Chapter I: Part 1

[Transcriber's Note:

Endnote markers have been added for the reader's convenience.]

THE WOMAN WHO DARED.

THE
WOMAN WHO DARED.

BY

EPES SARGENT.

"Honest liberty is the greatest foe to dishonest license."

JOHN MILTON.

BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1870.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
EPES SARGENT,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.

UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,
CAMBRIDGE.

To ---- ----.

_Spring saw my little venture just begun;
And then your hospitable message came,
Inviting me to taste the strawberries
At Strawberry Hill. I went. How long I stayed,
Urged by dear friends and the restoring breeze,
Let me not say; long enough to complete
My rhythmic structure; day by day it grew,
And all sweet influences helped its growth.
The lawn sloped green and ample till the trees
Met on its margin; and the Hudson's tide
Rolled beautiful beyond, where purple gleams
Fell on the Palisades or touched the hills
Of the opposing shore; for all without
Was but an emblem of the symmetry
I found within, where love held perfect sway,
With taste and beauty and domestic peace
For its allies._

_We do not praise the rose,
Since all who see it know it is the rose;
And so, dear lady, praise of thee would seem,
To all who know thee, quite superfluous.
But if from any of these thoughts be shed
Aught of the fragrance and the hue of truth,
To thee I dedicate the transient flower
In which the eternal beauty reappears;
Knowing, should poison mingle with the sweet,
Thou, like the eclectic bee, with instinct sure,
Wilt take the good alone, and leave the bad._

_E. S._

CONTENTS.

PAGE

I. OVERTURE 1

II. THE FATHER'S STORY 7

III. THE MOTHER'S STORY 39

Linda's Lullaby 41

IV. PARADISE FOUND 93

The Mother's Hymn 100

V. LINDA 115

Help me, dear Chords 143

Be of good Cheer 147

VI. BY THE SEASIDE 177

Linda's Song 189

Under the Pines 203

VII. FROM LINDA'S DIARY 211

VIII. FROM MEREDITH'S DIARY 235

IX. BESIDE THE LAKE 249

NOTES 263

THE WOMAN WHO DARED.

I.

OVERTURE.

Blest Power that canst transfigure common things,
And, like the sun, make the clod burst in bloom,--
Unseal the fount so mute this many a day,
And help me sing of Linda! Why of her,
Since she would shrink with manifest recoil,
Knew she that deeds of hers were made a theme
For measured verse? Why leave the garden flowers
To fix the eye on one poor violet
That on the solitary grove sheds fragrance?
Themes are enough, that court a wide regard,
And prompt a strenuous flight; and yet from all,
My thoughts come back to Linda. Let me spare,
As best I may, her modest privacy,
While under Fancy's not inapt disguise
I give substantial truth, and deal with no
Unreal beings or fantastic facts:
Bear witness to it, Linda!

Now while May
Keeps me a restive prisoner in the house,
For the first time the Spring's unkindness ever
Held me aloof from her companionship,
However roughly from the east her breath
Came as if all the icebergs of Grand Bank
Were giving up their forms in that one gust,--
Now while on orchard-trees the struggling blossoms
Break from the varnished cerements, and in clouds
Of pink and white float round the boughs that hold
Their verdure yet in check,--and while the lawn
Lures from yon hemlock hedge the robin, plump
And copper-breasted, and the west wind brings
Mildness and balm,--let me attempt the task
That also is a pastime.

What though Spring
Brings not of Youth the wonder and the zest;
The hopes, the day-dreams, and the exultations?
The animal life whose overflow and waste
Would far out-measure now our little hoard?
The health that made mere physical existence
An ample joy; that on the ocean beach
Shared with the leaping waves their breezy glee;
That in deep woods, or in forsaken clearings,
Where the charred logs were hid by verdure new,
And the shy wood-thrush lighted; or on hills
Whence counties lay outspread beneath our gaze;
Or by some rock-girt lake where sandy margins
Sloped to the mirrored tints of waving trees,--
Could feel no burden in the grasshopper,
And no unrest in the long summer day?
Would I esteem Youth's fervors fair return
For temperate airs that fan sublimer heights
Than Youth could scale; heights whence the patient vision
May see this life's harsh inequalities,
Its rudimental good and full-blown evil,
Its crimes and earthquakes and insanities,
And all the wrongs and sorrows that perplex us,
Assume, beneath the eternal calm, the order
Which can come only from a Love Divine?
A love that sees the good beyond the evil,
The serial life beyond the eclipsing death,--
That tracks the spirit through eternities,
Backward and forward, and in every germ
Beholds its past, its present, and its future,
At every stage beholds it gravitate
Where it belongs, and thence new-born emerge
Into new life and opportunity,
An outcast never from the assiduous Mercy,
Providing for His teeming universe,
Divinely perfect not because complete,
But because incomplete, advancing ever
Beneath the care Supreme?--heights whence the soul,
Uplifted from all speculative fog,
All darkening doctrine, all confusing fear,
Can see the drifted plants, can scent the odors,
That surely come from that celestial shore
To which we tend; however out of reckoning,
Swept wrong by Error's currents, Passion's storms,
The poor tossed bark may be?

Descend, my thoughts!
Your theme lies lowly as the ground-bird's nest;
Why seek, with wings so feeble and unused,
To soar above the clouds and front the stars?
Descend from your high venture, and to scenes
Of the heart's common history come down!

II.

THE FATHER'S STORY.

The little mansion had its fill of sunshine;
The western windows overlooked the Hudson
Where the great city's traffic vexed the tide;
The front received the Orient's early flush.
Here dwelt three beings, who the neighbors said
Were husband, wife, and daughter; and indeed
There was no sign that they were otherwise.
Their name was Percival; they lived secluded,
Saw no society, except some poor
Old pensioner who came for food or help;
Though, when fair days invited, they would take
The omnibus and go to see the paintings
At the Academy; or hear the music
At opera or concert; then, in summer,
A visit to the seaside or the hills
Would oft entice them.

