Chapter III: Part 3

"What is that?"
Asked Rachel, pointing to an open drawer
In which a case of polished ebony
Glittered and caught the eye. "A pistol-case!"
"And is the pistol loaded?"--"I believe so."
"And will you take it with you?"--"Well, my dear,
I did not think to do so: would you have me?"
"Yes, if we're going to the woods; for panthers
Lurk in the woods, you know."--"I'll take it, Rachel;
We call this a revolver. See! Four times
I can discharge it." At a block of wood
She aimed and fired; then carefully reloaded
The piece, and put it in a hidden pocket.

Some ten miles from the city, at a place
Rich in diversity of wood and water,
They left the cars. Rachel's delight was wild.
Never was day so lovely! Never grass
So green! And O the flowers! "Look, only look,
Miss Percival! What is it? Can I pluck
As many as I want?"--"Ay, that's a harebell."
"And O, look here! This red and yellow flower!
Tell me its name."--"A columbine. It grows
In clefts of rocks. That's an anemone:
We call it so because the leaves are torn
So easily by the wind; for _anemos_
Is Greek for wind."--"Oh! here's a buttercup!
I know that well. Red clover, too, I know.
Isn't the dandelion beautiful?
And O, Miss Percival, what flower is this?"
"That's a wild rose."--"What, does the rose grow wild?
But is not that delightful? A wild rose!
And I can take as many as I want!
I did not dream the country was so fine.
How very happy must the children be
Who live here all the time! 'Tis better far
Than any garden; for, Miss Percival,
The flowers are here all free, and quite as pretty
As garden flowers. O, hark! Did ever bird
So sweetly sing?"--"That was a wood-thrush, dear."
"O darling wood-thrush! Do not stop so soon!
Look there, on that stone wall! What's that?"--"A squirrel."
"Is that indeed a squirrel? Are you sure?
How I would like a nut to throw to him!
What are these little red things in the grass?"
"Wild strawberries, my dear."--"Wild strawberries!
And can I eat them?"--"Yes, we'll take a plate
And pick it full, and eat them with our dinner."
"O, will not that be nice? Wild strawberries
That we have picked ourselves!"

And so the day
Slid on to noon; and then, it being hot,
They crossed a wall into a skirting wood,
And there sat down upon a rocky slab
Covered with dry brown needles of the pine,
And ate their dinner while the birds made music.
"'Tis a free concert, ours!" said Rachel Aiken:
"How nice this dinner! What an appetite
I'm having all at once! My father says
That I must learn to eat: I soon could learn
In such a place as this! I wish my father
Himself would eat; he works too hard, I fear;
He works in lead: and the lead makes him ill.
See what nice clothes he buys me! I'm afraid
He pays for me more than he can afford,
Seeing he has a mother to support
And a blind sister; for, Miss Percival,
I'm but his step-child, and my mother died
Two years ago; then my half-sister died,
His only little girl, and now he says
That I am all he has in the wide world
To love and cherish dearly,--all his treasure.
What would I give if I could bring him here
To these sweet woods, away from lead and work!"

So the child prattled. Then, the gay dessert
Of berries being ended, Linda sat
On the rock's slope, and peeled the mosses off
Or looked up through the branches of the pines
At the sky's blue, while Rachel played around.
From tree to tree, from flower to flower, the child
Darted through leafy lanes, when, all at once,
A scream roused Linda.

To her feet she sprang!
Instinctively (but not without a shudder)
She grasped the little pistol she had brought
At the child's prompting; from the rock ran down,
And, at a sudden bend, encountered three
Young lusty ruffians, while, a few rods off,
Another lifted Rachel in his arms,
And to the thicker wood beyond moved on.
The three stood side by side as if to bar
The path to Linda, and their looks meant mischief.
The lane was narrow. "For your life, make way!"
She cried, and raised the pistol. "No, you don't
Fool us by tricks like that!" the foremost said:
"And so, my lady--" But before the word
Was out there was a little puff of smoke,
With an explosion, not encouraging,--
And on the turf the frightened caitiff lay.
Her road now clear, reckless of torn alpaca,
Over the scattered branches Linda rushed,
Till she drew near the leader of the gang,
Who, stopping, drew a pistol with one hand,
While with the other he held Rachel fast,
Placing her as a shield before his breast.

But Linda did not waver. Dropping into
The old position that her father taught her
When to the shooting-gallery they went,
She fired. An oath, the cry of pain and rage,
Told her she had not missed her aim,--the jaw
The ruffian left exposed. One moment more,
Rachel was in her arms. Taking a path
Transverse, they hit the public road and entered
The railroad station as the train came in.
When they were safely seated, and the engine
Began to throb and pant, a sudden pallor
Spread over Linda's visage, and she veiled
Her face and fainted; yet so quietly,
But one among the passengers observed it;
And he came up, and taking Rachel's place
Supported Linda; from a lady near
Borrowed some pungent salts restorative,
And finding soon the sufferer was herself,
Gave Rachel back her seat and took his own.
But at the city station, when arrived,
This gentleman came up, and bowing, said:
"Here stands my private carriage; but to-day
I need it not. Let my man take you home."
Linda demurred. His firm will urged them in,
And she and Rachel all at once were riding
With easy bowling motion down Broadway.

The evening papers had this paragraph:
"In Baker's Woods this morning two young men
Were fired on by a female lunatic
Without a provocation, and one wounded.
The bullet was extracted. Dr. Payson,
With his accustomed skill and promptitude,
Performed the operation; and the patient
Is doing well. We learn the unhappy woman--
She had with her a child--is still at large."
"I'm glad it was no worse," quoth Linda, smiling.
She kissed the pistol that had been her mother's,
Wiped it, and reverently put it by.

