VI.

Never was No administered more gentlyOr more decisively than in her answerTo the proposal in the crumpled letter.Musing before a picture Linda sat."In my poor little range of art," thought she,"I feel an expert's confidence; I knowThese things are unexcelled; and yet why is itThey do not bring their value? Come, I'll trySomething more difficult,—put all my skill,Knowledge, and work into one little piece."Bravely she strove: it was a simple scene,But with accessories as yet untried,And done in oil with microscopic care;An open window with a distant landscape,And on the window-sill a vase of flowers.It was a triumph, and she knew it was."Come, little housekeeper," she said to Rachel,"We'll go and seek our fortune." So she putUnder her arm the picture, and they wentTo show it to the dealer who had boughtMost of her works. But on her way she metA clerk of the establishment, who said:"Come into Taylor's here and take an ice;I'd like to tell you something for your good."When they all three were seated, Brown began:"You may not see me at the store again;For a ship's cousin wants my place, and so,With little ceremony, I'm dismissed.Now, if you've no objection, tell me whatThe old man gave you for that compositionIn which a bird—a humming-bird, I think—Follows a child who has a bunch of flowers.""Yes, I remember. Well, 'twas fifteen dollars.""Whew! He said fifty. Is it possible?You've seen the chromo copy, I suppose?""The chromo? I've seen nothing of a chromo.Never has my consent been given to publish!""That's little to the purpose, it would seem.A hundred thousand copies have been soldOf all your pieces, first and last. You stare?"A light broke in on Linda. All at onceThe mystery that hung upon her strivingsLay solved; the cloud was lifted; and she sawThat all this while she had not weighed her talentsIn a false balance; had not been the dupeOf her own aspirations and desires.With eyes elate and hope up-springing freshIn her glad heart, she cried, "And are you sure?""'Tis easily confirmed. Go ask the printer;Only my number is below the mark."From Brown, then, Linda got particulars,Showing 'twas not a random utterance."'Tis strange," she said, "that I've not seen the chromosAt the shop windows."—"Only recently,"Said he, "have they been sold here in the city;The market has been chiefly at the West.The old man thought it policy, perhaps,To do it on the sly, lest you should know.Well, well, in that bald head of his he hasA mine!" Then Linda struck the bell, and said:"This is my entertainment, Mr. Brown;Please let me pay for it." And Brown's "O no"Was not so wholly irresistibleThat Linda did not have her way in this.They parted."Why, Miss Percival," said Rachel,"You look precisely as you did that dayYou fired the pistol in the woods,—you do!I watched your eye, and knew you would not fail.""'Tis to bring down a different sort of game,We now go forth."—"But you forget your pistol.""This time we shall not need one. Did I notSay we were going forth to seek our fortune?Well, Rachel, my dear child, we've found it,—found it.""O, I'm so glad! (How rapidly you walk!)And shall we have the old piano back?""Ay, that we shall! And you shall go to-morrowAnd take a present to the poor blind auntAnd her old mother,—for they love you well.""A present! Why, Miss Percival, there's nothingI do so love to do as to make presents.I've made three in my lifetime; one a ringOf tortoise-shell; and one—"But here they enteredA picture-store. A man who stood alert,With thumbs hooked in the arm-holes of his vest,Advanced to welcome her. The "old man" he,Of Brown's narration; not so very old,However; not quite thirty-five, in fact.The capital which made his note so goodWas a bald head; a head you could not question;A head which was a pledge of solvency,A warrant of respectability!The scalp all glossy; tufts above the ears!This head he cultivated carefully,And always took his hat off when he wentTo ask a discount or to clinch a bargain."Ah! my young friend, Miss Percival," he cried,"You've something choice there, if I'm not mistaken."Linda took off the wrapper from her pictureAnd showed it.An expression of surpriseCame to the "old man's" features; but he hid itBy making of his hand a cylinderAnd looking through it, like a connoisseur.These were his exclamations: "Clever! Ay!Style somewhat new; landscape a shade too bright;The sky too blue, eh? Still a clever picture,—One of your best. Shall we say twenty dollars?"Taking the picture, Linda said, "Good morning!I'm in a hurry now, and you'll excuse me.""Will you not leave it?"