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.