O frogs! what a noise you are making!O crickets! now don't keep her waking!Stop barking, you little dog Rover,Till Linda can get half-seas over.III.Little birds, let our word of love reach you,—Go to bed, go to sleep, I beseech you;On her little white coverlet lying,To sleep our dear Linda is trying.IV.Hush! sing just as softly as may be;Sing lullaby, lullaby, baby!Now to sleep this dear Linda is going,—Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!The next day, when the heat kept all at home,And they were gathered in the library,Where fitfully a lazy southern breezeWould stir the languid curtains, PercivalSaid, turning to the mother: "Mary, nowYour story best will supplement my own;Tell it." She answered: "Let it be so, then;My life is but the affluent to yours,In which it found its amplitude and rest."My parents dwelt in Liverpool; my father,A prosperous merchant, gave to businessHis time and active thoughts, and let his wifeRule all beside with rigor absolute.My maiden name was Mary Merivale.There were eight daughters of us, and of theseI was the fourth. We lived in liberal style,And did not lack the best societyThe city could afford. My heedful mother,With eight undowered girls to be disposed of,Fearfully healthy all, and clamorousFor clothes and rations, entered on a planTo which she steadily adhered: it was,To send the younger fry to boarding-schools,And keep one virgin only, at a time,And she the oldest, on her hands to marry.So they came forward in their order: Julia,And Isabel, and Caroline; untilI was dragged forth from maps and lexicons,Slate-pencils and arithmetics, and putCandidate Number Four, upon the list."My elder sisters had been all 'well-married';That is, to parties able to provideEstablishments that Fashion would not scorn;What more could be desired by loving parents?As for resistance to her will, when onceShe set her heart upon a match, my motherWould no more bear it than a generalWould bear demur from a subordinateWhen ordered into action. If a daughter,When her chance offered, and was checked as good,Presumed, from any scruple of dislike,To block the way for her successor, thenWoe to that daughter, and no peace for herDid she not, with an utter selfishness,Stand in her younger sister's light? imperilThe poor child's welfare? doom her possiblyTo an old maid's forlorn and cheerless lot?"And so, with an imperious will, my motherWould sweep away all hindrances, all doubts.She was, besides, the slave of system; havingAdopted once the plan of bringing forwardNo daughter till the previous one was mated,It was a sacred custom; 'twas her own!It had worked well; must not be broken through.So my poor sisters went; and some of themWith doubting hearts."In me, my zealous motherFound metal not so malleable quite.One of my teachers at the boarding-school,A little woman who got scanty payFor teaching us in French and German, fedHer lonely heart with dreams of what, some day,Shall lift her sex to nobler life. She tookA journal called 'The Good Time Coming,' filledWith pleadings for reform of many kinds,—In education, physical and mental,Marriage, the rights of women, modes of living.Weekly I had the reading of it all;Some of it crude enough, some apt and just,Forcibly put, and charged with vital facts.At last these had for me a fascinationThat quite eclipsed the novels of the day."I learnt, that, bound up in the moral law,Are laws of health and physical control,Unheeded in the family and school;How fashion, stupid pride, and love of show,The greed of gain, or the pursuit of pleasure,Empty and frivolous, make men and womenFalse to their natures, cruel to each otherAnd to the unborn offspring they devoteTo misery through ill-assorted unions,Or habits reckless of maternal dues;How marriage, sacredest of mortal steps,Is entered on from motives all unworthy;Social ambition, mercenary aims,The dread of poverty, of singleness,—The object of uniting families,—And momentary passion fatuous.So I resolved, God helping, to be trueTo my own self, and that way true to all."The fête that signalized my coming outWas, so my mother said, the costliest yet.Whole greenhouses were emptied to adornOur rooms with flowers; a band played in the hall;The supper-table flashed with plate and silverAnd Dresden ware and bright Bohemian glass;The wines and viands were profuse and rare;And everybody said, 'twas a grand ball."But what of her, for whom it was the flourishOf trumpets blown to celebrate her entranceInto society? Let others speak!These the remarks I had to overhear:'She's rather pretty.'—'Pretty is the word.''But not so dashing as the elder sisters.''Cleverer though, perhaps,'—'She takes it coolly.Her heart's not in the ball; that's evident.''Where is it? Is she bookish?'—'So I've heard.''Unlike the rest, then.'—'That straw-colored silkShould have had flounces.'—'Is that hair her own?''I think so?'—'She's no dancer.'—'ApatheticAs any duchess.'—'The young men seem shy;She doesn't put them at their ease, 'tis plain.''See, the old woman chides her; she deserves it;She'll not pick up admirers if she playsMy Lady Cool so grandly. Watch mamma.The hook is nicely baited; where are allThe gudgeons it should lure? I marvel notMamma is in a fluster; tap, tap, tap,See her fan go! No strategy, no effort,No dandy-killing shot from languid eyes,On that girl's part! And all this fuss for her!'"The gossips, in these random whisperings,Made some good shots, that failed not of the mark.The lights, the roses, the voluptuous music,The shining robes, the jewels, the bright facesEngrossed me not so much as one pale face,Youthful but pinched, which I had seen a moment,An hour before, reflected in the mirrorAt which I stood while nimble dressing-maidsHelped to array me. A poor girl had broughtThe bodice of my silken robe, on whichShe had been working closely; and my motherChided her for delay; but no replyWas made, save only what the pleading eyesCould not withhold. Then tendering a scrapOf paper, record of her paltry charge,She meekly stood. 'Pooh! bring it here next week,'My mother said. 'No!' turning round, I cried;'Let her be paid at once; there must be moneyIn the house somewhere; it may be a loss,An inconvenience, for her to come backJust for a trifling sum.'—'Impertinent!'My mother kindling, cried. 'Do you rule here?''I can return,' timidly said the girl.Then a gold thimble from my drawer I took,And offered it, remarking, 'Keep or sell it,To hold you good for all your wasted time.''My time,—what is it worth?' replied the girl,Motioning her refusal, but with smilesOf speechless gratitude, and then escapingBefore I could prevent her."'Novel-reading,Has brought you to this insipidity,'My mother said: 'such sentimental pap,You never got from me. Come, hurry down;Put off that sullen look. The carriagesBegin to roll; the guests are on the stairs.Learn to command your smiles, my dear. Now go.'"So down I went, but in no conquering mood.I did not scrutinize the festive dresses;Of the sad hearts I thought, the poor thin handsThat put of life somewhat in every stitchFor a grudged pittance. All disguises fell;Voices betrayed the speakers in their tones,Despite of flattering words; and smiles revealedThe weariness or hatred they would hide.And so, preoccupied and grave, I lookedOn all the gayety; and reigning bellesTook heart to find in me no coming rival."Lent now was near; the time of all diversionAnd visiting was over; and my motherSummed up her griefs in this one lamentation:'The season gone, and not one offer yet!You, Mary, are the first one of my daughtersWhose coming-out so flat a failure proved.Think of your sister Julia; her first winterBrought Hammersley to her feet. A splendid match!First cousin to a lord! How enviousWere all the dowagers at my success!If I've not done all that a mother could,Tell me wherein I've failed. Yet one year moreI shall allow you for your trial. Then,If you have made no step in the directionOf matrimony, why, you must go offTo Ireland, to America, or France,And leave the field for your next youngerFor Susan.'—'She is welcome to it now,'I said, with something like disdain, I fear,In my cold smile.—'My plans are laid, you know,'Replied my mother; 'find your duty inA simple acquiescence; I know best.'"'Tis said the woman always is to blameIf a man ventures to commit himselfIn a proposal unacceptable.The rule has its exceptions; for I gaveNo word, no inkling of encouragementTo Captain Dudley; yet I had an offerFrom Captain Dudley. Young, and elegant,Though of a stock somewhat attenuate;Rich, though a younger son; a gentleman,A scholar,—what good reason could I giveFor saying Nay to such an applicant?'Explain!' my mother cried, with brow severe;'Is not his character without a flaw?''So far as known to me.'—'Is he a fool?''Far from it; culture and good sense are his.''Could you not love him?'—'Very tenderly,Perhaps, with time to aid.'—'Has any onePreoccupied your heart?'—'My heart is free,And has been always free.'