Chapter VI: Reconciliation (2)

_Annie_. 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?

_Helen. Gone with him_? Would I not? Would I not? Dear child, we talk of what, as yet, you know nothing of. Gone with _him_? Some things are holy, Annie, only until the holier come.

_Annie_. (_looking toward the door_.) Stay, stay. What is it, George?

(_George Grey comes in_.)

_George_. 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. (_Throwing her a letter_.)

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.

_Helen_. What paper is that that reddens her cheek so suddenly?

_Annie_. 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!

_George_. 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--_he_ 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, (_unfolding a hand-bill_.) 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?

_Helen_. There he stands!

_Annie_. Is she crazed? Why do you clasp your hands so wildly? for Heaven's sake, Helen!--her cheek is white as death.--Helen!

_Helen_. Is he gone, Annie?

_Annie_. 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.

_Helen_. I saw him, his eye was on me; there he stood, looking through that window, smiling and beckoning me.

_George_. Saw him? Who, in Heaven's name? This is fancy-work.

_Helen_. 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.

_George_. Ay, ay, 'twas that scoundrel that dogged us in our way home, I'll lay my life it was.

_Helen_. In our way home? An _Indian_, I said.

_George_. Well, well, and I say an Indian, a rascal Indian, was watching and following us all the way home just now.

_Helen_. George!

_George_. 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.

_Annie_. 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.

(_George goes out_.)

_Helen_. Do not laugh at me to-night, Annie.

_Annie_. But what should the Indians want of you, pry'thee; tell me that, Helen?

_Helen_. God knows. Wait till the sun sets to-morrow, and I will laugh with you if you are merry then.

_Annie_. Why to-morrow?--because it is our last day here? Tuesday--Wednesday--yes; the next day we shall be on the road to Albany.

[_Exit_.

_Helen_. 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?

It is but one day longer;--we have counted many, in peril and fear, and _this_, is the last;--even now how softly the fearful time wastes. _One day!_--Oh God, thou only knowest what its shining walls encircle. (_She leans on the window, musing silently_.) 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 _hath not_. 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?

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.

(_A merry voice is heard without, and a child's face peeps
through the window that overlooks the orchard_.)

_Child_. 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.

_Helen_ (_approaching the window_.) Let me see, Willy. What, did you find it here?

_Willy._ Just under the window here. Frank and I were swinging on the gate; and--there is something hard in it, Helen,--feel.

_Helen_. Yes, it is very curious; but--

_Willy_. There comes Netty with the candle; now we can see to untie this knot.

_Helen_. Willy, dear Willy, you must give it to me, you must indeed, and--I will paint you a bird to-morrow.

_Willy_. A blue-bird, will you? A real one?

_Helen_. Yes, yes;--run down little climber; see how dark it grows, and Frank is waiting, see.

_Willy_. Well. But mind you, it must be a blue bird then. A real one. With the red on his breast, and all.

[_Exit_.

(_She walks to the table, unfastening the envelope_.)

_Helen_. What sent that thrill of forgotten life through me then?--that wild, delicious thrill? This is strange, indeed. A sealed pacquet within! and here--

(_She glances at the superscription, and the pacquet
drops from her hand_.)

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.

(_The pacquet opened, discovers Helen's miniature, a book,
a ring, and other tokens_.)

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.

(_She leans over the recovered relics with a burst
of passionate weeping_.)

Yet, who knows--(_lifting her head with a sudden smile_,) some trace, some little curl of his pencil I may find among these leaves yet, to tell me, as of old,--

(_A letter drops from the book, she tears it eagerly open_.)

(_Reading_.) These cold words I understand, but--_letters!_--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--(_reading_)--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.

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, _Helen_--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.

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. (_Reading again_.) "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."

"Safely."--Might he not come there safely then? And might I not go thither safely too, in to-morrow's light? 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?

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, (_writing_) 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.

PART THIRD.

* * * * *

FATE.

* * * * *

DIALOGUE I.

SCENE. _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._

_Indian_. One, two, three. And this is ringed. The dogs have spoiled the council-house.

(_Soldiers rush forward_.)

_1st Sol_. 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.

(_The Indian, with a violent struggle, disengages himself,
and darts into the thicket_.)

No? well,--dead or alive, we must have you on our side again. (_Firing_.)

_2nd Sol_. _He's_ fixed, Sir.

_1st Sol_. Hark. Hark,--off again! Let me go. What do you hold me for, you scoundrel?

_2nd Sol_. 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?

_1st Sol_. There was something in his hand, but he clenched it through it all,--this is a letter. Bring it to the fire.

