(Mortimer and Maitland enter.)
Mor. This is the place!—Well, if hallucinations like this can visit mortal eyes, I'll ne'er trust mine again. 'Tis the spot, I'm sure of it,—the place, too, that Andre was raving about just now.—The fairies' drawing-room,—palace rather,—look at these graceful shafts, Maitland,—and fairies' work, it must have been in good earnest.
Mait. If it's to admire this clump of pine trees you have brought me hither, allow me to say you might have spared yourself that trouble. I have seen the place already, as often as I care to.
Mor. Come this way a little,—yes, it was just above there that I stood,—it must have been.
Mait. If you would give me some little inkling of what you are talking about, Lieutenant Mortimer, I should be more likely to help you, if it's help you need.
Mor. I do not ask you to believe me, but,—as I was springing on my horse just now above there, the gurgling of this spring caught my ear, and looking down suddenly—upon my word, Captain Maitland, I am ashamed to describe what cannot but seem to you such an improbable piece of fancy-work; and yet, true it seemed, as that I see you now. I was looking down, as I said, when suddenly, among those low evergreens, the brilliant hue of a silken mantle caught my eye, and then a woman's brow gleamed up upon me. Yes, there in that dark cradle, calmly sleeping, all flashing with gold and jewels, like some bright vision of olden time, methought there lay—a lady,—a girl, young and lovely as a dream;—the white plume in her bonnet soiled and broken, and the long bright hair streaming heavily on her mantle,—and yet with all its loveliness, such a face of utter sorrow saw I never. Isawher, I saw her, as I see you now,—the proud young form with such a depth of grace, in its strange repose, and—where are you going?—what are you doing, Maitland?
Mait. Helen Grey!—
Mor. You are right. I did not mark that break—yes—there she lies. Said I right, Maitland?
Mait. Helen Grey!—
Mor. Maitland! Heavens!—what a world of anguish that tone reveals!—Why do you stand gazing on that lovely sleeper thus?
Mait. Bring water. There's a cup at yonder spring. Here has been treachery! Devils and fiends have been working here against me. We must unclasp this mantle. The treasure of the earth lies here.—Now doth mine arm enfold it once, at last. 'Tis sweet, Helen, mine owntruelove; 'tis sweet, even thus.
Mor. This letter,—see—from those loosened folds it just now dropped. This might throw some light, perchance—
Mait. Let it be. There's light enough. I want no more. Water,—more water,—do you see?
Mor. Maitland,—this is vain. Mark this dark spot upon her girdle—
Mait. Hush, hush,—there, cover it thus—'tis nothing, Loosen this bonnet—so—'twas a firm hand that tied that knot; so—she can breathe now.
Mor. How like life, those soft curls burst from their loosened pressure! But mark you—there is no other motion, I am sorry to distress you,—but—Maitland—this lady is dead.
Mait. Dead! Lying hell-hound!Dead! Say that again.
Mor. God help you!
Mait. Dead! Helen Grey, open these eyes. Here's one that, never having seen them, talks of death. Oh God! is it thus we meet at last? At last these arms are round her, and she knows it not. I look upon her, but her eye answers me not. Dead!—for me? Murdered!—mine own hand hath done it.
Mor. Why do you start thus?
Mait. Hush!—hush! There!—again—that slow heavy throb—again! again!
Mor. Good God! she breathes! This is life indeed.
Mait. (Solemnly.) Ay, thank God. This moment's sweetness is enough.
Mor. How like one in troubled sleep she murmurs! Mark those tones of sweet and wild entreaty. Listen!
Mait. I have heard it again!—from the buried years of love and hope that music came. She is here. 'Tisshe. This is no marble mockery. She is here! Her head is on my bosom. Death cannot rob me of this sweetness now.
(Talking without.)
A Lady. This way—I hear their voices. Down this pathway—here they are.
(Lady Ackland and Andre enter the Glen.)
Lady A. I knew it could not be. They told us she was murdered, Maitland. (Starting back.) Ah—ah—God help thee, Maitland!
Mait. Listen, listen. She was speaking but now. There—again!