Percival had reached
His threescore years and five, but stood erect
As if no touch of age had chilled him yet.
Simple in habit, studious how to live
In best conformity with laws divine,--
Impulsive, yet by trial taught to question
All impulses, affections, appetites,
At Reason's bar,--two objects paramount
Seemed steadily before him; one, to find
The eternal truth, showing the constant right
In politics, in social life, in morals,--
The other, to apply all love and wisdom
To education of his child--of Linda.

Yet, if with eye anointed, you could look
On that benign and tranquil countenance,
You might detect the lines which Passion leaves
Long after its volcano is extinct
And flowers conceal its lava. Percival
Was older than his consort, twenty years;
Yet were they fitly mated; though, with her,
Time had dealt very gently, leaving face
And rounded form still youthful, and unmarred
By one uncomely outline; hardly mingling
A thread of silver in her chestnut hair
That affluent needed no deceiving braid.
Framed for maternity the matron seemed:
Thrice had she been a mother; but the children,
The first six winters of her union brought,
A boy and girl, were lost to her at once
By a wall's falling on them, as they went,
Heedless of danger, hand in hand, to school.
To either parent terrible the blow!
But, three years afterward, when Linda came,
With her dark azure eyes and golden hair,
It was as if a healing angel touched
The parents' wound, and turned their desolation
Into a present paradise, revealing
Two dear ones, beckoning from the spirit-land,
And one, detaining them, with infant grasp,
Feeble, yet how resistless! here below.

And so there was great comfort in that household:
And those unwhispered longings both had felt
At times, that they might pass to other scenes
Where Love would find its own, were felt no more:
For Linda grew in beauty every day;
Beauty not only of the outward mould,
Sparkling in those dear eyes, and on the wind
Tossing those locks of gold, but beauty born,
In revelations flitting o'er the face,
From the soul's inner symmetry; from love
Too deep and pure to utter, had she words;
From the divine desire to know; to prove
All objects brought within her dawning ken;
From frolic mirth, not heedless but most apt;
From sense of conscience, shown in little things
So early; and from infant courtesy
Charming and debonair.

The parents said,
While the glad tears shone brimming in their eyes,
"Oh! lacking love and best experience
Are those who tell us that the purity
And innocence of childhood are delusion;
Or that, so far as they exist, they show
The absence of all mind; no impulses
Save those of selfish passion moving it!
And that, by nature desperately wicked,[1]
The child learns good through evil; having no
Innate ideas, no inborn will, no bias.
Here, in this infant, is our confutation!
O self-sufficing physiologist,
Who, grubbing in the earth, hast missed the stars,
We ask no other answer to thy creed
Than this, the answer heaven and earth supply."

Now sixteen summers had our Linda seen,
And grown to be a fair-haired, winsome maid,
In shape and aspect promising to be
A softened repetition of her mother;
And yet some traits from the paternal side
Gave to the head an intellectual grace
And to the liquid eyes a power reserved,
Brooding awhile in tender gloom, and then
Flashing emotion, as some lofty thought,
Some sight of pity, or some generous deed,
Kindled a ready sympathy whose tears
Fell on no barren purpose; for with Linda
To feel, to be uplifted, was to act;
Her sorest trials being when she found
How far the wish to do outran the power.
Often would Percival observe his child,
And study to divine if in the future
Of that organization, when mature,
There should prevail the elements that lead
Woman to find the crowning charm of life
In the affections of a happy marriage,
Or if with satisfactions of the mind
And the aesthetic faculty, the aims
Of art and letters, the pursuits of trade,
Linda might find the fresh activities
He craved for her, and which forecasting care
Might possibly provide.

His means were small,
Merged in a life-annuity which gave
All that he held as indispensable
To sanative conditions in a home:
Good air, good influences, proper food.
By making his old wardrobe do long service
He saved the wherewith to get faithful help
From the best teachers in instructing Linda;
And she was still the object uppermost.
Dawned the day fair, for Linda it was fair,
And they all three could ramble in the Park.
If on Broadway the ripe fruit tempted him,
Linda was fond of fruit; those grapes will do
For Linda. Was the music rich and rare?
Linda must hear it. Were the paintings grand?
Linda must see them. So the important thought
Was always Linda; and the mother shared
In all this fond parental providence;
For in her tender pride in the dear girl
There was no room for any selfish thought,
For any jealous balancing of dues.

"My child," said Percival, one summer day,
As he brought in a bunch of snow-white roses,
Ringed with carnations, many-leafed and fragrant,
"Take it, an offering for your birthday; this
Is June the twelfth, a happy day for me."
"How fresh, how beautiful!" said Linda rising
And kissing him on either cheek. "Dear father,
You spoil me for all other care, I fear,
Since none can be like yours."

"Why speak of that?"
He with a start exclaimed; "my care must be
Prolonged till I can see you safely fixed
In an assured and happy womanhood.
Why should it not be so? Though sixty-five,
How well am I, and strong! No, Linda, no;
Dream not of other tendance yet awhile;
My father lived to eighty, and his father
To eighty-five; and I am stronger now
Than they were, at my age."

"Live long!" cried Linda,
"For whom have I to love me, to befriend,
You and my mother gone?"

"Your mother, child?
She should outlive me by some twenty years
At least. God grant, her sweet companionship
May be your strength and light when I'm not here,
My matchless little girl, my precious Linda!"

