FULFILLMENT
FULFILLMENT
How gloriously, with what a lonely majesty the morning wastes in that silent valley there; with its moving shadows, and breeze and sunshine, and its thousand delicious sounds mocking those desolate homes—
(He stops suddenly, and looks earnestly into the thicket.)
This is strange, indeed. This feeling that I cannot analyze, still grows upon me.Presentiment?Some dark, swift-flying thought, leaves its trace, and the cause-seeking mind, in the range of its own vision finding none, looks to the shadowy future for it.
[He passes on.
(Two Indian Chiefs, in their war-dress, emerge from the thicket, talking in suppressed tones.)
1st Chief. Hoogh! Hoogh! Alaska fights to revenge his son,—we spill our blood to revenge his son, and he thinks to win gifts besides. Hugh! A brave chief he is!
2nd Chief. Your talk is not good, Manida. They are our enemies,—we shall conquer them, we shall see their chestnut locks waving aloft, we shall dance and shout all night around them, and the eyes of the maidens shall meet ours in the merry ring, sparkling with joy, as we shout "Victory! victory! our enemies are slain,—our foot is on their necks, we have slain our enemies!" What more, Manida? Is it not enough?
1st Chief. No. I went last night with Alaska to the camp above, to the tent of the young sachem of the lake, and he promised him presents, rich and many, for an errand that a boy might do. I asked Alaska to send me for him, and he would not.
2nd Chief. The young white sachem was Alaska's friend, many moons ago, when Alaska was wounded and sick.—He must revenge young Siganaw, but he must keep his faith to his white friend, too.
1st Chief. Ah, but I know where the horse is hidden and the paper. When the tomahawks flash here, and the war-cry is loudest, we will steal away. Come, and I will share the prize with you.
2nd Chief. No, I will tell my brother chief that Manida is a treacherous friend.
1st Chief. You cannot. It is too late. Hist! Quick, lower—lower—
[They crouch among the trees.
(Another Soldier emerges from the wood-path, singing.)
"Then march to the roll of the drum,It summons the brave to the plain,Where heroes contend for the homeWhich perchance they may ne'er see again."
(Pausing abruptly.) Well, we are finely manned here!
(1st Soldier re-enters.)
2nd Sol. How many men do you think we have in all, upon this hill, Edward?
1st Sol. Hist!—more than you count on, perhaps.
2nd Sol. Why? What is the matter? Why do you look among those bushes so earnestly?
1st Student. It is singular, indeed. I can hardly tell you what it is, but twice before in my round, precisely in this same spot, the same impression has flashed upon me, though the sense that gives it, if sense it is, will not bide an instant's questioning. There! Hist! Did nothing move there then?
2nd Sol. I see nothing. This comes of star-gazing, when you should have slept. Though as to that, I have nothing to complain of, certainly. I had to thank your taste that way, last night, for an hour of the most delicious slumber. It was like that we used to snatch of old, between the first stroke of the prayer-bell and its dying peal.
1st Sol. I am glad you could sleep. For myself, such a world of troubled thoughts haunted me, I found more repose in waking.
2nd Sol. Then I wish you could have shared my dream with me, as indeed you seemed to, for you were with me through it all. A blessed dream it was, and yet—
1st Sol. Well, let me share it with you now.
2nd Sol. I cannot tell you how it was, that in honor and good conscience we had effected it, but somehow, methought our part in this sickening warfare was accomplished, and we were home again. Oh the joy of it! oh the joy of it! Even amid my dream, methought we questioned its reality, so unearthly in its perfectness, it seemed. We stood upon the college-green, and the sun was going down with a strange, darkling splendor; and from afar, ever and anon came the thunder roll of battle; but we had nought to do with it; our part was done; our time was out; we were to fight no more. And there we stood, watching the students' games; and there too was poorHale, merry and full of life as e'er he was, for never a thought of his cruel fate crossed my dream. Suddenly we saw two ladies, arm in arm, come swiftly down the shady street, most strangely beautiful and strangely clad, with long white robes, and garlands in their hair, and such a clear and silvery laugh, and something fearful in their loveliness withal; and one of them, as she came smiling toward us—do you remember that bright, fair-haired girl we met in yonder lane one noon? —Just such a smile as hers wore the lady in my dream. Then, into the old chapel we were crowding all; that long-deferred commencement had come on at last; we stood upon a stage, and a strange light filled all the house, and suddenly the ceiling swelled unto the skiey dome, and nations filled the galleries; and I woke, to find myself upon a soldier's couch, and the reveille beating.
