SCENE. _A chamber in the Parsonage. Helen leaning from the open window_.
(_Annie enters_.)
_Annie_. Helen Grey, where on earth have you been? _Wood flowers!_
_Helen_. Come and look at this sunset.
_Annie_. Surely you have not, you cannot have been in those woods,
Helen: and yet, where else could this periwinkle grow, and these wild
roses?--Delicious!
_Helen_. Hear that flute. It comes from among those trees by the river side.
_Annie_. It is the shower that has freshened every thing, and made the
birds so musical. You should stand in the door below, as I did just now,
to see the fort and the moistened woods stands out from that black sky,
with all this brightness blazing on them.
_Helen_. 'Tis lovely--all.
_Annie_. There goes the last golden rim over the blackening woods;
already even a shade of tender mourning steals over all things, the very
children's voices under this tree,--how soft they grow.
_Helen_. Will the day come when we shall see him sink, for the last
time, behind those hills?
_Annie_. Nay, Helen, why do you mar this lovely hour with a thought like
that?
_Helen_. And in another life, shall we see light, when his, for us,
shines no more?--What sound is that?
_Annie_. That faint cry from the woods?
_Helen_. No,--more distant,--far off as the horizon, like some mighty
murmur, faintly borne, it came.
_Annie_. I wish that we had gone to-day. I do not like this waiting
until Thursday;--just one of that elder brother's foolish whims it was.
I cannot think how your consent was won to it. Did you meet any one in
your walk just now?
_Helen_. No--Yes, yes, I did. The little people where I went, I met by
hundreds, Annie. Through the dark aisles, and the high arches, all
decked in blue, and gold, and crimson, they sung me a most merry
welcome. And such as these--see--You cannot think how like
long-forgotten friends they looked, smiling up from their dark homes,
upon me.
_Annie_. You have had chance enough to forget them, indeed,--it is two
years, Helen, since you have been in those woods before. What could have
tempted you there to-day?
_Helen_. Was there _danger_ then?--was there danger indeed?--I was by
the wood-side ere I knew it, and then,--it was but one last look I
thought to take--nay, what is it, Annie? George met me as I was coming
home, and I remember something in his eye startled me at first; but if
there was danger, I should have known of it before.
_Annie_. How could we dream of your going there this evening, when we
knew you had never set your foot in those woods since the day Everard
Maitland left Fort Edward?
_Helen_. Annie!
_Annie_. For me, I would as soon have looked to see Maitland himself
coming from those woods, as you.
_Helen_. Annie! Annie Grey! You must not, my sister--do not speak that
name to me, never again, _never_.
_Annie_. Why, Helen, I am sorry to have grieved you thus; but I
thought--Look! look! There go those officers again,--there, in the lane
between the orchards, Scarcely half an hour ago they went by to the fort
in just such haste. There is something going on there, I am sure.
(_Helen rises from the window, and walks the room_.)
_Annie_. In truth there was a rumor this afternoon,--you are so timid
and fanciful, our mother chose you should not hear it while it was rumor
only; but 'tis said that a party of the enemy have been seen in those
woods to-day, and, among them, the Indians we have counted so friendly.
Do you hear me, Helen?
_Helen_. That he should _live_ still! Yes, it is all real still! That
heaven of my thought, that grows so like a pageant to me, is still
_real_ somewhere. Those eyes--they are darkly shining now; this very
moment that passes _me_, drinks their beauty;--that voice,--that
tone,--that very tone--on some careless ear, even now it wastes its
luxury of blessing. Continents of hail and darkness, the polar seas--all
earth's distance, could never have parted me from him; but now I live in
the same world with him, and the everlasting walls blacken between us.
Those looks may shine on the dull earth and senseless stones, but not on
me; on uncaring eyes, but not on mine; though for one moment of their
lavished wealth, I could cheaply give a life without them; never again,
never, never, never shall their love come to me.
