Chapter IV: Part 4

"'Twould depend!
Depend on love," said Linda; "love potential,
Or present."--"Nay, 'twould frighten love!" cried Charles,--
"Kill it outright."--"Then would it not be love!
What! would you love a woman less because
She durst avow her love, before the cue
Had been imparted by your lordly lips?
Rare love would that be truly which could freeze
Because the truth came candid from her heart,
And in advance of the proprieties!"
"But may the woman I could love," cried Charles,
"Forbear at least the rash experiment!"
"I doubt," said Linda, "if you know your heart;
For hearts look to the substance, not the form.
Why should not woman seek her happiness
With brow as unabashed as man may wear
In seeking his? Ah! lack of candor here
Works more regrets, for woman and for man,
Than we can reckon. Let but woman feel
That in the social scheme she's not a cipher,
The remedy, be sure, is not far off."

"To me it seems," said Lothian, "that you war
Against our natural instincts: have they not
Settled the point, even as the world has done?"
Said Linda: "Instincts differ; they may be
Results of shallow prejudice or custom.
The Turk will tell you that polygamy
Is instinct; and the savage who stalks on
In dirty painted grandeur, while his squaw
Carries the burdens, might reply that instinct
Regulates that. So instinct proves too much.
Queens and great heiresses are privileged
To intimate their matrimonial choice,--
Simply because superiority
In power or riches gives an apt excuse:
Let a plurality of women have
The wealth and power, and you might see reversed
What now you call an instinct. When a higher
Civilization shall make woman less
Dependent for protection and support
On man's caprice or pleasure, there may be
A higher sort of woman; one who shall
Feel that her lot is more in her own hands,
And she, like man, a free controlling force,
Not a mere pensioner on paternal bounty
Until some sultan throws the handkerchief."

A cry of triumph from the fisherman,
Exuberant at having caught a bass,
Here ended the discussion, leaving Linda
With the last word. Charles went to chat with Rachel;
And Linda, summoned by vociferations
From the excited, the transported captor,
Descended to inspect the amazing fish.
"A beauty, is it not, Miss Percival?
A rare one, too, for this part of the coast!
'Twill be a study how to have it cooked.
Now sit here, in the shadow of this rock.
Your father's name was Albert Percival?
So I supposed. I've often heard my wife
Speak of him as of one she knew was wronged
Most foully in his wrestle with the law.
Have you not met with Harriet Percival?"
"Once only, and our interview was brief.
Is she not married?"--"No, nor like to be,
Although her fortune is a pretty one,
Even for these times,--two millions, I believe;
All which her mother may inherit soon;
For Harriet is an invalid, but hoards
Her income quite as thriftily as if
She looked for progeny and length of days.
The mother, as you may not be aware,
Has married an aspiring gentleman
Who means to build a palace on the Hudson,
And Harriet's money hence is greatly needed."
The mist now cleared, and the sun shone in power,
So that the heat soon drove them to the woods.
The senior took his capture home for dinner;
Rachel strolled, picking berries by the brook;
And, under lofty pines, sat Charles and Linda,
And talked discursively, till Linda's thoughts,
Inclining now to memory, now to hope,
Vibrating from the future to the past,
Took, in a silent mood, this rhythmic form.

UNDER THE PINES.

O pine-trees! bid the busy breeze be still
That through your tops roars like the constant surge:
Such was the sound I heard in happy days
Under the pines.

In happy days, when those I loved were by;
In happy days, when love was daily food;
And jocund childhood, finding it, found joy
Under the pines.

Again I hear the west-wind in your tops;
Again I scent the odor you exhale;
But sound and odor now provoke but tears
Under the pines.

O pine-trees! shall a different joy be mine,
One day when I shall seek your fragrant shade?
Whisper it faintly, breezes, to my heart
Under the pines.

"Truly, Miss Percival, you puzzle me,"
Said Charles, upon her silent revery
Breaking abruptly in: "ay, you could fire
And wound the villain bearing off the child,
And you can brave the radical extreme
On this great woman question of the day,--
Yet do you seem a very woman still,
And not at all like any man I know,--
Not even like an undeveloped man!
And I'm not greatly exercised by fear,
Leaning here by your side thus lazily."
"Don't mock me now," said Linda; "I'm not armed;
Be generous, therefore, in your raillery."
"Not armed? Then will I venture to propose
That when the tide is low this afternoon
We try the beach on horseback. Will you venture?"
The joy that sparkled in her eyes said "Yes"
Before her tongue could duplicate assent.
Said Charles, "I'll bring the horses round at six."
"I will be ready, Mr. Lothian."

There was no breach of punctuality:
Though sighs, from deeper founts than tears, were heaved,
When she drew forth the summer riding-habit
Worn last when in the saddle with her father.
"Here are the horses at the door!" cried Rachel;
"A bay horse and a black; the bay is yours."
When they were mounted, Lothian remarked:
"Little Good Harbor Beach shall be our point;
So called because an Indian once pronounced
The harbor 'little good,' meaning 'quite bad';
A broad and open beach, from which you see
Running out southerly the ocean side
Of Eastern Point; its lofty landward end
Gray with huge cliffs. There shall you mark 'Bass Rock,'
Rare outlook when a storm-wind from the east
Hurls the Atlantic up the craggy heights."

