Lady Ackland. Married!—His wife?—Well, I think I'll not try to sleep again. There goes Orion with his starry girdle.—Married—is he?
Maid. Was not that Captain Maitland that was talking here just now, Lady Harriet?
Lady A. Go to bed, Margaret,—go to bed,—but look you though. To-morrow with the dawn that furnishing gear we left in the tent must be unpacked, and this empty room—whose wife, think you, is my guest tomorrow, Margaret?
Maid. Bless me! If I were to guess till daylight, my lady—
Lady A. This young Maitland, you think so handsome, Margaret—
Maid. I?—la, it was not I, my lady, I am sure.
Lady A.—He will bring us his wife home here tomorrow, a young and beautiful wife.
Maid. Wife?—
Lady A. Poor child,—we must give her a gentle welcome. Do you remember those flowers we saw in the glen as we passed?—I will send for them in the morning, and we will fill the vacant hearth with these blossoming boughs.—
Maid. But, here—in these woods, a wife!—where on earth will he bring her from, my lady?
Lady A. Ay, we shall see, to-morrow we shall see,—go dream the rest.
[Exit the maid.
Lady A. Who would have thought it?—so cold and proud he seemed, so scornful of our sex.—And yet I knew something there lay beneath it all.—Even in that wild, gay mood, when the light of mirth filled and o'er-flowed those splendid eyes,—deeper still, I saw always the calm sorrow-beam shining within.
That picture he showed me—how pretty it was!—The face haunts me with its look of beseeching loveliness.—Was there anything so sorrowful about it though?—Nay, the look was a smile, and yet a strange mourn-fulness clings to my thought of it now. Well, if the painter hath not dissembled in it—thepainter?—no. The spirit of those eyes was of no painter's making. From theEidosof the Heavenly Mind sprung that.
I shall see her to-morrow.—Nay, I must meet her in the outskirts of the camp,—so went my promise,—if Maitland be not here ere then.
[Exit.
How beautiful the night, through all these hoursOf nothingness, with ceaseless music wakesAmong the hills, trying the melodiesOf myriad chords on the lone, darkened air,With lavish power, self-gladdened, caring noughtThat there is none to hear. How beautiful!That men should live upon a world like this,Uncovered all, left open every nightTo the broad universe, with vision freeTo roam the long bright galleries of creation,Yet, to their strange destiny ne'er wake.Yon mighty hunter in his silver vest,That o'er those azure fields walks nightly now,In his bright girdle wears the self-same gemsThat on the watchers of old BabylonShone once, and to the soldier on her wallsMarked the swift hour, as they do now to me.Prose is the dream, and poetry the truth.That which we call reality, is butReality's worn surface, that one thoughtInto the bright and boundless all might pierce,There's not a fragment of this weary realThat hath not in its lines a story hidStranger than aught wild chivalry could tell.There's not a scene of this dim, daily life,But, in the splendor of one truthful thoughtAs from creation's palette freshly wet,Might make young romance's loveliest picture dim,And e'en the wonder-land of ancient song,—Old Fable's fairest dream, a nursery rhyme.How calm the night moves on, and yetIn the dark morrow, that behind those hillsLies sleeping now, who knows what waits?—'Tis well.He that made this life, I'll trust with another.To be,—there was the risk. We might have wakedAmid a wrathful scene, but this,—with allIts lovely ordinances of calm days,The golden morns, the rosy evenings,Its sweet sabbath hours and holy homes,—If the same hidden hand from whence these sprung,That dark gate opens, what need we fear there?—Here's wrath, but none that hath not its sure pathwayUpward leading,—there are tears, but 'tisA school-time weariness; and many a breezeAnd lovely warble from our native hills,Through the dim casement comes, over the wornAnd tear-wet page, unto the listening earOf our home sighing—to thelisteningear.Ah, what know we of life?—of that strange lifeThat this, in many a folded rudiment,With nature's low, unlying voice, doth point to.Is it not very like what the poor grubKnows of the butterfly's gay being?