Chapter VI: Reconciliation (3)

_Annie_. 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.

_Helen_. Let go!--Oh God----

_Annie_. Helen Grey!

_Helen_. 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.

_Annie_. Ready, Helen!--ready?--in that dressing-gown, and your hair--see here,--are you ready, Helen?

_Helen_. Yes,--bid her come.

_Annie_. 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.

_Helen_. No, no,--we must not indeed. It was wrong, but I could not--go,--make haste, bid her come.

_Annie_. She is crazed, certainly!

[_Goes out_.

(_Helen stands with her arms folded, and her eye fixed on the door_.)

(_Mrs. Grey enters_.)

_Mrs. G_. My child! Helen, Helen! Why do you stand there thus?

_Helen_. Mother----

_Mrs. G_. Nay, do not stay to speak. There--throw this mantle around you. Where is your hat?--not here!--Bridal gear!

(_George enters_.)

_George_. 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.

_Helen_. George!--George Grey!--Be still,--be still.--We must not think of that. It was a dream.

_George_. Is my sister mad?

_Helen_. Mother--

_Mrs. G_. Speak, my child.

_Helen_. Mother--my blessed mother,--(_aside_.) 'Tis but a brief word,--it will be over soon.

_Mrs. G_. Speak, Helen.

_Helen_. I cannot go with you, mother.

_Mrs. G_. Helen?

_George_. Not go with us?

_Mrs. G_. Helen, do you know what you are saying?

_George_. You are in jest, Helen; or else you are mad,--before another sunset the British army will be encamping here.

_Helen_. Hear me, mother. A message from the British camp came to me last night,--

_Mrs. G_. The British camp?--Ha!--ha! Everard Maitland! God forgive him.

_Helen_. Do not speak thus. It was but a few cold and careless lines he sent me,--my purpose is my own.

_Mrs. G_. And--what, and he does not know?--Helen Grey, this passes patience.

_Helen_. 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.

_Mrs. G_. Where will you go, Helen?

_Helen_. Everard is in yonder camp;--where should the wife's home be?

_Mrs. G_. The wife's?

_Helen_. These two years I have been his bride;--his wedded wife I shall be to-day. Yonder dawns my bridal day.

_George_. What does she say? What does Helen say? I do not understand one word of it.

_Mrs. G_. She says she will go to the British camp. Desertions thicken upon us. Hark!--they are calling us.

_George_. To the British camp?

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_George_. Hark! (_going to the door_.)--another message. Do you hear?--Helen may be ready yet, if she will.

_Mrs. G_. Blessed delay! Go down, George; say nothing of this. There is time yet. Tell them we will be there presently.

(_George goes out_.)

_Mrs. G_. 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.

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.

_Helen_. This Canadian girl will stay with me, and----

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_Helen_. 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.

_Mrs. G_. Do not charge the madness of this frantic scheme on Heaven, my child.

_Helen. Everard!_--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.

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.--_Real_ danger there is none, and--Do not urge me. I know what you would say; the bitter cost I have counted all, already, all--_all_. 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.

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_Helen_. 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.

_Mrs. G_. Ay, ay,--thank God! You had forgotten, Helen, that in that army's pay, nay, all around us even now are hordes and legions.

_Helen_. I know it,--I know it all. I do indeed.

_Mrs. G_. 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?

_Helen_. Dreams are nothing. Will you unsay a life's lessons now when most I need them?

_Mrs. G_. 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 _yours_.

_Mrs. G_. Helen! my child--(_Aside_.) 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!

_Helen_. 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?

_Mrs. G_. How wildly you talk; how should I remember any thing like this?

_Helen_. 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 _stay_ here, mother.

_Mrs. G_. 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----

_Helen_. Hear her----

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_Helen_. If I could--Ah, if I could----

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_Helen_. 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.

_Mrs. G_. 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.

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. (_She sinks upon the chair, and weeps aloud_.)