The air was genial, and a rapid trot
Soon brought them to the beach. The ebb had left
A level stretch of sand, wide, smooth, and hard,
With not a hoof-mark on the glistening plain.
The horses tossed their heads with snorting pride,
Feeling the ocean breeze, as curved and fell
Up the long line the creeping fringe of foam,
Then backward slid in undulating glass,
While all the west in Tyrian splendor flamed.
"But this is life!" cried Linda, as she put
Her horse to all his speed, and shook her whip.
They skimmed the sand, they chased the flying wave,
They walked their horses slow along the beach:
And, as the light fell on a far-off sail,
And made it a white glory to the eye,
Said Linda: "See! it fades into the gray,
And now 'tis dim, and now is seen no more!
Yet would a little height reveal it still.
So fade from memory scenes which higher points
Of vision shall reveal: the beautiful,
The good, shall never die; and so to-day
Shall be a lasting, everlasting joy!"

"Would I might see more of such days!" said he,
"In the obscure before me! Fate forbids.
My time of idlesse terminates to-night.
To-morrow to the city we return.
Thither I go, to open, in October,
A private school; and I must find a house
And make my preparations."

On they rode,
After these words, in silence for a mile
Upon their homeward way. Then Lothian:
"And what will your address be, in the city?"
"I do not know, nor care," said Linda, switching
Her horse's ear, to start a quicker trot.
Another mile of silence! "Look!" cried he;
"The lighthouse light salutes us!"--"Yes, I see."
"Why do you go so fast?"--"I'll slacken speed
If you desire it. There!" They breathed their horses;
Then Lothian: "Indeed, I hope that we
Shall meet again."--"Why not? The world is wide,
But I have known a letter in a bottle,
Flung over in mid-ocean, to be found
And reach its owner. Doubtless, we may meet."
"I'm glad to find you confident of that."
Silence again! And so they rode along
Till they saw Rachel coming from the house
To greet them. Charles helped Linda to dismount,
Held out his hand, and said, "Good by, Miss Linda."
"Good by!" she cheerily answered; "bid your father
Good by for me. And so you go indeed
To-morrow?"--"Yes, we may not meet again."
"Well; pleasant journey!"--"Thank you. Good by, Rachel."
He rode away, leading her panting horse;
And, when the trees concealed him, Linda rushed
Up stairs, and locked the door, and wept awhile.

As, early the next morning, she looked forth
On the blue ocean from the open window,
"Now, then, for work!" she cried, and drew her palm
Across her brow, as if to thrust away
Thoughts that too perseveringly came back
She heard a step. 'Tis he! "I hardly hoped,
Miss Percival, to find you up so early:
Good by, once more!"--"Good by! Don't miss the train."
At this a shadow fell on Lothian's face,
As with uplifted hat and thwarted smile,
He turned away. Then off with hasty stride
He walked and struck the bushes listlessly.

"What did I mean by speaking so?" said Linda,
With hand outstretched, as if to draw him back.
"Poor fellow! He looked sad; but why--but why
Is he so undemonstrative? And why
Could he not ask again for my address,
I'd like to know?" Poor Linda! She could preach,
But, like her elders, could not always practise.

VII.

FROM LINDA'S DIARY.

I.

Home again! Home? what satire in the word!
If home is where the heart is, where's my home?
Well: here's my easel; here my old piano;
Here the memorials of my early days!
Here let me try at least to be content.
This din of rolling wheels beneath my window,
Let it renew for me the ocean's roar!

II.

It is the heart makes music musical!
My neighbor has a mocking-bird: its song
Has been as little heeded as the noise
Of rattling wheels incessant; but to-day
One of its strains brought all Elysium back
Into my heart. What was it? What the tie
Linking it with some inexpressive joy?
At length I solve the mystery! Those notes,
Pensively slow and sadly exquisite,
Were what the wood-thrush piped at early dawn
After that evening passage in the boat,
When stars came out, that never more shall set.
Oh! sweet and clear the measured cadence fell
Upon my ear in slumber--and I woke!
I woke, and listened while the first faint flush
Of day was in the east; while yet the grove
Showed only purple gloom, and on the beach
The tidal waves with intermittent rush
Broke lazily and lent their mingling chime.
And O the unreckoned riches of the soul!
The possible beatitudes, of which
A glimpse is given, a transitory glimpse,
So rarely in a lifetime! Then it was,
Hearing that strain, as if all joy the Past
Had in its keeping,--all the Future held,--
All love, all adoration, and all beauty,--
Made for a moment the soul's atmosphere,
And lifted it to bliss unspeakable.
O splendor fugitive! O transport rare!
Transfiguring and glorifying life!

III.

This strange, inexplicable human heart!
My lawyer sends me more good news; he writes:
"The picture's sale will reach ten thousand copies,
And for the first year only! We shall have
A big bill to send in; and do not fear
But the 'old man' will pay it, every dime.
To escape the heavy damages the law
Allows for such infringement, he'll be glad
To compromise for the amount I fix;
And what I shall compel him to disgorge
Will simply be fair copyright on all
Your published works; and this will give you clear
Some fifteen thousand dollars, not to speak
Of a fixed interest in future sales."
So writes my lawyer. Now one would suppose
That news like this would make me light of heart,
Spur my ambition; and, as taste of blood
Fires the pet tiger, even so touch of gold
Would rouse the sacred appetite of gain.
But with attainment cometh apathy;
And I was somewhat happier, methinks,
When life was all a struggle, and the prayer,
"Give me my daily bread," had anxious meaning.

IV.

Is it then true that woman's proper sphere
Is in the affections? that she's out of place
When these are balked, and science, art, or trade
Has won the dedication of her thought?
Nay! the affections are for all; and he,
Or she, has most of life, who has them most.
O, not an attribute of sex are they!
Heart loneliness is loneliness indeed,
But not for woman any more than man,
Were she so trained, her active faculties
Could have a worthy aim.

