Tory, Henry! We should have thought +of this. Ah, if we had gone yesterday,—that haughty +Maitland,—she will stay here to meet him! She will +marry him, my son. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Capt. G</i>. Maitland!—and stay here! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Dear Henry, let us part in kindness. Do not +look on me with that angry eye. It was I that played +with you in the woods and meadows, it was I that +roamed with you in those autumn twilights,—you loved +me then, and we are parting for ever it may be.. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Capt. G</i>. (<i>To the children at the door</i>.) Get you +down, young ones, get you down. Pray, mother, lead +the way, will you?—break up this ring. Come, Helen, +you and I will talk of this as we go on, only in passing +give me leave to say, of all the mad pranks of your novel +ladies, this caps the chief. You have outdone them, +Helen; I'll give you credit for it, you have outdone them all. +</p> +<p> +Why you'll be chronicled,—there's nothing on record +like it, that ever I heard of; I am well-read in romances +too. We'll have a new love-ballad made and set to tune, +under the head of "Love and Murder," it will come +though, if you don't make haste a little. Come, come. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Henry! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Capt. G</i>. Are you in earnest, Helen? Did you suppose +that we were mad enough to leave you here? +You'll not go with us? But you will, by Heaven! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Henry! Mother!—Nay, Henry, this is vain. I +shall stay here, I shall—I shall stay here,—so help me +Heaven. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Capt. G</i>. Helen Grey! Is that young lioness there +my sometime sister?—my delicate sister?—with her foot +planted like iron, and the strength of twenty men nerving her arm? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Let go.—I shall stay here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Capt. G</i>. Well, have your way, young lady, have your +way; but—Mother, if you choose to leave that mad girl +here, you can,—but as for this same Everard Maitland, +look you, my lady, if I don't stab him to his heart's core, +never trust me. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>He goes out—Mrs. Grey follows him to the door</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Stay, Henry,—stay. What shall we do? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Capt. G</i>. Do!—Indeed, a straight waistcoat is the +only remedy I know of, Madam, for such freaks as these. +If you say so, she shall go with us yet. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Hear me. This is no time for passion now +Hear me, Henry. This Maitland, <i>Tory</i> as he is, is her betrothed +husband, and she has chosen her fate with him; +we cannot keep her with us; nay, with what we have +now seen, it would be vain to think of it, to wish it even. +She must go to him,—it but remains to see that she meets +him safely. Noon is the hour appointed for his coming. +Could we not stay till then? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Capt. G</i>. Impossible. Noon?—well.—Oh, if its all +fixed upon;—if you have settled it between yourselves +that Helen is to abandon us and our protection, for +Everard Maitland's and the British, the sooner done, the +better. She's quite right,—she's like to find no safer +chance for it than this. Noon,—there is a picket left on +yonder hill till after that time, certainly, and a hundred +men or so in the fort. I might give Van Vechten a hint +of it—nay, I can return myself this afternoon, and if she +is not gone then, I will take it upon me she is not left a +second time. Of course Maitland would be likely to +care for her safety. At all events there's nothing else +for us to do, at least there's but one alternative, and +that I have named to you. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>They go out together</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. (<i>She has stood silently watching them</i>.) He +has gone, without one parting look—he has gone! So +break the myriad-tied loves, it hath taken a life to weave. +This is a weary world. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>She turns to her sister, who leans weeping on the window-seat</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<br> +Come, Annie, you and I will part in kindness, will we +not? No cruel words shall there be here. Pleasant hath +your love been unto me, my precious sister. Farewell, Annie. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Shall I never hear your voice again, that +hath been the music of my whole life? Is your face +henceforth to be to me only a remembered thing? Helen, +you must not stay here. The Indians,—it was no idle +fear, the half of their bloody outrages you have not heard; +they will murder you, yes, <i>you</i>. The innocence and loveliness +that is holy to us, is nothing in their eyes, they +would as soon sever that beautiful hair from your brow— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Hush, hush. There is no danger, Annie. The +dark things of destiny are God's; the heart, the heart only, is ours. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Mrs. Grey re-enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. (<i>to Annie</i>.) Come, come, my child. This is +foolish now. All is ready. Janette will stay with you, Helen. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Laughing voices are heard without, and the children's faces are seen peeping in the door</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Willy</i>. Dear mother, are you not ready yet? We have +been in the wagon and out a hundred times. Oh, Helen, +make haste. The sun is above the trees, and the grass +on the roadside is all full of diamonds. The last soldiers +are winding down the hollow now. Is not Helen +going, Mother? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Your sister Helen is going from us forever. +Come in and kiss her once, and then make haste—you +must not all be lost. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>They enter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Willy</i>. Ah, why don't you go with us, sister?—Such +a beautiful ride we shall have. You never heard such a +bird-singing in all your life. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Frank</i>. We shall go by the Chesnut Hollow, George +says we shall. Smell of these roses, Helen. Must she +stay here? Hark, Willy, there's the drum. Good-bye, +How sorry I am you will not go with us. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Willy</i>. So am I. What makes you stand so still and +look at us so? Why don't you kiss me? Good-bye, Helen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. (<i>Embracing them silently</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Annie</i>. Will you leave her here alone, mother? Will you? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. No. There is a guard left on yonder hill, +and the fort is not yet abandoned wholly. Besides, the +army encamp at the creek, and Henry himself will +return this afternoon. She will be gone ere then, though. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Those merry steps and voices, those little, soft +clinging hands and rosy lips, have vanished forever. For +all my love I shall be to them but as the faint trace of +some faded dream. This is a weary world. +</p> +<p> +Come, George, farewell. How I have loved to look on +that young brow. Be what my dreams have made you. +Fare you well. +</p> + +<p> +<i>George</i>. Farewell, Helen. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>He goes out hastily</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Will he forget me? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. And farewell, Helen. Fare ye well. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Will she leave me thus? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Do not go to the hut—do not leave this door +until you are sure of the signal you spoke of, Helen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. She will not look at me,—Mother! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Farewell, Helen; may the hour never come +when you need the love you have cast from you now so freely. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Will you leave me thus? Is not our life together +ending here? In that great and solemn Hereafter +our ways may meet again; but by the light of sun, or +moon, or candle, or underneath these Heavens, no more. +Oh! lovely, lovely have you been unto me, a spirit of +holiness and beauty, building all my way.—Part we thus? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Farewell, Helen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Part we thus? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Fare ye well, Helen Grey, my own sweet +and precious child, my own lovely, lovely daughter, fare +ye well, and the Lord be with you. The Lord keep you, +for I can keep you now no more. The Lord watch over +you, my helpless one, mine, mine, mine, all mine, though +I leave you thus; my world of untold wealth, unto another. +Nay, do not sorrow, my blessed child,—you will +be happy yet. Fear nothing,—if this must be, I say, fear +nothing. You think that you are doing right in forsaking +us thus;—it may be that you are. If in the strength +of a pure conscience you stay here to-day,—be not afraid. +When you lay here of old, a lisping babe, I told you of +One whose love was better than a mother's. Now farewell, +and trust in Him. Farewell, mine eye shall see thee +yet again. Farewell. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. No, no; leave me not. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Unclasp these hands, I cannot stay. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Never—never. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Untwine this wild embrace, or, even now,—even +now— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Farewell, mother. Annie Grey, farewell. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>They go</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. This is a weary world. Take me home. To +the land where there is no crying or bitterness, take me home. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>The noise of retreating steps is heard, and the sound of the outer door closing heavily</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. They are gone,—not to church,—not for the +summer's ride. I shall see them no more.—In heaven +it may be; but by the twilight hearth, or merry table, at +morn, or noon, or evening, in mirth or earthly tenderness, no more. +</p> +<p> +Hark! There it is!—that voice,—I hear it now, I do. +A dark eternity had rolled between us, and I hear it yet +again. They are going now. Those rolling wheels, oh +that that sound would last. There is no music half so +sweet. Fainter—fainter—it is gone—no—that was but +the hollow.—Hark— +</p> +<p> +Now they are gone, indeed. So breaks the sense's last +link between me and that world. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<a name="part5"><!--MARKER--></a> +<h2>PART FIFTH.</h2> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<center> +FULFILLMENT +</center> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<h3>DIALOGUE I.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The hill. A young Soldier enters</i>.