SCENE. _The deserted house--the chamber--Helen by the table--her head
bowed and motionless. She rises slowly from her drooping posture_.
_Helen_. It is my bridal day. I had forgotten that. (_Looking from the
window_.) Is this real? Am I here alone? My mother gone? The army gone?
brothers and sisters gone, and those woods full of armed Indians? I am
awake. This is not the light of dreams,--'tis the sun that's shining
there. Not the fresh arid tender morning sun, that looked in on that
parting. Hours he has climbed since then, to turn those shadows
thus,--hours that to me were nothing.--Alone?--deserted--defenceless? Of
my own will too? There was a _law_ in that will, though, was there not?
(_Turning suddenly from the window_.) Shall I see him again? The living
real of my thousand dreams, in the light of life, will he stand here
to-day?--to-day? No, no. Is this swift flow of being leading on to
_that_? Oh day of anguish, if in thine awful bosom, still, that dazzling
instant sleeps, I can forgive the rest.
(_She stands by the toilette, and begins to gather once more
the long hair from her shoulders. Suddenly a low voice at the
door breaks the stillness. The Canadian servant looks in_.)
_Jan_. I ask your pardon--Shall I come in, Ma'amselle?
_Helen_. Ay, ay, come in. How strangely any voice sounds amid this
loneliness. I am glad you are here.
_Jan_. (_Entering_.) Beautiful! Santa Maria! How beautiful! May I look
at these things, Ma'amselle? (_Stopping by the couch strewn with bridal
gear_.) Real Brussels! And the plume in this bonnet, was there ever such
a lovely droop?
_Helen_. Come, fasten this clasp for me, Netty. I thought to have had
another bridesmaid once, but--that is past--Yes, I am a bride to-day,
and I must not wait here unadorned. (_Aside_.) He shall have no hint
from me this day of "_altered fortunes_." As though these weary years
had been but last night's dream, and my wedding-day had come as it was
fixed, so will I meet him.--Yet I thought to have worn my shroud sooner
than this robe.
_Jan_. This silk would stand alone, Ma'amselle,--and what a lovely white
it is! Just such a bodice as this I saw my Lady Mary wear, two years ago
this summer, in Quebec; only, this is a thought deeper. But, Santa
Maria! how it becomes a shape like yours!
_Helen_. What a world of buried feeling lives again as I feel the clasp
of this robe once more! Will he say these years have changed me?
_Jan_. (_Aside_) I do not like that altered mien. How the beauty flashes
from her? Is it silk and lace that can change one so? Here are bracelets
too, Ma'amselle; will you wear them?
_Helen_. Yes. Go, look from the window, Janette, down the lane to the
woods. I am well-high ready now. He will come,--yes, he will come.
(_Janette retreats to the window,--her eye still following the lady_.)
_Jan_. I have seen brides before, but never so gay a one as this. It is
strange and fearful to see her stand here alone, in this lonesome house,
all in glistening white, smiling, and the light flashing from her eyes
thus. She looks too much like some radiant creature from another world,
to be long for this.
_Helen_. He will come, why should he not? Netty, fix your eye on that
opening in the woods, and if you see but a shadow crossing it, tell me
quickly.
_Jan_. I can see nothing--nothing at all. Marie sanctissima!--how quiet
it is! The shadows are straight here now, Miss Helen.
_Helen_. Noon--the very hour has come! Another minute it may be.--Noon,
you said, Netty?
(_Joining Janette at the window_.)
_Jan_. Yes, quite--you can see; and hark, there's the clock. Oh, isn't
it lonesome though? See how like the Sunday those houses look, with the
doors all closed and the yards and gardens still as midnight. If we
could but hear a human voice!--whose, I would not care.
_Helen_. How like any other noon-day it comes! The faint breeze plays in
those graceful boughs as it did yesterday; that little, yellow butterfly
glides on its noiseless way above the grass, as then it did;--just so,
the shadows sleep on the grassy road-side there;--yes, Netty, yes,
_'tis_ very lonely.--Hear those merry birds!
_Jan_. But I would rather hear that signal, Miss Helen, a thousand
times, than the best music that ever was played.
_Helen_. I shall see him again. That wild hope is wild no longer. To
doubt were wilder now. Ay, Fate must cross my way with a bold hand, to
snatch that good from me now. And yet,--alas, in the shadowy future it
lieth still, and a dark and treacherous realm is that! The joys that
blossom on its threshold are not ours--It may be, even now, darkness and
silence everlasting lie between us.
_Jan_. Hark--Hark!
_Helen_. What is it?
_Jan_. Hark!--There!--Do you hear nothing?
_Helen_. Distant voices?
_Jan_. Yes--
_Helen_. I do--
_Jan_. Once before,--'twas when I stood in the door below, I heard
something like this; but the breeze just then brought the sound of the
fall nearer, and drowned it. There it is!--Nearer. The other window,
Miss Helen.
