The bride of Fort Edward founded on an incident of the Revolution |
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| 2:2. | DIALOGUE II. |
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 | The bride of Fort Edward |  |
DIALOGUE II.
Scene. A chamber in the Parsonage. Helen leaning
from the open window.
Annie enters.
Annie.
Helen Grey, where on earth have you been?
Wood flowers!
Helen.
Come and look at this sunset.
Annie.
Surely you have not, you cannot have been in
those woods, Helen: and yet, where else could this periwinkle
grow, and these wild roses?—Delicious!
Helen.
Hear that flute. It comes from among those
trees by the river side.
Annie.
It is the shower that has freshened every
thing, and made the birds so musical. You should
stand in the door below, as I did just now, to see the fort
and the moistened woods stands out from that black sky,
with all this brightness blazing on them.
Helen.
'Tis lovely—all.
Annie.
There goes the last golden rim over the blackening
woods; already even a shade of tender mourning
steals over all things, the very children's voices under this
tree,—how soft they grow.
Helen.
Will the day come when we shall see him
sink, for the last time, behind those hills?
Annie.
Nay, Helen, why do you mar this lovely hour
with a thought like that?
Helen.
And in another life, shall we see light, when
his, for us, shines no more?—What sound is that?
Annie.
That faint cry from the woods?
Helen.
No,—more distant,—far off as the horizon, like
some mighty murmur, faintly borne, it came.
Annie.
I wish that we had gone to-day. I do not
like this waiting until Thursday;—just one of that elder
brother's foolish whims it was. I cannot think how your
consent was won to it. Did you meet any one in your
walk just now?
Helen.
No—Yes, yes, I did. The little people where
I went, I met by hundreds, Annie. Through the dark
aisles, and the high arches, all decked in blue, and gold,
and crimson, they sung me a most merry welcome.
And such as these—see—You cannot think how like
long-forgotten friends they looked, smiling up from their
dark homes, upon me.
Annie.
You have had chance enough to forget them
indeed,—it is two years, Helen, since you have been in
those woods before. What could have tempted you there
to-day?
Helen.
Was there danger then?—was there danger
then,—it was but one last look I thought to take—nay,
what is it, Annie? George met me as I was coming
home, and I remember something in his eye startled me
at first; but if there was danger, I should have known of
it before.
Annie.
How could we dream of your going there
this evening, when we knew you had never set your
foot in those woods since the day Everard Maitland left
Fort Edward?
Helen.
Annie!
Annie.
For me, I would as soon have looked to see
Maitland himself coming from those woods, as you.
Helen.
Annie! Annie Grey! You must not, my sister—do
not speak that name to me, never again, never.
Annie.
Why, Helen, I am sorry to have grieved you
thus; but I thought—Look! look! There go those officers
again,—there, in the lane between the orchards.
Scarcely half an hour ago they went by to the fort in
just such haste. There is something going on there, I
am sure.
(Helen rises from the window, and walks the room.
Annie.
In truth there was a rumor this afternoon,—
you are so timid and fanciful, our mother chose you
should not hear it while it was rumor only; but 'tis said
that a party of the enemy have been seen in those woods
so friendly. Do you hear me, Helen?
Helen.
That he should live still! Yes, it is all real
still! That heaven of my thought, that grows so like a
pageant to me, is still real somewhere. Those eyes—
they are darkly shining now; this very moment that
passes me, drinks their beauty;—that voice,—that tone,—
that very tone—on some careless ear, even now it wastes
its luxury of blessing. Continents of hail and darkness,
the polar seas—all earth's distance, could never have
parted me from him; but now I live in the same world
with him, and the everlasting walls blacken between
us. Those looks may shine on the dull earth and senseless
stones, but not on me; on uncaring eyes, but not on
mine; though for one moment of their lavished wealth,
I could cheaply give a life without them; never again,
never, never, never shall their love come to me.
Annie.
Who would have thought she could cherish in
secret a grief like this? Dear sister, we all believed
you had forgotten that sad affair long ago,—we thought
that you were happy now.
Helen.
Happy?—I am, you were right; but I have been
to-day down to the very glen where we took that last
lovely walk together, and all the beautiful past came
back to me like life.—I am happy; you must count me
so still.
Annie.
With what I have just now heard, how can I?
Helen.
It is this war that has parted us; and so, this
that great thought reaches over all my anguish. But for
this war I might have been—hath this world such flowers,
and do they call it a wilderness?—I might have been,
even now, you know it, Annie, his wife, his wife, his.
But our hearts are cunningly made, many-stringed; and
often much good music is left in them when we count
them broken. That which makes the bitterness of this
ot, the inconceivable, unutterable bitterness of it, even
that I can bear now, calmly, and count it God's kindness
too.
Annie.
I do not understand you, sister.
Helen.
What if this young royalist, Annie, when he
quarrelled with my brother, and took arms against my
country, what if he had kept faith to me?
Annie.
Well.
Helen.
Well? Oh no, it would not have been well.
