Transcriber's Note:Endnote markers have been added for the reader's convenience.THE WOMAN WHO DARED.THEWOMAN WHO DARED.BYEPES SARGENT."Honest liberty is the greatest foe to dishonest license."John Milton.BOSTON:ROBERTS BROTHERS.1870.Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, byEPES SARGENT,in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co.,Cambridge.To —— ——.Springsaw my little venture just begun;And then your hospitable message came,Inviting me to taste the strawberriesAt Strawberry Hill. I went. How long I stayed,Urged by dear friends and the restoring breeze,Let me not say; long enough to completeMy rhythmic structure; day by day it grew,And all sweet influences helped its growth.The lawn sloped green and ample till the treesMet on its margin; and the Hudson's tideRolled beautiful beyond, where purple gleamsFell on the Palisades or touched the hillsOf the opposing shore; for all withoutWas but an emblem of the symmetryI found within, where love held perfect sway,With taste and beauty and domestic peaceFor its allies.We do not praise the rose,Since all who see it know it is the rose;And so, dear lady, praise of thee would seem,To all who know thee, quite superfluous.But if from any of these thoughts be shedAught of the fragrance and the hue of truth,To thee I dedicate the transient flowerIn which the eternal beauty reappears;Knowing, should poison mingle with the sweet,Thou, like the eclectic bee, with instinct sure,Wilt take the good alone, and leave the bad.E. S.CONTENTSPageI. Overture1II. The Father's Story7III. The Mother's Story39Linda's Lullaby41IV. Paradise Found93The Mother's Hymn100V. Linda115Help me, dear Chords143Be of good Cheer147VI. By The Seaside177Linda's Song189Under the Pines203VII. From Linda's Diary211VIII. From Meredith's Diary235IX. Beside The Lake,249Notes263THE WOMAN WHO DARED.I.OVERTURE.BlestPower that canst transfigure common things,And, like the sun, make the clod burst in bloom,—Unseal the fount so mute this many a day,And help me sing of Linda! Why of her,Since she would shrink with manifest recoil,Knew she that deeds of hers were made a themeFor measured verse? Why leave the garden flowersTo fix the eye on one poor violetThat on the solitary grove sheds fragrance?Themes are enough, that court a wide regard,And prompt a strenuous flight; and yet from all,My thoughts come back to Linda. Let me spare,As best I may, her modest privacy,While under Fancy's not inapt disguiseI give substantial truth, and deal with noUnreal beings or fantastic facts:Bear witness to it, Linda!Now while MayKeeps me a restive prisoner in the house,For the first time the Spring's unkindness everHeld me aloof from her companionship,However roughly from the east her breathCame as if all the icebergs of Grand BankWere giving up their forms in that one gust,—Now while on orchard-trees the struggling blossomsBreak from the varnished cerements, and in cloudsOf pink and white float round the boughs that holdTheir verdure yet in check,—and while the lawnLures from yon hemlock hedge the robin, plumpAnd copper-breasted, and the west wind bringsMildness and balm,—let me attempt the taskThat also is a pastime.What though SpringBrings not of Youth the wonder and the zest;The hopes, the day-dreams, and the exultations?The animal life whose overflow and wasteWould far out-measure now our little hoard?The health that made mere physical existenceAn ample joy; that on the ocean beachShared with the leaping waves their breezy glee;That in deep woods, or in forsaken clearings,Where the charred logs were hid by verdure new,And the shy wood-thrush lighted; or on hillsWhence counties lay outspread beneath our gaze;Or by some rock-girt lake where sandy marginsSloped to the mirrored tints of waving trees,—Could feel no burden in the grasshopper,And no unrest in the long summer day?Would I esteem Youth's fervors fair returnFor temperate airs that fan sublimer heightsThan Youth could scale; heights whence the patient visionMay see this life's harsh inequalities,Its rudimental good and full-blown evil,Its crimes and earthquakes and insanities,And all the wrongs and sorrows that perplex us,Assume, beneath the eternal calm, the orderWhich can come only from a Love Divine?A love that sees the good beyond the evil,The serial life beyond the eclipsing death,—That tracks the spirit through eternities,Backward and forward, and in every germBeholds its past, its present, and its future,At every stage beholds it gravitateWhere it belongs, and thence new-born emergeInto new life and opportunity,An outcast never from the assiduous Mercy,Providing for His teeming universe,Divinely perfect not because complete,But because incomplete, advancing everBeneath the care Supreme?—heights whence the soul,Uplifted from all speculative fog,All darkening doctrine, all confusing fear,Can see the drifted plants, can scent the odors,That surely come from that celestial shoreTo which we tend; however out of reckoning,Swept wrong by Error's currents, Passion's storms,The poor tossed bark may be?Descend, my thoughts!Your theme lies lowly as the ground-bird's nest;Why seek, with wings so feeble and unused,To soar above the clouds and front the stars?Descend from your high venture, and to scenesOf the heart's common history come down!II.THE FATHER'S STORY.Thelittle mansion had its fill of sunshine;The western windows overlooked the HudsonWhere the great city's traffic vexed the tide;The front received the Orient's early flush.Here dwelt three beings, who the neighbors saidWere husband, wife, and daughter; and indeedThere was no sign that they were otherwise.Their name was Percival; they lived secluded,Saw no society, except some poorOld pensioner who came for food or help;Though, when fair days invited, they would takeThe omnibus and go to see the paintingsAt the Academy; or hear the musicAt opera or concert; then, in summer,A visit to the seaside or the hillsWould oft entice them.Percival had reachedHis threescore years and five, but stood erectAs if no touch of age had chilled him yet.Simple in habit, studious how to liveIn best conformity with laws divine,—Impulsive, yet by trial taught to questionAll impulses, affections, appetites,At Reason's bar,—two objects paramountSeemed steadily before him; one, to findThe eternal truth, showing the constant rightIn politics, in social life, in morals,—The other, to apply all love and wisdomTo education of his child—of Linda.Yet, if with eye anointed, you could lookOn that benign and tranquil countenance,You might detect the lines which Passion leavesLong after its volcano is extinctAnd flowers conceal its lava. PercivalWas older than his consort, twenty years;Yet were they fitly mated; though, with her,Time had dealt very gently, leaving faceAnd rounded form still youthful, and unmarredBy one uncomely outline; hardly minglingA thread of silver in her chestnut hairThat affluent needed no deceiving braid.Framed for maternity the matron seemed:Thrice had she been a mother; but the children,The first six winters of her union brought,A boy and girl, were lost to her at onceBy a wall's falling on them, as they went,Heedless of danger, hand in hand, to school.To either parent terrible the blow!But, three years afterward, when Linda came,With her dark azure eyes and golden hair,It was as if a healing angel touchedThe parents' wound, and turned their desolationInto a present paradise, revealingTwo dear ones, beckoning from the spirit-land,And one, detaining them, with infant grasp,Feeble, yet how resistless! here below.And so there was great