University of Virginia Library

3-1. PART THIRD.
—
FATE.

DIALOGUE I.

Scene. The hill—Night—Large fires burning—Sentinels
dimly seen in the back-ground. A young Indian
steals carefully from the thicket. He examines the
ground and the newly-felled trees.

Indian.

One, two, three. And this is ringed. The
dogs have spoiled the council-house.

(Soldiers rush forward.)

1st Sol.

So, Mr. Red-skin! would not you like a scalp
or two now, to string on your leggings? Maybe we can
help you to one or so. Hold fast. Take care of that
arm, I know him of old.

(The Indian, with a violent struggle, disengages himself,
and darts into the thicket.)

No? well,—dead or alive, we must have you on our side
again.(Firing.)

2nd Sol.

He's fixed, Sir.

1st Sol.

Hark. Hark,—off again! Let me go.
What do you hold me for, you scoundrel?

2nd Sol.

Don't make a fool of yourself, Will Wilson.
There will be a dozen of them yelling around you there.
Besides, he is half way to the swamp by this. Look
here; what's this, in the grass here?

1st. Sol.

There was something in his hand, but he
clenched it through it all,—this is a letter. Bring it to
the fire.

2nd Sol.

(reading.)
“This by the Indian, as in case
I am taken, he may reach the camp in safety. Not
over three thousand men in all, I should think,—very
little ammunition, soldiers mostly discouraged.—In
Albany, they are tearing the lead off the windows of the
houses, and taking the weights from the shops for ball.
Talk of retreating on Thursday to the new encampment,
five miles below. More when I get to you.”

More! Humph! A pretty string of lies he has got
here already. This must go to the General, Dick.

[Exeunt.

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

they will destroy our home in mere wantonness. Was
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

with now. I cannot pray.—Can I not?—How the
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

send to that camp to-night. He can—ever now,—He
can—he will.—

[Exit.

DIALOGUE III.

Scene. The porch. Helen waiting the return of her
messenger from the hut.

Helen.

How quiet and soft it all lies in this solemn
light. Is it illusion?—can it be?—that old, familiar look,
that from these woods and hills, and from this moon-lit
meadow, seems to smile on me now with such a holy
promise of protection and love?—The merry trill in this
apple-tree is the very sound that, waking from my infant
sleep in the hush of the summer midnight, of old lulled,
nay, wakened my first inward thought. Oh that my heart's
youngest religion could come again, the feeling with
which a little child looks up to these mighty stars, as the
spangles on his home-roof, while he stands smiling beneath
the awful shelter of the skies, as under a father's
dome. But these years show us the evil that mocks that
trust.

'Tis he,—What a mere thread of time separates me
from my fate, and yet the darkness of ages could not hide
it more surely. Already he has reached the lane. Another

minute will show me all. Will the pacquet be in
his hand, or will it not? I will be calm—it shall be like
a picture to me.

Ah! there is an immeasurable power about us, a foreign
and strange thing, that answers not to the soul, that
seems to know or to heed nothing of the living suffering,
rejoicing being of the spirit. Why should I struggle
with it any longer? From my weeping childhood to this
hour, it hath set its iron bars about me; no—softly yielding,
hath it not sometimes, the long, undreamed-of vistas
opened, bright as heaven,—and now, maybe—how
slow he moves—even now perchance.—This is wrong.
The Infinite is One. The Goodness Infinite, whose
everlasting smile lighteth the inner soul, and the Power
Infinite, whose alien touch without, in darkness comes,
they are of One, and the good know it.

The Messenger.
(Coming up the path.)

Bless you, Miss! The pacquet had been gone this
hour!

Helen.

Gone! Well.—And Elliston—what said he?

Mess.

I brought this note of yours back, Miss Helen.
Father Elliston was gone. Here has been an Indian
killed on Sandy Hill this evening, Alaska's own son as
it turns out, and such a hubbub as they are making about
it you never heard. I met a couple of squaws myself,
yelling like mad creatures, and the woods are all alive
with them. The priest has gone down to their village

to pacify them if it may be,—so I brought the note back,
Miss Helen, for there was no one there but a little rascal
of an Indian, and I would not trust the worth of a feather
with one of them. Was I right?

Helen.

Yes. Give it to me. How far is it to the British
camp?

Mess.

Why, they are just above here at Brandon's
Mills they say, that is, the main body. It can't be over
three miles, or so.

Helen.

Three miles! only three miles of this lovely
moonlight road between us.—William McReady, go to
that camp for me to-night.

Mess.

To the British camp?

Helen.

Ay.

Mess.

