Thenews of the great railroad accidentAnd of the sudden death of Percival,Coming so soon upon intelligenceOf his rare fortune in the legacyFrom Kenrick, occupied the public mindFor a full day at least, and then was whelmedIn other marvels rushing thick upon it.The mother and the daughter, who still boreThe name of Percival, came back from ParisAt once, on getting the unlooked-for news.When Linda, after three weeks had elapsed,Re-entered, with a swelling heart, the houseTo her so full of sacred memories,She was accosted by an officerWho told her he had put his seal on allThe papers, plate, and jewelry belongingTo the late Albert Percival,—and askedIf in her keeping were a watch and ring,Also some money, found upon his person:If so, would she please give them up, and he,Who had authority to take them, wouldSign a receipt for all such property,And then the rightful heir could easilyDispose of it, as might seem best to her."The rightful heir?" gasped Linda, taking inNot readily the meaning of the words,—"Do you not know that I'm the rightful heirAnd only child of Albert Percival?""Pardon me," said the officer, "the child,Recognized by the law, is not yourself,But Harriet Percival, the only heir,—For so the court adjudges,—and to herAll property, both personal and real,Must be made over. She, no doubt, will dealKindly in your peculiar case, and makeA suitable provision—""Hold!" cried Linda,Her nostrils' action showing generous bloodAs clearly as some matchless courser shows itAfter a mighty race,—"Your business,But not your comments! And yet, pardon me—I'm hasty,—you meant well; but you would have meRender you up the watch and pocket-bookFound on my father's person, and deliveredTo me his daughter. That I'll only do,When more authority than you have shownCompels me, and my lawyer bids me yield.""Here is my warrant," said the officer,"And my instructions are explicit." Then,The spirit of the gentleman disdainingThe action he was sent for, he rejoined:"But the law's letter shall not make me doAn incivility, perhaps a wrong.And so, relying on your truth, I leave you,Assured that you'll be ready to respondTo all the law can ask. And now, good day!"Left to her own decisions, Linda soughtAt once the best advice; and such had beenHer training, that she was not ignorantWho among counsellors were trusted mostIn special ways. Kindly and patientlyHer case was taken up and thoroughlySifted and tried. No hope! No flaw! No case!So craftily had every step been taken,With such precaution and such legal care,—So diligently had the mesh been woven,Enclosing Percival and all of his,—That nothing could be done except put offThe payment of the Kenrick legacyFor some six months,—when it was all made overTo the reputed child, already richThrough the law's disposition of the sumsWhich Percival had been compelled to pay.After the legal test, with brave composureLinda surveyed her lot. Enough was left,From sale of jewels that had been her mother's,For a few months' support, with frugal care.Claim to these jewels and the money foundUpon her mother's person had been laidToo eagerly by the contesting party,Who said that Percival, in dying last,Was heir to the effects; but since the claimCould only be upheld by proving marriage,The claimants sorrowfully gave it up.One day as Linda stood with folded handsBefore her easel, on which lay a paintingOf flowers autumnal, grouped with rarest skill,—The blue-fringed gentian, the red cardinal,With fern and plumy golden-rod intwined,—A knock aroused her, and the opened doorDisclosed a footman, clad in livery,Who, hat in hand, asked if a lady mightCome up to see the pictures. "Certainly,"Was the reply; and, panting up the stairs,A lady came whose blazonry of dressAnd air of self-assured, aggressive wealthSpoke one well pleased to awe servility.As when by some forecasting sense the doveKnows that the hawk, though out of sight and still,Is hovering near, even so did Linda feelAn enemy draw nigh; felt that this woman,Who, spite of marks a self-indulgent lifeLeaves on the face, showed vestiges of beauty,Was she who first had cast the bitternessInto that cup of youth which Linda's fatherWas made to taste so long.And yet (how strangely,In this mixed web of life, the strands of goodCross and inweave the evil!) to that wrongMight he have tracked a joy surpassing hope,—The saving angel who, in Linda's mother,Had so enriched his being;—might have tracked(Mysterious thought!) Linda herself, his child,The crown of every rapture, every hopeThe lady, known as Madame Percival,Seated herself and turned a piercing lookOn Linda, who blenched not, but stood erect,With calm and serious look regarding her.The lady was the first to lower her eyes;She then, with some embarrassment, remarked:"So! you're an artist! Will you let me seeSome of your newest paintings?" Linda placedThree of her choicest pieces on the easel,And madame raised her eyeglass, looked a moment,Said, "Very pretty," and then, breaking throughFurther constraint, began: "You may not know me;My name is Percival; you, I suppose,Bear the same name by courtesy. 'Tis well:The law at last has taught you possiblyOur relative positions. Of the pastWe will say nothing; no hard thought is leftAgainst you in my heart; I trust I knowThe meaning of forgiveness; what is dueTo Christian charity. In me, althoughThe church has but a frail, unworthy child,Yet would I help my enemy; remove herFrom doubtful paths, and see her fitly placedWith her own kindred for protection due.Hear my proposal now, in your behalf:If you will go to England, where your auntsAnd relatives reside,—and first will signA paper promising you'll not return,And that you never will resume your suit,—I will advance your passage-money, andGive you five thousand dollars. Will you do it?"The indignant No, surging in Linda's heart,Paused as if language were too weak for it,When, in that pause, the opening of the doorDisclosed a lady younger than the first,Yet not unlike in features, though no blonde,And of a figure small and delicate."Now, Harriet!" cried the elder of the two,Annoyed, if not alarmed, "you promised meYou would not quit the carriage."—"Well, what then?I changed my mind. Is that a thing uncommon?Whom have we here? The name upon the doorIs Percival; and there upon the wallI see a likeness of my father. So!You, then, are Linda Percival! the childFor whom he could abandon me, his first!Come, let me look at you!"—"Nay, Harriet,This should not be. Come with me to the carriage;Come! I command you."—"Pooh! And pray, who caresFor your commands? I move not till I please.We are half-sisters, Linda, but I hate you.""Excuse me," Linda answered quietly,"But I see no resemblance to my fatherIn you. Your features, form, complexion, allAre quite unlike."—"Silence! We've had enough.""What did she say?" cried Harriet. "Do not heedA word of hers; leave her and come with me.""She said, I bear no likeness to my father:You heard her!"—"'Twas in malice, Harriet.Of course she would say that."—"But I must haveThat photograph of him upon the wall:'Tis unlike any that I've ever seen."And with the word she took it from the nailAnd would have put it in her pocket, had notLinda, with sudden grasp, recovered it.Darker her dark face grew, when HarrietSaw herself baffled; taking out her purseShe drew from it a thousand-dollar bill,And said, "Will this procure it?"—"Harriet!You're mad to offer such a sum as that.""Old woman, if you anger me, you'll rue it!I ask you, Linda Percival, if youWill take two thousand dollars for that portrait?"And Linda answered: "I'll not take your money:The portrait you may have without a price;I'm not without a copy."—"Well, I take it;But mark you this: I shall not hate you lessFor this compliance; nay, shall hate you more;For I do hate you with a burning hatred,And all the more for that smooth Saxon face,With its clear red and white and Grecian outline;That likeness to my father (I can see it),Those golden ringlets and that rounded form.Pray, Madame Percival, where did I getThis swarthy hue, since Linda is so fair,And you are far from being a quadroon?Good lady, solve the riddle, if you please.""There! No more idle questions! Two o'clock?That camel's hair at Stewart's will be sold,Unless we go this minute. Such a bargain!Come, my dear, come!" And so, cajoling, coaxing,She drew away her daughter, and the doorClosed quickly on the two. But Linda stoodIn meditation rapt, as thought went backTo the dear parents who had sheltered her;Contrasting their ingenuous love sincereAnd her own filial reverence, with the sceneShe just had witnessed. So absorbed she wasIn visions of the past, she did not heedThe opening of the door, until a voiceBroke in upon her tender revery,Saying, "I've come again to get your answerTo my proposal." Tranquillized, subduedBy those dear, sacred reminiscences,Linda, with pity in her tone, replied:"Madame, I cannot entertain your offer.""And why not, Linda Percival?" exclaimedThe imperious lady.—"I'm not bound to giveMy reasons, madame."—"Come, I'll make the sumTen thousand dollars."—"Money could not alterMy mind upon the subject."—"Look you, Linda;You saw my daughter. Obstinate, self-willed,Passionate as a wild-cat, jealous, crafty,Reckless in use of money when her whimsAre to be gratified, and yet at timesSordid as any miser,—she'll not stopAt artifice, or violence, or crime,To injure one she hates—and you she hates!Now for your sake and hers, I charge you leaveThis country, go to England;—close at onceWith my most liberal offer.""Madame, no!This is my home, my birthplace, and the landOf all my efforts, hopes, and aspirations;While I have work to do, here lies my field:I cannot quit America. Besides,Since candor now is best, I would not takeA dole from you to save myself from starving."The lady's eyes flashed choler. She replied:"Go your own gait; and, when you're on the street,As you'll be soon, blame no one but yourself.I've done my part. Me no one can accuseOf any lack of charity or care.For three weeks more my offer shall hold good.After that time, expect no further grace."And, with a frown which tried to be disdain,But which, rebuked and humbled, fell beforeThe pitying candor of plain Innocence,Out of the room she swept with all her velvet.These interviews had made our Linda feelHow quite alone in the wide world she stood.A letter came, after her parents' death,From her aunt, Mrs. Hammersley, requestingA loan of fifty pounds, and telling allThe family distresses and shortcomings:How this one's husband had proved not so richAs was expected; how another's wasA tyrant and a niggard, so close-fistedHe parcelled out with his own hands the sugarFor kitchen use; and how another's still,Though amply able to receive their mother,A widow now, had yet refused to do it,And even declined to make a contributionFor her support. And so the gossip ran.The picture was not pleasant. With a sighNot for herself, but others, Linda pennedA letter to her aunt, relating allThe events that made her powerless to aidHer needy kinsfolk. She despatched the letter,Then sat and thought awhile."And now for duty!"She cried, and rose. She could not think of dutyExcept as something grateful to her parents.They were a presence so securely felt,And so related to her every act,—Their love was still so vigilant, so real,That to do what, and only what, she knewThey would approve, was duty paramount;And their approval was the smile of God!Self-culture, work, and needful exercise,—This was her simple summing-up of dutiesImmediately before her, and to beFulfilled without more parleying or delay.She found that by the labor of a monthIn painting flowers from nature, she could earnEasily sixty dollars. This she didFor two years steadily. Then came a change.From some cause unexplained, her wild-flower sketches,Which from their novelty and careful finishAt first had found a ready sale, were nowIn less demand. Linda was not awareThat these elaborate works, to nature true,Had been so multiplied in copies, madeBy hand, or printed by the chromo art,As to be sold at prices not one fifthAs high as the originals had cost.Hence her own genius winged the storm and lentThe color to the cloud, that overhungHer prospect, late so hopeful and serene.Now came her year of struggle! Narrow means,Discouragement, the haunting fear of debt!One summer day, a day reminding herOf days supremely beautiful, immortal,(Since hallowed by undying love and joy),A little girl, the step-child, much endeared,Of a poor artisan who dwelt near byOn the same floor with Linda, came to herAnd said: "You promised me, Miss Percival,That some fine day you'd take me in the carsWhere I could see the grass and pluck the flowers.""Well, Rachel Aiken, we will go to-day,If you will get permission from your father,"Said Linda, longing for the woodland air.Gladly the father gave consent; and so,Clad in her best, the little damsel sat,While Linda filled the luncheon-box, and madeThe preparations needful."What is that?"Asked Rachel, pointing to an open drawerIn which a case of polished ebonyGlittered and caught the eye. "A pistol-case!""And is the pistol loaded?"