comfort in that household:And those unwhispered longings both had feltAt times, that they might pass to other scenesWhere Love would find its own, were felt no more:For Linda grew in beauty every day;Beauty not only of the outward mould,Sparkling in those dear eyes, and on the windTossing those locks of gold, but beauty born,In revelations flitting o'er the face,From the soul's inner symmetry; from loveToo deep and pure to utter, had she words;From the divine desire to know; to proveAll objects brought within her dawning ken;From frolic mirth, not heedless but most apt;From sense of conscience, shown in little thingsSo early; and from infant courtesyCharming and debonair.The parents said,While the glad tears shone brimming in their eyes,"Oh! lacking love and best experience[1]Are those who tell us that the purityAnd innocence of childhood are delusion;Or that, so far as they exist, they showThe absence of all mind; no impulsesSave those of selfish passion moving it!And that, by nature desperately wicked,The child learns good through evil; having noInnate ideas, no inborn will, no bias.Here, in this infant, is our confutation!O self-sufficing physiologist,Who, grubbing in the earth, hast missed the stars,We ask no other answer to thy creedThan this, the answer heaven and earth supply."Now sixteen summers had our Linda seen,And grown to be a fair-haired, winsome maid,In shape and aspect promising to beA softened repetition of her mother;And yet some traits from the paternal sideGave to the head an intellectual graceAnd to the liquid eyes a power reserved,Brooding awhile in tender gloom, and thenFlashing emotion, as some lofty thought,Some sight of pity, or some generous deed,Kindled a ready sympathy whose tearsFell on no barren purpose; for with LindaTo feel, to be uplifted, was to act;Her sorest trials being when she foundHow far the wish to do outran the power.Often would Percival observe his child,And study to divine if in the futureOf that organization, when mature,There should prevail the elements that leadWoman to find the crowning charm of lifeIn the affections of a happy marriage,Or if with satisfactions of the mindAnd the æsthetic faculty, the aimsOf art and letters, the pursuits of trade,Linda might find the fresh activitiesHe craved for her, and which forecasting careMight possibly provide.His means were small,Merged in a life-annuity which gaveAll that he held as indispensableTo sanative conditions in a home:Good air, good influences, proper food.By making his old wardrobe do long serviceHe saved the wherewith to get faithful helpFrom the best teachers in instructing Linda;And she was still the object uppermost.Dawned the day fair, for Linda it was fair,And they all three could ramble in the Park.If on Broadway the ripe fruit tempted him,Linda was fond of fruit; those grapes will doFor Linda. Was the music rich and rare?Linda must hear it. Were the paintings grand?Linda must see them. So the important thoughtWas always Linda; and the mother sharedIn all this fond parental providence;For in her tender pride in the dear girlThere was no room for any selfish thought,For any jealous balancing of dues."My child," said Percival, one summer day,As he brought in a bunch of snow-white roses,Ringed with carnations, many-leafed and fragrant,"Take it, an offering for your birthday; thisIs June the twelfth, a happy day for me.""How fresh, how beautiful!" said Linda risingAnd kissing him on either cheek. "Dear father,You spoil me for all other care, I fear,Since none can be like yours.""Why speak of that?"He with a start exclaimed; "my care must beProlonged till I can see you safely fixedIn an assured and happy womanhood.Why should it not be so? Though sixty-five,How well am I, and strong! No, Linda, no;Dream not of other tendance yet awhile;My father lived to eighty, and his fatherTo eighty-five; and I am stronger nowThan they were, at my age.""Live long!" cried Linda,"For whom have I to love me, to befriend,You and my mother gone?""Your mother, child?She should outlive me by some twenty yearsAt least. God grant, her sweet companionshipMay be your strength and light when I'm not here,My matchless little girl, my precious Linda!""Ah! how Love magnifies the thing it loves!"Smiling she said: "when I look in the glass,I see a comely Miss; nay, perhaps pretty;That epithet is her superlative,So far as person is concerned, I fear.Grant her a cheerful temper; that she getsFrom both her parents. She is dutiful,—No wonder, for she never is opposed!Strangely coincident her way is yours;Industrious, but that's her mother's training.Then if you come to gifts of mind—ah me!What can she show? We'll not pronounce her dull;But she's not apt or quick; and all she getsIs by hard work, by oft-repeated trials,Trials with intermissions of despair.The languages she takes to not unkindly;But mathematics is her scourge, her kill-joy,Pressing her like a nightmare. Logic, too,Distresses and confuses her poor brain;Oh! ask her not for reasons. As for music—Music she loves. Would that Love might inspireThe genius it reveres so ardently!Has she no gift for painting? Eye for formAnd coloring I truly think she has;And one thing she can do, and do it well;She can group flowers and ferns and autumn leaves,Paint their true tints, and render back to natureA not unfaithful copy."This the extentOf her achievements! She has labored hardTo mould a bust or statue; but the clayLacked the Pygmalion touch beneath her hands.She'll never be a female Angelo.She must come down content to mother Earth,And study out the alphabet which SummerWeaves on the sod in fields or bordering woods.Such is your paragon, my simple father!But now, this ordinary little girl,So seeming frank, (whisper it low!) is yetSo deep, so crafty, and so full of wiles,That she has quite persuaded both her parents—In most things sensible, clear-seeing people—That she is just a prodigy indeed!Not one of goodness merely, but of wit,Capacity, and general cleverness!""There, that will do, spoilt darling! What a tongue!"Percival said, admiring while he chided."O the swift time! Thou'rt seventeen to-day;And yet, except thy parents and thy teachers,Friends and companions thou hast hardly known.'Tis fit that I should tell thee why our lifeHas been thus socially estranged and quiet.Sit down, and let me push the arm-chair upWhere I can note the changes in thy face;For 'tis a traitor, that sweet face of thine,And has a sign for every fleeting thought."But here's our little mother! Come, my dear,And take a seat by Linda; thou didst help meTo graft upon the bitter past a fruitAll sweetness, and thy very presence nowCan take the sting from a too sad remembrance."The mother placed her hand upon his browAnd said: "The water-lily springs from mud;So springs the future from the past." Then he:"My father's death made me, at twenty-one,Heir to a fortune which in those slow daysWas thought sufficient: I had quitted YaleWith some slight reputation as a scholar,And, in the first flush of ingenuous youthWhen brave imagination's rosy hueTinges all unknown objects, I was launchedInto society in this great place;—Sisterless, motherless, and having seenBut little, in my student life, of women."All matrons who had marriageable girlsLooked on me as their proper prey, and spreadTheir nets to catch me; and, poor, verdant youth,Soon I was caught,—caught in a snare indeed,Though by no mother's clever management.Young, beautiful, accomplished, she, my Fate,Met me with smiles, and doomed me while she smiledNimble as light, fluent as molten leadTo take