To the British camp! Lord bless you, Miss.
I should be shot—I should be shot as true as you are a
living woman. I should be shot for a deserter, or, what's
worse, I should be hanged for a spy.

Helen.

What shall I do!

Mess.

And besides, there's Madame Grey will be
wanting me by this time. See how the candles dance
about the rooms there.

Helen.

Yes, you are right. We must go in and help
them. Come,

(They enter the house.)

DIALOGUE IV.

Scene. The British camp. Moonlight. A lady in a
rich travelling dress, standing in the door of a loghut.

Lady Ackland.

(Talking to her maid within.)
What is the matter, Margaret? What do you go stealing
about the walls so like a mad woman for, with that
shoe in your hand?

Maid.

(Within.)
There, Sir!—your song is done!—
there's one less, I am certain of that. (Coming to the
door.)
If ever I get home alive, my lady—Ha!—(striking
the door with her slipper.)
If ever—you are there,
are you? I believe I have broken my ear in two. The
matter? Will your ladyship look here?

Lady A.

Well.

Maid.

And if ever I get back to London, I'll say well
too. If ever I get back to London alive, my lady,—I'll
see—

Lady A.

What will you see, Margaret? Nothing
lovelier than this, I am sure. Are you not ashamed to
stand muttering there? Come here, and look at this
beautiful night.

Maid.

La, Lady Harriet!

Lady A.

Listen! How still the camp is now! You
can hear the rush of those falls we passed, distinctly.
How pretty the tents look there, in that deep shade.
These tuneful frogs and katy-dids must be our nightingales
to-night. Indeed, as I stand now, I could almost
fancy that fine wood there was my father's park; nay, methinks
I see the top of the old gray turrets peeping out
among the shadows there. Look, Margaret, do you see?

Maid.

La! I can see woods enough, my lady, if that
is what you mean,—nothing else, and I have seen
enough of them already to last me one life through. Yes,
here's a pretty tear I have got amongst them!—Two
guineas and a half it cost me in London,—I pray I may
never set my eyes on a wood again.

Lady A.

This was some happy home once, I know.
See that rose-bush, and this little bed of flowers.—Here
was a pretty yard—there went the fence,—and there,
where that waggon stands, by that broken pear-tree,
swung the gate. And pleasant meetings there have
been at this door, no doubt, and sorrowful partings too,
—and hearts within have leaped at the sound of that
gate, and merry tales have been told by that desolate
hearth. In this little lonely unthought-of place, the mysterious
world of the human soul has unfolded,—the drams
of life been played, as grandly in the eyes of angels as
in the proud halls where my life dawned. And there are
hearts that cling to this desolate spot as mine does to

that far-off home. We have driven them away in sorrow
and fear. This is war!

Maid.

I wonder who is fluting under that tree there,
so late. They are serenading that Dutch woman, as I
live.

Lady A.

The Baroness, are you talking of, Margaret?

Maid.

A baroness! Good sooth!—she looks like it,
in that yellow silk, and those odious beads, fussing about.
If your ladyship will believe me, I saw her sitting in
her tent to-night, ay, in the door, feeding that wretched
child with her own hands. We can't be thankful
enough they did not put her in here with us, I'll own.

Lady A.

Hush, hush, for shame! We might well
have spared that empty room. Come, we'll go in—It's
very late. Strange that Sir George should not be here
ere this.

Maid.

Look, my lady! Here's some one at the gate.

(An officer enters the little court, with a hasty step.)

Officer.

Good evening to your ladyship.—Is Captain
Maitland here?—Sir George told me that he left him
here.

Lady A.

Ay, but he has been gone this hour. Stay,
it is Andre's flute you hear below there, and some one
has joined him just now—yes, it is he.

Off.

Under that tree;—thank you, my lady.

Lady A.

Stay, Colonel Hill,—I beg your pardon, but

you spoke so hastily.—This young Maitland is a friend
of ours, I trust there is nothing that concerns him painfully.—

Off.

Oh nothing, nothing, except that he is ordered
off to Fort Ann to-night. There are none of us that
know these wild routes as well as he.

[Exit.

Lady A.

Good Heavens! What noise is that?

Maid.

Lord 'a mercy! The battle is coming?

Lady A.

Hush! (To a sentinel who goes whistling
by.)
Sirrah, what noise is that?

Sentinel.

It's these Indians, my lady; they have found
the son of some chief of theirs murdered in these woods,
and they are bringing him to the camp now. That's the
mourning they make.

Lady A.

The Lord protect us!

(They enter the house.)

DIALOGUE V.