"Ah! how Love magnifies the thing it loves!"
Smiling she said: "when I look in the glass,
I see a comely Miss; nay, perhaps pretty;
That epithet is her superlative,
So far as person is concerned, I fear.
Grant her a cheerful temper; that she gets
From both her parents. She is dutiful,--
No wonder, for she never is opposed!
Strangely coincident her way is yours;
Industrious, but that's her mother's training.
Then if you come to gifts of mind--ah me!
What can she show? We'll not pronounce her dull;
But she's not apt or quick; and all she gets
Is by hard work, by oft-repeated trials,
Trials with intermissions of despair.
The languages she takes to not unkindly;
But mathematics is her scourge, her kill-joy,
Pressing her like a nightmare. Logic, too,
Distresses and confuses her poor brain;
Oh! ask her not for reasons. As for music--
Music she loves. Would that Love might inspire
The genius it reveres so ardently!
Has she no gift for painting? Eye for form
And coloring I truly think she has;
And one thing she can do, and do it well;
She can group flowers and ferns and autumn leaves,
Paint their true tints, and render back to nature
A not unfaithful copy.

"This the extent
Of her achievements! She has labored hard
To mould a bust or statue; but the clay
Lacked the Pygmalion touch beneath her hands.
She'll never be a female Angelo.
She must come down content to mother Earth,
And study out the alphabet which Summer
Weaves on the sod in fields or bordering woods.
Such is your paragon, my simple father!
But now, this ordinary little girl,
So seeming frank, (whisper it low!) is yet
So deep, so crafty, and so full of wiles,
That she has quite persuaded both her parents--
In most things sensible, clear-seeing people--
That she is just a prodigy indeed!
Not one of goodness merely, but of wit,
Capacity, and general cleverness!"

"There, that will do, spoilt darling! What a tongue!"
Percival said, admiring while he chided.
"O the swift time! Thou'rt seventeen to-day;
And yet, except thy parents and thy teachers,
Friends and companions thou hast hardly known.
'Tis fit that I should tell thee why our life
Has been thus socially estranged and quiet.
Sit down, and let me push the arm-chair up
Where I can note the changes in thy face;
For 'tis a traitor, that sweet face of thine,
And has a sign for every fleeting thought.

"But here's our little mother! Come, my dear,
And take a seat by Linda; thou didst help me
To graft upon the bitter past a fruit
All sweetness, and thy very presence now
Can take the sting from a too sad remembrance."

The mother placed her hand upon his brow
And said: "The water-lily springs from mud;
So springs the future from the past." Then he:
"My father's death made me, at twenty-one,
Heir to a fortune which in those slow days
Was thought sufficient: I had quitted Yale
With some slight reputation as a scholar,
And, in the first flush of ingenuous youth
When brave imagination's rosy hue
Tinges all unknown objects, I was launched
Into society in this great place;--
Sisterless, motherless, and having seen
But little, in my student life, of women.

"All matrons who had marriageable girls
Looked on me as their proper prey, and spread
Their nets to catch me; and, poor, verdant youth,
Soon I was caught,--caught in a snare indeed,
Though by no mother's clever management.
Young, beautiful, accomplished, she, my Fate,
Met me with smiles, and doomed me while she smiled
Nimble as light, fluent as molten lead
To take the offered mould,--apt to affect
Each preference of taste or sentiment
That best might flatter,--affable and kind,
Or seeming so,--and generous to a fault,--
But that was when she had a part to play,--
Affectionate--ah! there too she was feigning--
As I look calmly back, to me she seems
The simple incarnation of a mind
Possessed of all the secrets of the heart,
And quick to substitute a counterfeit
For the heart's genuine coin, and make it pass;
But void of feeling as the knife that wounds!
And so the game was in her hands, and she
Played it with confident, remorseless skill
Even to the bitter end.

"Yet do not think
The inner prescience never stirred or spoke:
Veiled though it be from consciousness so strangely,
And its fine voice unheard amid the din
Of outward things, the quest of earthly passion,
There is an under-sense, a faculty
All independent of our mortal organs,
And circumscribed by neither space nor time.
Else whence proceed they, those clairvoyant glimpses,
That vision piercing to the distant future,
Those quick monitions of impending ruin,
If not from depths of soul which consciousness,
Limited as it is in mortal scope,
May not explore? Yet there serenely latent,
Or with a conscious being all their own,
Superior and apart from what we know
In this close keep we call our waking state,
Lie growing with our growth the lofty powers
We reck not of; which some may live a life
And never heed, nor know they have a soul;
Which many a plodding anthropologist,
Philosopher, logician, scientist,
Ignore as moonshine; but which are, no less,
Actual, proven, and, in their dignity
And grasp and space-defying attributes,
Worthy to qualify a deathless spirit
To have the range of an infinity
Through an unending period--at once
A promise and a proof of life immortal.

"One night, one mild, sweet night in early June,
We two had paced the drawing-room together
Till ten o'clock, and then I took my leave
And walked along the street, a square or more,
When suddenly I looked up at a star,
And then, a thought I could not fail to heed,
From the soul's awful region unexplored,
Rushed, crying, 'Back! Go back!' And back I went,
As hastily as if it were a thing
Of life or death. I did not stop to pull
The door-bell, but sprang up alert and still
To the piazza of the open window,
Drew back a blind inaudibly, looked in,
And through the waving muslin curtain, saw--
Well, she was seated in a young man's lap,
Her head upon his shoulder.

"Quick of ear
As the chased hare, she heard me; started up,
Ran to the curtain, eagerly drew me in,
And said, while joy beamed tender in her eyes,
'My brother Ambrose, just arrived from Europe!'
So swift she was, she did not give me time
Even for one jealous pang. I took his hand,
And saying, 'Anna's brother must be mine,'
I bade them both good-night, and went my way:
So was I fooled,--my better angel baffled!