—"I believe so.""And will you take it with you?"—"Well, my dear,I did not think to do so: would you have me?""Yes, if we're going to the woods; for panthersLurk in the woods, you know."—"I'll take it, Rachel;We call this a revolver. See! Four timesI can discharge it." At a block of woodShe aimed and fired; then carefully reloadedThe piece, and put it in a hidden pocket.Some ten miles from the city, at a placeRich in diversity of wood and water,They left the cars. Rachel's delight was wild.Never was day so lovely! Never grassSo green! And O the flowers! "Look, only look,Miss Percival! What is it? Can I pluckAs many as I want?"—"Ay, that's a harebell.""And O, look here! This red and yellow flower!Tell me its name."—"A columbine. It growsIn clefts of rocks. That's an anemone:We call it so because the leaves are tornSo easily by the wind; foranemosIs Greek for wind."—"Oh! here's a buttercup!I know that well. Red clover, too, I know.Isn't the dandelion beautiful?And O, Miss Percival, what flower is this?""That's a wild rose."—"What, does the rose grow wild?But is not that delightful? A wild rose!And I can take as many as I want!I did not dream the country was so fine.How very happy must the children beWho live here all the time! 'Tis better farThan any garden; for, Miss Percival,The flowers are here all free, and quite as prettyAs garden flowers. O, hark! Did ever birdSo sweetly sing?"—"That was a wood-thrush, dear.""O darling wood-thrush! Do not stop so soon!Look there, on that stone wall! What's that?"—"A squirrel.""Is that indeed a squirrel? Are you sure?How I would like a nut to throw to him!What are these little red things in the grass?""Wild strawberries, my dear."—"Wild strawberries!And can I eat them?"—"Yes, we'll take a plateAnd pick it full, and eat them with our dinner.""O, will not that be nice? Wild strawberriesThat we have picked ourselves!"And so the daySlid on to noon; and then, it being hot,They crossed a wall into a skirting wood,And there sat down upon a rocky slabCovered with dry brown needles of the pine,And ate their dinner while the birds made music."'Tis a free concert, ours!" said Rachel Aiken:"How nice this dinner! What an appetiteI'm having all at once! My father saysThat I must learn to eat: I soon could learnIn such a place as this! I wish my fatherHimself would eat; he works too hard, I fear;He works in lead: and the lead makes him ill.See what nice clothes he buys me! I'm afraidHe pays for me more than he can afford,Seeing he has a mother to supportAnd a blind sister; for, Miss Percival,I'm but his step-child, and my mother diedTwo years ago; then my half-sister died,His only little girl, and now he saysThat I am all he has in the wide worldTo love and cherish dearly,—all his treasure.What would I give if I could bring him hereTo these sweet woods, away from lead and work!"So the child prattled. Then, the gay dessertOf berries being ended, Linda satOn the rock's slope, and peeled the mosses offOr looked up through the branches of the pinesAt the sky's blue, while Rachel played around.From tree to tree, from flower to flower, the childDarted through leafy lanes, when, all at once,A scream roused Linda.To her feet she sprang!Instinctively (but not without a shudder)She grasped the little pistol she had broughtAt the child's prompting; from the rock ran down,And, at a sudden bend, encountered threeYoung lusty ruffians, while, a few rods off,Another lifted Rachel in his arms,And to the thicker wood beyond moved on.The three stood side by side as if to barThe path to Linda, and their looks meant mischief.The lane was narrow. "For your life, make way!"She cried, and raised the pistol. "No, you don'tFool us by tricks like that!" the foremost said:"And so, my lady—" But before the wordWas out there was a little puff of smoke,With an explosion, not encouraging,—And on the turf the frightened caitiff lay.Her road now clear, reckless of torn alpaca,Over the scattered branches Linda rushed,Till she drew near the leader of the gang,Who, stopping, drew a pistol with one hand,While with the other he held Rachel fast,Placing her as a shield before his breast.But Linda did not waver. Dropping intoThe old position that her father taught herWhen to the shooting-gallery they went,She fired. An oath, the cry of pain and rage,Told her she had not missed her aim,—the jawThe ruffian left exposed. One moment more,Rachel was in her arms. Taking a pathTransverse, they hit the public road and enteredThe railroad station as the train came in.When they were safely seated, and the engineBegan to throb and pant, a sudden pallorSpread over Linda's visage, and she veiledHer face and fainted; yet so quietly,But one among the passengers observed it;And he came up, and taking Rachel's placeSupported Linda; from a lady nearBorrowed some pungent salts restorative,And finding soon the sufferer was herself,Gave Rachel back her seat and took his own.But at the city station, when arrived,This gentleman came up, and bowing, said:"Here stands my private carriage; but to-dayI need it not. Let my man take you home."Linda demurred. His firm will urged them in,And she and Rachel all at once were ridingWith easy bowling motion down Broadway.The evening papers had this paragraph:"In Baker's Woods this morning two young menWere fired on by a female lunaticWithout a provocation, and one wounded.The bullet was extracted. Dr. Payson,With his accustomed skill and promptitude,Performed the operation; and the patientIs doing well. We learn the unhappy woman—She had with her a child—is still at large.""I'm glad it was no worse," quoth Linda, smiling.She kissed the pistol that had been her mother's,Wiped it, and reverently put it by.Three summers and an autumn had rolled onSince the catastrophe that orphaned Linda.Midwinter with its whirling snow had come,And, shivering through the snow-encumbered streetsOf the great city, men and women went,Stooping their heads to thwart the spiteful wind.The sleigh-bells rang, boys hooted, and policemenTold each importunate beggar to move on.In a side street where Fashion late had dwelt,But which the up-town movement now had leftA street for journeymen and small mechanics,Dress-makers, masons, farriers, and draymen,A female figure might be seen to enterA lodging-house, and passing up two flightsUnlock a door that showed a small apartmentNeat, with two windows looking on the rear,A small recess with a low, narrow bed,A sofa, a piano, and three chairs.'Twas noon, but in the sky no cleft of blueFlashed the soft love-light like a lifted lid.Clad plainly was the lady we have followed,—But with a certain grace no modiste's artCould have contrived. Youthful she was, and yetA gravity not pertinent to youthGave to her face the pathos of that lookWhich a too early thoughtfulness imparts;And this was Linda,—Linda little changed,Though nearer by four years to womanhoodThan when we parted from her in the shadowOf a great woe.Preoccupied she seemedNow with some painful thought, and in a slow,Half-automatic manner she replenishedWith scanty bits of coal her little stove;Then, with a like absorbed, uncertain air,Threw off her cloak and bonnet, and sat down;Motionless sat awhile till she drew forthA pocket-book, and from it took a letter,And read these words: "You guaranteed the debt:It now has run three months, and if to-morrowIt is not paid, we must seek legal help."A bill of wood and coal for Rachel's father—Some twenty dollars only! And yet LindaSaw not the way to pay it on the morrow.He, the poor artisan, on whose accountShe had incurred the liability,Lay prostrate with a malady, his last,In the small room near by, with little RachelHis only watcher. What could Linda do?At length, with lips compressed, and up and downMoving her head as if to give assentTo some resolve, now fixed, she took her seatAt the piano,—from her childhood's daysSo tenderly endeared, and every chordVibrating to some memory of her mother!"Old friend,"—she sighed; then thought awhile and sang.I.Help me, dear chords, help me to tell in songThe grief that now must say to you Farewell!No music like to yours can ease my heart.II.An infant on her knee I struck your keys,And you made sweet my earliest lullaby:From you I thought my requiem might come.III.Hard is the pang of parting, but farewell!Harder the shame would be, if help were not;Go, but your tones shall thrill forevermore.IV.Farewell! And O my mother, dost thou hear?Farewell! But not to thoughts forever dear.Farewell, but not to love—but not to thee!When little Rachel, by her father sent,Came in to take her lesson the next day,Behold, no instrument was in the room!What could it mean? "We must give up," said Linda,"Our music for a little while. PerhapsI soon shall have my dear piano back."Then they went in to see the sufferer.A smile lit up his face,—a grateful smile,That lent a beauty even to Disease,Pale, thin, and hollow-eyed:"Is not the airQuite harsh to-day?" he asked. "A searching air.""So I supposed. I find it hard to breathe.Dear lady—but you've been a friend indeed!In my vest-pocket you will find a wallet.All that I have is in it. Take and use it.A fellow-workman brought me yesterdayFifty-two dollars, by my friends subscribed:Take from it what will pay for coal and rent.To-morrow some one of my friends will comeTo see to what the morrow may require.You've done so much, dear lady, I refrainFrom asking more."—"Ask all that you would have.""My little Rachel—she will be alone,All, all alone in this wide, striving world:An orphan child without a relative!Could you make interest to have her placedIn some asylum?"—"Do not doubt my zealOr my ability to have it done.And should good fortune come to me, be sureRachel shall have a pleasant home in mine.""That's best of all. Thank you. God help you both.Now, Rachel, say the little prayer I taught you.... That was well said. Now kiss me for good night.That's a dear little girl! I'll tell your motherHow good and diligent and kind you are;How careful, too, of all your pretty clothes;And what a nurse you've been,—how true and tender.Rachel, obey Miss Percival. Be quickTo shun all evil. Fly from heedless playmates.Close your young eyes on all impurity.Cast out all naughty thoughts by holy prayer.Love only what is good. Ah! darling child,I hoped to shield you up to womanhood,But God ordains it otherwise. May HeAmid the world's thick perils be your Guide!There! Do not cry, my darling. All is well.Sing us some pious hymn, Miss Percival."And Linda, with wet eyelids, sang these words.I.Be of good cheer, O Soul!Angels are nigh;Evil can harm thee not,God hears thy cry.II.Into no void shalt thouSpring from this clay;His everlasting armShall be thy stay.III.Day hides the stars from thee,Sense hides the heavenWaiting the contrite soulThat here has striven.IV.Soon shall the glory dawnMaking earth dim;Be not disquieted,Trust thou in Him!"O, thank you! Every word is true—I know it.Sense hides it now, but has not always hid.Remember, Rachel, that I say it here,Weighing my words: I know it all is true.God bless you both. I'm very, very happy.My pain is almost gone. I'll sleep awhile."Rachel and Linda sat an hour beside him,Silently watching. Linda then aroseAnd placed her hand above his heart: 'twas still.Tranquilly as the day-flower shuts its leavesAnd renders up its fragrance to the air,From the closed mortal senses had he risen.One day the tempter sat at Linda's ear:Sat and discoursed—so piously! so wisely!She held a letter in her hand; a letterSigned Jonas Fletcher. Jonas was her landlord;A man of forty—ay, a gentleman;Kind to his tenants, liberal, forbearing;Rich and retired from active business;A member of the Church, but tolerant;A man sincere, cordial, without a flawIn habits or in general character;Of comely person, too, and cheerful presence.Long had he looked on Linda, and at lastHad studied her intently; knew her ways,Her daily occupations; whom she saw,And where she went. He had an interestBeyond that of the landlord, in his knowledge;The letter was an offer of his hand.Of Linda's parentage and historyHe nothing knew, and nothing sought to know.He took her as she was; was well content,With what he knew, to run all other risks.The letter was a good one and a frank;It came to Linda in her pinch of want,Discouragement, and utter self-distrust.And thus the tempter spoke and she replied:"You're getting thin; you find success in artIs not a thing so easy as you fancied.Five years you've worked at what you modestlyEsteem your specialty. Your specialty!As if a woman could have more than