—'Indeed? Then whyRefuse to be the wife of this young man?''Simply because he's not the man I'd chooseTo be the father of a child of mine.'"If I had put a pistol at her head,My lady mother would not so have started.'What! a mere girl—and you can entertainSuch thoughts! so selfish, gross, unmaidenly!''If,' I replied, 'I'm old enough to dreamOf marriage, as you bid me, then 'tis timeFor me to think of all the risk I run.Selfish, you call it; gross, unmaidenly;Is it unmaidenly to hesitateIn the surrender of my maiden state?Your epithets belong to those who failTo think at all, or only think of this:What's the man's income? Will he let me haveA house in the right quarter? Keep a carriage?And is he in society? Such womenPlant nightshade, and affect to wonder whyThe growth is not of lilies and carnations!'"'So! just let loose from school,' replied my mother,'You'd teach me what is womanly! Pert minx!Tell me in simple English what you meanBy your objections to this match, so largelyAbove your merits?'—'This is what I mean:For reasons that are instincts more than reasons,And therefore not to be explained to thoseWho in them do not share, as you do not,I would not wed this man,—not if I loved him.''Enough! You've had your turn; and now prepareTo make a visit to your father's cousinIn Nova Scotia; there, perhaps, you mayFind a congenial mate among the clownsAnd roughs provincial. Go and pack your trunk.Fool your own opportunities away;You shall not thrust your sister out of hers.'"I did not pack my trunk; another suitor,One twice as rich as Dudley, kindled hopesAnew in my poor mother's breast; and soSusan was kept at school another season,And I was put upon the course once more,My training perfect and my harness new!"Who could object to Arthur Pennington?Son of a wealthy manufacturer,A type he was of English adolescence,Trained by harmonious culture to the fulnessOf all that Nature had supplied; a personThat did not lack one manly grace; a mindWhich took the mould that social pressure gave,Without one protest native to itself.In the accepted, the conventional,He looked for Truth, nor ever had a doubtWhether she might not hide in some deep wellRather than flaunt her modest purityIn dusty highways. With my dispositionTo challenge all that human dogmatismImperious would impose upon my thought,What pretty yoke-fellows for life should we,Arthur and I, have been! Misled by hopesWhich were inspired too fondly by my mother,He, too, proposed, and was of course rejected."Then the storm broke! The cup of my offencesWas overflowed at last. Now must I go—Go, where she cared not; only disappearFrom her domain; she washed her hands of me!Hundreds of pounds had been invested in me,—My dresses, jewelry, and entertainments,—And here was the result! But no more money,From her, must I expect; my father's incomeHad not for years been equal to his outlays.Any day he might be compelled to changeHis style of living; all had been kept upFor the advantage of myself and sisters;And here was all the gratitude I showed!"This time my mother was in earnest; soNow must I lay my plans to go at once.Whither? to seek a transient home with oneOf my own married sisters? Ah! the thoughtOf being dependent galled me like a spur.No! go to work,—a voice within me said:Think of the many thousands of your sexWho, young and giddy, not equipped like you,Are thrown upon the world to battle with itAs best they may! Now try your closet virtue;See if your theory can stand the proof,—If trial will not warp your sense of right.When Poverty shall dog your every step,And at your scanty or unwholesome mealSit down, or with you, in your thin attire,Go shivering home at night from ill-paid toil,—Then see if you can keep your feet from straying;Then choose as only Conscience bids you choose!"The sewing-girl who worked upon my dress,The day of the great ball, was Lucy Merle;I found her saving up her petty meansTo go to London, to get better wages,—And said: 'Well, Lucy, let us go together.'She sold some jewels for me, and we went."In London! two unfriended girls in London!We hired a room, and got employment soon,Such as it was; but small the recompense!Though Lucy, quicker at her work than I,Could earn enough to live upon—almost.For her the change was slight."A year we toiledIn company; and I'll not tell you allThe hardships, trials, wrongs, we underwent.In my blue trunk you'll find a little pistol,Got for our joint protection in those days.May it be near you, should you ever need it!Finding, at length, I could no longer earnMy share of our expenses by the needle,I sought a situation as a nurse.And in 'The Times' I advertised my 'Want.'An answer came, directing me to callUpon the writer at a certain hour.I went. I met a man of middle ageWhose name was Percival. I thought his mannerWas coldly kind."'You're very young,' he said,'To fill the situation of a nurse.What reference have you?' Not a distant thoughtOf such a need had ever troubled me!'I bring,' said I, 'no reference.'—'That's a pity.What pledge have I of character?'—'Not any.'And then, impatient at this let, I cried:'Look in my face, and if you find not therePledge of my truth, Heaven help me, for 'tis all—All I can give!'—'Ah! my poor child,' said he,'Such warrant have I learnt to take with doubt;For I have known a face, too beautiful,With look of innocence and shining candor,Prove but the ambush of duplicity,Pitiless and impure. But let me notDistrust too far.' Then he turned up the gas,And, with a scrutiny intent and grave,Perused my face. 'What is your name?' he asked,After a silence.—'Mary Merivale.''Well, Mary, I engage you; come at once.In the next room asleep reclines our patient.As for your wages, we will say two guineasA week, if you're content.'—'O, perfectly!'"So, groping in my darkness, I at lengthHit on the door that issued into light.Long talks between the patient and his friendWere frequent, and they heeded not my presence.Little by little Percival soon toldThe story that you've heard, and more which youMay never hear in earthly interviews.An eager listener, I would treasure upEach word, each look; and on my soul at lastDawned the pure ray by which I saw those traits,The spirit's own, that harmonized so wellWith all the outward showed of good and noble.Strange that he took no notice of the wayMy very life was drifting! But to himI seemed a child, and his paternal airsFroze me and checked."A paragraph, 'The Times'Had published, when the accident took place,Mentioned that Kenrick was a millionnaire,Though quite a young man still."A month went byAnd he was able to sit up awhile;And soon, with me beside him in the carriage,To take a drive;—when one day, PercivalSaid to me: 'Mary, you and I must tryThe span to-day; our patient shall keep house.'My heart beat wildly; Kenrick looked as ifApproving the arrangement; so we went.'I wished,' said Percival, 'to talk with youIn private; do not answer if I putQuestions that may embarrass or annoy;It is no idle curiosity,Prompting me now. We see that you were bornTo something better than this drudgery:If not reluctant, tell me who you are.''O, willingly!' I said."And so I told himAll, from the first. He heard me patiently;And then remarked: 'But do you never longFor that secure and easy life at home?You will go back to Liverpool, perchance,When you've had quite enough of servitudeAnd toil precarious.'—'I go not back,'Said I, 'while health and liberty are left.The home that's grudged is not the home for me.Give me but love, and like the reed I yield;Deal with me harshly, you may break, not bend me.''Ah! there is something wrong in all these things,'Replied he, musing."'Yes,' I said; 'considerWhat I've been telling of my mother's wayOf marrying her daughters; well, my motherIs but the product of that social system,Hollow and false, which leaves for dowerless girlsFew honorable outlooks for supportExcepting marriage.[2]Poor, dependent, helpless,Untaught in any craft that could be madeTo yield emolument,—our average women,—What can they do but take the common pathWhich my poor mother would have mademetry,And lead some honest man to think that theyAre weddinghim, and not his bank-account?Let woman, equally with man, be bredTo learn with thoroughness some craft or tradeBy which she may support herself at least,You place her more at liberty to shunUnions, no priest, no church can sanctify!'[3]"Percival eyed me with a puzzled look,Then said: 'The time is on its way, I hope,When from her thraldom woman will come forth,And in her own hands take her own redress;When laws disabling her shall not be madeUnder the cowardly, untested pleaThat man is better qualified than womanTo estimate her needs and do her justice.Justice to her shall be to man advancement;And woman's wit can best heal woman's wrongs.Accelerate that time, all women trueTo their own sex,—yet not so much to thatAs to themselves and all the human race!But pardon me; I wander from the point,—Following you. Now tell me, could you makeAmerica your home?'"The sudden questionMade my heart leap, and the hot crimson rushUp to my brow. Silent I bowed my head,And he continued thus: 'If it should be,That one, not wholly alien to your tastes,—A man not quite so young as you, perhaps,But not beyond his prime,—an honest man,—I will not say with ample means, for thatWould jar upon your heart,—one who could makeYour home a plentiful and happy one,—Should offer you his hand,—would it deter youTo know that in America your lotMust henceforth be?'"My breath came quick,—my eyesTurned swift away, lest he should mark their joyAnd count his prize too cheaply won. I sighed,But did not speak. 