"And yet once more the vivid warning came,
Flashed like quick truth from her own eyes. We stood
Together in a ball-room, when a lady,
To me unknown, came up, regarded me
With strange compassion in her curious glance,
And then, with something less divine than pity,
Looked down on my betrothed, and moved away.
I turned to Anna, but upon her face,
There was a look to startle like a ghost;
Defiance, deadly fear, and murderous hate
Were all so wildly blended! But 'twas gone--
Gone like a flash before I well could mark it;
And in its place there came a luminous smile,
So childlike sweet, such type of heavenly candor,
It would have served for a Madonna's mouth,
To make the pilgrim's adoration easy.
'Who was that lady, Anna?' I inquired.
'A Mrs. Lothian,' was her reply:
'A lovely person, although somewhat haughty.'
We returned home soon after, and no more
Was said of it.

"The rapid weeks flew by,
And Anna plied her powers to charm, but still
Not all the subtle glamour of her presence
Could bind in sleep my pleading monitor.
And so at last I said: 'We both are young:
Let us, as earnest of a mutual wish
To share a perfect love, or none at all,
Absolve each other here, without condition,
From this engagement; and, if three years hence
We both are of one heart, then shall we find
The means to make it known; of that be sure!
Are you in your own loyalty so fixed
As to accept the challenge? Would you prize
The love of any man, who could not bear
A test so simple?'

"The first word I spoke
Made all my meaning plain to her; she shook,
But more perhaps with anger than with grief;
She turned her face away, and covered it
With both her hands, and so remained until
I had done speaking; then she rose at once,
Her face averted still, (she durst not show it!)
And grasped my hand, and, in a husky tone
Sheathing her wrath, exclaimed: 'To-morrow, come
At twelve--at twelve!' and rushed out of the room.

"Prompt at the hour I went; and in the parlor
Sat down expectant; and she entered soon,
Clad all in white; upon her face the marks
Of passionate tears, and a beseeching sorrow
In every look! A desk of ivory,
Borne in her hands, she placed upon the table;
I rose to meet her, but she motioned me
To keep my seat; then, with an arm thrown over
A high-backed chair, as if to keep from falling,
(The attitude was charming, and she knew it),
She said: 'Take back the little desk you gave me;
In it are all your letters,--all your gifts.
Take them, and give me mine.'

"The last few words
Came as if struggling through a crowd of sobs.
What could I do but lead her to the sofa,
Sit by her side, take her white hand, and say:
'This is no final separation, Anna;
It is a trial merely of our loves?'

"'A light affair perhaps to you,' she said,
'But death to me. As whim or pleasure points,
You can go here, go there, and lead the life
You most affect; while I, the home-kept slave
Of others' humors, must brave poverty,
Neglect and cruel treatment.'--'Did you say
Poverty, Anna?'--'Do not breathe a word
Of what I tell you: father is a bankrupt,
Or soon will be; and we shall be compelled
To quit our freestone house, and breathe the air
Of squalid want. From that I'd not recoil,
Could I have loving looks and words; for what
Is poverty if there's but love to gild it?
Ah! poverty'--'Nay, Anna, poverty
You shall not know, only accept from me
The means to fix you in becoming plenty.'
'Never!' she cried; 'ah! cruel to propose it!'
And then more tears; till, touched and foiled, I said,
Looking her in the face while she gazed up
In mine with eager tenderness,--'Accept
A happy home, if I can help to make it.
We will be married, Anna, when you please.'

"And so she had her way, and we were married;
And the next day all Wall Street was aroused
By news that brave Papa had won renown
Not simply as a bankrupt, but a swindler,
Escaping, by the skin of his teeth, the Tombs.
'No matter! Papa has a son-in-law,
A greenhorn, as they say, who occupies
A stately house on the Fifth Avenue,
And, in his hall, Papa will hang his hat.'
And, in all this, Rumor but hit the truth.

"Six months rolled by. Repeatedly I asked,
'Where's Brother Ambrose?' He, it seems, was held
In such request by government, that rarely
Could he be spared for home enjoyment; but
At length I did encounter Brother Ambrose,
And once again I found him--

"Well, the scales
Dropped from my eyes. I asked no other proof
Than a quick look I saw the two exchange,--
Forgetful of a mirror at their side,--
To see I was betrayed. He was no brother.
I sought more proof; but they, imagining
I knew more than I did, were swift to act.
Before I could find steps for a divorce
She stole a march upon me, and herself
Took the initiative, and played the victim,
Nipping me as a culprit in the law.

"It was a plot so dexterously framed,
All the precautions and contrivances
Were with such craft foreplanned; the perjuries
Were all so well adjusted; my pure life
Was made to seem so black; the witnesses
Were so well drilled, so perfect in their parts,--
In short, it was a work of art so thorough,
I did not marvel at the Court's decision,
Which was, for her,--divorce and alimony;
For me,--no freedom, since no privilege
Of marrying again. Such the decree!"

"I'm glad you spurned it as you did!" cried Linda,
While her cheeks flushed, and hot, indignant tears,
Responded to her anger. Then she kissed
Her father on each cheek, and tenderly
Embraced her mother too; and they, the while,
With a slight moisture in their smiling eyes,
Exchanged a nod. Then Percival to Linda:
"Why, what an utter rebel you would be,
You little champion of the higher law!
Sit down, and hear me out."

"If such their justice,"
Cried Linda, irrepressible and panting,
"Who would not spurn it, and hurl back defiance
To all the Justice Shallows on the Bench--
To them and their decrees!"

"My little girl,"
The father said, "the heart's impulsive choice
May guide us safely when the act must be
Born of the instant, but let Reason rule
When Reason may. For some twelve years, I lived
A wandering life in Europe; not so crushed
By my most harsh experience but I
Could find, in study and in change of scene,
How much of relish life has for the mind
As well as the affections; still I felt
Mine was a nature in which these must play
No secondary part; and so the void
Enlarged as age drew nearer; and at forty
A weariness of life came over me,
And I was sick at heart; for many a joy
Had lost the charm that made it joy. I took
A house in London, all for solitude,
And there got what you may not find in Egypt,
Or on Mont Blanc.