1st Sol. Well, if it cheered you, 'twas a good dream most certainly, though, yet—the dream-books might not tell you so. Will you take this glass a moment?
2nd Sol. What is it?
1st Sol. That white house by the orchard, in the door —do you see nothing?
2nd Sol. Yes, a figure, certainly;—yes, now it moves. I had thought those houses were deserted,—it is time they were I think, for all the protection we can give them. How long shall we maintain this post, think you, with such a handful?
1st Sol. Till the preparations below are complete, I trust so at least, for we have watchers in these woods, no doubt, who would speedily report our absence.
2nd Sol. Well, if we all see yonder sun go down, 'tis more than I count on.
1st Sol. A chance if we do—a chance if we do. Will the hour come when this infant nation shall forget her bloody baptism?—the holy name of truth and freedom, that with our hearts' blood we seal upon her in these days of fear?
2nd Sol. Ay, that hour may come.
1st Sol. Then, with tears, andbloodif need be, shall she learn it anew; and not in vain shall the bones of the martyrs moulder in her peopled vales. For human nature, in her loftiest mood, was this beautiful land of old built, and for ages hid. Here—her cradle-dreams behind her flung; here, on the height of ages past, her solemn eye down their long vistas turned, in a new and nobler life she shall arise here. Ah, who knows but that the book of History may show us at last on its long-marred page—Manhimself,—no longer the partial and deformed developments of his nature, which each successive age hath left as if in mockery of its ideal,—but, man himself, the creature of thought,—the high, calm, majestic being, that of old stood unshrinking beneath his Maker's gaze. Even, as first he woke amid the gardens of the East, in this far western clime at last he shall smile again,—a perfect thing.
2nd Sol. In your earnestness, you do not mark these strange sounds, Edward. Listen. (He grasps his sword.)
(A Soldier rushes down the path.)
3d Sol. We are surrounded! Fly. The Indians are upon us. Fly.
[Rushes on.
(Another Soldier bursts from the woods.)
4th Sol. God! They are butchering them above there, do not stand here!
[Rushes down the hill.
2nd Sol. Resistance is vain. Hear those shrieks! There is death in them. Resistance is vain.
1st Sol. Flight is vain. Look yonder! Francis,— the dark hour hath come!
2nd Sol. Is it so? Mother and sister I shall see no more.
(A number of Indians, disfigured with paint and blood, and brandishing their knives, come rushing down the road, uttering short, fierce yells. Others from below, bringing back the fugitives.)
1st Sol. We shall die together. God of Truth and Freedom, unto thee our youthful spirits trust we.
(The Indians surround them. Fighting to the last, they fall.)
Helen. It is my bridal day. I had forgotten that. (Looking from the window.) Is this real? Am I here alone? My mother gone? The army gone? brothers and sisters gone, and those woods full of armed Indians? I am awake. This is not the light of dreams,—'tis the sun that's shining there. Not the fresh arid tender morning sun, that looked in on that parting. Hours he has climbed since then, to turn those shadows thus,—hours that to me were nothing.—Alone?—deserted—defenceless? Of my own will too? There was alawin that will, though, was there not? (Turning suddenly from the window.) Shall I see him again? The living real of my thousand dreams, in the light of life, will he stand here to-day?—to-day? No, no. Is this swift flow of being leading on tothat? Oh day of anguish, if in thine awful bosom, still, that dazzling instant sleeps, I can forgive the rest.
(She stands by the toilette, and begins to gather once more the long hair from her shoulders. Suddenly a low voice at the door breaks the stillness. The Canadian servant looks in.)
Jan. I ask your pardon—Shall I come in, Ma'amselle?
Helen. Ay, ay, come in. How strangely any voice sounds amid this loneliness. I am glad you are here.
Jan. (Entering.) Beautiful! Santa Maria! How beautiful! May I look at these things, Ma'amselle? (Stopping by the couch strewn with bridal gear.) Real Brussels! And the plume in this bonnet, was there ever such a lovely droop?
Helen. Come, fasten this clasp for me, Netty. I thought to have had another bridesmaid once, but—that is past— Yes, I am a bride to-day, and I must not wait here unadorned. (Aside.) He shall have no hint from me this day of "altered fortunes." As though these weary years had been but last night's dream, and my wedding-day had come as it was fixed, so will I meet him.—Yet I thought to have worn my shroud sooner than this robe.