* * * * *

Three summers and an autumn had rolled on
Since the catastrophe that orphaned Linda.
Midwinter with its whirling snow had come,
And, shivering through the snow-encumbered streets
Of the great city, men and women went,
Stooping their heads to thwart the spiteful wind.
The sleigh-bells rang, boys hooted, and policemen
Told each importunate beggar to move on.
In a side street where Fashion late had dwelt,
But which the up-town movement now had left
A street for journeymen and small mechanics,
Dress-makers, masons, farriers, and draymen,
A female figure might be seen to enter
A lodging-house, and passing up two flights
Unlock a door that showed a small apartment
Neat, with two windows looking on the rear,
A small recess with a low, narrow bed,
A sofa, a piano, and three chairs.
'Twas noon, but in the sky no cleft of blue
Flashed the soft love-light like a lifted lid.

Clad plainly was the lady we have followed,--
But with a certain grace no modiste's art
Could have contrived. Youthful she was, and yet
A gravity not pertinent to youth
Gave to her face the pathos of that look
Which a too early thoughtfulness imparts;
And this was Linda,--Linda little changed,
Though nearer by four years to womanhood
Than when we parted from her in the shadow
Of a great woe.
Preoccupied she seemed
Now with some painful thought, and in a slow,
Half-automatic manner she replenished
With scanty bits of coal her little stove;
Then, with a like absorbed, uncertain air,
Threw off her cloak and bonnet, and sat down;
Motionless sat awhile till she drew forth
A pocket-book, and from it took a letter,
And read these words: "You guaranteed the debt:
It now has run three months, and if to-morrow
It is not paid, we must seek legal help."
A bill of wood and coal for Rachel's father--
Some twenty dollars only! And yet Linda
Saw not the way to pay it on the morrow.
He, the poor artisan, on whose account
She had incurred the liability,
Lay prostrate with a malady, his last,
In the small room near by, with little Rachel
His only watcher. What could Linda do?
At length, with lips compressed, and up and down
Moving her head as if to give assent
To some resolve, now fixed, she took her seat
At the piano,--from her childhood's days
So tenderly endeared, and every chord
Vibrating to some memory of her mother!
"Old friend,"--she sighed; then thought awhile and sang.

I.

Help me, dear chords, help me to tell in song
The grief that now must say to you Farewell!
No music like to yours can ease my heart.

II.

An infant on her knee I struck your keys,
And you made sweet my earliest lullaby:
From you I thought my requiem might come.

III.

Hard is the pang of parting, but farewell!
Harder the shame would be, if help were not;
Go, but your tones shall thrill forevermore.

IV.

Farewell! And O my mother, dost thou hear?
Farewell! But not to thoughts forever dear.
Farewell, but not to love--but not to thee!

When little Rachel, by her father sent,
Came in to take her lesson the next day,
Behold, no instrument was in the room!
What could it mean? "We must give up," said Linda,
"Our music for a little while. Perhaps
I soon shall have my dear piano back."
Then they went in to see the sufferer.
A smile lit up his face,--a grateful smile,
That lent a beauty even to Disease,
Pale, thin, and hollow-eyed:

"Is not the air
Quite harsh to-day?" he asked. "A searching air."
"So I supposed. I find it hard to breathe.
Dear lady--but you've been a friend indeed!
In my vest-pocket you will find a wallet.
All that I have is in it. Take and use it.
A fellow-workman brought me yesterday
Fifty-two dollars, by my friends subscribed:
Take from it what will pay for coal and rent.
To-morrow some one of my friends will come
To see to what the morrow may require.
You've done so much, dear lady, I refrain
From asking more."--"Ask all that you would have."
"My little Rachel--she will be alone,
All, all alone in this wide, striving world:
An orphan child without a relative!
Could you make interest to have her placed
In some asylum?"--"Do not doubt my zeal
Or my ability to have it done.
And should good fortune come to me, be sure
Rachel shall have a pleasant home in mine."
"That's best of all. Thank you. God help you both.
Now, Rachel, say the little prayer I taught you.
... That was well said. Now kiss me for good night.
That's a dear little girl! I'll tell your mother
How good and diligent and kind you are;
How careful, too, of all your pretty clothes;
And what a nurse you've been,--how true and tender.
Rachel, obey Miss Percival. Be quick
To shun all evil. Fly from heedless playmates.
Close your young eyes on all impurity.
Cast out all naughty thoughts by holy prayer.
Love only what is good. Ah! darling child,
I hoped to shield you up to womanhood,
But God ordains it otherwise. May He
Amid the world's thick perils be your Guide!
There! Do not cry, my darling. All is well.
Sing us some pious hymn, Miss Percival."
And Linda, with wet eyelids, sang these words.

I.

Be of good cheer, O Soul!
Angels are nigh;
Evil can harm thee not,
God hears thy cry.

II.

Into no void shalt thou
Spring from this clay;
His everlasting arm
Shall be thy stay.

III.

Day hides the stars from thee,
Sense hides the heaven
Waiting the contrite soul
That here has striven.

IV.

Soon shall the glory dawn
Making earth dim;
Be not disquieted,
Trust thou in Him!

"O, thank you! Every word is true--I know it.
Sense hides it now, but has not always hid.
Remember, Rachel, that I say it here,
Weighing my words: I know it all is true.
God bless you both. I'm very, very happy.
My pain is almost gone. I'll sleep awhile."
Rachel and Linda sat an hour beside him,
Silently watching. Linda then arose
And placed her hand above his heart: 'twas still.
Tranquilly as the day-flower shuts its leaves
And renders up its fragrance to the air,
From the closed mortal senses had he risen.

