The bride of Fort Edward :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tell my brother, the Captain, I'll see to that.
We want no more hurrying. We have had enough of
that already, and much good it has done us too. Stop,
stop,—not that. We must leave those for the Indians to
take their tea in.

Workman.

But the lady said—

George.

Never mind the lady. Well, Annie, are you
ready? Don't stand there crying; there's no use. We
may come back here again yet, you know. Many a
pleasant sunrise we may see from these windows yet.
Heaven defend us, here is this aunt of ours.—What on
earth are they bringing now?

(A Lady in the door with a couple of portraits, followed
by others bringing baskets and boxes, etc.)

Lady.

That will do, set them down; now, the Colonel
and his lady, on the back room wall, just over against
the beaufet. Stop a moment. I'll go with you myself.

Betty.

(In the door.)
Lord 'a mercy! Here it is
broad day-light. What are we waiting for? I am all
ready. Why don't we go?

George.

I tell you, Aunt Rachael, the thing is impossible.
This trumpery can't go, and there's the end of it.
St. George and the Dragon—

Miss Rachael.

Never mind this young malapert—do
as I bid you.

Betty.

Lord 'a mercy, we shall all be murdered and
scalped, every soul of us. Bless you—there it is in the
garret now!—just hold this umberell a minute, Mr.
George,—think of those murderous Indians wearing my
straw bonnet. Lord bless you! What are you doing?
a heaving my umberell over the fence, in that fashion!

George.

These women will drive me mad I believe.
Let that box alone, you rascal. Lay a finger on that
trumpery there I say, and you'll find whose orders you
are under; as for the Colonel and his lady, they'll get a
little drink out of the first puddle we come to, I reckon.

[Goes out.

Miss R.

(Coming from the house.)
That will do.
That is all,—in the green wagon, John—

Ser't.

But the children—

Miss R.

Don't stand there, prating to me at a time
like this. Make haste, make haste!

How perfectly calm I am! I would never have believed
it;—just tie this string for me, child, my hands
twitch so strangely,—they say the British are just down
in the lane here, with five thousand Indians, Annie.

Annie.

It is no such thing, Aunt Rachael. The British
are quietly encamped on the other side of the river;
three miles off at least.

Miss R.

I thought as much. A pretty hour for us to
be turned out of house and home to be sure. Not a wink
have I slept this blessed night. Hark! What o'clock
is that? George, George! where is that boy? Just run
and tell your mother, Annie, just tell her, my dear, will
you, that we shall all be murdered. Maybe she will make
haste a little. Well, are they in?

Ser't.

The pictures? They are in,—yes'm. But
Miss Kitty's a crying, and says as how she won't go,
and there's the other one too; because, Ma'am, their toes—
you see there's the trunk in front gives 'em a leetle slope
inward, and then that chest under the seat—If you
would just step down and see yourself, Ma'am.

Miss R.

I desire to be patient.

[They go out.

(Annie sits on the bench of the little Porch, weeping.
Mrs. Gray enters from within.)

Annie.

Shall I never walk down that shady path
again? Shall I enter those dear rooms no more?
There are voices there they cannot hear. From the life
of buried years, ten thousand scenes, all vacancy to other
eyes, enrich those walls for us; the furniture that money
cannot buy, that only the joy and grief of years can purchase.

They will spoil our pleasant home,—will they
not, mother?

Mrs. G.

Pleasant, ay, pleasant indeed, has it been to
us. God's will be done. Do not weep, Annie. We
have counted the cost;—many a safe and happy home
there will be in the days to come, whose light shall spring
from this forgotten sorrow. God's will be done.

Annie.

Mother, they are all ready now; is Helen in
her room still?

Mrs. G.

Go call her, Annie. Hours ago it was I sent
her there. I thought she might get some little sleep ere
the summons came. Call her, my child. How deadly
pale she was!

[Annie goes in.