—With its colors strange, fragrance, and song,And robes of floating gold with gorgeous dyes,And loveliest motion o'er wide, blooming worlds.That dark dream had ne'er imaged!—Ay, sing on,Sing on, thou bright one, with the news of life,The everlasting, winging o'er our vale.Oh warble on, thy high, strange song.What sayest thou?—a land o'er these dark cliffs,A land all glory, where the day ne'er setteth—Where bright creatures, mid the deathless shades,Go singing, shouting evermore? And yet'Twere vain. That wild tale hath no meaning here,Thou warbler from afar. Like musicOf a foreign tongue, on our dull sense,The rich thought wastes.—We have been nursed in tears,Thro' all we've known of life, we have known grief,And is there none in life's deep essence mixed?Is sorrow but the young soul's garment then?—A baby mantle, doffed forever here,Within these lowly walls.And we were bornAmid a glad creation!—-then why hear we ne'erThe silver shout, filling the unmeasured heaven?—Why catch we e'er the rich plume's rustle soft,Or sweep of passing lyre! Our tearful homeHung 'mid a gay, rejoicing universe,And ne'er a glimpse adown its golden paths?—Oh are there eyes, soft eyes upon us,In the dark and in the day, shining unseen,And everlasting smiles, brightening unfeltOn all our tears: News sweet and strange ye bring.Hither we came from our Creator's hands,Bright earnest ones, looking for joy, and lo,A stranger met us at the gate of life,A stranger dark, and wrapped us in her robe,And bore us on through a dim vale.—Ah, notThe world we looked for,—for an image in.Our souls was born, of a high home, that yetWe have not seen. And were our childhood's yearnings,Its strange hopes, no dreams then,—dim revealingsOf a land that yet we travel to?—But thou, oh foster-mother, mournful nurse,So long upon thy sable vest we're leaned,Thou art grown dear to us, and when at lastAt yonder blue and burning gateThou yieldest up thy trust, and joy at lastIn her own wild embrace enfolds us once, e'enFrom the jewelled bosom of that dazzling one,From the young roses of that smiling face,Shall we not turn to thee, for one last glimpseOf that wan cheek, and solemn eye of love,And watch thy stately step, far downThis dim world's fading paths? Take us, kind sorrow!We will lean our young head meekly on thee;Good and holy is thy ministry,Oh handmaid of the Halls thou ne'er mayst tread.And let the darkness gather round that world,Not for the vision of thy glittering wallsWe ask, nor glimpse of brilliant troops that roamThine ancient streets, thou sunless city,—Wrap thy strange pavillions still in clouds,Let the shades slumber round thy many homes,By faith, and not by sight, through lowly pathsOf goodness, sorrow-led, to thee we come.
FULFILMENT.
FULFILMENT.
(Another soldier enters.)
2nd Sol. It's morning! Look in the east there. What are we waiting for?
1st Sol. Eh! The devil knows best, I reckon, Sir.
2nd Sol. Hillo, John! What's the matter there? Here's day-break upon us! What are we waiting for?
(Another soldier enters.)
3d Sol. To build a bridge—that is all.
2nd Sol. A bridge?
3d Sol. We shall be off by to-morrow night, no doubt of it,—if we don't chance to get cooked and eaten before that time,—some little risk of that.
2nd Sol. But what's the matter below there, I say? The bridge? what ails it?
3d Sol. Just as that last wagon was going over, down comes the bridge, Sirs, or a good piece of it at least.—What else could it do?—timbers half sawn away!
2nd Sol. Some of that young jackanape's work!Aid-de-camp!I'daidhim. He must be ordering and fidgetting, and fuming.—Could not wait till we were over.
1st Sol. All of a piece, boys!
3d Sol. Humph. I wish it had been,—the bridge, I mean.
1st Sol. But, I say, don't you see how every thing, little and great, goes one way, and that, against us? Chance has no currents like this! It's a bad side that Providence frowns on. I think when Heaven deserts a cause, it's time for us poor mortals to begin to think about it.
3d Sol. Now, if you are going to do so mean a thing as that, don't talk about Heaven—prythee don't.
[They pass on.
(Two other soldiers enter.)