the offered mould,—apt to affectEach preference of taste or sentimentThat best might flatter,—affable and kind,Or seeming so,—and generous to a fault,—But that was when she had a part to play,—Affectionate—ah! there too she was feigning—As I look calmly back, to me she seemsThe simple incarnation of a mindPossessed of all the secrets of the heart,And quick to substitute a counterfeitFor the heart's genuine coin, and make it pass;But void of feeling as the knife that wounds!And so the game was in her hands, and shePlayed it with confident, remorseless skillEven to the bitter end."Yet do not thinkThe inner prescience never stirred or spoke:Veiled though it be from consciousness so strangely,And its fine voice unheard amid the dinOf outward things, the quest of earthly passion,There is an under-sense, a facultyAll independent of our mortal organs,And circumscribed by neither space nor time.Else whence proceed they, those clairvoyant glimpses,That vision piercing to the distant future,Those quick monitions of impending ruin,If not from depths of soul which consciousness,Limited as it is in mortal scope,May not explore? Yet there serenely latent,Or with a conscious being all their own,Superior and apart from what we knowIn this close keep we call our waking state,Lie growing with our growth the lofty powersWe reck not of; which some may live a lifeAnd never heed, nor know they have a soul;Which many a plodding anthropologist,Philosopher, logician, scientist,Ignore as moonshine; but which are, no less,Actual, proven, and, in their dignityAnd grasp and space-defying attributes,Worthy to qualify a deathless spiritTo have the range of an infinityThrough an unending period—at onceA promise and a proof of life immortal."One night, one mild, sweet night in early June,We two had paced the drawing-room togetherTill ten o'clock, and then I took my leaveAnd walked along the street, a square or more,When suddenly I looked up at a star,And then, a thought I could not fail to heed,From the soul's awful region unexplored,Rushed, crying, 'Back! Go back!' And back I went,As hastily as if it were a thingOf life or death. I did not stop to pullThe door-bell, but sprang up alert and stillTo the piazza of the open window,Drew back a blind inaudibly, looked in,And through the waving muslin curtain, saw—Well, she was seated in a young man's lap,Her head upon his shoulder."Quick of earAs the chased hare, she heard me; started up,Ran to the curtain, eagerly drew me in,And said, while joy beamed tender in her eyes,'My brother Ambrose, just arrived from Europe!'So swift she was, she did not give me timeEven for one jealous pang. I took his hand,And saying, 'Anna's brother must be mine,'I bade them both good-night, and went my way:So was I fooled,—my better angel baffled!"And yet once more the vivid warning came,Flashed like quick truth from her own eyes. We stoodTogether in a ball-room, when a lady,To me unknown, came up, regarded meWith strange compassion in her curious glance,And then, with something less divine than pity,Looked down on my betrothed, and moved away.I turned to Anna, but upon her face,There was a look to startle like a ghost;Defiance, deadly fear, and murderous hateWere all so wildly blended! But 'twas gone—Gone like a flash before I well could mark it;And in its place there came a luminous smile,So childlike sweet, such type of heavenly candor,It would have served for a Madonna's mouth,To make the pilgrim's adoration easy.'Who was that lady, Anna?' I inquired.'A Mrs. Lothian,' was her reply:'A lovely person, although somewhat haughty.'We returned home soon after, and no moreWas said of it."The rapid weeks flew by,And Anna plied her powers to charm, but stillNot all the subtle glamour of her presenceCould bind in sleep my pleading monitor.And so at last I said: 'We both are young:Let us, as earnest of a mutual wishTo share a perfect love, or none at all,Absolve each other here, without condition,From this engagement; and, if three years henceWe both are of one heart, then shall we findThe means to make it known; of that be sure!Are you in your own loyalty so fixedAs to accept the challenge? Would you prizeThe love of any man, who could not bearA test so simple?'"The first word I spokeMade all my meaning plain to her; she shook,But more perhaps with anger than with grief;She turned her face away, and covered itWith both her hands, and so remained untilI had done speaking; then she rose at once,Her face averted still, (she durst not show it!)And grasped my hand, and, in a husky toneSheathing her wrath, exclaimed: 'To-morrow, comeAt twelve—at twelve!' and rushed out of the room."Prompt at the hour I went; and in the parlorSat down expectant; and she entered soon,Clad all in white; upon her face the marksOf passionate tears, and a beseeching sorrowIn every look! A desk of ivory,Borne in her hands, she placed upon the table;I rose to meet her, but she motioned meTo keep my seat; then, with an arm thrown overA high-backed chair, as if to keep from falling,(The attitude was charming, and she knew it),She said: 'Take back the little desk you gave me;In it are all your letters,—all your gifts.Take them, and give me mine.'"The last few wordsCame as if struggling through a crowd of sobs.What could I do but lead her to the sofa,Sit by her side, take her white hand, and say:'This is no final separation, Anna;It is a trial merely of our loves?'"'A light affair perhaps to you,' she said,'But death to me. As whim or pleasure points,You can go here, go there, and lead the lifeYou most affect; while I, the home-kept slaveOf others' humors, must brave poverty,Neglect and cruel treatment.'—'Did you sayPoverty, Anna?'—'Do not breathe a wordOf what I tell you: father is a bankrupt,Or soon will be; and we shall be compelledTo quit our freestone house, and breathe the airOf squalid want. From that I'd not recoil,Could I have loving looks and words; for whatIs poverty if there's but love to gild it?Ah! poverty'—'Nay, Anna, povertyYou shall not know, only accept from meThe means to fix you in becoming plenty.''Never!' she cried; 'ah! cruel to propose it!'And then more tears; till, touched and foiled, I said,Looking her in the face while she gazed upIn mine with eager tenderness,—'AcceptA happy home, if I can help to make it.We will be married, Anna, when you please.'"And so she had her way, and we were married;And the next day all Wall Street was arousedBy news that brave Papa had won renownNot simply as a bankrupt, but a swindler,Escaping, by the skin of his teeth, the Tombs.'No matter! Papa has a son-in-law,A greenhorn, as they say, who occupiesA stately house on the Fifth Avenue,And, in his hall, Papa will hang his hat.'And, in all this, Rumor but hit the truth."Six months rolled by. Repeatedly I asked,'Where's Brother Ambrose?' He, it seems, was heldIn such request by government, that rarelyCould he be spared for home enjoyment; butAt length I did encounter Brother Ambrose,And once again I found him—"Well, the scalesDropped from my eyes. I asked no other proofThan a quick look I saw the two exchange,—Forgetful of a mirror at their side,—To see I was betrayed. He was no brother.I sought more proof; but they, imaginingI knew more than I did, were swift to act.Before I could find steps for a divorceShe stole a march upon me, and herselfTook the initiative, and played the victim,Nipping me as a culprit in the law."It was a plot so dexterously framed,All the precautions and contrivancesWere with such craft foreplanned; the perjuriesWere all so well adjusted; my pure lifeWas made to