—"No, I'm not disposedTo part with it at present."—"Thirty dollarsWould be a high price for it, but to aid youI'll call it thirty."—"Could you not say fifty?""You're joking with me now, Miss Percival.""Then we will end our pleasantry. Good by.""Stay! You want money: I shall be ashamedTo let my partners know it, but to showHow far I'll go for your encouragement—Come! I'll say fifty dollars."The "old man"Lowered his head, so that the burnished scalpMight strike her eye direct. ImpenetrableTo that appeal, Linda said: "I can getA hundred for it, I believe. Good day!""Stop, stop! For some time our intent has beenTo make you a small present as a proofOf our regard; now will I merge it inA hundred dollars for the picture. Well?""Nay, I would rather not accept a favor.I must go now,—will call again some day."Desperate the "old man" moved his head aboutIn the most striking lights, and patted itWildly at last, as if by that mute actTo stay the unrelenting fugitive.In vain! She glided off, and Rachel with her."Where now, Miss Percival?"—"To make a callUpon a lawyer for advice, my dear."Thoughtfully Diggin listened to the case,So clearly stated that no part of itWas left to disentangle. "Let me look,"He said, "at your new picture; our first stepShall be to fix the right of publicationIn you alone. Expect from me no praise,—For I'm no judge of art. Fine points of law,Not fine points in a picture, have engagedMy thoughts these twenty years. While you wait here,I'll send my clerk to copyright this painting.What shall we call it?"—"Call it, if you please,'The Prospect of the Flowers.'"—"That will do.Entered according to—et cetera.Your name is—" "Linda Percival."—"I thought so.Here, Edward, go and take a copyrightOut for this work, 'The Prospect of the Flowers.'First have it photographed, and then depositThe photographic copy with the Court."Then Diggin paced the room awhile, and ranThrough his lank hair his fingers nervously.At length his plan took shape; he stopped and said"You shall take back your picture to this dealer;Tell him 'tis not for sale, but get his promiseTo have it, for a fortnight, well displayedAt his shop window. This he'll not refuse.Don't sell at any price. What's your address?Edward shall go with you: 'tis well to haveA witness at this juncture. Write me downThe printer's name Brown gave you. Ay, that's right.Now go; and if the picture is removed—For purposes we'll not anticipate—As it will be—we'll corner the 'old man,'And his bald head sha'n't save him. By the way,If you want money let me be your banker;I'm well content to risk a thousand dollarsOn the result of my experiment."The picture was removed, as he foretold.Ten weeks went by; then Linda got it back."It is the pleasant season," said the lawyer;"Here are three hundred dollars. You start back!Miss Linda, I shall charge you ten per centOn all you borrow. Oh! You do not likeTo be in debt. This is my risk, not yours.If I recover nothing, then no debtShall be by you incurred,—so runs the bond!Truly, now, 'tis no sentimental loan:I trust another's solvency, not yours.At length you understand me,—you consent!Now do not go to work; but you and RachelGo spend a long vacation at the seaside.You want repose and sunshine and pure air.Be in no hurry to return. The longerYou're gone, the better. For a year at leastWe must keep dark. That puzzles you. No matter.Here, take my card, and should you any timeNeed money, do not hesitate to drawOn me for funds. There! Not a word! Good by!"In the cars, eastward bound! A clear, bright dayAfter a rain-storm; and, on both sides, verdure;Trees waving salutations, waters gleaming.The brightness had its type in Linda's looks,As, with her little protégée, she satAnd savored all the beauty, all the bloom.On the seat back of them, two gentlemenChatted at intervals in tones which LindaCould hardly fail to hear, though little heeding.But now and then, almost unconsciously,She found herself attending to their prattle.Said Gossip Number One: "You see that veteranIn the straw hat, and the young man beside him:Father and son are they. Old Lothian,Five months ago, was high among the trustedOf our chief bankers; Charles, his only son,By a maternal uncle's death enriched,Kept out of Wall Street; turned a stolid earTo all high-mounting schemes for doubling wealth,His taste inclining him to art and letters.But Lothian had a partner, Judd,—a scamp,As the result made evident; and JuddOne day was missing; bonds, securities,And bills, deposits of confiding folk,Guardians, and widows, and old men retired,All had been gobbled up by Judd—convertedInto hard cash—and Judd had disappeared.Despair for Lothian! a man whose wordNo legal form could make more absolute.Crushed, mortified, and rendered powerless,He could not breast the storm. The mental strainThrew him upon his bed, and there he layTill Charles, from Italy in haste returning,Found his old sire emaciate and half deadFrom wounded honor. 