</h4> + +<p> +How gloriously, with what a lonely majesty the morning +wastes in that silent valley there; with its moving +shadows, and breeze and sunshine, and its thousand delicious +sounds mocking those desolate homes— +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>He stops suddenly, and looks earnestly into the thicket</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +This is strange, indeed. This feeling that I cannot +analyze, still grows upon me. <i>Presentiment?</i> Some +dark, swift-flying thought, leaves its trace, and the cause-seeking +mind, in the range of its own vision finding none, +looks to the shadowy future for it. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>He passes on</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Two Indian Chiefs, in their war-dress, emerge from the thicket, talking in suppressed tones</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Chief</i>. Hoogh! Hoogh! Alaska fights to revenge +his son,—we spill our blood to revenge his son, and he +thinks to win gifts besides. Hugh! A brave chief he is! +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Chief</i>. Your talk is not good, Manida. They are +our enemies,—we shall conquer them, we shall see their +chestnut locks waving aloft, we shall dance and shout +all night around them, and the eyes of the maidens shall +meet ours in the merry ring, sparkling with joy, as we +shout "Victory! victory! our enemies are slain,—our +foot is on their necks, we have slain our enemies!" What +more, Manida? Is it not enough? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Chief</i>. No. I went last night with Alaska to the +camp above, to the tent of the young sachem of the lake, +and he promised him presents, rich and many, for an errand +that a boy might do. I asked Alaska to send me for +him, and he would not. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Chief</i>. The young white sachem was Alaska's +friend, many moons ago, when Alaska was wounded and +sick.—He must revenge young Siganaw, but he must +keep his faith to his white friend, too. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Chief</i>. Ah, but I know where the horse is hidden +and the paper. When the tomahawks flash here, and +the war-cry is loudest, we will steal away. Come, and I +will share the prize with you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Chief</i>. No, I will tell my brother chief that Manida +is a treacherous friend. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Chief</i>. You cannot. It is too late. Hist! Quick, +lower—lower— +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>They crouch among the trees</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Another Soldier emerges from the wood-path, singing</i>.) +</p> +<p> + + "<i>Then march to the roll of the drum, +<br> + + It summons the brave to the plain, +<br> + + Where heroes contend for the home +<br> + + Which perchance they may ne'er see again</i>." +</p> + +<p> +(<i>Pausing abruptly</i>.) Well, we are finely manned here! +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>1st Soldier re-enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. How many men do you think we have in all, +upon this hill, Edward? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Hist!—more than you count on, perhaps. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Why? What is the matter? Why do you +look among those bushes so earnestly? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Student</i>. It is singular, indeed. I can hardly tell +you what it is, but twice before in my round, precisely +in this same spot, the same impression has flashed upon +me, though the sense that gives it, if sense it is, will not +bide an instant's questioning. There! Hist! Did +nothing move there then? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. I see nothing. This comes of star-gazing, +when you should have slept. Though as to that, I have +nothing to complain of, certainly. I had to thank your +taste that way, last night, for an hour of the most delicious +slumber. It was like that we used to snatch of +old, between the first stroke of the prayer-bell and its dying peal. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. I am glad you could sleep. For myself, such +a world of troubled thoughts haunted me, I found more +repose in waking. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Then I wish you could have shared my +dream with me, as indeed you seemed to, for you were +with me through it all. A blessed dream it was, and yet— +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Well, let me share it with you now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. I cannot tell you how it was, that in honor +and good conscience we had effected it, but somehow, +methought our part in this sickening warfare was accomplished, +and we were home again. Oh the joy of +it! oh the joy of it! Even amid my dream, methought +we questioned its reality, so unearthly in its perfectness, +it seemed. We stood upon the college-green, and the +sun was going down with a strange, darkling splendor; +and from afar, ever and anon came the thunder roll of +battle; but we had nought to do with it; our part was +done; our time was out; we were to fight no more. And +there we stood, watching the students' games; and there +too was poor <i>Hale</i>, merry and full of life as e'er he was, +for never a thought of his cruel fate crossed my dream. +Suddenly we saw two ladies, arm in arm, come swiftly +down the shady street, most strangely beautiful and +strangely clad, with long white robes, and garlands in +their hair, and such a clear and silvery laugh, and something +fearful in their loveliness withal; and one of them, +as she came smiling toward us—do you remember that +bright, fair-haired girl we met in yonder lane one noon? +—Just such a smile as hers wore the lady in my dream. +Then, into the old chapel we were crowding all; that +long-deferred commencement had come on at last; we +stood upon a stage, and a strange light filled all the +house, and suddenly the ceiling swelled unto the skiey +dome, and nations filled the galleries; and I woke, to find +myself upon a soldier's couch, and the reveille beating. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Well, if it cheered you, 'twas a good dream +most certainly, though, yet—the dream-books might not +tell you so. Will you take this glass a moment? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. What is it? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. That white house by the orchard, in the door +—do you see nothing? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Yes, a figure, certainly;—yes, now it moves. +I had thought those houses were deserted,—it is time +they were I think, for all the protection we can give +them. How long shall we maintain this post, think you, +with such a handful? +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Till the preparations below are complete, I +trust so at least, for we have watchers in these woods, no +doubt, who would speedily report our absence. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Well, if we all see yonder sun go down, 'tis +more than I count on. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. A chance if we do—a chance if we do. Will +the hour come when this infant nation shall forget her +bloody baptism?—the holy name of truth and freedom, +that with our hearts' blood we seal upon her in these days of fear? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Ay, that hour may come. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Then, with tears, and <i>blood</i> if need be, shall +she learn it anew; and not in vain shall the bones of the +martyrs moulder in her peopled vales. For human nature, +in her loftiest mood, was this beautiful land of old +built, and for ages hid. Here—her cradle-dreams behind +her flung; here, on the height of ages past, +her solemn eye down their long vistas turned, in a +new and nobler life she shall arise here. Ah, who knows +but that the book of History may show us at last on its +long-marred page—<i>Man</i> himself,—no longer the partial +and deformed developments of his nature, which each +successive age hath left as if in mockery of its ideal,—but, +man himself, the creature of thought,—the high, calm, +majestic being, that of old stood unshrinking beneath +his Maker's gaze. Even, as first he woke amid the gardens +of the East, in this far western clime at last he shall +smile again,—a perfect thing. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. In your earnestness, you do not mark these +strange sounds, Edward. Listen. (<i>He grasps his sword</i>.) +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A Soldier rushes down the path</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. We are surrounded! Fly. The Indians are upon us. Fly. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Rushes on</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Another Soldier bursts from the woods</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>4th Sol</i>. God! They are butchering them above there, +do not stand here! +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Rushes down the hill</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Resistance is vain. Hear those shrieks! +There is death in them. Resistance is vain. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. Flight is vain. Look yonder! Francis,— +the dark hour hath come! +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Sol</i>. Is it so? Mother and sister I shall see no more. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A number of Indians, disfigured with paint and blood, and brandishing their knives, come rushing down the road, uttering short, fierce yells. Others from below, bringing back the fugitives</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Sol</i>. We shall die together. God of Truth and +Freedom, unto thee our youthful spirits trust we. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>The Indians surround them. Fighting to the last, they fall</i>.) +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE II.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The deserted house—the chamber—Helen by the table—her head bowed and motionless. She rises slowly from her drooping posture</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. It is my bridal day. I had forgotten that. +(<i>Looking from the window</i>.) Is this real? Am I here +alone? My mother gone? The army gone? brothers +and sisters gone, and those woods full of armed Indians? +I am awake. This is not the light of dreams,—'tis the +sun that's shining there. Not the fresh arid tender morning +sun, that looked in on that parting. Hours he has +climbed since then, to turn those shadows thus,—hours that +to me were nothing.—Alone?—deserted—defenceless? +Of my own will too? There was a <i>law</i> in that will, +though, was there not? (<i>Turning suddenly from the +window</i>.) Shall I see him again? The living real of +my thousand dreams, in the light of life, will he stand +here to-day?—to-day? No, no. Is this swift flow of +being leading on to <i>that</i>? Oh day of anguish, if in +thine awful bosom, still, that dazzling instant sleeps, I +can forgive the rest. + +<p align="center"> +(<i>She stands by the toilette, and begins to gather once more the long hair from her shoulders. Suddenly a low voice at the door breaks the stillness. The Canadian servant looks in</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. I ask your pardon—Shall I come in, Ma'amselle? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Ay, ay, come in. How strangely any voice +sounds amid this loneliness. I am glad you are here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. (<i>Entering</i>.) Beautiful! Santa Maria! How +beautiful! May I look at these things, Ma'amselle? +(<i>Stopping by the couch strewn with bridal gear</i>.) Real +Brussels! And the plume in this bonnet, was there ever +such a lovely droop? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Come, fasten this clasp for me, Netty. I thought +to have had another bridesmaid once, but—that is past— +Yes, I am a bride to-day, and I must not wait here unadorned. +(<i>Aside</i>.) He shall have no hint from me this +day of "<i>altered fortunes</i>." As though these weary +years had been but last night's dream, and my wedding-day +had come as it was fixed, so will I meet him.—Yet +I thought to have worn my shroud sooner than this robe. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. This silk would stand alone, Ma'amselle,—and +what a lovely white it is! Just such a bodice as this +I saw my Lady Mary wear, two years ago this summer, +in Quebec; only, this is a thought deeper. But, Santa +Maria! how it becomes a shape like yours! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. What a world of buried feeling lives again as +I feel the clasp of this robe once more! Will he say +these years have changed me? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. (<i>Aside</i>) I do not like that altered mien. How +the beauty flashes from her? Is it silk and lace that can +change one so? Here are bracelets too, Ma'amselle; will you wear them? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes. Go, look from the window, Janette, +down the lane to the woods. I am well-high ready now. +He will come,—yes, he will come. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Janette retreats to the window,—her eye still following the lady</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. I have seen brides before, but never so gay a one +as this. It is strange and fearful to see her stand here +alone, in this lonesome house, all in glistening white, +smiling, and the light flashing from her eyes thus. She +looks too much like some radiant creature from another +world, to be long for this. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. He will come, why should he not? Netty, fix +your eye on that opening in the woods, and if you see +but a shadow crossing it, tell me quickly. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. I can see nothing—nothing at all. Marie sanctissima!—how +quiet it is! The shadows are straight here now, Miss Helen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Noon—the very hour has come! Another +minute it may be.—Noon, you said, Netty? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Joining Janette at the window</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Yes, quite—you can see; and hark, there's the +clock. Oh, isn't it lonesome though? See how like the +Sunday those houses look, with the doors all closed and +the yards and gardens still as midnight. If we could but +hear a human voice!—whose, I would not care. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. How like any other noon-day it comes! The +faint breeze plays in those graceful boughs as it did yesterday; +that little, yellow butterfly glides on its noiseless +way above the grass, as then it did;—just so, the shadows +sleep on the grassy road-side there;—yes, Netty, +yes, <i>'tis</i> very lonely.—Hear those merry birds! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. But I would rather hear that signal, Miss Helen, +a thousand times, than the best music that ever was played. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I shall see him again. That wild hope is wild +no longer. To doubt were wilder now. Ay, Fate must +cross my way with a bold hand, to snatch that good from +me now. And yet,—alas, in the shadowy future it lieth +still, and a dark and treacherous realm is that! The joys +that blossom on its threshold are not ours—It may be, even +now, darkness and silence everlasting lie between us. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Hark—Hark! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. What is it? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Hark!—There!—Do you hear nothing? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Distant voices? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Yes— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I do— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Once before,—'twas when I stood in the door below, +I heard something like this; but the breeze just then +brought the sound of the fall nearer, and drowned it. +There it is!—Nearer. The other window, Miss Helen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. From that hill it comes, does it not? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Yes—yes, I should think it did. Oh yes. There +is a guard left there—I had forgotten that. Mon Dieu! +How white your lips are! Are you afraid, Ma'amselle? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Helen stands gazing silently from the window</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. There is no danger. It must have been those +soldiers that we heard,—or the cry of some wild animal +roaming through yonder woods—it might have been,—how +many strange sounds we hear from them. At another +time we should never have thought of it. I think +we should have heard that signal though, ere this,—I do, indeed. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. What is it to die? Nor wood nor meadow, nor +winding stream, nor the blue sky, do <i>they</i> see; nor the voice +of bird or insect do they hear; nor breeze, nor sunshine, +nor fragrance visits them. Will there be nothing left that +makes this being then? The high, Godlike purpose—the +life whose breath it is,—can <i>that</i> die?—the meek +trust in Goodness Infinite,—can <i>that</i> perish? No.—This +is that building of the soul which nothing can dissolve, +that house eternal, that eternity's wide tempests cannot +move. No—no—I am not afraid. No—Netty, I am not +afraid. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Will you come here, Miss Helen? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Well. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Look among those trees by the road-side—those +pine trees, on the side of the hill, where my finger +points.— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Well—what is it? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Do you see—what a blinding sunshine this is—do +you see something moving there?—wait a moment—they +are hid among the trees now—you will see them +again presently—There!—there they come, a troop of them, see. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes—<i>Indians</i>—are they not? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Ay—it must have been their yelling that +we heard.—We need not be alarmed.—They are from +the camp—they have come to that spring for water. The +wonder is, your soldiers should have let them pass.—You +will see them turning back directly now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. (<i>Turning from the window</i>.) Shelter us—all +power is thine. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Holy Virgin!—they are coming this way. Those +creatures are coming down that hill, as I live. Yes, +there they come. +</p> +<p> +This strip of wood hides them now. What keeps +them there so long? Ay, ay,—I see now—I am sorry I +should have alarmed you so, Ma'amselle, for nothing +too—They have struck into those woods again, no doubt; +they are going back to their camp by the lower route. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. No. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. It must be so. There is no doubt of it. Indeed, +we might be sure they would never dare come here.—They +cannot know yet that your army are gone. Besides, +we should have heard from them ere this. They +could never have kept their horrid tongues to themselves +so long, I know.—Well, if it were to save me, I +cannot screw myself into this shape any longer. (<i>Rising +from the window</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Listen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. 'Tis nothing but the sound of the river. You +can make nothing else of it, Ma'amselle,—unless it is +these locusts that you hear. I wish they would cease +their everlasting din a moment. +</p> +<p> +How that breeze has died away! Every leaf is still +now! There's not a cloud or a speck in all the sky. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Look in the west—have you looked there? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Yes, there are a few little clouds beginning to +gather there indeed. We shall have a shower yet ere night. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>The war-whoop is heard, loud and near</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Mon Dieu! Here they are! It is all over with +us! We shall be murdered! +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>She clasps her hands, and shrieks wildly</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Hush! hush! Put down that window, and +come away. We must be calm now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. It is all over with us,—what use is there? Do +you hear that trampling?—in the street!—they are coming! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Janette—Hear me. Will you throw away +your life and mine? For shame! Be calm. These +Indians cannot know that we are here. They will see +these houses <i>all</i> deserted. Why should they stop to +search <i>this?</i> Hush! hush! they are passing now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. They have stopped!—the trampling has stopped!—I +hear the gate,—they have come into the yard. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A long wild yell is heard under the window. They stand, looking silently at each other. Again it trembles through the room, louder than before</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I am sorry you stayed here with me. +Perhaps—Hark! What was that? What was that? Was it +not <i>Maitland</i> they said then? It was—it is—Don't +grasp me so. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Nay—what would you do? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. I must speak with them. Let go my arm! Do +you not hear? 'Tis Maitland they are talking of. How +strangely that blessed name sounds in those tones! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. You must not—we have tempted Heaven already—this +is madness. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Let go, Janette. It is not you they seek. You +can conceal yourself. You shall be safe. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. She is wild! Nay, I was mad myself, or I should +never have stayed here. It were better to have lived +always with them, than to be murdered thus. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Helen opens the window, and stands for a moment, looking silently down into the court. She turns away, shuddering</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Can I meet those eyes again? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Again the name of Maitland mingles with the wild and unintelligible sounds that rise from without</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Can I? (<i>She turns to the window</i>.) What +can it mean? His own beautiful steed! How fiercely +he prances beneath that unskilful rein. Where's your +master, Selma, that he leaves me to be murdered here? +A letter! He bids me unfasten the door, Janette. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. And will you? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. They are treacherous I know. This will +do.—(<i>Taking a basket from the toilette</i>.) Give me that cord. +(<i>She lets down the basket from the window, and draws +it up, with a letter in it</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. (<i>Looking at the superscription</i>.) 'Tis his! +I thought so. Is it ink and paper that I want now? +(<i>Breaking it open</i>.) Ah, there's no forgery in this, 'Tis +his! 'tis his! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. How can she stand to look at that little lock of +hair now?—smiling as if she had found a bag of diamonds. +But there's bad news there. How the color +fades out, and the light in her eye dies away. What can it be? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. (<i>Throwing the letter down, and walking the +floor hastily</i>.) This is too much! I cannot, I cannot, +<i>I cannot go with them</i>! How could he ask it of me? +<i>This is</i> cruel. +</p> +<p> +He knew, perfectly well, how I have always feared +them—I cannot go with them. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>She takes up the letter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<br> +(<i>Reading</i>.) "Possible"—"If it were possible"—he +does not read that word as I did when I kept this promise—<i>Possible</i>? He does not know the meaning that +love gives that word—"If I had known an hour sooner," +—Ay, ay, an hour sooner!—"Trust me, dear Helen, +they will not harm you." <i>Trust me</i>, trust me. Won't I? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. She is beckoning them, as I live! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Bring me that hat and mantle, Netty. I must +go with these savages. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. <i>Go</i> with them! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. There is no help for it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. With these wild creatures,—with these painted +devils?—No—Like nothing human they look, I am +sure. Ah see, see them in their feathers and blankets, +and that long wild hair. See the knives and the tomahawks +in their girdles! Holy Mary! Here's one within +the court! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Yes, there he stands—there's life in it +now.—There +they stand—the chesnut boughs wave over them—this +is the filling up of life. They <i>are</i> waiting for me. +'Tis no dream. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Dare you go with them? They will murder you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. If they were but human, I could move them—and +yet it is the human in them that is so dreadful. To +die were sad enough—to die by violence, by the power +of the innocent elements, were dreadful, or to be torn of +beasts; to meet the wild, fierce eye, with its fixed and +deadly purpose, more dreadful; but ah, to see the human +soul, from the murderers eye glaring on you, to encounter +the human will in its wickedness, amid that wild +struggle—Oh God! spare me. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. If you fear them so, surely you will not go with them. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. This letter says they are kind and innocent. +One I <i>should</i> believe tells me there is no cause for fear. +In his haste he could not find no other way to send for +me.—The army will be here soon,—I <i>must</i> go with them. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. But Captain Grey will come back here again +this afternoon. Stay,—stay, and we will go with him. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. You can—yes, you will be safe. For myself, I +will abide my choice. Surely I need not dread to go +where my betrothed husband trusts me so fearlessly. I +count my life worth little more than the price at which he +values it. Clasp this mantle, Netty.—And is it thus I go +forth from these blessed walls at last?—Through all those +safe and quiet hours of peace and trust, did this dark end +to them lie waiting here?—Are they calling me? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. Yes. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Well,—I am ready. (<i>Lingering in the door</i>.) I +shall sit by that window no more. Never again shall I +turn those blinds to catch the breeze or the sunshine. +Yes—(<i>returning</i>), let me look down on that orchard +once again. Never more—never more. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>She walks to the door, again pausing on the threshold</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. (<i>solemnly</i>.) Oh God, here, from childhood to +this hour, morning and evening I have called on thee—forget +me not. Farewell, Netty, you will see my mother—you +will see them all—that is past.—Tell her I had +seen the Indians, and was not afraid. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>She goes out</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Jan</i>. It won't take much to make an angel of her, +there's that in it. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Looking cautiously through the shutters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +There she comes! How every eye in that wild group +flashes on her! And yet with what a calm and stately +bearing she meets them. Holy Mary! she suffers that +savage creature to lift her to her horse, as though he +were her brother, and the long knife by his side too, glancing +in the sunshine! The horse, one would think, he +knew the touch of that white hand on his neck. How +gently he rears his beautiful head. There they go. +Adieu! Was there ever so sad a smile? +</p> +<p> +Another glimpse I shall have of them yet beyond those +trees.—Yes, there they go—there they go. I can see +that lovely plume waving among the trees still.—Was +there ever so wild a bridal train? +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE III.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>British Camp. The interior of a Tent richly furnished. An Officer seated at a table covered with papers and maps. A Servant in waiting</i>.</h4> + +<p> +<i>The Officer</i>. (<i>Sipping his wine, and carefully examining +a plan of the adjacent country</i>.) About here, +we must be—let me see.—I heard the drum from their +fort this morning, distinctly. Turn that curtain; we +might get a faint breeze there now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ser't</i>. But the sun will be coming that side, Sir. It's +past two o'clock. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Past two—a good position—very. Well, well,—we'll +take our breakfast in Albany on Friday morning, +and if our soldiers fast a day or two ere then, why +they'll relish it the better;—once in the rich country beyond—Ay, +it will take more troops than this General will +have at his bidding by that time, to drain the Hudson's +borders for us. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A Servant enters with a note</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. (<i>Reading</i>.) "<i>The Baroness Reidesel's compliments—do +her the honor—-Voisin has succeeded</i>."—Ay, +ay,—Voisin has succeeded,—I'll warrant that. That +caterer of hers must be in league with the powers of +the air, I am certain. General Burgoyne will be but too +happy, my Lady—(<i>writing the answer</i>.) +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>The Servant goes out</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Past two! The cannon should be in sight ere +this. This to Sir George Ackland. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit the Attendant</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Tuesday—Wednesday.—If the batteaux should +get here to-morrow. One hundred teams— +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Another Officer enters the tent</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Off</i>. How goes it abroad, Colonel St. Leger? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Off</i>. Indeed, Sir, the camp is as quiet as midnight. +It's a breathless heat. But there are a few dark heads +swelling in the west. We may have a shower yet ere night. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Good news that. But here is better, (<i>giving +the other an open letter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>St. Leger</i>. Ay, ay, that reads well, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. And here is another as good. Yes Sir, yes Sir,—they +are flocking in from all quarters—the insurgents are +laying down their arms by hundreds. It must be a +miserable fragment that Schuyler has with him by this. +</p> + +<p> +<i>St. L</i>. General Burgoyne, is not it a singular circumstance, +that the enemy should allow us to take possession +of a point like that without opposition,—so trifling a +detachment, too? Why, that hill commands the fort,—certainly +it does. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Well—well. They are pretty much reduced, +I fancy, Sir. We shall hardly hear much more from +them. Let me see,—this is the hill. +</p> + +<p> +<i>St. L</i>. A pity we could not provoke them into an +engagement, though! They depend so entirely upon +the popular feeling for supplies and troops, and the whole +machinery of their warfare, that it is rather hazardous +reckoning upon them, after all. If we could draw +them into an engagement <i>now</i>, the result would be certain. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Yes, yes; we must contrive to do that ere +long. Rather troublesome travelling companions they +make, that's certain. Like those insects that swarm +about us here,—no great honor in fighting them, but a +good deal of discomfort in letting them alone. We must +sweep them out of our way, I think, or at all events give +them a brush, that will quiet them a little. +</p> + +<p> +<i>St. L</i>. Or they might prove, after all, like the gadfly +in the fable. I do not think this outbreak will be +any disadvantage in the end, General. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Not a whit—not a whit—they have needed this. +It will do them good, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>St. L</i>. The fact is, these colonies were founded in +the spirit of insubordination, and all the circumstances +of their position have hitherto tended to develope only +these disorganizing elements. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. It will do them good, Sir. Depend upon it, +they'll remember this lesson. Pretty well sickened of +war are they all. They'll count the cost ere they try it again. +</p> + +<p> +<i>St. L</i>. We can hardly expect the news from General +Reidesel before sunset, I suppose. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. If my messenger returns by to-morrow's sunrise, +it is better fortune than I look for. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Col. St. Leger goes out</i>.) +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Burgoyne resumes his plan</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>A Ser't</i>. (<i>At the door</i>.) Capt. Maitland, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Capt. Maitland! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Ser't</i>. From Fort Ann, Sir. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Maitland enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Captain Maitland! Good heavens, I thought +you were at Skeensborough by this,—what has happened? +or am I to congratulate myself that the necessity of your +embassy is obviated. You met them, perhaps?— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Maitland</i>. There's but little cause of congratulation, +Sir, as these dispatches will prove to you. I returned +only because my embassy was accomplished. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Do you mean to say, Captain Maitland, that you +have seen the waters of Lake Champlain, since you left +here this morning? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. I do, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. On my word, these roads must have improved +since we travelled them some two days agone. I am +sorry for your horses, Sir. You saw General Reidesel? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. I left him only at nine o'clock this morning. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Burgoyne examines the dispatches</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. "Twelve oxen to one batteaux!"—"and but fifty +teams!" This news was scarcely worth so much haste, +I think,—but fifty teams?—Captain Maitland, had those +draught horses from Canada not arrived yet? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. They were just landing this morning as I left, +but only one-fourth of the number contracted for. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Humph! I would like to know what time, at +this rate—sit down, Captain Maitland, sit down—we +are like to spend the summer here, for aught I see, +after all. (<i>A long pause, in which Burgoyne resumes +his reading</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. General Burgoyne, I am entrusted with a message +from General Reidsel to the Baroness. If this is all— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. What were you saying?—The Baroness—ay, +ay—that's all well enough,—but Captain Maitland is +aware, no doubt, there are more important subjects on +the tapis just now than a lady's behests. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Sir?— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. (<i>Pushing the papers impatiently from him</i>.) +This will never do. St. George! We'll give these +rebels other work ere many days, than driving away cattle +and breaking down bridges for our convenience. Meanwhile +we must open some new source of supplies, or +we may starve to death among these hills yet. Captain +Maitland, I have a proposal to make to you. You are +impatient, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. General Burgoyne!— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Nay, nay,—there's no haste about it. It were +cruel to detain you now, after the toil of this wild journey. +You'll find your quarters changed, Captain Maitland. +We sent a small detachment across the river just +now. Some of our copper-colored allies had got into a +fray with the enemy there. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Ha! (<i>returning</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Nothing of consequence, as it turns out. We +hoped it would have ended in something. A few of the +enemy, who were stationed as a guard on a hill not far +from Fort Edward, were surprised by a party of Indians, +and killed, to a man, I believe. Afterwards, the victors +got into a deadly fray among themselves as usual. A +quarrel between a couple of these chiefs, at some famous +watering place of theirs, and in the midst of it, a party +from the fort drove them from the ground;—this is +Alaska's own story at least. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. <i>Alaska's!</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Alaska?—Alaska?—yes, I think it was,—one of +these new allies we have picked up here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. (<i>In a whisper</i>.) Good God! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. By the time our detachment arrived there, however, +the ground was cleared, and they took quiet possession. +Are you ill, Captain Maitland? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. A little,—it is nothing. I am to cross the river. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>, Yes. You will take these papers to Captain +Andre. You have over-fatigued yourself. You should +have taken more time for this wild journey. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Maitland goes out</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. I do not like the idea of division, but it cannot be +helped now. This gallant young soldier were a fitting +leader for such an enterprize. +</p> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE IV.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The ground before Maitland's Tent</i>.</h4> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Maitland and the Indian Chief, Manida, enter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. This is well. (<i>He writes on a slip of paper, +and gives it to the Indian</i>.) Take that, they will give +you the reward you ask for it. Let me see your face no +more, that is all. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Manida</i>. Ha, <i>Monsieur</i>? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Let me see your face no more, I say. Do you understand me? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Manida</i>. (<i>Smiling</i>.) Oui. + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Maitland turns from him. The Indian goes off in the opposite direction. He stops a moment, and steals a look at Maitland,—throws his head back with a long silent laugh, and then goes on toward the woods</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. (<i>Musing</i>.) I like this. <i>This</i> is womanly! +Nay, perhaps there is no caprice about it. I may have +misinterpreted that letter in my haste last night. Very +likely. Well,—better this, than that Helen Grey should +come to evil through fault of mine,—better this, than the +anguish of the horrible misgivings that haunted me amid +my journey. +</p> +<p> +And so pass these faery visions! Nay, not thus. It +will take longer than this to unlink this one day's hope +from its thousand fastnesses. I thought, ere this, to have +met the spirit of those beaming eyes, to have taken to my +heart for ever this soft, pure being of another life. +And yet, even as I rode through those lonely hills this +morning, with every picture my hope painted, there came +a strange misgiving;—like some scene of laughing noonday +loveliness, darkening in the shadow of a summer's cloud. +</p> +<p> +Strange that Alaska should abandon my trust! I cannot +understand it. Why, I should never have trusted +her with this rascal Indian. There was something in +his eye, hateful beyond all thought,—and once or twice +I caught a strange expression in it, like malignant triumph +it seemed. It may be—no, he must have seen +her—that glove he showed me was hers, I know. Good +God!—what if—I think my old experience should +have taught me there was little danger of her risking +much in my behalf. Well—even this is better, than that +Helen Grey should have come to evil through fault of mine. +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<a name="part6"><!--MARKER--></a> +<h2>PART SIXTH</h2> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<center> +RECONCILIATION. +</center> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<h3>DIALOGUE I.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>The slope of the Hill near Fort Edward. The road-side, shaded with stately pines and hemlocks</i>.</h4> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Two British Officers, coming slowly down the road</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Off</i>. Yes, here has been wild work upon this hill +to-day. They were slaughtered to a man. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Off</i>. I saw a sight above there, just now, that sickened me of warfare. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Off</i>. And what was that, pry'thee? +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Off</i>. Oh nothing,—'twas nothing but a dead soldier; +a common sight enough, indeed; but this was a +mere youth;—he was lying in a little hollow on the roadside, +and as I crossed in haste, I had well-nigh set my +foot on his brow. Such a brow it was, so young, so noble, +and the dark chesnut curls clustering about it. I think +I never saw a more classic set of features, or a look of +loftier courage than that which death seemed to have +found and marbled in them. Hark—that's a water-fall we hear. +</p> + +<p> +<i>1st Off</i>. I saw him, there was another though, lying +not far thence, the sight of whom moved me more. He +was younger yet, or seemed so, and of a softer mould; +and, torn and bloody as they were, I fancied I could see +in his garb and appointments, and in every line of his +features, the traces of some mother's tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +<i>2nd Off</i>. Listen, Andre! This is beautiful! There's +some cascade not far hence, worth searching for. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Yes, just in among those trees you'll find a +perfect drawing-room, carpeted, canopied, and dark as +twilight; its verdant seats broidered with violets and +forget-me-nots; and all untenanted it seems, nay, deserted +rather, for the music wastes on the lonely air, as if the +fairy that kept state there, in gossip mood had stolen +down some neighboring aisle, and would be home anon. +I would have bartered all the glory of this campaign for +leave to stretch myself on its mossy bank, for a soft hour or so. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Ay, with Chaucer or the "Faery Queen." If +one could people these lovely shades with the fresh creations +of the olden time, knight and lady, and dark enchantress +and Paynim fierce, instead of Yankee rebels— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. 'Twere well your faery-work were of no lasting +mould, or these same Yankee rebels would scarce +thank you for your pains,—they hold that race in little +reverence. Alas,— +</p> +<p> +<br> + No grot divine, or wood-nymph haunted glen, +<br> + Or stream, or fount, shall these young shades e'er know. +<br> + No beautiful divinity, stealing afar +<br> + Through darkling nooks, to poet's eye thence gleam; +<br> + With mocking mystery the dim ways wind, +<br> + They reach not to the blessed fairy-land +<br> + That once all lovely in heaven's stolen light, +<br> + To yearning thoughts, in the deep green-wood grew. +<br> + Ah! had they come to light when nature +<br> + Was a wonder-loving, story-telling child!