SCENE. _A room in the Parsonage,--an old-fashioned summer parlor.---On
the side a door and windows opening into an orchard, in front,
a yard filled with shade trees. The view beyond bounded by a
hill partly wooded. A young girl, in the picturesque costume of
the time, lies sleeping on the antique sofa. Annie sits by a
table, covered with coarse needlework, humming snatches of songs
as she works_.
_Annie_, (_singing_.)
_Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.
And flies weeping away.
The red cloud of war o'er our forest is scowling,
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.
Come blow the shrill bugle, the war dogs are howling,
Already they eagerly snuff out their prey--
The red cloud of war--the red cloud of war_--
Yes, let me see now,--with a little plotting this might make two--two,
at least,--and then--
_The red cloud of war o'er our forest is scowling,
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away,
The infants affrighted cling close to their mothers,
The youths grasp their swords, and for combat prepare;
While beauty weeps fathers, and lovers, and brothers,
Who are gone to defend_--
--Alas! what a golden, delicious afternoon is blowing without there,
wasting for ever; and never a glimpse of it. Delicate work this! Here's
a needle might serve for a genuine stiletto! No matter,--it is the
cause,--it is the cause that makes, as my mother says, each stitch in
this clumsy fabric a grander thing than the flashing of the bravest
lance that brave knight ever won.
(_Singing_)
_The brooks are talking in the dell,
Tul la lul, tul la lul,
The brooks are talking low, and sweet,
Under the boughs where th' arches meet;
Come to the dell, come to the dell,
Oh come, come_.
_The birds are singing in the dell,
Wee wee whoo, wee wee whoo;
The birds are singing wild and free,
In every bough of the forest tree,
Come to the dell, come to the dell,
Oh come, come_.
_And there the idle breezes lie,
Whispering, whispering,
Whispering with the laughing leaves.
And nothing says each idle breeze,
But come, come, come, O lady come,
Come to th' dell_.
[_Mrs. Grey enters from without_.]
_Mrs. G_. Do not sing, Annie.
_Annie_. Crying would better befit the times, I know,--Dear mother, what
is this?
_Mrs. G_. Hush,--asleep--is she?
_Annie_. This hour, and quiet as an infant. Need enough there was of it
too. See, what a perfect damask mother!
_Mrs. G_. Draw the curtain on that sunshine there. This sleep has
flushed her. Ay, a painter might have dropped that golden hair,--yet
this delicate beauty is but the martyr's wreath now, with its fine nerve
and shrinking helplessness. No, Annie; put away your hat, my love,--you
cannot go to the lodge to-night.
_Annie_. Mother?
_Mrs. G_. You cannot go to the glen to-night. This is no time for idle
pleasure, God knows.
_Annie_. Why, you have been weeping in earnest, and your cheek is
pale.--And now I know where that sad appointment led you. Is it over?
That it should be in our humanity to bear, what in our ease we cannot,
_cannot_ think of!
_Mrs. G_. Harder things for humanity are there than bodily anguish,
sharp though it be. It was not the boy,--the mother's anguish, I wept
for, Annie.
_Annie_. Poor Endross! And he will go, to his dying day, a crippled
thing. But yesterday I saw him springing by so proudly! And the
mother----
_Mrs. G_. "_Words, words_," she answered sternly when I tried to comfort
her; "ay, words are easy. _Wait till you see your own child's blood_.
Wait till you stand by and see his young limbs hewn away, and the groans
come thicker and thicker that you cannot soothe; and then let them prate
to you of the good cause." Bitter words! God knows what is in store for
us;--all day this strange dread has clung to me.
_Annie_. Dear mother, is not this the superstition you were wont to
chide?
_Mrs. G_. Ay, ay, we should have been in Albany ere this. In these wild
times, Annie, every chance-blown straw that points at evil, is likely to
prove a faithful index; and if it serve to nerve the heart for it, we
may call it heaven-sent indeed. Annie,--hear me calmly, my child,--the
enemy, so at least goes the rumor, are nearer than we counted on this
morning, and--hush, not a word.