'Come! no more of this!'Cried Charles; 'how happened it that you forgotYou had a son? All shall be well, my father.'He paid off all the liabilities,And found himself without three thousand dollarsOut of a fortune of at least a million.What shall we call him, imbecile or saint?His plan is now to set up as a teacher.Of such a teacher let each thrifty fatherBeware, or he may see his only sonTurn out a poor enthusiast,—perhaps—Who knows?—an advocate of woman's rights!"Attracted by the story, Linda triedTo get a sight of him, the simpleton;And, when she saw his face, it seemed to herStrangely familiar. Was it in a dreamThat she had once beheld it? Vain the attemptOf peering memory to fix the whereAnd when of the encounter! Yet she knewThat with it was allied a grateful thought.Then Rachel spoke and made the puzzle clear:"The man who sent us in his carriage home,That day you fainted,—don't you recollect?""Ay, surely! 'tis the same. No dream-face that!Charles Lothian, is he? If his acts are folly,Then may I be a fool! Such fools are rare.How tender of his father he appears!I wonder where they're going."When, at Springfield,Father and son got out, a sigh, or ratherThe ghost of one, and hardly audible,Escaped from Linda. Then Charles Lothian,While the cars waited, caught her eye, and bowed.So he remembered her! "Now that was odd.But the bell sounds; the locomotive puffs;The train moves on. Charles Lothian, good by!Eastward we go; away from you—away—Never to meet again in this wide world;—Like ships that in mid-ocean meet and part,To meet no more—O, nevermore—perchance!"VI.BY THE SEASIDE.Borneswiftly to the North Cape of the Bay,Still on the wings of steam the travellers went;And tenderly the purple sunset smiledUpon their journey's end; a little cottageWith oaks and pines behind it, and, before,High ocean crags, and under them the ocean,Unintercepted far as sight could reach!Foliage and waves! A combination rareOf lofty sylvan table-land, and then—No barren strip to mar the interval—The watery waste, the ever-changing main!Old Ocean, with a diadem of verdureCrowning the summit where his reach was stayed!The shore, a line of rocks precipitous,Piled on each other, leaving chasms profound,Into whose rifts the foamy waters rushedWith gurgling roar, then flowed in runlets backTill the surge drove them furiously in,Shaking with thunderous bass the cloven granite!Yet to the earth-line of the tumbled cliffsThe wild grass crept; the sweet-leafed bayberryScented the briny air; the fern, the sumach,The prostrate juniper, the flowering thorn,The blueberry, the clinging blackberry,Tangled the fragrant sod; and in their midstThe red rose bloomed, wet with the drifted spray.From the main shore cut off, and isolatedBy the invading, the circumfluent waves,A rock which time had made an island, spreadWith a small patch of brine-defying herbage,Is known as Norman's Woe; for, on this rock,Two hundred years ago, was Captain Norman,In his good ship from England, driven and wreckedIn a wild storm, and every life was lost.Stand on the cliff near by,—southeasterlyAre only waves on waves to the horizon;But easterly, less than two miles across,And forming with the coast-line, whence you look,The harbor's entrance, stretches Eastern Point,A lighthouse at its end; a mile of landArm-like thrust out to keep the ocean off;So narrow that beyond its width, due east,You see the Atlantic glittering, hardly madeLess inconspicuous by the intervention.The cottage fare, the renovating breeze,The grove, the piny odors, and the flowers,Rambles at morning and the twilight time,Sea-bathing, joyous and exhilarant,Siestas on the rocks, with inhalationsOf the pure breathings of the ocean-tide,—Soon wrought in both the maidens visible change.Each day their walks grew longer, till at lastA ten-mile tramp was no infrequent one."And where to-day?" asked Rachel, one fair morning."To Eastern Point," said Linda; "with our baskets!For berries, there's no place like Eastern