_Helen_. 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 _not_ take them,--there is no motion so impossible. Yes, they are calling us. Do not stay.

(_Annie enters_.)

_Annie_. Mother, will you tell me what this means?

_Mrs. G_. 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?

_Annie_. Helen! my sister! Helen!

_Mrs. G_. 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.

(_George enters_.)

_George_. 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?

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_Annie_. Refugees! Refugee! Helen!

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_Annie_. 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!

(_A young American Officer enters hastily_.)

_Capt. Grey_. 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.

_Annie_. Oh, Henry, stay. You can persuade her it may be.

_Capt. G. Persuade_! What's all this! A goodly time for rhetoric forsooth! Who's this that's risking all our lives, waiting to be persuaded now?

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_Capt. G_. Maitland!--and stay here!

_Helen_. 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..

_Capt. G_. (_To the children at the door_.) 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.

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.

_Helen_. Henry!

_Capt. G_. 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!

_Helen_. Henry! Mother!--Nay, Henry, this is vain. I shall stay here, I shall--I shall stay here,--so help me Heaven.

_Capt. G_. 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?

_Helen_. Let go.--I shall stay here.

_Capt. G_. 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.

(_He goes out--Mrs. Grey follows him to the door_.)

_Mrs. G_. Stay, Henry,--stay. What shall we do?

_Capt. G_. 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.

_Mrs. G_. Hear me. This is no time for passion now Hear me, Henry. This Maitland, _Tory_ 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?

_Capt. G_. 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.

[_They go out together_.

_Helen_. (_She has stood silently watching them_.) 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.

(_She turns to her sister, who leans weeping on the window-seat_.)

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.

_Annie_. 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, _you_. 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----

_Helen_. Hush, hush. There is no danger, Annie. The dark things of destiny are God's; the heart, the heart only, is ours.

(_Mrs. Grey re-enters_.)

_Mrs. G_. (_to Annie_.) Come, come, my child. This is foolish now. All is ready. Janette will stay with you, Helen.

(_Laughing voices are heard without, and the children's faces
are seen peeping in the door_.)

_Willy_. 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?

_Mrs. G_. Your sister Helen is going from us forever. Come in and kiss her once, and then make haste--you must not all be lost.

(_They enter_.)

_Willy_. 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.

_Frank_. 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.

_Willy_. So am I. What makes you stand so still and look at us so? Why don't you kiss me? Good-bye, Helen.

_Helen_. (_Embracing them silently_.)

_Annie_. Will you leave her here alone, mother? Will you?

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_Helen_. 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.

Come, George, farewell. How I have loved to look on that young brow. Be what my dreams have made you. Fare you well.

_George_. Farewell, Helen.

[_He goes out hastily_.

_Helen_. Will he forget me?

_Mrs. G_. And farewell, Helen. Fare ye well.

_Helen_. Will she leave me thus?

_Mrs. G_. Do not go to the hut--do not leave this door until you are sure of the signal you spoke of, Helen.

_Helen_. She will not look at me,--Mother!

_Mrs. G_. Farewell, Helen; may the hour never come when you need the love you have cast from you now so freely.

_Helen_. 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?

_Mrs. G_. Farewell, Helen.

_Helen_. Part we thus?

_Mrs. G_. 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.

_Helen_. No, no; leave me not.

_Mrs. G_. Unclasp these hands, I cannot stay.

_Helen_. Never--never.

_Mrs. G_. Untwine this wild embrace, or, even now,--even now----

_Helen_. Farewell, mother. Annie Grey, farewell.

[_They go_.

_Helen_. This is a weary world. Take me home. To the land where there is no crying or bitterness, take me home.

(_The noise of retreating steps is heard, and the sound
of the outer door closing heavily_.)

_Helen_. 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.

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----

Now they are gone, indeed. So breaks the sense's last link between me and that world.

* * * * *

PART FIFTH.

* * * * *

FULFILLMENT

* * * * *

DIALOGUE I.

