University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—Ambla's Cottage. Practicable door and window in F. Table C. 2 Rustic chairs, gun on ledge under window—images on table.
Ambla discovered.—Enter Gideon.
Ambla.
What! Gideon!—returned so soon, and sad!

Gideon.
Oh, mother!—the fields are, somehow, very dark
To-day, and I came back, because I had not heart
To wander far away from you.

Ambla.
Come hither to my heart, my son.

Gideon.
Mother,
Why is 't I cannot live, except with you?—
When last I went forth with the hunters to the woods,
Whose wandering quest kept us abroad all night,
I slept not, nor thought of sleep—before me
You stood, and in your eyes I lived, as though
They looked upon me,—morning took you from me;
I thought I would have died, finding you not.

Ambla.
Be calm, my son, nor love me too much.

Gideon.
Too much!—The Universe can hold it not!
When from your hand I go, I die a death
At every step; you seem to hold the roof-tree
With your arm, to hang above the fields and whiten them;
Nor could I through the noon-day harvest toil,
Knew I your lap would not in peace receive
My weary head when night draws on.

Ambla.
But now, no harvest asks you to be weary—
The golden sheaves stand silent in the field—
This is an idle day with us, Gideon,
Between the cutting and the garnering of the grain,
And here is something new for you to look on—
Images of the old time which I found
Deep in the dusky mould of Maple Hill.

Gideon.
(Regarding them)
Clay images of men,
Or more than men?

Ambla.
All that, my son:
And as old time cannot chatter their names,
We'll in this idle hour new-name them;
Salem is worthy of such gods and has them.

Gideon.
What, graven images of men and neighbors,
Hard by, here in the fields?—Hurrah, mother!

Ambla.
Why, to be sure, son.

Gideon.
Who 's this? This one of mighty port
And dignity?

Ambla.
That 's surely the Deacon;
A study gentleman of solemn gait,
Whose eyes are lobster-like in gaze, whose paunch
Is full and hungry ever, his step demure
And confident as though he trod, always,
On holy pavements, or pavements made so
By his walking of them.

Gideon.
And who is this?

Ambla.
The Justice, to be sure;
For don't you see he knits his brow at nothing.

Gideon.
Here 's one with his ears cropped, his eyes bored out,
And half a nose?

Ambla.
Little Pudeater, who runs
With Justice Fisk, the little foolish moon
To that great planet. Although I sport with them,
These somehow have a power to waken
Darkling thoughts, and are the images
To summon forth, linked as they are with hours
Of solitary pangs, that which should sleep!
(Muttering to herself.)
Another at this hour should sit with us—
The father of this boy—slain by these hands
Although there is no blood upon them—back,
Pale corpse, and mangled limbs, back to the grave!
Rise not, and walk not thus, before my sight—
Oh, I have brought these darts upon myself.

(Pause.)
Gideon.
Mother, you answered a question I did not ask,
As though another were here beside ourselves.

Ambla.
I'm old you know, my son, and shaken by the past,
Talk at times, it seems, I know not to whom.

Gideon.
Your hands do waver as I never saw them yet,
(With a changed look.)
Mother, I would not have these dismal things
Within the house. Who knows but wicked thoughts
May think you worship them? and rumor, once born,
Has children and great children beyond account.

Ambla.
Fie, fie, Gideon, they 're better useful:
Whene'er I have hard thoughts of Justice, Deacon,
Or the poor Pudeater, I'll think them of these
Little counterfeits, and they shall pass away.

Topsfield.
[Calling without.]
Gideon! in there, Gideon,—come forth the house!

Gideon.
[At the window.]
What want you?—Come in—Ah, Thomas,
Simon—there are seats within!—I'll come to the door.

Topsfield.
[Without.]
Do you, and bring your gun; a panther 's
On the path,—quickly—we can see him yet,
Come on and overtake us.

Gideon.
My musket! Under the ledge! Ah, here it is.

[Returns and takes his Mother's hand.]
[Voices again.]
Ambla.
[Gives Gideon his hat.]
They shout for you again, Gideon,
Hasten, or you will lose their track.

Gideon.
I linger, strangely, when I should make speed.
Dear mother, I fear, I know not what,
But are the sundown flashes in the West,
My musket shall go back, and I sit down
With you.

Topsfield.
[Without.]
Gideon—Gideon!

Gideon.
I come—I come.
[Exit Gideon, D. F.

Ambla.
Joy! while I live to have his young love poured
Around me thus! Joy! to behold his looks
Inclined on mine alone!—Joy! thus to have
His heart for mine, for mine! But when I die,
When I am gone, as now I strangely feel,
I soon shall be—the hour of shadow nears me—
Oh, on what bank shall all the violets
And the clustering tendrils of his life repose?
Where rest his head? Where bloom his eager hopes?—
They must go out in blight and darkness,
Without hope of light.—Oh, aching heart!
Should I disclose the secret of my grief
To Gideon, forever would I lose
His filial love—Peace! Peace!—Away! away!—
Dark omens of the future, join the dread
Phantoms of the fearful past, and let me rest.

[Closed in.]