Point;Blackberries, whortleberries, pigeon-pears,—All we shall find in prodigality!"And so by what was once the old stage-roadContiguous to the shore, and through the woods,—Though long abandoned save by scenery-hunters,And overgrown with grass and vines and bushes;Then leaving on their right the wooded hillNamed from the rattlesnakes, now obsolete;Then by the Cove, and by the bend of shoreOver Stage-rocks, by little Half-moon beach,Across the Cut, the Creek, by the Hotel,And through the village, even to Eastern Point,—The maidens went, and had a happy day.And, when the setting sun blazed clear and mild,And every little cloud was steeped in crimson,To a small wharf upon the harbor side,Along the beach they strolled, and looked acrossThe stretch of wave to Norman's Woe;—and LindaWistfully said: "Heigho! I own I'm tired;And you, too, Rachel, you look travel-worn,And hardly good for four miles more of road.Could we but make this short cut over water!What would I give now for a boat to take usTo Webber's Cove! O, if some timely oarsmanWould only come and say, 'Fair demoiselles,My skiff lies yonder, rocking on the tide,And eager to convey you to your home!'Then would I——Rachel!""What, Miss Percival?""Look at those men descending from the ridge!""Well, I can see an old man and a young.""And is that all you have to say of them?""How should I know about them? Ah! I see!Those are the two we met three weeks ago,—The day we left New York,—met in the cars.""Ay, Rachel, and their name is Lothian;Father and son are they. Who would have thoughtThat they would find their way to Eastern Point?""Why not, as well as we, Miss Percival?Look! To the wharf they go; and there, beside it,If I'm not much mistaken, lies a boat.The wished-for oarsman he! O, this is luck!They're going to the boat,—he'll row us over,I'll run and ask him. See you to my basket.""Rachel! Stop, Rachel! Fie, you forward girl!Don't think of it: come back! back, back, I say!"But Rachel did not hear, or would not heed,Straight to the boat she ran, and, as the menDrew nigh and stopped,—to Linda's dire dismayShe went up and accosted them, and pointedTo Norman's Woe,—then back to her companion,—And then, with gesture eloquent of thanksFor some reply the younger man had made,She seemed to lead the way, and he to followAlong the foot-path to the granite benchWhere Linda sat, abashed and wondering.And, when they stood before her, Rachel said"Miss Percival, here's Mr. Lothian;He has a boat near by, and will be gladTo give us seats and row us both across."Charles Lothian bowed, and Linda, blushing, said,"Against my orders did this little ladyAccost you, sir, but I will not affectRegret at her success, if you're content.""More than content, I'm very glad," said Charles;"My boat is amply large enough for four,And we are bound, it seems, all the same way.My father and myself have taken roomsAt Mistress Moore's, not far from where you live:So count your obligation very slight.""An obligation not the first!" said Linda."So much the better!" said Charles Lothian:"Come, take my arm, and let me hold your basket.What noble blackberries! I'll taste of one.""Why not of two? As many as you will?""Thank you. You've been adventurous, it seems.""Yes, Fortune favors the adventurous:See the old proverb verified to-day!""Praise a good day when ended. Here's my father:Father, Miss Percival!" The senior bowed,And said, "I used to know—" And then, as ifChecked by a reminiscence that might beUnwelcome, he was silent, and they wentAll to the boat. "Please let me take an oar,"Said Linda. "Can you row?" asked Charles. "A little!My father taught me." Then old LothianLooked at her with a scrutinizing glance.The ocean billows melted into one,And that stretched level as a marble floor.All winds were hushed, and only sunset tintsFrom purple cloudlets, edged with fiery gold,And a bright crimson fleece the sun had left,Fell on the liquid plain incarnadined.The very pulse of ocean now was mute;From the far-off profound, no throb, no swell!Motionless on the coastwise ships the sailsHung limp and white, their very shadows white.The lighthouse windows drank the kindling red,And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit."A heavenly eve!" sighed Linda, rapt in praise,As with poised oars the two looked oceanward.Then, keeping time, they pulled out from the shore."But you row well!" cried Charles. "I might returnThe compliment," said Linda. "See that duck!How near, how still he floats! He seems to