SCENE. _The hill. A young Soldier enters_.

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----

(_He stops suddenly, and looks earnestly into the thicket_.)

This is strange, indeed. This feeling that I cannot analyze, still grows upon me. _Presentiment?_ 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.

[_He passes on_.

(_Two Indian Chiefs, in their war-dress, emerge from the thicket,
talking in suppressed tones_.)

_1st Chief_. 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!

_2nd Chief_. 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?

_1st Chief_. 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.

_2nd Chief_. 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.

_1st Chief_. 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.

_2nd Chief_. No, I will tell my brother chief that Manida is a treacherous friend.

_1st Chief_. You cannot. It is too late. Hist! Quick, lower--lower--

[_They crouch among the trees_.

(_Another Soldier emerges from the wood-path, singing_.)

"_Then march to the roll of the drum,
It summons the brave to the plain,
Where heroes contend for the home
Which perchance they may ne'er see again_."

(_Pausing abruptly_.) Well, we are finely manned here!

(_1st Soldier re-enters_.)

_2nd Sol_. How many men do you think we have in all, upon this hill, Edward?

_1st Sol_. Hist!--more than you count on, perhaps.

_2nd Sol_. Why? What is the matter? Why do you look among those bushes so earnestly?

_1st Student_. 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?

_2nd Sol_. 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.

_1st Sol_. I am glad you could sleep. For myself, such a world of troubled thoughts haunted me, I found more repose in waking.

_2nd Sol_. 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--

_1st Sol_. Well, let me share it with you now.

_2nd Sol_. 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 _Hale_, 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.

_1st Sol_. 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?

_2nd Sol_. What is it?

_1st Sol_. That white house by the orchard, in the door--do you see nothing?

_2nd Sol_. 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?

_1st Sol_. 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.

_2nd Sol_. Well, if we all see yonder sun go down, 'tis more than I count on.

_1st Sol_. 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?

_2nd Sol_. Ay, that hour may come.

_1st Sol_. Then, with tears, and _blood_ 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--_Man_ 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.

_2nd Sol_. In your earnestness, you do not mark these strange sounds, Edward. Listen. (_He grasps his sword_.)

(_A Soldier rushes down the path_.)

_3d Sol_. We are surrounded! Fly. The Indians are upon us. Fly.

[_Rushes on_.

(_Another Soldier bursts from the woods_.)

_4th Sol_. God! They are butchering them above there, do not stand here!

[_Rushes down the hill_.

_2nd Sol_. Resistance is vain. Hear those shrieks! There is death in them. Resistance is vain.

_1st Sol_. Flight is vain. Look yonder! Francis,--the dark hour hath come!

_2nd Sol_. Is it so? Mother and sister I shall see no more.

(_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_.)

_1st Sol_. We shall die together. God of Truth and Freedom, unto thee our youthful spirits trust we.

(_The Indians surround them. Fighting to the last, they fall_.)

* * * * *

DIALOGUE II.

SCENE. _The deserted house--the chamber--Helen by the table--her head
bowed and motionless. She rises slowly from her drooping posture_.

_Helen_. It is my bridal day. I had forgotten that. (_Looking from the window_.) 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 _law_ in that will, though, was there not? (_Turning suddenly from the window_.) 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 _that_? Oh day of anguish, if in thine awful bosom, still, that dazzling instant sleeps, I can forgive the rest.

(_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_.)

_Jan_. I ask your pardon--Shall I come in, Ma'amselle?

_Helen_. Ay, ay, come in. How strangely any voice sounds amid this loneliness. I am glad you are here.

_Jan_. (_Entering_.) Beautiful! Santa Maria! How beautiful! May I look at these things, Ma'amselle? (_Stopping by the couch strewn with bridal gear_.) Real Brussels! And the plume in this bonnet, was there ever such a lovely droop?

_Helen_. 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. (_Aside_.) He shall have no hint from me this day of "_altered fortunes_." 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.