one,—And that—maternity! I do not speakOf the six years you gave your art beforeYou strove to make it pay. Methinks you seeYour efforts are a failure. What's the endOf all your toil? Not enough money savedFor the redemption of your pawned piano!Truly a cheerful prospect is before you:To hear your views would edify me greatly.""Yes, I am thinner than I was; but thenI can afford to be—so that's not much.As for success—if we must measure thatBy the financial rule, 'tis small, I grant you.Yes, I have toiled, and lived laborious days,And little can I show in evidence;And sometimes—sometimes, I am sick at heart,And almost lose my faith in woman's powerTo paint a rose, or even to mend a stocking,As well as man can do. What would you have?""Now you speak reason. Let me see you act it!Abandon this wild frenzy of the hour,That would leave woman free to go all waysA man may go! Why, look you, even in art,Most epicene of all pursuits in life,How man leaves woman always far behind!Give up your foolish striving; and let NatureAnd the world's order have their way with you.""Small as the pittance is, yet I could earnMore, ten times, by my brush than by my needle.""Ah! woman's sphere is that of the affections.Ambition spoils her—spoils her as a woman.""Spoils her for whom?""For man.""Then woman's errandIs not, like man's, self-culture, self-advancement,But she must simply qualify herselfTo be a mate for man: no obligationResting on man to qualify himselfTo be a mate for woman?""Ay, the manLives in the intellect; the woman's lifeIs that of the affections, the emotions;And her anatomy is proof of it.""So have I often heard, but do not see.Some women have I known, who could endureSurgical scenes which many a strong manWould faint at. We have had this dubious talkOf woman's sphere far back as history goes:'Tis time now it were proved: let actions prove it;Let free experience, education prove it!Why is it that the vilest drudgeriesAre put on woman, if her sphere be thatOf the affections only, the emotions?Herepresents the intellect, andsheThe affections only! Is it always so?Let Malibran, or Mary Somerville,De Staël, Browning, Stanton, Stowe, Bonheur,Stand forth as proof of that cool platitude.Use other arguments, if me you'd move.Besides, I see not that your system makesAny provision for that numerous classTo whom the affections are an Eden closed,—The women who are single and compelledTo drudge for a precarious livelihood!What oftheirsphere? What of the sphere of thoseWho do not, by the sewing of a shirt,Earn a meal's cost? Go tell them, when they ventureOn an employment social custom makesPeculiarly a man's,—that they becomeUnwomanly! Go make them smile at that,—Smile if they've not forgotten how to smile.""I see that you're befogged, my little woman,Chasing this ignis fatuus of the day!Leave it, and settle down as woman should.What has been always, must be to the end.Always has woman been subordinateIn mind, in body, and in power, to man.Let rhetoricians rave, and theoristsSpin their fine webs,—bow you to holy Nature,And plant your feet upon the eternal fact.""The little lifetime of the human raceYou call—eternity! The other dayOne of these old eternal wrongs was endedRather abruptly; yet good people thought'Twas impious to doubt it was eternal.Because abuses have existed always,May we not prove they are abuses still?If for antiquity you plead, why notTell us the harem is the rule of nature,The one solution of the woman problem?""Does not St. Paul—""Excuse me. Beg no questions.St. Paul to you may be infallible,But Science is so unaccommodating,If not irreverent, she'll not acceptHis ipse dixit as an axiom.Here, in our civilized society,Is an increasing host of single womenWho do not find the means of livelihoodIn the employments you call feminine.What shall be done? And my reply is this:Let every honest calling be as properFor woman as for man; throw open allVarieties of labor, skilled or rough,To woman's choice and woman's competition.Letherdecide the question of the fitness.Let her rake hay, or pitch it, if she'd ratherDo that than scrub a floor or wash and iron.And, above all, let her equalityBe barred not at the ballot-box; endow herWith all the rights a citizen can claim;Give her the suffrage;[7]let her have—by rightAnd not by courtesy—a voice in shapingThe laws and institutions of the land.And then, if after centuries of trial,All shall turn out a fallacy, a failure,The social scheme will readjust itselfOn the old basis, and the world shall beThe wiser for the great experiment.""But is sex nothing? Shall we recognizeNo bounds that Nature clearly has defined,Saying, with no uncertain tone, to one,Do this, and to the other, Do thou that?The rearing of young children and the careOf households,—can we doubt where these belong?Woman is but the complement of manAnd not a monstrous contrariety.Co-worker she, but no competitor!""All true, and no one doubts it! But why doubtThat perfect freedom is the best conditionFor bringing out all that is best in womanAs well as man? Free culture, free occasion,Higher responsibility, will makeA higher type of femininity,Ay, of maternal femininity,—Not derogate from that which now we have,And which, through laws and limitations old,Is artificial, morbid, and distort,Except where Nature works in spite of all.'Woman is but the complement of man!'Granted. But why stop there? And why not add,Man, too, is but the complement of woman?And both are free! And Nature never meant,For either, harder rule than that of Love,Intelligent, and willing as the sun.""Ah! were men angels, women something more,Your plan might work; but now, in married life,Onemust be absolute; and who can doubtThat Nature points unerringly to man?""Then Nature's pointing is not always heeded.Marriage should be a partnership of equals:But now the theory would seem to be,Man's laws must keep the weaker sex in order!Man must do all the thinking, even for woman!I don't believe it; woman, too, can think,Give her the training and the means of knowledge.'O no!' cries man, 'the household and the childMust claim her energies; and all her trainingMust be to qualify the wife and mother:For one force loses when another gains,Since Nature is a very strict accountant;And what you give the thinker or the artist,You borrow from the mother and the wife.'With equal truth, why not object to manThat what he gives the judge or politicianHe borrows from the husband and the father?The wife and mother best are qualifiedWhen you allow the woman breadth of culture,Give her an interest in all that makesThe human being's welfare, and a voiceIn laws affecting her for good or ill.To 'suckle fools and chronicle small beer'Is not the whole intent of womanhood.Even of maternity 'tis not the heightTo produce many children, but to haveSuch as may be a blessing to their kind.Let it be woman's pure prerogative,Free and unswayed by man's imperious pleasure(Which now too often is her only law),To rule herself by her own highest instincts,As her own sense of duty may approve,—Holding that law for her as paramountWhich may best harmonize her whole of nature,Educe her individuality,Not by evading or profaning Nature,[8]But by a self-development entire.""Enough, enough! Let us split hairs no longer!You hold a crumpled letter in your hand;You know the writer; you esteem, respect him;And you've had time to question your own heart.What does it say? You blush,—you hesitate,—That's a good symptom. Now just hear me out:If culture is your aim, how opportuneA chance is this! Affluence, leisure, study!Would you help others? He will help you do it.Is health an object? Soon, exempt from care,Or cheered by travel, shall you see restoredYour early bloom and freshness. Would you findIn love a new and higher life? You start!Now what's the matter? Do not be a fool,—A sentimentalist, forever gropingAfter the unattainable, the cloudy.Come, be a little practical; considerYour present state: look on that row of nailsRecipient of your wardrobe; see that bonnet,All out of fashion by at least a month;That rusty water-proof you call a cloak;Those boots with the uneven heels; that pairOf woollen gloves; this whole absurd array,Where watchful Neatness battles Poverty,But does not win the victory. Look there!Would not a house on the great avenueBe better than these beggarly surroundings?Since you're heart-free, why not at once say Yes?""Sweet fluent tempter, there you hit the mark!Heart-free am I, and 'tis because of thatYou're not entirely irresistible.Your plea is simply that which lends excuseTo the poor cyprian whom we pass in scorn.I've done my utmost to persuade myselfThat I might love this man,—in time might love:But all my arguments, enforced by yours,Do not persuade me. I must give it up!"
Thenews of the great railroad accidentAnd of the sudden death of Percival,Coming so soon upon intelligenceOf his rare fortune in the legacyFrom Kenrick, occupied the public mindFor a full day at least, and then was whelmedIn other marvels rushing thick upon it.The mother and the daughter, who still boreThe name of Percival, came back from ParisAt once, on getting the unlooked-for news.When Linda, after three weeks had elapsed,Re-entered, with a swelling heart, the houseTo her so full of sacred memories,She was accosted by an officerWho told her he had put his seal on allThe papers, plate, and jewelry belongingTo the late Albert Percival,—and askedIf in her keeping were a watch and ring,Also some money, found upon his person:If so, would she please give them up, and he,Who had authority to take them, wouldSign a receipt for all such property,And then the rightful heir could easilyDispose of it, as might seem best to her."The rightful heir?" gasped Linda, taking inNot readily the meaning of the words,—"Do you not know that I'm the rightful heirAnd only child of Albert Percival?""Pardon me," said the officer, "the child,Recognized by the law, is not yourself,But Harriet Percival, the only heir,—For so the court adjudges,—and to herAll property, both personal and real,Must be made over. She, no doubt, will dealKindly in your peculiar case, and makeA suitable provision—""Hold!" cried Linda,Her nostrils' action showing generous bloodAs clearly as some matchless courser shows itAfter a mighty race,—"Your business,But not your comments! And yet, pardon me—I'm hasty,—you meant well; but you would have meRender you up the watch and pocket-bookFound on my father's person, and deliveredTo me his daughter. That I'll only do,When more authority than you have shownCompels me, and my lawyer bids me yield.""Here is my warrant," said the officer,"And my instructions are explicit." Then,The spirit of the gentleman disdainingThe action he was sent for, he rejoined:"But the law's letter shall not make me doAn incivility, perhaps a wrong.And so, relying on your truth, I leave you,Assured that you'll be ready to respondTo all the law can ask. And now, good day!"Left to her own decisions, Linda soughtAt once the best advice; and such had beenHer training, that she was not ignorantWho among counsellors were trusted mostIn special ways. Kindly and patientlyHer case was taken up and thoroughlySifted and tried. No hope! No flaw! No case!So craftily had every step been taken,With such precaution and such legal care,—So diligently had the mesh been woven,Enclosing Percival and all of his,—That nothing could be done except put offThe payment of the Kenrick legacyFor some six months,—when it was all made overTo the reputed child, already richThrough the law's disposition of the sumsWhich Percival had been compelled to pay.After the legal test, with brave composureLinda surveyed her lot. Enough was left,From sale of jewels that had been her mother's,For a few months' support, with frugal care.Claim to these jewels and the money foundUpon her mother's person had been laidToo eagerly by the contesting party,Who said that Percival, in dying last,Was heir to the effects; but since the claimCould only be upheld by proving marriage,The claimants sorrowfully gave it up.One day as Linda stood with folded handsBefore her easel, on which lay a paintingOf flowers autumnal, grouped with rarest skill,—The blue-fringed gentian, the red cardinal,With fern and plumy golden-rod intwined,—A knock aroused her, and the opened doorDisclosed a footman, clad in livery,Who, hat in hand, asked if a lady mightCome up to see the pictures. "Certainly,"Was the reply; and, panting up the stairs,A lady came whose blazonry of dressAnd air of self-assured, aggressive wealthSpoke one well pleased to awe servility.As when by some forecasting sense the doveKnows that the hawk, though out of sight and still,Is hovering near, even so did Linda feelAn enemy draw nigh; felt that this woman,Who, spite of marks a self-indulgent lifeLeaves on the face, showed vestiges of beauty,Was she who first had cast the bitternessInto that cup of youth which Linda's fatherWas made to taste so long.And yet (how strangely,In this mixed web of life, the strands of goodCross and inweave the evil!) to that wrongMight he have tracked a joy surpassing hope,—The saving angel who, in Linda's mother,Had so enriched his being;—might have tracked(Mysterious thought!) Linda herself, his child,The crown of every rapture, every hopeThe lady, known as Madame Percival,Seated herself and turned a piercing lookOn Linda, who blenched not, but stood erect,With calm and serious look regarding her.The lady was the first to lower her eyes;She then, with some embarrassment, remarked:"So! you're an artist! Will you let me seeSome of your newest paintings?" Linda placedThree of her choicest pieces on the easel,And madame raised her eyeglass, looked a moment,Said, "Very pretty," and then, breaking throughFurther constraint, began: "You may not know me;My name is Percival; you, I suppose,Bear the same name by courtesy. 