_Annie_. Who would have thought she could cherish in secret a grief like
this? Dear sister, we all believed you had forgotten that sad affair
long ago,--we thought that you were happy now.
_Helen_. Happy?--I am, you were right; but I have been to-day down to
the very glen where we took that last lovely walk together, and all the
beautiful past came back to me like life.--I _am_ happy; you must count
me so still.
_Annie_. With what I have just now heard, how can I?
_Helen_. It is this war that has parted us; and so, this is but my part
in these noble and suffering times, and that great thought reaches
overall my anguish. But for this war I might have been--hath this world
such flowers, and do they call it a wilderness?--I might have been, even
now, you know it, Annie, his wife, his wife, _his_. But our hearts are
cunningly made, many-stringed; and often much good music is left in them
when we count them broken. That which makes the bitterness of this lot,
the inconceivable, unutterable bitterness of it, even that I can bear
now, calmly, and count it God's kindness too.
_Annie_. I do not understand you, sister.
_Helen_. What if this young royalist, Annie, when he quarrelled with my
brother, and took arms against my country, what if he had kept faith to
_me?_
_Annie_. Well.
_Helen. Well?_ Oh no, it would not have been well. Why, my home would
have been with that pursuing army now, my fate bound up with that hollow
cause,--these very hands might have fastened the sword of oppression;
nay, the sword whose edge was turned against you, against you all, and
against the cause, that with tears, night and morning, you were praying
for, and with your heart's best blood stood ready to seal every hour.
No, it is best as it is; or if my wish grows deeper still, if in my
heart I envy, with murmuring thought, the blessed brides, on whose
wedding dawns the laughing sun of peace, then with a wish I cast away
the glory of these suffering times.--It is best as it is. I am content.
_Annie_. I wish I could understand you, Helen. You say, "if he had kept
faith to you;"--carried you off, you mean! Do you mean, sister Helen,
that of your own will you would ever have gone with him, with Everard
Maitland,--that traitor?
_Helen. Gone with him_? Would I not? Would I not? Dear child, we talk of
what, as yet, you know nothing of. Gone with _him_? Some things are
holy, Annie, only until the holier come.
_Annie_. (_looking toward the door_.) Stay, stay. What is it, George?
(_George Grey comes in_.)
_George_. I was seeking our mother. What should it be, but ill news?
This tide is against us, and if it be not well-nigh full, we may e'en
fold our arms for the rest. There, read that. (_Throwing her a letter_.)
Every face you see looks as if a thunder-cloud were passing it. I heard
one man say, just now, as I came in, that the war would be over in a
fortnight's time. There'll be some blood spilt ere then, I reckon
though.
_Helen_. What paper is that that reddens her cheek so suddenly?
_Annie_. The McGregor's!--think of it, Helen,--gone over to the British
side, and St. John of the Glens, and--who brought you this letter,
George? 'Tis false! I do not believe it, not a word of it. Why, here are
twenty names, people that we know, the most honorable, too,--forsaking
us now, at such a crisis!
_George_. Self-defence, self-defence, sister; their lands and their
houses must be saved from devastation. What sort of barracks think you,
would that fine country-seat of McGregor's make?--and St. John's--_he_
is a farmer you know, and his fields are covered with beautiful grain,
that a week will ripen, and so, he is for turning his sword into a
sickle;--besides, there are worse things than pillage threatened here.
Look, (_unfolding a hand-bill_.) Just at this time comes this villainous
proclamation from Skeensborough, scattered about among our soldiers
nobody knows how, half of them on the eve of desertion before, and the
other half--what ails you, Helen?
_Helen_. There he stands!
_Annie_. Is she crazed? Why do you clasp your hands so wildly? for
Heaven's sake, Helen!--her cheek is white as death.--Helen!
_Helen_. Is he gone, Annie?
_Annie_. As I live, I do not know what you are talking of. Nay, look;
there is no one here, none that you need fear, most certainly.