4th Sol. (singing.)Yankee doodle is the tuneAmericans delight in,'Twill do to whistle, sing, or play,And just the thing for fighting.Yankee doodle, boys, huzza—(Breaking off abruptly.) I do not like the looks of it, Will.
5th Sol. Of what?
4th Sol. Of the morning that begins to glimmer in the east there.
5th Sol. No? Why, I was thinking just now I never saw a handsomer summer's dawning. That first faint light on the woods and meadows, there is nothing I like better. See, it has reached the river now.
4th Sol. But the mornings we saw two years ago looked on us with another sort of eye than this,—it is not the glimmer of the long, pleasant harvest day that we see there.
5th Sol. We have looked on mornings that promised better, I'll own. I would rather be letting down the bars in the old meadow just now, or hawing with my team down the brake; with the children by my side to pick the ripe blackberries for our morning meal, than standing here in these rags with a gun on my shoulder. Let well alone.—We could not though.
4th Sol. (Handing him a glass.) See, they are beginning to form again. It looks for all the world like a funeral train.
5th Sol. What was the Stamp Act to us, or all the acts beyond the sea that ever were acted, so long as they left us our golden fields, our Sabbath days, the quiet of the summer evening door, and the merry winter hearth.The Stamp Act?It would have been cheaper for us to have written our bills on gold-leaf, and for tea, to have drunk melted jewels, like the queen I read of once; cheaper and better, a thousand times, than the bloody cost we are paying now.
4th Sol. It was not the money, Will,—it was not the money, you know. The wrong it was. We could not be trampled on in that way,—it was not in us—we could not.
5th Sol. Ay, ay. A fine thing to get mad about was that when we sat in the door of a moonlight evening and the day's toils were done. It was easy talking then.Trampled on!I will tell you when I was nearest being trampled on, Andros,—when I lay on the ground below there last winter,—on the frozen ground, with the blood running out of my side like a river, and a great high-heeled German walking over my shoulder as if I had been a hickory log. I can tell you, Sir, that other was a moon-shiny sort of a trampling to that. I shall bear to be trampled on in figures the better for it, as long as I live. Between ourselves now—
4th Sol. There's no one here.
5th Sol. There are voices around that corner, though. Come this way.
[They pass on.
(Another group of Soldiers.)
1st Sol. Then if nothing else happens, we are off now. Hillo, Martin! Here we go again—skulking away. Hey? What do you say now? Hey, Mr. Martin, what do you say now?
2nd Sol. (Advancing.) What I said before.
1st Sol. But where is all this to end, Sir? Tell us that—tell us that.
3d Sol. Yes, yes,—tell us that. If you don't see Burgoyne safe in Albany by Friday night, never trust me, Sirs.
1st Sol. A bad business we've made of it.
4th Sol. Suppose he gets to Albany;—do you think that would finish the war?
3d Sol. Well, indeed, I thought that was settled on all hands, Sir. I believe the General himself makes no secret of that.
4th Sol. And what becomes of us all then? We shall go back to the old times again, I suppose;—weren't so very bad though, Sam, were they?
1st Sol. We have seen worse, I'll own.
3d Sol. And what becomes of our young nation here, with its congress and its army, and all these presidents, and generals, and colonels, and aide-de-camps?—wont it look like a great baby-house when the hubbub is over, and the colonies settle quietly down again?
2nd Sol. Faith, you take it very coolly. Before that can happen, do you know what must happen to you?
1st Sol. Nothing worse than this, I reckon.
2nd Sol. (makes a gesture to denote hanging.)
4th Sol. What would they hang us though? Do you think they would really hang us, John?
2nd Sol. Wait and see.
1st Sol. Nonsense! nonsense! A few of the ringleaders, Schuyler, and Hancock, and Washington, and a few such, they will hang of course,—but for the rest,—we shall have to take the oath anew, and swallow a few duties with our sugar and tea, and—
2nd Sol. You talk as if the matter were all settled already.