seem so black; the witnessesWere so well drilled, so perfect in their parts,—In short, it was a work of art so thorough,I did not marvel at the Court's decision,Which was, for her,—divorce and alimony;For me,—no freedom, since no privilegeOf marrying again. Such the decree!""I'm glad you spurned it as you did!" cried Linda,While her cheeks flushed, and hot, indignant tears,Responded to her anger. Then she kissedHer father on each cheek, and tenderlyEmbraced her mother too; and they, the while,With a slight moisture in their smiling eyes,Exchanged a nod. Then Percival to Linda:"Why, what an utter rebel you would be,You little champion of the higher law!Sit down, and hear me out.""If such their justice,"Cried Linda, irrepressible and panting,"Who would not spurn it, and hurl back defianceTo all the Justice Shallows on the Bench—To them and their decrees!""My little girl,"The father said, "the heart's impulsive choiceMay guide us safely when the act must beBorn of the instant, but let Reason ruleWhen Reason may. For some twelve years, I livedA wandering life in Europe; not so crushedBy my most harsh experience but ICould find, in study and in change of scene,How much of relish life has for the mindAs well as the affections; still I feltMine was a nature in which these must playNo secondary part; and so the voidEnlarged as age drew nearer; and at fortyA weariness of life came over me,And I was sick at heart; for many a joyHad lost the charm that made it joy. I tookA house in London, all for solitude,And there got what you may not find in Egypt,Or on Mont Blanc."One day as I was crossingAn obscure street, I saw a crowd of workmenGathered around a man upon the ground:A rafter from a half-built house had fallen,And he was badly injured. Seeing noneTo act with promptness in the case, I hailedA cab, and had him driven to my house.Finding he was a fellow-countryman,I gave him one of my spare rooms, and sentFor the best surgeon near. His report was,The wound itself was nothing serious,But there was over-action of the brain,Quite independent, which might lead to danger,Unless reduced in season; and the patientShould have the best of watching and attendance,And not be left to brood on any trouble,But be kept cheerful. Then with some directionsFor diet, sedatives, and laxatives,The doctor bowed, received his fee, and left.My guest lay sad and silent for a while,Then turned to me and said: 'My name is Kenrick;I'm from Chicago—was a broker there.A month ago my wife eloped from me;And her companion, as you may surmise,Was one I had befriended—raised from nothing.I'm here upon their track.""'Why so?' I asked.'What do you want of them?'—'What do I want?'He stretched his eyes at me inquiringly.'How strange,' said I, 'the inconsistency!Here's a true man would try to overtakeAn untrue mate! If she's not sterling goldAnd loyal as the loadstone,—not aloneIn every act, but every thought and throb,—Why should you care who puts her to the proof,Takes her away, and leaves you free again?Show me 'tis an illusion I adore,And I will thank you, though it be in anguish.To no false gods I bow, if I can help it!'"'Could I,' said Kenrick, 'have him only onceWhere I could take him by the throat, and measureMy strength with his!'—'Tut, tut! the kind physicianWho warns you of some lurking taint, to whichThe cautery should be applied at once,Is not, in act, if not intent, your friendMore certainly than he you rave against.And you've been jealous, I suppose, at times,Of the poor runaway?'—'Ay, that I have!Bitterly jealous.'"'Jealousy and loveWere never yet true mates; for jealousyIs born of selfish passion, lust, or pride,While love is so divine and pure a thing,It only takes what cannot be withheld.It flies constraint. All that it gives is given,Even as the lily renders up its perfume,Because it cannot help it. Would it craveReturn less worthy? Would it be contentWith a grudged gift? Then it is something else,Not love—not love! Ah me! how men and womenCozen themselves with words, and let their passionsFool them and blind, until they madly hugIllusions which some stunning shock like yoursPuts to the proof, revealing emptiness.Have you a loving heart, and would you feed itOn what the swine have left,—mock it with lies?''Speak this to me again, when I am stronger,'Said Kenrick, smiling faintly. Then I left him,And taking up 'The Times' looked thro' the listOf 'Wants'; and one amid the many hundredInstantly caught my eye. It merely said:'Wanted, by a young woman, strong and healthy,A place as nurse for any invalid.Address 681, Times Office.' SoI wrote and told 681 to callUpon me at a certain hour."And now,My dear, this little girl with eager eyesHas, for a summer morning, heard enough.The weather is the crown of all that JuneHas of most fair,—the year's transcendent day;When the young foliage and the perfect airIntoxicate the birds, and put our heartsIn harmony with their extravaganceOf joy and love. Come, come! To slight this dayWould be a sin. We'll ramble in the Park,And take our dinner there, and see the flowers,The children, and the swans, and all the placesWhich Linda used to love in babyhood,When, in her little carriage, like a queenShe'd sit, receiving homage from all eyes."The father had his way; and in the ParkThey spent the happy time, and felt the charmWhich harmony complete with Nature bringsWhen loving spirits, unpreoccupied,Gain by surrender, and grow rich by giving.O sunshine and blue sky and genial airs!To human happiness, like daily bread,Your blessings come, till the unthinking heartRecks not the debt we owe your silent powers.If ye can give so much, what may not HeOf whose omnipotence ye are but shadowsHave in reserve in his eternities!III.THE MOTHER'S STORY.Thatevening, when the feast of strawberriesHad been partaken, and the happy threeSat down together, Linda asked: "And now,May I not hear the rest?"—"To-morrow, Linda,You shall hear all," said Percival; "but now,That brain of yours must tranquillize itselfBefore you try to sleep; and so, to-night,Let us have 'Annie Laurie,' 'Bonnie Doon,'And songs that most affront the dainty earOf modern fashion." Linda played and sangA full half-hour; then, turning on her chair,Said, "Now shall mother sing that cradle dittyYou made for me, an infant. Mother, mine,Imagine you are rocking me to sleep,As in those far-off days."Replied the mother:"O the dear days! yet not more dear than these!For frugal Linda brings along with herAll of her past; the infant's purity,The child's confiding love, and now, at last,The maiden's free and quick intelligence!Be ever thus, my Linda; for the pureIn heart shall carry an immortal youthInto the great to-come. That little song—Well I remember the delightful timeWhen 'twas extemporized; when, with my pen,I noted down the words, while, by your crib,Your father sat, and you, with little fistsDrawn tight, would spring and start, as infants will,Crowing the while, and chuckling at the wordsNot comprehended yet, save in the smilesThat with them went! 'Twas at the mellow closeOf an autumnal day, and we were stayingIn a secluded village, where a brookBabbled beneath our window, and the humOf insects soothed us, while a louder noteFrom the hoarse frog's bassoon would, now and then,Break on the cricket's sleepy monotoneAnd startle laughter." Here the matron paused;Then sweeping, with a firm, elastic touch,The ivory keys, sangLINDA'S LULLABY.I.Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!For to sleep our dear Linda is going;All good little lambs be reposing,For Linda one eyelid is closing.II.