_Jan_. 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!

_Helen_. 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?

_Jan_. (_Aside_) 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?

_Helen_. 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.

(_Janette retreats to the window,--her eye still following the lady_.)

_Jan_. 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.

_Helen_. 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.

_Jan_. I can see nothing--nothing at all. Marie sanctissima!--how quiet it is! The shadows are straight here now, Miss Helen.

_Helen_. Noon--the very hour has come! Another minute it may be.--Noon, you said, Netty?

(_Joining Janette at the window_.)

_Jan_. 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.

_Helen_. 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, _'tis_ very lonely.--Hear those merry birds!

_Jan_. But I would rather hear that signal, Miss Helen, a thousand times, than the best music that ever was played.

_Helen_. 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.

_Jan_. Hark--Hark!

_Helen_. What is it?

_Jan_. Hark!--There!--Do you hear nothing?

_Helen_. Distant voices?

_Jan_. Yes--

_Helen_. I do--

_Jan_. 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.

_Helen_. From that hill it comes, does it not?

_Jan_. 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?

(_Helen stands gazing silently from the window_.)

_Jan_. 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.

_Helen_. What is it to die? Nor wood nor meadow, nor winding stream, nor the blue sky, do _they_ 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 _that_ die?--the meek trust in Goodness Infinite,--can _that_ 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.

_Jan_. Will you come here, Miss Helen?

_Helen_. Well.

_Jan_. Look among those trees by the road-side--those pine trees, on the side of the hill, where my finger points.--

_Helen_. Well--what is it?

_Jan_. 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.

_Helen_. Yes--_Indians_--are they not?

_Jan_. 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.

_Helen_. (_Turning from the window_.) Shelter us--all power is thine.

_Jan_. Holy Virgin!--they are coming this way. Those creatures are coming down that hill, as I live. Yes, there they come.

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.

_Helen_. No.

_Jan_. 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. (_Rising from the window_.)

_Helen_. Listen.

_Jan_. '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.

How that breeze has died away! Every leaf is still now! There's not a cloud or a speck in all the sky.

_Helen_. Look in the west--have you looked there?

_Jan_. Yes, there are a few little clouds beginning to gather there indeed. We shall have a shower yet ere night.

(_The war-whoop is heard, loud and near_.)

_Jan_. Mon Dieu! Here they are! It is all over with us! We shall be murdered!

(_She clasps her hands, and shrieks wildly_.)

_Helen_. Hush! hush! Put down that window, and come away. We must be calm now.

_Jan_. It is all over with us,--what use is there? Do you hear that trampling?--in the street!--they are coming!

_Helen_. 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 _all_ deserted. Why should they stop to search _this?_ Hush! hush! they are passing now.

_Jan_. They have stopped!--the trampling has stopped!--I hear the gate,--they have come into the yard.

(_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_.)

_Helen_. I am sorry you stayed here with me. Perhaps--Hark! What was that? What was that? Was it not _Maitland_ they said then? It was--it is--Don't grasp me so.

_Jan_. Nay--what would you do?

_Helen_. 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!

_Jan_. You must not--we have tempted Heaven already--this is madness.

_Helen_. Let go, Janette. It is not you they seek. You can conceal yourself. You shall be safe.

_Jan_. 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.

(_Helen opens the window, and stands for a moment, looking
silently down into the court. She turns away, shuddering_.)

_Helen_. Can I meet those eyes again?

(_Again the name of Maitland mingles with the wild
and unintelligible sounds that rise from without_.)

_Helen_. Can I? (_She turns to the window_.) 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.

_Jan_. And will you?

_Helen_. They are treacherous I know. This will do.--(_Taking a basket from the toilette_.) Give me that cord. (_She lets down the basket from the window, and draws it up, with a letter in it_.)

_Helen_. (_Looking at the superscription_.) 'Tis his! I thought so. Is it ink and paper that I want now? (_Breaking it open_.) Ah, there's no forgery in this, 'Tis his! 'tis his!

