The Bride Of Fort Edward: Founded On An Incident Of The Revolution Part 2

[_Other officers are seen emerging from the woods_.]

_3d Off_. Yes, if this rumor holds, Lieutenant Van Vechten, your post is likely to become one of more honor than safety. Gentlemen--Ha!--General Arnold! You are heartily welcome;--I have been seeking you, Sir. If this news is any thing, the movement that was planned for Wednesday, we must antic.i.p.ate somewhat.

_Leslie_. News from the enemy, General?

_Gen. Schuyler_. Stay--those scouts must be coming in, Van Vechten. Why, we can scarce call it news yet, I suppose; but if this countryman's tale is true, Burgoyne himself, with his main corps, is encamping at this moment at the Mills, scarce three miles above us.

_Arnold_. Ay, and good news too.

_Leslie_. But that cannot be, Sir--Alaska--

_Gen. Schuyler_. Alaska has broken faith with us if it is, and the army have avoided the delay we had planned for them.--That may be.--This man overheard their scouts in the woods just below us here.

_Arnold_. And if it is,--do you talk of retreat, General Schuyler? In your power now it lies, with one hour's work perchance, to make those lying enemies of yours in Congress eat the dust, to clear for ever your blackened fame. Why, Heaven itself is interfering to do you right, and throwing honor in your way as it were! Do you talk of retreat, Sir, now?

_Gen. Schuyler_. Heaven has other work on hand just now, than righting the wrongs of such heroes as you and I, Sir. Colonel Arnold--I beg your pardon, Sir, Congress has done you justice at last I see,--General Arnold, you are right as to the consequence, yet, for all that, if this news is true, I must order the retreat. My reputation I'll trust in G.o.d's hands. My honor is in my own keeping.

[_Exeunt Schuyler, Leslie, and Van Vechten_.

_Arnold_. There's a smoke from that chimney; are those houses inhabited, my boy?

_Boy_. Part of them, Sir. Some of our people went oft to-day. That white house by the orchard--the old parsonage there? Ay, there are ladies there Sir, but I heard Colonel Leslie saying this morning 'twas a sin and a shame for them to stay another hour.

_Arnold_. Ay, Ay. I fancied the Colonel was not dealing in abstractions just now.

[_Exeunt_.

DIALOGUE IV.

SCENE. _A room in the Parsonage,--an old-fas.h.i.+oned summer parlor.---On the side a door and windows opening into an orchard, in front, a yard filled with shade trees. The view beyond bounded by a hill partly wooded. A young girl, in the picturesque costume of the time, lies sleeping on the antique sofa. Annie sits by a table, covered with coa.r.s.e needlework, humming s.n.a.t.c.hes of songs as she works_.

_Annie_, (_singing_.)

_Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.

Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.

And flies weeping away.

The red cloud of war o'er our forest is scowling, Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away.

Come blow the shrill bugle, the war dogs are howling, Already they eagerly snuff out their prey-- The red cloud of war--the red cloud of war_--

Yes, let me see now,--with a little plotting this might make two--two, at least,--and then--

_The red cloud of war o'er our forest is scowling, Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away, The infants affrighted cling close to their mothers, The youths grasp their swords, and for combat prepare; While beauty weeps fathers, and lovers, and brothers, Who are gone to defend_--

--Alas! what a golden, delicious afternoon is blowing without there, wasting for ever; and never a glimpse of it. Delicate work this! Here's a needle might serve for a genuine stiletto! No matter,--it is the cause,--it is the cause that makes, as my mother says, each st.i.tch in this clumsy fabric a grander thing than the flas.h.i.+ng of the bravest lance that brave knight ever won.

(_Singing_) _The brooks are talking in the dell, Tul la lul, tul la lul, The brooks are talking low, and sweet, Under the boughs where th' arches meet; Come to the dell, come to the dell, Oh come, come_.

_The birds are singing in the dell, Wee wee whoo, wee wee whoo; The birds are singing wild and free, In every bough of the forest tree, Come to the dell, come to the dell, Oh come, come_.

_And there the idle breezes lie, Whispering, whispering, Whispering with the laughing leaves.

And nothing says each idle breeze, But come, come, come, O lady come, Come to th' dell_.

[_Mrs. Grey enters from without_.]

_Mrs. G_. Do not sing, Annie.

_Annie_. Crying would better befit the times, I know,--Dear mother, what is this?

_Mrs. G_. Hush,--asleep--is she?

_Annie_. This hour, and quiet as an infant. Need enough there was of it too. See, what a perfect damask mother!

_Mrs. G_. Draw the curtain on that suns.h.i.+ne there. This sleep has flushed her. Ay, a painter might have dropped that golden hair,--yet this delicate beauty is but the martyr's wreath now, with its fine nerve and shrinking helplessness. No, Annie; put away your hat, my love,--you cannot go to the lodge to-night.

_Annie_. Mother?

_Mrs. G_. You cannot go to the glen to-night. This is no time for idle pleasure, G.o.d knows.

_Annie_. Why, you have been weeping in earnest, and your cheek is pale.--And now I know where that sad appointment led you. Is it over?

That it should be in our humanity to bear, what in our ease we cannot, _cannot_ think of!

_Mrs. G_. Harder things for humanity are there than bodily anguish, sharp though it be. It was not the boy,--the mother's anguish, I wept for, Annie.

_Annie_. Poor Endross! And he will go, to his dying day, a crippled thing. But yesterday I saw him springing by so proudly! And the mother----

_Mrs. G_. "_Words, words_," she answered sternly when I tried to comfort her; "ay, words are easy. _Wait till you see your own child's blood_.

Wait till you stand by and see his young limbs hewn away, and the groans come thicker and thicker that you cannot soothe; and then let them prate to you of the good cause." Bitter words! G.o.d knows what is in store for us;--all day this strange dread has clung to me.

_Annie_. Dear mother, is not this the superst.i.tion you were wont to chide?

_Mrs. G_. Ay, ay, we should have been in Albany ere this. In these wild times, Annie, every chance-blown straw that points at evil, is likely to prove a faithful index; and if it serve to nerve the heart for it, we may call it heaven-sent indeed. Annie,--hear me calmly, my child,--the enemy, so at least goes the rumor, are nearer than we counted on this morning, and--hush, not a word.

_Annie_. She is but dreaming. Just so she murmured in her sleep last night; twice she waked me with the saddest cry, and after that she sat all night by the window in her dressing-gown, I could not persuade her to sleep again. Tell me, mother, you say _and_--and what?

_Mrs. G_. I cannot think it true, 'tis rumored though, that these savage neighbors of ours have joined the enemy.

_Annie_. No! no! Has Alaska turned against us? Why, it was but yesterday I saw him with Leslie in yonder field. 'Tis false; it must be. Surely he could not harm us.