Jan. This silk would stand alone, Ma'amselle,—and what a lovely white it is! Just such a bodice as this I saw my Lady Mary wear, two years ago this summer, in Quebec; only, this is a thought deeper. But, Santa Maria! how it becomes a shape like yours!
Helen. What a world of buried feeling lives again as I feel the clasp of this robe once more! Will he say these years have changed me?
Jan. (Aside) I do not like that altered mien. How the beauty flashes from her? Is it silk and lace that can change one so? Here are bracelets too, Ma'amselle; will you wear them?
Helen. Yes. Go, look from the window, Janette, down the lane to the woods. I am well-high ready now. He will come,—yes, he will come.
(Janette retreats to the window,—her eye still following the lady.)
Jan. I have seen brides before, but never so gay a one as this. It is strange and fearful to see her stand here alone, in this lonesome house, all in glistening white, smiling, and the light flashing from her eyes thus. She looks too much like some radiant creature from another world, to be long for this.
Helen. He will come, why should he not? Netty, fix your eye on that opening in the woods, and if you see but a shadow crossing it, tell me quickly.
Jan. I can see nothing—nothing at all. Marie sanctissima!—how quiet it is! The shadows are straight here now, Miss Helen.
Helen. Noon—the very hour has come! Another minute it may be.—Noon, you said, Netty?
(Joining Janette at the window.)
Jan. Yes, quite—you can see; and hark, there's the clock. Oh, isn't it lonesome though? See how like the Sunday those houses look, with the doors all closed and the yards and gardens still as midnight. If we could but hear a human voice!—whose, I would not care.
Helen. How like any other noon-day it comes! The faint breeze plays in those graceful boughs as it did yesterday; that little, yellow butterfly glides on its noiseless way above the grass, as then it did;—just so, the shadows sleep on the grassy road-side there;—yes, Netty, yes,'tisvery lonely.—Hear those merry birds!
Jan. But I would rather hear that signal, Miss Helen, a thousand times, than the best music that ever was played.
Helen. I shall see him again. That wild hope is wild no longer. To doubt were wilder now. Ay, Fate must cross my way with a bold hand, to snatch that good from me now. And yet,—alas, in the shadowy future it lieth still, and a dark and treacherous realm is that! The joys that blossom on its threshold are not ours—It may be, even now, darkness and silence everlasting lie between us.
Jan. Hark—Hark!
Helen. What is it?
Jan. Hark!—There!—Do you hear nothing?
Helen. Distant voices?
Jan. Yes—
Helen. I do—
Jan. Once before,—'twas when I stood in the door below, I heard something like this; but the breeze just then brought the sound of the fall nearer, and drowned it. There it is!—Nearer. The other window, Miss Helen.
Helen. From that hill it comes, does it not?
Jan. Yes—yes, I should think it did. Oh yes. There is a guard left there—I had forgotten that. Mon Dieu! How white your lips are! Are you afraid, Ma'amselle?
(Helen stands gazing silently from the window.)
Jan. There is no danger. It must have been those soldiers that we heard,—or the cry of some wild animal roaming through yonder woods—it might have been,—how many strange sounds we hear from them. At another time we should never have thought of it. I think we should have heard that signal though, ere this,—I do, indeed.
Helen. What is it to die? Nor wood nor meadow, nor winding stream, nor the blue sky, dotheysee; nor the voice of bird or insect do they hear; nor breeze, nor sunshine, nor fragrance visits them. Will there be nothing left that makes this being then? The high, Godlike purpose—the life whose breath it is,—canthatdie?—the meek trust in Goodness Infinite,—canthatperish? No.—This is that building of the soul which nothing can dissolve, that house eternal, that eternity's wide tempests cannot move. No—no—I am not afraid. No—Netty, I am not afraid.
Jan. Will you come here, Miss Helen?
Helen. Well.
Jan. Look among those trees by the road-side—those pine trees, on the side of the hill, where my finger points.—
Helen. Well—what is it?
Jan. Do you see—what a blinding sunshine this is—do you see something moving there?—wait a moment—they are hid among the trees now—you will see them again presently—There!—there they come, a troop of them, see.
Helen. Yes—Indians—are they not?
Jan. Ay—it must have been their yelling that we heard.—We need not be alarmed.—They are from the camp—they have come to that spring for water. The wonder is, your soldiers should have let them pass.—You will see them turning back directly now.