— +<br> + The misty morn of ages had gone by, +<br> + The dreamy childhood of the race was past, +<br> + And in its tame and reasoning manhood, +<br> + In the daylight broad, and noon-day of all time, +<br> + <i>This</i> world hath sprung. The poetry of <i>truth</i>, +<br> + None other, shall her shining lakes, and woods, +<br> + And ocean-streams, and hoary mountains wear. +<br> + Perchance that other day of poesy, +<br> + Unsung of prophets, that upon the lands +<br> + Shall dawn yet, thence shall spring. The self-same mind +<br> + That on the night of ages once, for us +<br> + Those deathless clusters flung, the self-same mind, +<br> + With all its ancient elements of might, +<br> + Among us now its ancient glory hides; +<br> + But, from its smothered power, and buried wealth, +<br> + A golden future sparkles, decked from deeper founts, +<br> + A new and lovelier firmament, +<br> + A thousand realms of song undreamed of now, +<br> + That shall make Romance a forgotten world, +<br> + And the young heaven of Antiquity, +<br> + With all its starry groups, a gathered scroll. +<br> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Ay, Andre, you were born a poet, and have mistaken +your art. Prythee excuse me, who am but a poor +soldier, for marring so fine a rhapsody with any thing so +sublunary; but, methinks, for an enemy's quarters, yonder +fort shows as peaceable a front of stone and mortar +as one could ask for. What can it mean that they are +so quiet there? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. That spy did not return a second time. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. The rogues have made sure of him ere this, I +fancy. They may have given us the slip,—who knows? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. I would like to venture a stroll through that +shady street if I thought so. A dim impression that I +have somewhere seen this view before, haunts me unaccountably. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. How I hate that sober, afternoon air, that hangs +like an invisible presence over it all. You can see it in +the sunshine on those white walls, you can hear it in the +hum of the bee from the bending thistle here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Of the mind it is. This were lovely as the +morning light, but for the shade it gathers thence, from +the thought of decline and the vanishing day. 'Tis a +pretty spot. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Yes, but the quiet goings-on of life are all hushed there now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Ay, this is the hour, when the home-bound +children swing the gate with a merry spring, and the +mother sits at her work by the open window, with her quiet +eye, and the daughter, with the beauty of an untamed soul +in her's, looks forth on the woods and meadows, and +thinks of her walk at even-tide. I thought it was something +like a memory that haunted me thus,—'tis the spot +that Maitland talked of yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Captain Maitland? I saw him just now at the works above. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Here? On this hill? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Yes,—something struck me in his mien,—and +there he stands with Colonel Hill, above, on the other +side.—Mark him now. Your friend is handsome, Andre; +he is handsome, I'll own,—but I never liked that +smile of his, and I think I like it less than ever now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Why, that's the genuine Apollo-curl,—a line's +breadth deeper were too much, I'll own. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Maitland and another Officer enter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. That is all,—that is all, I believe, Captain Maitland. +Yonder pretty dwelling among the trees seems +an old acquaintance of yours. It has had the ill manners +to rob me of your eye ever since we stood here, and I +have had little token that the other senses were not in +its company. Andre, has your friend never a ladye-love +in these wilds, you could tell us of? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. He is sworn to secresy. Did you mark that glance? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Love! I hold it a pretty theme for the ballad-makers, +Colonel Hill; but for myself, I have scarce time +for rhyming just now. Captain Andre, here are papers for you. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>He walks away, descending the road</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Col. Hill</i>. So! So! What ails the boy? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Looking after him for a moment, and then ascending the hill</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. (<i>Reading</i>.) Humph! Here's prose enough! +Will you walk up the hill with me, Mortimer? I must +cross the river again. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. First let me seek this horse of mine,—the rogue +must have strayed down this path, I think. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>He enters the wood</i>.) +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Andre walks to and fro with an impatient air, then pauses</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Well, I can wait no longer for this loiterer. + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exit</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Mortimer re-enters, calling from the woods</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Andre! Maitland! Colonel Hill! Good +Heavens! Where the devil are they all? Maitland! +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Maitland appears, slowly ascending the road</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. For the love of Heaven,—come here. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mail</i>. Nay.—but what is it? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. For God's sake, come, +</p> + +<hr width="33%"> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> + +<!--NewPage--> + +<h3>DIALOGUE II.</h3> + +<h4>SCENE. <i>A little glen, darkly shaded with pines. A fountain issuing from one side, and falling with a curious murmur into the basin below</i>.</h4> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Mortimer and Maitland enter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. This is the place!—Well, if hallucinations like +this can visit mortal eyes, I'll ne'er trust mine again. +'Tis the spot, I'm sure of it,—the place, too, that Andre +was raving about just now.—The fairies' drawing-room,—palace +rather,—look at these graceful shafts, Maitland,—and +fairies' work, it must have been in good earnest. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. If it's to admire this clump of pine trees you +have brought me hither, allow me to say you might have +spared yourself that trouble. I have seen the place already, +as often as I care to. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Come this way a little,—yes, it was just above +there that I stood,—it must have been. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. If you would give me some little inkling of what +you are talking about, Lieutenant Mortimer, I should be +more likely to help you, if it's help you need. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. I do not ask you to believe me, but,—as I was +springing on my horse just now above there, the gurgling +of this spring caught my ear, and looking down suddenly—upon +my word, Captain Maitland, I am ashamed +to describe what cannot but seem to you such an improbable +piece of fancy-work; and yet, true it seemed, as +that I see you now. I was looking down, as I said, when +suddenly, among those low evergreens, the brilliant hue +of a silken mantle caught my eye, and then a woman's +brow gleamed up upon me. Yes, there in that dark +cradle, calmly sleeping, all flashing with gold and jewels, +like some bright vision of olden time, methought there +lay—a lady,—a girl, young and lovely as a dream;—the +white plume in her bonnet soiled and broken, and the +long bright hair streaming heavily on her mantle,—and +yet with all its loveliness, such a face of utter sorrow saw +I never. I <i>saw</i> her, I saw her, as I see you now,—the +proud young form with such a depth of grace, in its +strange repose, and—where are you going?—what are +you doing, Maitland? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Helen Grey!— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. You are right. I did not mark that break—yes—there +she lies. Said I right, Maitland? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Helen Grey!— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Maitland! Heavens!—what a world of anguish +that tone reveals!—Why do you stand gazing on that lovely +sleeper thus? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Bring water. There's a cup at yonder spring. +Here has been treachery! Devils and fiends have been +working here against me. We must unclasp this mantle. +The treasure of the earth lies here.—Now doth +mine arm enfold it once, at last. 'Tis sweet, Helen, +mine own <i>true</i> love; 'tis sweet, even thus. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. This letter,—see—from those loosened folds it +just now dropped. This might throw some light, perchance— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Let it be. There's light enough. I want no +more. Water,—more water,—do you see? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Maitland,—this is vain. Mark this dark spot +upon her girdle— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Hush, hush,—there, cover it thus—'tis nothing, +Loosen this bonnet—so—'twas a firm hand that tied +that knot; so—she can breathe now. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. How like life, those soft curls burst from their +loosened pressure! But mark you—there is no other motion, +I am sorry to distress you,—but—Maitland—this +lady is dead. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait. Dead</i>! Lying hell-hound! <i>Dead</i>! Say that again. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. God help you! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait. Dead</i>! Helen Grey, open these eyes. Here's +one that, never having seen them, talks of death. Oh +God! is it thus we meet at last? At last these arms +are round her, and she knows it not. I look upon her, +but her eye answers me not. Dead!—for me? Murdered!—mine +own hand hath done it. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Why do you start thus? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Hush!—hush! There!—again—that slow +heavy throb—again! again! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Good God! she breathes! This is life indeed. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. (<i>Solemnly</i>.) Ay, thank God. This moment's sweetness is enough. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. How like one in troubled sleep she murmurs! +Mark those tones of sweet and wild entreaty. Listen! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. I have heard it again!—from the buried years +of love and hope that music came. She is here. 'Tis <i>she</i>. +This is no marble mockery. She is here! Her +head is on my bosom. Death cannot rob me of this +sweetness now. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Talking without</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>A Lady</i>. This way—I hear their voices. Down this +pathway—here they are. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Lady Ackland and Andre enter the Glen</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. I knew it could not be. They told us she +was murdered, Maitland. (<i>Starting back</i>.) Ah—ah—God +help thee, Maitland! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Listen, listen. She was speaking but now. There—again! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. And this is she! Can the wilderness blossom +thus? And did God unfold such loveliness—for a +waste so cruel? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. (<i>In a low murmur</i>.) We are almost there. +If we could but pass this glen. Oh God! will they stop +here? Go on,—go on. Was not that a white tent I +saw? Go on. They will not. 'Tis nothing,—do not weep. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Look at me, Helen.—Open these eyes. One +more look—one more. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. She hears your bidding. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Oh God! Do you see those eyes—those dim, +bewildered eyes?—it is quenched—quenched. Let her +lean on you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Gently—gently, she does not see us yet. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Oh Mother, I am ill and weary. Here's this +dream again! Blue sky? and pine-tree boughs? Am I +here indeed? Yes, I remember now,—we stood upon +that cliff—I am dying. Is there no one here? Whose +tears are these? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Dear child, sweet one, nay, lean on me. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. My mother, oh my mother, come to me. Come, +Annie, come, come! Strangers all! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Her eye is on him. Hush! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. See in an instant how the light comes flashing +up from those dim depths again. <i>That</i> is the eye that I +saw yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. That slowly settling smile,—deeper and +deeper—saw you ever any thing so gay, so passing lovely? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Is it—is it—Everard Maitland—is it <i>thee</i>? +The living real of my thousand dreams, in the light of +life doth he stand there now? Doth he? <i>'Tis he!</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Helen! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. 'Tis he! That tone's spell builds around me +its all-sheltering music-walls, and death is nothing. Oh +God, when at thy dark will dimly revealed, I trembled +yesterday, I did not think in this most rosy bower to +meet its fearfulness. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Helen,—dost thou love me <i>yet</i>? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Doubter, am I dying here? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. 'Tis her own most rich and blessed smile, +even as of old in mirth it shone upon me. Your murderer, +you count me then? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Helen</i>. Come hither,—let me lean on <i>you</i>. Star of +the wilderness!—of this life that is fading now, the sun!—<i>doth</i> +mine eye see thee, then, at last? Oh! this is +sweet! On its own holy home my head rests now. +Everard, in this dark world <i>Love leans on Faith</i>. How +else, even in God's love and loveliness, could I trust now +for that strange future on whose bloody threshold I am lying +here; yes, and in spite of prayers and trust, and struggling +hopes. And yet—how beautiful it is—that love invisible, +invisible no more. Like glorious sunshine it is +streaming round me,—lighting all. The infinite of that +thy smile hath imaged, as real,—it beams on me now. +Have faith, in <i>him</i> I mean; for—if we meet again—we'll +need it then no more; and—how dim it grows—nay, let +me lean on you,—and—through <i>this</i> life's darkening +glass I shall see you no more. Nay, hold me!—quick!—where +art thou?—Everard!—He is gone—gone! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Dead!— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. She is dead! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. This was Love. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. See how her eyes are fixed on <i>you</i>. The +light and love of the vanished soul looks through them +still. Cruelly hath it been sent thence; and no other +gleam of its changeful beauty will e'er dawn in them. +Sadly, oh lovely stranger, I close for ever now these +dark-fringed lids upon their love and beauty. Yes—<i>this</i> +was love! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. And so there was a need-be in its doom. I'll +ne'er believe <i>that</i> genuine, that is blessed. The fate of +this life would not suffer it. Ah! if it would, if Heaven +should leave a gem like that outside her walls, we should +none of us go thither. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Dead? How beautiful! Yes—let her lie +there—under that lovely canopy. Dead!—it's a curious +word—How comes it that we all stand here? Ha, +Andre?—is it you? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. I heard the tale as I crossed just now, from +an Indian, who was one in the ambuscade this noon—and +in the woods on the other side, I found this lady, +with her attendants, abiding the promise she made you +last night, to welcome this lovely stranger with her savage +guides. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Hush, hush. Let it pass. See,—a bride! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. (<i>Aside</i>.) Did he trust her with these murderers? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Ay—say yes. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Indeed, Maitland, you wrong yourself. It was +the treachery of this savage Manida that crossed your +plans, working the mission of some Higher power,—as for +Alaska, you might as soon have doubted me. +</p> +<p> +The Chief he sent for her was one he had known +years—but, unfortunately, he was one in the ambuscade +this morning—nay, the leader of it; for the murdered Indian +was his son; and meanwhile amid the fight the +treacherous Manida, who accompanied him to Maitland's +tent last night, and heard the promised reward, +found means to steal from its concealment the letter, +with which he easily won this trusting lady to accompany him. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Ah!—there it lies. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. It was here in this glen that Alaska, discovering +the treachery, lay in wait for them with a band of +chosen warriors, and on that cliff above they fought. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. (<i>Aside</i>.) And she stood there, amid those +yelling demons alone! Methinks the angels should have +come from their unseen dwellings at her prayer. Can +our humanity's darkest extremity wring no love from the +invisible?— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. Alaska had regained his charge; but the malignant +eye, and the deadly arrow of the vanquished Indian +followed her. She fell, even in the place where you +found her; for at that same instant a party from the fort +drove them hence, victor and vanquished. Alaska fled; +but the murderer, with a tale cunning enough to deceive +the lover, boldly demanded and obtained the prize. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. Mark his changed mien. I would rather see +tears for a grief like this, than that calm smile with +which he gazes on her now. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Burgoyne and St. Leger are seen talking in the road above,—they enter the glen</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. At a crisis like this we might better have lost a +thousand men in battle! Ah! ah!—a sight for our enemies, +Lady Ackland! Where is this Indian? +</p> + +<p> +<i>St. L</i>. We have sent out for him. No one has seen him as yet. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Let him be found. Look to it. We will give +them an example for once. I say, at a crisis like this +we might better have lost a thousand men in battle, +for it will turn thousands against us, and rouse the +slumbering spirit of resistance here, at the very crisis +when, had it slumbered on a little longer, all was ours. +</p> + +<p> +<i>St. L</i>. But this was a quarrel among the Indians, and no fault of ours. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. No matter. You will see what Schuyler will +make of it. His wordy proclamation will have its living +sequel now. A young and innocent girl, seeking the +protection of our camp, is inhumanly murdered by Indians +in our pay. A single tale like this is enough to +undo at a blow all that we have accomplished here. +With ten thousand wild aggravations, it will be told in +every cottage of these borders before to-morrow's sunset. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Another Officer enters hastily</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Here is Arnold, with a thousand men, on the +brow of the next hill. One of the rebel guard escaped, +and the news of the massacre here has reached their camp below. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Bur</i>. Said I right? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>The three Officers go out together</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Andre</i>. This story is spreading fast, there will be +throngs here presently. Maitland,—nay, do not let me +startle you thus, but— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Is it you? What was it we were saying yesterday?—we +should have noted it. This were a picture +worth your pencilling now. Those silken vestments,—that +long, golden hair,—this youthful shape,—there's that +same haughty grace about it, that the smile of these +thought-lit eyes would disown with every glance. Then +that letter,—and the Lady Ackland here,—Weeping?—This +is most strange. I know you all,—but,—as I live I +can't remember how this chanced. How comes it that we +all stand here? Pearls?—and white silk?—a bridal?—Ha +ha ha! (<i>Laughing wildly</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lady A</i>. Take me away. This is too terrible! lean +stay here no longer. Take me away, Andre. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exeunt Andre and Lady A</i>. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>An Officer enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>The Officer</i>. We are ordered to withdraw our detachment, +Captain Maitland. The rebels are just below, +some two thousand strong, and in no mood to be encountered. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mor</i>. He does not hear you. We must leave that +murdered lady here, and 'tis vain to think of parting them. Come. +</p> + +<p align="right"> +[<i>Exeunt Mortimer and Officer</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. They are gone at last. They are all gone. I +am alone with my dead bride. I must needs smile—I +could not weep when those haughty and prying eyes +were upon me, but now—I am alone with my dead bride.—Helen, +they are all gone,—we are alone. How still she +lies,—smiling too,—on that same bank. She will speak, +surely she will. How lightly those soft lashes lie, as if a +word would lift them.—Helen!—I will be calm and patient +as a child. This lovely smile is deepening, it will +melt to words again.—Hark! that spring,—that same +curious murmur! We have checked our sweetest +words to hear it, we have stood here listening to it, till +we fancied, in its talk-like tones, wild histories, beautiful +and sad, the secrets of the woods.—Oh God!—and have +such memories no power here now? In mine ear alone +doth the spring murmur now. Death! what is't?