'May I go on?' he asked.A 'yes' distinct, though faint, flew from my lips.'May I,' said he, 'tell Kenrick he may hope?''What!' cried I, looking up, with something fiercerThan mere chagrin in my unguarded frown."Linda broke in upon the story here,And turning to her father with a smileTender as dawning light, yet arch and gay,Cried, "Fie, my father! Could you be so dull?How could you treat my future mother so?""Nay, do not blame me hastily," said he,With glad paternal eyes regarding her;"How could a modest man—and I was one—Suppose that youth and wealth, and gracious giftsOf person, such as Kenrick wore so well,Could fail to win? Truly I did not dream,Spite of the proverb, Love could be so blind."Tossing her head with mock vindictive air,Like sweet sixteen, the mother then resumed:"Kenrick, it seems, being a bashful man,—And somewhat shy, perhaps, because I knewHe was but recently in mad pursuitOf an unfaithful spouse, a runaway,Commissioned Percival to try the ground,Obscure and doubtful, of my woman's will.My absolute 'What!' was unequivocal.Then turning to the coachman, Percival,Said, 'Home, now, home! and quickly!'"Home we rattled,And both were silent to our journey's end.An eager glance he gave me as he touchedMy hand to help me from the carriage. HeHas told me since that I returned the lookWith one which, if not actually scorn,Was next of kin to scorn, and much resembling:—All the chimera of his guilty conscience."Kenrick next day renewed his suit by letter;He begged I would not give a hasty 'No,'But wait and grant him opportunitiesTo prove that he was worthy and sincere,And to procure the requisite divorce.While I was answering his letter, heDrove out with Percival. My brief replyTold him there could be no decision otherThan a complete and final negative."Then I sat down and ran my fingers overThe keys of the piano; and my moodAt length expressed itself in that wild burstOf a melodious anguish, which EdgardoGives vent to in 'Lucia.' Words could addNothing to magnify the utter heart-breakOf that despair; and Donizetti's scoreHas made the cry audible through the ages.Less from the instrument than from my heartWas wrung the passionate music."At its close,A long-drawn breath made me look round, and thereWhom should I see but Percival, as ifTransfixed in mute surprise! 'I did not knowThere was a listener,—had supposed you gone,'Said I; and he replied: 'I thought you'd haveSome word for Kenrick: so our drive was short.''Nothing but this.' I handed him my letter;He took it, bowed, and left me."The next dayI learnt that Kenrick had engaged his passageIn Wednesday's steamer for New York. My stayMust now be brief; my services no longerCould be of any use; and so I wroteSome formal lines, addressed to Percival,Asking for my dismissal, and conveyingTo both the gentlemen my thanks sincereFor all their kindness and munificence.Two days I waited, but no answer came."The third day Kenrick sought an interview.We met, and freely talked of this and that.Said he, at last: 'Into what false, false waysWe plunge because we do not care tothink!We shudder at Chinese moralityWhen it allows a parent to destroySuperfluous female children. Look at home!Have we no ancient social superstitionsBorn of the same old barbarous family?My life, Miss Merivale, has been so crowdedThat I've had little time to trace opinionDown to its root before accepting it.In giving opportunity for thought,Sickness has been a brisk iconoclast.Behold the world's ideal of a wife![4]'Tis something like to this:"'She marries young,Perhaps in meek submission to the willParental, or in hope of a support;In a few years,—as heart and brain mature,And knowledge widens,—finds her lord and masterIs a wrong-headed churl, a selfish tyrant,A miser, or a blockhead, or a brute;Her love for him, if love there ever was,Is turned to hatred or indifference:What shall she do? The world has one reply:You made your bed, and you must lie in it;True, you were heedless seventeen—no matter!True, a false sense of duty urged you on,And you were wrongly influenced—no matter!Be his wife still; stand by him to the last;Do not rebel against his cruelty;The more he plays the ruffian, the more meritIn your endurance! Suffering is your lot;It is the badge and jewel of a woman.Shun not contamination from his touch;Keep having children by him, that his traitsAnd his bad blood may be continuous.Think that you love him still; and feed your heartWith all the lies you can, to keep it passive!"'So say the bellwethers who lead the manyOver stone walls into the thorns and ditches,Because their fathers took that way before them.Such is the popular morality!But is it moral? Nay; when man or womanCan look up, with the heart of prayer, and say,Forbid it, Heaven, forbid it, self-respect,Forbid it, merciful regard for others,That this one should be parent to my child,—That moment should the intimate relationsOf marriage end, and a release be found![5]"'How many blunder in mistaking Passion,Mixed with a little sentiment, for Love!Passion may lead to Love, as it may leadAway from Love, but Passion is not Love;It may exist with Hate; too often leadsIts victim blindfold into hateful bonds,Under the wild delusion that Love leads.Love's bonds are adamant, and Love a slave;And yet Love's service must be perfect freedom.Candor it craves, for Love is innocent,—But no enforced fidelity, no tiesSuch as the harem shelters. Dupes are theyWho think that Love can ever be compelled!Only what's lovely Love can truly love,And fickleness and falsehood are deformed.Reveal their features, Love may mourn indeed,But will not rave. Love, even when abandoned,Feels pity and not anger for the heartThat could not prize Love's warm fidelity.But Passion, selfish, proud, and murderous,Seizes the pistol or the knife, and kills;—And cozened juries make a heroineOf her who, stung with jealousy or pride,Or, by some meaner motive, hurled a wreck,Assassinates her too inconstant wooer."'Now do I see how little, in my case,There was of actual love, how much of passion!Love's day for me, if it may ever comeIn this brief stage, is yet to dawn. You smile;Love must have hope, a ray of hope, at least,To catch the hue of life; and so, Miss Mary,I'll not profess to love you; all I sayIs, that a little hope from you would make me!But, since we can't be lovers, let's be friends;Here, in this little wallet, is a checkFor an amount that will secure your futureFrom serious want,—a sum I shall not miss.But which—'"With many thanks I answered 'No!''What can I do?' he asked, 'to show my debtTo you and Percival?' I shook my head,And something in the sadness of my smileArrested his attention. But that momentA girl rushed in with cry of 'O, he's killed—Killed, the poor man!'—'Who?'—'Mr. Percival!'The name was like a blow upon my heart,And Kenrick saw it, and supported me."But in a moment I was strong. I heardA scuffling noise of people at the door,And then a form—'twas Percival's—was borneInto a room, and placed upon a bed.Pale and insensible he lay; a surgeonCame in; at last we got an explanation:In rescuing from a frightened horse the childOf a poor woman, Percival had beenThrown down, an arm been broken, and the painHad made him faint. My nervous laugh of joy,When I was sure that this was the extremeOf injury, betrayed my reckless heart,And Kenrick had my secret. PercivalWas soon himself; the broken limb was set,And I, engaged to stay another weekTo wait on the new patient—nothing loath."The day of his departure, Kenrick drew meAside, and, in a whisper, said, 'He loves you!''Loves me?' With palms held tightly on my breastTo keep my heart down, I repeated, 'Loves me?''Twas hard to credit. 'Pardon me,' said Kenrick,'If by communication of your secret,I changed the desolation of his lifeTo sudden bloom and fragrance, for a moment.''A moment only?'—'Soon his scruples rose:It cannot be! he said; two mountains lieBetween my fate and hers.—Two bubbles rather!Retorted I; let's take their altitude.—One is my age.—That mountain is alreadyTunnelled or levelled, since she sees it not.—The other is that infamous decreeAgainst me at the period of my suit,Granting the guilty party a divorce,But me prohibiting to wed again.—Well, that decree (I answered bitterly)Would have with me the weight of a requestThat I'd hereafter quaff at common puddlesAnd not at one pure fount; I'd heed the barAs I would heed the grass-webbed gossamer;I'd sooner balk a bench of drivellersThan outrage sacred nature.