Transcriber's Note:Endnote markers have been added for the reader's convenience.
"Honest liberty is the greatest foe to dishonest license."
John Milton.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, byEPES SARGENT,in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co.,Cambridge.
Springsaw my little venture just begun;And then your hospitable message came,Inviting me to taste the strawberriesAt Strawberry Hill. I went. How long I stayed,Urged by dear friends and the restoring breeze,Let me not say; long enough to completeMy rhythmic structure; day by day it grew,And all sweet influences helped its growth.The lawn sloped green and ample till the treesMet on its margin; and the Hudson's tideRolled beautiful beyond, where purple gleamsFell on the Palisades or touched the hillsOf the opposing shore; for all withoutWas but an emblem of the symmetryI found within, where love held perfect sway,With taste and beauty and domestic peaceFor its allies.
We do not praise the rose,Since all who see it know it is the rose;And so, dear lady, praise of thee would seem,To all who know thee, quite superfluous.But if from any of these thoughts be shedAught of the fragrance and the hue of truth,To thee I dedicate the transient flowerIn which the eternal beauty reappears;Knowing, should poison mingle with the sweet,Thou, like the eclectic bee, with instinct sure,Wilt take the good alone, and leave the bad.
PageI. Overture1II. The Father's Story7III. The Mother's Story39Linda's Lullaby41IV. Paradise Found93The Mother's Hymn100V. Linda115Help me, dear Chords143Be of good Cheer147VI. By The Seaside177Linda's Song189Under the Pines203VII. From Linda's Diary211VIII. From Meredith's Diary235IX. Beside The Lake,249Notes263
BlestPower that canst transfigure common things,And, like the sun, make the clod burst in bloom,—Unseal the fount so mute this many a day,And help me sing of Linda! Why of her,Since she would shrink with manifest recoil,Knew she that deeds of hers were made a themeFor measured verse? Why leave the garden flowersTo fix the eye on one poor violetThat on the solitary grove sheds fragrance?Themes are enough, that court a wide regard,And prompt a strenuous flight; and yet from all,My thoughts come back to Linda. Let me spare,As best I may, her modest privacy,While under Fancy's not inapt disguiseI give substantial truth, and deal with noUnreal beings or fantastic facts:Bear witness to it, Linda!
Now while MayKeeps me a restive prisoner in the house,For the first time the Spring's unkindness everHeld me aloof from her companionship,However roughly from the east her breathCame as if all the icebergs of Grand BankWere giving up their forms in that one gust,—Now while on orchard-trees the struggling blossomsBreak from the varnished cerements, and in cloudsOf pink and white float round the boughs that holdTheir verdure yet in check,—and while the lawnLures from yon hemlock hedge the robin, plumpAnd copper-breasted, and the west wind bringsMildness and balm,—let me attempt the taskThat also is a pastime.
What though SpringBrings not of Youth the wonder and the zest;The hopes, the day-dreams, and the exultations?The animal life whose overflow and wasteWould far out-measure now our little hoard?The health that made mere physical existenceAn ample joy; that on the ocean beachShared with the leaping waves their breezy glee;That in deep woods, or in forsaken clearings,Where the charred logs were hid by verdure new,And the shy wood-thrush lighted; or on hillsWhence counties lay outspread beneath our gaze;Or by some rock-girt lake where sandy marginsSloped to the mirrored tints of waving trees,—Could feel no burden in the grasshopper,And no unrest in the long summer day?Would I esteem Youth's fervors fair returnFor temperate airs that fan sublimer heightsThan Youth could scale; heights whence the patient visionMay see this life's harsh inequalities,Its rudimental good and full-blown evil,Its crimes and earthquakes and insanities,And all the wrongs and sorrows that perplex us,Assume, beneath the eternal calm, the orderWhich can come only from a Love Divine?A love that sees the good beyond the evil,The serial life beyond the eclipsing death,—That tracks the spirit through eternities,Backward and forward, and in every germBeholds its past, its present, and its future,At every stage beholds it gravitateWhere it belongs, and thence new-born emergeInto new life and opportunity,An outcast never from the assiduous Mercy,Providing for His teeming universe,Divinely perfect not because complete,But because incomplete, advancing everBeneath the care Supreme?—heights whence the soul,Uplifted from all speculative fog,All darkening doctrine, all confusing fear,Can see the drifted plants, can scent the odors,That surely come from that celestial shoreTo which we tend; however out of reckoning,Swept wrong by Error's currents, Passion's storms,The poor tossed bark may be?
Descend, my thoughts!Your theme lies lowly as the ground-bird's nest;Why seek, with wings so feeble and unused,To soar above the clouds and front the stars?Descend from your high venture, and to scenesOf the heart's common history come down!
Thelittle mansion had its fill of sunshine;The western windows overlooked the HudsonWhere the great city's traffic vexed the tide;The front received the Orient's early flush.Here dwelt three beings, who the neighbors saidWere husband, wife, and daughter; and indeedThere was no sign that they were otherwise.Their name was Percival; they lived secluded,Saw no society, except some poorOld pensioner who came for food or help;Though, when fair days invited, they would takeThe omnibus and go to see the paintingsAt the Academy; or hear the musicAt opera or concert; then, in summer,A visit to the seaside or the hillsWould oft entice them.
Percival had reachedHis threescore years and five, but stood erectAs if no touch of age had chilled him yet.Simple in habit, studious how to liveIn best conformity with laws divine,—Impulsive, yet by trial taught to questionAll impulses, affections, appetites,At Reason's bar,—two objects paramountSeemed steadily before him; one, to findThe eternal truth, showing the constant rightIn politics, in social life, in morals,—The other, to apply all love and wisdomTo education of his child—of Linda.
Yet, if with eye anointed, you could lookOn that benign and tranquil countenance,You might detect the lines which Passion leavesLong after its volcano is extinctAnd flowers conceal its lava. PercivalWas older than his consort, twenty years;Yet were they fitly mated; though, with her,Time had dealt very gently, leaving faceAnd rounded form still youthful, and unmarredBy one uncomely outline; hardly minglingA thread of silver in her chestnut hairThat affluent needed no deceiving braid.Framed for maternity the matron seemed:Thrice had she been a mother; but the children,The first six winters of her union brought,A boy and girl, were lost to her at onceBy a wall's falling on them, as they went,Heedless of danger, hand in hand, to school.To either parent terrible the blow!But, three years afterward, when Linda came,With her dark azure eyes and golden hair,It was as if a healing angel touchedThe parents' wound, and turned their desolationInto a present paradise, revealingTwo dear ones, beckoning from the spirit-land,And one, detaining them, with infant grasp,Feeble, yet how resistless! here below.