knowThe holy time will keep him safe from harm.""Had I a gun," said Charles—"You would not use it,"Cried Linda, flushing. "And why not?" quoth he."'Nobility obliges'; sympathyNow makes all nature one and intimate;And we'd respect, even in a duck, his shareIn this tranquillity, this perfect rest.""I'm glad, then, that I'm gunless," Charles replied."Hear him!" the sire exclaimed; "he'd have you thinkHe's a great sportsman. Be not duped, my dear!He will not shoot nor fish! He got a woundAt Gettysburg, I grant you,—what of that?He would far rather face a batteryThan kill a duck, or even hook a cunner.""See now," said Charles, "the mischievous effectOf this exhilarating Cape Ann air!'Tis the first taunt I've heard from lips of hisSince my return from Europe. Look you, father,If I'm to be exposed before young ladies,Your rations shall be stopped, and your supplyOf oxygen reduced,—with no more joking.Don't eye those berries so feloniously.Because you've now an appetite,—becauseYou've just begun to gain a little flesh,—Must I be made the target of your jeers?"Smiling, but with sad eyes, the father said:"Ah! Charlie, Charlie, when I think of it,—Think how you've thrown, poor boy, your very lifeInto the breach of ruin made for me,—Sacrificed all, to draw the lethal dartOut of my wounded honor—to restore—""Give us a song, Miss Percival, a song!"Charles, interrupting, said. "The time, the place,Call for a song. Look! All the lighthousesFlash greeting to the night. There Eastern PointFlames out! Lo, little Ten Pound Island follows!See Baker's Island kindling! MarbleheadAblaze! Egg Rock, too, off Nahant, on fire!And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge!Like the wise virgins, all, with ready lamps!Now might I turn fire-worshipper, and bowIn adoration at this solemn rite:I'll compromise, however, for a song.""Lest you turn Pagan, then, I'll sing," quoth Linda.And, while they rested on their oars, she sang.LINDA'S SONG.A little bird flewTo the top of a tree:The sky it was blue,And the bird sang to me.So tender and true was the strainThe singer, I hoped, would remain;O little bird, stay and prolongThe rapture the grief of that song!A little thought came,Came out of my heart;It whispered a nameThat made me to start:And the rose-colored breath of my sighFlushed the earth and the sea and the sky.Delay, little thought! O, delay,And gladden my life with thy ray!"Such singing lured Ulysses to the rocks!"Old Lothian said, applauding. "Charles, look out,Or, ere we reck of it, this reckless sirenWill have us all a wreck on Norman's Woe.See to your oars!—Where are we drifting, man?""Who would not drift on such a night as this?"Said Charles; "all's right." Then, heading for the Cove,Slowly and steadily the rowers pulled.But, when the moon shone crescent in the west,And the faint outline of the part obscuredThread-like curved visible from horn to horn,—And Jupiter, supreme among the orbs,And Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth,And the great concave opened like a flower,Unfolding firmaments and galaxies,Sparkling with separate stars, or snowy whiteWith undistinguishable suns beyond,—They paused and rested on their oars again,And looked around,—in adoration looked.For, gazing on the inconceivable,They felt God is, though inconceivable;—And, while they mutely worshipped, suddenlyA change came over Linda's countenance,And her glazed mortal eyes were functionless;For there, before her in the boat, stood twoUnbidden, not unwelcome passengers,Her father and her mother...."Why, Miss Linda,Wake! Are you sleeping? What has been the matter?Here we've been waiting for you full five minutes.And I have called, and Mr. LothianHe too has called, and yet you make no answer!""Rachel! What is it? There! Excuse me all,If I seemed impolite. Now, then, I'm ready.A strong pull shall it be? So! Let her dart!"And in ten minutes they were at the landingAnd on their homeward way; and, as they parted,The spoils were shared, and the old man acceptedOne of the baskets, and all cried, "Good night!"The morning sea-fog like an incense roseUp to the sun and perished in his beam;The sky's blue promise brightened through the veil.With her unopened sketch-book in her hand,Linda stood on the summit looking downOn Norman's Woe, and felt upon her browThe cooling haze that foiled the August heat.Near her knelt Rachel, hunting curiouslyFor the fine purple algæ of the clefts.Good cause had Linda for a cheerful heart;For had she not that day received by