* * * * *

One day the tempter sat at Linda's ear:
Sat and discoursed--so piously! so wisely!
She held a letter in her hand; a letter
Signed Jonas Fletcher. Jonas was her landlord;
A man of forty--ay, a gentleman;
Kind to his tenants, liberal, forbearing;
Rich and retired from active business;
A member of the Church, but tolerant;
A man sincere, cordial, without a flaw
In habits or in general character;
Of comely person, too, and cheerful presence.
Long had he looked on Linda, and at last
Had studied her intently; knew her ways,
Her daily occupations; whom she saw,
And where she went. He had an interest
Beyond that of the landlord, in his knowledge;
The letter was an offer of his hand.
Of Linda's parentage and history
He nothing knew, and nothing sought to know.
He took her as she was; was well content,
With what he knew, to run all other risks.
The letter was a good one and a frank;
It came to Linda in her pinch of want,
Discouragement, and utter self-distrust.
And thus the tempter spoke and she replied:

"You're getting thin; you find success in art
Is not a thing so easy as you fancied.
Five years you've worked at what you modestly
Esteem your specialty. Your specialty!
As if a woman could have more than one,--
And that--maternity! I do not speak
Of the six years you gave your art before
You strove to make it pay. Methinks you see
Your efforts are a failure. What's the end
Of all your toil? Not enough money saved
For the redemption of your pawned piano!
Truly a cheerful prospect is before you:
To hear your views would edify me greatly."

"Yes, I am thinner than I was; but then
I can afford to be--so that's not much.
As for success--if we must measure that
By the financial rule, 'tis small, I grant you.
Yes, I have toiled, and lived laborious days,
And little can I show in evidence;
And sometimes--sometimes, I am sick at heart,
And almost lose my faith in woman's power
To paint a rose, or even to mend a stocking,
As well as man can do. What would you have?"

"Now you speak reason. Let me see you act it!
Abandon this wild frenzy of the hour,
That would leave woman free to go all ways
A man may go! Why, look you, even in art,
Most epicene of all pursuits in life,
How man leaves woman always far behind!
Give up your foolish striving; and let Nature
And the world's order have their way with you."

"Small as the pittance is, yet I could earn
More, ten times, by my brush than by my needle."

"Ah! woman's sphere is that of the affections.
Ambition spoils her--spoils her as a woman."

"Spoils her for whom?"

"For man."

"Then woman's errand
Is not, like man's, self-culture, self-advancement,
But she must simply qualify herself
To be a mate for man: no obligation
Resting on man to qualify himself
To be a mate for woman?"

"Ay, the man
Lives in the intellect; the woman's life
Is that of the affections, the emotions;
And her anatomy is proof of it."

"So have I often heard, but do not see.
Some women have I known, who could endure
Surgical scenes which many a strong man
Would faint at. We have had this dubious talk
Of woman's sphere far back as history goes:
'Tis time now it were proved: let actions prove it;
Let free experience, education prove it!
Why is it that the vilest drudgeries
Are put on woman, if her sphere be that
Of the affections only, the emotions?
_He_ represents the intellect, and _she_
The affections only! Is it always so?
Let Malibran, or Mary Somerville,
De Stael, Browning, Stanton, Stowe, Bonheur,
Stand forth as proof of that cool platitude.
Use other arguments, if me you'd move.
Besides, I see not that your system makes
Any provision for that numerous class
To whom the affections are an Eden closed,--
The women who are single and compelled
To drudge for a precarious livelihood!
What of _their_ sphere? What of the sphere of those
Who do not, by the sewing of a shirt,
Earn a meal's cost? Go tell them, when they venture
On an employment social custom makes
Peculiarly a man's,--that they become
Unwomanly! Go make them smile at that,--
Smile if they've not forgotten how to smile."

"I see that you're befogged, my little woman,
Chasing this ignis fatuus of the day!
Leave it, and settle down as woman should.
What has been always, must be to the end.
Always has woman been subordinate
In mind, in body, and in power, to man.
Let rhetoricians rave, and theorists
Spin their fine webs,--bow you to holy Nature,
And plant your feet upon the eternal fact."

"The little lifetime of the human race
You call--eternity! The other day
One of these old eternal wrongs was ended
Rather abruptly; yet good people thought
'Twas impious to doubt it was eternal.
Because abuses have existed always,
May we not prove they are abuses still?
If for antiquity you plead, why not
Tell us the harem is the rule of nature,
The one solution of the woman problem?"

"Does not St. Paul--"

"Excuse me. Beg no questions.
St. Paul to you may be infallible,
But Science is so unaccommodating,
If not irreverent, she'll not accept
His ipse dixit as an axiom.
Here, in our civilized society,
Is an increasing host of single women
Who do not find the means of livelihood
In the employments you call feminine.
What shall be done? And my reply is this:
Let every honest calling be as proper
For woman as for man; throw open all
Varieties of labor, skilled or rough,
To woman's choice and woman's competition.
Let _her_ decide the question of the fitness.
Let her rake hay, or pitch it, if she'd rather
Do that than scrub a floor or wash and iron.
And, above all, let her equality
Be barred not at the ballot-box; endow her
With all the rights a citizen can claim;
Give her the suffrage;[7] let her have--by right
And not by courtesy--a voice in shaping
The laws and institutions of the land.
And then, if after centuries of trial,
All shall turn out a fallacy, a failure,
The social scheme will readjust itself
On the old basis, and the world shall be
The wiser for the great experiment."

"But is sex nothing? Shall we recognize
No bounds that Nature clearly has defined,
Saying, with no uncertain tone, to one,
Do this, and to the other, Do thou that?
The rearing of young children and the care
Of households,--can we doubt where these belong?
Woman is but the complement of man
And not a monstrous contrariety.
Co-worker she, but no competitor!"

"All true, and no one doubts it! But why doubt
That perfect freedom is the best condition
For bringing out all that is best in woman
As well as man? Free culture, free occasion,
Higher responsibility, will make
A higher type of femininity,
Ay, of maternal femininity,--
Not derogate from that which now we have,
And which, through laws and limitations old,
Is artificial, morbid, and distort,
Except where Nature works in spite of all.
'Woman is but the complement of man!'
Granted. But why stop there? And why not add,
Man, too, is but the complement of woman?
And both are free! And Nature never meant,
For either, harder rule than that of Love,
Intelligent, and willing as the sun."