And so there was great comfort in that household:And those unwhispered longings both had feltAt times, that they might pass to other scenesWhere Love would find its own, were felt no more:For Linda grew in beauty every day;Beauty not only of the outward mould,Sparkling in those dear eyes, and on the windTossing those locks of gold, but beauty born,In revelations flitting o'er the face,From the soul's inner symmetry; from loveToo deep and pure to utter, had she words;From the divine desire to know; to proveAll objects brought within her dawning ken;From frolic mirth, not heedless but most apt;From sense of conscience, shown in little thingsSo early; and from infant courtesyCharming and debonair.
The parents said,While the glad tears shone brimming in their eyes,"Oh! lacking love and best experience[1]Are those who tell us that the purityAnd innocence of childhood are delusion;Or that, so far as they exist, they showThe absence of all mind; no impulsesSave those of selfish passion moving it!And that, by nature desperately wicked,The child learns good through evil; having noInnate ideas, no inborn will, no bias.Here, in this infant, is our confutation!O self-sufficing physiologist,Who, grubbing in the earth, hast missed the stars,We ask no other answer to thy creedThan this, the answer heaven and earth supply."
Now sixteen summers had our Linda seen,And grown to be a fair-haired, winsome maid,In shape and aspect promising to beA softened repetition of her mother;And yet some traits from the paternal sideGave to the head an intellectual graceAnd to the liquid eyes a power reserved,Brooding awhile in tender gloom, and thenFlashing emotion, as some lofty thought,Some sight of pity, or some generous deed,Kindled a ready sympathy whose tearsFell on no barren purpose; for with LindaTo feel, to be uplifted, was to act;Her sorest trials being when she foundHow far the wish to do outran the power.Often would Percival observe his child,And study to divine if in the futureOf that organization, when mature,There should prevail the elements that leadWoman to find the crowning charm of lifeIn the affections of a happy marriage,Or if with satisfactions of the mindAnd the æsthetic faculty, the aimsOf art and letters, the pursuits of trade,Linda might find the fresh activitiesHe craved for her, and which forecasting careMight possibly provide.
His means were small,Merged in a life-annuity which gaveAll that he held as indispensableTo sanative conditions in a home:Good air, good influences, proper food.By making his old wardrobe do long serviceHe saved the wherewith to get faithful helpFrom the best teachers in instructing Linda;And she was still the object uppermost.Dawned the day fair, for Linda it was fair,And they all three could ramble in the Park.If on Broadway the ripe fruit tempted him,Linda was fond of fruit; those grapes will doFor Linda. Was the music rich and rare?Linda must hear it. Were the paintings grand?Linda must see them. So the important thoughtWas always Linda; and the mother sharedIn all this fond parental providence;For in her tender pride in the dear girlThere was no room for any selfish thought,For any jealous balancing of dues.
"My child," said Percival, one summer day,As he brought in a bunch of snow-white roses,Ringed with carnations, many-leafed and fragrant,"Take it, an offering for your birthday; thisIs June the twelfth, a happy day for me.""How fresh, how beautiful!" said Linda risingAnd kissing him on either cheek. "Dear father,You spoil me for all other care, I fear,Since none can be like yours."
"Why speak of that?"He with a start exclaimed; "my care must beProlonged till I can see you safely fixedIn an assured and happy womanhood.Why should it not be so? Though sixty-five,How well am I, and strong! No, Linda, no;Dream not of other tendance yet awhile;My father lived to eighty, and his fatherTo eighty-five; and I am stronger nowThan they were, at my age."
"Live long!" cried Linda,"For whom have I to love me, to befriend,You and my mother gone?"
"Your mother, child?She should outlive me by some twenty yearsAt least. God grant, her sweet companionshipMay be your strength and light when I'm not here,My matchless little girl, my precious Linda!"
"Ah! how Love magnifies the thing it loves!"Smiling she said: "when I look in the glass,I see a comely Miss; nay, perhaps pretty;That epithet is her superlative,So far as person is concerned, I fear.Grant her a cheerful temper; that she getsFrom both her parents. She is dutiful,—No wonder, for she never is opposed!Strangely coincident her way is yours;Industrious, but that's her mother's training.Then if you come to gifts of mind—ah me!What can she show? We'll not pronounce her dull;But she's not apt or quick; and all she getsIs by hard work, by oft-repeated trials,Trials with intermissions of despair.The languages she takes to not unkindly;But mathematics is her scourge, her kill-joy,Pressing her like a nightmare. Logic, too,Distresses and confuses her poor brain;Oh! ask her not for reasons. As for music—Music she loves. Would that Love might inspireThe genius it reveres so ardently!Has she no gift for painting? Eye for formAnd coloring I truly think she has;And one thing she can do, and do it well;She can group flowers and ferns and autumn leaves,Paint their true tints, and render back to natureA not unfaithful copy.
"This the extentOf her achievements! She has labored hardTo mould a bust or statue; but the clayLacked the Pygmalion touch beneath her hands.She'll never be a female Angelo.She must come down content to mother Earth,And study out the alphabet which SummerWeaves on the sod in fields or bordering woods.Such is your paragon, my simple father!But now, this ordinary little girl,So seeming frank, (whisper it low!) is yetSo deep, so crafty, and so full of wiles,That she has quite persuaded both her parents—In most things sensible, clear-seeing people—That she is just a prodigy indeed!Not one of goodness merely, but of wit,Capacity, and general cleverness!"
"There, that will do, spoilt darling! What a tongue!"Percival said, admiring while he chided."O the swift time! Thou'rt seventeen to-day;And yet, except thy parents and thy teachers,Friends and companions thou hast hardly known.'Tis fit that I should tell thee why our lifeHas been thus socially estranged and quiet.Sit down, and let me push the arm-chair upWhere I can note the changes in thy face;For 'tis a traitor, that sweet face of thine,And has a sign for every fleeting thought.
"But here's our little mother! Come, my dear,And take a seat by Linda; thou didst help meTo graft upon the bitter past a fruitAll sweetness, and thy very presence nowCan take the sting from a too sad remembrance."
The mother placed her hand upon his browAnd said: "The water-lily springs from mud;So springs the future from the past." Then he:"My father's death made me, at twenty-one,Heir to a fortune which in those slow daysWas thought sufficient: I had quitted YaleWith some slight reputation as a scholar,And, in the first flush of ingenuous youthWhen brave imagination's rosy hueTinges all unknown objects, I was launchedInto society in this great place;—Sisterless, motherless, and having seenBut little, in my student life, of women.
"All matrons who had marriageable girlsLooked on me as their proper prey, and spreadTheir nets to catch me; and, poor, verdant youth,Soon I was caught,—caught in a snare indeed,Though by no mother's clever management.Young, beautiful, accomplished, she, my Fate,Met me with smiles, and doomed me while she smiledNimble as light, fluent as molten leadTo take the offered mould,—apt to affectEach preference of taste or sentimentThat best might flatter,—affable and kind,Or seeming so,—and generous to a fault,—But that was when she had a part to play,—Affectionate—ah! there too she was feigning—As I look calmly back, to me she seemsThe simple incarnation of a mindPossessed of all the secrets of the heart,And quick to substitute a counterfeitFor the heart's genuine coin, and make it pass;But void of feeling as the knife that wounds!And so the game was in her hands, and shePlayed it with confident, remorseless skillEven to the bitter end.
