The Bride Of Fort Edward: Founded On An Incident Of The Revolution Part 7

_Helen_. I am awake now. Watched me in the glen?--followed me home?

Those woods are full of them.--But what has turned their wild eyes on me?

It is but one day longer;--we have counted many, in peril and fear, and _this_, is the last;--even now how softly the fearful time wastes. _One day!_--Oh G.o.d, thou only knowest what its s.h.i.+ning walls encircle. (_She leans on the window, musing silently_.) Two years ago I stood here, and prayed to die.-On that same tree my eye rested then. With what visions of hope I played under it once, building bowers for fairies I verily thought would come, and dreaming, with yearning heart, of glorious and beautiful things this world _hath not_. But, that wretched day, through blinding tears, I saw the sunlight on its glossy leaves, and I said, 'let me see that light no more.' Surely the bitterness is deep when that which hath colored all our unfolded being, is a weariness. For what more hath life for me I thought, its lesson is learned and its power is spent,--it can please, and it can trouble me no more; and why should I stay here in vain and wearily?

It was sad enough, indeed, to see the laughing spring returning again, when the everlasting winter had set in within, to link with each change of the varied year, sweet with a life's memories, such mournfulness; laying by, one by one, all hope's blessed spells, withered and broken forever,--the moonlight, the songs of birds, the blossom showers of April, the green and gold of autumn's sunset,--it was sad, but it was not in vain.--Not in vain, Oh G.o.d, didst thou deny that weeping prayer.

(_A merry voice is heard without, and a child's face peeps through the window that overlooks the orchard_.)

_Child_. Look! look! sister Helen! see what I have found on the roof of the piazza here,--all covered with wampum and scarlet, and here are feathers too--two feathers in it, blue and yellow--eagle's feathers they are, I guess.

_Helen_ (_approaching the window_.) Let me see, w.i.l.l.y. What, did you find it here?

_w.i.l.l.y._ Just under the window here. Frank and I were swinging on the gate; and--there is something hard in it, Helen,--feel.

_Helen_. Yes, it is very curious; but--

_w.i.l.l.y_. There comes Netty with the candle; now we can see to untie this knot.

_Helen_. w.i.l.l.y, dear w.i.l.l.y, you must give it to me, you must indeed, and--I will paint you a bird to-morrow.

_w.i.l.l.y_. A blue-bird, will you? A real one?

_Helen_. Yes, yes;--run down little climber; see how dark it grows, and Frank is waiting, see.

_w.i.l.l.y_. Well. But mind you, it must be a blue bird then. A real one.

With the red on his breast, and all.

[_Exit_.

(_She walks to the table, unfastening the envelope_.)

_Helen_. What sent that thrill of forgotten life through me then?--that wild, delicious thrill? This is strange, indeed. A sealed pacquet within! and here--

(_She glances at the superscription, and the pacquet drops from her hand_.)

No--no. I have seen that hand-writing in my dreams before, but it dissolved always. What's joy better than grief, if it pierce thus? Can never a one of all the soul's deep melodies on this poor instrument be played out, then--trembling and jarring thus, even at the breath of its most lovely pa.s.sion.--And yet, it is some cruel thing, I know.

(_The pacquet opened, discovers Helen's miniature, a book, a ring, and other tokens_.)

Cruel indeed! That little rose!--He might have spared me this. A dull reader I were, in truth, if this needed comment,--but I knew it before.

He might have spared me this.

(_She leans over the recovered relics with a burst of pa.s.sionate weeping_.)

Yet, who knows--(_lifting her head with a sudden smile_,) some trace, some little curl of his pencil I may find among these leaves yet, to tell me, as of old,--

(_A letter drops from the book, she tears it eagerly open_.)

(_Reading_.) These cold words I understand, but--_letters!_--He wrote me none! Was there ever a word between us, from the hour when he left me, his fancied bride, to that last meeting, when, at a word, and ere I knew what I had said, he turned on me that cold and careless eye, and left me, haughtily and forever? And now--(_reading_)--misapprehension, has it been! Is the sun on high again?--in this black and starless night--the noonday sun? He loves me still.--Oh! this joy weighs like grief.

Shall I see him again? Joy! joy! Beautiful suns.h.i.+ne joy! Who knows the soul's rich depths till joy hath lighted them?--from the dim and sorrowful haunts of memory will he come again into the living present!

Shall I see those eyes, looking on me? Shall I hear my name in that lost music sound once more?--His?--Am I his again? New mantled with that s.h.i.+ning love, like some glorious and beautiful stranger I seem to myself, _Helen_--the bright and joy-wreathed thing his voice makes that name mean--My life will be all full of that blest music. I shall be Helen, evermore his--his.

No,--it would make liars of old sages,--and all books would read wrong.

A life of such wild blessedness? It would be fearful like living in some magic land, where the honest laws of nature were not. A life?--a moment were enough. Ages of common life would s.h.i.+ne in it. (_Reading again_.) "Elliston's hut?"--"If I choose that the return should be mutual,--and the memorials of a despised regard can at best be but an indifferent possession;--a pacquet reinclosed directly in this same envelope, and left at the hut of the missionary, cannot fail to reach him safely."

"Safely."--Might he not come there safely then? And might I not go thither safely too, in to-morrow's light? O G.o.d, let not Pa.s.sion lead me now. The centre beaming truth, not pa.s.sion's narrow ray, must light me here!--But am I not his?

Once more, one horizon circles, for a day, our long-parted destinies; another, and another wave of these wild times will drift them asunder again, forever; and I count myself his wife. His wife?--nay, his bride, his two years' bride, to-night, his wife, to-morrow. He must meet me there, (_writing_) at noon, I will say.--I did not think that little hut of logs should have been my marriage-hall;--he must meet me there, and to-morrow is my bridal day.

PART THIRD.

FATE.

DIALOGUE I.

SCENE. _The hill--Night--Large fires burning--Sentinels dimly seen in the back-ground. A young Indian steals carefully from the thicket. He examines the ground and the newly-felled trees._

_Indian_. One, two, three. And this is ringed. The dogs have spoiled the council-house.

(_Soldiers rush forward_.)

_1st Sol_. So, Mr. Red-skin! would not you like a scalp or two now, to string on your leggings? Maybe we can help you to one or so. Hold fast.

Take care of that arm, I know him of old.

(_The Indian, with a violent struggle, disengages himself, and darts into the thicket_.)

No? well,--dead or alive, we must have you on our side again.

(_Firing_.)

_2nd Sol_. _He's_ fixed, Sir.

_1st Sol_. Hark. Hark,--off again! Let me go. What do you hold me for, you scoundrel?

_2nd Sol_. Don't make a fool of yourself, Will Wilson. There will be a dozen of them yelling around you there. Besides, he is half way to the swamp by this. Look here; what's this, in the gra.s.s here?

_1st Sol_. There was something in his hand, but he clenched it through it all,--this is a letter. Bring it to the fire.