_2nd Sol_. (_reading_.) "_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_."

_More!_ Humph! A pretty string of lies he has got here already. This must go to the General, Dick.

[_Exeunt_.

* * * * *

DIALOGUE II.

SCENE. _Chamber in the Parsonage. Moonlight. Annie sitting by the window,
the door open into an adjoining room_.

_Annie_. (_Calling_.) 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.

(_Helen approaches the window, and puts her arm gently
around her sister_.)

_Helen_. No more!--It was a sad word you were saying, Annie.

_Annie_. How you startled me. Your hands are cold,--cold as icicles, and trembling too. What ails you, Helen?

_Helen_. '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.

_Annie_. 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.

[_Exit_.

_Helen_. 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.

This must go to the lodge to-night, and ere my mother returns;--to tell them now, would be to make my scheme impossible.

(_She begins, with a reluctant air, to fold the dresses,
which are lying loosely by her_.)

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.

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_, with all this sensitive, warm, shrinking life; with all this new-found wealth of love and hope, lie on its iron way.

I am safe now.--This life that I feel now, steel cannot reach.

(_Annie enters_.)

_Annie_. 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.

_Helen_. To-night!

_Annie_. 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.

_Helen_. To-night! That those beautiful lips should speak it! Take it back. It cannot be. It must not be.

_Annie_. Why do you look so reproachfully at me? Helen, you astonish and frighten me!

_Helen_. 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--

_Annie_. Thank Heaven,--there is my mother's voice at last.

_Helen_. Annie, stay. Do not mark what I have said in the bewilderment of this sudden fear. Is George below?--Who brought this news?

_Annie_. 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.

[_Exit_.

_Helen_. 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.--

[_Exit_.

* * * * *

DIALOGUE III.

SCENE. _The porch. Helen waiting the return of her messenger from the hut_.

_Helen_. 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.

'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.

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.

_The Messenger_. (_Coming up the path_.)

Bless you, Miss! The pacquet had been gone this hour!

_Helen_. Gone! Well.--And Elliston--what said he?

_Mess_. 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?

_Helen_. Yes. Give it to me. How far is it to the British camp?

_Mess_. 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.

_Helen. Three_ miles! only three miles of this lovely moonlight road between us.--William McReady, go to that camp for me to-night.

_Mess_. To the British camp?

_Helen_. Ay.

_Mess_. 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.

_Helen_. What shall I do!

_Mess_. And besides, there's Madame Grey will be wanting me by this time. See how the candles dance about the rooms there.

_Helen_. Yes, you are right. We must go in and help them. Come.

(_They enter the house_.)

DIALOGUE IV.

SCENE. _The British camp. Moonlight. A lady in a rich travelling dress,
standing in the door of a log-hut_.

_Lady Ackland_. (_Talking to her maid within_.) 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?

_Maid_. (_Within_.) There, Sir!--your song is done!--there's one less, I am certain of that. _Coming to the door_.) If ever I get home alive, my lady--Ha!--(_striking the door with her slipper_.) If ever--you are there, are you? I believe I have broken my ear in two. The matter? Will your ladyship look here?

_Lady A_. Well.

_Maid_. 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----

_Lady A_. 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.

_Maid_. La, Lady Harriet!

_Lady A_. 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?

_Maid_. 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,

_Lady A_. 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!

_Maid_. I wonder who is fluting under that tree there, so late. They are serenading that Dutch woman, as I live.

_Lady A_. The Baroness, are you talking of, Margaret?

_Maid_. 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.

_Lady A_. 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.

_Maid_. Look, my lady! Here's some one at the gate.

(_An officer enters the little court, with a hasty step_.)

_Officer_. Good evening to your ladyship.--Is Captain Maitland here?--Sir George told me that he left him here.

_Lady A_. 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.

_Off_. Under that tree;--thank you, my lady.

_Lady A_. 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.--

_Off_. 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.

[_Exit_.

_Lady A_. Good Heavens! What noise is that?

_Maid_. Lord 'a mercy! The battle is coming?

_Lady A_. Hush! (_To a sentinel who goes whistling by_.) Sirrah, what noise is that?

_Sentinel_. 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.

_Lady A_. The Lord protect us!

(_They enter the house_.)

* * * * *

DIALOGUE V.

SCENE. _The interior of a tent. Maitland, in travelling equipments,
pacing the floor_.

_Maitland_. William! Ho there!

_Servant_. (_Looking in_.) Your honor?

_Mait_. Is not that horse ready yet?

_Ser't_. Presently, your honor.