'Tis well:The law at last has taught you possiblyOur relative positions. Of the pastWe will say nothing; no hard thought is leftAgainst you in my heart; I trust I knowThe meaning of forgiveness; what is dueTo Christian charity. In me, althoughThe church has but a frail, unworthy child,Yet would I help my enemy; remove herFrom doubtful paths, and see her fitly placedWith her own kindred for protection due.Hear my proposal now, in your behalf:If you will go to England, where your auntsAnd relatives reside,—and first will signA paper promising you'll not return,And that you never will resume your suit,—I will advance your passage-money, andGive you five thousand dollars. Will you do it?"The indignant No, surging in Linda's heart,Paused as if language were too weak for it,When, in that pause, the opening of the doorDisclosed a lady younger than the first,Yet not unlike in features, though no blonde,And of a figure small and delicate."Now, Harriet!" cried the elder of the two,Annoyed, if not alarmed, "you promised meYou would not quit the carriage."—"Well, what then?I changed my mind. Is that a thing uncommon?Whom have we here? The name upon the doorIs Percival; and there upon the wallI see a likeness of my father. So!You, then, are Linda Percival! the childFor whom he could abandon me, his first!Come, let me look at you!"—"Nay, Harriet,This should not be. Come with me to the carriage;Come! I command you."—"Pooh! And pray, who caresFor your commands? I move not till I please.We are half-sisters, Linda, but I hate you.""Excuse me," Linda answered quietly,"But I see no resemblance to my fatherIn you. Your features, form, complexion, allAre quite unlike."—"Silence! We've had enough.""What did she say?" cried Harriet. "Do not heedA word of hers; leave her and come with me.""She said, I bear no likeness to my father:You heard her!"—"'Twas in malice, Harriet.Of course she would say that."—"But I must haveThat photograph of him upon the wall:'Tis unlike any that I've ever seen."And with the word she took it from the nailAnd would have put it in her pocket, had notLinda, with sudden grasp, recovered it.Darker her dark face grew, when HarrietSaw herself baffled; taking out her purseShe drew from it a thousand-dollar bill,And said, "Will this procure it?"—"Harriet!You're mad to offer such a sum as that.""Old woman, if you anger me, you'll rue it!I ask you, Linda Percival, if youWill take two thousand dollars for that portrait?"And Linda answered: "I'll not take your money:The portrait you may have without a price;I'm not without a copy."—"Well, I take it;But mark you this: I shall not hate you lessFor this compliance; nay, shall hate you more;For I do hate you with a burning hatred,And all the more for that smooth Saxon face,With its clear red and white and Grecian outline;That likeness to my father (I can see it),Those golden ringlets and that rounded form.Pray, Madame Percival, where did I getThis swarthy hue, since Linda is so fair,And you are far from being a quadroon?Good lady, solve the riddle, if you please.""There! No more idle questions! Two o'clock?That camel's hair at Stewart's will be sold,Unless we go this minute. Such a bargain!Come, my dear, come!" And so, cajoling, coaxing,She drew away her daughter, and the doorClosed quickly on the two. But Linda stoodIn meditation rapt, as thought went backTo the dear parents who had sheltered her;Contrasting their ingenuous love sincereAnd her own filial reverence, with the sceneShe just had witnessed. So absorbed she wasIn visions of the past, she did not heedThe opening of the door, until a voiceBroke in upon her tender revery,Saying, "I've come again to get your answerTo my proposal." Tranquillized, subduedBy those dear, sacred reminiscences,Linda, with pity in her tone, replied:"Madame, I cannot entertain your offer.""And why not, Linda Percival?" exclaimedThe imperious lady.—"I'm not bound to giveMy reasons, madame."—"Come, I'll make the sumTen thousand dollars."—"Money could not alterMy mind upon the subject."—"Look you, Linda;You saw my daughter. Obstinate, self-willed,Passionate as a wild-cat, jealous, crafty,Reckless in use of money when her whimsAre to be gratified, and yet at timesSordid as any miser,—she'll not stopAt artifice, or violence, or crime,To injure one she hates—and you she hates!Now for your sake and hers, I charge you leaveThis country, go to England;—close at onceWith my most liberal offer.""Madame, no!This is my home, my birthplace, and the landOf all my efforts, hopes, and aspirations;While I have work to do, here lies my field:I cannot quit America. Besides,Since candor now is best, I would not takeA dole from you to save myself from starving."The lady's eyes flashed choler. She replied:"Go your own gait; and, when you're on the street,As you'll be soon, blame no one but yourself.I've done my part. Me no one can accuseOf any lack of charity or care.For three weeks more my offer shall hold good.After that time, expect no further grace."And, with a frown which tried to be disdain,But which, rebuked and humbled, fell beforeThe pitying candor of plain Innocence,Out of the room she swept with all her velvet.These interviews had made our Linda feelHow quite alone in the wide world she stood.A letter came, after her parents' death,From her aunt, Mrs. Hammersley, requestingA loan of fifty pounds, and telling allThe family distresses and shortcomings:How this one's husband had proved not so richAs was expected; how another's wasA tyrant and a niggard, so close-fistedHe parcelled out with his own hands the sugarFor kitchen use; and how another's still,Though amply able to receive their mother,A widow now, had yet refused to do it,And even declined to make a contributionFor her support. And so the gossip ran.The picture was not pleasant. With a sighNot for herself, but others, Linda pennedA letter to her aunt, relating allThe events that made her powerless to aidHer needy kinsfolk. She despatched the letter,Then sat and thought awhile."And now for duty!"She cried, and rose. She could not think of dutyExcept as something grateful to her parents.They were a presence so securely felt,And so related to her every act,—Their love was still so vigilant, so real,That to do what, and only what, she knewThey would approve, was duty paramount;And their approval was the smile of God!Self-culture, work, and needful exercise,—This was her simple summing-up of dutiesImmediately before her, and to beFulfilled without more parleying or delay.She found that by the labor of a monthIn painting flowers from nature, she could earnEasily sixty dollars. This she didFor two years steadily. Then came a change.From some cause unexplained, her wild-flower sketches,Which from their novelty and careful finishAt first had found a ready sale, were nowIn less demand. Linda was not awareThat these elaborate works, to nature true,Had been so multiplied in copies, madeBy hand, or printed by the chromo art,As to be sold at prices not one fifthAs high as the originals had cost.Hence her own genius winged the storm and lentThe color to the cloud, that overhungHer prospect, late so hopeful and serene.Now came her year of struggle! Narrow means,Discouragement, the haunting fear of debt!One summer day, a day reminding herOf days supremely beautiful, immortal,(Since hallowed by undying love and joy),A little girl, the step-child, much endeared,Of a poor artisan who dwelt near byOn the same floor with Linda, came to herAnd said: "You promised me, Miss Percival,That some fine day you'd take me in the carsWhere I could see the grass and pluck the flowers.""Well, Rachel Aiken, we will go to-day,If you will get permission from your father,"Said Linda, longing for the woodland air.Gladly the father gave consent; and so,Clad in her best, the little damsel sat,While Linda filled the luncheon-box, and madeThe preparations needful."What is that?"Asked Rachel, pointing to an open drawerIn which a case of polished ebonyGlittered and caught the eye. "A pistol-case!""And is the pistol loaded?"—"I believe so.""And will you take it with you?"—"Well, my dear,I did not think to do so: would you have me?""Yes, if we're going to the woods; for panthersLurk in the woods, you know."—"I'll take it, Rachel;We call this a revolver. See! Four timesI can discharge it." At a block of woodShe aimed and fired; then carefully reloadedThe piece, and put it in a hidden pocket.Some ten miles from the city, at a placeRich in diversity of wood and water,They left the cars. Rachel's delight was wild.Never was day so lovely! Never grassSo green! And O the flowers! "Look, only look,Miss Percival! What is it? Can I pluckAs many as I want?"—"Ay, that's a harebell.""And O, look here! This red and yellow flower!Tell me its name."—"A columbine. It growsIn clefts of rocks. That's an anemone:We call it so because the leaves are tornSo easily by the wind; foranemosIs Greek for wind."—"Oh! here's a buttercup!I know that well. Red clover, too, I know.Isn't the dandelion beautiful?And O, Miss Percival, what flower is this?""That's a wild rose."—"What, does the rose grow wild?But is not that delightful? A wild rose!And I can take as many as I want!I did not dream the country was so fine.How very happy must the children beWho live here all the time! 'Tis better farThan any garden; for, Miss Percival,The flowers are here all free, and quite as prettyAs garden flowers. O, hark! Did ever birdSo sweetly sing?"—"That was a wood-thrush, dear.""O darling wood-thrush! Do not stop so soon!Look there, on that stone wall! What's that?"—"A squirrel.""Is that indeed a squirrel? Are you sure?How I would like a nut to throw to him!What are these little red things in the grass?""Wild strawberries, my dear."—"Wild strawberries!And can I eat them?"—"Yes, we'll take a plateAnd pick it full, and eat them with our dinner.""O, will not that be nice? Wild strawberriesThat we have picked ourselves!"And so the daySlid on to noon; and then, it being hot,They crossed a wall into a skirting wood,And there sat down upon a rocky slabCovered with dry brown needles of the pine,And ate their dinner while the birds made music."'Tis a free concert, ours!" said Rachel Aiken:"How nice this dinner! What an appetiteI'm having all at once! My father saysThat I must learn to eat: I soon could learnIn such a place as this! I wish my fatherHimself would eat; he works too hard, I fear;He works in lead: and the lead makes him ill.See what nice clothes he buys me! I'm afraidHe pays for me more than he can afford,Seeing he has a mother to supportAnd a blind sister; for, Miss Percival,I'm but his step-child, and my mother diedTwo years ago; then my half-sister died,His only little girl, and now he saysThat I am all he has in the wide worldTo love and cherish dearly,—all his treasure.What would I give if I could bring him hereTo these sweet woods, away from lead and work!"So the child prattled. Then, the gay dessertOf berries being ended, Linda satOn the rock's slope, and peeled the mosses offOr looked up through the branches of the pinesAt the sky's blue, while Rachel played around.From tree to tree, from flower to flower, the childDarted through leafy lanes, when, all at once,A scream roused Linda.To her feet she sprang!Instinctively (but not without a shudder)She grasped the little pistol she had broughtAt the child's prompting; from the rock ran down,And, at a sudden bend, encountered threeYoung lusty ruffians, while, a few rods off,Another lifted Rachel in his arms,And to the thicker wood beyond moved on.The three stood side by side as if to barThe path to Linda, and their looks meant mischief.The lane was narrow. "For your life, make way!"She cried, and raised the pistol. "No, you don'tFool us by tricks like that!" the foremost said:"And so, my lady—" But before the wordWas out there was a little