 | The bride of Fort Edward |  |
DIALOGUE II.
Scene. Chamber in the Parsonage. Moonlight.
Annie sitting by the window, the door open into an
adjoining room.
Annie.
(Calling.)
Come, come,—why do you sit
there scribbling so late, Helen? Come, and enjoy this
beautiful night with me. Ay, what a world of invisible
life amid the dew and darkness utters its glad voices;
even the little insect we never saw by day, makes us feel
for once the great brotherhood of being. This day week
we shall be in Albany,—no more such scenes as this
then.
(Helen approaches the window, and puts her arm gently
around her sister.)
Helen.
No more!—It was a sad word you were saying,
Annie.
Annie.
How you startled me. Your hands are cold,
—cold as icicles, and trembling too. What ails you,
Helen?
Helen.
'Tis nothing.—How often you and I have
stood together thus, looking down on that old bridge.—
Summer and winter.—Do you remember the cold snowy
moonlights of old, when the sound of the distant bell
had hope in it? We shall stand together thus, no more.
Annie.
Do not speak so sadly, Helen. I cannot think
there not some one coming up the path just now?
Hark! there is news with that tone.
[Exit.
Helen.
A little more, an hour perchance, and he will
read my letter. Why do I tremble thus? Is it because
I have done wrong, that these dark misgivings haunt
me? No,—it is not remorse—'tis very like—yet remorse
it is not. Danger, there is none. I shall but walk to the
wood-side as to-day, that little path to the hut is quickly
trod, and he will be waiting there. I shall be safe then,
safe as I care to be.—Why do I stand here reasoning
thus? Safe? And if I were not, what is it to me now?
The dark plan is laid. The fearful acting now is all
that's left for me.
This must go to the lodge to-night, and ere my mother
returns;—to tell them now, would be to make my scheme
impossible.
(She begins, with a reluctant air, to fold the dresses,
which are lying loose'y by her.)
Oh God! whence do these dark and horrible thoughts
grow?—Nay, feeling not born of thought. That wedding
robe looks like a shroud to me! I cannot. Shadows
from things unseen are upon me. The future is a
night of tempest, where I hear nothing but the breaking
boughs, and the whirl and crash of the mourning blast.
Oh God! there is no refuge for the fearful, but in thee.—
To thee—no. If there is power in prayer of mine, hath
it not already doomed that wicked cause, my fate is linked
pure strength comes welling up from its infinite depths.
Hear me—not with lip service, I beseech thee now,
but with the earnestness that stays the rushing heart's
blood in its way.—Hear me. Let the high cause of
right and freedom, whose sad banner, now, on yonder
hill, floats in this summer air; whose music on this soft
night-breeze is borne—let it prevail—though I, with all
this sensitive, warm, shrinking life; with all this newfound
wealth of love and hope, lie on its iron way.
I am safe now.—This life that I feel now, steel cannot
reach.
(Annie enters.)
Annie.
Dear Helen, dress yourself. It is all true!
We must go to-night, we must indeed. They are dismantling
the fort now.—Come to the door, and you can
hear them if you will; and here is word from Henry, we
must be ready before morning—the British are within
sight. Do you hear me, Helen? Do not stand looking
at me in that strange way.
Helen.
To-night!
Annie.
I was frightened myself at first, sadly; but
there is no danger, not the least. We shall be in Albany
to-morrow, Henry says. Come, Helen, there is no one
to see to any thing but ourselves. They are running
about like mad creatures there below, and the children
are crying, and such a time you never saw.
Helen.
To-night! That those beautiful lips should
speak it! Take it back. It cannot be. It must not be.
Annie.
Why do you look so reproachfully at me?
Helen, you astonish and frighten me!
Helen.
Yes—yes—I see it all. And why could I not
have known this one hour sooner?—Even now it may
not be too late. Annie—
Annie.
Thank Heaven,—there is my mother's voice
at last.
Helen.
Annie, stay. Do not mark what I have I
said in the bewilderment of this sudden fear. Is George
below?—Who brought this news?
Annie.
One of the men from the fort.—George has
not been home since you sent him to Elliston's. She is
calling me. Make haste and come down, Helen.
[Exit.
Helen.
They will leave me alone. They will leave
me here alone. And why could I not have known this
one hour sooner?—I could have bid him come to-night—
If the invisible powers are plotting against me, it is well.
Could I have thought of this?—and yet, how like something
I had known before, it all comes upon me.—Can I
stay here alone?—Could I?—No never, never! He
must come for me to-night. Perchance that pacquet
still lies at yonder hut, and it is not yet too late to recal
my letter;—if it is—if it is, I must find some other messenger.
Thank God!—there is one way. Elliston can
can—he will.—
[Exit.
| The bride of Fort Edward | |