—If that benchCould have you up for bigamy, what then?—The dear old dames! they should not have the meansTo prove it on me: for the pact should be'Twixt me and her who would accept my trothFreely before high heaven and all its angels:Witnesses which the sheriff could not summon,Could not, at least, produce.—But, Kenrick, youDo not consider all the risk and pain;The social stigma, and, should children come,The grief, the shame, the disrepute to them.—To which I answered: God's great gift of life,Coming through parentage select and pure,To me is such a sacred, sacred thing,So precious, so inestimably precious,That your objections seem of small account;Since only stunted hearts and slavish mindsCould visit on your children disrepute,Who fitly could ignore such Brahmanism,Since they'd be born, most probably, with brains."'When the neglect of form, if 'tis neglected,Is all in honor, purged of selfishness,Where shall the heart and reason lay the blame?But understand me: Would I cheapen form?Nay, I should fear that those who would evade it,Without a reason potent as your own,Trifled with danger. But I cannot makeA god of form, an idol crushing me.Unlike the church, I look on marriage asA civil contract, not a sacrament,[6]Indissoluble, spite of every wrong;The high and holy purposes of marriageAre not fulfilled in instances where eachHelps to demoralize or blight the other;Let it then stand, like other contracts, onA basis purely personal and legal."'Oh! how we hug the fictions we are born to!Challenging never, never testing them;Accepting them as irreversible;Part of God's order, not to be improved;Placing the form above the informing spirit,The outward show above the inward life;A hollow lie, well varnished, well played out,Above the pure, the everlasting truth;Fancying Nature is not Nature still,Because repressed, or cheated, or concealed;Juggling ourselves with frauds a very child,Yet unperverted, readily would pierce!"'Consider my own case: a month ago,See me a maniac, rushing forth to findA wife who loved me not; my heart all swollenWith rage against the man to whom I owedExposure of her falsehood; ah, how blind!To chase a form from which the soul had fled!If I grew sane at length, you, Percival,And the mere presence of our little nurseHave brought me light and healing. I am cured,Thank Heaven, and can exult at my release."'Here I paused. Percival made no reply,But sat like one absorbed. I paced the floorAwhile, and then confronting him resumed:—Your scruples daunt you still; well, there's a wayTo free you from the meshes of the law:On my return, I'll go to Albany,Where war's financial sinews, as you know,Are those of legislation equally;I'll have a law put through to meet your case;To strip away these toils. I can; I will!—Percival almost stunned me with his No!Makemea gutter, adding more pollutionTo the fount of public justice? Never! No!I would not feed corruption with a bribe,To win release to-morrow. Such a cureWould be, my friend, far worse than the disease.—Then there's no way, said I; and so, farewell!The carriage waits to take me to the station.—I shall not say farewell until we partBeside the carriage-door, said he: you'll takeYour leave of Mary?—Yes, I go to seek her.—And this, Miss Mary, is a full reportOf all that passed between my friend and me.'"Here Kenrick ended. He had been, methought,Thus copious, in the hope his argumentWould make me look as scornfully as heOn obstacles that Percival would raise.I thanked him for his courtesy, and then,Not without some emotion, we two parted.When the last sound of the retiring wheelsWas drowned in other noises, PercivalCame in, and found me waiting in the parlor.'Now let me have a talk with you,' he said.So, in the little parlor we sat down.I see it now, all vividly before me!The carpet—ay, its very hues and figures:The chandelier, the sofa, the engravingOf Wellington that hung above the mantel;The little bookcase, holding Scott and Irving,And Gibbon's Rome, and Eloisa's Letters;And, in a vase, upon the marble stand,An opening rose-bud I had plucked that day—Type of my own unfolding, rosy hope!"Said Percival: 'We'll not amuse each otherWith words indifferent; and we'll allowSmall opportunity for hearts to speak:We know what they would utter, might we dareTo give them audience. Let Reason rule.What I propose is this: that we now part—Part for two years; and when that term shall end,If we are still in heart disposed as now,Then can we orient ourselves anew,And shape our course as wary conscience bids.Till then, no meeting and no correspondence!"'Now for conditions more particular:You have a sister—Mrs. Hammersley—Julia, I think you said,—an elder sister,Resident here, and in society,But fretted by her lord's extravaganceAnd her own impecuniosity.You at her house shall be a visitor,But not without the means of aiding her;And who but I can now supply the means?Here's the dilemma: how can you be freeIf you're my debtor? Yet youmustbe free,And promise to be free; nor let my giftSway you one jot in trammelling your heart.Two years you'll spend with Mrs. Hammersley;Accepting all Society can offerTo welcome youth and beauty to its lap;Keeping your heart as open as you canTo influences and impressions new;For, Mary, bear in mind how young you are!So much foryou. Onmypart, I'll returnTo my own country, and endeavor thereOnce more to rectify the wretched wrongThat circumscribes me. I shall fail perhaps—But we can be prepared for either issue.'"Here he was silent, and I said: 'You're right,And I accept your terms without reserve.'We parted, and except a clasp of handsThat lingered in each other, and a glanceThat flashed farewell from eyes enthroning truth,There was no outward token of our love."Two years (the longest of my life were they!)Emptied their sands at last, and then I wroteA letter to him, to the Barings' care,Containing one word only; this: 'Unchanged.'In the same old familiar room we met:Eager I gave my hand; but he drew back,Folded his arms, and said, with half a smile:''Tis not for me; still am I under ban!''I'm glad of that!' cried I; ''twill help to showHow slight, to love like mine, impedimentsInjustice can pile up!'"He took my hand,And, for the first time, we exchanged a kiss.Then we sat down and freely talked. Said he:'Baffled in all my efforts to procureReversal of my sentence, I resolvedTo terminate one misery at least:Yearly the court compelled me, through my bondsmen,To render an account of all my income,Of which the larger portion must be paidFor the support of my betrayer, andThe child, called, by a legal fiction, mine.To this annoyance of an annual dealingWith her attorney, I would put an end;And so I compromised by giving upTwo thirds of all my property at once.This leaves me free from all entanglementWith her or hers,—though with diminished means."'And now, since still you venture to confideWholly in me, my Mary Merivale,—And since you would intrust your happinessTo one who can but give you love for love,—To make our income certain, 'tis my planStraightway my little remnant to convertInto a joint annuity, to lastDuring our natural lives: this will secureA fair, though not munificent support.And since for me you put the gay world by,And since for you I make no sacrifice,Now shape our way of life as you may choose.'"This I disclaimed; but we at last arrangedThat on the morrow, in the presence ofMy poor friend Lucy, and my sister Julia,We two should take each other by the handAs emblem of a pledge including allOf sacred and inviolable, allOf holy and sincere, that man and woman,Uniting for connubial purposes,And with no purpose foreign to right love,Can, with responsible intelligence,Give to each other in the face of God,And before human witnesses."And soThe simple rite—if such it could be called—Took place. A formal kiss was interchanged,And then we all knelt down, and PercivalMet our hearts' need with such a simple prayerAs by its quickening and inspiring faithMade us forget it was another's voice,Not our own hearts, that spoke. My sister JuliaWept, not for me, but for herself, poor child!The chill, the gloom of an unhappy futureCrept on her lot already, like a mistForeshadowing the storm; she saw, not distant,All the despair of a regretful marriageMenacing her and driving forth her children.It did not long delay. Her spendthrift lord,After a squander of his own estate,And after swindling my confiding fatherOf a large sum, deserted wife and children,To play the chevalier of industryAt Baden, or at Homburg, and put onMore of the aspect of the beast each day.Three children have his blood to strive against.Poor Julia! What she has to live on nowWas given by Linda's father. We found means,Also, to set up our poor sewing-girl,My old companion, Lucy, in a tradeIn which she thrives,—she and a worthy husband.
O frogs! what a noise you are making!O crickets! now don't keep her waking!Stop barking, you little dog Rover,Till Linda can get half-seas over.