"Ah! were men angels, women something more,
Your plan might work; but now, in married life,
_One_ must be absolute; and who can doubt
That Nature points unerringly to man?"

"Then Nature's pointing is not always heeded.
Marriage should be a partnership of equals:
But now the theory would seem to be,
Man's laws must keep the weaker sex in order!
Man must do all the thinking, even for woman!
I don't believe it; woman, too, can think,
Give her the training and the means of knowledge.
'O no!' cries man, 'the household and the child
Must claim her energies; and all her training
Must be to qualify the wife and mother:
For one force loses when another gains,
Since Nature is a very strict accountant;
And what you give the thinker or the artist,
You borrow from the mother and the wife.'
With equal truth, why not object to man
That what he gives the judge or politician
He borrows from the husband and the father?
The wife and mother best are qualified
When you allow the woman breadth of culture,
Give her an interest in all that makes
The human being's welfare, and a voice
In laws affecting her for good or ill.
To 'suckle fools and chronicle small beer'
Is not the whole intent of womanhood.
Even of maternity 'tis not the height
To produce many children, but to have
Such as may be a blessing to their kind.
Let it be woman's pure prerogative,
Free and unswayed by man's imperious pleasure
(Which now too often is her only law),
To rule herself by her own highest instincts,
As her own sense of duty may approve,--
Holding that law for her as paramount
Which may best harmonize her whole of nature,
Educe her individuality,
Not by evading or profaning Nature,[8]
But by a self-development entire."

"Enough, enough! Let us split hairs no longer!
You hold a crumpled letter in your hand;
You know the writer; you esteem, respect him;
And you've had time to question your own heart.
What does it say? You blush,--you hesitate,--
That's a good symptom. Now just hear me out:
If culture is your aim, how opportune
A chance is this! Affluence, leisure, study!
Would you help others? He will help you do it.
Is health an object? Soon, exempt from care,
Or cheered by travel, shall you see restored
Your early bloom and freshness. Would you find
In love a new and higher life? You start!
Now what's the matter? Do not be a fool,--
A sentimentalist, forever groping
After the unattainable, the cloudy.
Come, be a little practical; consider
Your present state: look on that row of nails
Recipient of your wardrobe; see that bonnet,
All out of fashion by at least a month;
That rusty water-proof you call a cloak;
Those boots with the uneven heels; that pair
Of woollen gloves; this whole absurd array,
Where watchful Neatness battles Poverty,
But does not win the victory. Look there!
Would not a house on the great avenue
Be better than these beggarly surroundings?
Since you're heart-free, why not at once say Yes?"

"Sweet fluent tempter, there you hit the mark!
Heart-free am I, and 'tis because of that
You're not entirely irresistible.
Your plea is simply that which lends excuse
To the poor cyprian whom we pass in scorn.
I've done my utmost to persuade myself
That I might love this man,--in time might love:
But all my arguments, enforced by yours,
Do not persuade me. I must give it up!"

Never was No administered more gently
Or more decisively than in her answer
To the proposal in the crumpled letter.

* * * * *

Musing before a picture Linda sat.
"In my poor little range of art," thought she,
"I feel an expert's confidence; I know
These things are unexcelled; and yet why is it
They do not bring their value? Come, I'll try
Something more difficult,--put all my skill,
Knowledge, and work into one little piece."
Bravely she strove: it was a simple scene,
But with accessories as yet untried,
And done in oil with microscopic care;
An open window with a distant landscape,
And on the window-sill a vase of flowers.
It was a triumph, and she knew it was.
"Come, little housekeeper," she said to Rachel,
"We'll go and seek our fortune." So she put
Under her arm the picture, and they went
To show it to the dealer who had bought
Most of her works. But on her way she met
A clerk of the establishment, who said:
"Come into Taylor's here and take an ice;
I'd like to tell you something for your good."

When they all three were seated, Brown began:
"You may not see me at the store again;
For a ship's cousin wants my place, and so,
With little ceremony, I'm dismissed.
Now, if you've no objection, tell me what
The old man gave you for that composition
In which a bird--a humming-bird, I think--
Follows a child who has a bunch of flowers."
"Yes, I remember. Well, 'twas fifteen dollars."
"Whew! He said fifty. Is it possible?
You've seen the chromo copy, I suppose?"
"The chromo? I've seen nothing of a chromo.
Never has my consent been given to publish!"
"That's little to the purpose, it would seem.
A hundred thousand copies have been sold
Of all your pieces, first and last. You stare?"
A light broke in on Linda. All at once
The mystery that hung upon her strivings
Lay solved; the cloud was lifted; and she saw
That all this while she had not weighed her talents
In a false balance; had not been the dupe
Of her own aspirations and desires.
With eyes elate and hope up-springing fresh
In her glad heart, she cried, "And are you sure?"
"'Tis easily confirmed. Go ask the printer;
Only my number is below the mark."

From Brown, then, Linda got particulars,
Showing 'twas not a random utterance.
"'Tis strange," she said, "that I've not seen the chromos
At the shop windows."--"Only recently,"
Said he, "have they been sold here in the city;
The market has been chiefly at the West.
The old man thought it policy, perhaps,
To do it on the sly, lest you should know.
Well, well, in that bald head of his he has
A mine!" Then Linda struck the bell, and said:
"This is my entertainment, Mr. Brown;
Please let me pay for it." And Brown's "O no"
Was not so wholly irresistible
That Linda did not have her way in this.
They parted.