What worthier,
Than the pursuit, the discipline of beauty?
He who finds beauty helps to interpret God:
For not an irreligious heart can dwell
In him who sees and knows the beautiful.
I'll not believe that one whom Art has chosen
For a high priest can be irreverent,
Sordid, unloving; his veil-piercing eye
Sees not in life the beauty till it sees
God and the life beyond; not in a dream
Of Pantheistic revery where all
In all is lost, diluted, and absorbed,
And consciousness and personality
Vanish like smoke forever; but all real,
Distinct, and individual, though all
Eternally dependent on the One!
Who gave the Eye to see, shall He not see?
Who gave the Heart to feel, shall He not love?
Of knowledge infinite we know a letter,
A syllable or two, and thirst for more:
Is there not One, Teacher at once and Cause,
Who comprehends all beauty and all science,
Holding infinity, that, step by step,
We may advance, and find, in what seems good
To Him, our gladness and our being's crown?
If this were not, then what a toy the world!
And what a mockery these suns and systems!
And how like pumping at an empty cistern
Were it to live and study and aspire!
Come, then, O Art! and warm me with thy smile!
Flash on my inward sight thy radiant shapes!
August interpreter of thoughts divine,
Whether in sound, or word, or form revealed!
Pledge and credential of immortal life!
Grand arbiter of truth! Consoler! come!
Come, help even me to seek thee and to find!

V.

Winter is here again; it sees me still
At work upon my picture. This presents
Two vases, filled with flowers, upon a slab.
"Which will you choose?" I call it: 'tis in oil.
Three hours a day are all I give to it,
So fine the work, so trying to the eyes.
Thus have I ample time for teaching Rachel:
A good child and affectionate! I've found
Her aptitude; she has a taste in bonnets,
With an inventive skill in ornament.
And so I have her regularly taught
By an accomplished milliner; and Rachel
Already promises to lead her teacher.
Had I a fortune, still I'd have her feel
That she must conquer something worthily;
Something to occupy her active powers,
And yield a fair support, should need require.

VI.

Whom should I meet to-day but Meredith!
My washerwoman, Ellen Blount, is ill,
So ill I fear she never will be well.
'Tis the old story, every day renewed:
A little humble, tender-hearted woman,
Tied to a husband whom to call a brute
Would be to vilify the quadrupeds!
A fellow, who must have his pipe, his whiskey,
And his good dinner, let what may befall
His wife and children. He could take the pittance
She got from her hard toil, and spend it on
Himself and his companions of the jug.
When out of work, as he would often be,
Then double toil for her! with peevish words
From him, the sole requital of it all!
Child after child she bore him; but, compelled
Too quickly after childbirth to return
To the old wash-tub, all her sufferings
Reacted on the children, and they died,
Haply in infancy the most of them,--
Until but one was left,--a little boy,
Puny and pale, gentle and uncomplaining,
With all the mother staring from his eyes
In hollow, anxious, pitiful appeal.
In this one relic all her love and hope
And all that made her life endurable
At length were centred. She had saved a dollar
To buy for him a pair of overshoes;
But, as she went to get them, Blount waylaid her,
Learnt that she had the money, forced it from her.
Poor Teddy had to go without his shoes.
'Twas when the January thaw had made
The streets a-reek with mud and melting snow.
Poor Teddy wet his feet, took cold, and died.
"Come soon, mamma," were his last feeble words.
Blount was a cunning ruffian; well he knew
How far to go, and where and when to pause.
Fluent and specious with his tongue, he kept,
In his small sphere, a certain show of credit;
And he could blow in tune for mother church,
Though few the pennies he himself would give her.
"Cast off the wretch," was my advice to Ellen.
She loved him not; she might as well have tried
To love a load that galled and wearied her.
But custom, social fear, and, above all,
Those sacramental manacles the church
Had bound her in, and to the end would keep,
Forbade the poor, scared, helpless little woman
To free herself, by one condign resolve,
From the foul incubus that sucked her life.
So a false sense of duty kept her tied,
Feeding in him all that was pitiless.
And now she's dying. I had gone to-day
To take some little dainties, cream and fruit,
And there, administering consolation,
Was Meredith.

Hearing his tones of faith,
Seeing his saintly look of sympathy,
I felt, there being between us no dissent
In spirit, dogmas were of small account:
And so I knelt and listened to his prayer.
At length he noticed me, and recognized.
"Miss Percival!" he cried; "can this be you?
But when and why did you return from England?"
"I've never been in England, never been
Out of my native country," I replied.
"But that is unaccountable," said he;
"For I've seen letters, written as from you,
Signed with your name, acknowledging receipts
Of certain sums of money, dated London."
"No money have I had but what I've earned,"
Was my reply; "and who should send me money?"
Said he: "I have a carriage at the door;
I would learn more of this; you'll not object
To take a seat with me? Thank you; that's right."

Leaving the patient in good hands, we went,
And through the noisy streets drove to the Park.
Then all I'd ever known about my parents
He drew from me; and all my history
Since I had parted from him; noted down
Carefully my address, and gave me his.
Then to my lodgings driving with me back,
He left me with a _Benedicite_!
He's rich: has he been sending money, then?
What means it all? Conjecture finds no clew.

VII.

Gently as thistle-downs are borne away
From the dry stem, went Ellen yesterday.
I heard her dying utterance; it was:
"I'm coming, Teddy! Bless you, dear Miss Linda!"
No priest was by, so sudden was her going.
When Blount came in, there was no tenderness
In his sleek, gluttonous look; although he tried,
Behind his handkerchief, to play the mourner.
What will he do without a drudge to tread on?
Counting himself a privileged lord and master,
He'll condescend to a new victim soon,
And make some patient waiter a sad loser.

VIII.