mailA copy of "The Prospect of the Flowers,"—Published in chromo, and these words from Diggin?"Your future is assured: my bait is swallowed,Bait, hook, and sinker, all; now let our fishHave line enough and time enough for play,And we will land him safely by and by.A good fat fish he is, and thinks he's cunning.Enclosed you'll find a hundred-dollar bill;Please send me a receipt. Keep very quiet."Yet Linda was not altogether happy.Why was it that Charles Lothian had calledOnce, and once only, after their adventure?Called just to ask her, How she found herself?And, Did she overtask herself in rowing?How happened it, in all her walks and rambles,They rarely met, or, if they met, a bowFormal and cold was all the interview?While thus she mused, she started at a cry:"Ah! here's our siren, cumbent on the rocks!Where should a siren be, if not on rocks?"Old Lothian's voice! He came with rod and lineTo try an angler's luck. Behind him steppedCharles, who stood still, as if arrested, whenHe noticed Linda.Then, as if relentingIn some resolve, he jumped from rock to rockTo where she leaned; and, greeting her, inquired:"Have you been sketching?"—"No, for indolenceIs now my occupation."—"Here's a book;May I not look at it?"—"You may."—"Is thisAn album?"—"'Tis my sketch-book."—"Do you meanThese are your sketches, and original?""Ay, truly, mine; from nature every one.""But here we have high art! No amateurCould color flower like that."—"Ah! there you touch me;For I'm no amateur in painting flowers,—I get my living by it."—"I could praiseThat sea-view also,—what a depth of sky!That beach,—that schooner flying from a squall,—If I'm a judge, here's something more than skill!"Then the discourse slid off to woman's rights;For Lothian held a newspaper which toldOf some convention, the report of whichMight raise a smile. One of the lady speakers,It seems, would give her sex the privilegeOf taking the initiative in wooing,If so disposed!"Indeed, why not?" cried Linda."Indeed, you almost take my breath awayWith your Why not, Miss Percival! Why not?""Yes, I repeat,—if so disposed, why not?For why should woman any more than manPlay the dissembler, with so much at stake?I know the ready taunt that here will rise:'Already none too backward are our girlsIn husband-seeking.' Seeking in what way?Seeking by stratagem and management,—Not by frank, honest means! What food for mirth'Twould give to shallow men to see a womanCourt the relation, intertwined with allOf purest happiness that she may crave,—The ties of wife and mother! O, what pointing,Sneering, and joking! And yet why should careThoughtful and pure and wisely provident,That Nature's sacred prompting shall not fail,Be one thing for a man, and quite anotherFor her, the woman? Why this flimsy mask?This playing of a part, put on to suit,Not the heart's need, but Fashion custom-bound?Feigning we must be sought, and never seek?Now, through these social hindrances and bars,The bold, perhaps the intriguing, carry offPrizes the true and modest ought to win.And so we hear it coarsely said of husbands,'Better a poor one far, than none at all!'A thought ignoble, and which no true womanShould harbor for a moment. Give her freedom,Freedom to seek, and she'll not harbor it!Because if woman, equally with man,Were privileged thus, she would discriminateMuch more than now, and fewer sordid unionsWould be the sure result. For what if manWere chained to singleness until some womanMight seek his hand in marriage, would he beLikely as now to make a wise election?Would he not say, 'Time flies; my chances lessenAnd I must plainly take what I can get?'True, there are mercenary men enough,Seeking rich dowries; they'd find fewer dupes,Were women free as men to seek and choose,Banish the senseless inequality,And you make marriage less a vulgar gameIn which one tries to circumvent the other.Oh! all this morbid ribaldry ofmen,And all this passive imbecility,And superstitious inactivity,Dissimulation and improvidence,False shame and lazy prejudice ofwomen,Where the great miracle of sex concerns us,And Candor should be innocently wise,And Knowledge should be reverently free,—Is against nature,[9]—helps to hide the wayOut of the social horrors that confound us,And launches thousands into paths impure,Shutting them out from holy parentage.""I hold," said Charles, "the question is not oneOf reasoning, but of simple sentiment.As it would shock me, should a woman speakIn virile baritone, so would I shudderTo hear a grave proposal marriagewardIn alto or soprano.""'Twould depend!Depend on love," said Linda; "love potential,Or present."