The bride of Fort Edward founded on an incident of the Revolution |
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| 1:4. | DIALOGUE IV. |
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 | The bride of Fort Edward |  |
DIALOGUE IV.
[Scene. A room in the Parsonage,—an old-fashioned
summer parlor.—On the side a door and windows
opening into an orchard, in front, a yard filled with
shade trees. The view beyond bounded by a hill
partly wooded. A young girl, in the picturesque
costume of the time, lies sleeping on the antique sofa.
Annie sits by a table, covered with coarse needle-work,
humming snatches of songs as she works.
(singing.)
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.
And flies weeping away.
The red cloud of war o'er our forest is scowling,
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.
Come blow the shrill bugle, the war dogs are howling,
Already they eagerly snuff out their prey—
The red cloud of war—the red cloud of war—
Yes, let me see now,—with a little plotting this might
make two—two, at least,—and then—
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.
The infants affrighted cling close to their mothers,
The youths grasp their swords, and for combat prepare;
While beauty weeps fathers, and lovers, and brothers,
Who are gone to defend—
—Alas! what a golden, delicious afternoon is blowing
without there, wasting for ever; and never a glimpse of
it. Delicate work this! Here's a needle might serve for
a genuine stiletto! No matter,—it is the cause,—it is
the cause that makes, as my mother says, each stitch in
this clumsy fabric a grander thing than the flashing of
the bravest lance that brave knight ever won.
(Singing)
Tul la lul, tul la lul,
Under the boughs where th' arches meet;
Come to the dell, come to the dell,
Oh come, come.
The birds are singing in the dell,
Wee wee whoo, wee wee whoo;
The birds are singing wild and free,
In every bough of the forest tree,
Come to the dell, come to the dell,
Oh come, come.
And there the idle breezes lie,
Whispering, whispering,
Whispering with the laughing leaves.
And nothing says each idle breeze,
But come, come, come, O lady come,
Come to th' dell.
[Mrs. Grey enters from without.]
Mrs. G.
Do not sing, Annie.
Annie.
Crying would better befit the times, I know,—
Dear mother, what is this?
Mrs. G.
Hush,—asleep—is she?
Annie.
This hour, and quiet as an infant. Need
enough there was of it too. See, what a perfect damask
mother!
Mrs. G.
Draw the curtain on that sunshine there.
This sleep has flushed her. Ay, a painter might have
dropped that golden hair,—yet this delicate beauty is but
the martyr's wreath now, with its fine nerve and
my love,—you cannot go to the lodge to-night.
Annie.
Mother?
Mrs. G.
You cannot go to the glen to-night. This is
no time for idle pleasure, God knows.
Annie.
Why, you have been weeping in earnest, and
your cheek is pale.—And now I know where that sad
appointment led you. Is it over? That it should be in
our humanity to bear, what in our ease we cannot, cannot
think of!
Mrs. G.
Harder things for humanity are there than
bodily anguish, sharp though it be. It was not the boy,—
the mother's anguish, I wept for, Annie.
Annie.
Poor Endross! And he will go, to his dying
day, a crippled thing. But yesterday I saw him springing
by so proudly! And the mother—
Mrs. G.
“Words, words,” she answered sternly
when I tried to comfort her; “ay, words are easy.
Wait till you see your own child's blood. Wait till you
stand by and see his young limbs hewn away, and the
groans come thicker and thicker that you cannot soothe;
and then let them prate to you of the good cause.”
Bitter words! God knows what is in store for us;—all
day this strange dread has clung to me.
Annie.
Dear mother, is not this the superstition you
were wont to chide?
Mrs. G.
Ay, ay, we should have been in Albany ere
this. In these wild times, Annie, every chance-blown
straw that points at evil, is likely to prove a faithful index;
and if it serve to nerve the heart for it, we may call
it heaven-sent indeed. Annie,—hear me calmly, my
child,—the enemy, so at least goes the rumor, are nearer
than we counted on this morning, and—hush, not a word.