Helen. (Turning from the window.) Shelter us—all power is thine.
Jan. Holy Virgin!—they are coming this way. Those creatures are coming down that hill, as I live. Yes, there they come.
This strip of wood hides them now. What keeps them there so long? Ay, ay,—I see now—I am sorry I should have alarmed you so, Ma'amselle, for nothing too—They have struck into those woods again, no doubt; they are going back to their camp by the lower route.
Helen. No.
Jan. It must be so. There is no doubt of it. Indeed, we might be sure they would never dare come here.—They cannot know yet that your army are gone. Besides, we should have heard from them ere this. They could never have kept their horrid tongues to themselves so long, I know.—Well, if it were to save me, I cannot screw myself into this shape any longer. (Rising from the window.)
Helen. Listen.
Jan. 'Tis nothing but the sound of the river. You can make nothing else of it, Ma'amselle,—unless it is these locusts that you hear. I wish they would cease their everlasting din a moment.
How that breeze has died away! Every leaf is still now! There's not a cloud or a speck in all the sky.
Helen. Look in the west—have you looked there?
Jan. Yes, there are a few little clouds beginning to gather there indeed. We shall have a shower yet ere night.
(The war-whoop is heard, loud and near.)
Jan. Mon Dieu! Here they are! It is all over with us! We shall be murdered!
(She clasps her hands, and shrieks wildly.)
Helen. Hush! hush! Put down that window, and come away. We must be calm now.
Jan. It is all over with us,—what use is there? Do you hear that trampling?—in the street!—they are coming!
Helen. Janette—Hear me. Will you throw away your life and mine? For shame! Be calm. These Indians cannot know that we are here. They will see these housesalldeserted. Why should they stop to searchthis?Hush! hush! they are passing now.
Jan. They have stopped!—the trampling has stopped!—I hear the gate,—they have come into the yard.
(A long wild yell is heard under the window. They stand, looking silently at each other. Again it trembles through the room, louder than before.)
Helen. I am sorry you stayed here with me. Perhaps—Hark! What was that? What was that? Was it notMaitlandthey said then? It was—it is—Don't grasp me so.
Jan. Nay—what would you do?
Helen. I must speak with them. Let go my arm! Do you not hear? 'Tis Maitland they are talking of. How strangely that blessed name sounds in those tones!
Jan. You must not—we have tempted Heaven already—this is madness.
Helen. Let go, Janette. It is not you they seek. You can conceal yourself. You shall be safe.
Jan. She is wild! Nay, I was mad myself, or I should never have stayed here. It were better to have lived always with them, than to be murdered thus.
(Helen opens the window, and stands for a moment, looking silently down into the court. She turns away, shuddering.)
Helen. Can I meet those eyes again?
(Again the name of Maitland mingles with the wild and unintelligible sounds that rise from without.)
Helen. Can I? (She turns to the window.) What can it mean? His own beautiful steed! How fiercely he prances beneath that unskilful rein. Where's your master, Selma, that he leaves me to be murdered here? A letter! He bids me unfasten the door, Janette.
Jan. And will you?
Helen. They are treacherous I know. This will do.—(Taking a basket from the toilette.) Give me that cord. (She lets down the basket from the window, and draws it up, with a letter in it.)
Helen. (Looking at the superscription.) 'Tis his! I thought so. Is it ink and paper that I want now? (Breaking it open.) Ah, there's no forgery in this, 'Tis his! 'tis his!
Jan. How can she stand to look at that little lock of hair now?—smiling as if she had found a bag of diamonds. But there's bad news there. How the color fades out, and the light in her eye dies away. What can it be?
Helen. (Throwing the letter down, and walking the floor hastily.) This is too much! I cannot, I cannot,I cannot go with them! How could he ask it of me?This iscruel.
He knew, perfectly well, how I have always feared them—I cannot go with them.
(She takes up the letter.)
(Reading.) "Possible"—"If it were possible"—he does not read that word as I did when I kept this promise—Possible? He does not know the meaning that love gives that word—"If I had known an hour sooner," —Ay, ay, an hour sooner!—"Trust me, dear Helen, they will not harm you."Trust me, trust me. Won't I?
Jan. She is beckoning them, as I live!
Helen. Bring me that hat and mantle, Netty. I must go with these savages.
Jan.Gowith them!
Helen. There is no help for it.