puff of smoke,With an explosion, not encouraging,—And on the turf the frightened caitiff lay.Her road now clear, reckless of torn alpaca,Over the scattered branches Linda rushed,Till she drew near the leader of the gang,Who, stopping, drew a pistol with one hand,While with the other he held Rachel fast,Placing her as a shield before his breast.But Linda did not waver. Dropping intoThe old position that her father taught herWhen to the shooting-gallery they went,She fired. An oath, the cry of pain and rage,Told her she had not missed her aim,—the jawThe ruffian left exposed. One moment more,Rachel was in her arms. Taking a pathTransverse, they hit the public road and enteredThe railroad station as the train came in.When they were safely seated, and the engineBegan to throb and pant, a sudden pallorSpread over Linda's visage, and she veiledHer face and fainted; yet so quietly,But one among the passengers observed it;And he came up, and taking Rachel's placeSupported Linda; from a lady nearBorrowed some pungent salts restorative,And finding soon the sufferer was herself,Gave Rachel back her seat and took his own.But at the city station, when arrived,This gentleman came up, and bowing, said:"Here stands my private carriage; but to-dayI need it not. Let my man take you home."Linda demurred. His firm will urged them in,And she and Rachel all at once were ridingWith easy bowling motion down Broadway.The evening papers had this paragraph:"In Baker's Woods this morning two young menWere fired on by a female lunaticWithout a provocation, and one wounded.The bullet was extracted. Dr. Payson,With his accustomed skill and promptitude,Performed the operation; and the patientIs doing well. We learn the unhappy woman—She had with her a child—is still at large.""I'm glad it was no worse," quoth Linda, smiling.She kissed the pistol that had been her mother's,Wiped it, and reverently put it by.Three summers and an autumn had rolled onSince the catastrophe that orphaned Linda.Midwinter with its whirling snow had come,And, shivering through the snow-encumbered streetsOf the great city, men and women went,Stooping their heads to thwart the spiteful wind.The sleigh-bells rang, boys hooted, and policemenTold each importunate beggar to move on.In a side street where Fashion late had dwelt,But which the up-town movement now had leftA street for journeymen and small mechanics,Dress-makers, masons, farriers, and draymen,A female figure might be seen to enterA lodging-house, and passing up two flightsUnlock a door that showed a small apartmentNeat, with two windows looking on the rear,A small recess with a low, narrow bed,A sofa, a piano, and three chairs.'Twas noon, but in the sky no cleft of blueFlashed the soft love-light like a lifted lid.Clad plainly was the lady we have followed,—But with a certain grace no modiste's artCould have contrived. Youthful she was, and yetA gravity not pertinent to youthGave to her face the pathos of that lookWhich a too early thoughtfulness imparts;And this was Linda,—Linda little changed,Though nearer by four years to womanhoodThan when we parted from her in the shadowOf a great woe.Preoccupied she seemedNow with some painful thought, and in a slow,Half-automatic manner she replenishedWith scanty bits of coal her little stove;Then, with a like absorbed, uncertain air,Threw off her cloak and bonnet, and sat down;Motionless sat awhile till she drew forthA pocket-book, and from it took a letter,And read these words: "You guaranteed the debt:It now has run three months, and if to-morrowIt is not paid, we must seek legal help."A bill of wood and coal for Rachel's father—Some twenty dollars only! And yet LindaSaw not the way to pay it on the morrow.He, the poor artisan, on whose accountShe had incurred the liability,Lay prostrate with a malady, his last,In the small room near by, with little RachelHis only watcher. What could Linda do?At length, with lips compressed, and up and downMoving her head as if to give assentTo some resolve, now fixed, she took her seatAt the piano,—from her childhood's daysSo tenderly endeared, and every chordVibrating to some memory of her mother!"Old friend,"—she sighed; then thought awhile and sang.I.Help me, dear chords, help me to tell in songThe grief that now must say to you Farewell!No music like to yours can ease my heart.II.An infant on her knee I struck your keys,And you made sweet my earliest lullaby:From you I thought my requiem might come.III.Hard is the pang of parting, but farewell!Harder the shame would be, if help were not;Go, but your tones shall thrill forevermore.IV.Farewell! And O my mother, dost thou hear?Farewell! But not to thoughts forever dear.Farewell, but not to love—but not to thee!When little Rachel, by her father sent,Came in to take her lesson the next day,Behold, no instrument was in the room!What could it mean? "We must give up," said Linda,"Our music for a little while. PerhapsI soon shall have my dear piano back."Then they went in to see the sufferer.A smile lit up his face,—a grateful smile,That lent a beauty even to Disease,Pale, thin, and hollow-eyed:"Is not the airQuite harsh to-day?" he asked. "A searching air.""So I supposed. I find it hard to breathe.Dear lady—but you've been a friend indeed!In my vest-pocket you will find a wallet.All that I have is in it. Take and use it.A fellow-workman brought me yesterdayFifty-two dollars, by my friends subscribed:Take from it what will pay for coal and rent.To-morrow some one of my friends will comeTo see to what the morrow may require.You've done so much, dear lady, I refrainFrom asking more."—"Ask all that you would have.""My little Rachel—she will be alone,All, all alone in this wide, striving world:An orphan child without a relative!Could you make interest to have her placedIn some asylum?"—"Do not doubt my zealOr my ability to have it done.And should good fortune come to me, be sureRachel shall have a pleasant home in mine.""That's best of all. Thank you. God help you both.Now, Rachel, say the little prayer I taught you.... That was well said. Now kiss me for good night.That's a dear little girl! I'll tell your motherHow good and diligent and kind you are;How careful, too, of all your pretty clothes;And what a nurse you've been,—how true and tender.Rachel, obey Miss Percival. Be quickTo shun all evil. Fly from heedless playmates.Close your young eyes on all impurity.Cast out all naughty thoughts by holy prayer.Love only what is good. Ah! darling child,I hoped to shield you up to womanhood,But God ordains it otherwise. May HeAmid the world's thick perils be your Guide!There! Do not cry, my darling. All is well.Sing us some pious hymn, Miss Percival."And Linda, with wet eyelids, sang these words.I.Be of good cheer, O Soul!Angels are nigh;Evil can harm thee not,God hears thy cry.II.Into no void shalt thouSpring from this clay;His everlasting armShall be thy stay.III.Day hides the stars from thee,Sense hides the heavenWaiting the contrite soulThat here has striven.IV.Soon shall the glory dawnMaking earth dim;Be not disquieted,Trust thou in Him!"O, thank you! Every word is true—I know it.Sense hides it now, but has not always hid.Remember, Rachel, that I say it here,Weighing my words: I know it all is true.God bless you both. I'm very, very happy.My pain is almost gone. I'll sleep awhile."Rachel and Linda sat an hour beside him,Silently watching. Linda then aroseAnd placed her hand above his heart: 'twas still.Tranquilly as the day-flower shuts its leavesAnd renders up its fragrance to the air,From the closed mortal senses had he risen.One day the tempter sat at Linda's ear:Sat and discoursed—so piously! so wisely!She held a letter in her hand; a letterSigned Jonas Fletcher. Jonas was her landlord;A man of forty—ay, a gentleman;Kind to his tenants, liberal, forbearing;Rich and retired from active business;A member of the Church, but tolerant;A man sincere, cordial, without a flawIn habits or in general character;Of comely person, too, and cheerful presence.Long had he looked on Linda, and at lastHad studied her intently; knew her ways,Her daily occupations; whom she saw,And where she went. He had an interestBeyond that of the landlord, in his knowledge;The letter was an offer of his hand.Of Linda's parentage and historyHe nothing knew, and nothing sought to know.He took her as she was; was well content,With what he knew, to run all other risks.The letter was a good one and a frank;It came to Linda in her pinch of want,Discouragement, and utter self-distrust.And thus the tempter spoke and she replied:"You're getting thin; you find success in artIs not a thing so easy as you fancied.Five years you've worked at what you modestlyEsteem your specialty. Your specialty!As if a woman could have more than one,—And that—maternity! I do not speakOf the six years you gave your art beforeYou strove to make it pay. Methinks you seeYour efforts are a failure. What's the endOf all your toil? Not enough money savedFor the redemption of your pawned piano!Truly a cheerful prospect is before you:To hear your views would edify me greatly.""Yes, I am thinner than I was; but thenI can afford to be—so that's not much.As for success—if we must measure thatBy the financial rule, 'tis small, I grant you.Yes, I have toiled, and lived laborious days,And little can I show in evidence;And sometimes—sometimes, I am sick at heart,And almost lose my faith in woman's powerTo paint a rose, or even to mend a stocking,As well as man can do. What would you have?""Now you speak reason. Let me see you act it!Abandon this wild frenzy of the hour,That would leave woman free to go all waysA man may go! Why, look you, even in art,Most epicene of all pursuits in life,How man leaves woman always far behind!Give up your foolish striving; and let NatureAnd the world's order have their way with you.""Small as the pittance is, yet I could earnMore, ten times, by my brush than by my needle.""Ah! woman's sphere is that of the affections.Ambition spoils her—spoils her as a woman.""Spoils her for whom?""For man.""Then woman's errandIs not, like man's, self-culture, self-advancement,But she must simply qualify herselfTo be a mate for man: no obligationResting on man to qualify himselfTo be a mate for woman?""Ay, the manLives in the intellect; the woman's lifeIs that of the affections, the emotions;And her anatomy is proof of it.""So have I often heard, but do not see.Some women have I known, who could endureSurgical scenes which many a strong manWould faint at. We have had this dubious talkOf woman's sphere far back as history goes:'Tis time now it were proved: let actions prove it;Let free experience, education prove it!Why is it that the vilest drudgeriesAre put on woman, if her sphere be thatOf the affections only, the emotions?Herepresents the intellect, andsheThe affections only! Is it always so?Let Malibran, or Mary Somerville,De Staël, Browning, Stanton, Stowe, Bonheur,Stand forth as proof of that cool platitude.Use other arguments, if me you'd move.Besides, I see not that your system makesAny provision for that numerous classTo whom the affections are an Eden closed,—The women who are single and compelledTo drudge for a precarious livelihood!What oftheirsphere? What of the sphere of thoseWho do not, by the sewing of a shirt,Earn a meal's cost? Go tell them, when they ventureOn an employment social custom makesPeculiarly a man's,—that they becomeUnwomanly! Go make them smile at that,—Smile if they've not forgotten how to smile.""I see that you're befogged, my little woman,Chasing this ignis fatuus of the day!Leave it, and settle down as woman should.What has been always, must be to the end.Always has woman been subordinateIn mind, in body, and in power, to man.Let rhetoricians rave, and theoristsSpin their fine webs,—bow you to holy Nature,And plant your feet upon the eternal fact.""The little lifetime of the human raceYou call—eternity! The other dayOne of these old eternal wrongs was endedRather abruptly; yet good people thought'Twas impious to doubt it was eternal.Because abuses have existed always,May we not prove they are abuses still?If for antiquity you plead, why notTell us the harem is the rule of nature,The one solution of the woman problem?""Does not St. Paul—""Excuse me. Beg no questions.St. Paul to you may be infallible,But Science is so unaccommodating,If not irreverent, she'll not acceptHis ipse dixit as an axiom.Here, in our civilized society,Is an increasing host of single womenWho do not find the means of livelihoodIn the employments you call feminine.What shall be done? And my reply is this:Let every honest calling be as properFor woman as for man; throw open allVarieties of labor, skilled or rough,To woman's choice and woman's competition.Letherdecide the question of the fitness.Let her rake hay, or pitch it, if she'd ratherDo