1st Sol. There is no more doubt of it, than that you and I stand here this moment. Why, they are flocking to Skeensborough from all quarters now, and this poor fragment,—this miserable skeleton of an army, which is the only earthly obstacle between Burgoyne and Albany, why, even this is crumbling to pieces as fast as one can reckon. Two hundred less than we were yesterday at this hour, and to-morrow—how many are off to-morrow? Ay, and what are we doing the while? Bowing and retreating, cap in hand, from post to post, from Crown Point to Ticonderoga, from Ticonderoga to Fort Edward, from Fort Edward onward; just showing them down, as it were, into the heart of the land. Let them get to Albany—Ah, let them once get to Albany, they'll need no more of our help then, they'll take care of themselves then and us too.
2nd Sol. They'll never get to Albany.
1st Sol. Hey?
2nd Sol. They'll never get to Albany.
1st Sol. What's to hinder them?
2nd Sol. We,—yes we,—and such as we, craven-hearted as we are. They'll never get to Albany until we take them there captives.
3d Sol. Then they'll wait till next week, I reckon.
1st Sol. Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! How many prisoners shall we have a-piece, John? How many regiments, I mean? They'll open the windows when we get there, won't they? I hope the sun will shine that day. How grandly we shall march down the old hill there, with our train behind us. I shall have to borrow a coat of one of them though, they might be ashamed of their captor else.
3d Sol. When is this great battle to be, John? This don't look much like it.
4th Sol. I think myself, if the General would only give us a chance to fight—
2nd Sol. A chance to throw your life away,—he will never give you. A chance to fight, you will have ere long,—doubt it not. Our General might clear his blackened fame, by opposing this force to that,—this day he might;—he will not do it. The time has not yet come. But he will spare no pains to strengthen the army, and prepare it for victory, and the glory he will leave to his rival. Recruits will be pouring in ere long. General Burgoyne's proclamation has weakened us,—General Schuyler will issue one himself to-day.
1st Sol. Will he? will he? What will he proclaim?—As to the recruits he gets, I'll eat them all, skin and bone. What will he proclaim? You see what Burgoyne offers us. On the one hand, money and clothing, and protection for ourselves and our families; and on the other, the cord, and the tomahawk, and the scalping-knife. Now, what will General Schuyler set down over against these two columns?—What will he offer us?—To lend us a gun, maybe,—leave to follow him from one post to another, barefooted and starving, and for our pains to be cursed and reviled for cowards from one end of the land to the other. And what will he threaten? Ha, we were cowards indeed, if we feared what he could threaten. What thing in human nature will he speak to?—say.
2nd Sol. I will tell you. To that spirit in human nature which resists the wrong, the fiendish wrong threatened there. Ay, in the basest nature that power sleeps, and out of the bosom of Omnipotence there is nothing stronger. It has wakened here once, and this war is its fruit. It slumbers now. Let Burgoyne look to it that he rouse it not himself for us. Let him look to it. For every outrage of those fiendish legions, thank God.—It lays a finger on the spring of our only strength.Whatwill he offer us? I will tell you.—A chance to live, or to die,—men,—ay, to leave a sample of manhood on the earth, that shall wring tears from the selfish of unborn ages, as they feel for once the depths of the slumbering and godlike nature within them. And Burgoyne,—oh! a coat and a pair of shoes, he offers, and—how many pounds?—Are you men?
4th Sol. What do you say, Sam?—Talks like a minister, don't he?
1st Sol. Come, come,—there's the drum, boys. You don't bamboozle me again! I've heard all that before.
3d Sol. Nor me.—I don't intend to have my wife and children tomahawked,—don't think I can stand that, refugee or not.
2nd Sol. Here they come.
(Other Soldiers enter.)
5th Sol. All's ready, all's ready.
6th Sol. (singing.)"Come blow the shrill bugle, the war dogs are howling,"—
[Exeunt.
(George Grey enters.)
George. Those trunks in the forward team. Make haste. We've no time to lose. This box in the wagon where the children are.—Carefully—carefully, though.
(A Soldier enters.)
Sol. Hurra, hurra, the house there! Are you ready? Ten minutes more.
George. Get out. What do you stand yelling there for? We know all about it.