_Annie_. She is but dreaming. Just so she murmured in her sleep last
night; twice she waked me with the saddest cry, and after that she sat
all night by the window in her dressing-gown, I could not persuade her
to sleep again. Tell me, mother, you say _and_--and what?
_Mrs. G_. I cannot think it true, 'tis rumored though, that these savage
neighbors of ours have joined the enemy.
_Annie_. No! no! Has Alaska turned against us? Why, it was but yesterday
I saw him with Leslie in yonder field. 'Tis false; it must be. Surely he
could not harm us.
_Mrs. G_. And false, I trust it is. At least till it is proved
otherwise, Helen must not hear of it.
_Annie_. And why?
_Mrs. Grey_. She needs no caution, and it were useless to add to the
idle fear with which she regards them all, already. Some dark fancy
possesses her to-day; I have marked it myself.
_Annie_. It is just two years to-morrow, mother, since Helen's wedding
day, or rather, that sad day that should have seen her bridal; and it
cannot be that she has quite forgotten Everard Maitland. Alas, he seemed
so noble!
_Mrs. G_. Hush! Never name him. Your sister is too high-hearted to waste
a thought on him. Tory! Helen is no love-lorn damsel, child, to pine for
an unworthy love. See the rose on that round cheek,--it might teach that
same haughty loyalist, could he see her now, what kind of hearts 'tis
that we patriots wear, whose strength they think to trample. Where are
you going, Annie?
_Annie_. Not beyond the orchard-wall. I will only stroll down the path
here, just to breathe this lovely air a little; indeed, there's no fear
of my going further now.
[_Exit_.
_Mrs. G_. Did I say right, Helen? It cannot be feigned. Those quick
smiles, with their thousand lovely meanings; those eyes, whose beams
lead straight to the smiling soul. Principle is it? There is no
principle in this, but joy, or else it strikes so deep, that the joy
grows up from it, genuine, not feigned; and yet I have found her weeping
once or twice of late, in unexplained agony. Helen!
_Helen_. Oh mother! is it you? Thank God. I thought----
_Mrs. G_. What did you think? What moves you thus?
_Helen_. I thought--'tis nothing. This _is_ very strange.
_Mrs. G_. Why do you look through that window thus? There's no one
there! What is it that's so strange?
_Helen_. Is it to-morrow that we go?
_Mrs. G_. To Albany? Why, no; on Thursday. You are bewildered, Helen!
surely you could not have forgotten that.
_Helen_. I wish it was to-day. I do.
_Mrs. G_. My child, yesterday, when the question was debated here, and
wishing might have been of some avail, 'tis true you did not say much,
but I thought, and so we all did, that you chose to stay.
_Helen_. Did you? Mother, does the road to Albany wind over a hill like
that?
_Mrs. G_. Like what, Helen?
_Helen_. Like yonder wooded hill, where the soldiers are stationed now?
_Mrs. G_. Not that I know of? Why?
_Helen_. Perhaps we may cross that very hill,--no--could we?
_Mrs. G_. Not unless we should turn refugees, my love; an event of which
there is little danger just now, I think. That road, as indeed you know
yourself, leads out directly to the British camp.
_Helen_. Yes--yes--it does. I know it does. I will not yield to it. 'Tis
folly, all.
_Mrs. G_. You talk as though you were dreaming still; my child. Put on
your hat, and go into the garden for a little, the air is fresh and
pleasant now; or take a ramble through the orchard if you will, you
might meet Annie there,--no, yon she comes, and well too. It's quite
time that I were gone again. I wish that we had nothing worse than
dreams on hand. Helen, I must talk with you about these fancies; you
must not thus unnerve yourself for real evil.
[_Exit_.
_Helen_. It were impossible,--it could not be!--how could it be?--Oh!
these are wild times. Unseen powers are crossing their meshes here
around us,--and, what am I--Powers?--there's but one Power, and that--
----"He careth for the little bird,
Far in the lone wood's depths, and though dark weapons
And keen eyes are out, it falleth not
But at his will."
[_Exit_.