"Some patient waiter!" Such a one I know.
There was a time when I resolved, if ever
I could secure a modest competence,
I would be married; and the competence
Is now secure--but where is my resolve?
Shall I conclude 'tis all fatality?
Leave it to chance, and take no active step
Myself to seek what I so hope to find?
Accepting it as heaven's fixed ordinance,
That man should change his single lot at will,
But woman be the sport of circumstance,
A purposeless and passive accident,
Inert as oysters waiting for a tide,
But not like oysters, sure of what they wait for?
"Ah! woman's strength is in passivity,"
Fastidio says, shaking his wise, wise head,
And withering me with a disdainful stare.
Nay! woman's strength is in developing,
In virtuous ways, all that is best in her.
No superstitious waiting then be mine!
No fancy that in coy, alluring arts,
Rather than action, modest and sincere,
Woman most worthily performs her part.
Here am I twenty-five, and all alone
In the wide world; yet having won the right,
By my own effort, to hew out my lot,
And create ties to cheer this arid waste.
How bleak and void my Future, if I stand
Waiting beside the stream, until some Prince--
Son of Queen Moonbeam by King Will-o'-the wisp--
Appears, and jumping from his gilded boat,
Lays heart and fortune at my idle feet!
Ye languid day-dreams, vanish! let me act!

But ah! Fastidio says, "A woman's wooing
Must always be offensive to a man
Of any dignity." The dignity
That modest truth can shock is far too frail
And sensitive to mate with love of mine,
Whose earnestness might crush the feeble hand
Linked in its own. So good by, dignity!
I shall survive the chill of your repulse.
Defiance, not of Nature's law, but Custom's,
Is what disturbs Fastidio. Does he think
That a _man's_ wooing never is offensive
To _woman's_ dignity? In either sex
The disaffection is not prompted by
The wooing but the wooer; love can never
Be an unwelcome tribute to the lover;
Though freedom premature, or forwardness
Unwarranted, may rightly fail to win.
And so I'll run my risk; for I confess--
(Keep the unuttered secret, sacred leaf!)--
That there is one whom I could love--could die for,
Would he but--Tears? Well, tears may come from strength
As well as weakness: I'll not grudge him these;
I'll not despair while I can shed a tear.

IX.

I've found him--seen him! The Directory
Gave me his residence. He keeps a school,
One for young ladies only; and at once
My coward heart hit on a good excuse
For calling on him: Would he take a pupil?
Rachel, my protegee? Of course he would.
A flush of tender, joyful wonderment,
Methought, illumed his face at seeing me;
Then, as it faded, I was grieved to mark
How pale and thin and worn with care he looked.
I took my leave, promising to return
Within a week; and on the outer steps
I met his father. "Turn and walk with me
A square or two," said I; and he complied.
"What ails him?" I inquired. "Only hard work:
He puts too much of conscience into it.
Needs help, but shrinks from debt, and so keeps on
Doing the labor two or three should share.
What shall I do, Miss Percival, to stop it?"
"I know not,--only something must be done,
And that at once," said I, in tones which made
The old man turn to get a look at me.
I hailed an omnibus, and there we parted....
What if I write Charles Lothian a letter?
Nay, I'll not skulk behind a sheet of paper,
But face to face say what I have to say.
This very evening must I call again.
Let a firm will bear up my fainting heart!

X.

And so at eight o'clock the carriage came,
And entering it I drove to Lothian's.
At last I was alone with him once more!
He had been sitting at a table heaped
With manuscripts, and these he was correcting.
"I'm here to interrupt all this," said I;
"Too long you've kept your brain upon the stretch:
Why be so heedless of your health, your life?"
"But what are they to you, Miss Percival?"
"And that is what I've come to let you know,"
Said I, emboldened by the offered foothold.
He flushed a little, only just a little,--
Replying, "_That_ I'm curious to learn."
And then, like one who, in the dark, at first
Moves cautiously, but soon runs boldly on,
I said: "Rash gambler that I am, I've come
To put upon the hazard of a die
Much of my present and my future peace;
Perhaps to shock, repel, and anger you,
Since 'twill not be unwarned that I offend.
I know you guess my purpose, and you shrink
From hearing me avow it; but I will,
And that in homely English unadorned.
I'm here to offer you my hand; the heart
That should go with it has preceded it,
And dwells with you, so you can claim your own,
Or gently bid it go, to trouble you
Never again. If 'tis unwomanly
This to avow, then I'm unlike my sex,
Not false to my own nature,--ah! not false.
I must be true or die; I cannot play
A masker's part, disguising hopes that cling
Nearest my brooding heart. But, say the word,
'I cannot love you,' and the bird who leaves
The cage where he has pined will sooner try
To enter it again, than I return
To utter plaint of mine within your hearing."

With throbbing heart and burning face I ceased.
Twice, thrice he tried to stop me; but my words
Came all too quick and earnestly for that.
And then resigned he listened. I had seen,
Or dreamed I had, at first a sacred joy
At my avowal sparkle in his eyes,
And then an utter sadness follow it,
Which chilled me, and I knew that I had failed.

"O divine Pity! what will you not brave?"
He answered, and the dew was in his eyes,--
"You bring her here, even to abase herself
To rescue me! Too costly sacrifice!
Here do not dwell the Graces and the Loves,
But Drudgery is master of the house.
Dear lady, elsewhere seek the answering bloom."
A hope flashed up. "Do you suppose," said I,
"That any impulse less supreme than love--
Love bold to venture, but intemerate--
Could bring me here--that Pity could do this?"