Lady A. And this is she! Can the wilderness blossom thus? And did God unfold such loveliness—for a waste so cruel?
Helen. (In a low murmur.) We are almost there. If we could but pass this glen. Oh God! will they stop here? Go on,—go on. Was not that a white tent I saw? Go on. They will not. 'Tis nothing,—do not weep.
Mait. Look at me, Helen.—Open these eyes. One more look—one more.
Andre. She hears your bidding.
Mait. Oh God! Do you see those eyes—those dim, bewildered eyes?—it is quenched—quenched. Let her lean on you.
Lady A. Gently—gently, she does not see us yet.
Helen. Oh Mother, I am ill and weary. Here's this dream again! Blue sky? and pine-tree boughs? Am I here indeed? Yes, I remember now,—we stood upon that cliff—I am dying. Is there no one here? Whose tears are these?
Lady A. Dear child, sweet one, nay, lean on me.
Helen. My mother, oh my mother, come to me. Come, Annie, come, come! Strangers all!
Mor. Her eye is on him. Hush!
Andre. See in an instant how the light comes flashing up from those dim depths again.Thatis the eye that I saw yesterday.
Lady A. That slowly settling smile,—deeper and deeper—saw you ever any thing so gay, so passing lovely?
Helen. Is it—is it—Everard Maitland—is itthee? The living real of my thousand dreams, in the light of life doth he stand there now? Doth he?'Tis he!
Mait. Helen!
Helen. 'Tis he! That tone's spell builds around me its all-sheltering music-walls, and death is nothing. Oh God, when at thy dark will dimly revealed, I trembled yesterday, I did not think in this most rosy bower to meet its fearfulness.
Mait. Helen,—dost thou love meyet?
Helen. Doubter, am I dying here?
Mait. 'Tis her own most rich and blessed smile, even as of old in mirth it shone upon me. Your murderer, you count me then?
Helen. Come hither,—let me lean onyou. Star of the wilderness!—of this life that is fading now, the sun!—dothmine eye see thee, then, at last? Oh! this is sweet! On its own holy home my head rests now. Everard, in this dark worldLove leans on Faith. How else, even in God's love and loveliness, could I trust now for that strange future on whose bloody threshold I am lying here; yes, and in spite of prayers and trust, and struggling hopes. And yet—how beautiful it is—that love invisible, invisible no more. Like glorious sunshine it is streaming round me,—lighting all. The infinite of that thy smile hath imaged, as real,—it beams on me now. Have faith, inhimI mean; for—if we meet again—we'll need it then no more; and—how dim it grows—nay, let me lean on you,—and—throughthislife's darkening glass I shall see you no more. Nay, hold me!—quick!—where art thou?—Everard!—He is gone—gone!
Lady A. Dead!—
Mor. She is dead!
Andre. This was Love.
Lady A. See how her eyes are fixed onyou. The light and love of the vanished soul looks through them still. Cruelly hath it been sent thence; and no other gleam of its changeful beauty will e'er dawn in them. Sadly, oh lovely stranger, I close for ever now these dark-fringed lids upon their love and beauty. Yes—thiswas love!
Andre. And so there was a need-be in its doom. I'll ne'er believethatgenuine, that is blessed. The fate of this life would not suffer it. Ah! if it would, if Heaven should leave a gem like that outside her walls, we should none of us go thither.
Mait. Dead? How beautiful! Yes—let her lie there—under that lovely canopy. Dead!—it's a curious word—How comes it that we all stand here? Ha, Andre?—is it you?
Andre. I heard the tale as I crossed just now, from an Indian, who was one in the ambuscade this noon—and in the woods on the other side, I found this lady, with her attendants, abiding the promise she made you last night, to welcome this lovely stranger with her savage guides.
Mait. Hush, hush. Let it pass. See,—a bride!
Mor. (Aside.) Did he trust her with these murderers?
Mait. Ay—say yes.
Andre. Indeed, Maitland, you wrong yourself. It was the treachery of this savage Manida that crossed your plans, working the mission of some Higher power,—as for Alaska, you might as soon have doubted me.
