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 loosely 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 new-found 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 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—even 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 log-hut.
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 drama 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'er-flowed 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 mourn-fulness 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.
How beautiful the night, through all these hours
Of nothingness, with ceaseless music wakes
Among the hills, trying the melodies
Of myriad chords on the lone, darkened air,
With lavish power, self-gladdened, caring nought
That there is none to hear. How beautiful!
That men should live upon a world like this,
Uncovered all, left open every night
To the broad universe, with vision free
To roam the long bright galleries of creation,
Yet, to their strange destiny ne'er wake.
Yon mighty hunter in his silver vest,
That o'er those azure fields walks nightly now,
In his bright girdle wears the self-same gems
That on the watchers of old Babylon
Shone once, and to the soldier on her walls
Marked the swift hour, as they do now to me.
Prose is the dream, and poetry the truth.
That which we call reality, is but
Reality's worn surface, that one thought
Into the bright and boundless all might pierce,
There's not a fragment of this weary real
That hath not in its lines a story hid
Stranger than aught wild chivalry could tell.
There's not a scene of this dim, daily life,
But, in the splendor of one truthful thought
As from creation's palette freshly wet,
Might make young romance's loveliest picture dim,
And e'en the wonder-land of ancient song,—
Old Fable's fairest dream, a nursery rhyme.
How calm the night moves on, and yet
In the dark morrow, that behind those hills
Lies sleeping now, who knows what waits?—'Tis well.
He that made this life, I'll trust with another.
To be,—there was the risk. We might have waked
Amid a wrathful scene, but this,—with all
Its lovely ordinances of calm days,
The golden morns, the rosy evenings,
Its sweet sabbath hours and holy homes,—
If the same hidden hand from whence these sprung,
That dark gate opens, what need we fear there?—
Here's wrath, but none that hath not its sure pathway
Upward leading,—there are tears, but 'tis
A school-time weariness; and many a breeze
And lovely warble from our native hills,
Through the dim casement comes, over the worn
And tear-wet page, unto the listening ear
Of our home sighing—to the listening ear.
Ah, what know we of life?—of that strange life
That this, in many a folded rudiment,
With nature's low, unlying voice, doth point to.
Is it not very like what the poor grub
Knows of the butterfly's gay being?—
With its colors strange, fragrance, and song,
And robes of floating gold with gorgeous dyes,
And loveliest motion o'er wide, blooming worlds.
That dark dream had ne'er imaged!—
Ay, sing on,
Sing on, thou bright one, with the news of life,
The everlasting, winging o'er our vale.
Oh warble on, thy high, strange song.
What sayest thou?—a land o'er these dark cliffs,
A land all glory, where the day ne'er setteth—
Where bright creatures, mid the deathless shades,
Go singing, shouting evermore? And yet
'Twere vain. That wild tale hath no meaning here,
Thou warbler from afar. Like music
Of a foreign tongue, on our dull sense,
The rich thought wastes.—We have been nursed in tears,
Thro' all we've known of life, we have known grief,
And is there none in life's deep essence mixed?
Is sorrow but the young soul's garment then?—
A baby mantle, doffed forever here,
Within these lowly walls.
And we were born
Amid a glad creation!—-then why hear we ne'er
The silver shout, filling the unmeasured heaven?—
Why catch we e'er the rich plume's rustle soft,
Or sweep of passing lyre! Our tearful home
Hung 'mid a gay, rejoicing universe,
And ne'er a glimpse adown its golden paths?—
Oh are there eyes, soft eyes upon us,
In the dark and in the day, shining unseen,
And everlasting smiles, brightening unfelt
On all our tears: News sweet and strange ye bring.
Hither we came from our Creator's hands,
Bright earnest ones, looking for joy, and lo,
A stranger met us at the gate of life,
A stranger dark, and wrapped us in her robe,
And bore us on through a dim vale.—Ah, not
The world we looked for,—for an image in.
Our souls was born, of a high home, that yet
We have not seen. And were our childhood's yearnings,
Its strange hopes, no dreams then,—dim revealings
Of a land that yet we travel to?—
But thou, oh foster-mother, mournful nurse,
So long upon thy sable vest we're leaned,
Thou art grown dear to us, and when at last
At yonder blue and burning gate
Thou yieldest up thy trust, and joy at last
In her own wild embrace enfolds us once, e'en
From the jewelled bosom of that dazzling one,
From the young roses of that smiling face,
Shall we not turn to thee, for one last glimpse
Of that wan cheek, and solemn eye of love,
And watch thy stately step, far down
This dim world's fading paths? Take us, kind sorrow!
We will lean our young head meekly on thee;
Good and holy is thy ministry,
Oh handmaid of the Halls thou ne'er mayst tread.
And let the darkness gather round that world,
Not for the vision of thy glittering walls
We ask, nor glimpse of brilliant troops that roam
Thine ancient streets, thou sunless city,—
Wrap thy strange pavillions still in clouds,
Let the shades slumber round thy many homes,
By faith, and not by sight, through lowly paths
Of goodness, sorrow-led, to thee we come.