"I believe all," he answered, "all you say;
But do not bid me whisper more than this:
The circumstances that environ me,
And which none know,--not even my father knows,--
Shut me out utterly from any hope
Of marriage or of love. A wretch in prison
Might better dream of marrying than I.
But O sweet lady! rashly generous,--
Around whom, a protecting atmosphere,
Floats Purity, and sends her messengers
With flaming swords to guard each avenue
From thoughts unholy and approaches base,--
Thou who hast made an act I deemed uncomely
Seem beautiful and gracious,--do not doubt
My memory of thy worth shall be the same,
Only expanded, lifted up, and touched
With light as dear as sunset radiance
To summer trees after a thunder-storm."

And there was silence then between us two.
Thought of myself was lost in thought for him.
What was my wreck of joy, compared with his?
Health, youth, and competence were mine, and he
Was staking all of his to save another.
If my winged hopes fell fluttering to the ground,
Regrets and disappointments were forgotten
In the reflection, He, then, is unhappy!
"Good by!" at length I said, giving my hand:
"Even as I was believed, will I believe.
You do not deal in hollow compliment;
And we shall meet again if you're content.
The good time will return--and I'll return!"
"If you return, the good time will return
And stay as long as you remain," said he.

XI.

It is as I supposed: an obstacle
Which his assumption of his father's debts
Has raised before him unexpectedly!
I did not let a day go by before
I saw the elder Lothian, and he,
Distressed by what I told him of a secret,
Applied himself to hunting up a key
To the mysterious grief: at last he got it,
Though not by means that I could justify.
In Charles's private escritoire he found
A memorandum that explained it all.
Among the obligations overlooked,
In settling up the firm's accounts, was one
Of fifty thousand dollars, payable
To an estate, the representatives
Of which were six small children and a widow,
Dependent now on what they could derive
Of income from this debt; and manfully
Charles shoulders it, although it crushes him;
And hopes to keep his father ignorant.
I can command one quarter of the sum
Already--but the rest? That staggers me.
And yet why should I falter? Look at _him_!
Let his example be my high incentive.
I'll be his helpmate, and he shall not know it.
Poor Charles! I'll toil for him,--to him devote
All that I have of energy and skill,
All I acquire. Ambition shall not mount
Less loftily for having Love to help it.
Come forth, my easel! All thy work has been
Girl's play till now; now will I truly venture.
I've a new object now--to rescue _him_!
And he shall never know his rescuer
From lips of mine,--no, though I die for it,
With the sweet secret undisclosed,--my heart
Glad in the love he never may requite!

VIII.

FROM MEREDITH'S DIARY.

I.

Incalculably selfish and corrupt,
Well may man need a sacrifice divine
To expiate infinity of sin.
Few but a priest can know the fearful depth
Of human wickedness. At times I shrink
Faint and amazed at what I have to learn:
And then I wonder that the Saviour said
His yoke is easy and his burden light.
Ah! how these very murmurs at my lot
Show that not yet into my heart has crept
That peace of God which passeth understanding!

II.

Among my hearers lately there has been
A lady all attention to my words:
Thrice have I seen that she was deeply moved;
And to confession yesterday she came.
Let me here call her Harriet. She is
By education Protestant, but wavers,
Feeling the ground beneath her insecure,
And would be led unto the rock that is
Higher than she. A valuable convert;
Not young; in feeble health; taxed for two millions;
And she would found, out of her ample means,
A home for orphans and neglected children.
Heaven give me power to lead the stray one safe
Into the only fold; securing thus
Aid for the church, salvation for herself!

III.

A summons took me to her house to-day.
Her mother and her step-father compose
With Harriet the household. I refrain
From putting real names on paper here.
Let me then call the man's name, Denison;
He's somewhat younger than his wife, a lady
Advanced in years, but her heart wholly set
On the frivolities of fashion still.
I see the situation at a glance:
A mercenary marriage on the part
Of Denison, whose hungry eyes are fixed
Upon the daughter's property; the mother
Under his evil influence, and expecting
The daughter to die soon, without a will,
Thus leaving all to them;--and Harriet
Not quite so dull but she can penetrate
Denison's motive and her mother's hope!
A sad state for an invalid who feels
That any hour may be her last! To-day
Harriet confessed; for she has been alarmed
By some bad symptoms lately. As she urged it,
I sent word to the bishop, and he came,
And she was formally confirmed, and taken
Unto the bosom of the Church, and there
May her poor toiling spirit find repose!

IV.

Another summons! In the drawing-room,
Whom should I meet but Denison? His stare
Had something vicious in it; but we bowed,
And he remarked: "I hear that Harriet,
Caught in your Catholic net, is turning saint.
No foul play, priest! She's not in a condition
To make a will, or give away her money.
Remember that, and do not waste your words."
My color rose, and the brute Adam in me
Would, uncontrolled, have surely knocked him down.
But I cast off temptation, and replied:
"Sir, I'm responsible to God, not man."
I left him, and passed on to Harriet.
I found her greatly moved; an interview
She had been having with her mother caused
The agitation. "Take me hence!" she cried;
"I'll not remain another day or hour
Under this roof. I tell you, I'm not safe
With these two, watching, dogging, maddening me."
She rang the bell, and to the servant said:
"My carriage, and that quickly!" Then to me:
"I'll show them that I'm mistress of my fortune
And of myself. Call on me in an hour
At the Fifth Avenue Hotel, for there
Henceforth I make my home." And there
I called, as she had ordered, and we met
In her own parlor. "What I wish," said she,
"Is to give all I have, without reserve,
For the foundation that I've planned. I'll send
Directions to my lawyer, and the papers
Shall be prepared at once."--"Before you do it,
Let me learn more of you and yours," said I:
"Who was your father?" Then, to my surprise,
I learnt that he was one whom I had met
Some years before,--in his death-hour had met.
"But you've a sister?" suddenly I asked.
Surprised, she answered: "A half-sister--yes--
I've seen her only once; for many years
I lived in Europe; she's in England now,
And married happily. On three occasions
I've sent her money."--"Do you correspond?"
"Not often; here are letters from her, full
Of thanks for all I've given her."--"In your will
Shall you remember her?"--"If you advise it."
"Then I advise a liberal bequest.
And now I must attend a sufferer
Who waits my help."--"Father, I would confess."
"Daughter, be quick: I listen." Harriet
Then gave a sad recital of a trial
And a divorce; and (but reluctantly)
Told of a terrible suspicion, born
Of a remark, dropped by a servant once,
Concerning her unlikeness to her father:
But never could she wring a confirmation
Of the distressing story from her mother.
"Tell her," said I, "you mean to leave your sister
A handsome legacy." She promised this.
Then saying I would call the following day,
I hurried off to see poor Ellen Blount.