that than scrub a floor or wash and iron.And, above all, let her equalityBe barred not at the ballot-box; endow herWith all the rights a citizen can claim;Give her the suffrage;[7]let her have—by rightAnd not by courtesy—a voice in shapingThe laws and institutions of the land.And then, if after centuries of trial,All shall turn out a fallacy, a failure,The social scheme will readjust itselfOn the old basis, and the world shall beThe wiser for the great experiment.""But is sex nothing? Shall we recognizeNo bounds that Nature clearly has defined,Saying, with no uncertain tone, to one,Do this, and to the other, Do thou that?The rearing of young children and the careOf households,—can we doubt where these belong?Woman is but the complement of manAnd not a monstrous contrariety.Co-worker she, but no competitor!""All true, and no one doubts it! But why doubtThat perfect freedom is the best conditionFor bringing out all that is best in womanAs well as man? Free culture, free occasion,Higher responsibility, will makeA higher type of femininity,Ay, of maternal femininity,—Not derogate from that which now we have,And which, through laws and limitations old,Is artificial, morbid, and distort,Except where Nature works in spite of all.'Woman is but the complement of man!'Granted. But why stop there? And why not add,Man, too, is but the complement of woman?And both are free! And Nature never meant,For either, harder rule than that of Love,Intelligent, and willing as the sun.""Ah! were men angels, women something more,Your plan might work; but now, in married life,Onemust be absolute; and who can doubtThat Nature points unerringly to man?""Then Nature's pointing is not always heeded.Marriage should be a partnership of equals:But now the theory would seem to be,Man's laws must keep the weaker sex in order!Man must do all the thinking, even for woman!I don't believe it; woman, too, can think,Give her the training and the means of knowledge.'O no!' cries man, 'the household and the childMust claim her energies; and all her trainingMust be to qualify the wife and mother:For one force loses when another gains,Since Nature is a very strict accountant;And what you give the thinker or the artist,You borrow from the mother and the wife.'With equal truth, why not object to manThat what he gives the judge or politicianHe borrows from the husband and the father?The wife and mother best are qualifiedWhen you allow the woman breadth of culture,Give her an interest in all that makesThe human being's welfare, and a voiceIn laws affecting her for good or ill.To 'suckle fools and chronicle small beer'Is not the whole intent of womanhood.Even of maternity 'tis not the heightTo produce many children, but to haveSuch as may be a blessing to their kind.Let it be woman's pure prerogative,Free and unswayed by man's imperious pleasure(Which now too often is her only law),To rule herself by her own highest instincts,As her own sense of duty may approve,—Holding that law for her as paramountWhich may best harmonize her whole of nature,Educe her individuality,Not by evading or profaning Nature,[8]But by a self-development entire.""Enough, enough! Let us split hairs no longer!You hold a crumpled letter in your hand;You know the writer; you esteem, respect him;And you've had time to question your own heart.What does it say? You blush,—you hesitate,—That's a good symptom. Now just hear me out:If culture is your aim, how opportuneA chance is this! Affluence, leisure, study!Would you help others? He will help you do it.Is health an object? Soon, exempt from care,Or cheered by travel, shall you see restoredYour early bloom and freshness. Would you findIn love a new and higher life? You start!Now what's the matter? Do not be a fool,—A sentimentalist, forever gropingAfter the unattainable, the cloudy.Come, be a little practical; considerYour present state: look on that row of nailsRecipient of your wardrobe; see that bonnet,All out of fashion by at least a month;That rusty water-proof you call a cloak;Those boots with the uneven heels; that pairOf woollen gloves; this whole absurd array,Where watchful Neatness battles Poverty,But does not win the victory. Look there!Would not a house on the great avenueBe better than these beggarly surroundings?Since you're heart-free, why not at once say Yes?""Sweet fluent tempter, there you hit the mark!Heart-free am I, and 'tis because of thatYou're not entirely irresistible.Your plea is simply that which lends excuseTo the poor cyprian whom we pass in scorn.I've done my utmost to persuade myselfThat I might love this man,—in time might love:But all my arguments, enforced by yours,Do not persuade me. I must give it up!"
Thenews of the great railroad accidentAnd of the sudden death of Percival,Coming so soon upon intelligenceOf his rare fortune in the legacyFrom Kenrick, occupied the public mindFor a full day at least, and then was whelmedIn other marvels rushing thick upon it.The mother and the daughter, who still boreThe name of Percival, came back from ParisAt once, on getting the unlooked-for news.When Linda, after three weeks had elapsed,Re-entered, with a swelling heart, the houseTo her so full of sacred memories,She was accosted by an officerWho told her he had put his seal on allThe papers, plate, and jewelry belongingTo the late Albert Percival,—and askedIf in her keeping were a watch and ring,Also some money, found upon his person:If so, would she please give them up, and he,Who had authority to take them, wouldSign a receipt for all such property,And then the rightful heir could easilyDispose of it, as might seem best to her.
"The rightful heir?" gasped Linda, taking inNot readily the meaning of the words,—"Do you not know that I'm the rightful heirAnd only child of Albert Percival?""Pardon me," said the officer, "the child,Recognized by the law, is not yourself,But Harriet Percival, the only heir,—For so the court adjudges,—and to herAll property, both personal and real,Must be made over. She, no doubt, will dealKindly in your peculiar case, and makeA suitable provision—"
"Hold!" cried Linda,Her nostrils' action showing generous bloodAs clearly as some matchless courser shows itAfter a mighty race,—"Your business,But not your comments! And yet, pardon me—I'm hasty,—you meant well; but you would have meRender you up the watch and pocket-bookFound on my father's person, and deliveredTo me his daughter. That I'll only do,When more authority than you have shownCompels me, and my lawyer bids me yield.""Here is my warrant," said the officer,"And my instructions are explicit." Then,The spirit of the gentleman disdainingThe action he was sent for, he rejoined:"But the law's letter shall not make me doAn incivility, perhaps a wrong.And so, relying on your truth, I leave you,Assured that you'll be ready to respondTo all the law can ask. And now, good day!"
Left to her own decisions, Linda soughtAt once the best advice; and such had beenHer training, that she was not ignorantWho among counsellors were trusted mostIn special ways. Kindly and patientlyHer case was taken up and thoroughlySifted and tried. No hope! No flaw! No case!So craftily had every step been taken,With such precaution and such legal care,—So diligently had the mesh been woven,Enclosing Percival and all of his,—That nothing could be done except put offThe payment of the Kenrick legacyFor some six months,—when it was all made overTo the reputed child, already richThrough the law's disposition of the sumsWhich Percival had been compelled to pay.
After the legal test, with brave composureLinda surveyed her lot. Enough was left,From sale of jewels that had been her mother's,For a few months' support, with frugal care.Claim to these jewels and the money foundUpon her mother's person had been laidToo eagerly by the contesting party,Who said that Percival, in dying last,Was heir to the effects; but since the claimCould only be upheld by proving marriage,The claimants sorrowfully gave it up.
One day as Linda stood with folded handsBefore her easel, on which lay a paintingOf flowers autumnal, grouped with rarest skill,—The blue-fringed gentian, the red cardinal,With fern and plumy golden-rod intwined,—A knock aroused her, and the opened doorDisclosed a footman, clad in livery,Who, hat in hand, asked if a lady mightCome up to see the pictures. "Certainly,"Was the reply; and, panting up the stairs,A lady came whose blazonry of dressAnd air of self-assured, aggressive wealthSpoke one well pleased to awe servility.
As when by some forecasting sense the doveKnows that the hawk, though out of sight and still,Is hovering near, even so did Linda feelAn enemy draw nigh; felt that this woman,Who, spite of marks a self-indulgent lifeLeaves on the face, showed vestiges of beauty,Was she who first had cast the bitternessInto that cup of youth which Linda's fatherWas made to taste so long.
And yet (how strangely,In this mixed web of life, the strands of goodCross and inweave the evil!) to that wrongMight he have tracked a joy surpassing hope,—The saving angel who, in Linda's mother,Had so enriched his being;—might have tracked(Mysterious thought!) Linda herself, his child,The crown of every rapture, every hope
The lady, known as Madame Percival,Seated herself and turned a piercing lookOn Linda, who blenched not, but stood erect,With calm and serious look regarding her.The lady was the first to lower her eyes;She then, with some embarrassment, remarked:"So! you're an artist! Will you let me seeSome of your newest paintings?" Linda placedThree of her choicest pieces on the easel,And madame raised her eyeglass, looked a moment,Said, "Very pretty," and then, breaking throughFurther constraint, began: "You may not know me;My name is Percival; you, I suppose,Bear the same name by courtesy. 'Tis well:The law at last has taught you possiblyOur relative positions. Of the pastWe will say nothing; no hard thought is leftAgainst you in my heart; I trust I knowThe meaning of forgiveness; what is dueTo Christian charity. In me, althoughThe church has but a frail, unworthy child,Yet would I help my enemy; remove herFrom doubtful paths, and see her fitly placedWith her own kindred for protection due.Hear my proposal now, in your behalf:If you will go to England, where your auntsAnd relatives reside,—and first will signA paper promising you'll not return,And that you never will resume your suit,—I will advance your passage-money, andGive you five thousand dollars. Will you do it?"
The indignant No, surging in Linda's heart,Paused as if language were too weak for it,When, in that pause, the opening of the doorDisclosed a lady younger than the first,Yet not unlike in features, though no blonde,And of a figure small and delicate."Now, Harriet!" cried the elder of the two,Annoyed, if not alarmed, "you promised meYou would not quit the carriage."—"Well, what then?I changed my mind. Is that a thing uncommon?Whom have we here? The name upon the doorIs Percival; and there upon the wallI see a likeness of my father. So!You, then, are Linda Percival! the childFor whom he could abandon me, his first!Come, let me look at you!"—"Nay, Harriet,This should not be. Come with me to the carriage;Come! I command you."—"Pooh! And pray, who caresFor your commands? I move not till I please.We are half-sisters, Linda, but I hate you."
"Excuse me," Linda answered quietly,"But I see no resemblance to my fatherIn you. Your features, form, complexion, allAre quite unlike."—"Silence! We've had enough.""What did she say?" cried Harriet. "Do not heedA word of hers; leave her and come with me.""She said, I bear no likeness to my father:You heard her!"—"'Twas in malice, Harriet.Of course she would say that."—"But I must haveThat photograph of him upon the wall:'Tis unlike any that I've ever seen."And with the word she took it from the nailAnd would have put it in her pocket, had notLinda, with sudden grasp, recovered it.
Darker her dark face grew, when HarrietSaw herself baffled; taking out her purseShe drew from it a thousand-dollar bill,And said, "Will this procure it?"—"Harriet!You're mad to offer such a sum as that.""Old woman, if you anger me, you'll rue it!I ask you, Linda Percival, if youWill take two thousand dollars for that portrait?"And Linda answered: "I'll not take your money:The portrait you may have without a price;I'm not without a copy."—"Well, I take it;But mark you this: I shall not hate you lessFor this compliance; nay, shall hate you more;For I do hate you with a burning hatred,And all the more for that smooth Saxon face,With its clear red and white and Grecian outline;That likeness to my father (I can see it),Those golden ringlets and that rounded form.Pray, Madame Percival, where did I getThis swarthy hue, since Linda is so fair,And you are far from being a quadroon?Good lady, solve the riddle, if you please."