_Helen_. From that hill it comes, does it not?
_Jan_. Yes--yes, I should think it did. Oh yes. There is a guard left
there--I had forgotten that. Mon Dieu! How white your lips are! Are you
afraid, Ma'amselle?
(_Helen stands gazing silently from the window_.)
_Jan_. There is no danger. It must have been those soldiers that we
heard,--or the cry of some wild animal roaming through yonder woods--it
might have been,--how many strange sounds we hear from them. At another
time we should never have thought of it. I think we should have heard
that signal though, ere this,--I do, indeed.
_Helen_. What is it to die? Nor wood nor meadow, nor winding stream, nor
the blue sky, do _they_ see; nor the voice of bird or insect do they
hear; nor breeze, nor sunshine, nor fragrance visits them. Will there be
nothing left that makes this being then? The high, Godlike purpose--the
life whose breath it is,--can _that_ die?--the meek trust in Goodness
Infinite,--can _that_ perish? No.--This is that building of the soul
which nothing can dissolve, that house eternal, that eternity's wide
tempests cannot move. No--no--I am not afraid. No--Netty, I am not
afraid.
_Jan_. Will you come here, Miss Helen?
_Helen_. Well.
_Jan_. Look among those trees by the road-side--those pine trees, on the
side of the hill, where my finger points.--
_Helen_. Well--what is it?
_Jan_. Do you see--what a blinding sunshine this is--do you see
something moving there?--wait a moment--they are hid among the trees
now--you will see them again presently--There!--there they come, a troop
of them, see.
_Helen_. Yes--_Indians_--are they not?
_Jan_. Ay--it must have been their yelling that we heard.--We need not
be alarmed.--They are from the camp--they have come to that spring for
water. The wonder is, your soldiers should have let them pass.--You will
see them turning back directly now.
_Helen_. (_Turning from the window_.) Shelter us--all power is thine.
_Jan_. Holy Virgin!--they are coming this way. Those creatures are
coming down that hill, as I live. Yes, there they come.
This strip of wood hides them now. What keeps them there so long? Ay,
ay,--I see now--I am sorry I should have alarmed you so, Ma'amselle, for
nothing too--They have struck into those woods again, no doubt; they are
going back to their camp by the lower route.
_Helen_. No.
_Jan_. It must be so. There is no doubt of it. Indeed, we might be sure
they would never dare come here.--They cannot know yet that your army
are gone. Besides, we should have heard from them ere this. They could
never have kept their horrid tongues to themselves so long, I
know.--Well, if it were to save me, I cannot screw myself into this
shape any longer. (_Rising from the window_.)
_Helen_. Listen.
_Jan_. 'Tis nothing but the sound of the river. You can make nothing
else of it, Ma'amselle,--unless it is these locusts that you hear. I
wish they would cease their everlasting din a moment.
How that breeze has died away! Every leaf is still now! There's not a
cloud or a speck in all the sky.
_Helen_. Look in the west--have you looked there?
_Jan_. Yes, there are a few little clouds beginning to gather there
indeed. We shall have a shower yet ere night.
(_The war-whoop is heard, loud and near_.)
_Jan_. Mon Dieu! Here they are! It is all over with us! We shall be
murdered!
(_She clasps her hands, and shrieks wildly_.)
_Helen_. Hush! hush! Put down that window, and come away. We must be
calm now.
_Jan_. It is all over with us,--what use is there? Do you hear that
trampling?--in the street!--they are coming!
_Helen_. Janette--Hear me. Will you throw away your life and mine? For
shame! Be calm. These Indians cannot know that we are here. They will
see these houses _all_ deserted. Why should they stop to search _this?_
Hush! hush! they are passing now.
_Jan_. They have stopped!--the trampling has stopped!--I hear the
gate,--they have come into the yard.
(_A long wild yell is heard under the window. They stand,
looking silently at each other. Again it trembles through
the room, louder than before_.)
_Helen_. I am sorry you stayed here with me. Perhaps--Hark! What was
that? What was that? Was it not _Maitland_ they said then? It was--it
is--Don't grasp me so.
_Jan_. Nay--what would you do?
_Helen_. I must speak with them. Let go my arm! Do you not hear? 'Tis
Maitland they are talking of. How strangely that blessed name sounds in
those tones!
_Jan_. You must not--we have tempted Heaven already--this is madness.
_Helen_. Let go, Janette. It is not you they seek. You can conceal
yourself. You shall be safe.
_Jan_. She is wild! Nay, I was mad myself, or I should never have stayed
here. It were better to have lived always with them, than to be murdered
thus.
(_Helen opens the window, and stands for a moment, looking
silently down into the court. She turns away, shuddering_.)