"Why, Miss Percival," said Rachel,
"You look precisely as you did that day
You fired the pistol in the woods,--you do!
I watched your eye, and knew you would not fail."
"'Tis to bring down a different sort of game,
We now go forth."--"But you forget your pistol."
"This time we shall not need one. Did I not
Say we were going forth to seek our fortune?
Well, Rachel, my dear child, we've found it,--found it."
"O, I'm so glad! (How rapidly you walk!)
And shall we have the old piano back?"
"Ay, that we shall! And you shall go to-morrow
And take a present to the poor blind aunt
And her old mother,--for they love you well."
"A present! Why, Miss Percival, there's nothing
I do so love to do as to make presents.
I've made three in my lifetime; one a ring
Of tortoise-shell; and one--"

But here they entered
A picture-store. A man who stood alert,
With thumbs hooked in the arm-holes of his vest,
Advanced to welcome her. The "old man" he,
Of Brown's narration; not so very old,
However; not quite thirty-five, in fact.
The capital which made his note so good
Was a bald head; a head you could not question;
A head which was a pledge of solvency,
A warrant of respectability!
The scalp all glossy; tufts above the ears!
This head he cultivated carefully,
And always took his hat off when he went
To ask a discount or to clinch a bargain.
"Ah! my young friend, Miss Percival," he cried,
"You've something choice there, if I'm not mistaken."
Linda took off the wrapper from her picture
And showed it.

An expression of surprise
Came to the "old man's" features; but he hid it
By making of his hand a cylinder
And looking through it, like a connoisseur.
These were his exclamations: "Clever! Ay!
Style somewhat new; landscape a shade too bright;
The sky too blue, eh? Still a clever picture,--
One of your best. Shall we say twenty dollars?"
Taking the picture, Linda said, "Good morning!
I'm in a hurry now, and you'll excuse me."
"Will you not leave it?"--"No, I'm not disposed
To part with it at present."--"Thirty dollars
Would be a high price for it, but to aid you
I'll call it thirty."--"Could you not say fifty?"
"You're joking with me now, Miss Percival."
"Then we will end our pleasantry. Good by."
"Stay! You want money: I shall be ashamed
To let my partners know it, but to show
How far I'll go for your encouragement--
Come! I'll say fifty dollars."

The "old man"
Lowered his head, so that the burnished scalp
Might strike her eye direct. Impenetrable
To that appeal, Linda said: "I can get
A hundred for it, I believe. Good day!"
"Stop, stop! For some time our intent has been
To make you a small present as a proof
Of our regard; now will I merge it in
A hundred dollars for the picture. Well?"
"Nay, I would rather not accept a favor.
I must go now,--will call again some day."
Desperate the "old man" moved his head about
In the most striking lights, and patted it
Wildly at last, as if by that mute act
To stay the unrelenting fugitive.
In vain! She glided off, and Rachel with her.
"Where now, Miss Percival?"--"To make a call
Upon a lawyer for advice, my dear."

Thoughtfully Diggin listened to the case,
So clearly stated that no part of it
Was left to disentangle. "Let me look,"
He said, "at your new picture; our first step
Shall be to fix the right of publication
In you alone. Expect from me no praise,--
For I'm no judge of art. Fine points of law,
Not fine points in a picture, have engaged
My thoughts these twenty years. While you wait here,
I'll send my clerk to copyright this painting.
What shall we call it?"--"Call it, if you please,
'The Prospect of the Flowers.'"--"That will do.
Entered according to--et cetera.
Your name is--" "Linda Percival."--"I thought so.
Here, Edward, go and take a copyright
Out for this work, 'The Prospect of the Flowers.'
First have it photographed, and then deposit
The photographic copy with the Court."

Then Diggin paced the room awhile, and ran
Through his lank hair his fingers nervously.
At length his plan took shape; he stopped and said
"You shall take back your picture to this dealer;
Tell him 'tis not for sale, but get his promise
To have it, for a fortnight, well displayed
At his shop window. This he'll not refuse.
Don't sell at any price. What's your address?
Edward shall go with you: 'tis well to have
A witness at this juncture. Write me down
The printer's name Brown gave you. Ay, that's right.
Now go; and if the picture is removed--
For purposes we'll not anticipate--
As it will be--we'll corner the 'old man,'
And his bald head sha'n't save him. By the way,
If you want money let me be your banker;
I'm well content to risk a thousand dollars
On the result of my experiment."

The picture was removed, as he foretold.
Ten weeks went by; then Linda got it back.
"It is the pleasant season," said the lawyer;
"Here are three hundred dollars. You start back!
Miss Linda, I shall charge you ten per cent
On all you borrow. Oh! You do not like
To be in debt. This is my risk, not yours.
If I recover nothing, then no debt
Shall be by you incurred,--so runs the bond!
Truly, now, 'tis no sentimental loan:
I trust another's solvency, not yours.
At length you understand me,--you consent!
Now do not go to work; but you and Rachel
Go spend a long vacation at the seaside.
You want repose and sunshine and pure air.
Be in no hurry to return. The longer
You're gone, the better. For a year at least
We must keep dark. That puzzles you. No matter.
Here, take my card, and should you any time
Need money, do not hesitate to draw
On me for funds. There! Not a word! Good by!"

In the cars, eastward bound! A clear, bright day
After a rain-storm; and, on both sides, verdure;
Trees waving salutations, waters gleaming.
The brightness had its type in Linda's looks,
As, with her little protegee, she sat
And savored all the beauty, all the bloom.
On the seat back of them, two gentlemen
Chatted at intervals in tones which Linda
Could hardly fail to hear, though little heeding.
But now and then, almost unconsciously,
She found herself attending to their prattle.
Said Gossip Number One: "You see that veteran
In the straw hat, and the young man beside him:
Father and son are they. Old Lothian,
Five months ago, was high among the trusted
Of our chief bankers; Charles, his only son,
By a maternal uncle's death enriched,
Kept out of Wall Street; turned a stolid ear
To all high-mounting schemes for doubling wealth,
His taste inclining him to art and letters.
But Lothian had a partner, Judd,--a scamp,
As the result made evident; and Judd
One day was missing; bonds, securities,
And bills, deposits of confiding folk,
Guardians, and widows, and old men retired,
All had been gobbled up by Judd--converted
Into hard cash--and Judd had disappeared.
Despair for Lothian! a man whose word
No legal form could make more absolute.
Crushed, mortified, and rendered powerless,
He could not breast the storm. The mental strain
Threw him upon his bed, and there he lay
Till Charles, from Italy in haste returning,
Found his old sire emaciate and half dead
From wounded honor. 'Come! no more of this!'
Cried Charles; 'how happened it that you forgot
You had a son? All shall be well, my father.'
He paid off all the liabilities,
And found himself without three thousand dollars
Out of a fortune of at least a million.
What shall we call him, imbecile or saint?
His plan is now to set up as a teacher.
Of such a teacher let each thrifty father
Beware, or he may see his only son
Turn out a poor enthusiast,--perhaps--
Who knows?--an advocate of woman's rights!"

