Chapter II: Part 2

"The sudden question
Made my heart leap, and the hot crimson rush
Up to my brow. Silent I bowed my head,
And he continued thus: 'If it should be,
That one, not wholly alien to your tastes,--
A man not quite so young as you, perhaps,
But not beyond his prime,--an honest man,--
I will not say with ample means, for that
Would jar upon your heart,--one who could make
Your home a plentiful and happy one,--
Should offer you his hand,--would it deter you
To know that in America your lot
Must henceforth be?'

"My breath came quick,--my eyes
Turned swift away, lest he should mark their joy
And count his prize too cheaply won. I sighed,
But did not speak. 'May I go on?' he asked.
A 'yes' distinct, though faint, flew from my lips.
'May I,' said he, 'tell Kenrick he may hope?'
'What!' cried I, looking up, with something fiercer
Than mere chagrin in my unguarded frown."

Linda broke in upon the story here,
And turning to her father with a smile
Tender as dawning light, yet arch and gay,
Cried, "Fie, my father! Could you be so dull?
How could you treat my future mother so?"
"Nay, do not blame me hastily," said he,
With glad paternal eyes regarding her;
"How could a modest man--and I was one--
Suppose that youth and wealth, and gracious gifts
Of person, such as Kenrick wore so well,
Could fail to win? Truly I did not dream,
Spite of the proverb, Love could be so blind."

Tossing her head with mock vindictive air,
Like sweet sixteen, the mother then resumed:
"Kenrick, it seems, being a bashful man,--
And somewhat shy, perhaps, because I knew
He was but recently in mad pursuit
Of an unfaithful spouse, a runaway,
Commissioned Percival to try the ground,
Obscure and doubtful, of my woman's will.
My absolute 'What!' was unequivocal.
Then turning to the coachman, Percival,
Said, 'Home, now, home! and quickly!'

"Home we rattled,
And both were silent to our journey's end.
An eager glance he gave me as he touched
My hand to help me from the carriage. He
Has told me since that I returned the look
With one which, if not actually scorn,
Was next of kin to scorn, and much resembling:--
All the chimera of his guilty conscience.

"Kenrick next day renewed his suit by letter;
He begged I would not give a hasty 'No,'
But wait and grant him opportunities
To prove that he was worthy and sincere,
And to procure the requisite divorce.
While I was answering his letter, he
Drove out with Percival. My brief reply
Told him there could be no decision other
Than a complete and final negative.

"Then I sat down and ran my fingers over
The keys of the piano; and my mood
At length expressed itself in that wild burst
Of a melodious anguish, which Edgardo
Gives vent to in 'Lucia.' Words could add
Nothing to magnify the utter heart-break
Of that despair; and Donizetti's score
Has made the cry audible through the ages.
Less from the instrument than from my heart
Was wrung the passionate music.

"At its close,
A long-drawn breath made me look round, and there
Whom should I see but Percival, as if
Transfixed in mute surprise! 'I did not know
There was a listener,--had supposed you gone,'
Said I; and he replied: 'I thought you'd have
Some word for Kenrick: so our drive was short.'
'Nothing but this.' I handed him my letter;
He took it, bowed, and left me.

"The next day
I learnt that Kenrick had engaged his passage
In Wednesday's steamer for New York. My stay
Must now be brief; my services no longer
Could be of any use; and so I wrote
Some formal lines, addressed to Percival,
Asking for my dismissal, and conveying
To both the gentlemen my thanks sincere
For all their kindness and munificence.
Two days I waited, but no answer came.

"The third day Kenrick sought an interview.
We met, and freely talked of this and that.
Said he, at last: 'Into what false, false ways
We plunge because we do not care to _think_!
We shudder at Chinese morality
When it allows a parent to destroy
Superfluous female children. Look at home!
Have we no ancient social superstitions
Born of the same old barbarous family?
My life, Miss Merivale, has been so crowded
That I've had little time to trace opinion
Down to its root before accepting it.
In giving opportunity for thought,
Sickness has been a brisk iconoclast.
Behold the world's ideal of a wife![4]
'Tis something like to this:

"'She marries young,
Perhaps in meek submission to the will
Parental, or in hope of a support;
In a few years,--as heart and brain mature,
And knowledge widens,--finds her lord and master
Is a wrong-headed churl, a selfish tyrant,
A miser, or a blockhead, or a brute;
Her love for him, if love there ever was,
Is turned to hatred or indifference:
What shall she do? The world has one reply:
You made your bed, and you must lie in it;
True, you were heedless seventeen--no matter!
True, a false sense of duty urged you on,
And you were wrongly influenced--no matter!
Be his wife still; stand by him to the last;
Do not rebel against his cruelty;
The more he plays the ruffian, the more merit
In your endurance! Suffering is your lot;
It is the badge and jewel of a woman.
Shun not contamination from his touch;
Keep having children by him, that his traits
And his bad blood may be continuous.
Think that you love him still; and feed your heart
With all the lies you can, to keep it passive!

"'So say the bellwethers who lead the many
Over stone walls into the thorns and ditches,
Because their fathers took that way before them.
Such is the popular morality!
But is it moral? Nay; when man or woman
Can look up, with the heart of prayer, and say,
Forbid it, Heaven, forbid it, self-respect,
Forbid it, merciful regard for others,
That this one should be parent to my child,--
That moment should the intimate relations
Of marriage end, and a release be found![5]

"'How many blunder in mistaking Passion,
Mixed with a little sentiment, for Love!
Passion may lead to Love, as it may lead
Away from Love, but Passion is not Love;
It may exist with Hate; too often leads
Its victim blindfold into hateful bonds,
Under the wild delusion that Love leads.
Love's bonds are adamant, and Love a slave;
And yet Love's service must be perfect freedom.
Candor it craves, for Love is innocent,--
But no enforced fidelity, no ties
Such as the harem shelters. Dupes are they
Who think that Love can ever be compelled!
Only what's lovely Love can truly love,
And fickleness and falsehood are deformed.
Reveal their features, Love may mourn indeed,
But will not rave. Love, even when abandoned,
Feels pity and not anger for the heart
That could not prize Love's warm fidelity.
But Passion, selfish, proud, and murderous,
Seizes the pistol or the knife, and kills;--
And cozened juries make a heroine
Of her who, stung with jealousy or pride,
Or, by some meaner motive, hurled a wreck,
Assassinates her too inconstant wooer.

