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_.)