Attracted by the story, Linda tried
To get a sight of him, the simpleton;
And, when she saw his face, it seemed to her
Strangely familiar. Was it in a dream
That she had once beheld it? Vain the attempt
Of peering memory to fix the where
And when of the encounter! Yet she knew
That with it was allied a grateful thought.
Then Rachel spoke and made the puzzle clear:
"The man who sent us in his carriage home,
That day you fainted,--don't you recollect?"
"Ay, surely! 'tis the same. No dream-face that!
Charles Lothian, is he? If his acts are folly,
Then may I be a fool! Such fools are rare.
How tender of his father he appears!
I wonder where they're going."

When, at Springfield,
Father and son got out, a sigh, or rather
The ghost of one, and hardly audible,
Escaped from Linda. Then Charles Lothian,
While the cars waited, caught her eye, and bowed.
So he remembered her! "Now that was odd.
But the bell sounds; the locomotive puffs;
The train moves on. Charles Lothian, good by!
Eastward we go; away from you--away--
Never to meet again in this wide world;--
Like ships that in mid-ocean meet and part,
To meet no more--O, nevermore--perchance!"

VI.

BY THE SEASIDE.

Borne swiftly to the North Cape of the Bay,
Still on the wings of steam the travellers went;
And tenderly the purple sunset smiled
Upon their journey's end; a little cottage
With oaks and pines behind it, and, before,
High ocean crags, and under them the ocean,
Unintercepted far as sight could reach!
Foliage and waves! A combination rare
Of lofty sylvan table-land, and then--
No barren strip to mar the interval--
The watery waste, the ever-changing main!
Old Ocean, with a diadem of verdure
Crowning the summit where his reach was stayed!
The shore, a line of rocks precipitous,
Piled on each other, leaving chasms profound,
Into whose rifts the foamy waters rushed
With gurgling roar, then flowed in runlets back
Till the surge drove them furiously in,
Shaking with thunderous bass the cloven granite!
Yet to the earth-line of the tumbled cliffs
The wild grass crept; the sweet-leafed bayberry
Scented the briny air; the fern, the sumach,
The prostrate juniper, the flowering thorn,
The blueberry, the clinging blackberry,
Tangled the fragrant sod; and in their midst
The red rose bloomed, wet with the drifted spray.
From the main shore cut off, and isolated
By the invading, the circumfluent waves,
A rock which time had made an island, spread
With a small patch of brine-defying herbage,
Is known as Norman's Woe; for, on this rock,
Two hundred years ago, was Captain Norman,
In his good ship from England, driven and wrecked
In a wild storm, and every life was lost.

Stand on the cliff near by,--southeasterly
Are only waves on waves to the horizon;
But easterly, less than two miles across,
And forming with the coast-line, whence you look,
The harbor's entrance, stretches Eastern Point,
A lighthouse at its end; a mile of land
Arm-like thrust out to keep the ocean off;
So narrow that beyond its width, due east,
You see the Atlantic glittering, hardly made
Less inconspicuous by the intervention.
The cottage fare, the renovating breeze,
The grove, the piny odors, and the flowers,
Rambles at morning and the twilight time,
Sea-bathing, joyous and exhilarant,
Siestas on the rocks, with inhalations
Of the pure breathings of the ocean-tide,--
Soon wrought in both the maidens visible change.
Each day their walks grew longer, till at last
A ten-mile tramp was no infrequent one.

"And where to-day?" asked Rachel, one fair morning.
"To Eastern Point," said Linda; "with our baskets!
For berries, there's no place like Eastern Point;
Blackberries, whortleberries, pigeon-pears,--
All we shall find in prodigality!"
And so by what was once the old stage-road
Contiguous to the shore, and through the woods,--
Though long abandoned save by scenery-hunters,
And overgrown with grass and vines and bushes;
Then leaving on their right the wooded hill
Named from the rattlesnakes, now obsolete;
Then by the Cove, and by the bend of shore
Over Stage-rocks, by little Half-moon beach,
Across the Cut, the Creek, by the Hotel,
And through the village, even to Eastern Point,--
The maidens went, and had a happy day.
And, when the setting sun blazed clear and mild,
And every little cloud was steeped in crimson,
To a small wharf upon the harbor side,
Along the beach they strolled, and looked across
The stretch of wave to Norman's Woe;--and Linda
Wistfully said: "Heigho! I own I'm tired;
And you, too, Rachel, you look travel-worn,
And hardly good for four miles more of road.
Could we but make this short cut over water!
What would I give now for a boat to take us
To Webber's Cove! O, if some timely oarsman
Would only come and say, 'Fair demoiselles,
My skiff lies yonder, rocking on the tide,
And eager to convey you to your home!'
Then would I----Rachel!"