Jan. With these wild creatures,—with these painted devils?—No—Like nothing human they look, I am sure. Ah see, see them in their feathers and blankets, and that long wild hair. See the knives and the tomahawks in their girdles! Holy Mary! Here's one within the court!
Helen. Yes, there he stands—there's life in it now.—There they stand—the chesnut boughs wave over them—this is the filling up of life. Theyarewaiting for me. 'Tis no dream.
Jan. Dare you go with them? They will murder you.
Helen. If they were but human, I could move them—and yet it is the human in them that is so dreadful. To die were sad enough—to die by violence, by the power of the innocent elements, were dreadful, or to be torn of beasts; to meet the wild, fierce eye, with its fixed and deadly purpose, more dreadful; but ah, to see the human soul, from the murderers eye glaring on you, to encounter the human will in its wickedness, amid that wild struggle—Oh God! spare me.
Jan. If you fear them so, surely you will not go with them.
Helen. This letter says they are kind and innocent. One Ishouldbelieve tells me there is no cause for fear. In his haste he could not find no other way to send for me.—The army will be here soon,—Imustgo with them.
Jan. But Captain Grey will come back here again this afternoon. Stay,—stay, and we will go with him.
Helen. You can—yes, you will be safe. For myself, I will abide my choice. Surely I need not dread to go where my betrothed husband trusts me so fearlessly. I count my life worth little more than the price at which he values it. Clasp this mantle, Netty.—And is it thus I go forth from these blessed walls at last?—Through all those safe and quiet hours of peace and trust, did this dark end to them lie waiting here?—Are they calling me?
Jan. Yes.
Helen. Well,—I am ready. (Lingering in the door.) I shall sit by that window no more. Never again shall I turn those blinds to catch the breeze or the sunshine. Yes—(returning), let me look down on that orchard once again. Never more—never more.
(She walks to the door, again pausing on the threshold.)
Helen. (solemnly.) Oh God, here, from childhood to this hour, morning and evening I have called on thee—forget me not. Farewell, Netty, you will see my mother—you will see them all—that is past.—Tell her I had seen the Indians, and was not afraid.
[She goes out.
Jan. It won't take much to make an angel of her, there's that in it.
(Looking cautiously through the shutters.)
There she comes! How every eye in that wild group flashes on her! And yet with what a calm and stately bearing she meets them. Holy Mary! she suffers that savage creature to lift her to her horse, as though he were her brother, and the long knife by his side too, glancing in the sunshine! The horse, one would think, he knew the touch of that white hand on his neck. How gently he rears his beautiful head. There they go. Adieu! Was there ever so sad a smile?
Another glimpse I shall have of them yet beyond those trees.—Yes, there they go—there they go. I can see that lovely plume waving among the trees still.—Was there ever so wild a bridal train?
The Officer. (Sipping his wine, and carefully examining a plan of the adjacent country.) About here, we must be—let me see.—I heard the drum from their fort this morning, distinctly. Turn that curtain; we might get a faint breeze there now.
Ser't. But the sun will be coming that side, Sir. It's past two o'clock.
Off. Past two—a good position—very. Well, well,—we'll take our breakfast in Albany on Friday morning, and if our soldiers fast a day or two ere then, why they'll relish it the better;—once in the rich country beyond—Ay, it will take more troops than this General will have at his bidding by that time, to drain the Hudson's borders for us.
(A Servant enters with a note.)
Off. (Reading.) "The Baroness Reidesel's compliments—do her the honor—-Voisin has succeeded."—Ay, ay,—Voisin has succeeded,—I'll warrant that. That caterer of hers must be in league with the powers of the air, I am certain. General Burgoyne will be but too happy, my Lady—(writing the answer.)
[The Servant goes out.
Off. Past two! The cannon should be in sight ere this. This to Sir George Ackland.
[Exit the Attendant.
Off. Tuesday—Wednesday.—If the batteaux should get here to-morrow. One hundred teams—
(Another Officer enters the tent.)
1st Off. How goes it abroad, Colonel St. Leger?
2nd Off. Indeed, Sir, the camp is as quiet as midnight. It's a breathless heat. But there are a few dark heads swelling in the west. We may have a shower yet ere night.
Bur. Good news that. But here is better, (giving the other an open letter.)
St. Leger. Ay, ay, that reads well, Sir.