The Chief he sent for her was one he had known years—but, unfortunately, he was one in the ambuscade this morning—nay, the leader of it; for the murdered Indian was his son; and meanwhile amid the fight the treacherous Manida, who accompanied him to Maitland's tent last night, and heard the promised reward, found means to steal from its concealment the letter, with which he easily won this trusting lady to accompany him.
Mor. Ah!—there it lies.
Andre. It was here in this glen that Alaska, discovering the treachery, lay in wait for them with a band of chosen warriors, and on that cliff above they fought.
Lady A. (Aside.) And she stood there, amid those yelling demons alone! Methinks the angels should have come from their unseen dwellings at her prayer. Can our humanity's darkest extremity wring no love from the invisible?—
Andre. Alaska had regained his charge; but the malignant eye, and the deadly arrow of the vanquished Indian followed her. She fell, even in the place where you found her; for at that same instant a party from the fort drove them hence, victor and vanquished. Alaska fled; but the murderer, with a tale cunning enough to deceive the lover, boldly demanded and obtained the prize.
Mor. Mark his changed mien. I would rather see tears for a grief like this, than that calm smile with which he gazes on her now.
(Burgoyne and St. Leger are seen talking in the road above,—they enter the glen.)
Bur. At a crisis like this we might better have lost a thousand men in battle! Ah! ah!—a sight for our enemies, Lady Ackland! Where is this Indian?
St. L. We have sent out for him. No one has seen him as yet.
Bur. Let him be found. Look to it. We will give them an example for once. I say, at a crisis like this we might better have lost a thousand men in battle, for it will turn thousands against us, and rouse the slumbering spirit of resistance here, at the very crisis when, had it slumbered on a little longer, all was ours.
St. L. But this was a quarrel among the Indians, and no fault of ours.
Bur. No matter. You will see what Schuyler will make of it. His wordy proclamation will have its living sequel now. A young and innocent girl, seeking the protection of our camp, is inhumanly murdered by Indians in our pay. A single tale like this is enough to undo at a blow all that we have accomplished here. With ten thousand wild aggravations, it will be told in every cottage of these borders before to-morrow's sunset.
(Another Officer enters hastily.)
Off. Here is Arnold, with a thousand men, on the brow of the next hill. One of the rebel guard escaped, and the news of the massacre here has reached their camp below.
Bur. Said I right?
(The three Officers go out together.)
Andre. This story is spreading fast, there will be throngs here presently. Maitland,—nay, do not let me startle you thus, but—
Mait. Is it you? What was it we were saying yesterday?—we should have noted it. This were a picture worth your pencilling now. Those silken vestments,—that long, golden hair,—this youthful shape,—there's that same haughty grace about it, that the smile of these thought-lit eyes would disown with every glance. Then that letter,—and the Lady Ackland here,—Weeping?—This is most strange. I know you all,—but,—as I live I can't remember how this chanced. How comes it that we all stand here? Pearls?—and white silk?—a bridal?—Ha ha ha! (Laughing wildly.)
Lady A. Take me away. This is too terrible! lean stay here no longer. Take me away, Andre.
[Exeunt Andre and Lady A.
(An Officer enters.)
The Officer. We are ordered to withdraw our detachment, Captain Maitland. The rebels are just below, some two thousand strong, and in no mood to be encountered.
Mor. He does not hear you. We must leave that murdered lady here, and 'tis vain to think of parting them. Come.
[Exeunt Mortimer and Officer.
Mait. They are gone at last. They are all gone. I am alone with my dead bride. I must needs smile—I could not weep when those haughty and prying eyes were upon me, but now—I am alone with my dead bride.—Helen, they are all gone,—we are alone. How still she lies,—smiling too,—on that same bank. She will speak, surely she will. How lightly those soft lashes lie, as if a word would lift them.—Helen!—I will be calm and patient as a child. This lovely smile is deepening, it will melt to words again.—Hark! that spring,—that same curious murmur! We have checked our sweetest words to hear it, we have stood here listening to it, till we fancied, in its talk-like tones, wild histories, beautiful and sad, the secrets of the woods.—Oh God!—and have such memories no power here now? In mine ear alone doth the spring murmur now. Death! what is't?—Awake! awake,—by the love that isstrongerthan death,—awake!—
I thought that scene would shift. It had a heavy, dream-like mistiness.Thisis reality again.Theseare the pine trees that I dreamed of. See! how beautiful! With the sharp outline and the vivid hue such as our childhood's unworn sense yields, they are waving now. Look, Andre, there she sits, the young and radiant stranger,—there, in the golden sunset she is sitting still, braiding those flowers,—see, how the rich life flashes in her eye, and yet, just now I dreamed that she was dead, and—and—Oh my God!