—"Nay, 'twould frighten love!" cried Charles,—"Kill it outright."—"Then would it not be love!What! would you love a woman less becauseShe durst avow her love, before the cueHad been imparted by your lordly lips?Rare love would that be truly which could freezeBecause the truth came candid from her heart,And in advance of the proprieties!""But may the woman I could love," cried Charles,"Forbear at least the rash experiment!""I doubt," said Linda, "if you know your heart;For hearts look to the substance, not the form.Why should not woman seek her happinessWith brow as unabashed as man may wearIn seeking his? Ah! lack of candor hereWorks more regrets, for woman and for man,Than we can reckon. Let but woman feelThat in the social scheme she's not a cipher,The remedy, be sure, is not far off.""To me it seems," said Lothian, "that you warAgainst our natural instincts: have they notSettled the point, even as the world has done?"Said Linda: "Instincts differ; they may beResults of shallow prejudice or custom.The Turk will tell you that polygamyIs instinct; and the savage who stalks onIn dirty painted grandeur, while his squawCarries the burdens, might reply that instinctRegulates that. So instinct proves too much.Queens and great heiresses are privilegedTo intimate their matrimonial choice,—Simply because superiorityIn power or riches gives an apt excuse:Let a plurality of women haveThe wealth and power, and you might see reversedWhat now you call an instinct. When a higherCivilization shall make woman lessDependent for protection and supportOn man's caprice or pleasure, there may beA higher sort of woman; one who shallFeel that her lot is more in her own hands,And she, like man, a free controlling force,Not a mere pensioner on paternal bountyUntil some sultan throws the handkerchief."A cry of triumph from the fisherman,Exuberant at having caught a bass,Here ended the discussion, leaving LindaWith the last word. Charles went to chat with Rachel;And Linda, summoned by vociferationsFrom the excited, the transported captor,Descended to inspect the amazing fish."A beauty, is it not, Miss Percival?A rare one, too, for this part of the coast!'Twill be a study how to have it cooked.Now sit here, in the shadow of this rock.Your father's name was Albert Percival?So I supposed. I've often heard my wifeSpeak of him as of one she knew was wrongedMost foully in his wrestle with the law.Have you not met with Harriet Percival?""Once only, and our interview was brief.Is she not married?"—"No, nor like to be,Although her fortune is a pretty one,Even for these times,—two millions, I believe;All which her mother may inherit soon;For Harriet is an invalid, but hoardsHer income quite as thriftily as ifShe looked for progeny and length of days.The mother, as you may not be aware,Has married an aspiring gentlemanWho means to build a palace on the Hudson,And Harriet's money hence is greatly needed."The mist now cleared, and the sun shone in power,So that the heat soon drove them to the woods.The senior took his capture home for dinner;Rachel strolled, picking berries by the brook;And, under lofty pines, sat Charles and Linda,And talked discursively, till Linda's thoughts,Inclining now to memory, now to hope,Vibrating from the future to the past,Took, in a silent mood, this rhythmic form.UNDER THE PINES.O pine-trees! bid the busy breeze be stillThat through your tops roars like the constant surge:Such was the sound I heard in happy daysUnder the pines.In happy days, when those I loved were by;In happy days, when love was daily food;And jocund childhood, finding it, found joyUnder the pines.Again I hear the west-wind in your tops;Again I scent the odor you exhale;But sound and odor now provoke but tearsUnder the pines.O pine-trees! shall a different joy be mine,One day when I shall seek your fragrant shade?Whisper it faintly, breezes, to my heartUnder the pines."Truly, Miss Percival, you puzzle me,"Said Charles, upon her silent reveryBreaking abruptly in: "ay, you could fireAnd wound the villain bearing off the child,And you can brave the radical extremeOn this great woman question of the day,—Yet do you seem a very woman still,And not at all like any man I know,—Not even like an undeveloped man!And I'm not greatly exercised by fear,Leaning here by your side thus lazily.""Don't mock me now," said Linda; "I'm not armed;Be generous, therefore, in