Bur. And here is another as good. Yes Sir, yes Sir,—they are flocking in from all quarters—the insurgents are laying down their arms by hundreds. It must be a miserable fragment that Schuyler has with him by this.
St. L. General Burgoyne, is not it a singular circumstance, that the enemy should allow us to take possession of a point like that without opposition,—so trifling a detachment, too? Why, that hill commands the fort,—certainly it does.
Bur. Well—well. They are pretty much reduced, I fancy, Sir. We shall hardly hear much more from them. Let me see,—this is the hill.
St. L. A pity we could not provoke them into an engagement, though! They depend so entirely upon the popular feeling for supplies and troops, and the whole machinery of their warfare, that it is rather hazardous reckoning upon them, after all. If we could draw them into an engagementnow, the result would be certain.
Bur. Yes, yes; we must contrive to do that ere long. Rather troublesome travelling companions they make, that's certain. Like those insects that swarm about us here,—no great honor in fighting them, but a good deal of discomfort in letting them alone. We must sweep them out of our way, I think, or at all events give them a brush, that will quiet them a little.
St. L. Or they might prove, after all, like the gadfly in the fable. I do not think this outbreak will be any disadvantage in the end, General.
Bur. Not a whit—not a whit—they have needed this. It will do them good, Sir.
St. L. The fact is, these colonies were founded in the spirit of insubordination, and all the circumstances of their position have hitherto tended to develope only these disorganizing elements.
Bur. It will do them good, Sir. Depend upon it, they'll remember this lesson. Pretty well sickened of war are they all. They'll count the cost ere they try it again.
St. L. We can hardly expect the news from General Reidesel before sunset, I suppose.
Bur. If my messenger returns by to-morrow's sunrise, it is better fortune than I look for.
(Col. St. Leger goes out.)
(Burgoyne resumes his plan.)
A Ser't. (At the door.) Capt. Maitland, Sir.
Bur. Capt. Maitland!
Ser't. From Fort Ann, Sir.
(Maitland enters.)
Bur. Captain Maitland! Good heavens, I thought you were at Skeensborough by this,—what has happened? or am I to congratulate myself that the necessity of your embassy is obviated. You met them, perhaps?—
Maitland. There's but little cause of congratulation, Sir, as these dispatches will prove to you. I returned only because my embassy was accomplished.
Bur. Do you mean to say, Captain Maitland, that you have seen the waters of Lake Champlain, since you left here this morning?
Mait. I do, Sir.
Bur. On my word, these roads must have improved since we travelled them some two days agone. I am sorry for your horses, Sir. You saw General Reidesel?
Mait. I left him only at nine o'clock this morning.
(Burgoyne examines the dispatches.)
Bur. "Twelve oxen to one batteaux!"—"and but fifty teams!" This news was scarcely worth so much haste, I think,—but fifty teams?—Captain Maitland, had those draught horses from Canada not arrived yet?
Mait. They were just landing this morning as I left, but only one-fourth of the number contracted for.
Bur. Humph! I would like to know what time, at this rate—sit down, Captain Maitland, sit down—we are like to spend the summer here, for aught I see, after all. (A long pause, in which Burgoyne resumes his reading.)
Mait. General Burgoyne, I am entrusted with a message from General Reidsel to the Baroness. If this is all—
Bur. What were you saying?—The Baroness—ay, ay—that's all well enough,—but Captain Maitland is aware, no doubt, there are more important subjects on the tapis just now than a lady's behests.
Mait. Sir?—
Bur. (Pushing the papers impatiently from him.) This will never do. St. George! We'll give these rebels other work ere many days, than driving away cattle and breaking down bridges for our convenience. Meanwhile we must open some new source of supplies, or we may starve to death among these hills yet. Captain Maitland, I have a proposal to make to you. You are impatient, Sir.
Mait. General Burgoyne!—
Bur. Nay, nay,—there's no haste about it. It were cruel to detain you now, after the toil of this wild journey. You'll find your quarters changed, Captain Maitland. We sent a small detachment across the river just now. Some of our copper-colored allies had got into a fray with the enemy there.
Mait. Ha! (returning.)
Bur. Nothing of consequence, as it turns out. We hoped it would have ended in something. A few of the enemy, who were stationed as a guard on a hill not far from Fort Edward, were surprised by a party of Indians, and killed, to a man, I believe. Afterwards, the victors got into a deadly fray among themselves as usual. A quarrel between a couple of these chiefs, at some famous watering place of theirs, and in the midst of it, a party from the fort drove them from the ground;—this is Alaska's own story at least.