[_Exit_.

_Mait_. 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!

(_The servant enters_.)

Bring that horse round, you rascal,--must I be under your orders too, forsooth?

_Ser't_. 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--

_Mait_. Do you hear?

(_The Servant retreats hastily_.)

_Mait_. 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.

_Ser't_. (_Re-entering_.) The horse is waiting, Sir,--but here's two of these painted creturs hanging about the door, waiting to see you. (_Handing him a packet_.)

There's no use in swearing at them, Sir, they don't understand it.

_Mait_. (_Breaking the seals hastily, he discovers the miniature_.) 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!

(_He discovers, and reads the letter_.)

Who brought this?

_Ser't_. The Indian that was here yesterday.

_Mait_. Alaska! Here's blood on the envelope, on the letter too, and here--This packet has been soaked in blood. (_Re-reading the letter_.)

"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 _is_ love!

_Ser't_. (_At the door_.) The horse is waiting, Sir,--and this Indian here wont stir till he sees you.

_Mait_. Alaska--I must think of it,--_risk?_--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.

[_Exeunt_.

DIALOGUE VI.

SCENE. _Lady Ackland's door_.

_Lady Ackland_. Married!--His wife?--Well, I think I'll not try to sleep again. There goes Orion with his starry girdle.--Married--is he?

_Maid_. Was not that Captain Maitland that was talking here just now, Lady Harriet?

_Lady A_. 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?

_Maid_. Bless me! If I were to guess till daylight, my lady----

_Lady A_. This young Maitland, you think so handsome, Margaret----

_Maid_. I?--la, it was not I, my lady, I am sure.

_Lady A_.--He will bring us his wife home here tomorrow, a young and beautiful wife.

_Maid_. Wife?----

_Lady A_. 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.----

_Maid_. But, here--in these woods, a wife!--where on earth will he bring her from, my lady?

_Lady A_. Ay, we shall see, to-morrow we shall see,--go dream the rest.

[_Exit the maid_.

_Lady A_. 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.

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 _painter_?--no. The spirit of those eyes was of no painter's making. From the _Eidos_ of the Heavenly Mind sprung that.

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.

[_Exit_.

THOUGHTS.

SCENE. _The Hill. The Student's Night-watch_.