"'Now do I see how little, in my case,
There was of actual love, how much of passion!
Love's day for me, if it may ever come
In this brief stage, is yet to dawn. You smile;
Love must have hope, a ray of hope, at least,
To catch the hue of life; and so, Miss Mary,
I'll not profess to love you; all I say
Is, that a little hope from you would make me!
But, since we can't be lovers, let's be friends;
Here, in this little wallet, is a check
For an amount that will secure your future
From serious want,--a sum I shall not miss.
But which--'

"With many thanks I answered 'No!'
'What can I do?' he asked, 'to show my debt
To you and Percival?' I shook my head,
And something in the sadness of my smile
Arrested his attention. But that moment
A girl rushed in with cry of 'O, he's killed--
Killed, the poor man!'--'Who?'--'Mr. Percival!'
The name was like a blow upon my heart,
And Kenrick saw it, and supported me.

"But in a moment I was strong. I heard
A scuffling noise of people at the door,
And then a form--'twas Percival's--was borne
Into a room, and placed upon a bed.
Pale and insensible he lay; a surgeon
Came in; at last we got an explanation:
In rescuing from a frightened horse the child
Of a poor woman, Percival had been
Thrown down, an arm been broken, and the pain
Had made him faint. My nervous laugh of joy,
When I was sure that this was the extreme
Of injury, betrayed my reckless heart,
And Kenrick had my secret. Percival
Was soon himself; the broken limb was set,
And I, engaged to stay another week
To wait on the new patient--nothing loath.

"The day of his departure, Kenrick drew me
Aside, and, in a whisper, said, 'He loves you!'
'Loves me?' With palms held tightly on my breast
To keep my heart down, I repeated, 'Loves me?'
'Twas hard to credit. 'Pardon me,' said Kenrick,
'If by communication of your secret,
I changed the desolation of his life
To sudden bloom and fragrance, for a moment.'
'A moment only?'--'Soon his scruples rose:
It cannot be! he said; two mountains lie
Between my fate and hers.--Two bubbles rather!
Retorted I; let's take their altitude.--
One is my age.--That mountain is already
Tunnelled or levelled, since she sees it not.--
The other is that infamous decree
Against me at the period of my suit,
Granting the guilty party a divorce,
But me prohibiting to wed again.--
Well, that decree (I answered bitterly)
Would have with me the weight of a request
That I'd hereafter quaff at common puddles
And not at one pure fount; I'd heed the bar
As I would heed the grass-webbed gossamer;
I'd sooner balk a bench of drivellers
Than outrage sacred nature.--If that bench
Could have you up for bigamy, what then?--
The dear old dames! they should not have the means
To prove it on me: for the pact should be
'Twixt me and her who would accept my troth
Freely before high heaven and all its angels:
Witnesses which the sheriff could not summon,
Could not, at least, produce.--But, Kenrick, you
Do not consider all the risk and pain;
The social stigma, and, should children come,
The grief, the shame, the disrepute to them.--
To which I answered: God's great gift of life,
Coming through parentage select and pure,
To me is such a sacred, sacred thing,
So precious, so inestimably precious,
That your objections seem of small account;
Since only stunted hearts and slavish minds
Could visit on your children disrepute,
Who fitly could ignore such Brahmanism,
Since they'd be born, most probably, with brains.

"'When the neglect of form, if 'tis neglected,
Is all in honor, purged of selfishness,
Where shall the heart and reason lay the blame?
But understand me: Would I cheapen form?
Nay, I should fear that those who would evade it,
Without a reason potent as your own,
Trifled with danger. But I cannot make
A god of form, an idol crushing me.
Unlike the church, I look on marriage as
A civil contract, not a sacrament,[6]
Indissoluble, spite of every wrong;
The high and holy purposes of marriage
Are not fulfilled in instances where each
Helps to demoralize or blight the other;
Let it then stand, like other contracts, on
A basis purely personal and legal.

"'Oh! how we hug the fictions we are born to!
Challenging never, never testing them;
Accepting them as irreversible;
Part of God's order, not to be improved;
Placing the form above the informing spirit,
The outward show above the inward life;
A hollow lie, well varnished, well played out,
Above the pure, the everlasting truth;
Fancying Nature is not Nature still,
Because repressed, or cheated, or concealed;
Juggling ourselves with frauds a very child,
Yet unperverted, readily would pierce!

"'Consider my own case: a month ago,
See me a maniac, rushing forth to find
A wife who loved me not; my heart all swollen
With rage against the man to whom I owed
Exposure of her falsehood; ah, how blind!
To chase a form from which the soul had fled!
If I grew sane at length, you, Percival,
And the mere presence of our little nurse
Have brought me light and healing. I am cured,
Thank Heaven, and can exult at my release.