Mait.Alaska's!
Bur. Alaska?—Alaska?—yes, I think it was,—one of these new allies we have picked up here.
Mait. (In a whisper.) Good God!
Bur. By the time our detachment arrived there, however, the ground was cleared, and they took quiet possession. Are you ill, Captain Maitland?
Mait. A little,—it is nothing. I am to cross the river.
Bur, Yes. You will take these papers to Captain Andre. You have over-fatigued yourself. You should have taken more time for this wild journey.
(Maitland goes out.)
Bur. I do not like the idea of division, but it cannot be helped now. This gallant young soldier were a fitting leader for such an enterprize.
(Maitland and the Indian Chief, Manida, enter.)
Mait. This is well. (He writes on a slip of paper, and gives it to the Indian.) Take that, they will give you the reward you ask for it. Let me see your face no more, that is all.
Manida. Ha,Monsieur?
Mait. Let me see your face no more, I say. Do you understand me?
Manida. (Smiling.) Oui.
(Maitland turns from him. The Indian goes off in the opposite direction. He stops a moment, and steals a look at Maitland,—throws his head back with a long silent laugh, and then goes on toward the woods.)
Mait. (Musing.) I like this.Thisis womanly! Nay, perhaps there is no caprice about it. I may have misinterpreted that letter in my haste last night. Very likely. Well,—better this, than that Helen Grey should come to evil through fault of mine,—better this, than the anguish of the horrible misgivings that haunted me amid my journey.
And so pass these faery visions! Nay, not thus. It will take longer than this to unlink this one day's hope from its thousand fastnesses. I thought, ere this, to have met the spirit of those beaming eyes, to have taken to my heart for ever this soft, pure being of another life. And yet, even as I rode through those lonely hills this morning, with every picture my hope painted, there came a strange misgiving;—like some scene of laughing noonday loveliness, darkening in the shadow of a summer's cloud.
Strange that Alaska should abandon my trust! I cannot understand it. Why, I should never have trusted her with this rascal Indian. There was something in his eye, hateful beyond all thought,—and once or twice I caught a strange expression in it, like malignant triumph it seemed. It may be—no, he must have seen her—that glove he showed me was hers, I know. Good God!—what if—I think my old experience should have taught me there was little danger of her risking much in my behalf. Well—even this is better, than that Helen Grey should have come to evil through fault of mine.
RECONCILIATION.
RECONCILIATION.
(Two British Officers, coming slowly down the road.)
1st Off. Yes, here has been wild work upon this hill to-day. They were slaughtered to a man.
2nd Off. I saw a sight above there, just now, that sickened me of warfare.
1st Off. And what was that, pry'thee?
2nd Off. Oh nothing,—'twas nothing but a dead soldier; a common sight enough, indeed; but this was a mere youth;—he was lying in a little hollow on the roadside, and as I crossed in haste, I had well-nigh set my foot on his brow. Such a brow it was, so young, so noble, and the dark chesnut curls clustering about it. I think I never saw a more classic set of features, or a look of loftier courage than that which death seemed to have found and marbled in them. Hark—that's a water-fall we hear.
1st Off. I saw him, there was another though, lying not far thence, the sight of whom moved me more. He was younger yet, or seemed so, and of a softer mould; and, torn and bloody as they were, I fancied I could see in his garb and appointments, and in every line of his features, the traces of some mother's tenderness.
2nd Off. Listen, Andre! This is beautiful! There's some cascade not far hence, worth searching for.
Andre. Yes, just in among those trees you'll find a perfect drawing-room, carpeted, canopied, and dark as twilight; its verdant seats broidered with violets and forget-me-nots; and all untenanted it seems, nay, deserted rather, for the music wastes on the lonely air, as if the fairy that kept state there, in gossip mood had stolen down some neighboring aisle, and would be home anon. I would have bartered all the glory of this campaign for leave to stretch myself on its mossy bank, for a soft hour or so.