V.

A new surprise! There, by the patient's bed,
I came on Linda, Harriet's half-sister!
(Reputed so, at least, but here's a doubt.)
I questioned her, and now am satisfied
Treason and forgery have been at work,
Defeating Harriet's sisterly intent;
Moreover, that the harrowing surmise,
Waked by a servant's gossip overheard,
Is, in all probability, the truth!
And, if we so accept it, what can I
Advise but Harriet's complete surrender
Of all her fortune to the real child
And proper heir of Albert Percival?
But ah! 'tis now devoted to the Church!
Here's a divided duty; I must lay
The case before a higher power than mine.

VI.

I've had a long discussion with the bishop.
I placed before him all the facts, beginning
With those of my own presence at the death
Of Linda's parents; of her father's letter
Received that day, communicating news
Of Kenrick's large bequest; the father's effort
In dying to convey in legal form
To his child Linda all this property;
The failure of the effort; his decease,
And all I knew of subsequent events.
And the good bishop, after careful thought,
Replied: "Some way the mother must be brought
To full confession. Of her guilt no doubt!"
I told him I had charged it on the daughter
To tell her mother of the legacy
Designed for Linda; this, perchance, might wring
Confession from the guilty one. He seemed
To think it not unlikely, and remarked:
"When that is got, there's but a single course
For you to urge on Harriet; for, my son,
I need not tell a Christian gentleman,
Not to say priest, that this peculiar case
We must decide precisely as we would
If the Church had in it no interest:
Let Harriet at once give up, convey,
Not bequeathe merely, all she has to Linda.
Till she does this, her soul will be in peril;
When she does this, she shall be made the ward
Of Holy Church, and cared for to the end."
I kissed his hand and left. How his high thoughts
Poured round my path a flood of light divine!
Why did I hesitate, since he could make
The path of duty so directly clear!

VII.

Harriet's intimation to her mother
That she should leave a good part of her wealth
To her half-sister brought things to a crisis.
To-day my visit found the two together:
Harriet, in an agony of tears,
Cried to me, as I entered,--"'Tis all true!
God! She confesses it--confesses it!
Confesses, too, she never sent the money,
And that the letters were all forgeries!
And thinks, by this confession, to secure
My fortune to herself! Ah! Can this woman
Be, then, my mother?"

Hereupon the woman,
Crimson with rage at being thus exposed,
Exclaimed, "Unnatural daughter--" But before
Her wrath could vent itself, she, with a groan,
Fell in convulsions. Medical assistance
Was had at once. Then Denison came in,
Aghast at what had happened; for he knew
His wife's estate was all in lands and houses,
And would, if she should die, be Harriet's,
Since the old lady superstitiously
Had still put off the making of a will.
All help was vain, and drugs were powerless.
Paralysis had struck the heated brain,
Driving from mortal hold the consciousness:
It reappeared not in one outward sign,
And before midnight life had left the clay.

VIII.

Meek and submissive as a little child
Is Harriet now; she has no will but that
The Church imposes as the will divine.
"Your fortune, nearly doubled by this death,
Must all," said I, "be now conveyed to Linda."
"Let it be done," she cried, "before I sleep!"
And it was done to-night--securely done,--
I being Linda's representative.
To-morrow I must take her the good news.

IX.

After the storm, the rainbow, child of light!
Such the transition, as I pass to Linda!
I found her hard at work upon a picture.
With wonder at Heaven's ways she heard my news.
Shocked at the tragic death, she did not hide
Her satisfaction at the tardy act
Bringing the restitution of her own.
Three things she asked; one was that I would place
At once a certain person in possession
Of a large sum, not letting him find out
From whom it came; another was to have
This great change in her fortunes kept a secret
As long as she might wish; the third and last
Was that she might be privileged to wait
On Harriet with a sister's loving care.
All which I promised readily should be,
So far as my poor human will could order.
Said Linda then: "Tell Harriet, her scheme
For others' welfare shall not wholly fail;
That in your hands I'll place a sum sufficient
To plant the _germ_ at least of what she planned."

X.

I've taken my last look of Harriet:
She died in Linda's arms, and comforted
With all the Church could give of heavenly hope.
Slowly and imperceptibly does Time
Work out the dreadful problem of our sins!
Not often do we see it solved as here
In plain results which he who runs may read.
Not always is the sinner's punishment
Shown in this world. May the Eternal Mercy
Cleanse us from secret faults, nor, while we mark
Another's foulness, blind us to our own!

IX.

BESIDE THE LAKE.

The sun of August from a clear blue sky
Shone on Lake Saranac. The South-wind stirred
Mildly the woods encircling, that threw down
A purple shadow on the liquid smoothness
Glassing the eastern border, while the west
Lay bared to light.