"Yet do not thinkThe inner prescience never stirred or spoke:Veiled though it be from consciousness so strangely,And its fine voice unheard amid the dinOf outward things, the quest of earthly passion,There is an under-sense, a facultyAll independent of our mortal organs,And circumscribed by neither space nor time.Else whence proceed they, those clairvoyant glimpses,That vision piercing to the distant future,Those quick monitions of impending ruin,If not from depths of soul which consciousness,Limited as it is in mortal scope,May not explore? Yet there serenely latent,Or with a conscious being all their own,Superior and apart from what we knowIn this close keep we call our waking state,Lie growing with our growth the lofty powersWe reck not of; which some may live a lifeAnd never heed, nor know they have a soul;Which many a plodding anthropologist,Philosopher, logician, scientist,Ignore as moonshine; but which are, no less,Actual, proven, and, in their dignityAnd grasp and space-defying attributes,Worthy to qualify a deathless spiritTo have the range of an infinityThrough an unending period—at onceA promise and a proof of life immortal.
"One night, one mild, sweet night in early June,We two had paced the drawing-room togetherTill ten o'clock, and then I took my leaveAnd walked along the street, a square or more,When suddenly I looked up at a star,And then, a thought I could not fail to heed,From the soul's awful region unexplored,Rushed, crying, 'Back! Go back!' And back I went,As hastily as if it were a thingOf life or death. I did not stop to pullThe door-bell, but sprang up alert and stillTo the piazza of the open window,Drew back a blind inaudibly, looked in,And through the waving muslin curtain, saw—Well, she was seated in a young man's lap,Her head upon his shoulder.
"Quick of earAs the chased hare, she heard me; started up,Ran to the curtain, eagerly drew me in,And said, while joy beamed tender in her eyes,'My brother Ambrose, just arrived from Europe!'So swift she was, she did not give me timeEven for one jealous pang. I took his hand,And saying, 'Anna's brother must be mine,'I bade them both good-night, and went my way:So was I fooled,—my better angel baffled!
"And yet once more the vivid warning came,Flashed like quick truth from her own eyes. We stoodTogether in a ball-room, when a lady,To me unknown, came up, regarded meWith strange compassion in her curious glance,And then, with something less divine than pity,Looked down on my betrothed, and moved away.I turned to Anna, but upon her face,There was a look to startle like a ghost;Defiance, deadly fear, and murderous hateWere all so wildly blended! But 'twas gone—Gone like a flash before I well could mark it;And in its place there came a luminous smile,So childlike sweet, such type of heavenly candor,It would have served for a Madonna's mouth,To make the pilgrim's adoration easy.'Who was that lady, Anna?' I inquired.'A Mrs. Lothian,' was her reply:'A lovely person, although somewhat haughty.'We returned home soon after, and no moreWas said of it.
"The rapid weeks flew by,And Anna plied her powers to charm, but stillNot all the subtle glamour of her presenceCould bind in sleep my pleading monitor.And so at last I said: 'We both are young:Let us, as earnest of a mutual wishTo share a perfect love, or none at all,Absolve each other here, without condition,From this engagement; and, if three years henceWe both are of one heart, then shall we findThe means to make it known; of that be sure!Are you in your own loyalty so fixedAs to accept the challenge? Would you prizeThe love of any man, who could not bearA test so simple?'
"The first word I spokeMade all my meaning plain to her; she shook,But more perhaps with anger than with grief;She turned her face away, and covered itWith both her hands, and so remained untilI had done speaking; then she rose at once,Her face averted still, (she durst not show it!)And grasped my hand, and, in a husky toneSheathing her wrath, exclaimed: 'To-morrow, comeAt twelve—at twelve!' and rushed out of the room.
"Prompt at the hour I went; and in the parlorSat down expectant; and she entered soon,Clad all in white; upon her face the marksOf passionate tears, and a beseeching sorrowIn every look! A desk of ivory,Borne in her hands, she placed upon the table;I rose to meet her, but she motioned meTo keep my seat; then, with an arm thrown overA high-backed chair, as if to keep from falling,(The attitude was charming, and she knew it),She said: 'Take back the little desk you gave me;In it are all your letters,—all your gifts.Take them, and give me mine.'
"The last few wordsCame as if struggling through a crowd of sobs.What could I do but lead her to the sofa,Sit by her side, take her white hand, and say:'This is no final separation, Anna;It is a trial merely of our loves?'
"'A light affair perhaps to you,' she said,'But death to me. As whim or pleasure points,You can go here, go there, and lead the lifeYou most affect; while I, the home-kept slaveOf others' humors, must brave poverty,Neglect and cruel treatment.'—'Did you sayPoverty, Anna?'—'Do not breathe a wordOf what I tell you: father is a bankrupt,Or soon will be; and we shall be compelledTo quit our freestone house, and breathe the airOf squalid want. From that I'd not recoil,Could I have loving looks and words; for whatIs poverty if there's but love to gild it?Ah! poverty'—'Nay, Anna, povertyYou shall not know, only accept from meThe means to fix you in becoming plenty.''Never!' she cried; 'ah! cruel to propose it!'And then more tears; till, touched and foiled, I said,Looking her in the face while she gazed upIn mine with eager tenderness,—'AcceptA happy home, if I can help to make it.We will be married, Anna, when you please.'
"And so she had her way, and we were married;And the next day all Wall Street was arousedBy news that brave Papa had won renownNot simply as a bankrupt, but a swindler,Escaping, by the skin of his teeth, the Tombs.'No matter! Papa has a son-in-law,A greenhorn, as they say, who occupiesA stately house on the Fifth Avenue,And, in his hall, Papa will hang his hat.'And, in all this, Rumor but hit the truth.
"Six months rolled by. Repeatedly I asked,'Where's Brother Ambrose?' He, it seems, was heldIn such request by government, that rarelyCould he be spared for home enjoyment; butAt length I did encounter Brother Ambrose,And once again I found him—
"Well, the scalesDropped from my eyes. I asked no other proofThan a quick look I saw the two exchange,—Forgetful of a mirror at their side,—To see I was betrayed. He was no brother.I sought more proof; but they, imaginingI knew more than I did, were swift to act.Before I could find steps for a divorceShe stole a march upon me, and herselfTook the initiative, and played the victim,Nipping me as a culprit in the law.