"One day as I was crossing
An obscure street, I saw a crowd of workmen
Gathered around a man upon the ground:
A rafter from a half-built house had fallen,
And he was badly injured. Seeing none
To act with promptness in the case, I hailed
A cab, and had him driven to my house.
Finding he was a fellow-countryman,
I gave him one of my spare rooms, and sent
For the best surgeon near. His report was,
The wound itself was nothing serious,
But there was over-action of the brain,
Quite independent, which might lead to danger,
Unless reduced in season; and the patient
Should have the best of watching and attendance,
And not be left to brood on any trouble,
But be kept cheerful. Then with some directions
For diet, sedatives, and laxatives,
The doctor bowed, received his fee, and left.
My guest lay sad and silent for a while,
Then turned to me and said: 'My name is Kenrick;
I'm from Chicago--was a broker there.
A month ago my wife eloped from me;
And her companion, as you may surmise,
Was one I had befriended--raised from nothing.
I'm here upon their track."

"'Why so?' I asked.
'What do you want of them?'--'What do I want?'
He stretched his eyes at me inquiringly.
'How strange,' said I, 'the inconsistency!
Here's a true man would try to overtake
An untrue mate! If she's not sterling gold
And loyal as the loadstone,--not alone
In every act, but every thought and throb,--
Why should you care who puts her to the proof,
Takes her away, and leaves you free again?
Show me 'tis an illusion I adore,
And I will thank you, though it be in anguish.
To no false gods I bow, if I can help it!'

"'Could I,' said Kenrick, 'have him only once
Where I could take him by the throat, and measure
My strength with his!'--'Tut, tut! the kind physician
Who warns you of some lurking taint, to which
The cautery should be applied at once,
Is not, in act, if not intent, your friend
More certainly than he you rave against.
And you've been jealous, I suppose, at times,
Of the poor runaway?'--'Ay, that I have!
Bitterly jealous.'

"'Jealousy and love
Were never yet true mates; for jealousy
Is born of selfish passion, lust, or pride,
While love is so divine and pure a thing,
It only takes what cannot be withheld.
It flies constraint. All that it gives is given,
Even as the lily renders up its perfume,
Because it cannot help it. Would it crave
Return less worthy? Would it be content
With a grudged gift? Then it is something else,
Not love--not love! Ah me! how men and women
Cozen themselves with words, and let their passions
Fool them and blind, until they madly hug
Illusions which some stunning shock like yours
Puts to the proof, revealing emptiness.
Have you a loving heart, and would you feed it
On what the swine have left,--mock it with lies?'
'Speak this to me again, when I am stronger,'
Said Kenrick, smiling faintly. Then I left him,
And taking up 'The Times' looked thro' the list
Of 'Wants'; and one amid the many hundred
Instantly caught my eye. It merely said:
'Wanted, by a young woman, strong and healthy,
A place as nurse for any invalid.
Address 681, Times Office.' So
I wrote and told 681 to call
Upon me at a certain hour.

"And now,
My dear, this little girl with eager eyes
Has, for a summer morning, heard enough.
The weather is the crown of all that June
Has of most fair,--the year's transcendent day;
When the young foliage and the perfect air
Intoxicate the birds, and put our hearts
In harmony with their extravagance
Of joy and love. Come, come! To slight this day
Would be a sin. We'll ramble in the Park,
And take our dinner there, and see the flowers,
The children, and the swans, and all the places
Which Linda used to love in babyhood,
When, in her little carriage, like a queen
She'd sit, receiving homage from all eyes."

The father had his way; and in the Park
They spent the happy time, and felt the charm
Which harmony complete with Nature brings
When loving spirits, unpreoccupied,
Gain by surrender, and grow rich by giving.
O sunshine and blue sky and genial airs!
To human happiness, like daily bread,
Your blessings come, till the unthinking heart
Recks not the debt we owe your silent powers.
If ye can give so much, what may not He
Of whose omnipotence ye are but shadows
Have in reserve in his eternities!

III.

THE MOTHER'S STORY.

That evening, when the feast of strawberries
Had been partaken, and the happy three
Sat down together, Linda asked: "And now,
May I not hear the rest?"--"To-morrow, Linda,
You shall hear all," said Percival; "but now,
That brain of yours must tranquillize itself
Before you try to sleep; and so, to-night,
Let us have 'Annie Laurie,' 'Bonnie Doon,'
And songs that most affront the dainty ear
Of modern fashion." Linda played and sang
A full half-hour; then, turning on her chair,
Said, "Now shall mother sing that cradle ditty
You made for me, an infant. Mother, mine,
Imagine you are rocking me to sleep,
As in those far-off days."

Replied the mother:
"O the dear days! yet not more dear than these!
For frugal Linda brings along with her
All of her past; the infant's purity,
The child's confiding love, and now, at last,
The maiden's free and quick intelligence!
Be ever thus, my Linda; for the pure
In heart shall carry an immortal youth
Into the great to-come. That little song--
Well I remember the delightful time
When 'twas extemporized; when, with my pen,
I noted down the words, while, by your crib,
Your father sat, and you, with little fists
Drawn tight, would spring and start, as infants will,
Crowing the while, and chuckling at the words
Not comprehended yet, save in the smiles
That with them went! 'Twas at the mellow close
Of an autumnal day, and we were staying
In a secluded village, where a brook
Babbled beneath our window, and the hum
Of insects soothed us, while a louder note
From the hoarse frog's bassoon would, now and then,
Break on the cricket's sleepy monotone
And startle laughter." Here the matron paused;
Then sweeping, with a firm, elastic touch,
The ivory keys, sang

LINDA'S LULLABY.