Why, my home would have been with that pursuing
army now, my fate bound up with that hollow cause,—
these very hands might have fastened the sword of oppression;
nay, the sword whose edge was turned against
you, against you all, and against the cause, that with
tears, night and morning, you were praying for, and with
your heart's best blood stood ready to seal every hour.
No, it is best as it is; or if my wish grows deeper still, if
in my heart I envy, with murmuring thought, the blessed
brides, on whose wedding dawns the laughing sun of
suffering times.—It is best as it is. I am content.
Annie.
I wish I could understand you, Helen. You
say, “if he had kept faith to you;”—carried you off, you
mean! Do you mean, sister Helen, that of your own
will you would ever have gone with him, with Everard
Maitland,—that traitor?
Helen.
Gone with him? Would I not? Would I
not? Dear child, we talk of what, as yet, you know nothing
of. Gone with him? Some things are holy, Annie,
only until the holier come.
Annie.
(looking toward the door.)
Stay, stay. What
is it, George?
(George Grey comes in.)
George.
I was seeking our mother. What should it
be, but ill news? This tide is against us, and if it be
not well-night full, we may e'en fold our arms for the rest.
There, read that. (Throwing her a letter.)
Every face you see looks as if a thunder-cloud were
passing it. I heard one man say, just now, as I came in,
that the war would be over in a fortnight's time.
There'll be some blood spilt ere then, I reckon though.
Helen.
What paper is that that reddens her cheek so
suddenly?
Annie.
The McGregor's!—think of it, Helen,—gone
over to the British side, and St. John of the Glens, and
—who brought you this letter, George? 'Tis false! I
names, people that we know, the most honorable, too,
—forsaking us now, at such a crisis!
George.
Self-defence, self-defence, sister; their lands
and their houses must be saved from devastation. What
sort of barracks think you, would that fine country-seat of
McGregor's make?—and St. John's—he is a farmer you
know, and his fields are covered with beautiful grain,
that a week will ripen, and so, he is for turning his sword
into a sickle;—besides, there are worse things than pillage
threatened here. Look, (unfolding a hand-bill.)
Just at this time comes this villainous proclamation
from Skeensborough, scattered about among our soldiers
nobody knows how, half of them on the eve of desertion
before, and the other half—what ails you, Helen?
Helen.
There he stands!
Annie.
Is she crazed? Why do you clasp your hands
so wildly? for Heaven's sake, Helen!—her cheek is
white as death.—Helen!
Helen.
Is he gone, Annie?
Annie.
As I live, I do not know what you are talking
of. Nay, look; there is no one here, none that you
need fear, most certainly.
Helen.
I saw him, his eye was on me; there he
stood, looking through that window, smiling and beckoning
me.
George.
Saw him? Who, in Heaven's name? This
is fancy-work.
Helen.
I saw him as I see you now. He stood on
that roof,—an Indian,—I saw the crimson bars on his
face, and the blanket, and the long wild hair on his
shoulders; and—and, I saw the gleaming knife in his
girdle,—Oh God! I did.
George.
Ay, ay, 'twas that scoundrel that dogged us
in our way home, I'll lay my life it was.
Helen.
In our way home? An Indian, I said.
George.
Well, well, and I say an Indian, a rascal Indian,
was watching and following us all the way home
just now.
Helen.
George!
George.
Then you did not see him after all. In truth,
I did not mean you should, for we could not have hurried
more, but all the time we sat in that shanty, while it
rained, about as far off as that chair from me, stood this
same fellow among the bushes, watching us, or rather
you. And you saw him here? He might have crept
along by that orchard wall. What are you laughing at,
Annie?—I will go and see what sort of a guard we
have.
Annie.
If you knew as much of Helen's Indians as I
do, you would hardly be in such a hurry, George, I mean
about this one that was here just now, for there are Indians
in yonder forest I suppose; but since we were so
that we encountered one, or heard his steps among the
bushes at least; and if it chanced to be as late as this,
there would be half a dozen of them way-laying us in
the road,—but sometimes they turned out squirrels,
and sometimes logs of wood, and sometimes mere air,
air of about this color. We want a little light, that is all.
There is no weapon like that for these fancy-people. I
can slay a dozen of them with a candle's beams.
(George goes out.)
Helen.
Do not laugh at me to-night, Annie.
Annie.
But what should the Indians want of you,
pry'thee; tell me that, Helen?
Helen.
God knows. Wait till the sun sets to-morrow,
and I will laugh with you if you are merry then.
Annie.
Why to-morrow?—because it is our last day
here? Tuesday—Wednesday—yes; the next day we
shall be on the road to Albany.
[Exit.
Helen.
I am awake now. Watched me in the glen?
—followed me home? Those woods are full of them.—
But what has turned their wild eyes on me?
It is but one day longer;—we have counted many, in
peril and fear, and this, is the last;—even now how softly
the fearful time wastes. One day!—Oh God, thou
only knowest what its shining walls encircle. (She leans
on the window, musing silently.)