_Helen_. I saw him, his eye was on me; there he stood, looking through
that window, smiling and beckoning me.
_George_. Saw him? Who, in Heaven's name? This is fancy-work.
_Helen_. I saw him as I see you now. He stood on that roof,--an
Indian,--I saw the crimson bars on his face, and the blanket, and the
long wild hair on his shoulders; and--and, I saw the gleaming knife in
his girdle,--Oh God! I did.
_George_. Ay, ay, 'twas that scoundrel that dogged us in our way home,
I'll lay my life it was.
_Helen_. In our way home? An _Indian_, I said.
_George_. Well, well, and I say an Indian, a rascal Indian, was watching
and following us all the way home just now.
_Helen_. George!
_George_. Then you did not see him after all. In truth, I did not mean
you should, for we could not have hurried more, but all the time we sat
in that shanty, while it rained, about as far off as that chair from me,
stood this same fellow among the bushes, watching us, or rather you. And
you saw him here t He might have crept along by that orchard wall. What
are you laughing at, Annie?--I will go and see what sort of a guard we
have.
_Annie_. If you knew as much of Helen's Indians as I do, you would
hardly be in such a hurry, George, I mean about this one that was here
just now, for there are Indians in yonder forest I suppose; but since we
were so high, I never walked in the woods with her once, but that we
encountered one, or heard his steps among the bushes at least; and if it
chanced to be as late as this, there would be half a dozen of them way
laying us in the road,--but sometimes they turned out squirrels, and
sometimes logs of wood, and sometimes mere air, air of about this color.
We want a little light, that is all. There is no weapon like that for
these fancy-people. I can slay a dozen of them with a candle's beams.
(_George goes out_.)
_Helen_. Do not laugh at me to-night, Annie.
_Annie_. But what should the Indians want of you, pry'thee; tell me
that, Helen?
_Helen_. God knows. Wait till the sun sets to-morrow, and I will laugh
with you if you are merry then.
_Annie_. Why to-morrow?--because it is our last day
here? Tuesday--Wednesday--yes; the next day we
shall be on the road to Albany.
[_Exit_.
_Helen_. I am awake now. Watched me in the glen?--followed me home?
Those woods are full of them.--But what has turned their wild eyes on
me?
It is but one day longer;--we have counted many, in peril and fear, and
_this_, is the last;--even now how softly the fearful time wastes. _One
day!_--Oh God, thou only knowest what its shining walls encircle. (_She
leans on the window, musing silently_.) Two years ago I stood here, and
prayed to die.-On that same tree my eye rested then. With what visions
of hope I played under it once, building bowers for fairies I verily
thought would come, and dreaming, with yearning heart, of glorious and
beautiful things this world _hath not_. But, that wretched day, through
blinding tears, I saw the sunlight on its glossy leaves, and I said,
'let me see that light no more.' Surely the bitterness is deep when that
which hath colored all our unfolded being, is a weariness. For what more
hath life for me I thought, its lesson is learned and its power is
spent,--it can please, and it can trouble me no more; and why should I
stay here in vain and wearily?
It was sad enough, indeed, to see the laughing spring returning again,
when the everlasting winter had set in within, to link with each change
of the varied year, sweet with a life's memories, such mournfulness;
laying by, one by one, all hope's blessed spells, withered and broken
forever,--the moonlight, the songs of birds, the blossom showers of
April, the green and gold of autumn's sunset,--it was sad, but it was
not in vain.--Not in vain, Oh God, didst thou deny that weeping prayer.
(_A merry voice is heard without, and a child's face peeps
through the window that overlooks the orchard_.)
_Child_. Look! look! sister Helen! see what I have found on the roof of
the piazza here,--all covered with wampum and scarlet, and here are
feathers too--two feathers in it, blue and yellow--eagle's feathers they
are, I guess.
_Helen_ (_approaching the window_.) Let me see, Willy. What, did you
find it here?