How beautiful the night, through all these hours
Of nothingness, with ceaseless music wakes
Among the hills, trying the melodies
Of myriad chords on the lone, darkened air,
With lavish power, self-gladdened, caring nought
That there is none to hear. How beautiful!
That men should live upon a world like this,
Uncovered all, left open every night
To the broad universe, with vision free
To roam the long bright galleries of creation,
Yet, to their strange destiny ne'er wake.
Yon mighty hunter in his silver vest,
That o'er those azure fields walks nightly now,
In his bright girdle wears the self-same gems
That on the watchers of old Babylon
Shone once, and to the soldier on her walls
Marked the swift hour, as they do now to me.
Prose is the dream, and poetry the truth.
That which we call reality, is but
Reality's worn surface, that one thought
Into the bright and boundless all might pierce,
There's not a fragment of this weary real
That hath not in its lines a story hid
Stranger than aught wild chivalry could tell.
There's not a scene of this dim, daily life,
But, in the splendor of one truthful thought
As from creation's palette freshly wet,
Might make young romance's loveliest picture dim,
And e'en the wonder-land of ancient song,----
Old Fable's fairest dream, a nursery rhyme.
How calm the night moves on, and yet
In the dark morrow, that behind those hills
Lies sleeping now, who knows what waits?--'Tis well.
He that made this life, I'll trust with another.
To be,--there was the risk. We might have waked
Amid a wrathful scene, but this,--with all
Its lovely ordinances of calm days,
The golden morns, the rosy evenings,
Its sweet sabbath hours and holy homes,----
If the same hidden hand from whence these sprung,
That dark gate opens, what need we fear there?----
Here's wrath, but none that hath not its sure pathway
Upward leading,--there are tears, but 'tis
A school-time weariness; and many a breeze
And lovely warble from our native hills,
Through the dim casement comes, over the worn
And tear-wet page, unto the listening ear
Of our home sighing--to the _listening_ ear.
Ah, what know we of life?--of that strange life
That this, in many a folded rudiment,
With nature's low, unlying voice, doth point to.
Is it not very like what the poor grub
Knows of the butterfly's gay being?----
With its colors strange, fragrance, and song,
And robes of floating gold with gorgeous dyes,
And loveliest motion o'er wide, blooming worlds.
That dark dream had ne'er imaged!----
Ay, sing on,
Sing on, thou bright one, with the news of life,
The everlasting, winging o'er our vale.
Oh warble on, thy high, strange song.
What sayest thou?--a land o'er these dark cliffs,
A land all glory, where the day ne'er setteth----
Where bright creatures, mid the deathless shades,
Go singing, shouting evermore? And yet
'Twere vain. That wild tale hath no meaning here,
Thou warbler from afar. Like music
Of a foreign tongue, on our dull sense,
The rich thought wastes.--We have been nursed in tears,
Thro' all we've known of life, we have known grief,
And is there none in life's deep essence mixed?
Is sorrow but the young soul's garment then?----
A baby mantle, doffed forever here,
Within these lowly walls.
And we were born
Amid a glad creation!---then why hear we ne'er
The silver shout, filling the unmeasured heaven?----
Why catch we e'er the rich plume's rustle soft,
Or sweep of passing lyre! Our tearful home
Hung 'mid a gay, rejoicing universe,
And ne'er a glimpse adown its golden paths?----
Oh are there eyes, soft eyes upon us,
In the dark and in the day, shining unseen,
And everlasting smiles, brightening unfelt
On all our tears: News sweet and strange ye bring.
Hither we came from our Creator's hands,
Bright earnest ones, looking for joy, and lo,
A stranger met us at the gate of life,
A stranger dark, and wrapped us in her robe,
And bore us on through a dim vale.--Ah, not
The world we looked for,--for an image in.
Our souls was born, of a high home, that yet
We have not seen. And were our childhood's yearnings,
Its strange hopes, no dreams then,--dim revealings
Of a land that yet we travel to?----
But thou, oh foster-mother, mournful nurse,
So long upon thy sable vest we're leaned,
Thou art grown dear to us, and when at last
At yonder blue and burning gate
Thou yieldest up thy trust, and joy at last
In her own wild embrace enfolds us once, e'en
From the jewelled bosom of that dazzling one,
From the young roses of that smiling face,
Shall we not turn to thee, for one last glimpse
Of that wan cheek, and solemn eye of love,
And watch thy stately step, far down
This dim world's fading paths? Take us, kind sorrow!
We will lean our young head meekly on thee;
Good and holy is thy ministry,
Oh handmaid of the Halls thou ne'er mayst tread.
And let the darkness gather round that world,
Not for the vision of thy glittering walls
We ask, nor glimpse of brilliant troops that roam
Thine ancient streets, thou sunless city,--
Wrap thy strange pavillions still in clouds,
Let the shades slumber round thy many homes,
By faith, and not by sight, through lowly paths
Of goodness, sorrow-led, to thee we come.

* * * * *

PART FOURTH.

* * * * *

FULFILMENT.

* * * * *

DIALOGUE I.

SCENE. _The ground before the fort. Baggage wagons. Cannon dismounted.
Confused sounds within. A soldier is seen leaning on his rifle_.

(_Another soldier enters_.)

_2nd Sol_. It's morning! Look in the east there. What are we waiting for?

_1st Sol_. Eh! The devil knows best, I reckon, Sir.

_2nd Sol_. Hillo, John! What's the matter there? Here's day-break upon us! What are we waiting for?

(_Another soldier enters_.)

_3d Sol_. To build a bridge--that is all.

_2nd Sol_. A bridge?

_3d Sol_. 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.

_2nd Sol_. But what's the matter below there, I say? The bridge? what ails it?

_3d Sol_. 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!

_2nd Sol_. Some of that young jackanape's work! _Aid-de-camp!_ I'd _aid_ him. He must be ordering and fidgetting, and fuming.--Could not wait till we were over.

_1st Sol_. All of a piece, boys!

_3d Sol_. Humph. I wish it had been,--the bridge, I mean.

_1st Sol_. 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.

_3d Sol_. Now, if you are going to do so mean a thing as that, don't talk about Heaven--prythee don't.

[_They pass on_.

(_Two other soldiers enter_.)

_4th Sol_. (_singing_.)

_Yankee doodle is the tune
Americans delight in,
'Twill do to whistle, sing, or play,
And just the thing for fighting.
Yankee doodle, boys, huzza_----

(_Breaking off abruptly_.) I do not like the looks of it, Will.

_5th Sol_. Of what?

_4th Sol_. Of the morning that begins to glimmer in the east there.

_5th Sol_. 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.

_4th Sol_. 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.

_5th Sol_. 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.

_4th Sol_. (_Handing him a glass_.) See, they are beginning to form again. It looks for all the world like a funeral train.