Annie.
She is but dreaming. Just so she murmured
in her sleep last night; twice she waked me with the
saddest cry, and after that she sat all night by the window
in her dressing-gown, I could not persuade her to
sleep again. Tell me, mother, you say and—and what?
Mrs. G.
I cannot think it true, 'tis rumored though,
that these savage neighbors of ours have joined the
enemy.
Annie.
No! no! Has Alaska turned against us?
Why, it was but yesterday I saw him with Leslie in
yonder field. 'Tis false; it must be. Surely he could
not harm us.
Mrs. G.
And false, I trust it is. At least till it is
proved otherwise, Helen must not hear of it.
Annie.
And why?
Mrs. Grey.
She needs no caution, and it were useless
to add to the idle fear with which she regards them all,
already. Some dark fancy possesses her to-day; I have
marked it myself.
Annie.
It is just two years to-morrow, mother, since
have seen her bridal; and it cannot be that she has quite
forgotten Everard Maitland. Alas, he seemed so noble!
Mrs. G.
Hush! Never name him. Your sister is
too high-hearted to waste a thought on him. Tory!
Helen is no love-lorn damsel, child, to pine for an unworthy
love. See the rose on that round cheek,—it
might teach that same haughty loyalist, could he see her
now, what kind of hearts 'tis that we patriots wear,
whose strength they think to trample. Where are you
going, Annie?
Annie.
Not beyond the orchard-wall. I will only
stroll down the path here, just to breathe this lovely air
a little; indeed, there's no fear of my going further now.
[Exit.
Mrs. G.
Did I say right, Helen? It cannot be feigned.
Those quick smiles, with their thousand lovely
meanings; those eyes, whose beams lead straight to the
smiling soul. Principle is it? There is no principle in
this, but joy, or else it strikes so deep, that the joy grows
up from it, genuine, not feigned; and yet I have found
her weeping once or twice of late, in unexplained agony.
Helen!
Helen.
Oh mother! is it you? Thank God. I
thought—
Mrs. G.
What did you think? What moves you
thus?
Helen.
I thought—'tis nothing. This is very strange.
Mrs. G.
Why do you look through that window thus?
There's no one there! What is it that's so strange?
Helen.
Is it to-morrow that we go?
Mrs. G.
To Albany? Why, no; on Thursday. You
are bewildered, Helen! surely you could not have forgotten
that.
Helen.
I wish it was to-day. I do.
Mrs. G.
My child, yesterday, when the question was
debated here, and wishing might have been of some
avail, 'tis true you did not say much, but I thought, and
so we all did, that you chose to stay.
Helen.
Did you? Mother, does the road to Albany
wind over a hill like that?
Mrs. G.
Like what, Helen?
Helen.
Like yonder wooded hill, where the soldiers
are stationed now?
Mrs. G.
Not that I know of? Why?
Helen.
Perhaps we may cross that very hill,—no—
could we?
Mrs. G.
Not unless we should turn refugees, my
love; an event of which there is little danger just now, I
think. That road, as indeed you know yourself, leads
out directly to the British camp.
Helen.
Yes—yes—it does. I know it does. I will
not yield to it. 'Tis folly, all.
Mrs. G.
You talk as though you were dreaming still,
my child. Put on your hat, and go into the garden for
a little, the air is fresh and pleasant now; or take a ramble
through the orchard if you will, you might meet Annie
there,—no, yon she comes, and well too. It's quite
time that I were gone again. I wish that we had nothing
worse than dreams on hand. Helen, I must talk with
you about these fancies; you must not thus unnerve
yourself for real evil.
[Exit.
Helen.
It were impossible,—it could not be!—how
could it be?—Oh! these are wild times. Unseen powers
are crossing their meshes here around us,—and, what
am I?—Powers?—there's but one Power, and that—
—“He careth for the little bird,
Far in the lone wood's depths, and though dark weapons
And keen eyes are out, it falleth not
But at his will.
[Exit.
| The bride of Fort Edward | |