Two years ago I
stood here, and prayed to die.—On that same tree my
eye rested then. With what visions of hope I played
under it once, building bowers for fairies I verily thought
would come, and dreaming, with yearning heart, of glorious
and beautiful things this world hath not. But,
that wretched day, through blinding tears, I saw the sunlight
on its glossy leaves, and I said, `let me see that
light no more.' Surely the bitterness is deep when that
which hath colored all our unfolded being, is a weariness.
For what more hath life for me I thought, its lesson is
learned and its power is spent,—it can please, and it can
trouble me no more; and why should I stay here in vain
and wearily?
It was sad enough, indeed, to see the laughing spring
returning again, when the everlasting winter had set in
within, to link with each change of the varied year,
sweet with a life's memories, such mournfulness; laying
by, one by one, all hope's blessed spells, withered and
broken forever,—the moonlight, the songs of birds, the
blossom showers of April, the green and gold of autumn's
sunset,—it was sad, but it was not in vain.—Not in vain,
Oh God, didst thou deny that weeping prayer.
(A merry voice is heard without, and a child's face
peeps through the window that overlooks the orchard.)
Child.
Look! look! sister Helen! see what I have
found on the roof of the piazza here,—all covered with
wampum and scarlet, and here are feathers too—two
I guess.
Helen
(approaching the window.)
Let me see, Willy.
What, did you find it here?
Willy.
Just under the window here. Frank and I
were swinging on the gate; and—there is something
hard in it, Helen,—feel.
Helen.
Yes, it is very curious; but—
Willy.
There comes Netty with the candle; now we
can see to untie this knot.
Helen.
Willy, dear Willy, you must give it to me, you
must indeed, and—I will paint you a bird to-morrow.
Willy.
A blue-bird, will you? A real one?
Helen.
Yes, yes;—run down little climber; see how
dark it grows, and Frank is waiting, see.
Willy.
Well. But mind you, it must be a blue bird
then. A real one. With the red on his breast, and all.
[Exit.
(She walks to the table, unfastening the envelope.)
Helen.
What sent that thrill of forgotten life through
me then?—that wild, delicious thrill? This is strange,
indeed. A sealed pacquet within! and here—
(She glances at the superscription, and the pacquet
drops from her hand.)
No—no. I have seen that hand-writing in my dreams
before, but it dissolved always. What's joy better than
grief, if it pierce thus? Can never a one of all the soul's
deep melodies on this poor instrument be played out, then
—trembling and jarring thus, even at the breath of its
most lovely passion.—And yet, it is some cruel thing, I
know.
(The pacquet opened, discovers Helen's miniature, a
book, a ring, and other tokens.)
Cruel indeed! That little rose!—He might have spared
me this. A dull reader I were, in truth, if this needed
comment,—but I knew it before. He might have spared
me this.
(She leans over the recovered relics with a burst of
passionate weeping.)
Yet, who knows—(lifting her head with a sudden
smile,)
some trace, some little curl of his pencil I may
find among these leaves yet, to tell me, as of old,—
(A letter drops from the book, she tears it eagerly
open.)
(Reading.)
These cold words I understand, but—letters!
—He wrote me none! Was there ever a word between
us, from the hour when he left me, his fancied bride, to
that last meeting, when, at a word, and ere I knew what
I had said, he turned on me that cold and careless eye,
and left me, haughtily and forever? And now—
(reading)
high again?—in this black and starless night—the noonday
sun? He loves me still.—Oh! this joy weighs like
grief.
Shall I see him again? Joy! joy! Beautiful sunshine
joy! Who knows the soul's rich depths till joy
hath lighted them?--from the dim and sorrowful haunts
of memory will he come again into the living present?
Shall I see those eyes, looking on me? Shall I hear my
name in that lost music sound once more?—His?—Am
I his again? New mantled with that shining love, like
some glorious and beautiful stranger I seem to myself,
Helen—the bright and joy-wreathed thing his voice
makes that name mean—My life will be all full of that
blest music. I shall be Helen, evermore his—his.
No,—it would make liars of old sages,—and all books
would read wrong. A life of such wild blessedness? It
would be fearful like living in some magic land, where
the honest laws of nature were not. A life?—a moment
were enough. Ages of common life would shine in it.
(Reading again.)
“Elliston's hut?”—“If I choose that
the return should be mutual,—and the memorials of a despised
regard can at best be but an indifferent possession;
—a pacquet reinclosed directly in this same envelope,
and left at the hut of the missionary, cannot fail to reach
him safely.”
“Safely.”—Might he not come there safely then?
And might I not go thither safely too, in to-morrow's
light?
O God, let not Passion lead me now. The centre
beaming truth, not passion's narrow ray, must light me
here!—But am I not his?
Once more, one horizon circles, for a day, our longparted
destinies; another, and another wave of these
wild times will drift them asunder again, forever; and
I count myself his wife. His wife?—nay, his bride, his
two years' bride, to-night, his wife, to-morrow. He must
meet me there, (Writing)
at noon, I will say.—I did not
think that little hut of logs should have been my marriage-hall;—he
must meet me there, and to-morrow is
my bridal day
| The bride of Fort Edward | |