"'Here I paused. Percival made no reply,
But sat like one absorbed. I paced the floor
Awhile, and then confronting him resumed:--
Your scruples daunt you still; well, there's a way
To free you from the meshes of the law:
On my return, I'll go to Albany,
Where war's financial sinews, as you know,
Are those of legislation equally;
I'll have a law put through to meet your case;
To strip away these toils. I can; I will!--
Percival almost stunned me with his No!
Make _me_ a gutter, adding more pollution
To the fount of public justice? Never! No!
I would not feed corruption with a bribe,
To win release to-morrow. Such a cure
Would be, my friend, far worse than the disease.--
Then there's no way, said I; and so, farewell!
The carriage waits to take me to the station.--
I shall not say farewell until we part
Beside the carriage-door, said he: you'll take
Your leave of Mary?--Yes, I go to seek her.--
And this, Miss Mary, is a full report
Of all that passed between my friend and me.'

"Here Kenrick ended. He had been, methought,
Thus copious, in the hope his argument
Would make me look as scornfully as he
On obstacles that Percival would raise.
I thanked him for his courtesy, and then,
Not without some emotion, we two parted.
When the last sound of the retiring wheels
Was drowned in other noises, Percival
Came in, and found me waiting in the parlor.
'Now let me have a talk with you,' he said.
So, in the little parlor we sat down.
I see it now, all vividly before me!
The carpet--ay, its very hues and figures:
The chandelier, the sofa, the engraving
Of Wellington that hung above the mantel;
The little bookcase, holding Scott and Irving,
And Gibbon's Rome, and Eloisa's Letters;
And, in a vase, upon the marble stand,
An opening rose-bud I had plucked that day--
Type of my own unfolding, rosy hope!

"Said Percival: 'We'll not amuse each other
With words indifferent; and we'll allow
Small opportunity for hearts to speak:
We know what they would utter, might we dare
To give them audience. Let Reason rule.
What I propose is this: that we now part--
Part for two years; and when that term shall end,
If we are still in heart disposed as now,
Then can we orient ourselves anew,
And shape our course as wary conscience bids.
Till then, no meeting and no correspondence!

"'Now for conditions more particular:
You have a sister--Mrs. Hammersley--
Julia, I think you said,--an elder sister,
Resident here, and in society,
But fretted by her lord's extravagance
And her own impecuniosity.
You at her house shall be a visitor,
But not without the means of aiding her;
And who but I can now supply the means?
Here's the dilemma: how can you be free
If you're my debtor? Yet you _must_ be free,
And promise to be free; nor let my gift
Sway you one jot in trammelling your heart.
Two years you'll spend with Mrs. Hammersley;
Accepting all Society can offer
To welcome youth and beauty to its lap;
Keeping your heart as open as you can
To influences and impressions new;
For, Mary, bear in mind how young you are!
So much for _you_. On _my_ part, I'll return
To my own country, and endeavor there
Once more to rectify the wretched wrong
That circumscribes me. I shall fail perhaps--
But we can be prepared for either issue.'

"Here he was silent, and I said: 'You're right,
And I accept your terms without reserve.'
We parted, and except a clasp of hands
That lingered in each other, and a glance
That flashed farewell from eyes enthroning truth,
There was no outward token of our love.

"Two years (the longest of my life were they!)
Emptied their sands at last, and then I wrote
A letter to him, to the Barings' care,
Containing one word only; this: '_Unchanged._'
In the same old familiar room we met:
Eager I gave my hand; but he drew back,
Folded his arms, and said, with half a smile:
''Tis not for me; still am I under ban!'
'I'm glad of that!' cried I; ''twill help to show
How slight, to love like mine, impediments
Injustice can pile up!'

"He took my hand,
And, for the first time, we exchanged a kiss.
Then we sat down and freely talked. Said he:
'Baffled in all my efforts to procure
Reversal of my sentence, I resolved
To terminate one misery at least:
Yearly the court compelled me, through my bondsmen,
To render an account of all my income,
Of which the larger portion must be paid
For the support of my betrayer, and
The child, called, by a legal fiction, mine.
To this annoyance of an annual dealing
With her attorney, I would put an end;
And so I compromised by giving up
Two thirds of all my property at once.
This leaves me free from all entanglement
With her or hers,--though with diminished means.

"'And now, since still you venture to confide
Wholly in me, my Mary Merivale,--
And since you would intrust your happiness
To one who can but give you love for love,--
To make our income certain, 'tis my plan
Straightway my little remnant to convert
Into a joint annuity, to last
During our natural lives: this will secure
A fair, though not munificent support.
And since for me you put the gay world by,
And since for you I make no sacrifice,
Now shape our way of life as you may choose.'

"This I disclaimed; but we at last arranged
That on the morrow, in the presence of
My poor friend Lucy, and my sister Julia,
We two should take each other by the hand
As emblem of a pledge including all
Of sacred and inviolable, all
Of holy and sincere, that man and woman,
Uniting for connubial purposes,
And with no purpose foreign to right love,
Can, with responsible intelligence,
Give to each other in the face of God,
And before human witnesses.

"And so
The simple rite--if such it could be called--
Took place. A formal kiss was interchanged,
And then we all knelt down, and Percival
Met our hearts' need with such a simple prayer
As by its quickening and inspiring faith
Made us forget it was another's voice,
Not our own hearts, that spoke. My sister Julia
Wept, not for me, but for herself, poor child!
The chill, the gloom of an unhappy future
Crept on her lot already, like a mist
Foreshadowing the storm; she saw, not distant,
All the despair of a regretful marriage
Menacing her and driving forth her children.
It did not long delay. Her spendthrift lord,
After a squander of his own estate,
And after swindling my confiding father
Of a large sum, deserted wife and children,
To play the chevalier of industry
At Baden, or at Homburg, and put on
More of the aspect of the beast each day.
Three children have his blood to strive against.
Poor Julia! What she has to live on now
Was given by Linda's father. We found means,
Also, to set up our poor sewing-girl,
My old companion, Lucy, in a trade
In which she thrives,--she and a worthy husband.