Little birds, let our word of love reach you,—Go to bed, go to sleep, I beseech you;On her little white coverlet lying,To sleep our dear Linda is trying.
Hush! sing just as softly as may be;Sing lullaby, lullaby, baby!Now to sleep this dear Linda is going,—Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!
The next day, when the heat kept all at home,And they were gathered in the library,Where fitfully a lazy southern breezeWould stir the languid curtains, PercivalSaid, turning to the mother: "Mary, nowYour story best will supplement my own;Tell it." She answered: "Let it be so, then;My life is but the affluent to yours,In which it found its amplitude and rest.
"My parents dwelt in Liverpool; my father,A prosperous merchant, gave to businessHis time and active thoughts, and let his wifeRule all beside with rigor absolute.My maiden name was Mary Merivale.There were eight daughters of us, and of theseI was the fourth. We lived in liberal style,And did not lack the best societyThe city could afford. My heedful mother,With eight undowered girls to be disposed of,Fearfully healthy all, and clamorousFor clothes and rations, entered on a planTo which she steadily adhered: it was,To send the younger fry to boarding-schools,And keep one virgin only, at a time,And she the oldest, on her hands to marry.So they came forward in their order: Julia,And Isabel, and Caroline; untilI was dragged forth from maps and lexicons,Slate-pencils and arithmetics, and putCandidate Number Four, upon the list.
"My elder sisters had been all 'well-married';That is, to parties able to provideEstablishments that Fashion would not scorn;What more could be desired by loving parents?As for resistance to her will, when onceShe set her heart upon a match, my motherWould no more bear it than a generalWould bear demur from a subordinateWhen ordered into action. If a daughter,When her chance offered, and was checked as good,Presumed, from any scruple of dislike,To block the way for her successor, thenWoe to that daughter, and no peace for herDid she not, with an utter selfishness,Stand in her younger sister's light? imperilThe poor child's welfare? doom her possiblyTo an old maid's forlorn and cheerless lot?
"And so, with an imperious will, my motherWould sweep away all hindrances, all doubts.She was, besides, the slave of system; havingAdopted once the plan of bringing forwardNo daughter till the previous one was mated,It was a sacred custom; 'twas her own!It had worked well; must not be broken through.So my poor sisters went; and some of themWith doubting hearts.
"In me, my zealous motherFound metal not so malleable quite.One of my teachers at the boarding-school,A little woman who got scanty payFor teaching us in French and German, fedHer lonely heart with dreams of what, some day,Shall lift her sex to nobler life. She tookA journal called 'The Good Time Coming,' filledWith pleadings for reform of many kinds,—In education, physical and mental,Marriage, the rights of women, modes of living.Weekly I had the reading of it all;Some of it crude enough, some apt and just,Forcibly put, and charged with vital facts.At last these had for me a fascinationThat quite eclipsed the novels of the day.
"I learnt, that, bound up in the moral law,Are laws of health and physical control,Unheeded in the family and school;How fashion, stupid pride, and love of show,The greed of gain, or the pursuit of pleasure,Empty and frivolous, make men and womenFalse to their natures, cruel to each otherAnd to the unborn offspring they devoteTo misery through ill-assorted unions,Or habits reckless of maternal dues;How marriage, sacredest of mortal steps,Is entered on from motives all unworthy;Social ambition, mercenary aims,The dread of poverty, of singleness,—The object of uniting families,—And momentary passion fatuous.So I resolved, God helping, to be trueTo my own self, and that way true to all.
"The fête that signalized my coming outWas, so my mother said, the costliest yet.Whole greenhouses were emptied to adornOur rooms with flowers; a band played in the hall;The supper-table flashed with plate and silverAnd Dresden ware and bright Bohemian glass;The wines and viands were profuse and rare;And everybody said, 'twas a grand ball.
"But what of her, for whom it was the flourishOf trumpets blown to celebrate her entranceInto society? Let others speak!These the remarks I had to overhear:'She's rather pretty.'—'Pretty is the word.''But not so dashing as the elder sisters.''Cleverer though, perhaps,'—'She takes it coolly.Her heart's not in the ball; that's evident.''Where is it? Is she bookish?'—'So I've heard.''Unlike the rest, then.'—'That straw-colored silkShould have had flounces.'—'Is that hair her own?''I think so?'—'She's no dancer.'—'ApatheticAs any duchess.'—'The young men seem shy;She doesn't put them at their ease, 'tis plain.''See, the old woman chides her; she deserves it;She'll not pick up admirers if she playsMy Lady Cool so grandly. Watch mamma.The hook is nicely baited; where are allThe gudgeons it should lure? I marvel notMamma is in a fluster; tap, tap, tap,See her fan go! No strategy, no effort,No dandy-killing shot from languid eyes,On that girl's part! And all this fuss for her!'
"The gossips, in these random whisperings,Made some good shots, that failed not of the mark.The lights, the roses, the voluptuous music,The shining robes, the jewels, the bright facesEngrossed me not so much as one pale face,Youthful but pinched, which I had seen a moment,An hour before, reflected in the mirrorAt which I stood while nimble dressing-maidsHelped to array me. A poor girl had broughtThe bodice of my silken robe, on whichShe had been working closely; and my motherChided her for delay; but no replyWas made, save only what the pleading eyesCould not withhold. Then tendering a scrapOf paper, record of her paltry charge,She meekly stood. 'Pooh! bring it here next week,'My mother said. 'No!' turning round, I cried;'Let her be paid at once; there must be moneyIn the house somewhere; it may be a loss,An inconvenience, for her to come backJust for a trifling sum.'—'Impertinent!'My mother kindling, cried. 'Do you rule here?''I can return,' timidly said the girl.Then a gold thimble from my drawer I took,And offered it, remarking, 'Keep or sell it,To hold you good for all your wasted time.''My time,—what is it worth?' replied the girl,Motioning her refusal, but with smilesOf speechless gratitude, and then escapingBefore I could prevent her.
"'Novel-reading,Has brought you to this insipidity,'My mother said: 'such sentimental pap,You never got from me. Come, hurry down;Put off that sullen look. The carriagesBegin to roll; the guests are on the stairs.Learn to command your smiles, my dear. Now go.'
"So down I went, but in no conquering mood.I did not scrutinize the festive dresses;Of the sad hearts I thought, the poor thin handsThat put of life somewhat in every stitchFor a grudged pittance. All disguises fell;Voices betrayed the speakers in their tones,Despite of flattering words; and smiles revealedThe weariness or hatred they would hide.And so, preoccupied and grave, I lookedOn all the gayety; and reigning bellesTook heart to find in me no coming rival.
"Lent now was near; the time of all diversionAnd visiting was over; and my motherSummed up her griefs in this one lamentation:'The season gone, and not one offer yet!You, Mary, are the first one of my daughtersWhose coming-out so flat a failure proved.Think of your sister Julia; her first winterBrought Hammersley to her feet. A splendid match!First cousin to a lord! How enviousWere all the dowagers at my success!If I've not done all that a mother could,Tell me wherein I've failed. Yet one year moreI shall allow you for your trial. Then,If you have made no step in the directionOf matrimony, why, you must go offTo Ireland, to America, or France,And leave the field for your next youngerFor Susan.'—'She is welcome to it now,'I said, with something like disdain, I fear,In my cold smile.—'My plans are laid, you know,'Replied my mother; 'find your duty inA simple acquiescence; I know best.'
"'Tis said the woman always is to blameIf a man ventures to commit himselfIn a proposal unacceptable.The rule has its exceptions; for I gaveNo word, no inkling of encouragementTo Captain Dudley; yet I had an offerFrom Captain Dudley. Young, and elegant,Though of a stock somewhat attenuate;Rich, though a younger son; a gentleman,A scholar,—what good reason could I giveFor saying Nay to such an applicant?'Explain!' my mother cried, with brow severe;'Is not his character without a flaw?''So far as known to me.'—'Is he a fool?''Far from it; culture and good sense are his.''Could you not love him?'—'Very tenderly,Perhaps, with time to aid.'—'Has any onePreoccupied your heart?'—'My heart is free,And has been always free.'—'Indeed? Then whyRefuse to be the wife of this young man?''Simply because he's not the man I'd chooseTo be the father of a child of mine.'
