The Bride Of Fort Edward: Founded On An Incident Of The Revolution Part 18

_2nd Sol_. Resistance is vain. Hear those shrieks! There is death in them. Resistance is vain.

_1st Sol_. Flight is vain. Look yonder! Francis,--the dark hour hath come!

_2nd Sol_. Is it so? Mother and sister I shall see no more.

(_A number of Indians, disfigured with paint and blood, and brandis.h.i.+ng their knives, come rus.h.i.+ng down the road, uttering short, fierce yells. Others from below, bringing back the fugitives_.)

_1st Sol_. We shall die together. G.o.d of Truth and Freedom, unto thee our youthful spirits trust we.

(_The Indians surround them. Fighting to the last, they fall_.)

DIALOGUE II.

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 s.h.i.+ning 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 b.u.t.terfly glides on its noiseless way above the gra.s.s, as then it did;--just so, the shadows sleep on the gra.s.sy 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 suns.h.i.+ne, nor fragrance visits them. Will there be nothing left that makes this being then? The high, G.o.dlike 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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.