(Annie enters.)
Annie. Helen Grey, where on earth have you been?Wood flowers!
Helen. Come and look at this sunset.
Annie. Surely you have not, you cannot have been in those woods, Helen: and yet, where else could this periwinkle grow, and these wild roses?—Delicious!
Helen. Hear that flute. It comes from among those trees by the river side.
Annie. It is the shower that has freshened every thing, and made the birds so musical. You should stand in the door below, as I did just now, to see the fort and the moistened woods stands out from that black sky, with all this brightness blazing on them.
Helen. 'Tis lovely—all.
Annie. There goes the last golden rim over the blackening woods; already even a shade of tender mourning steals over all things, the very children's voices under this tree,—how soft they grow.
Helen. Will the day come when we shall see him sink, for the last time, behind those hills?
Annie. Nay, Helen, why do you mar this lovely hour with a thought like that?
Helen. And in another life, shall we see light, when his, for us, shines no more?—What sound is that?
Annie. That faint cry from the woods?
Helen. No,—more distant,—far off as the horizon, like some mighty murmur, faintly borne, it came.
Annie. I wish that we had gone to-day. I do not like this waiting until Thursday;—just one of that elder brother's foolish whims it was. I cannot think how your consent was won to it. Did you meet any one in your walk just now?
Helen. No—Yes, yes, I did. The little people where I went, I met by hundreds, Annie. Through the dark aisles, and the high arches, all decked in blue, and gold, and crimson, they sung me a most merry welcome. And such as these—see—You cannot think how like long-forgotten friends they looked, smiling up from their dark homes, upon me.
Annie. You have had chance enough to forget them, indeed,—it is two years, Helen, since you have been in those woods before. What could have tempted you there to-day?
Helen. Was theredangerthen?—was there danger indeed?—I was by the wood-side ere I knew it, and then,—it was but one last look I thought to take—nay, what is it, Annie? George met me as I was coming home, and I remember something in his eye startled me at first; but if there was danger, I should have known of it before.
Annie. How could we dream of your going there this evening, when we knew you had never set your foot in those woods since the day Everard Maitland left Fort Edward?
Helen. Annie!
Annie. For me, I would as soon have looked to see Maitland himself coming from those woods, as you.
Helen. Annie! Annie Grey! You must not, my sister—do not speak that name to me, never again,never.
Annie. Why, Helen, I am sorry to have grieved you thus; but I thought—Look! look! There go those officers again,—there, in the lane between the orchards, Scarcely half an hour ago they went by to the fort in just such haste. There is something going on there, I am sure.
(Helen rises from the window, and walks the room.)
Annie. In truth there was a rumor this afternoon,—you are so timid and fanciful, our mother chose you should not hear it while it was rumor only; but 'tis said that a party of the enemy have been seen in those woods to-day, and, among them, the Indians we have counted so friendly. Do you hear me, Helen?
Helen. That he shouldlivestill! Yes, it is all real still! That heaven of my thought, that grows so like a pageant to me, is stillrealsomewhere. Those eyes—they are darkly shining now; this very moment that passesme, drinks their beauty;—that voice,—that tone,—that very tone—on some careless ear, even now it wastes its luxury of blessing. Continents of hail and darkness, the polar seas—all earth's distance, could never have parted me from him; but now I live in the same world with him, and the everlasting walls blacken between us. Those looks may shine on the dull earth and senseless stones, but not on me; on uncaring eyes, but not on mine; though for one moment of their lavished wealth, I could cheaply give a life without them; never again, never, never, never shall their love come to me.
Annie. Who would have thought she could cherish in secret a grief like this? Dear sister, we all believed you had forgotten that sad affair long ago,—we thought that you were happy now.
Helen. Happy?—I am, you were right; but I have been to-day down to the very glen where we took that last lovely walk together, and all the beautiful past came back to me like life.—Iamhappy; you must count me so still.
Annie. With what I have just now heard, how can I?
Helen. It is this war that has parted us; and so, this is but my part in these noble and suffering times, and that great thought reaches overall my anguish. But for this war I might have been—hath this world such flowers, and do they call it a wilderness?—I might have been, even now, you know it, Annie, his wife, his wife,his. But our hearts are cunningly made, many-stringed; and often much good music is left in them when we count them broken. That which makes the bitterness of this lot, the inconceivable, unutterable bitterness of it, even that I can bear now, calmly, and count it God's kindness too.
Annie. I do not understand you, sister.
Helen. What if this young royalist, Annie, when he quarrelled with my brother, and took arms against my country, what if he had kept faith tome?
Annie. Well.
Helen. Well?Oh no, it would not have been well. Why, my home would have been with that pursuing army now, my fate bound up with that hollow cause,—these very hands might have fastened the sword of oppression; nay, the sword whose edge was turned against you, against you all, and against the cause, that with tears, night and morning, you were praying for, and with your heart's best blood stood ready to seal every hour. No, it is best as it is; or if my wish grows deeper still, if in my heart I envy, with murmuring thought, the blessed brides, on whose wedding dawns the laughing sun of peace, then with a wish I cast away the glory of these suffering times.—It is best as it is. I am content.
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 withhim? 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—heis 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? AnIndian, 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, andthis, 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 worldhath 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.
FATE.
FATE.
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'sfixed, 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.
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—thoughI, 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.
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.)
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. Threemiles! 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.)
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.)
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.—Thisislove!
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.