The bride of Fort Edward founded on an incident of the Revolution |
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| 5:2. | DIALOGUE II. |
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 | The bride of Fort Edward |  |
DIALOGUE II.
Scene. The deserted house—the chamber—Helen by
the table—her head bowed and motionless. She
rises slowly from her drooping posture.
Helen.
It is my bridal day. I had forgotten that.
(Looking from the window.)
Is this real? Am I here
alone? My mother gone? The army gone? brothers
and sisters gone, and those woods full of armed Indian?
I am awake. This is not the light of dreams,—'tis the
sun that's shining there. Not the fresh and tender morning
sun, that looked in on that parting. Hours he has
climbed since then, to turn those shadows thus,—hours that
to me were nothing.—Alone?—deserted—defenceless?
Of my own will too? There was a law in that will,
though, was there not? (Turning suddenly from the
window.)
Shall I see him again? The living real of
my thousand dreams, in the light of life, will he stand
here to-day?—to-day? No, no. Is this swift flow of
being leading on to that? Oh day of anguish, if in
thine awful bosom, still, that dazzling instant sleeps, I
can forgive the rest.
(She stands by the toilette, and begins to gather once
more the long hair from her shoulders. Suddenly
Canadian servant looks in.)
Jan.
I ask your pardon—Shall I come in,Ma'amselle?
Helen.
Ay, ay, come in. How strangely any voice
sounds amid this loneliness. I am glad you are here.
Jan.
(Entering.)
Beautiful! Santa Maria! How
beautiful! May I look at these things, Ma'amselle?
(Stopping by the couch strewn with bridal gear.)
Real
Brussels! And the plume in this bonnet, was there ever
such a lovely droop?
Helen.
Come, fasten this clasp for me, Netty. I thought
to have had another bridesmaid once, but—that is past—
Yes, I am a bride to-day, and I must not wait here unadorned.
(Aside.)
He shall have no hint from me this
day of “altered fortunes.” As though these weary
years had been but last night's dream, and my wedding-day
had come as it was fixed, so will I meet him.—Yet
I thought to have worn my shroud sooner than this
robe.
Jan.
This silk would stand alone, Ma'amselle,—and
what a lovely white it is! Just such a bodice as this
I saw my Lady Mary wear, two years ago this summer,
in Quebec; only, this is a thought deeper. But, Santa
Maria! how it becomes a shape like yours!
Helen.
What a world of buried feeling lives again as
these years have changed me?
Jan.
(Aside.)
I do not like that altered mien. How
the beauty flashes from her? Is it silk and lace that can
change one so? Here are bracelets too, Ma'amselle;
will you wear them?
Helen.
Yes. Go, look from the window, Janette,
down the lane to the woods. I am well-nigh ready now.
He will come,—yes, he will come.
(Janette retreats to the window,—her eye still following
the lady.)
Jan.
I have seen brides before, but never so gay a one
as this. It is strange and fearful to see her stand here
alone, in this lonesome house, all in glistening white,
smiling, and the light flashing from her eyes thus. She
looks too much like some radiant creature from another
world, to be long for this.
Helen.
He will come, why should he not? Netty, fix
your eye on that opening in the woods, and if you see
but a shadow crossing it, tell me quickly.
Jan.
I can see nothing—nothing at all. Marie sanctissima!—how
quiet it is! The shadows are straight here
now, Miss Helen.
Helen.
Noon—the very hour has come! Another
minute it may be.—Noon, you said, Netty?
(Joining Janette at the window.)
Yes, quite—you can see; and hark, there's the
clock. Oh, isn't it lonesome though? See how like the
Sunday those houses look, with the doors all closed and
the yards and gardens still as midnight. If we could but
hear a human voice!—whose, I would not care.
Helen.
How like any other noon-day it comes! The
faint breeze plays in those graceful boughs as it did yesterday;
that little, yellow butterfly glides on its noiseless
way above the grass, as then it did;—just so, the shadows
sleep on the grassy road-side there;—yes, Netty,
yes, 'tis very lonely.—Hear those merry birds!
Jan.
But I would rather hear that signal, Miss Helen,
a thousand times, than the best music that ever was
played.
Helen.
I shall see him again. That wild hope is wild
no longer. To doubt were wilder now. Ay, Fate must
cross my way with a bold hand, to snatch that good from
me now. And yet,—alas, in the shadowy future it lieth
still, and a dark and treacherous realm is that! The joys
that blossom on its threshold are not ours—It may be, even
now, darkness and silence everlasting lie between us.
Jan.
Hark—Hark!
Helen.
What is it?
Jan.
Hark!—There!—Do you hear nothing?
Helen.
Distant voices?
Jan.