(A voice without.)
Let go, who stays me?—where's my sister?
(Captain Grey enters.)
Grey. Ha! Murderer! art satisfied?
Mait. Ay.
Grey. What, do you mock me, Sir?
Mait. Let her be. She is mine!—all mine! my love, my bride,—mybride?—Murderer?—Stay!—Don't glare at me! I know you, Sir. I can hurl off these mountain shadows yet.—They'll send some stronger devil ere they wrench this hold from me! I know you well. What make you here?
Grey. Madness!—there's little wonder!—It's the only good that Heaven has left for him! My lovely playfellow,—my sister, is it so indeed? Alas! all gently lies this hand in mine. There is no angry strength here now. Helen!—Ah! would to God our last words had not been in bitterness.
Mait. He weeps. I never thought to see tears there. List!—she should not lie there thus. Strange it should move you so!—Think it a picture now. 'Tis but a well-wrought painting after all, if one but thinks so. See,—'tis but a sleeping girl, with the red summer light upon her cheek, and the slight breeze stirring her golden hair. Mark you that shoulder's grace?—They come.
(Leslie, Elliston, and others enter.)
Leslie. Oh God, was there none other? My lovely cousin, and—wereyouthe victim? In your bridal glory chosen,—nay, with your heart's holiest law lured to the bloody altar! Yet this day's history, and something in that calm, high mien, tells me, as freely you had moved unto it, though God had spoken by a higher voice, and with a martyr's garland beckoned you.
Elliston. Our cause is linked unto that ancient one, the cause of Love and Truth; in which Heaven moves with unrelenting hand, not sparing its own loveliest ones, but unto bloody death freely delivering them.
(Grey and Leslie converse apart.)
Leslie. Yes—we will bury her here. 'Tis a fitting spot; and unto distant days, this lonely grave, with its ever-verdant canopy, shall be even as Love's Shrine. Thither, in the calm and smiling summers of those bloodless times shall many a fair young pilgrim come, to wonder at such love; and living eyes shall weep, and living hearts shall heave over its cruel fate, when unto her the long-told tale, and all the anguish of this far-off day, shall be even as the dim passage of some troubled dream. A martyr's garland she hath won indeed; true Love's young Martyr there she lies.
Elliston. Yet was that love but the wreathed and glittering weapon of a higher doom. In that holy cause, whose martyrs strew a thousand fields, truth's, freedom's, God's, darkly, byPower Invisiblehath this young life been offered here.
A thousand graves like this, over all this lovely land, in lanes and fields, on the lonely hill-side, by the laughing stream, and in the depths of many a silent wood, to distant days shall speak—of blood-sealed destinies; with voices that no tyrant's power can smother, they shall speak.—
Leslie. The light of that chamber window, through the soft summer evening will shine here; no mournful memory of all the lovely past will it waken. The autumn blaze will flicker within those distant walls, and gather its pleasant circle again; butshewill lie calmly here. For ever at her feet the river of her childhood shall murmur on, and many a lovely spring-time, like the spring-times of her childhood, shall come and go, but no yearning hope shall it waken here; the winter shall sing through the desolate boughs, and rear its fairy temples around her, but nought shall break her dreamless rest.—
Mait. Graves! Is it graves they are talking of? Will they bury this gay young bride! 'Tis but the name; there's nothing sad in it. In the lovely summer twilight shall her burial be, and thus; in all her bridal array, with the glory of the crimson sunset shining through the trees;—see what a fearful glow is kindling on her cheek, and that faint breeze—or, is it life that stirs these curls? Stay!—whose young brow is this?—Ha!—whosesmile is this? Who is this they would hurry away into the darkness of death? The grave! Could you fold the rosy and all-speading beauty of heaven in the narrow grave? Helen, is it thee?—my heaven, my long-lost heaven; and, even now, but for mine own deed—Oh God! was there no hand but mine?—but for me—They —shall not utter it,—there, thus. There's butonecry that could unfold this grief, but that would circle the round universe and fill eternity. A sad sight this! Is't known who killed this lady, Sir?