_5th Sol_. 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. _The Stamp Act?_ 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.

_4th Sol_. 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.

_5th Sol_. 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. _Trampled on!_ 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----

_4th Sol_. There's no one here.

_5th Sol_. There are voices around that corner, though. Come this way.

[_They pass on_.

(_Another group of Soldiers_.)

_1st Sol_. 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?

_2nd Sol_. (_Advancing_.) What I said before.

_1st Sol_. But where is all this to end, Sir? Tell us that--tell us that.

_3d Sol_. Yes, yes,--tell us that. If you don't see Burgoyne safe in Albany by Friday night, never trust me, Sirs.

_1st Sol_. A bad business we've made of it.

_4th Sol_. Suppose he gets to Albany;--do you think that would finish the war?

_3d Sol_. Well, indeed, I thought that was settled on all hands, Sir. I believe the General himself makes no secret of that.

_4th Sol_. 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?

_1st Sol_. We have seen worse, I'll own.

_3d Sol_. 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?

_2nd Sol_. Faith, you take it very coolly. Before that can happen, do you know what must happen to you?

_1st Sol_. Nothing worse than this, I reckon.

_2nd Sol_. (_makes a gesture to denote hanging_.)

_4th Sol_. What would they hang us though? Do you think they would really hang us, John?

_2nd Sol_. Wait and see.

_1st Sol_. 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----

_2nd Sol_. You talk as if the matter were all settled already.

_1st Sol_. 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.

_2nd Sol_. They'll never get to Albany.

_1st Sol_. Hey?

_2nd Sol_. They'll never get to Albany.

_1st Sol_. What's to hinder them?

_2nd Sol_. We,--yes we,--and such as we, craven-hearted as we are. They'll never get to Albany until we take them there captives.

_3d Sol_. Then they'll wait till next week, I reckon.

_1st Sol_. 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.

_3d Sol_. When is this great battle to be, John? This don't look much like it.

_4th Sol_. I think myself, if the General would only give us a chance to fight----

_2nd Sol_. 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.

_1st Sol_. 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.

_2nd Sol_. 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. _What_ will he offer us? I will tell you.--A chance to live, or to die,--_men_,--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?

_4th Sol_. What do you say, Sam?--Talks like a minister, don't he?

_1st Sol_. Come, come,--there's the drum, boys. You don't bamboozle me again! I've heard all that before.

_3d Sol_. Nor me.--I don't intend to have my wife and children tomahawked,--don't think I can stand that, refugee or not.

_2nd Sol_. Here they come.

(_Other Soldiers enter_.)

_5th Sol_. All's ready, all's ready.

_6th Sol_. (_singing_.)

"_Come blow the shrill bugle, the war dogs are howling_,"--

[_Exeunt_.

* * * * *

DIALOGUE II.

SCENE. _Before the door of the Parsonage. Trunks, boxes, and various
articles of furniture, scattered about the yard. Two men coming
down the path_.

(_George Grey enters_.)

_George_. 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.

(_A Soldier enters_.)

_Sol_. Hurra, hurra, the house there! Are you ready? Ten minutes more.

_George_. Get out. What do you stand yelling there for? We know all about it.

_Sol_. But your brother, the Captain, says, I must hurry you, or you'll be left behind.

_George_. 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.

_Workman_. But the lady said----

_George_. 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?

(_A Lady in the door with a couple of portraits, followed
by others bringing baskets and boxes, etc_.)

_Lady_. 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.

_Betty_. (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?

_George_. 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----

_Miss Rachael_. Never mind this young malapert--do as I bid you.

_Betty_. 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!

_George_. 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.

[_Goes out_.

_Miss R_. (_Coming from the house_.) That will do. That is all,--in the green wagon, John----

_Ser't_. But the children----

_Miss R_. Don't stand there, prating to me at a time like this. Make haste, make haste!

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.

_Annie_. It is no such thing. Aunt Rachael. The British are quietly encamped on the other side of the river; three miles off at least.

_Miss R_. 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?

_Ser't_. 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.

_Miss R_. I desire to be patient.

[_They go out_.

(_Annie sits on the bench of the little Porch, weeping.
Mrs. Gray enters from within_.)

_Annie_. 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?

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_Annie_. Mother, they are all ready now; is Helen in her room still?

_Mrs. G_. 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!

[_Annie goes in_.

* * * * *

DIALOGUE III.

SCENE. _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_.

(_Annie enters_.)

_Annie_. 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?

_Helen_. (_Rising slowly_.) God help me. Bid my mother come here, Annie.