Yes—
Helen.
I do—
Jan.
Once before,—'twas when I stood in the door below,
I heard something like this; but the breeze just then
brought the sound of the fall nearer, and drowned it.
There it is!—Nearer. The other window, Miss Helen.
Helen.
From that hill it comes, does it not?
Jan.
Yes--yes, I should think it did. Oh yes. There
is a guard left there—I had forgotten that. Mon Dieu!
How white your lips are! Are you afraid, Ma'amselle?
(Helen stands gazing silently from the window.)
Jan.
There is no danger. It must have been those
soldiers that we heard,—or the cry of some wild animal
roaming through yonder woods—it might have been,—
how many strange sounds we hear from them. At another
time we should never have thought of it. I think
we should have heard that signal though, ere this,—I do,
indeed.
Helen.
What is it to die? Nor wood nor meadow, nor
winding stream, nor the blue sky, do they see; nor the voice
of bird or insect do they hear; nor breeze, nor sunshine,
nor fragrance visits them. Will there be nothing left that
makes this being then? The high, Godlike purpose—
the life whose breath it is,—can that die?—the meek
trust in Goodness Infinite,—can that perish? No.—This
is that building of the soul which nothing can dissolve,
that house eternal, that eternity's wide tempests cannot
move. No—no—I a m not afraid. No--Netty, I am not
afraid.
Jan.
Will you come here, Miss Helen?
Helen.
Well.
Jan.
Look among those trees by the road-side—those
pine trees, on the side of the hill, where my finger
points.—
Helen.
Well—what is it?
Jan.
Do you see—what a blinding sunshine this is—
do you see something moving there?—wait a moment—
—they are hid among the trees now—you will see them
again presently—There!—there they come, a troop of them,
see.
Helen.
Yes—Indians—are they not?
Jan.
Ay—it must have been their yelling that
we heard.—We need not be alarmed.—They are from
the camp—they have come to that spring for water. The
wonder is, your soldiers should have let them pass.—
You will see them turning back directly now.
Helen.
(Turning from the window.)
Shelter us—all
power is thine.
Jan.
Holy Virgin!—they are coming this way. Those
creatures are coming down that hill, as I live. Yes,
there they come.
This strip of wood hides them now. What keeps
them there so long? Ay, ay,—I see now—I am sorry I
should have alarmed you so, Ma'amselle, for nothing too
they are going back to their camp by the lower route.
Helen.
No.
Jan.
It must be so. There is no doubt of it. Indeed,
we might be sure they would never dare come here.—
They cannot know yet that your army are gone. Besides,
we should have heard from them ere this. They
could never have kept their horrid tongues to themselves
so long, I know.—Well, if it were to save me, I
cannot screw myself into this shape any longer. (Rising
from the window.
Helen.
Listen.
Jan.
'Tis nothing but the sound of the river. You
can make nothing else of it, Ma'amselle,—unless it is
these locusts that you hear. I wish they would cease
their everlasting din a moment.
How that breeze has died away! Every leaf is still
now! There's not a cloud or a speck in all the sky.
Helen.
Look in the west—have you looked there?
Jan.
Yes, there are a few little clouds beginning to
gather there indeed. We shall have a shower yet ere
night.
(The war-whoop is heard, loud and near.)
Jan.
Mon Dieu! Here they are! It is all over with
us! We shall be murdered!
(She clasps her hands, and shrieks wildly.
Hush! hush! Put down that window, and
come away. We must be calm now.
Jan.
It is all over with us,—what use is there? Do
you hear that trampling?—in the street!—they are
coming!
Helen.
Janette—Hear me. Will you throw away
your life and mine? For shame! Be calm. These
Indians cannot know that we are here. They will see
these houses all deserted. Why should they stop to
search this? Hush! hush! they are passing now.
Jan.
They have stopped!—the trampling has stopped!—I
hear the gate,—they have come into the yard.
(A long wild yell is heard under the window. They
stand, looking silently at each other. Again it
trembles through the room, louder than before.)
Helen.
I am sorry you stayed here with me. Perhaps
—Hark! What was that? What was that? Was it
not Maitland they said then? It was—it is—Don't
grasp me so.
Jan.
Nay—what would you do?
Helen.
I must speak with them. Let go my arm! Do
you not hear? 'Tis Maitland they are talking of. How
strangely that blessed name sounds in those tones!
Jan.
You must not—we have tempted Heaven already—this
is madness.
Helen.
Let go, Janette. It is not you they seek. You
can conceal yourself. You shall be safe.
Jan.
She is wild! Nay, I was mad myself, or I should
never have stayed here. It were better to have lived
always with them, than to be murdered thus.