I.

Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!
For to sleep our dear Linda is going;
All good little lambs be reposing,
For Linda one eyelid is closing.

II.

O frogs! what a noise you are making!
O crickets! now don't keep her waking!
Stop barking, you little dog Rover,
Till Linda can get half-seas over.

III.

Little birds, let our word of love reach you,--
Go to bed, go to sleep, I beseech you;
On her little white coverlet lying,
To sleep our dear Linda is trying.

IV.

Hush! sing just as softly as may be;
Sing lullaby, lullaby, baby!
Now to sleep this dear Linda is going,--
Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!

The next day, when the heat kept all at home,
And they were gathered in the library,
Where fitfully a lazy southern breeze
Would stir the languid curtains, Percival
Said, turning to the mother: "Mary, now
Your story best will supplement my own;
Tell it." She answered: "Let it be so, then;
My life is but the affluent to yours,
In which it found its amplitude and rest.

"My parents dwelt in Liverpool; my father,
A prosperous merchant, gave to business
His time and active thoughts, and let his wife
Rule all beside with rigor absolute.
My maiden name was Mary Merivale.
There were eight daughters of us, and of these
I was the fourth. We lived in liberal style,
And did not lack the best society
The city could afford. My heedful mother,
With eight undowered girls to be disposed of,
Fearfully healthy all, and clamorous
For clothes and rations, entered on a plan
To which she steadily adhered: it was,
To send the younger fry to boarding-schools,
And keep one virgin only, at a time,
And she the oldest, on her hands to marry.
So they came forward in their order: Julia,
And Isabel, and Caroline; until
I was dragged forth from maps and lexicons,
Slate-pencils and arithmetics, and put
Candidate Number Four, upon the list.

"My elder sisters had been all 'well-married';
That is, to parties able to provide
Establishments that Fashion would not scorn;
What more could be desired by loving parents?
As for resistance to her will, when once
She set her heart upon a match, my mother
Would no more bear it than a general
Would bear demur from a subordinate
When ordered into action. If a daughter,
When her chance offered, and was checked as good,
Presumed, from any scruple of dislike,
To block the way for her successor, then
Woe to that daughter, and no peace for her
Did she not, with an utter selfishness,
Stand in her younger sister's light? imperil
The poor child's welfare? doom her possibly
To an old maid's forlorn and cheerless lot?

"And so, with an imperious will, my mother
Would sweep away all hindrances, all doubts.
She was, besides, the slave of system; having
Adopted once the plan of bringing forward
No daughter till the previous one was mated,
It was a sacred custom; 'twas her own!
It had worked well; must not be broken through.
So my poor sisters went; and some of them
With doubting hearts.

"In me, my zealous mother
Found metal not so malleable quite.
One of my teachers at the boarding-school,
A little woman who got scanty pay
For teaching us in French and German, fed
Her lonely heart with dreams of what, some day,
Shall lift her sex to nobler life. She took
A journal called 'The Good Time Coming,' filled
With pleadings for reform of many kinds,--
In education, physical and mental,
Marriage, the rights of women, modes of living.
Weekly I had the reading of it all;
Some of it crude enough, some apt and just,
Forcibly put, and charged with vital facts.
At last these had for me a fascination
That quite eclipsed the novels of the day.

"I learnt, that, bound up in the moral law,
Are laws of health and physical control,
Unheeded in the family and school;
How fashion, stupid pride, and love of show,
The greed of gain, or the pursuit of pleasure,
Empty and frivolous, make men and women
False to their natures, cruel to each other
And to the unborn offspring they devote
To misery through ill-assorted unions,
Or habits reckless of maternal dues;
How marriage, sacredest of mortal steps,
Is entered on from motives all unworthy;
Social ambition, mercenary aims,
The dread of poverty, of singleness,--
The object of uniting families,--
And momentary passion fatuous.
So I resolved, God helping, to be true
To my own self, and that way true to all.

"The fete that signalized my coming out
Was, so my mother said, the costliest yet.
Whole greenhouses were emptied to adorn
Our rooms with flowers; a band played in the hall;
The supper-table flashed with plate and silver
And Dresden ware and bright Bohemian glass;
The wines and viands were profuse and rare;
And everybody said, 'twas a grand ball.

"But what of her, for whom it was the flourish
Of trumpets blown to celebrate her entrance
Into society? Let others speak!
These the remarks I had to overhear:
'She's rather pretty.'--'Pretty is the word.'
'But not so dashing as the elder sisters.'
'Cleverer though, perhaps,'--'She takes it coolly.
Her heart's not in the ball; that's evident.'
'Where is it? Is she bookish?'--'So I've heard.'
'Unlike the rest, then.'--'That straw-colored silk
Should have had flounces.'--'Is that hair her own?'
'I think so?'--'She's no dancer.'--'Apathetic
As any duchess.'--'The young men seem shy;
She doesn't put them at their ease, 'tis plain.'
'See, the old woman chides her; she deserves it;
She'll not pick up admirers if she plays
My Lady Cool so grandly. Watch mamma.
The hook is nicely baited; where are all
The gudgeons it should lure? I marvel not
Mamma is in a fluster; tap, tap, tap,
See her fan go! No strategy, no effort,
No dandy-killing shot from languid eyes,
On that girl's part! And all this fuss for her!'