"What said my parents? Well, I wrote them soon,
Relating all the facts without reserve,
And asking, 'Would it be agreeable to them
To have a visit from us?' They replied,
'It will not be agreeable, for our house
Is one of good repute.'--Not three years after,
A joint appeal came to us for their aid
To the amount of seven hundred pounds.
We sent the money, and it helped to smooth
Their latter days; perhaps to mitigate
The anger they had felt; and yet not they:
Of the ungenerous words addressed to us
My father never knew.

"We met my sisters,
Through Julia's urging, I believe, and proudly
I let them see what sort of man I'd chosen.
We travelled for a time in England; then,
In travel and in study, spent three years
Upon the Continent; and sailed at last
For the great land to which my thoughts had turned
So often--for America. Arriving
Here in New York, we took this little house,
Scene of so many joys and one great woe;
And yet a woe so full of heavenly life
We should not call it by a mournful name.

"At length our Linda came to make all bright;
And I can say, should the great summoner
Call me this day to leave you, liberal Heaven
More than my share of mortal bliss already
Would have bestowed. Yes, little Linda came!
To spoil us for all happiness but that
In which she too could share--the dear beguiler!
And with the sceptre of her love she ruled us,
And with a happy spirit's charm she charmed us,
Artfully conquering by shunning conquest,
And by obeying making us obey.
And so, one day, one happy day in June,
We all sat down together, and her mother
Told her the story which here terminates."

IV.

PARADISE FOUND.

"You might have made it longer," murmured Linda,
Who with moist eyes had listened, and to whom
The time had seemed inexplicably brief.
Then with an arm round either parent's neck,
And with a kiss on either parent's cheek,
She said: "My lot is as the good God gave it;
And I'd not have it other than it is.
Could a permit from any human lips
Have made me any more a child of God?
Have made me any more your child, my parents?
Have made me any more my own true self?
Happy, and oh! not diffident to feel
My right to be and breathe the common air?
Could any form of words approving it
Have made us three more intimately near?
Have made us three more exquisitely dear?
Ah! if it could, our love is not the love
I hold it now to be--immortal love!"

With speechless joy and a new pride they gazed
Into her fair and youthful countenance,
Bright with ethereal bloom and tenderness.
Then smoothing back her hair, the father said:
"An anxious thought comes to us now and then,--
Comes like a cloud: the thought that we as yet
Have no provision from our income saved
For Linda. My few little ventures, made
In commerce, in a profitable hope,
So adversely resulted that I saw
My best advance would be in standing still.
As you have heard, all that we now possess
Is in a life-annuity which ends
With two frail lives--your mother's and my own.
So, should death overtake us both at once,--
And this I've looked on as improbable,--
Our little girl would be left destitute."

"Not destitute, my father!" Linda cried;
"Far back as thought can go, you taught me this:
To help myself; to seek, in my own mind,
Companionship forever new and glad,
Through studies, meditations, and resources
Which nature, books, and crowded life supply.
And then you urged me to excel in something;
('Better do one thing thoroughly,' you said,
'Than fifty only tolerably well,')--
Something from which, with loving diligence,
I might, should life's contingencies require,
Wring a support;--and then, how carefully
You taught me how to deal with slippery men!
Taught me my rights, the laws, the very forms
By which to guard against neglect or fraud
In any business--till I'm half a lawyer.
You taught me, too, how to protect myself,
Should force assail me; how to hold a pistol,
Carry it, fire it--Heaven save me from the need!
And, when I was a very little girl,
You used to take me round to see the houses
As they were built; the clearing of the land;
The digging of the cellar; the foundations;
You told me that the sand to make the mortar
Ought to be fresh, and not the sea-shore sand;
Else would the salt keep up a certain moisture.
And then we'd watch the framework, and the roofing;
And you'd explain the office and the name
Of every beam, and make me understand
The qualities of wood, seasoning of timber,
And how the masons, and the carpenters,
The plasterers, the plumbers, and the slaters,
Should do their work; and when they slighted it,
And when the wood-work was too near the flue,
The flue too narrow, or the draught defective:
So that, as you yourself have often said,
I'm better qualified than half the builders
To plan and build a house, and guard myself
From being cheated in the operation.
Fear not for me, my parents; spend your income
Without a thought of saving. And besides,
Had you not trained me aptly as you have,
Am I not better--I--than many sparrows?
There is a heavenly Father over all!"

"Sweet arguer!" said Percival, "may He
And his swift angels love and help our Linda!
Your mother and myself have tried of late
To study how and where we might reduce
Certain expenses that have been,----"

But here
The dinner-bell broke in; and lighter thoughts--
Thoughts that but skim the surface of the mind,
And stir not its profound--were interchanged
As now more timely; for the Percivals
Lacked not good appetites, and every meal
Had its best stimulant in cheerfulness.
"Where shall we go to pass our holidays?"
The mother asked: "August will soon be here."
"What says our Linda?" answered Percival:
"The seaside or the mountains shall it be?"
"Linda will go with the majority!
You've spilt the salt, papa; please throw a little
Over your shoulder; there! that saves a quarrel.
To me you leave it, do you? to decide
Where we shall go? Then hear the voice of wisdom:
The mountain air is good, I love the mountains;
And the sea air is good, I love the sea;
But if you two prefer the mountain air,--
Go to the mountains. On the contrary,--"
"She's neutral!" cried the father; "what a dodger
This little girl has grown! Come, now, I'll cast
Into the scale my sword, and say we'll go
To old Cape Ann. Does any slave object?
None. 'Tis a special edict. Pass the peas.
Our rendezvous shall be off Eastern Point.
There shall our Linda try the oar again."