"If I had put a pistol at her head,My lady mother would not so have started.'What! a mere girl—and you can entertainSuch thoughts! so selfish, gross, unmaidenly!''If,' I replied, 'I'm old enough to dreamOf marriage, as you bid me, then 'tis timeFor me to think of all the risk I run.Selfish, you call it; gross, unmaidenly;Is it unmaidenly to hesitateIn the surrender of my maiden state?Your epithets belong to those who failTo think at all, or only think of this:What's the man's income? Will he let me haveA house in the right quarter? Keep a carriage?And is he in society? Such womenPlant nightshade, and affect to wonder whyThe growth is not of lilies and carnations!'
"'So! just let loose from school,' replied my mother,'You'd teach me what is womanly! Pert minx!Tell me in simple English what you meanBy your objections to this match, so largelyAbove your merits?'—'This is what I mean:For reasons that are instincts more than reasons,And therefore not to be explained to thoseWho in them do not share, as you do not,I would not wed this man,—not if I loved him.''Enough! You've had your turn; and now prepareTo make a visit to your father's cousinIn Nova Scotia; there, perhaps, you mayFind a congenial mate among the clownsAnd roughs provincial. Go and pack your trunk.Fool your own opportunities away;You shall not thrust your sister out of hers.'
"I did not pack my trunk; another suitor,One twice as rich as Dudley, kindled hopesAnew in my poor mother's breast; and soSusan was kept at school another season,And I was put upon the course once more,My training perfect and my harness new!
"Who could object to Arthur Pennington?Son of a wealthy manufacturer,A type he was of English adolescence,Trained by harmonious culture to the fulnessOf all that Nature had supplied; a personThat did not lack one manly grace; a mindWhich took the mould that social pressure gave,Without one protest native to itself.In the accepted, the conventional,He looked for Truth, nor ever had a doubtWhether she might not hide in some deep wellRather than flaunt her modest purityIn dusty highways. With my dispositionTo challenge all that human dogmatismImperious would impose upon my thought,What pretty yoke-fellows for life should we,Arthur and I, have been! Misled by hopesWhich were inspired too fondly by my mother,He, too, proposed, and was of course rejected.
"Then the storm broke! The cup of my offencesWas overflowed at last. Now must I go—Go, where she cared not; only disappearFrom her domain; she washed her hands of me!Hundreds of pounds had been invested in me,—My dresses, jewelry, and entertainments,—And here was the result! But no more money,From her, must I expect; my father's incomeHad not for years been equal to his outlays.Any day he might be compelled to changeHis style of living; all had been kept upFor the advantage of myself and sisters;And here was all the gratitude I showed!
"This time my mother was in earnest; soNow must I lay my plans to go at once.Whither? to seek a transient home with oneOf my own married sisters? Ah! the thoughtOf being dependent galled me like a spur.No! go to work,—a voice within me said:Think of the many thousands of your sexWho, young and giddy, not equipped like you,Are thrown upon the world to battle with itAs best they may! Now try your closet virtue;See if your theory can stand the proof,—If trial will not warp your sense of right.When Poverty shall dog your every step,And at your scanty or unwholesome mealSit down, or with you, in your thin attire,Go shivering home at night from ill-paid toil,—Then see if you can keep your feet from straying;Then choose as only Conscience bids you choose!
"The sewing-girl who worked upon my dress,The day of the great ball, was Lucy Merle;I found her saving up her petty meansTo go to London, to get better wages,—And said: 'Well, Lucy, let us go together.'She sold some jewels for me, and we went.
"In London! two unfriended girls in London!We hired a room, and got employment soon,Such as it was; but small the recompense!Though Lucy, quicker at her work than I,Could earn enough to live upon—almost.For her the change was slight.
"A year we toiledIn company; and I'll not tell you allThe hardships, trials, wrongs, we underwent.In my blue trunk you'll find a little pistol,Got for our joint protection in those days.May it be near you, should you ever need it!Finding, at length, I could no longer earnMy share of our expenses by the needle,I sought a situation as a nurse.And in 'The Times' I advertised my 'Want.'An answer came, directing me to callUpon the writer at a certain hour.I went. I met a man of middle ageWhose name was Percival. I thought his mannerWas coldly kind.
"'You're very young,' he said,'To fill the situation of a nurse.What reference have you?' Not a distant thoughtOf such a need had ever troubled me!'I bring,' said I, 'no reference.'—'That's a pity.What pledge have I of character?'—'Not any.'And then, impatient at this let, I cried:'Look in my face, and if you find not therePledge of my truth, Heaven help me, for 'tis all—All I can give!'—'Ah! my poor child,' said he,'Such warrant have I learnt to take with doubt;For I have known a face, too beautiful,With look of innocence and shining candor,Prove but the ambush of duplicity,Pitiless and impure. But let me notDistrust too far.' Then he turned up the gas,And, with a scrutiny intent and grave,Perused my face. 'What is your name?' he asked,After a silence.—'Mary Merivale.''Well, Mary, I engage you; come at once.In the next room asleep reclines our patient.As for your wages, we will say two guineasA week, if you're content.'—'O, perfectly!'
"So, groping in my darkness, I at lengthHit on the door that issued into light.Long talks between the patient and his friendWere frequent, and they heeded not my presence.Little by little Percival soon toldThe story that you've heard, and more which youMay never hear in earthly interviews.An eager listener, I would treasure upEach word, each look; and on my soul at lastDawned the pure ray by which I saw those traits,The spirit's own, that harmonized so wellWith all the outward showed of good and noble.Strange that he took no notice of the wayMy very life was drifting! But to himI seemed a child, and his paternal airsFroze me and checked.
"A paragraph, 'The Times'Had published, when the accident took place,Mentioned that Kenrick was a millionnaire,Though quite a young man still.
"A month went byAnd he was able to sit up awhile;And soon, with me beside him in the carriage,To take a drive;—when one day, PercivalSaid to me: 'Mary, you and I must tryThe span to-day; our patient shall keep house.'My heart beat wildly; Kenrick looked as ifApproving the arrangement; so we went.'I wished,' said Percival, 'to talk with youIn private; do not answer if I putQuestions that may embarrass or annoy;It is no idle curiosity,Prompting me now. We see that you were bornTo something better than this drudgery:If not reluctant, tell me who you are.''O, willingly!' I said.
"And so I told himAll, from the first. He heard me patiently;And then remarked: 'But do you never longFor that secure and easy life at home?You will go back to Liverpool, perchance,When you've had quite enough of servitudeAnd toil precarious.'—'I go not back,'Said I, 'while health and liberty are left.The home that's grudged is not the home for me.Give me but love, and like the reed I yield;Deal with me harshly, you may break, not bend me.''Ah! there is something wrong in all these things,'Replied he, musing.
"'Yes,' I said; 'considerWhat I've been telling of my mother's wayOf marrying her daughters; well, my motherIs but the product of that social system,Hollow and false, which leaves for dowerless girlsFew honorable outlooks for supportExcepting marriage.[2]Poor, dependent, helpless,Untaught in any craft that could be madeTo yield emolument,—our average women,—What can they do but take the common pathWhich my poor mother would have mademetry,And lead some honest man to think that theyAre weddinghim, and not his bank-account?Let woman, equally with man, be bredTo learn with thoroughness some craft or tradeBy which she may support herself at least,You place her more at liberty to shunUnions, no priest, no church can sanctify!'[3]
"Percival eyed me with a puzzled look,Then said: 'The time is on its way, I hope,When from her thraldom woman will come forth,And in her own hands take her own redress;When laws disabling her shall not be madeUnder the cowardly, untested pleaThat man is better qualified than womanTo estimate her needs and do her justice.Justice to her shall be to man advancement;And woman's wit can best heal woman's wrongs.Accelerate that time, all women trueTo their own sex,—yet not so much to thatAs to themselves and all the human race!But pardon me; I wander from the point,—Following you. Now tell me, could you makeAmerica your home?'