—Awake! +awake,—by the love that is <i>stronger</i> than +death,—awake!— +</p> +<p> +I thought that scene would shift. It had a heavy, +dream-like mistiness. <i>This</i> is reality again. <i>These</i> +are the pine trees that I dreamed of. See! how beautiful! +With the sharp outline and the vivid hue such as +our childhood's unworn sense yields, they are waving +now. Look, Andre, there she sits, the young and radiant +stranger,—there, in the golden sunset she is sitting still, +braiding those flowers,—see, how the rich life flashes in +her eye, and yet, just now I dreamed that she was dead, +and—and—Oh my God! +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A voice without</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +Let go, who stays me?—where's my sister? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Captain Grey enters</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Grey</i>. Ha! Murderer! art satisfied? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Ay. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Grey</i>. What, do you mock me, Sir? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Let her be. She is mine!—all mine! my +love, my bride,—my <i>bride</i>?—<i>Murderer</i>?—Stay!—Don't +glare at me! I know you, Sir. I can hurl off +these mountain shadows yet.—They'll send some stronger +devil ere they wrench this hold from me! I know +you well. What make you here? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Grey</i>. Madness!—there's little wonder!—It's the only +good that Heaven has left for him! My lovely playfellow,—my +sister, is it so indeed? Alas! all gently +lies this hand in mine. There is no angry strength here +now. Helen!—Ah! would to God our last words had +not been in bitterness. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. He weeps. I never thought to see tears there. +List!—she should not lie there thus. Strange it should +move you so!—Think it a picture now. 'Tis but a well-wrought +painting after all, if one but thinks so. See,—'tis +but a sleeping girl, with the red summer light upon +her cheek, and the slight breeze stirring her golden hair. +Mark you that shoulder's grace?—They come. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Leslie, Elliston, and others enter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. Oh God, was there none other? My lovely +cousin, and—were <i>you</i> the victim? In your bridal glory +chosen,—nay, with your heart's holiest law lured to the +bloody altar! Yet this day's history, and something in +that calm, high mien, tells me, as freely you had moved +unto it, though God had spoken by a higher voice, and +with a martyr's garland beckoned you. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Elliston</i>. Our cause is linked unto that ancient one, +the cause of Love and Truth; in which Heaven moves +with unrelenting hand, not sparing its own loveliest +ones, but unto bloody death freely delivering them. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Grey and Leslie converse apart</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. Yes—we will bury her here. 'Tis a fitting +spot; and unto distant days, this lonely grave, with its +ever-verdant canopy, shall be even as Love's Shrine. +Thither, in the calm and smiling summers of those bloodless +times shall many a fair young pilgrim come, to +wonder at such love; and living eyes shall weep, and +living hearts shall heave over its cruel fate, when unto +her the long-told tale, and all the anguish of this far-off +day, shall be even as the dim passage of some troubled +dream. A martyr's garland she hath won indeed; true +Love's young Martyr there she lies. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Elliston</i>. Yet was that love but the wreathed and glittering +weapon of a higher doom. In that holy cause, +whose martyrs strew a thousand fields, truth's, freedom's, +God's, darkly, by <i>Power Invisible</i> hath this young life +been offered here. +</p> +<p> +A thousand graves like this, over all this lovely land, +in lanes and fields, on the lonely hill-side, by the laughing +stream, and in the depths of many a silent wood, to +distant days shall speak—of blood-sealed destinies; +with voices that no tyrant's power can smother, they +shall speak.— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. The light of that chamber window, through +the soft summer evening will shine here; no mournful +memory of all the lovely past will it waken. The autumn +blaze will flicker within those distant walls, and +gather its pleasant circle again; but <i>she</i> will lie calmly +here. For ever at her feet the river of her childhood +shall murmur on, and many a lovely spring-time, like the +spring-times of her childhood, shall come and go, but no +yearning hope shall it waken here; the winter shall sing +through the desolate boughs, and rear its fairy temples +around her, but nought shall break her dreamless rest.— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mait</i>. Graves! Is it graves they are talking of? +Will they bury this gay young bride! 'Tis but the +name; there's nothing sad in it. In the lovely summer +twilight shall her burial be, and thus; in all her bridal +array, with the glory of the crimson sunset shining +through the trees;—see what a fearful glow is kindling +on her cheek, and that faint breeze—or, is it life that stirs +these curls? Stay!—whose young brow is this?—Ha!—<i>whose</i> +smile is this? Who is this they would hurry +away into the darkness of death? The grave! Could +you fold the rosy and all-speading beauty of heaven in +the narrow grave? Helen, is it thee?—my heaven, my +long-lost heaven; and, even now, but for mine own deed—Oh +God! was there no hand but mine?—but for me—They +—shall not utter it,—there, thus. There's +but <i>one</i> cry that could unfold this grief, but that would +circle the round universe and fill eternity. A sad sight +this! Is't known who killed this lady, Sir? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. Of all the wrecks of beautiful humanity that +strew these paths, we have found none so sad as this! +</p> + +<p> +<i>Elliston</i>. Mark you those groups of soldiers loitering +on the road-side there? +</p> + +<p> +<i>An Officer</i>. Curiosity. The regiment that was dismissed +to-day. They'll be here anon. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. Ay, let them come. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Off</i>. Look,—who comes up that winding pathway +through the trees, with such a swift and stately movement? +A woman! See how the rude soldiers turn +aside with awe. Ah, she comes hither. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A voice without</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +Where is she?—stand aside!—What have you here +in this dark ring?—Henry—nay, let me come. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Mrs. Grey enters the glen</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Grey</i>. For God's sake, Madam, let me lead you hence. +This is no place for you. Look at this group of men, +officers, soldiers— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Would you cheat me <i>thus</i>? Is it no place +for <i>me</i>? What kind of place is't then for her, whose—Oh +God!—think you I do not see that slippered foot, nor +know whose it is,—and whose plumed bonnet is it that +lies crushed there at their feet?—unhand me, Henry. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Leslie</i>. Nay, let her come,—'tis best. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>She passes swiftly through the parting group</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. My daughter!—<i>Blood</i>? My stricken child +smile you? No pity was there then? Speak to me, speak! +Your mother's tears are on your brow, and heed you not? +Nay, tell me all, my smitten one. This day's dark history +will you never pour into my ear, that hath treasured so +often your lightest grief? Alone through that wild anguish +have you passed, and smile you now? I bade her +trust in God. Did <i>God</i> see this? +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>Arnold, and a group of Soldiers, enter the glen</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. Look there. Ay, ay, look there. You were +right, Leslie;—this <i>is</i> better than a battle-field. They'll +find that this day's work will cost them dear. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Did <i>God</i>, who loves as mothers love their +babes, see this I Had I been there, with my love, in the +heavens, could <i>I</i> have given up this innocent and tender +child a prey to the wild Indians? No!—and legions of +pitying angels waiting but my word. No,—no. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Elliston</i>. Had you been there,—from that far centre +whence God's eye sees all, you had beheld what lies in +darkness here. Forth from this fearful hour you might +have seen Peace, like a river, flowing o'er the years to +come; and smiles, ten thousand, thousand smiles, down +the long ages brightening, sown in this day's tears. Had +you been there with God's <i>all</i>-pitying eye, the pitying +legions had waited your word in vain, for once, unto a +sterner doom, for the world's sake he gave his Son. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Mrs. G</i>. Words! Look there. That mother warned +me yesterday. "<i>Words, words! My own child's +blood</i>,"—I <i>see</i> it now. +</p> + +<p align="center"> +(<i>A group of Soldiers enter</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +<i>A. Soldier</i>. (<i>Whispering</i>.) Who would have thought +to see tears on <i>his</i> face; look you, Jack Richards. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Another Sol</i>. 'Twas his sister, hush!— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. Ay, ay, come hither. Look you there! +Lay down your arms. Seek the royal mercy;—here it +is. Your wives, your sisters, and your innocent children;—let +them seek the royal shelter;—it is a safe one. See. +</p> + +<p> +<i>3d Sol</i>. It was just so in Jersey last winter;—made +no difference which side you were. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. Ask no reasons.—'Twas in sport may be. 'Tis +but one, in many such. Shameless tyranny we have +borne long, and now, for resistance, to red butchery we +are given over. The sport of lawless soldiers, and savages +more cruel than the fiends in hell, are we, and the +gentle beings of our homes;—but, 'tis the Royal power. +Lay down your arms. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Soldiers</i>. (<i>Shouting</i>.) <i>No</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Arnold</i>. Nay, nay,—in its caprice some will be safe,—it +may not light on you. See, here's the proclamation. +(<i>Throwing it among them</i>.) Pardon for rebles. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Soldiers</i>. No—no. (<i>Shouting</i>.) Away with pardon!—(<i>Tearing +the proclamation</i>.) To the death! Freedom for ever! +</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Bride of Fort Edward, by Delia Bacon + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD *** + +This file should be named brdft10h.htm or brdft10h.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, brdft11h.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, brdft10a.txt + +Produced by David Garcia, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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