Dinner was ended, and the gas was lit,
And The Day's last edition had been put
Into his hand to read, when suddenly
Turning to Mary, with a sigh he said:
"Kenrick, I see, is dead--Kenrick, our friend.
'Died in Chicago on the seventh instant,--
Leaves an estate valued at seven millions.'"
"Indeed! our faithful Kenrick--is he dead?
Leaves he a wife?"--"Probably not, my dear;
Three months ago he was a single man;
I had a letter from him, begging me,
If I lacked funds at any time to draw
On him, and not be modest in my draft."
"But that was generous; what did you reply?"
"I thanked him for his love, and promised him
He should be first to hear of wants of mine.
Now let us to the music-room adjourn,
And hear what will not jar with our regrets."
They went; and Mary mother played and sang;
Played the 'Dead March in Saul' and sang 'Old Hundred,'
'Come, ye Disconsolate,' 'When thee I seek'--
And finally these unfamiliar words:--

I.

O, give me one breath from that land--
The land to which all of us go!
Even now, O my soul! art thou fanned
By the breezes that over it blow.

II.

By the breezes that over it blow!
Though far from the knowledge of sense,
The shore of that land thou dost know--
There soon wilt thou go with me hence.

III.

There soon wilt thou go with me hence--
But where, O my soul! where to be?
In that region, that region immense,
The loved and the lost shall we see?

IV.

The loved and the lost shall we see!
For Love all it loves shall make near;
Type and outcome of Love shall it be--
Our home in that infinite sphere!

A day's excursion to a favorite spot--
Choice nook among the choicest of Long Island,
(Paradise Found, he called it playfully)--
Had oft been planned; and one day Percival
Said: "Let us go to-day!"--"No, not to-day!"
Cried Linda, with a shudder.--"And why not?
It is the very day of all the year!
There's an elastic coolness in the air,
Thanks to the thunder-shower we had last night:
A day for out-of-doors! Your reasons, Linda?
Tears in your eyes! Nay, I'll not ask for reasons.
We will not go."--"Yes, father, let us go.
Whence came my No abrupt, I could not say;
It was a sudden freak, and what it meant
You know as well as I. Shall we get ready?"
"Ay, such a perfect day is rare; it seems
To bring heaven nearer to my understanding;
Life, life itself is joy enough! to be,--
To breathe this ether, see that arch of blue,
Is happiness."--"But 'tis the soul that makes it;
What would it be, my father, without love?"
"Ay, without love, love human and divine,
No atmosphere of real joy can be."

Not long the time mother and daughter needed
To don their simple, neat habiliments.
A postman handed Percival a letter
As they descended from the door to take
The carriage that would bear them to the station;
For they must go by rail some twenty miles
To reach this paradise of Percival's.

When they were in the cars, and these in motion,
Percival drew the letter from his pocket,
And, while he read, a strange expression stole
Over his features. "Now what is it, father?"
Then with a sigh which her quick ear detected
As one that masked a pleasurable thought,
He said: "Poor little Linda!"--"And why poor?"
"Because she will not be so rich again
In wishes unfulfilled. That grand piano
You saw at Chickering's--what was the price?"
"Twelve hundred dollars only."--"It is yours!
That painting you admired so--that by Church--
What did they ask for it?"--"Two thousand dollars."
"'Tis cheap at that. We'll take it. Whose turn-out
Was it that struck your fancy?"--"Miss Van Hagen's!"
"Well, you shall have one like it, only better.
Look! What a charming cottage! How it stands,
Fronting the water, flanked by woods and gardens!
For sale, I see. We'll buy it. No, that house
Yonder upon the hill would suit us better;
Our coachman's family shall have the cottage."

"What is it all, my father? You perplex me,"
Said Linda, with a smile of anxious wonder.
"In brief, my little girl," said Percival,
"You're grown to be an heiress. Let your mother
Take in that letter. Read it to her, Linda."
It was a letter from executors
Of the late Arthur Kenrick, making known
That in his several large bequests was one
Of a full million, all to Percival.
The mother's heart flew to the loved ones gone;
She sighed, but not to have them back again;
That were a wish too selfish and profane.
And then, the first surprise at length allayed,
Calmly, but not without a natural joy
At being thus lifted to an affluent lot,
The three discussed their future. Should they travel?
Or should they choose some rural site, and build?
Paradise Found would furnish a good site!
Now they could help how many! Not aloof
From scenes of destitution had they kept:
What joy to aid the worthy poor! To save
This one from beggary! To give the means
To that forsaken widow, overworked,
With her persistent cough, to make a trip,
She and her children, city-pinched and pale,
To some good inland farm, and there recruit!
Many the plans for others they conceived!
Many the joyful--

Ah! a shivering crash!
A whirl of splintered wood and loosened iron!
Then shrieks and groans of pain....

A broken rail
Had done it all. Now for the killed and wounded!
Ghastly the spectacle! And happy those
Whom Death had taken swiftly! Linda's mother
Was one of these--a smile upon her lips,
But her breast marred--peacefully she had passed.
Percival's wound was mortal, but he strove,
Amid the jar of sense, to fix his mind
On one absorbing thought--a thought for Linda:
For she, though stunned, they told him, would survive,
Motherless, though--soon to be fatherless!
And something--ah! what was it?--must be done,
Done, too, at once. "O gentlemen, come here!
Paper and pen and ink! Quick, quick, I pray you!
No matter! Come! A pencil--that will do.
Help me to make a will--I do bequeathe--
Where am I? What has happened? God be with me!
Yes, I remember now--the will! the will!
No matter for the writing! Witness ye
That I bequeathe, convey, and hereby give
To this my only child, named Linda--Linda--
God! What's my name? Where was I? Percival
To Linda Percival--Is this a dream?
What would I do? My heart is drowned in blood.
God help me. Linda--Linda!"