"The gossips, in these random whisperings,
Made some good shots, that failed not of the mark.
The lights, the roses, the voluptuous music,
The shining robes, the jewels, the bright faces
Engrossed me not so much as one pale face,
Youthful but pinched, which I had seen a moment,
An hour before, reflected in the mirror
At which I stood while nimble dressing-maids
Helped to array me. A poor girl had brought
The bodice of my silken robe, on which
She had been working closely; and my mother
Chided her for delay; but no reply
Was made, save only what the pleading eyes
Could not withhold. Then tendering a scrap
Of paper, record of her paltry charge,
She meekly stood. 'Pooh! bring it here next week,'
My mother said. 'No!' turning round, I cried;
'Let her be paid at once; there must be money
In the house somewhere; it may be a loss,
An inconvenience, for her to come back
Just for a trifling sum.'--'Impertinent!'
My mother kindling, cried. 'Do you rule here?'
'I can return,' timidly said the girl.
Then a gold thimble from my drawer I took,
And offered it, remarking, 'Keep or sell it,
To hold you good for all your wasted time.'
'My time,--what is it worth?' replied the girl,
Motioning her refusal, but with smiles
Of speechless gratitude, and then escaping
Before I could prevent her.

"'Novel-reading
Has brought you to this insipidity,'
My mother said: 'such sentimental pap,
You never got from me. Come, hurry down;
Put off that sullen look. The carriages
Begin to roll; the guests are on the stairs.
Learn to command your smiles, my dear. Now go.'

"So down I went, but in no conquering mood.
I did not scrutinize the festive dresses;
Of the sad hearts I thought, the poor thin hands
That put of life somewhat in every stitch
For a grudged pittance. All disguises fell;
Voices betrayed the speakers in their tones,
Despite of flattering words; and smiles revealed
The weariness or hatred they would hide.
And so, preoccupied and grave, I looked
On all the gayety; and reigning belles
Took heart to find in me no coming rival.

"Lent now was near; the time of all diversion
And visiting was over; and my mother
Summed up her griefs in this one lamentation:
'The season gone, and not one offer yet!
You, Mary, are the first one of my daughters
Whose coming-out so flat a failure proved.
Think of your sister Julia; her first winter
Brought Hammersley to her feet. A splendid match!
First cousin to a lord! How envious
Were all the dowagers at my success!
If I've not done all that a mother could,
Tell me wherein I've failed. Yet one year more
I shall allow you for your trial. Then,
If you have made no step in the direction
Of matrimony, why, you must go off
To Ireland, to America, or France,
And leave the field for your next younger
For Susan.'--'She is welcome to it now,'
I said, with something like disdain, I fear,
In my cold smile.--'My plans are laid, you know,'
Replied my mother; 'find your duty in
A simple acquiescence; I know best.'

"'Tis said the woman always is to blame
If a man ventures to commit himself
In a proposal unacceptable.
The rule has its exceptions; for I gave
No word, no inkling of encouragement
To Captain Dudley; yet I had an offer
From Captain Dudley. Young, and elegant,
Though of a stock somewhat attenuate;
Rich, though a younger son; a gentleman,
A scholar,--what good reason could I give
For saying Nay to such an applicant?
'Explain!' my mother cried, with brow severe;
'Is not his character without a flaw?'
'So far as known to me.'--'Is he a fool?'
'Far from it; culture and good sense are his.'
'Could you not love him?'--'Very tenderly,
Perhaps, with time to aid.'--'Has any one
Preoccupied your heart?'--'My heart is free,
And has been always free.'--'Indeed? Then why
Refuse to be the wife of this young man?'
'Simply because he's not the man I'd choose
To be the father of a child of mine.'

"If I had put a pistol at her head,
My lady mother would not so have started.
'What! a mere girl--and you can entertain
Such thoughts! so selfish, gross, unmaidenly!'
'If,' I replied, 'I'm old enough to dream
Of marriage, as you bid me, then 'tis time
For me to think of all the risk I run.
Selfish, you call it; gross, unmaidenly;
Is it unmaidenly to hesitate
In the surrender of my maiden state?
Your epithets belong to those who fail
To think at all, or only think of this:
What's the man's income? Will he let me have
A house in the right quarter? Keep a carriage?
And is he in society? Such women
Plant nightshade, and affect to wonder why
The growth is not of lilies and carnations!'

"'So! just let loose from school,' replied my mother,
'You'd teach me what is womanly! Pert minx!
Tell me in simple English what you mean
By your objections to this match, so largely
Above your merits?'--'This is what I mean:
For reasons that are instincts more than reasons,
And therefore not to be explained to those
Who in them do not share, as you do not,
I would not wed this man,--not if I loved him.'
'Enough! You've had your turn; and now prepare
To make a visit to your father's cousin
In Nova Scotia; there, perhaps, you may
Find a congenial mate among the clowns
And roughs provincial. Go and pack your trunk.
Fool your own opportunities away;
You shall not thrust your sister out of hers.'

"I did not pack my trunk; another suitor,
One twice as rich as Dudley, kindled hopes
Anew in my poor mother's breast; and so
Susan was kept at school another season,
And I was put upon the course once more,
My training perfect and my harness new!

"Who could object to Arthur Pennington?
Son of a wealthy manufacturer,
A type he was of English adolescence,
Trained by harmonious culture to the fulness
Of all that Nature had supplied; a person
That did not lack one manly grace; a mind
Which took the mould that social pressure gave,
Without one protest native to itself.
In the accepted, the conventional,
He looked for Truth, nor ever had a doubt
Whether she might not hide in some deep well
Rather than flaunt her modest purity
In dusty highways. With my disposition
To challenge all that human dogmatism
Imperious would impose upon my thought,
What pretty yoke-fellows for life should we,
Arthur and I, have been! Misled by hopes
Which were inspired too fondly by my mother,
He, too, proposed, and was of course rejected.

"Then the storm broke! The cup of my offences
Was overflowed at last. Now must I go--
Go, where she cared not; only disappear
From her domain; she washed her hands of me!
Hundreds of pounds had been invested in me,--
My dresses, jewelry, and entertainments,--
And here was the result! But no more money,
From her, must I expect; my father's income
Had not for years been equal to his outlays.
Any day he might be compelled to change
His style of living; all had been kept up
For the advantage of myself and sisters;
And here was all the gratitude I showed!