"What, Miss Percival?"
"Look at those men descending from the ridge!"
"Well, I can see an old man and a young."
"And is that all you have to say of them?"
"How should I know about them? Ah! I see!
Those are the two we met three weeks ago,--
The day we left New York,--met in the cars."
"Ay, Rachel, and their name is Lothian;
Father and son are they. Who would have thought
That they would find their way to Eastern Point?"
"Why not, as well as we, Miss Percival?
Look! To the wharf they go; and there, beside it,
If I'm not much mistaken, lies a boat.
The wished-for oarsman he! O, this is luck!
They're going to the boat,--he'll row us over,
I'll run and ask him. See you to my basket."
"Rachel! Stop, Rachel! Fie, you forward girl!
Don't think of it: come back! back, back, I say!"

But Rachel did not hear, or would not heed,
Straight to the boat she ran, and, as the men
Drew nigh and stopped,--to Linda's dire dismay
She went up and accosted them, and pointed
To Norman's Woe,--then back to her companion,--
And then, with gesture eloquent of thanks
For some reply the younger man had made,
She seemed to lead the way, and he to follow
Along the foot-path to the granite bench
Where Linda sat, abashed and wondering.
And, when they stood before her, Rachel said
"Miss Percival, here's Mr. Lothian;
He has a boat near by, and will be glad
To give us seats and row us both across."
Charles Lothian bowed, and Linda, blushing, said,
"Against my orders did this little lady
Accost you, sir, but I will not affect
Regret at her success, if you're content."
"More than content, I'm very glad," said Charles;
"My boat is amply large enough for four,
And we are bound, it seems, all the same way.
My father and myself have taken rooms
At Mistress Moore's, not far from where you live:
So count your obligation very slight."
"An obligation not the first!" said Linda.
"So much the better!" said Charles Lothian:
"Come, take my arm, and let me hold your basket.
What noble blackberries! I'll taste of one."
"Why not of two? As many as you will?"
"Thank you. You've been adventurous, it seems."
"Yes, Fortune favors the adventurous:
See the old proverb verified to-day!"
"Praise a good day when ended. Here's my father:
Father, Miss Percival!" The senior bowed,
And said, "I used to know--" And then, as if
Checked by a reminiscence that might be
Unwelcome, he was silent, and they went
All to the boat. "Please let me take an oar,"
Said Linda. "Can you row?" asked Charles. "A little!
My father taught me." Then old Lothian
Looked at her with a scrutinizing glance.

The ocean billows melted into one,
And that stretched level as a marble floor.
All winds were hushed, and only sunset tints
From purple cloudlets, edged with fiery gold,
And a bright crimson fleece the sun had left,
Fell on the liquid plain incarnadined.
The very pulse of ocean now was mute;
From the far-off profound, no throb, no swell!
Motionless on the coastwise ships the sails
Hung limp and white, their very shadows white.
The lighthouse windows drank the kindling red,
And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit.

"A heavenly eve!" sighed Linda, rapt in praise,
As with poised oars the two looked oceanward.
Then, keeping time, they pulled out from the shore.
"But you row well!" cried Charles. "I might return
The compliment," said Linda. "See that duck!
How near, how still he floats! He seems to know
The holy time will keep him safe from harm."
"Had I a gun," said Charles--"You would not use it,"
Cried Linda, flushing. "And why not?" quoth he.
"'Nobility obliges'; sympathy
Now makes all nature one and intimate;
And we'd respect, even in a duck, his share
In this tranquillity, this perfect rest."
"I'm glad, then, that I'm gunless," Charles replied.
"Hear him!" the sire exclaimed; "he'd have you think
He's a great sportsman. Be not duped, my dear!
He will not shoot nor fish! He got a wound
At Gettysburg, I grant you,--what of that?
He would far rather face a battery
Than kill a duck, or even hook a cunner."
"See now," said Charles, "the mischievous effect
Of this exhilarating Cape Ann air!
'Tis the first taunt I've heard from lips of his
Since my return from Europe. Look you, father,
If I'm to be exposed before young ladies,
Your rations shall be stopped, and your supply
Of oxygen reduced,--with no more joking.
Don't eye those berries so feloniously.
Because you've now an appetite,--because
You've just begun to gain a little flesh,--
Must I be made the target of your jeers?"

Smiling, but with sad eyes, the father said:
"Ah! Charlie, Charlie, when I think of it,--
Think how you've thrown, poor boy, your very life
Into the breach of ruin made for me,--
Sacrificed all, to draw the lethal dart
Out of my wounded honor--to restore--"
"Give us a song, Miss Percival, a song!"
Charles, interrupting, said. "The time, the place,
Call for a song. Look! All the lighthouses
Flash greeting to the night. There Eastern Point
Flames out! Lo, little Ten Pound Island follows!
See Baker's Island kindling! Marblehead
Ablaze! Egg Rock, too, off Nahant, on fire!
And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge!
Like the wise virgins, all, with ready lamps!
Now might I turn fire-worshipper, and bow
In adoration at this solemn rite:
I'll compromise, however, for a song."
"Lest you turn Pagan, then, I'll sing," quoth Linda.
And, while they rested on their oars, she sang.

LINDA'S SONG.

A little bird flew
To the top of a tree:
The sky it was blue,
And the bird sang to me.
So tender and true was the strain
The singer, I hoped, would remain;
O little bird, stay and prolong
The rapture the grief of that song!

A little thought came,
Came out of my heart;
It whispered a name
That made me to start:
And the rose-colored breath of my sigh
Flushed the earth and the sea and the sky.
Delay, little thought! O, delay,
And gladden my life with thy ray!

"Such singing lured Ulysses to the rocks!"
Old Lothian said, applauding. "Charles, look out,
Or, ere we reck of it, this reckless siren
Will have us all a wreck on Norman's Woe.
See to your oars!--Where are we drifting, man?"
"Who would not drift on such a night as this?"
Said Charles; "all's right." Then, heading for the Cove,
Slowly and steadily the rowers pulled.