Then he died;
And, chasing from his face that glare of anguish,
Came a smile beatific as if angels
Had soothed his fears and hushed him into calm.

Her father's cry was all unheard by Linda,
Or by her mortal senses all unheard.
Perhaps a finer faculty, removed
From the external consciousness afar,
Took it all in; for when she woke at last
To outward life, and looking round beheld
No sign of either parent, she sank back
Into a trance, and lay insensible
For many hours. Then rallying she once more
Seemed conscious; and observing the kind looks
Of an old woman and a man whose brow
Of thought contrasted with his face of youth,
She calmly said: "Don't fear to tell me all;
I think I know it all; an accident
With loss of life; my father and my mother
Among--among the killed. Enough! Your silence
Explains it now. So leave me for a while.
Should I need help, I'll call. You're very good."

When they returned, Linda was sitting up
Against the pillow of the bed; her hands
Folded upon her breast; her open eyes
Tearless and glazed, as if celestial scenes,
Clear to the inner, nulled the outer vision.
The man drew near, touched her upon the brow,
And said, "My name is Henry Meredith."
She started, and, as on an April sky
A cloud is riven, and through the sudden cleft
The sunshine darts, even so were Linda's eyes
Flooded with conscious lustre, and she woke.

It was a neatly furnished cottage room
In which she lay, and nodding eglantine,
With its sweet-scented foliage and rath roses,
Rustled and shimmered at the open window.
"How long have I been lying here?" asked Linda.
"Almost two days," said Meredith.--"Indeed!
I read, sir, what you'd ask me, in your looks;
And to the question on your mind I answer,
If all is ready, let the funeral be
This afternoon. Ay, in the village ground
Let their remains be laid. The services
May be as is convenient." "Of what faith
Were they?"--"The faith of Christ."--"But that is vague.
The faith of Christ? Mean you the faith _in_ Christ?
Faith in the power and need of his atonement?"

"All that I mean is, that they held the faith
Which was the faith of Christ, as manifest
In his own words, unwrenched by others' words.
So to no sect did they attach themselves;
But from all sects drew all the truth they could
In charity; believing that when Christ
Said of the pure in heart, 'They shall see God,'
He meant it; spoke no fragment of a truth;
Deferred no saying, qualifying that;
Set no word-trap for unsuspecting souls;
Spoke no oracular, ambiguous phrase,
Intending merely the vicarious pure;
Reserved no strange or mystical condition
To breed fine points of doctrine, or confound
The simple-minded and the slow of faith.
Heart-purity and singleness and love,
Fertile in loving acts, sole proof of these,
Summed up for them, my father and my mother,
All nobleness, all duty, all salvation,
And all religion."

With a heavy sigh
Meredith turned away. "I'll not discuss
Things of such moment now," said he. "One rock,
One only rock, amid the clashing waves
Of human error, have I found,--the rock
On which Christ built his Church. Heaven show you it!"
"Heaven show me truth! let it be on the rock,
Or in the sand. You'll say Amen to that?"
"I say Amen to what the Church approves,
For I myself am weak and fallible,
Depraved by nature, reprobate and doomed,
And ransomed only by the atoning blood
Of a Redeemer more divine than human.
But controversy is not timely now:
The papers, jewels, money, and what clothes
Could properly be taken, you will find
In a small trunk of which this is the key.
At three o'clock the carriage will be ready."

Linda put forth her hand; he gravely took it,
And holding it in both of his the while,
Said: "Should you lack a friend, remember me.
I was a witness to your father's death.
Your mother must have died without a pang.
He, by a strenuous will, kept death at bay
A minute, and his dying cry was Linda!
Hardly can he have felt his sufferings,
Such the intentness of his thought for you!"
The fount of tears was happily struck at last,
And Linda wept profusely. Meredith
Quitted the room; but the old woman sat
Beside the bed, her thin and shrunken fingers
Hiding themselves in Linda's locks of gold,
Or with a soothing motion parting them
From a brow fine and white as alabaster.
At length, like a retreating thunder-storm,
The sobs grew faint and fainter, and then ceased.

After a pause, said Linda to the lady,
"Is he your grandson?"--"Ay, my only one;
A noble youth, heir to a splendid fortune;
A scholar, too, and such a gentleman!
Young; ay, not twenty-four! What a career,
Would he but choose! Society is his,
To cull from as he would. He throws by all,
To be a poor tame priest, and take confessions
Of petty scandals and delinquencies
From a few Irish hussies and old women!"
"We all," said Linda, "hear the voice of duty
In different ways, and many not at all.
Honor to him who heeds the sacred claim
At any cost of life's amenities
And tenderest ties! We see the sacrifice;--
We cannot reckon up the nobleness
It called for, and must call for to the end."

V.

LINDA.

The news of the great railroad accident
And of the sudden death of Percival,
Coming so soon upon intelligence
Of his rare fortune in the legacy
From Kenrick, occupied the public mind
For a full day at least, and then was whelmed
In other marvels rushing thick upon it.
The mother and the daughter, who still bore
The name of Percival, came back from Paris
At once, on getting the unlooked-for news.
When Linda, after three weeks had elapsed,
Re-entered, with a swelling heart, the house
To her so full of sacred memories,
She was accosted by an officer
Who told her he had put his seal on all
The papers, plate, and jewelry belonging
To the late Albert Percival,--and asked
If in her keeping were a watch and ring,
Also some money, found upon his person:
If so, would she please give them up, and he,
Who had authority to take them, would
Sign a receipt for all such property,
And then the rightful heir could easily
Dispose of it, as might seem best to her.