"There! No more idle questions! Two o'clock?That camel's hair at Stewart's will be sold,Unless we go this minute. Such a bargain!Come, my dear, come!" And so, cajoling, coaxing,She drew away her daughter, and the doorClosed quickly on the two. But Linda stoodIn meditation rapt, as thought went backTo the dear parents who had sheltered her;Contrasting their ingenuous love sincereAnd her own filial reverence, with the sceneShe just had witnessed. So absorbed she wasIn visions of the past, she did not heedThe opening of the door, until a voiceBroke in upon her tender revery,Saying, "I've come again to get your answerTo my proposal." Tranquillized, subduedBy those dear, sacred reminiscences,Linda, with pity in her tone, replied:"Madame, I cannot entertain your offer.""And why not, Linda Percival?" exclaimedThe imperious lady.—"I'm not bound to giveMy reasons, madame."—"Come, I'll make the sumTen thousand dollars."—"Money could not alterMy mind upon the subject."—"Look you, Linda;You saw my daughter. Obstinate, self-willed,Passionate as a wild-cat, jealous, crafty,Reckless in use of money when her whimsAre to be gratified, and yet at timesSordid as any miser,—she'll not stopAt artifice, or violence, or crime,To injure one she hates—and you she hates!Now for your sake and hers, I charge you leaveThis country, go to England;—close at onceWith my most liberal offer."
"Madame, no!This is my home, my birthplace, and the landOf all my efforts, hopes, and aspirations;While I have work to do, here lies my field:I cannot quit America. Besides,Since candor now is best, I would not takeA dole from you to save myself from starving."The lady's eyes flashed choler. She replied:"Go your own gait; and, when you're on the street,As you'll be soon, blame no one but yourself.I've done my part. Me no one can accuseOf any lack of charity or care.For three weeks more my offer shall hold good.After that time, expect no further grace."And, with a frown which tried to be disdain,But which, rebuked and humbled, fell beforeThe pitying candor of plain Innocence,Out of the room she swept with all her velvet.
These interviews had made our Linda feelHow quite alone in the wide world she stood.A letter came, after her parents' death,From her aunt, Mrs. Hammersley, requestingA loan of fifty pounds, and telling allThe family distresses and shortcomings:How this one's husband had proved not so richAs was expected; how another's wasA tyrant and a niggard, so close-fistedHe parcelled out with his own hands the sugarFor kitchen use; and how another's still,Though amply able to receive their mother,A widow now, had yet refused to do it,And even declined to make a contributionFor her support. And so the gossip ran.The picture was not pleasant. With a sighNot for herself, but others, Linda pennedA letter to her aunt, relating allThe events that made her powerless to aidHer needy kinsfolk. She despatched the letter,Then sat and thought awhile.
"And now for duty!"She cried, and rose. She could not think of dutyExcept as something grateful to her parents.They were a presence so securely felt,And so related to her every act,—Their love was still so vigilant, so real,That to do what, and only what, she knewThey would approve, was duty paramount;And their approval was the smile of God!Self-culture, work, and needful exercise,—This was her simple summing-up of dutiesImmediately before her, and to beFulfilled without more parleying or delay.She found that by the labor of a monthIn painting flowers from nature, she could earnEasily sixty dollars. This she didFor two years steadily. Then came a change.From some cause unexplained, her wild-flower sketches,Which from their novelty and careful finishAt first had found a ready sale, were nowIn less demand. Linda was not awareThat these elaborate works, to nature true,Had been so multiplied in copies, madeBy hand, or printed by the chromo art,As to be sold at prices not one fifthAs high as the originals had cost.Hence her own genius winged the storm and lentThe color to the cloud, that overhungHer prospect, late so hopeful and serene.
Now came her year of struggle! Narrow means,Discouragement, the haunting fear of debt!One summer day, a day reminding herOf days supremely beautiful, immortal,(Since hallowed by undying love and joy),A little girl, the step-child, much endeared,Of a poor artisan who dwelt near byOn the same floor with Linda, came to herAnd said: "You promised me, Miss Percival,That some fine day you'd take me in the carsWhere I could see the grass and pluck the flowers.""Well, Rachel Aiken, we will go to-day,If you will get permission from your father,"Said Linda, longing for the woodland air.Gladly the father gave consent; and so,Clad in her best, the little damsel sat,While Linda filled the luncheon-box, and madeThe preparations needful.
"What is that?"Asked Rachel, pointing to an open drawerIn which a case of polished ebonyGlittered and caught the eye. "A pistol-case!""And is the pistol loaded?"—"I believe so.""And will you take it with you?"—"Well, my dear,I did not think to do so: would you have me?""Yes, if we're going to the woods; for panthersLurk in the woods, you know."—"I'll take it, Rachel;We call this a revolver. See! Four timesI can discharge it." At a block of woodShe aimed and fired; then carefully reloadedThe piece, and put it in a hidden pocket.
Some ten miles from the city, at a placeRich in diversity of wood and water,They left the cars. Rachel's delight was wild.Never was day so lovely! Never grassSo green! And O the flowers! "Look, only look,Miss Percival! What is it? Can I pluckAs many as I want?"—"Ay, that's a harebell.""And O, look here! This red and yellow flower!Tell me its name."—"A columbine. It growsIn clefts of rocks. That's an anemone:We call it so because the leaves are tornSo easily by the wind; foranemosIs Greek for wind."—"Oh! here's a buttercup!I know that well. Red clover, too, I know.Isn't the dandelion beautiful?And O, Miss Percival, what flower is this?""That's a wild rose."—"What, does the rose grow wild?But is not that delightful? A wild rose!And I can take as many as I want!I did not dream the country was so fine.How very happy must the children beWho live here all the time! 'Tis better farThan any garden; for, Miss Percival,The flowers are here all free, and quite as prettyAs garden flowers. O, hark! Did ever birdSo sweetly sing?"—"That was a wood-thrush, dear.""O darling wood-thrush! Do not stop so soon!Look there, on that stone wall! What's that?"—"A squirrel.""Is that indeed a squirrel? Are you sure?How I would like a nut to throw to him!What are these little red things in the grass?""Wild strawberries, my dear."—"Wild strawberries!And can I eat them?"—"Yes, we'll take a plateAnd pick it full, and eat them with our dinner.""O, will not that be nice? Wild strawberriesThat we have picked ourselves!"
And so the daySlid on to noon; and then, it being hot,They crossed a wall into a skirting wood,And there sat down upon a rocky slabCovered with dry brown needles of the pine,And ate their dinner while the birds made music."'Tis a free concert, ours!" said Rachel Aiken:"How nice this dinner! What an appetiteI'm having all at once! My father saysThat I must learn to eat: I soon could learnIn such a place as this! I wish my fatherHimself would eat; he works too hard, I fear;He works in lead: and the lead makes him ill.See what nice clothes he buys me! I'm afraidHe pays for me more than he can afford,Seeing he has a mother to supportAnd a blind sister; for, Miss Percival,I'm but his step-child, and my mother diedTwo years ago; then my half-sister died,His only little girl, and now he saysThat I am all he has in the wide worldTo love and cherish dearly,—all his treasure.What would I give if I could bring him hereTo these sweet woods, away from lead and work!"
So the child prattled. Then, the gay dessertOf berries being ended, Linda satOn the rock's slope, and peeled the mosses offOr looked up through the branches of the pinesAt the sky's blue, while Rachel played around.From tree to tree, from flower to flower, the childDarted through leafy lanes, when, all at once,A scream roused Linda.
To her feet she sprang!Instinctively (but not without a shudder)She grasped the little pistol she had broughtAt the child's prompting; from the rock ran down,And, at a sudden bend, encountered threeYoung lusty ruffians, while, a few rods off,Another lifted Rachel in his arms,And to the thicker wood beyond moved on.The three stood side by side as if to barThe path to Linda, and their looks meant mischief.The lane was narrow. "For your life, make way!"She cried, and raised the pistol. "No, you don'tFool us by tricks like that!" the foremost said:"And so, my lady—" But before the wordWas out there was a little puff of smoke,With an explosion, not encouraging,—And on the turf the frightened caitiff lay.Her road now clear, reckless of torn alpaca,Over the scattered branches Linda rushed,Till she drew near the leader of the gang,Who, stopping, drew a pistol with one hand,While with the other he held Rachel fast,Placing her as a shield before his breast.
But Linda did not waver. Dropping intoThe old position that her father taught herWhen to the shooting-gallery they went,She fired. An oath, the cry of pain and rage,Told her she had not missed her aim,—the jawThe ruffian left exposed. One moment more,Rachel was in her arms. Taking a pathTransverse, they hit the public road and enteredThe railroad station as the train came in.When they were safely seated, and the engineBegan to throb and pant, a sudden pallorSpread over Linda's visage, and she veiledHer face and fainted; yet so quietly,But one among the passengers observed it;And he came up, and taking Rachel's placeSupported Linda; from a lady nearBorrowed some pungent salts restorative,And finding soon the sufferer was herself,Gave Rachel back her seat and took his own.But at the city station, when arrived,This gentleman came up, and bowing, said:"Here stands my private carriage; but to-dayI need it not. Let my man take you home."Linda demurred. His firm will urged them in,And she and Rachel all at once were ridingWith easy bowling motion down Broadway.
The evening papers had this paragraph:"In Baker's Woods this morning two young menWere fired on by a female lunaticWithout a provocation, and one wounded.The bullet was extracted. Dr. Payson,With his accustomed skill and promptitude,Performed the operation; and the patientIs doing well. We learn the unhappy woman—She had with her a child—is still at large.""I'm glad it was no worse," quoth Linda, smiling.She kissed the pistol that had been her mother's,Wiped it, and reverently put it by.
Three summers and an autumn had rolled onSince the catastrophe that orphaned Linda.Midwinter with its whirling snow had come,And, shivering through the snow-encumbered streetsOf the great city, men and women went,Stooping their heads to thwart the spiteful wind.The sleigh-bells rang, boys hooted, and policemenTold each importunate beggar to move on.In a side street where Fashion late had dwelt,But which the up-town movement now had leftA street for journeymen and small mechanics,Dress-makers, masons, farriers, and draymen,A female figure might be seen to enterA lodging-house, and passing up two flightsUnlock a door that showed a small apartmentNeat, with two windows looking on the rear,A small recess with a low, narrow bed,A sofa, a piano, and three chairs.'Twas noon, but in the sky no cleft of blueFlashed the soft love-light like a lifted lid.
Clad plainly was the lady we have followed,—But with a certain grace no modiste's artCould have contrived. Youthful she was, and yetA gravity not pertinent to youthGave to her face the pathos of that lookWhich a too early thoughtfulness imparts;And this was Linda,—Linda little changed,Though nearer by four years to womanhoodThan when we parted from her in the shadowOf a great woe.
Preoccupied she seemedNow with some painful thought, and in a slow,Half-automatic manner she replenishedWith scanty bits of coal her little stove;Then, with a like absorbed, uncertain air,Threw off her cloak and bonnet, and sat down;Motionless sat awhile till she drew forthA pocket-book, and from it took a letter,And read these words: "You guaranteed the debt:It now has run three months, and if to-morrowIt is not paid, we must seek legal help."A bill of wood and coal for Rachel's father—Some twenty dollars only! And yet LindaSaw not the way to pay it on the morrow.He, the poor artisan, on whose accountShe had incurred the liability,Lay prostrate with a malady, his last,In the small room near by, with little RachelHis only watcher. What could Linda do?At length, with lips compressed, and up and downMoving her head as if to give assentTo some resolve, now fixed, she took her seatAt the piano,—from her childhood's daysSo tenderly endeared, and every chordVibrating to some memory of her mother!"Old friend,"—she sighed; then thought awhile and sang.
Help me, dear chords, help me to tell in songThe grief that now must say to you Farewell!No music like to yours can ease my heart.
An infant on her knee I struck your keys,And you made sweet my earliest lullaby:From you I thought my requiem might come.
Hard is the pang of parting, but farewell!Harder the shame would be, if help were not;Go, but your tones shall thrill forevermore.