"The sudden questionMade my heart leap, and the hot crimson rushUp to my brow. Silent I bowed my head,And he continued thus: 'If it should be,That one, not wholly alien to your tastes,—A man not quite so young as you, perhaps,But not beyond his prime,—an honest man,—I will not say with ample means, for thatWould jar upon your heart,—one who could makeYour home a plentiful and happy one,—Should offer you his hand,—would it deter youTo know that in America your lotMust henceforth be?'
"My breath came quick,—my eyesTurned swift away, lest he should mark their joyAnd count his prize too cheaply won. I sighed,But did not speak. 'May I go on?' he asked.A 'yes' distinct, though faint, flew from my lips.'May I,' said he, 'tell Kenrick he may hope?''What!' cried I, looking up, with something fiercerThan mere chagrin in my unguarded frown."
Linda broke in upon the story here,And turning to her father with a smileTender as dawning light, yet arch and gay,Cried, "Fie, my father! Could you be so dull?How could you treat my future mother so?""Nay, do not blame me hastily," said he,With glad paternal eyes regarding her;"How could a modest man—and I was one—Suppose that youth and wealth, and gracious giftsOf person, such as Kenrick wore so well,Could fail to win? Truly I did not dream,Spite of the proverb, Love could be so blind."
Tossing her head with mock vindictive air,Like sweet sixteen, the mother then resumed:"Kenrick, it seems, being a bashful man,—And somewhat shy, perhaps, because I knewHe was but recently in mad pursuitOf an unfaithful spouse, a runaway,Commissioned Percival to try the ground,Obscure and doubtful, of my woman's will.My absolute 'What!' was unequivocal.Then turning to the coachman, Percival,Said, 'Home, now, home! and quickly!'
"Home we rattled,And both were silent to our journey's end.An eager glance he gave me as he touchedMy hand to help me from the carriage. HeHas told me since that I returned the lookWith one which, if not actually scorn,Was next of kin to scorn, and much resembling:—All the chimera of his guilty conscience.
"Kenrick next day renewed his suit by letter;He begged I would not give a hasty 'No,'But wait and grant him opportunitiesTo prove that he was worthy and sincere,And to procure the requisite divorce.While I was answering his letter, heDrove out with Percival. My brief replyTold him there could be no decision otherThan a complete and final negative.
"Then I sat down and ran my fingers overThe keys of the piano; and my moodAt length expressed itself in that wild burstOf a melodious anguish, which EdgardoGives vent to in 'Lucia.' Words could addNothing to magnify the utter heart-breakOf that despair; and Donizetti's scoreHas made the cry audible through the ages.Less from the instrument than from my heartWas wrung the passionate music.
"At its close,A long-drawn breath made me look round, and thereWhom should I see but Percival, as ifTransfixed in mute surprise! 'I did not knowThere was a listener,—had supposed you gone,'Said I; and he replied: 'I thought you'd haveSome word for Kenrick: so our drive was short.''Nothing but this.' I handed him my letter;He took it, bowed, and left me.
"The next dayI learnt that Kenrick had engaged his passageIn Wednesday's steamer for New York. My stayMust now be brief; my services no longerCould be of any use; and so I wroteSome formal lines, addressed to Percival,Asking for my dismissal, and conveyingTo both the gentlemen my thanks sincereFor all their kindness and munificence.Two days I waited, but no answer came.
"The third day Kenrick sought an interview.We met, and freely talked of this and that.Said he, at last: 'Into what false, false waysWe plunge because we do not care tothink!We shudder at Chinese moralityWhen it allows a parent to destroySuperfluous female children. Look at home!Have we no ancient social superstitionsBorn of the same old barbarous family?My life, Miss Merivale, has been so crowdedThat I've had little time to trace opinionDown to its root before accepting it.In giving opportunity for thought,Sickness has been a brisk iconoclast.Behold the world's ideal of a wife![4]'Tis something like to this:
"'She marries young,Perhaps in meek submission to the willParental, or in hope of a support;In a few years,—as heart and brain mature,And knowledge widens,—finds her lord and masterIs a wrong-headed churl, a selfish tyrant,A miser, or a blockhead, or a brute;Her love for him, if love there ever was,Is turned to hatred or indifference:What shall she do? The world has one reply:You made your bed, and you must lie in it;True, you were heedless seventeen—no matter!True, a false sense of duty urged you on,And you were wrongly influenced—no matter!Be his wife still; stand by him to the last;Do not rebel against his cruelty;The more he plays the ruffian, the more meritIn your endurance! Suffering is your lot;It is the badge and jewel of a woman.Shun not contamination from his touch;Keep having children by him, that his traitsAnd his bad blood may be continuous.Think that you love him still; and feed your heartWith all the lies you can, to keep it passive!
"'So say the bellwethers who lead the manyOver stone walls into the thorns and ditches,Because their fathers took that way before them.Such is the popular morality!But is it moral? Nay; when man or womanCan look up, with the heart of prayer, and say,Forbid it, Heaven, forbid it, self-respect,Forbid it, merciful regard for others,That this one should be parent to my child,—That moment should the intimate relationsOf marriage end, and a release be found![5]
"'How many blunder in mistaking Passion,Mixed with a little sentiment, for Love!Passion may lead to Love, as it may leadAway from Love, but Passion is not Love;It may exist with Hate; too often leadsIts victim blindfold into hateful bonds,Under the wild delusion that Love leads.Love's bonds are adamant, and Love a slave;And yet Love's service must be perfect freedom.Candor it craves, for Love is innocent,—But no enforced fidelity, no tiesSuch as the harem shelters. Dupes are theyWho think that Love can ever be compelled!Only what's lovely Love can truly love,And fickleness and falsehood are deformed.Reveal their features, Love may mourn indeed,But will not rave. Love, even when abandoned,Feels pity and not anger for the heartThat could not prize Love's warm fidelity.But Passion, selfish, proud, and murderous,Seizes the pistol or the knife, and kills;—And cozened juries make a heroineOf her who, stung with jealousy or pride,Or, by some meaner motive, hurled a wreck,Assassinates her too inconstant wooer.
"'Now do I see how little, in my case,There was of actual love, how much of passion!Love's day for me, if it may ever comeIn this brief stage, is yet to dawn. You smile;Love must have hope, a ray of hope, at least,To catch the hue of life; and so, Miss Mary,I'll not profess to love you; all I sayIs, that a little hope from you would make me!But, since we can't be lovers, let's be friends;Here, in this little wallet, is a checkFor an amount that will secure your futureFrom serious want,—a sum I shall not miss.But which—'
"With many thanks I answered 'No!''What can I do?' he asked, 'to show my debtTo you and Percival?' I shook my head,And something in the sadness of my smileArrested his attention. But that momentA girl rushed in with cry of 'O, he's killed—Killed, the poor man!'—'Who?'—'Mr. Percival!'The name was like a blow upon my heart,And Kenrick saw it, and supported me.
"But in a moment I was strong. I heardA scuffling noise of people at the door,And then a form—'twas Percival's—was borneInto a room, and placed upon a bed.Pale and insensible he lay; a surgeonCame in; at last we got an explanation:In rescuing from a frightened horse the childOf a poor woman, Percival had beenThrown down, an arm been broken, and the painHad made him faint. My nervous laugh of joy,When I was sure that this was the extremeOf injury, betrayed my reckless heart,And Kenrick had my secret. PercivalWas soon himself; the broken limb was set,And I, engaged to stay another weekTo wait on the new patient—nothing loath.