"The rightful heir?" gasped Linda, taking in
Not readily the meaning of the words,--
"Do you not know that I'm the rightful heir
And only child of Albert Percival?"
"Pardon me," said the officer, "the child,
Recognized by the law, is not yourself,
But Harriet Percival, the only heir,--
For so the court adjudges,--and to her
All property, both personal and real,
Must be made over. She, no doubt, will deal
Kindly in your peculiar case, and make
A suitable provision--"

"Hold!" cried Linda,
Her nostrils' action showing generous blood
As clearly as some matchless courser shows it
After a mighty race,--"Your business,
But not your comments! And yet, pardon me--
I'm hasty,--you meant well; but you would have me
Render you up the watch and pocket-book
Found on my father's person, and delivered
To me his daughter. That I'll only do,
When more authority than you have shown
Compels me, and my lawyer bids me yield."
"Here is my warrant," said the officer,
"And my instructions are explicit." Then,
The spirit of the gentleman disdaining
The action he was sent for, he rejoined:
"But the law's letter shall not make me do
An incivility, perhaps a wrong.
And so, relying on your truth, I leave you,
Assured that you'll be ready to respond
To all the law can ask. And now, good day!"

Left to her own decisions, Linda sought
At once the best advice; and such had been
Her training, that she was not ignorant
Who among counsellors were trusted most
In special ways. Kindly and patiently
Her case was taken up and thoroughly
Sifted and tried. No hope! No flaw! No case!
So craftily had every step been taken,
With such precaution and such legal care,--
So diligently had the mesh been woven,
Enclosing Percival and all of his,--
That nothing could be done except put off
The payment of the Kenrick legacy
For some six months,--when it was all made over
To the reputed child, already rich
Through the law's disposition of the sums
Which Percival had been compelled to pay.

After the legal test, with brave composure
Linda surveyed her lot. Enough was left,
From sale of jewels that had been her mother's,
For a few months' support, with frugal care.
Claim to these jewels and the money found
Upon her mother's person had been laid
Too eagerly by the contesting party,
Who said that Percival, in dying last,
Was heir to the effects; but since the claim
Could only be upheld by proving marriage,
The claimants sorrowfully gave it up.

One day as Linda stood with folded hands
Before her easel, on which lay a painting
Of flowers autumnal, grouped with rarest skill,--
The blue-fringed gentian, the red cardinal,
With fern and plumy golden-rod intwined,--
A knock aroused her, and the opened door
Disclosed a footman, clad in livery,
Who, hat in hand, asked if a lady might
Come up to see the pictures. "Certainly,"
Was the reply; and, panting up the stairs,
A lady came whose blazonry of dress
And air of self-assured, aggressive wealth
Spoke one well pleased to awe servility.

As when by some forecasting sense the dove
Knows that the hawk, though out of sight and still,
Is hovering near, even so did Linda feel
An enemy draw nigh; felt that this woman,
Who, spite of marks a self-indulgent life
Leaves on the face, showed vestiges of beauty,
Was she who first had cast the bitterness
Into that cup of youth which Linda's father
Was made to taste so long.

And yet (how strangely,
In this mixed web of life, the strands of good
Cross and inweave the evil!) to that wrong
Might he have tracked a joy surpassing hope,--
The saving angel who, in Linda's mother,
Had so enriched his being;--might have tracked
(Mysterious thought!) Linda herself, his child,
The crown of every rapture, every hope

The lady, known as Madame Percival,
Seated herself and turned a piercing look
On Linda, who blenched not, but stood erect,
With calm and serious look regarding her.
The lady was the first to lower her eyes;
She then, with some embarrassment, remarked:
"So! you're an artist! Will you let me see
Some of your newest paintings?" Linda placed
Three of her choicest pieces on the easel,
And madame raised her eyeglass, looked a moment,
Said, "Very pretty," and then, breaking through
Further constraint, began: "You may not know me;
My name is Percival; you, I suppose,
Bear the same name by courtesy. 'Tis well:
The law at last has taught you possibly
Our relative positions. Of the past
We will say nothing; no hard thought is left
Against you in my heart; I trust I know
The meaning of forgiveness; what is due
To Christian charity. In me, although
The church has but a frail, unworthy child,
Yet would I help my enemy; remove her
From doubtful paths, and see her fitly placed
With her own kindred for protection due.
Hear my proposal now, in your behalf:
If you will go to England, where your aunts
And relatives reside,--and first will sign
A paper promising you'll not return,
And that you never will resume your suit,--
I will advance your passage-money, and
Give you five thousand dollars. Will you do it?"

The indignant No, surging in Linda's heart,
Paused as if language were too weak for it,
When, in that pause, the opening of the door
Disclosed a lady younger than the first,
Yet not unlike in features, though no blonde,
And of a figure small and delicate.
"Now, Harriet!" cried the elder of the two,
Annoyed, if not alarmed, "you promised me
You would not quit the carriage."--"Well, what then?
I changed my mind. Is that a thing uncommon?
Whom have we here? The name upon the door
Is Percival; and there upon the wall
I see a likeness of my father. So!
You, then, are Linda Percival! the child
For whom he could abandon me, his first!
Come, let me look at you!"--"Nay, Harriet,
This should not be. Come with me to the carriage;
Come! I command you."--"Pooh! And pray, who cares
For your commands? I move not till I please.
We are half-sisters, Linda, but I hate you."