Farewell! And O my mother, dost thou hear?Farewell! But not to thoughts forever dear.Farewell, but not to love—but not to thee!
When little Rachel, by her father sent,Came in to take her lesson the next day,Behold, no instrument was in the room!What could it mean? "We must give up," said Linda,"Our music for a little while. PerhapsI soon shall have my dear piano back."Then they went in to see the sufferer.A smile lit up his face,—a grateful smile,That lent a beauty even to Disease,Pale, thin, and hollow-eyed:
"Is not the airQuite harsh to-day?" he asked. "A searching air.""So I supposed. I find it hard to breathe.Dear lady—but you've been a friend indeed!In my vest-pocket you will find a wallet.All that I have is in it. Take and use it.A fellow-workman brought me yesterdayFifty-two dollars, by my friends subscribed:Take from it what will pay for coal and rent.To-morrow some one of my friends will comeTo see to what the morrow may require.You've done so much, dear lady, I refrainFrom asking more."—"Ask all that you would have.""My little Rachel—she will be alone,All, all alone in this wide, striving world:An orphan child without a relative!Could you make interest to have her placedIn some asylum?"—"Do not doubt my zealOr my ability to have it done.And should good fortune come to me, be sureRachel shall have a pleasant home in mine.""That's best of all. Thank you. God help you both.Now, Rachel, say the little prayer I taught you.... That was well said. Now kiss me for good night.That's a dear little girl! I'll tell your motherHow good and diligent and kind you are;How careful, too, of all your pretty clothes;And what a nurse you've been,—how true and tender.Rachel, obey Miss Percival. Be quickTo shun all evil. Fly from heedless playmates.Close your young eyes on all impurity.Cast out all naughty thoughts by holy prayer.Love only what is good. Ah! darling child,I hoped to shield you up to womanhood,But God ordains it otherwise. May HeAmid the world's thick perils be your Guide!There! Do not cry, my darling. All is well.Sing us some pious hymn, Miss Percival."And Linda, with wet eyelids, sang these words.
Be of good cheer, O Soul!Angels are nigh;Evil can harm thee not,God hears thy cry.
Into no void shalt thouSpring from this clay;His everlasting armShall be thy stay.
Day hides the stars from thee,Sense hides the heavenWaiting the contrite soulThat here has striven.
Soon shall the glory dawnMaking earth dim;Be not disquieted,Trust thou in Him!
"O, thank you! Every word is true—I know it.Sense hides it now, but has not always hid.Remember, Rachel, that I say it here,Weighing my words: I know it all is true.God bless you both. I'm very, very happy.My pain is almost gone. I'll sleep awhile."Rachel and Linda sat an hour beside him,Silently watching. Linda then aroseAnd placed her hand above his heart: 'twas still.Tranquilly as the day-flower shuts its leavesAnd renders up its fragrance to the air,From the closed mortal senses had he risen.
One day the tempter sat at Linda's ear:Sat and discoursed—so piously! so wisely!She held a letter in her hand; a letterSigned Jonas Fletcher. Jonas was her landlord;A man of forty—ay, a gentleman;Kind to his tenants, liberal, forbearing;Rich and retired from active business;A member of the Church, but tolerant;A man sincere, cordial, without a flawIn habits or in general character;Of comely person, too, and cheerful presence.Long had he looked on Linda, and at lastHad studied her intently; knew her ways,Her daily occupations; whom she saw,And where she went. He had an interestBeyond that of the landlord, in his knowledge;The letter was an offer of his hand.Of Linda's parentage and historyHe nothing knew, and nothing sought to know.He took her as she was; was well content,With what he knew, to run all other risks.The letter was a good one and a frank;It came to Linda in her pinch of want,Discouragement, and utter self-distrust.And thus the tempter spoke and she replied:
"You're getting thin; you find success in artIs not a thing so easy as you fancied.Five years you've worked at what you modestlyEsteem your specialty. Your specialty!As if a woman could have more than one,—And that—maternity! I do not speakOf the six years you gave your art beforeYou strove to make it pay. Methinks you seeYour efforts are a failure. What's the endOf all your toil? Not enough money savedFor the redemption of your pawned piano!Truly a cheerful prospect is before you:To hear your views would edify me greatly."
"Yes, I am thinner than I was; but thenI can afford to be—so that's not much.As for success—if we must measure thatBy the financial rule, 'tis small, I grant you.Yes, I have toiled, and lived laborious days,And little can I show in evidence;And sometimes—sometimes, I am sick at heart,And almost lose my faith in woman's powerTo paint a rose, or even to mend a stocking,As well as man can do. What would you have?"
"Now you speak reason. Let me see you act it!Abandon this wild frenzy of the hour,That would leave woman free to go all waysA man may go! Why, look you, even in art,Most epicene of all pursuits in life,How man leaves woman always far behind!Give up your foolish striving; and let NatureAnd the world's order have their way with you."
"Small as the pittance is, yet I could earnMore, ten times, by my brush than by my needle."
"Ah! woman's sphere is that of the affections.Ambition spoils her—spoils her as a woman."
"Spoils her for whom?"
"For man."
"Then woman's errandIs not, like man's, self-culture, self-advancement,But she must simply qualify herselfTo be a mate for man: no obligationResting on man to qualify himselfTo be a mate for woman?"
"Ay, the manLives in the intellect; the woman's lifeIs that of the affections, the emotions;And her anatomy is proof of it."
"So have I often heard, but do not see.Some women have I known, who could endureSurgical scenes which many a strong manWould faint at. We have had this dubious talkOf woman's sphere far back as history goes:'Tis time now it were proved: let actions prove it;Let free experience, education prove it!Why is it that the vilest drudgeriesAre put on woman, if her sphere be thatOf the affections only, the emotions?Herepresents the intellect, andsheThe affections only! Is it always so?Let Malibran, or Mary Somerville,De Staël, Browning, Stanton, Stowe, Bonheur,Stand forth as proof of that cool platitude.Use other arguments, if me you'd move.Besides, I see not that your system makesAny provision for that numerous classTo whom the affections are an Eden closed,—The women who are single and compelledTo drudge for a precarious livelihood!What oftheirsphere? What of the sphere of thoseWho do not, by the sewing of a shirt,Earn a meal's cost? Go tell them, when they ventureOn an employment social custom makesPeculiarly a man's,—that they becomeUnwomanly! Go make them smile at that,—Smile if they've not forgotten how to smile."
"I see that you're befogged, my little woman,Chasing this ignis fatuus of the day!Leave it, and settle down as woman should.What has been always, must be to the end.Always has woman been subordinateIn mind, in body, and in power, to man.Let rhetoricians rave, and theoristsSpin their fine webs,—bow you to holy Nature,And plant your feet upon the eternal fact."
"The little lifetime of the human raceYou call—eternity! The other dayOne of these old eternal wrongs was endedRather abruptly; yet good people thought'Twas impious to doubt it was eternal.Because abuses have existed always,May we not prove they are abuses still?If for antiquity you plead, why notTell us the harem is the rule of nature,The one solution of the woman problem?"
"Does not St. Paul—"
"Excuse me. Beg no questions.St. Paul to you may be infallible,But Science is so unaccommodating,If not irreverent, she'll not acceptHis ipse dixit as an axiom.Here, in our civilized society,Is an increasing host of single womenWho do not find the means of livelihoodIn the employments you call feminine.What shall be done? And my reply is this:Let every honest calling be as properFor woman as for man; throw open allVarieties of labor, skilled or rough,To woman's choice and woman's competition.Letherdecide the question of the fitness.Let her rake hay, or pitch it, if she'd ratherDo that than scrub a floor or wash and iron.And, above all, let her equalityBe barred not at the ballot-box; endow herWith all the rights a citizen can claim;Give her the suffrage;[7]let her have—by rightAnd not by courtesy—a voice in shapingThe laws and institutions of the land.And then, if after centuries of trial,All shall turn out a fallacy, a failure,The social scheme will readjust itselfOn the old basis, and the world shall beThe wiser for the great experiment."
"But is sex nothing? Shall we recognizeNo bounds that Nature clearly has defined,Saying, with no uncertain tone, to one,Do this, and to the other, Do thou that?The rearing of young children and the careOf households,—can we doubt where these belong?Woman is but the complement of manAnd not a monstrous contrariety.Co-worker she, but no competitor!"
"All true, and no one doubts it! But why doubtThat perfect freedom is the best conditionFor bringing out all that is best in womanAs well as man? Free culture, free occasion,Higher responsibility, will makeA higher type of femininity,Ay, of maternal femininity,—Not derogate from that which now we have,And which, through laws and limitations old,Is artificial, morbid, and distort,Except where Nature works in spite of all.'Woman is but the complement of man!'Granted. But why stop there? And why not add,Man, too, is but the complement of woman?And both are free! And Nature never meant,For either, harder rule than that of Love,Intelligent, and willing as the sun."
"Ah! were men angels, women something more,Your plan might work; but now, in married life,Onemust be absolute; and who can doubtThat Nature points unerringly to man?"
"Then Nature's pointing is not always heeded.Marriage should be a partnership of equals:But now the theory would seem to be,Man's laws must keep the weaker sex in order!Man must do all the thinking, even for woman!I don't believe it; woman, too, can think,Give her the training and the means of knowledge.'O no!' cries man, 'the household and the childMust claim her energies; and all her trainingMust be to qualify the wife and mother:For one force loses when another gains,Since Nature is a very strict accountant;And what you give the thinker or the artist,You borrow from the mother and the wife.'With equal truth, why not object to manThat what he gives the judge or politicianHe borrows from the husband and the father?The wife and mother best are qualifiedWhen you allow the woman breadth of culture,Give her an interest in all that makesThe human being's welfare, and a voiceIn laws affecting her for good or ill.To 'suckle fools and chronicle small beer'Is not the whole intent of womanhood.Even of maternity 'tis not the heightTo produce many children, but to haveSuch as may be a blessing to their kind.Let it be woman's pure prerogative,Free and unswayed by man's imperious pleasure(Which now too often is her only law),To rule herself by her own highest instincts,As her own sense of duty may approve,—Holding that law for her as paramountWhich may best harmonize her whole of nature,Educe her individuality,Not by evading or profaning Nature,[8]But by a self-development entire."
"Enough, enough! Let us split hairs no longer!You hold a crumpled letter in your hand;You know the writer; you esteem, respect him;And you've had time to question your own heart.What does it say? You blush,—you hesitate,—That's a good symptom. Now just hear me out:If culture is your aim, how opportuneA chance is this! Affluence, leisure, study!Would you help others? He will help you do it.Is health an object? Soon, exempt from care,Or cheered by travel, shall you see restoredYour early bloom and freshness. Would you findIn love a new and higher life? You start!Now what's the matter? Do not be a fool,—A sentimentalist, forever gropingAfter the unattainable, the cloudy.Come, be a little practical; considerYour present state: look on that row of nailsRecipient of your wardrobe; see that bonnet,All out of fashion by at least a month;That rusty water-proof you call a cloak;Those boots with the uneven heels; that pairOf woollen gloves; this whole absurd array,Where watchful Neatness battles Poverty,But does not win the victory. Look there!Would not a house on the great avenueBe better than these beggarly surroundings?Since you're heart-free, why not at once say Yes?"
"Sweet fluent tempter, there you hit the mark!Heart-free am I, and 'tis because of thatYou're not entirely irresistible.Your plea is simply that which lends excuseTo the poor cyprian whom we pass in scorn.I've done my utmost to persuade myselfThat I might love this man,—in time might love:But all my arguments, enforced by yours,Do not persuade me. I must give it up!"