Wild, virgin nature all!
Except that here and there a partial clearing,
Made by the sportsman's axe for summer tents,
Dented the massive verdure, and revealed
A little slope of bank, dotted with stumps
And brown with slender aromatic leaves
Shed from the pine, the hemlock, and the fir
In layers that gave a soft and slippery carpet.

Near one of these small openings where the breeze
Crept resinous and cool from evergreens
Behind them, while the sun blazed bright before,--
Where with the pine-trees' vapory depth of hue
The whiteness of a spacious tent contrasted,
Beside which, on a staff, the nation's flag
Flung out its crimson with protecting pride,--
Reclined a wife and husband, looking down
Less on the glorious lake than on the glory
That, through a gauzy veil, played round the head
Of a reposing infant, golden-tressed,
Asleep upon a deer-skin at their feet,
While a huge dog kept watchful guard beyond:
For there lay little Mary Merivale.

Boats on the lake showed that this group detached
Were part of a well-chosen company.
Here children ran and frolicked on the beach;
There an old man, rowed by two guides, stood up
With rod and line and reel, while swiftly flew
The reel, announcing that a vigorous trout
Just then had seized the hook. Came the loud cry,--
"Look, Charles! Look, Linda! See me land him now!
Don't touch him with your scoop, men! I can fetch him,"--
In tones not unfamiliar to our ears.
And there, six boats swept by, from which the voices
Of merry children and their elder friends--
Mothers and fathers, teachers, faded aunts,
Dyspeptic uncles, wonderfully cured
All by this tonic, Adirondack air--
Came musical and loud: a strange collection,
Winnowed by Rachel (now the important queen
Of all this sanitary revelry)
From her acquaintance in the public schools;
Whence her quick sympathies had carried her
Straight to the overworked, the poor, the ailing,
Among the families of her associates,
When Linda planned this happy enterprise
Of a grand camping-out for one whole month.
The blind aunt and the grandmother, of course,
High and important persons, Rachel's aids,
Graced the occasion; for the ancient dame
Had lived in such a region in her youth,
And in all sylvan craft was proudly wise:
Declaring that this taste of life would add
Some ten years to her eighty-five, at least.

On went the boats, all large and safely manned,
In competition not too venturesome.
Then, from a rocky outlook on the hill,
There came a gush of music from a band,
Employed to cheer with timely melody
This strange encampment in the wilderness.
Hark! Every voice is hushed as down the lake
The breathing clarions accordant send
The tune of "Love Not" to each eager ear!
The very infant, in its slumber, smiled
As if a dream of some old paradise
Had been awakened by the ravishment.

"Look at the child!" cried Linda; "mark that smile!
All heaven reflected in a dew-drop! See!"
"And all the world grasped in that little fist,--
At least as we esteem the world!" cried Charles.
"And yet," said Linda, "'tis a glorious world:
See how those families enjoy themselves!"
"And who created all this happiness?"
The husband said,--"who, after God, but Linda?
Who spends her money, not in rearing piles
Of cold and costly marble for her pride,--
Not in great banquets for the rich and gay
Who need them not, and laugh at those who give,--
Where, at one feast, enough is spent to make
All these poor people radiant for a month,--
But in exhilarations coming from
Communicated joy and health and life,--
The happiness that's found in making happy."

"All selfishness!" cried Linda; "selfishness!
I seek my happiness, and others theirs;
Only my tastes are different; more plebeian,
Haply, they'd say; but, husband mine, reflect!
You, too, I fear, are lacking in refinement:
Would this have been, had you not acquiesced
In all these vulgar freaks, and found content,
Like me, in giving pleasure to the needy?
And tell me--passing to another point--
Where would have been the monarch of this joy,
That little child,--that antepast of bliss
Such as the angels taste,--had I recoiled
From daring as I did, even when I knew
He I most wished to win would think me bold?"

"Ah! little wife," cried Charles, "I've half a mind
To tell you what I've never told you yet.
Yes, I _will_ tell you all, although it may
End the complacent thought that Linda did it--
Did it by simply daring to propose!
Know, then, a constant track of you I kept,
Even while I seemed to shun you. I could kneel
Before your recollection in my heart,
When you regarded me as shy and cold.
And, while by poverty held reticent,
I saw, supreme among my hopes, but Linda!
Before we left the sea-side I had learnt,
Through gossip of my worthy landlady,
Where you would go, returning to New York.
I found your house; I passed it more than once
When, like a beacon, shone your study-lamp.
The very night before you called upon me
To ask, would I take Rachel as my pupil,
(How kind in you to patronize my school!)
I sought an anodyne for my despair
In watching for your shadow on the curtain.

"Discovery of that unexpected debt,
Owed by my father, killed the last faint hope
Which I had cherished; and our interview--
Your daring offer of this little hand--
But made me emulous to equal you
In self-renouncing generosity;
And so, I frankly told you what I told:
That love and marriage were not in my lot.

"Ten days elapsed, and then from utter gloom
I sprang to cheerful light. My father's partner,
The man named Judd, who robbed us all one day,
Had a compunctious interval, and sent
A hundred thousand dollars back to us--
Why do you smile?"

"Go on. 'Tis worth a smile."

"That very day I cleared myself from debt;
That very day I sued for Linda's hand;
That very day she gave it willingly;
And the next month beheld us two made one.
And so it would have been, if you, my dear,
Had made no sign, and waited patiently.
But ah! what luck was mine! After two days,
The news arrived that Linda was an heiress.
An heiress! Think of it; and I had said,
Never, no, never would I wed an heiress!
But 'twas too late for scruples; I was married,--
Caught in the trap I always meant to shun!"

Then Linda, mischief in her smile, exclaimed:
"O simple Charles! The innocent dear man!
Who doubts but woman ought to hold her tongue,
And wait till he, the preordained, appear?
That hundred thousand dollars, you are sure,
Was from your father's partner--was from Judd?"