"Excuse me," Linda answered quietly,
"But I see no resemblance to my father
In you. Your features, form, complexion, all
Are quite unlike."--"Silence! We've had enough."
"What did she say?" cried Harriet. "Do not heed
A word of hers; leave her and come with me."
"She said, I bear no likeness to my father:
You heard her!"--"'Twas in malice, Harriet.
Of course she would say that."--"But I must have
That photograph of him upon the wall:
'Tis unlike any that I've ever seen."
And with the word she took it from the nail
And would have put it in her pocket, had not
Linda, with sudden grasp, recovered it.

Darker her dark face grew, when Harriet
Saw herself baffled; taking out her purse
She drew from it a thousand-dollar bill,
And said, "Will this procure it?"--"Harriet!
You're mad to offer such a sum as that."
"Old woman, if you anger me, you'll rue it!
I ask you, Linda Percival, if you
Will take two thousand dollars for that portrait?"
And Linda answered: "I'll not take your money:
The portrait you may have without a price;
I'm not without a copy."--"Well, I take it;
But mark you this: I shall not hate you less
For this compliance; nay, shall hate you more;
For I do hate you with a burning hatred,
And all the more for that smooth Saxon face,
With its clear red and white and Grecian outline;
That likeness to my father (I can see it),
Those golden ringlets and that rounded form.
Pray, Madame Percival, where did I get
This swarthy hue, since Linda is so fair,
And you are far from being a quadroon?
Good lady, solve the riddle, if you please."

"There! No more idle questions! Two o'clock?
That camel's hair at Stewart's will be sold,
Unless we go this minute. Such a bargain!
Come, my dear, come!" And so, cajoling, coaxing,
She drew away her daughter, and the door
Closed quickly on the two. But Linda stood
In meditation rapt, as thought went back
To the dear parents who had sheltered her;
Contrasting their ingenuous love sincere
And her own filial reverence, with the scene
She just had witnessed. So absorbed she was
In visions of the past, she did not heed
The opening of the door, until a voice
Broke in upon her tender revery,
Saying, "I've come again to get your answer
To my proposal." Tranquillized, subdued
By those dear, sacred reminiscences,
Linda, with pity in her tone, replied:
"Madame, I cannot entertain your offer."
"And why not, Linda Percival?" exclaimed
The imperious lady.--"I'm not bound to give
My reasons, madame."--"Come, I'll make the sum
Ten thousand dollars."--"Money could not alter
My mind upon the subject."--"Look you, Linda;
You saw my daughter. Obstinate, self-willed,
Passionate as a wild-cat, jealous, crafty,
Reckless in use of money when her whims
Are to be gratified, and yet at times
Sordid as any miser,--she'll not stop
At artifice, or violence, or crime,
To injure one she hates--and you she hates!
Now for your sake and hers, I charge you leave
This country, go to England;--close at once
With my most liberal offer."

"Madame, no!
This is my home, my birthplace, and the land
Of all my efforts, hopes, and aspirations;
While I have work to do, here lies my field:
I cannot quit America. Besides,
Since candor now is best, I would not take
A dole from you to save myself from starving."
The lady's eyes flashed choler. She replied:
"Go your own gait; and, when you're on the street,
As you'll be soon, blame no one but yourself.
I've done my part. Me no one can accuse
Of any lack of charity or care.
For three weeks more my offer shall hold good.
After that time, expect no further grace."
And, with a frown which tried to be disdain,
But which, rebuked and humbled, fell before
The pitying candor of plain Innocence,
Out of the room she swept with all her velvet.

These interviews had made our Linda feel
How quite alone in the wide world she stood.
A letter came, after her parents' death,
From her aunt, Mrs. Hammersley, requesting
A loan of fifty pounds, and telling all
The family distresses and shortcomings:
How this one's husband had proved not so rich
As was expected; how another's was
A tyrant and a niggard, so close-fisted
He parcelled out with his own hands the sugar
For kitchen use; and how another's still,
Though amply able to receive their mother,
A widow now, had yet refused to do it,
And even declined to make a contribution
For her support. And so the gossip ran.
The picture was not pleasant. With a sigh
Not for herself, but others, Linda penned
A letter to her aunt, relating all
The events that made her powerless to aid
Her needy kinsfolk. She despatched the letter,
Then sat and thought awhile.

"And now for duty!"
She cried, and rose. She could not think of duty
Except as something grateful to her parents.
They were a presence so securely felt,
And so related to her every act,--
Their love was still so vigilant, so real,
That to do what, and only what, she knew
They would approve, was duty paramount;
And their approval was the smile of God!
Self-culture, work, and needful exercise,--
This was her simple summing-up of duties
Immediately before her, and to be
Fulfilled without more parleying or delay.
She found that by the labor of a month
In painting flowers from nature, she could earn
Easily sixty dollars. This she did
For two years steadily. Then came a change.
From some cause unexplained, her wild-flower sketches,
Which from their novelty and careful finish
At first had found a ready sale, were now
In less demand. Linda was not aware
That these elaborate works, to nature true,
Had been so multiplied in copies, made
By hand, or printed by the chromo art,
As to be sold at prices not one fifth
As high as the originals had cost.
Hence her own genius winged the storm and lent
The color to the cloud, that overhung
Her prospect, late so hopeful and serene.

Now came her year of struggle! Narrow means,
Discouragement, the haunting fear of debt!
One summer day, a day reminding her
Of days supremely beautiful, immortal,
(Since hallowed by undying love and joy),
A little girl, the step-child, much endeared,
Of a poor artisan who dwelt near by
On the same floor with Linda, came to her
And said: "You promised me, Miss Percival,
That some fine day you'd take me in the cars
Where I could see the grass and pluck the flowers."
"Well, Rachel Aiken, we will go to-day,
If you will get permission from your father,"
Said Linda, longing for the woodland air.
Gladly the father gave consent; and so,
Clad in her best, the little damsel sat,
While Linda filled the luncheon-box, and made
The preparations needful.