"This time my mother was in earnest; so
Now must I lay my plans to go at once.
Whither? to seek a transient home with one
Of my own married sisters? Ah! the thought
Of being dependent galled me like a spur.
No! go to work,--a voice within me said:
Think of the many thousands of your sex
Who, young and giddy, not equipped like you,
Are thrown upon the world to battle with it
As best they may! Now try your closet virtue;
See if your theory can stand the proof,--
If trial will not warp your sense of right.
When Poverty shall dog your every step,
And at your scanty or unwholesome meal
Sit down, or with you, in your thin attire,
Go shivering home at night from ill-paid toil,--
Then see if you can keep your feet from straying;
Then choose as only Conscience bids you choose!

"The sewing-girl who worked upon my dress,
The day of the great ball, was Lucy Merle;
I found her saving up her petty means
To go to London, to get better wages,--
And said: 'Well, Lucy, let us go together.'
She sold some jewels for me, and we went.

"In London! two unfriended girls in London!
We hired a room, and got employment soon,
Such as it was; but small the recompense!
Though Lucy, quicker at her work than I,
Could earn enough to live upon--almost.
For her the change was slight.

"A year we toiled
In company; and I'll not tell you all
The hardships, trials, wrongs, we underwent.
In my blue trunk you'll find a little pistol,
Got for our joint protection in those days.
May it be near you, should you ever need it!
Finding, at length, I could no longer earn
My share of our expenses by the needle,
I sought a situation as a nurse.
And in 'The Times' I advertised my 'Want.'
An answer came, directing me to call
Upon the writer at a certain hour.
I went. I met a man of middle age
Whose name was Percival. I thought his manner
Was coldly kind.

"'You're very young,' he said,
'To fill the situation of a nurse.
What reference have you?' Not a distant thought
Of such a need had ever troubled me!
'I bring,' said I, 'no reference.'--'That's a pity.
What pledge have I of character?'--'Not any.'
And then, impatient at this let, I cried:
'Look in my face, and if you find not there
Pledge of my truth, Heaven help me, for 'tis all--
All I can give!'--'Ah! my poor child,' said he,
'Such warrant have I learnt to take with doubt;
For I have known a face, too beautiful,
With look of innocence and shining candor,
Prove but the ambush of duplicity,
Pitiless and impure. But let me not
Distrust too far.' Then he turned up the gas,
And, with a scrutiny intent and grave,
Perused my face. 'What is your name?' he asked,
After a silence.--'Mary Merivale.'
'Well, Mary, I engage you; come at once.
In the next room asleep reclines our patient.
As for your wages, we will say two guineas
A week, if you're content.'--'O, perfectly!'

"So, groping in my darkness, I at length
Hit on the door that issued into light.
Long talks between the patient and his friend
Were frequent, and they heeded not my presence.
Little by little Percival soon told
The story that you've heard, and more which you
May never hear in earthly interviews.
An eager listener, I would treasure up
Each word, each look; and on my soul at last
Dawned the pure ray by which I saw those traits,
The spirit's own, that harmonized so well
With all the outward showed of good and noble.
Strange that he took no notice of the way
My very life was drifting! But to him
I seemed a child, and his paternal airs
Froze me and checked.

"A paragraph, 'The Times'
Had published, when the accident took place,
Mentioned that Kenrick was a millionnaire,
Though quite a young man still.

"A month went by
And he was able to sit up awhile;
And soon, with me beside him in the carriage,
To take a drive;--when one day, Percival
Said to me: 'Mary, you and I must try
The span to-day; our patient shall keep house.'
My heart beat wildly; Kenrick looked as if
Approving the arrangement; so we went.
'I wished,' said Percival, 'to talk with you
In private; do not answer if I put
Questions that may embarrass or annoy;
It is no idle curiosity,
Prompting me now. We see that you were born
To something better than this drudgery:
If not reluctant, tell me who you are.'
'O, willingly!' I said.

"And so I told him
All, from the first. He heard me patiently;
And then remarked: 'But do you never long
For that secure and easy life at home?
You will go back to Liverpool, perchance,
When you've had quite enough of servitude
And toil precarious.'--'I go not back,'
Said I, 'while health and liberty are left.
The home that's grudged is not the home for me.
Give me but love, and like the reed I yield;
Deal with me harshly, you may break, not bend me.'
'Ah! there is something wrong in all these things,'
Replied he, musing.

"'Yes,' I said; 'consider
What I've been telling of my mother's way
Of marrying her daughters; well, my mother
Is but the product of that social system,
Hollow and false, which leaves for dowerless girls
Few honorable outlooks for support
Excepting marriage.[2] Poor, dependent, helpless,
Untaught in any craft that could be made
To yield emolument,--our average women,--
What can they do but take the common path
Which my poor mother would have made _me_ try,
And lead some honest man to think that they
Are wedding _him_, and not his bank-account?
Let woman, equally with man, be bred
To learn with thoroughness some craft or trade
By which she may support herself at least,
You place her more at liberty to shun
Unions, no priest, no church can sanctify!'[3]

"Percival eyed me with a puzzled look,
Then said: 'The time is on its way, I hope,
When from her thraldom woman will come forth,
And in her own hands take her own redress;
When laws disabling her shall not be made
Under the cowardly, untested plea
That man is better qualified than woman
To estimate her needs and do her justice.
Justice to her shall be to man advancement;
And woman's wit can best heal woman's wrongs.
Accelerate that time, all women true
To their own sex,--yet not so much to that
As to themselves and all the human race!
But pardon me; I wander from the point,--
Following you. Now tell me, could you make
America your home?'