_Willy._ Just under the window here. Frank and I were swinging on the
gate; and--there is something hard in it, Helen,--feel.
_Helen_. Yes, it is very curious; but--
_Willy_. There comes Netty with the candle; now we can see to untie this
knot.
_Helen_. Willy, dear Willy, you must give it to me, you must indeed,
and--I will paint you a bird to-morrow.
_Willy_. A blue-bird, will you? A real one?
_Helen_. Yes, yes;--run down little climber; see how dark it grows, and
Frank is waiting, see.
_Willy_. Well. But mind you, it must be a blue bird then. A real one.
With the red on his breast, and all.
[_Exit_.
(_She walks to the table, unfastening the envelope_.)
_Helen_. What sent that thrill of forgotten life through me then?--that
wild, delicious thrill? This is strange, indeed. A sealed pacquet
within! and here--
(_She glances at the superscription, and the pacquet
drops from her hand_.)
No--no. I have seen that hand-writing in my dreams before, but it
dissolved always. What's joy better than grief, if it pierce thus? Can
never a one of all the soul's deep melodies on this poor instrument be
played out, then--trembling and jarring thus, even at the breath of its
most lovely passion.--And yet, it is some cruel thing, I know.
(_The pacquet opened, discovers Helen's miniature, a book,
a ring, and other tokens_.)
Cruel indeed! That little rose!--He might have spared me this. A dull
reader I were, in truth, if this needed comment,--but I knew it before.
He might have spared me this.
(_She leans over the recovered relics with a burst
of passionate weeping_.)
Yet, who knows--(_lifting her head with a sudden smile_,) some trace,
some little curl of his pencil I may find among these leaves yet, to
tell me, as of old,--
(_A letter drops from the book, she tears it eagerly open_.)
(_Reading_.) These cold words I understand, but--_letters!_--He wrote me
none! Was there ever a word between us, from the hour when he left me,
his fancied bride, to that last meeting, when, at a word, and ere I knew
what I had said, he turned on me that cold and careless eye, and left
me, haughtily and forever? And now--(_reading_)--misapprehension, has it
been! Is the sun on high again?--in this black and starless night--the
noonday sun? He loves me still.--Oh! this joy weighs like grief.
Shall I see him again? Joy! joy! Beautiful sunshine joy! Who knows the
soul's rich depths till joy hath lighted them?--from the dim and
sorrowful haunts of memory will he come again into the living present!
Shall I see those eyes, looking on me? Shall I hear my name in that lost
music sound once more?--His?--Am I his again? New mantled with that
shining love, like some glorious and beautiful stranger I seem to
myself, _Helen_--the bright and joy-wreathed thing his voice makes that
name mean--My life will be all full of that blest music. I shall be
Helen, evermore his--his.
No,--it would make liars of old sages,--and all books would read wrong.
A life of such wild blessedness? It would be fearful like living in some
magic land, where the honest laws of nature were not. A life?--a moment
were enough. Ages of common life would shine in it. (_Reading again_.)
"Elliston's hut?"--"If I choose that the return should be mutual,--and
the memorials of a despised regard can at best be but an indifferent
possession;--a pacquet reinclosed directly in this same envelope, and
left at the hut of the missionary, cannot fail to reach him safely."
"Safely."--Might he not come there safely then? And might I not go
thither safely too, in to-morrow's light? O God, let not Passion lead me
now. The centre beaming truth, not passion's narrow ray, must light me
here!--But am I not his?
Once more, one horizon circles, for a day, our long-parted destinies;
another, and another wave of these wild times will drift them asunder
again, forever; and I count myself his wife. His wife?--nay, his bride,
his two years' bride, to-night, his wife, to-morrow. He must meet me
there, (_writing_) at noon, I will say.--I did not think that little hut
of logs should have been my marriage-hall;--he must meet me there, and
to-morrow is my bridal day.