(Helen opens the window, and stands for a moment,
looking silently down into the court. She turns
away, shuddering.)
Helen.
Can I meet those eyes again?
(Again the name of Maitland mingles with the wild
and unintelligible sounds that rise from without.)
Helen.
Can I? (She turns to the window.)
What
can it mean? His own beautiful steed! How fiercely
he prances beneath that unskilful rein. Where's your
master, Selma, that he leaves me to be murdered here?
A letter! He bids me unfasten the door, Janette.
Jan.
And will you?
Helen.
They are treacherous I know. This will do.—
(Taking a basket from the toilette.)
Give me that cord.
(She lets down the basket from the window, and draws
it up, with a letter in it.)
Helen.
(Looking at the superscription.)
'Tis his!
I thought so. Is it ink and paper that I want now?
(Breaking it open.)
Ah, there's no forgery in this. 'Tis
his! 'tis his!
Jan.
How can she stand to look at that little lock of
hair now?—smiling as if she had found a bag of diamonds.
But there's bad news there. How the color
fades out, and the light in her eye dies away. What can
it be?
Helen.
(Throwing the letter down, and walking the
floor hastily.)
This is too much! I cannot, I cannot,
I cannot go with them! How could he ask it of me?
This is cruel.
He knew, perfectly well, how I have always feared
them—I cannot go with them.
(She takes up the letter.)
(Reading.)
“Possible”—“If it were possible”—he
does not read that word as I did when I kept this promise
—Possible? He does not know the meaning that
love gives that word—“If I had known an hour sooner,”
—Ay, ay, an hour sooner!—“Trust me, dear Helen,
they will not harm you.” Trust me, trust me. Won't
I?
Jan.
She is beckoning them, as I live!
Helen.
Bring me that hat and mantle, Netty. I must
go with these savages.
Jan.
Go with them!
Helen.
There is no help for it.
Jan.
With these wild creatures,—with these painted
sure. Ah see, see them in their feathers and blankets,
and that long wild hair. See the knives and the tomahawks
in their girdles! Holy Mary! Here's one within
the court!
Helen.
Yes, there he stands—there's life in it now.—
There they stand—the chesnut boughs wave over them
—this is the filling up of life. They are waiting for me.
'Tis no dream.
Jan.
Dare you go with them? They will murder
you.
Helen.
If they were but human, I could move them—
and yet it is the human in them that is so dreadful. To
die were sad enough—to die by violence, by the power
of the innocent elements, were dreadful, or to be torn of
beasts; to meet the wild, fierce eye, with its fixed and
deadly purpose, more dreadful; but ah, to see the human
soul, from the murderers eye glaring on you, to encounter
the human will in its wickedness, amid that wild
struggle—Oh God! spare me.
Jan.
If you fear them so, surely you will not go with
them.
Helen.
This letter says they are kind and innocent.
One I should believe tells me there is no cause for fear.
In his haste he could not find no other way to send for
them.
Jan.
But Captain Grey will come back here again
this afternoon. Stay,—stay, and we will go with him.
Helen.
You can—yes, you will be safe. For myself, I
will abide my choice. Surely I need not dread to go
where my betrothed husband trusts me so fearlessly. I
count my life worth little more than the price at which he
values it. Clasp this mantle, Netty.—And is it thus I go
forth from these blessed walls at last?—Through all those
safe and quiet hours of peace and trust, did this dark end
to them lie waiting here?—Are they calling me?
Jan.
Yes.
Helen.
Well,—I am ready. (Lingering in the door.)
I
shall sit by that window no more. Never again shall I
turn those blinds to catch the breeze or the sunshine.
Yes—(returning)
, let me look down on that orchard
once again. Never more—never more.
(She walks to the door, again pausing on the threshold.
Helen.
(solemnly.)
Oh God, here, from childhood to
this hour, morning and evening I have called on thee—
forget me not. Farewell, Netty, you will see my mother
—you will see them all—that is past.—Tell her I had
seen the Indians, and was not afraid.
[She goes out.
It won't take much to make an angel of her,
there's that in it.
(Looking cautiously through the shutters.)
There she comes! How every eye in that wild group
flashes on her! And yet with what a calm and stately
bearing she meets them. Holy Mary! she suffers that
savage creature to lift her to her horse, as though he
were her brother, and the long knife by his side too, glancing
in the sunshine! The horse, one would think, he
knew the touch of that white hand on his neck. How
gently he rears his beautiful head. There they go.
Adieu! Was there ever so sad a smile?
Another glimpse I shall have of them yet beyond those
trees.—Yes, there they go—there they go. I can see
that lovely plume waving among the trees still.—Was
there ever so wild a bridal train?
| The bride of Fort Edward | |