Leslie. Of all the wrecks of beautiful humanity that strew these paths, we have found none so sad as this!
Elliston. Mark you those groups of soldiers loitering on the road-side there?
An Officer. Curiosity. The regiment that was dismissed to-day. They'll be here anon.
Leslie. Ay, let them come.
Off. Look,—who comes up that winding pathway through the trees, with such a swift and stately movement? A woman! See how the rude soldiers turn aside with awe. Ah, she comes hither.
(A voice without.)
Where is she?—stand aside!—What have you here in this dark ring?—Henry—nay, let me come.
(Mrs. Grey enters the glen.)
Grey. For God's sake, Madam, let me lead you hence. This is no place for you. Look at this group of men, officers, soldiers—
Mrs. G. Would you cheat methus? Is it no place forme? What kind of place is't then for her, whose—Oh God!—think you I do not see that slippered foot, nor know whose it is,—and whose plumed bonnet is it that lies crushed there at their feet?—unhand me, Henry.
Leslie. Nay, let her come,—'tis best.
(She passes swiftly through the parting group.)
Mrs. G. My daughter!—Blood? My stricken child smile you? No pity was there then? Speak to me, speak! Your mother's tears are on your brow, and heed you not? Nay, tell me all, my smitten one. This day's dark history will you never pour into my ear, that hath treasured so often your lightest grief? Alone through that wild anguish have you passed, and smile you now? I bade her trust in God. DidGodsee this?
(Arnold, and a group of Soldiers, enter the glen.)
Arnold. Look there. Ay, ay, look there. You were right, Leslie;—thisisbetter than a battle-field. They'll find that this day's work will cost them dear.
Mrs. G. DidGod, who loves as mothers love their babes, see this I Had I been there, with my love, in the heavens, couldIhave given up this innocent and tender child a prey to the wild Indians? No!—and legions of pitying angels waiting but my word. No,—no.
Elliston. Had you been there,—from that far centre whence God's eye sees all, you had beheld what lies in darkness here. Forth from this fearful hour you might have seen Peace, like a river, flowing o'er the years to come; and smiles, ten thousand, thousand smiles, down the long ages brightening, sown in this day's tears. Had you been there with God'sall-pitying eye, the pitying legions had waited your word in vain, for once, unto a sterner doom, for the world's sake he gave his Son.
Mrs. G. Words! Look there. That mother warned me yesterday. "Words, words! My own child's blood,"—Iseeit now.
(A group of Soldiers enter.)
A. Soldier. (Whispering.) Who would have thought to see tears onhisface; look you, Jack Richards.
Another Sol. 'Twas his sister, hush!—
Arnold. Ay, ay, come hither. Look you there! Lay down your arms. Seek the royal mercy;—here it is. Your wives, your sisters, and your innocent children;—let them seek the royal shelter;—it is a safe one. See.
3d Sol. It was just so in Jersey last winter;—made no difference which side you were.
Arnold. Ask no reasons.—'Twas in sport may be. 'Tis but one, in many such. Shameless tyranny we have borne long, and now, for resistance, to red butchery we are given over. The sport of lawless soldiers, and savages more cruel than the fiends in hell, are we, and the gentle beings of our homes;—but, 'tis the Royal power. Lay down your arms.
Soldiers. (Shouting.)No.
Arnold. Nay, nay,—in its caprice some will be safe,—it may not light on you. See, here's the proclamation. (Throwing it among them.) Pardon for rebles.
Soldiers. No—no. (Shouting.) Away with pardon!—(Tearing the proclamation.) To the death! Freedom for ever!