"The day of his departure, Kenrick drew meAside, and, in a whisper, said, 'He loves you!''Loves me?' With palms held tightly on my breastTo keep my heart down, I repeated, 'Loves me?''Twas hard to credit. 'Pardon me,' said Kenrick,'If by communication of your secret,I changed the desolation of his lifeTo sudden bloom and fragrance, for a moment.''A moment only?'—'Soon his scruples rose:It cannot be! he said; two mountains lieBetween my fate and hers.—Two bubbles rather!Retorted I; let's take their altitude.—One is my age.—That mountain is alreadyTunnelled or levelled, since she sees it not.—The other is that infamous decreeAgainst me at the period of my suit,Granting the guilty party a divorce,But me prohibiting to wed again.—Well, that decree (I answered bitterly)Would have with me the weight of a requestThat I'd hereafter quaff at common puddlesAnd not at one pure fount; I'd heed the barAs I would heed the grass-webbed gossamer;I'd sooner balk a bench of drivellersThan outrage sacred nature.—If that benchCould have you up for bigamy, what then?—The dear old dames! they should not have the meansTo prove it on me: for the pact should be'Twixt me and her who would accept my trothFreely before high heaven and all its angels:Witnesses which the sheriff could not summon,Could not, at least, produce.—But, Kenrick, youDo not consider all the risk and pain;The social stigma, and, should children come,The grief, the shame, the disrepute to them.—To which I answered: God's great gift of life,Coming through parentage select and pure,To me is such a sacred, sacred thing,So precious, so inestimably precious,That your objections seem of small account;Since only stunted hearts and slavish mindsCould visit on your children disrepute,Who fitly could ignore such Brahmanism,Since they'd be born, most probably, with brains.
"'When the neglect of form, if 'tis neglected,Is all in honor, purged of selfishness,Where shall the heart and reason lay the blame?But understand me: Would I cheapen form?Nay, I should fear that those who would evade it,Without a reason potent as your own,Trifled with danger. But I cannot makeA god of form, an idol crushing me.Unlike the church, I look on marriage asA civil contract, not a sacrament,[6]Indissoluble, spite of every wrong;The high and holy purposes of marriageAre not fulfilled in instances where eachHelps to demoralize or blight the other;Let it then stand, like other contracts, onA basis purely personal and legal.
"'Oh! how we hug the fictions we are born to!Challenging never, never testing them;Accepting them as irreversible;Part of God's order, not to be improved;Placing the form above the informing spirit,The outward show above the inward life;A hollow lie, well varnished, well played out,Above the pure, the everlasting truth;Fancying Nature is not Nature still,Because repressed, or cheated, or concealed;Juggling ourselves with frauds a very child,Yet unperverted, readily would pierce!
"'Consider my own case: a month ago,See me a maniac, rushing forth to findA wife who loved me not; my heart all swollenWith rage against the man to whom I owedExposure of her falsehood; ah, how blind!To chase a form from which the soul had fled!If I grew sane at length, you, Percival,And the mere presence of our little nurseHave brought me light and healing. I am cured,Thank Heaven, and can exult at my release.
"'Here I paused. Percival made no reply,But sat like one absorbed. I paced the floorAwhile, and then confronting him resumed:—Your scruples daunt you still; well, there's a wayTo free you from the meshes of the law:On my return, I'll go to Albany,Where war's financial sinews, as you know,Are those of legislation equally;I'll have a law put through to meet your case;To strip away these toils. I can; I will!—Percival almost stunned me with his No!Makemea gutter, adding more pollutionTo the fount of public justice? Never! No!I would not feed corruption with a bribe,To win release to-morrow. Such a cureWould be, my friend, far worse than the disease.—Then there's no way, said I; and so, farewell!The carriage waits to take me to the station.—I shall not say farewell until we partBeside the carriage-door, said he: you'll takeYour leave of Mary?—Yes, I go to seek her.—And this, Miss Mary, is a full reportOf all that passed between my friend and me.'
"Here Kenrick ended. He had been, methought,Thus copious, in the hope his argumentWould make me look as scornfully as heOn obstacles that Percival would raise.I thanked him for his courtesy, and then,Not without some emotion, we two parted.When the last sound of the retiring wheelsWas drowned in other noises, PercivalCame in, and found me waiting in the parlor.'Now let me have a talk with you,' he said.So, in the little parlor we sat down.I see it now, all vividly before me!The carpet—ay, its very hues and figures:The chandelier, the sofa, the engravingOf Wellington that hung above the mantel;The little bookcase, holding Scott and Irving,And Gibbon's Rome, and Eloisa's Letters;And, in a vase, upon the marble stand,An opening rose-bud I had plucked that day—Type of my own unfolding, rosy hope!
"Said Percival: 'We'll not amuse each otherWith words indifferent; and we'll allowSmall opportunity for hearts to speak:We know what they would utter, might we dareTo give them audience. Let Reason rule.What I propose is this: that we now part—Part for two years; and when that term shall end,If we are still in heart disposed as now,Then can we orient ourselves anew,And shape our course as wary conscience bids.Till then, no meeting and no correspondence!
"'Now for conditions more particular:You have a sister—Mrs. Hammersley—Julia, I think you said,—an elder sister,Resident here, and in society,But fretted by her lord's extravaganceAnd her own impecuniosity.You at her house shall be a visitor,But not without the means of aiding her;And who but I can now supply the means?Here's the dilemma: how can you be freeIf you're my debtor? Yet youmustbe free,And promise to be free; nor let my giftSway you one jot in trammelling your heart.Two years you'll spend with Mrs. Hammersley;Accepting all Society can offerTo welcome youth and beauty to its lap;Keeping your heart as open as you canTo influences and impressions new;For, Mary, bear in mind how young you are!So much foryou. Onmypart, I'll returnTo my own country, and endeavor thereOnce more to rectify the wretched wrongThat circumscribes me. I shall fail perhaps—But we can be prepared for either issue.'
"Here he was silent, and I said: 'You're right,And I accept your terms without reserve.'We parted, and except a clasp of handsThat lingered in each other, and a glanceThat flashed farewell from eyes enthroning truth,There was no outward token of our love.
"Two years (the longest of my life were they!)Emptied their sands at last, and then I wroteA letter to him, to the Barings' care,Containing one word only; this: 'Unchanged.'In the same old familiar room we met:Eager I gave my hand; but he drew back,Folded his arms, and said, with half a smile:''Tis not for me; still am I under ban!''I'm glad of that!' cried I; ''twill help to showHow slight, to love like mine, impedimentsInjustice can pile up!'
"He took my hand,And, for the first time, we exchanged a kiss.Then we sat down and freely talked. Said he:'Baffled in all my efforts to procureReversal of my sentence, I resolvedTo terminate one misery at least:Yearly the court compelled me, through my bondsmen,To render an account of all my income,Of which the larger portion must be paidFor the support of my betrayer, andThe child, called, by a legal fiction, mine.To this annoyance of an annual dealingWith her attorney, I would put an end;And so I compromised by giving upTwo thirds of all my property at once.This leaves me free from all entanglementWith her or hers,—though with diminished means.
"'And now, since still you venture to confideWholly in me, my Mary Merivale,—And since you would intrust your happinessTo one who can but give you love for love,—To make our income certain, 'tis my planStraightway my little remnant to convertInto a joint annuity, to lastDuring our natural lives: this will secureA fair, though not munificent support.And since for me you put the gay world by,And since for you I make no sacrifice,Now shape our way of life as you may choose.'
"This I disclaimed; but we at last arrangedThat on the morrow, in the presence ofMy poor friend Lucy, and my sister Julia,We two should take each other by the handAs emblem of a pledge including allOf sacred and inviolable, allOf holy and sincere, that man and woman,Uniting for connubial purposes,And with no purpose foreign to right love,Can, with responsible intelligence,Give to each other in the face of God,And before human witnesses.
"And soThe simple rite—if such it could be called—Took place. A formal kiss was interchanged,And then we all knelt down, and PercivalMet our hearts' need with such a simple prayerAs by its quickening and inspiring faithMade us forget it was another's voice,Not our own hearts, that spoke. My sister JuliaWept, not for me, but for herself, poor child!The chill, the gloom of an unhappy futureCrept on her lot already, like a mistForeshadowing the storm; she saw, not distant,All the despair of a regretful marriageMenacing her and driving forth her children.It did not long delay. Her spendthrift lord,After a squander of his own estate,And after swindling my confiding fatherOf a large sum, deserted wife and children,To play the chevalier of industryAt Baden, or at Homburg, and put onMore of the aspect of the beast each day.Three children have his blood to strive against.Poor Julia! What she has to live on nowWas given by Linda's father. We found means,Also, to set up our poor sewing-girl,My old companion, Lucy, in a tradeIn which she thrives,—she and a worthy husband.