The Bride Of Fort Edward: Founded On An Incident Of The Revolution Part 16

[_They go out together_.

_Helen_. (_She has stood silently watching them_.) He has gone, without one parting look--he has gone! So break the myriad-tied loves, it hath taken a life to weave. This is a weary world.

(_She turns to her sister, who leans weeping on the window-seat_.)

Come, Annie, you and I will part in kindness, will we not? No cruel words shall there be here. Pleasant hath your love been unto me, my precious sister. Farewell, Annie.

_Annie_. Shall I never hear your voice again, that hath been the music of my whole life? Is your face henceforth to be to me only a remembered thing? Helen, you must not stay here. The Indians,--it was no idle fear, the half of their b.l.o.o.d.y outrages you have not heard; they will murder you, yes, _you_. The innocence and loveliness that is holy to us, is nothing in their eyes, they would as soon sever that beautiful hair from your brow----

_Helen_. Hush, hush. There is no danger, Annie. The dark things of destiny are G.o.d's; the heart, the heart only, is ours.

(_Mrs. Grey re-enters_.)

_Mrs. G_. (_to Annie_.) Come, come, my child. This is foolish now. All is ready. Janette will stay with you, Helen.

(_Laughing voices are heard without, and the children's faces are seen peeping in the door_.)

_w.i.l.l.y_. Dear mother, are you not ready yet? We have been in the wagon and out a hundred times. Oh, Helen, make haste. The sun is above the trees, and the gra.s.s on the roadside is all full of diamonds. The last soldiers are winding down the hollow now. Is not Helen going, Mother?

_Mrs. G_. Your sister Helen is going from us forever. Come in and kiss her once, and then make haste--you must not all be lost.

(_They enter_.)

_w.i.l.l.y_. Ah, why don't you go with us, sister?--Such a beautiful ride we shall have. You never heard such a bird-singing in all your life.

_Frank_. We shall go by the Chesnut Hollow, George says we shall. Smell of these roses, Helen. Must she stay here? Hark, w.i.l.l.y, there's the drum. Good-bye, How sorry I am you will not go with us.

_w.i.l.l.y_. So am I. What makes you stand so still and look at us so? Why don't you kiss me? Good-bye, Helen.

_Helen_. (_Embracing them silently_.)

_Annie_. Will you leave her here alone, mother? Will you?

_Mrs. G_. No. There is a guard left on yonder hill, and the fort is not yet abandoned wholly. Besides, the army encamp at the creek, and Henry himself will return this afternoon. She will be gone ere then, though.

_Helen_. Those merry steps and voices, those little, soft clinging hands and rosy lips, have vanished forever. For all my love I shall be to them but as the faint trace of some faded dream. This is a weary world.

Come, George, farewell. How I have loved to look on that young brow. Be what my dreams have made you. Fare you well.

_George_. Farewell, Helen.

[_He goes out hastily_.

_Helen_. Will he forget me?

_Mrs. G_. And farewell, Helen. Fare ye well.

_Helen_. Will she leave me thus?

_Mrs. G_. Do not go to the hut--do not leave this door until you are sure of the signal you spoke of, Helen.

_Helen_. She will not look at me,--Mother!

_Mrs. G_. Farewell, Helen; may the hour never come when you need the love you have cast from you now so freely.

_Helen_. Will you leave me thus? Is not our life together ending here?

In that great and solemn Hereafter our ways may meet again; but by the light of sun, or moon, or candle, or underneath these Heavens, no more.

Oh! lovely, lovely have you been unto me, a spirit of holiness and beauty, building all my way.--Part we thus?

_Mrs. G_. Farewell, Helen.

_Helen_. Part we thus?

_Mrs. G_. Fare ye well, Helen Grey, my own sweet and precious child, my own lovely, lovely daughter, fare ye well, and the Lord be with you. The Lord keep you, for I can keep you now no more. The Lord watch over you, my helpless one, mine, mine, mine, all mine, though I leave you thus; my world of untold wealth, unto another. Nay, do not sorrow, my blessed child,--you will be happy yet. Fear nothing,--if this must be, I say, fear nothing. You think that you are doing right in forsaking us thus;--it may be that you are. If in the strength of a pure conscience you stay here to-day,--be not afraid. When you lay here of old, a lisping babe, I told you of One whose love was better than a mother's.

Now farewell, and trust in Him. Farewell, mine eye shall see thee yet again. Farewell.

_Helen_. No, no; leave me not.

_Mrs. G_. Unclasp these hands, I cannot stay.

_Helen_. Never--never.

_Mrs. G_. Untwine this wild embrace, or, even now,--even now----

_Helen_. Farewell, mother. Annie Grey, farewell.

[_They go_.

_Helen_. This is a weary world. Take me home. To the land where there is no crying or bitterness, take me home.

(_The noise of retreating steps is heard, and the sound of the outer door closing heavily_.)

_Helen_. They are gone,--not to church,--not for the summer's ride. I shall see them no more.--In heaven it may be; but by the twilight hearth, or merry table, at morn, or noon, or evening, in mirth or earthly tenderness, no more.

Hark! There it is!--that voice,--I hear it now, I do. A dark eternity had rolled between us, and I hear it yet again. They are going now.

Those rolling wheels, oh that that sound would last. There is no music half so sweet. Fainter--fainter--it is gone--no--that was but the hollow.--Hark----

Now they are gone, indeed. So breaks the sense's last link between me and that world.

PART FIFTH.