Scene. The interior of a tent. Maitland, in travelling
equipments, pacing the floor.

Maitland.

William! Ho there!

Servant.

(Looking in.)
Your honor?

Mait.

Is not that horse ready yet?

Ser't.

Presently, your honor.

[Exit.

Mait.

So the fellow has been here, it seems, and returned
again to Fort Edward without seeing me. Of
course, my lady deigns no answer.—An answer! Well,
I thought I expected none. Ten minutes ago I should
have sworn I expected none. Why, by this time that
letter of mine has gone the rounds of the garrison, no
doubt. William!

(The servant enters.)

Bring that horse round, you rascal,—must I be under
your orders too, forsooth?

Ser't.

Certainly, your honor,—but if he could but just,
—I am a-going, Sir,—but if he could but just take a
mouthful or two more. There's never a baiting-place
till—

Mait.

Do you hear?

(The Servant retreats hastily.)

Mait.

The curse of having lived in these wilds cleaves
to me in all things. Here are Andre and Mortimer, and
a hundred more, and none but I for this midnight service.

Ser't.

(Re-entering.)
The horse is waiting, Sir,—but
here's two of these painted creturs hanging about the

door, waiting to see you. (Handing him a packet.)

There's no use in swearing at them, Sir, they don't understand
it.

Mait.

(Breaking the seals hastily, he discovers the
miniature.)
Back again! Well, we'll try drowning
next,—nay, this is as I sent it! That rascal dropped it
in the woods perhaps! Softly,—what have we here?

(He discovers, and reads the letter.)

Who brought this?

Ser't.

The Indian that was here yesterday.

Mait.

Alaska! Here's blood on the envelope, on the
letter too, and here—This packet has been soaked in
blood. (Re-reading the letter.)

“To-morrow”—“twelve o'clock” to-morrow—Look
if the light be burning in the Lady Ackland's window,—
she was up as I passed. “Twelve o'clock”—There are
more horses on this route than these cunning settlers
choose to reckon. Why, there are ten hours yet—
I shall be back ere then. Helen—do I dream?—This is
love!—How I have wronged her.—This is love!

Ser't.

(At the door.)
The horse is waiting, Sir,—and
this Indian here wont stir till he sees you.

Mait.

Alaska—I must think of it,—risk?—I would
pledge my life on his truth. He has seen her too,—I remember
now, he saw her with me at the lake. Let him
come in.—No, stop, I will speak with him as I go.

[Exeunt.

DIALOGUE VI.

Scene. Lady Ackland's door.

Lady Ackland.

Married!—His wife?—Well, I think
I'll not try to sleep again. There goes Orion with
his starry girdle.—Married—is he?

Maid.

Was not that Captain Maitland that was talking
here just now, Lady Harriet?

Lady A.

Go to bed, Margaret,—go to bed,—but look
you though. To-morrow with the dawn that furnishing
gear we left in the tent must be unpacked, and this
empty room—whose wife, think you, is my guest tomorrow,
Margaret?

Maid.

Bless me! If I were to guess till daylight, my
lady—

Lady A.

This young Maitland, you think so handsome,
Margaret—

Maid.

I?—la, it was not I, my lady, I am sure.

Lady A.

—He will bring us his wife home here tomorrow,
a young and beautiful wife.

Maid.

Wife?—

Lady A.

Poor child,—we must give her a gentle welcome.
Do you remember those flowers we saw in the
glen as we passed?—I will send for them in the morning,

and we will fill the vacant hearth with these blossoming
boughs.—

Maid.

But, here—in these woods, a wife!—where on
earth will he bring her from, my lady?

Lady A.

Ay, we shall see, to-morrow we shall see,
—go dream the rest.

[Exit the maid.

Lady A.

Who would have thought it?—so cold and
proud he seemed, so scornful of our sex.—And yet I
knew something there lay beneath it all.—Even in that
wild, gay mood, when the light of mirth filled and o'erflowed
those splendid eyes,—deeper still, I saw always
the calm sorrow-beam shining within.

That picture he showed me—how pretty it was!—
The face haunts me with its look of beseeching loveliness.—Was
there anything so sorrowful about it though?
—Nay, the look was a smile, and yet a strange mournfulness
clings to my thought of it now. Well, if the painter
hath not dissembled in it—the painter?—no. The
spirit of those eyes was of no painter's making. From
the Eidos of the Heavenly Mind sprung that.

I shall see her to-morrow.—Nay, I must meet her in
the outskirts of the camp,—so went my promise,—if
Maitland be not here ere then.

[Exit.

THOUGHTS.

Scene. The Hill. The Student's Night-watch.