_Helen_. Can I meet those eyes again?
(_Again the name of Maitland mingles with the wild
and unintelligible sounds that rise from without_.)
_Helen_. Can I? (_She turns to the window_.) What can it mean? His own
beautiful steed! How fiercely he prances beneath that unskilful rein.
Where's your master, Selma, that he leaves me to be murdered here? A
letter! He bids me unfasten the door, Janette.
_Jan_. And will you?
_Helen_. They are treacherous I know. This will do.--(_Taking a basket
from the toilette_.) Give me that cord. (_She lets down the basket from
the window, and draws it up, with a letter in it_.)
_Helen_. (_Looking at the superscription_.) 'Tis his! I thought so. Is
it ink and paper that I want now? (_Breaking it open_.) Ah, there's no
forgery in this, 'Tis his! 'tis his!
_Jan_. How can she stand to look at that little lock of hair
now?--smiling as if she had found a bag of diamonds. But there's bad
news there. How the color fades out, and the light in her eye dies away.
What can it be?
_Helen_. (_Throwing the letter down, and walking the floor hastily_.)
This is too much! I cannot, I cannot, _I cannot go with them_! How could
he ask it of me? _This is_ cruel.
He knew, perfectly well, how I have always feared them--I cannot go with
them.
(_She takes up the letter_.)
(_Reading_.) "Possible"--"If it were possible"--he does not read that
word as I did when I kept this promise--_Possible_? He does not know the
meaning that love gives that word--"If I had known an hour sooner,"
--Ay, ay, an hour sooner!--"Trust me, dear Helen, they will not harm
you." _Trust me_, trust me. Won't I?
_Jan_. She is beckoning them, as I live!
_Helen_. Bring me that hat and mantle, Netty. I must go with these
savages.
_Jan_. _Go_ with them!
_Helen_. There is no help for it.
_Jan_. With these wild creatures,--with these painted devils?--No--Like
nothing human they look, I am sure. Ah see, see them in their feathers
and blankets, and that long wild hair. See the knives and the tomahawks
in their girdles! Holy Mary! Here's one within the court!
_Helen_. Yes, there he stands--there's life in it now.--There they
stand--the chesnut boughs wave over them--this is the filling up of
life. They _are_ waiting for me. 'Tis no dream.
_Jan_. Dare you go with them? They will murder you.
_Helen_. If they were but human, I could move them--and yet it is the
human in them that is so dreadful. To die were sad enough--to die by
violence, by the power of the innocent elements, were dreadful, or to be
torn of beasts; to meet the wild, fierce eye, with its fixed and deadly
purpose, more dreadful; but ah, to see the human soul, from the
murderers eye glaring on you, to encounter the human will in its
wickedness, amid that wild struggle--Oh God! spare me.
_Jan_. If you fear them so, surely you will not go with them.
_Helen_. This letter says they are kind and innocent. One I _should_
believe tells me there is no cause for fear. In his haste he could not
find no other way to send for me.--The army will be here soon,--I _must_
go with them.
_Jan_. But Captain Grey will come back here again this afternoon.
Stay,--stay, and we will go with him.
_Helen_. You can--yes, you will be safe. For myself, I will abide my
choice. Surely I need not dread to go where my betrothed husband trusts
me so fearlessly. I count my life worth little more than the price at
which he values it. Clasp this mantle, Netty.--And is it thus I go forth
from these blessed walls at last?--Through all those safe and quiet
hours of peace and trust, did this dark end to them lie waiting
here?--Are they calling me?
_Jan_. Yes.
_Helen_. Well,--I am ready. (_Lingering in the door_.) I shall sit by
that window no more. Never again shall I turn those blinds to catch the
breeze or the sunshine. Yes--(_returning_), let me look down on that
orchard once again. Never more--never more.
(_She walks to the door, again pausing on the threshold_.)
_Helen_. (_solemnly_.) Oh God, here, from childhood to this hour,
morning and evening I have called on thee--forget me not. Farewell,
Netty, you will see my mother--you will see them all--that is
past.--Tell her I had seen the Indians, and was not afraid.
[_She goes out_.
_Jan_. It won't take much to make an angel of her, there's that in it.
(_Looking cautiously through the shutters_.)
There she comes! How every eye in that wild group flashes on her! And
yet with what a calm and stately bearing she meets them. Holy Mary! she
suffers that savage creature to lift her to her horse, as though he were
her brother, and the long knife by his side too, glancing in the
sunshine! The horse, one would think, he knew the touch of that white
hand on his neck. How gently he rears his beautiful head. There they go.
Adieu! Was there ever so sad a smile?
Another glimpse I shall have of them yet beyond those trees.--Yes, there
they go--there they go. I can see that lovely plume waving among the
trees still.--Was there ever so wild a bridal train?
* * * * *