_Jan_. 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?

_Helen_. (_Throwing the letter down, and walking the floor hastily_.) This is too much! I cannot, I cannot, _I cannot go with them_! How could he ask it of me? _This is_ cruel.

He knew, perfectly well, how I have always feared them--I cannot go with them.

(_She takes up the letter_.)

(_Reading_.) "Possible"--"If it were possible"--he does not read that word as I did when I kept this promise--_Possible_? 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." _Trust me_, trust me. Won't I?

_Jan_. She is beckoning them, as I live!

_Helen_. Bring me that hat and mantle, Netty. I must go with these savages.

_Jan_. _Go_ with them!

_Helen_. There is no help for it.

_Jan_. 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!

_Helen_. 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 _are_ waiting for me. 'Tis no dream.

_Jan_. Dare you go with them? They will murder you.

_Helen_. 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.

_Jan_. If you fear them so, surely you will not go with them.

_Helen_. This letter says they are kind and innocent. One I _should_ 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 _must_ go with them.

_Jan_. But Captain Grey will come back here again this afternoon. Stay,--stay, and we will go with him.

_Helen_. 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?

_Jan_. Yes.

_Helen_. Well,--I am ready. (_Lingering in the door_.) I shall sit by that window no more. Never again shall I turn those blinds to catch the breeze or the sunshine. Yes--(_returning_), let me look down on that orchard once again. Never more--never more.

(_She walks to the door, again pausing on the threshold_.)

_Helen_. (_solemnly_.) 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.

[_She goes out_.

_Jan_. It won't take much to make an angel of her, there's that in it.

(_Looking cautiously through the shutters_.)

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?

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?

* * * * *

DIALOGUE III.

SCENE. _British Camp. The interior of a Tent richly furnished. An
Officer seated at a table covered with papers and maps.
A Servant in waiting_.

_The Officer_. (_Sipping his wine, and carefully examining a plan of the adjacent country_.) 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.

_Ser't_. But the sun will be coming that side, Sir. It's past two o'clock.

_Off_. 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.

(_A Servant enters with a note_.)

_Off_. (_Reading_.) "_The Baroness Reidesel's compliments--do her the honor---Voisin has succeeded_."--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--(_writing the answer_.)

[_The Servant goes out_.

_Off_. Past two! The cannon should be in sight ere this. This to Sir George Ackland.

[_Exit the Attendant_.

_Off_. Tuesday--Wednesday.--If the batteaux should get here to-morrow. One hundred teams----

(_Another Officer enters the tent_.)

_1st Off_. How goes it abroad, Colonel St. Leger?

_2nd Off_. 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.

_Bur_. Good news that. But here is better, (_giving the other an open letter_.)

_St. Leger_. Ay, ay, that reads well, Sir.

_Bur_. 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.

_St. L_. 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.

_Bur_. 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.

_St. L_. 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 _now_, the result would be certain.

_Bur_. 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.

_St. L_. 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.

_Bur_. Not a whit--not a whit--they have needed this. It will do them good, Sir.

_St. L_. 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.

_Bur_. 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.

_St. L_. We can hardly expect the news from General Reidesel before sunset, I suppose.

_Bur_. If my messenger returns by to-morrow's sunrise, it is better fortune than I look for.

(_Col. St. Leger goes out_.)

(_Burgoyne resumes his plan_.)

_A Ser't_. (_At the door_.) Capt. Maitland, Sir.

_Bur_. Capt. Maitland!

_Ser't_. From Fort Ann, Sir.

(_Maitland enters_.)

_Bur_. 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?--

_Maitland_. There's but little cause of congratulation, Sir, as these dispatches will prove to you. I returned only because my embassy was accomplished.

_Bur_. Do you mean to say, Captain Maitland, that you have seen the waters of Lake Champlain, since you left here this morning?

_Mait_. I do, Sir.

_Bur_. 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?