But, when the moon shone crescent in the west,
And the faint outline of the part obscured
Thread-like curved visible from horn to horn,--
And Jupiter, supreme among the orbs,
And Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth,
And the great concave opened like a flower,
Unfolding firmaments and galaxies,
Sparkling with separate stars, or snowy white
With undistinguishable suns beyond,--
They paused and rested on their oars again,
And looked around,--in adoration looked.
For, gazing on the inconceivable,
They felt God is, though inconceivable;--
And, while they mutely worshipped, suddenly
A change came over Linda's countenance,
And her glazed mortal eyes were functionless;
For there, before her in the boat, stood two
Unbidden, not unwelcome passengers,
Her father and her mother....

"Why, Miss Linda,
Wake! Are you sleeping? What has been the matter?
Here we've been waiting for you full five minutes.
And I have called, and Mr. Lothian
He too has called, and yet you make no answer!"
"Rachel! What is it? There! Excuse me all,
If I seemed impolite. Now, then, I'm ready.
A strong pull shall it be? So! Let her dart!"

And in ten minutes they were at the landing
And on their homeward way; and, as they parted,
The spoils were shared, and the old man accepted
One of the baskets, and all cried, "Good night!"

* * * * *

The morning sea-fog like an incense rose
Up to the sun and perished in his beam;
The sky's blue promise brightened through the veil.
With her unopened sketch-book in her hand,
Linda stood on the summit looking down
On Norman's Woe, and felt upon her brow
The cooling haze that foiled the August heat.
Near her knelt Rachel, hunting curiously
For the fine purple algae of the clefts.
Good cause had Linda for a cheerful heart;
For had she not that day received by mail
A copy of "The Prospect of the Flowers,"--
Published in chromo, and these words from Diggin?
"Your future is assured: my bait is swallowed,
Bait, hook, and sinker, all; now let our fish
Have line enough and time enough for play,
And we will land him safely by and by.
A good fat fish he is, and thinks he's cunning.
Enclosed you'll find a hundred-dollar bill;
Please send me a receipt. Keep very quiet."

Yet Linda was not altogether happy.
Why was it that Charles Lothian had called
Once, and once only, after their adventure?
Called just to ask her, How she found herself?
And, Did she overtask herself in rowing?
How happened it, in all her walks and rambles,
They rarely met, or, if they met, a bow
Formal and cold was all the interview?
While thus she mused, she started at a cry:
"Ah! here's our siren, cumbent on the rocks!
Where should a siren be, if not on rocks?"
Old Lothian's voice! He came with rod and line
To try an angler's luck. Behind him stepped
Charles, who stood still, as if arrested, when
He noticed Linda.

Then, as if relenting
In some resolve, he jumped from rock to rock
To where she leaned; and, greeting her, inquired:
"Have you been sketching?"--"No, for indolence
Is now my occupation."--"Here's a book;
May I not look at it?"--"You may."--"Is this
An album?"--"'Tis my sketch-book."--"Do you mean
These are your sketches, and original?"
"Ay, truly, mine; from nature every one."
"But here we have high art! No amateur
Could color flower like that."--"Ah! there you touch me;
For I'm no amateur in painting flowers,--
I get my living by it."--"I could praise
That sea-view also,--what a depth of sky!
That beach,--that schooner flying from a squall,--
If I'm a judge, here's something more than skill!"

Then the discourse slid off to woman's rights;
For Lothian held a newspaper which told
Of some convention, the report of which
Might raise a smile. One of the lady speakers,
It seems, would give her sex the privilege
Of taking the initiative in wooing,
If so disposed!

"Indeed, why not?" cried Linda.
"Indeed, you almost take my breath away
With your Why not, Miss Percival! Why not?"
"Yes, I repeat,--if so disposed, why not?
For why should woman any more than man
Play the dissembler, with so much at stake?
I know the ready taunt that here will rise:
'Already none too backward are our girls
In husband-seeking.' Seeking in what way?
Seeking by stratagem and management,--
Not by frank, honest means! What food for mirth
'Twould give to shallow men to see a woman
Court the relation, intertwined with all
Of purest happiness that she may crave,--
The ties of wife and mother! O, what pointing,
Sneering, and joking! And yet why should care
Thoughtful and pure and wisely provident,
That Nature's sacred prompting shall not fail,
Be one thing for a man, and quite another
For her, the woman? Why this flimsy mask?
This playing of a part, put on to suit,
Not the heart's need, but Fashion custom-bound?
Feigning we must be sought, and never seek?
Now, through these social hindrances and bars,
The bold, perhaps the intriguing, carry off
Prizes the true and modest ought to win.
And so we hear it coarsely said of husbands,
'Better a poor one far, than none at all!'
A thought ignoble, and which no true woman
Should harbor for a moment. Give her freedom,
Freedom to seek, and she'll not harbor it!
Because if woman, equally with man,
Were privileged thus, she would discriminate
Much more than now, and fewer sordid unions
Would be the sure result. For what if man
Were chained to singleness until some woman
Might seek his hand in marriage, would he be
Likely as now to make a wise election?
Would he not say, 'Time flies; my chances lessen
And I must plainly take what I can get?'
True, there are mercenary men enough,
Seeking rich dowries; they'd find fewer dupes,
Were women free as men to seek and choose,
Banish the senseless inequality,
And you make marriage less a vulgar game
In which one tries to circumvent the other.
Oh! all this morbid ribaldry of _men_,
And all this passive imbecility,
And superstitious inactivity,
Dissimulation and improvidence,
False shame and lazy prejudice of _women_,
Where the great miracle of sex concerns us,
And Candor should be innocently wise,
And Knowledge should be reverently free,--
Is against nature,[9]--helps to hide the way
Out of the social horrors that confound us,
And launches thousands into paths impure,
Shutting them out from holy parentage."

"I hold," said Charles, "the question is not one
Of reasoning, but of simple sentiment.
As it would shock me, should a woman speak
In virile baritone, so would I shudder
To hear a grave proposal marriageward
In alto or soprano."