"It was a plot so dexterously framed,All the precautions and contrivancesWere with such craft foreplanned; the perjuriesWere all so well adjusted; my pure lifeWas made to seem so black; the witnessesWere so well drilled, so perfect in their parts,—In short, it was a work of art so thorough,I did not marvel at the Court's decision,Which was, for her,—divorce and alimony;For me,—no freedom, since no privilegeOf marrying again. Such the decree!"
"I'm glad you spurned it as you did!" cried Linda,While her cheeks flushed, and hot, indignant tears,Responded to her anger. Then she kissedHer father on each cheek, and tenderlyEmbraced her mother too; and they, the while,With a slight moisture in their smiling eyes,Exchanged a nod. Then Percival to Linda:"Why, what an utter rebel you would be,You little champion of the higher law!Sit down, and hear me out."
"If such their justice,"Cried Linda, irrepressible and panting,"Who would not spurn it, and hurl back defianceTo all the Justice Shallows on the Bench—To them and their decrees!"
"My little girl,"The father said, "the heart's impulsive choiceMay guide us safely when the act must beBorn of the instant, but let Reason ruleWhen Reason may. For some twelve years, I livedA wandering life in Europe; not so crushedBy my most harsh experience but ICould find, in study and in change of scene,How much of relish life has for the mindAs well as the affections; still I feltMine was a nature in which these must playNo secondary part; and so the voidEnlarged as age drew nearer; and at fortyA weariness of life came over me,And I was sick at heart; for many a joyHad lost the charm that made it joy. I tookA house in London, all for solitude,And there got what you may not find in Egypt,Or on Mont Blanc.
"One day as I was crossingAn obscure street, I saw a crowd of workmenGathered around a man upon the ground:A rafter from a half-built house had fallen,And he was badly injured. Seeing noneTo act with promptness in the case, I hailedA cab, and had him driven to my house.Finding he was a fellow-countryman,I gave him one of my spare rooms, and sentFor the best surgeon near. His report was,The wound itself was nothing serious,But there was over-action of the brain,Quite independent, which might lead to danger,Unless reduced in season; and the patientShould have the best of watching and attendance,And not be left to brood on any trouble,But be kept cheerful. Then with some directionsFor diet, sedatives, and laxatives,The doctor bowed, received his fee, and left.My guest lay sad and silent for a while,Then turned to me and said: 'My name is Kenrick;I'm from Chicago—was a broker there.A month ago my wife eloped from me;And her companion, as you may surmise,Was one I had befriended—raised from nothing.I'm here upon their track."
"'Why so?' I asked.'What do you want of them?'—'What do I want?'He stretched his eyes at me inquiringly.'How strange,' said I, 'the inconsistency!Here's a true man would try to overtakeAn untrue mate! If she's not sterling goldAnd loyal as the loadstone,—not aloneIn every act, but every thought and throb,—Why should you care who puts her to the proof,Takes her away, and leaves you free again?Show me 'tis an illusion I adore,And I will thank you, though it be in anguish.To no false gods I bow, if I can help it!'
"'Could I,' said Kenrick, 'have him only onceWhere I could take him by the throat, and measureMy strength with his!'—'Tut, tut! the kind physicianWho warns you of some lurking taint, to whichThe cautery should be applied at once,Is not, in act, if not intent, your friendMore certainly than he you rave against.And you've been jealous, I suppose, at times,Of the poor runaway?'—'Ay, that I have!Bitterly jealous.'
"'Jealousy and loveWere never yet true mates; for jealousyIs born of selfish passion, lust, or pride,While love is so divine and pure a thing,It only takes what cannot be withheld.It flies constraint. All that it gives is given,Even as the lily renders up its perfume,Because it cannot help it. Would it craveReturn less worthy? Would it be contentWith a grudged gift? Then it is something else,Not love—not love! Ah me! how men and womenCozen themselves with words, and let their passionsFool them and blind, until they madly hugIllusions which some stunning shock like yoursPuts to the proof, revealing emptiness.Have you a loving heart, and would you feed itOn what the swine have left,—mock it with lies?''Speak this to me again, when I am stronger,'Said Kenrick, smiling faintly. Then I left him,And taking up 'The Times' looked thro' the listOf 'Wants'; and one amid the many hundredInstantly caught my eye. It merely said:'Wanted, by a young woman, strong and healthy,A place as nurse for any invalid.Address 681, Times Office.' SoI wrote and told 681 to callUpon me at a certain hour.
"And now,My dear, this little girl with eager eyesHas, for a summer morning, heard enough.The weather is the crown of all that JuneHas of most fair,—the year's transcendent day;When the young foliage and the perfect airIntoxicate the birds, and put our heartsIn harmony with their extravaganceOf joy and love. Come, come! To slight this dayWould be a sin. We'll ramble in the Park,And take our dinner there, and see the flowers,The children, and the swans, and all the placesWhich Linda used to love in babyhood,When, in her little carriage, like a queenShe'd sit, receiving homage from all eyes."
The father had his way; and in the ParkThey spent the happy time, and felt the charmWhich harmony complete with Nature bringsWhen loving spirits, unpreoccupied,Gain by surrender, and grow rich by giving.O sunshine and blue sky and genial airs!To human happiness, like daily bread,Your blessings come, till the unthinking heartRecks not the debt we owe your silent powers.If ye can give so much, what may not HeOf whose omnipotence ye are but shadowsHave in reserve in his eternities!
Thatevening, when the feast of strawberriesHad been partaken, and the happy threeSat down together, Linda asked: "And now,May I not hear the rest?"—"To-morrow, Linda,You shall hear all," said Percival; "but now,That brain of yours must tranquillize itselfBefore you try to sleep; and so, to-night,Let us have 'Annie Laurie,' 'Bonnie Doon,'And songs that most affront the dainty earOf modern fashion." Linda played and sangA full half-hour; then, turning on her chair,Said, "Now shall mother sing that cradle dittyYou made for me, an infant. Mother, mine,Imagine you are rocking me to sleep,As in those far-off days."
Replied the mother:"O the dear days! yet not more dear than these!For frugal Linda brings along with herAll of her past; the infant's purity,The child's confiding love, and now, at last,The maiden's free and quick intelligence!Be ever thus, my Linda; for the pureIn heart shall carry an immortal youthInto the great to-come. That little song—Well I remember the delightful timeWhen 'twas extemporized; when, with my pen,I noted down the words, while, by your crib,Your father sat, and you, with little fistsDrawn tight, would spring and start, as infants will,Crowing the while, and chuckling at the wordsNot comprehended yet, save in the smilesThat with them went! 'Twas at the mellow closeOf an autumnal day, and we were stayingIn a secluded village, where a brookBabbled beneath our window, and the humOf insects soothed us, while a louder noteFrom the hoarse frog's bassoon would, now and then,Break on the cricket's sleepy monotoneAnd startle laughter." Here the matron paused;Then sweeping, with a firm, elastic touch,The ivory keys, sang
Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!For to sleep our dear Linda is going;All good little lambs be reposing,For Linda one eyelid is closing.