Mor. Ay, with Chaucer or the "Faery Queen." If one could people these lovely shades with the fresh creations of the olden time, knight and lady, and dark enchantress and Paynim fierce, instead of Yankee rebels—
Andre. 'Twere well your faery-work were of no lasting mould, or these same Yankee rebels would scarce thank you for your pains,—they hold that race in little reverence. Alas,—
No grot divine, or wood-nymph haunted glen,Or stream, or fount, shall these young shades e'er know.No beautiful divinity, stealing afarThrough darkling nooks, to poet's eye thence gleam;With mocking mystery the dim ways wind,They reach not to the blessed fairy-landThat once all lovely in heaven's stolen light,To yearning thoughts, in the deep green-wood grew.Ah! had they come to light when natureWas a wonder-loving, story-telling child!—The misty morn of ages had gone by,The dreamy childhood of the race was past,And in its tame and reasoning manhood,In the daylight broad, and noon-day of all time,Thisworld hath sprung. The poetry oftruth,None other, shall her shining lakes, and woods,And ocean-streams, and hoary mountains wear.Perchance that other day of poesy,Unsung of prophets, that upon the landsShall dawn yet, thence shall spring. The self-same mindThat on the night of ages once, for usThose deathless clusters flung, the self-same mind,With all its ancient elements of might,Among us now its ancient glory hides;But, from its smothered power, and buried wealth,A golden future sparkles, decked from deeper founts,A new and lovelier firmament,A thousand realms of song undreamed of now,That shall make Romance a forgotten world,And the young heaven of Antiquity,With all its starry groups, a gathered scroll.
Mor. Ay, Andre, you were born a poet, and have mistaken your art. Prythee excuse me, who am but a poor soldier, for marring so fine a rhapsody with any thing so sublunary; but, methinks, for an enemy's quarters, yonder fort shows as peaceable a front of stone and mortar as one could ask for. What can it mean that they are so quiet there?
Andre. That spy did not return a second time.
Mor. The rogues have made sure of him ere this, I fancy. They may have given us the slip,—who knows?
Andre. I would like to venture a stroll through that shady street if I thought so. A dim impression that I have somewhere seen this view before, haunts me unaccountably.
Mor. How I hate that sober, afternoon air, that hangs like an invisible presence over it all. You can see it in the sunshine on those white walls, you can hear it in the hum of the bee from the bending thistle here.
Andre. Of the mind it is. This were lovely as the morning light, but for the shade it gathers thence, from the thought of decline and the vanishing day. 'Tis a pretty spot.
Mor. Yes, but the quiet goings-on of life are all hushed there now.
Andre. Ay, this is the hour, when the home-bound children swing the gate with a merry spring, and the mother sits at her work by the open window, with her quiet eye, and the daughter, with the beauty of an untamed soul in her's, looks forth on the woods and meadows, and thinks of her walk at even-tide. I thought it was something like a memory that haunted me thus,—'tis the spot that Maitland talked of yesterday.
Mor. Captain Maitland? I saw him just now at the works above.
Andre. Here? On this hill?
Mor. Yes,—something struck me in his mien,—and there he stands with Colonel Hill, above, on the other side.—Mark him now. Your friend is handsome, Andre; he is handsome, I'll own,—but I never liked that smile of his, and I think I like it less than ever now.
Andre. Why, that's the genuine Apollo-curl,—a line's breadth deeper were too much, I'll own.
(Maitland and another Officer enter.)
Off. That is all,—that is all, I believe, Captain Maitland. Yonder pretty dwelling among the trees seems an old acquaintance of yours. It has had the ill manners to rob me of your eye ever since we stood here, and I have had little token that the other senses were not in its company. Andre, has your friend never a ladye-love in these wilds, you could tell us of?
Mor. He is sworn to secresy. Did you mark that glance?
Mait. Love! I hold it a pretty theme for the ballad-makers, Colonel Hill; but for myself, I have scarce time for rhyming just now. Captain Andre, here are papers for you.
[He walks away, descending the road.
Col. Hill. So! So! What ails the boy?
(Looking after him for a moment, and then ascending the hill.)
Andre. (Reading.) Humph! Here's prose enough! Will you walk up the hill with me, Mortimer? I must cross the river again.
Mait. First let me seek this horse of mine,—the rogue must have strayed down this path, I think.
(He enters the wood.)
(Andre walks to and fro with an impatient air, then pauses.)
Andre. Well, I can wait no longer for this loiterer.
[Exit.
(Mortimer re-enters, calling from the woods.)
Mor. Andre! Maitland! Colonel Hill! Good Heavens! Where the devil are they all? Maitland!
(Maitland appears, slowly ascending the road.)
Mor. For the love of Heaven,—come here.
Mail. Nay.—but what is it?
Mor. For God's sake, come,