Sol. But your brother, the Captain, says, I must hurry you, or you'll be left behind.
George. Tell my brother, the Captain, I'll see to that. We want no more hurrying. We have had enough of that already, and much good it has done us too. Stop, stop,—not that. We must leave those for the Indians to take their tea in.
Workman. But the lady said—
George. Never mind the lady. Well, Annie, are you ready? Don't stand there crying; there's no use. We may come back here again yet, you know. Many a pleasant sunrise we may see from these windows yet. Heaven defend us, here is this aunt of ours.—What on earth are they bringing now?
(A Lady in the door with a couple of portraits, followed by others bringing baskets and boxes, etc.)
Lady. That will do, set them down; now, the Colonel and his lady, on the back room wall, just over against the beaufet. Stop a moment. I'll go with you myself.
Betty. (In, the door.) Lord 'a mercy! Here it is broad day-light. What are we waiting for? I am all ready. Why don't we go?
George. I tell you, Aunt Rachael, the thing is impossible. This trumpery can't go, and there's the end of it. St. George and the Dragon—
Miss Rachael. Never mind this young malapert—do as I bid you.
Betty. Lord 'a mercy, we shall all be murdered and scalped, every soul of us. Bless you—there it is in the garret now!—just hold this umberell a minute, Mr. George,—think of those murderous Indians wearing my straw bonnet. Lord bless you! What are you doing? a heaving my umberell over the fence, in that fashion!
George. These women will drive me mad I believe. Let that box alone, you rascal. Lay a finger on that trumpery there I say, and you'll find whose orders you are under; as for the Colonel and his lady, they'll get a little drink out of the first puddle we come to, I reckon.
[Goes out.
Miss R. (Coming from the house.) That will do. That is all,—in the green wagon, John—
Ser't. But the children—
Miss R. Don't stand there, prating to me at a time like this. Make haste, make haste!
How perfectly calm I am! I would never have believed it;—just tie this string for me, child, my hands twitch so strangely,—they say the British are just down in the lane here, with five thousand Indians, Annie.
Annie. It is no such thing. Aunt Rachael. The British are quietly encamped on the other side of the river; three miles off at least.
Miss R. I thought as much. A pretty hour for us to be turned out of house and home to be sure. Not a wink have I slept this blessed night. Hark! What o'clock is that? George, George! where is that boy? Just run and tell your mother, Annie, just tell her, my dear, will you, that we shall all be murdered. Maybe she will make haste a little. Well, are they in?
Ser't. The pictures? They are in,—yes'm. But Miss Kitty's a crying, and says as how she won't go, and there's the other one too; because, Ma'am, their toes—you see there's the trunk in front gives 'em a leetle slope inward, and then that chest under the seat—If you would just step down and see yourself, Ma'am.
Miss R. I desire to be patient.
[They go out.
(Annie sits on the bench of the little Porch, weeping. Mrs. Gray enters from within.)
Annie. Shall I never walk down that shady path again? Shall I enter those dear rooms no more? There are voices there they cannot hear. From the life of buried years, ten thousand scenes, all vacancy toother eyes, enrich those walls for us; the furniture that money cannot buy, that only the joy and grief of years can purchase. They will spoil our pleasant home,—will they not, mother?
Mrs. G. Pleasant, ay, pleasant indeed, has it been to us. God's will be done. Do not weep, Annie. We have counted the cost;—many a safe and happy home there will be in the days to come, whose light shall spring from this forgotten sorrow. God's will be done.
Annie. Mother, they are all ready now; is Helen in her room still?
Mrs. G. Go call her, Annie. Hours ago it was I sent her there. I thought she might get some little sleep ere the summons came. Call her, my child. How deadly pale she was!
[Annie goes in.
(Annie enters.)
Annie. Helen! Why, Helen, are you asleep there? Come, we are going now. After keeping us on tiptoe for hours, the summons has come at last. Indeed, there is hardly time for you to dress. Shall I help you?
Helen. (Rising slowly.) God help me. Bid my mother come here, Annie.
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.—Realdanger 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 wasyours.
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 muststayhere, 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 cannottake 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,Toryas 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.