"Of course it was,--from Judd, and no one else!
Who could have sent the money, if not Judd?
No doubt it came from Judd! My father said,
'Twas conscience-money, and restored by Judd,
Who had become a deacon in the Church.
Why did you ask me whether I was sure
The hundred thousand dollars came from Judd?
What are you smiling at, provoking Linda?"
"O, you're so quick, so clever, all you men!
And women are so dull and credulous,
So easily duped, when left to go alone!
What you would prove is, that my daring step,
In being first to make a declaration,
Was needless, since priority in love
Was yours, and your intention would have brought
The same result about without my seeking.
Know then, the money was not yours until
I'd got the news of my recovered fortune;
From me the money came, and only me;
And all that story of a Judd, turned deacon,
Grown penitent and making restitution,
Was a mere myth, invented by your father,
Lest you might hesitate to take the money.
Now if I had not sought you as I did,
And if I had not put you to the test,
And if I had not learnt your secret grief,
We might have lived till we were gray and bent
Before a step of yours had brought us nearer."
"Outflanked! I own it, and I give it up!"
Cried Charles, all flushing with astonishment:
"But how I'll rate that ancient fisherman,
My graceless father, for deceiving me!
See him stand there, as if with conscience void,
Throwing the line for innocent, fat trout!
With that grave face, saying the money came
From Judd,--from Deacon Judd! I'll deacon him!"

"What! you regret it, do you, Master Charles?
The crooked ways that brought you where you are
You would make straight, and have the past undone?
To think that by a woman you've been wooed,
To think that by a woman you've been won,
Is thought too humbling and too scandalous;
Is an indignity too hard to bear!
Oh! well, sir, well; do as you please; the child
Goes with its mother, though; remember that."
And here the infant threw its eyelids back,
Revealing orbs, blue as the shadows cast
On Saranac's blue by overhanging woods.
Said Lothian, snatching up the smiling wonder,
And handing it, with kisses, to the mother:
"Take all your woman's rights; even this, the best:
Are we not each the richer by the sharing
Of such a gift? I'll not regret your daring."

NOTES.

PAGE 11.

"_Oh! lacking love and best experience._"

An extreme Materialism here comes to the support of a grim theology. In his "Physiology and Pathology of the Mind," Dr. Maudsley says: "To talk about the purity and innocence of a child's mind is a part of that poetical idealism and willing hypocrisy by which man ignores realities and delights to walk in a vain show." Such sweeping generalizations do not inspire confidence in the writer's prudence. Christ was nearer the truth when he said, concerning little children,--"Of such is the kingdom of heaven."

PAGE 64.

"_Few honorable outlooks for support, Excepting marriage._"

Referring to the fact that in Massachusetts, during the ten years from 1859 to 1869, the increase of crime among women has been much greater than among men, Miss Catherine Beecher remarks: "But turning from these (the criminal class) to the daughters of the most wealthy class, those who have generous and devoted aspirations also feel that for them, too, there is no opening, no promotion, no career, except that of marriage,--_and for this they are trained to feel that it is disgraceful to seek. They have nothing to do but wait to be sought. Trained to believe marriage their highest boon, they are disgraced for seeking it, and must affect indifference._

"Meantime to do anything to earn their own independence is what father and brothers would deem a disgrace to themselves and their family. For women of high position to work for their livelihood, in most cases custom decrees as disgraceful. And then, if cast down by poverty, they have been trained to nothing that would earn a support, or, if by chance they have some resource, all avenues for its employment are thronged with needy applicants."

This is but a very mild statement of the social fictions under which woman is now suffering in mind, body, and estate; but it is valuable as coming from a witness who hopes that some less radical remedy than female suffrage will be found for existing evils. If the remedy lies with woman herself, as all admit, how can we expect her to act efficiently until she is a modifying force in legislation?

PAGE 65.

"_Unions, no priest, no church can sanctify._"

"The most absurd notions," says J. A. St. John, "have prevailed on the subject of matrimony. Marriage, it is said, is a divine institution, therefore marriages are made in heaven; but the consequence does not at all follow; the meaning of the former proposition simply being that God originally ordained that men and women should be united in wedlock; but that he determined what particular men and women should be united, every day's experience proves to be false. It is admitted on all hands that marriage is intended to confer happiness on those who wed. Now, if it be found that marriage does not confer happiness on them, it is an undoubted proof that they ought not to have been united, and that the sooner they separate the better; but from accepting this doctrine some persons are deterred by misrepresentations of scripture, others by views of policy, and others again by an entire indifference to human happiness. They regard men and women as mere animals, and, provided they have children, and rear them, nothing more."

"It is incredible," says Milton, "how cold, how dull, and far from all fellow-feeling we are, _without the spur of self-concernment_!"

PAGE 72.

"_Behold the world's ideal of a wife!_"

"All women," says John Stuart Mill, "are brought up from their very earliest years in the belief that their ideal character is the very opposite to that of man; not self-will and self-government by self-control, but submission and yielding to the control of others.... What is now called the nature of women is an eminently artificial thing,--the result of forced repression in some directions, unnatural stimulation in others."

The cowardice that is looked upon as disgraceful in a man is regarded by many as rather honorable than otherwise in a woman. False notions, inherited from chivalrous times, and growing out of the state of subjection in which woman has been bred, have generated this inconsistency. The truth is that courage is honorable to both sexes; to a Grace Darling and an Ida Lewis, a Madame Roland and a Florence Nightingale, as well as to a Bayard and a Shaw, a Napoleon and a Farragut.

PAGE 73.

"_That moment should the intimate relations Of marriage end, and a release be found!_"