your raillery.""Not armed? Then will I venture to proposeThat when the tide is low this afternoonWe try the beach on horseback. Will you venture?"The joy that sparkled in her eyes said "Yes"Before her tongue could duplicate assent.Said Charles, "I'll bring the horses round at six.""I will be ready, Mr. Lothian."There was no breach of punctuality:Though sighs, from deeper founts than tears, were heaved,When she drew forth the summer riding-habitWorn last when in the saddle with her father."Here are the horses at the door!" cried Rachel;"A bay horse and a black; the bay is yours."When they were mounted, Lothian remarked:"Little Good Harbor Beach shall be our point;So called because an Indian once pronouncedThe harbor 'little good,' meaning 'quite bad';A broad and open beach, from which you seeRunning out southerly the ocean sideOf Eastern Point; its lofty landward endGray with huge cliffs. There shall you mark 'Bass Rock,'Rare outlook when a storm-wind from the eastHurls the Atlantic up the craggy heights."The air was genial, and a rapid trotSoon brought them to the beach. The ebb had leftA level stretch of sand, wide, smooth, and hard,With not a hoof-mark on the glistening plain.The horses tossed their heads with snorting pride,Feeling the ocean breeze, as curved and fellUp the long line the creeping fringe of foam,Then backward slid in undulating glass,While all the west in Tyrian splendor flamed."But this is life!" cried Linda, as she putHer horse to all his speed, and shook her whip.They skimmed the sand, they chased the flying wave,They walked their horses slow along the beach:And, as the light fell on a far-off sail,And made it a white glory to the eye,Said Linda: "See! it fades into the gray,And now 'tis dim, and now is seen no more!Yet would a little height reveal it still.So fade from memory scenes which higher pointsOf vision shall reveal: the beautiful,The good, shall never die; and so to-dayShall be a lasting, everlasting joy!""Would I might see more of such days!" said he,"In the obscure before me! Fate forbids.My time of idlesse terminates to-night.To-morrow to the city we return.Thither I go, to open, in October,A private school; and I must find a houseAnd make my preparations."On they rode,After these words, in silence for a mileUpon their homeward way. Then Lothian:"And what will your address be, in the city?""I do not know, nor care," said Linda, switchingHer horse's ear, to start a quicker trot.Another mile of silence! "Look!" cried he;"The lighthouse light salutes us!"—"Yes, I see.""Why do you go so fast?"—"I'll slacken speedIf you desire it. There!" They breathed their horses;Then Lothian: "Indeed, I hope that weShall meet again."—"Why not? The world is wide,But I have known a letter in a bottle,Flung over in mid-ocean, to be foundAnd reach its owner. Doubtless, we may meet.""I'm glad to find you confident of that."Silence again! And so they rode alongTill they saw Rachel coming from the houseTo greet them. Charles helped Linda to dismount,Held out his hand, and said, "Good by, Miss Linda.""Good by!" she cheerily answered; "bid your fatherGood by for me. And so you go indeedTo-morrow?"—"Yes, we may not meet again.""Well; pleasant journey!"—"Thank you. Good by, Rachel."He rode away, leading her panting horse;And, when the trees concealed him, Linda rushedUp stairs, and locked the door, and wept awhile.As, early the next morning, she looked forthOn the blue ocean from the open window,"Now, then, for work!" she cried, and drew her palmAcross her brow, as if to thrust awayThoughts that too perseveringly came backShe heard a step. 'Tis he! "I hardly hoped,Miss Percival, to find you up so early:Good by, once more!"—"Good by! Don't miss the train."At this a shadow fell on Lothian's face,As with uplifted hat and thwarted smile,He turned away. Then off with hasty strideHe walked and struck the bushes listlessly."What did I mean by speaking so?" said Linda,With hand outstretched, as if to draw him back."Poor fellow! He looked sad; but why—but whyIs he so undemonstrative? And whyCould he not ask again for my address,I'd like to know?" Poor Linda! She could preach,But, like her elders, could not always practise.VII.FROM LINDA'S DIARY.I.

Never was No administered more gentlyOr more decisively than in her answerTo the proposal in the crumpled letter.Musing before a picture Linda sat."In my poor little range of art," thought she,"I feel an expert's confidence; I knowThese things are unexcelled; and yet why is itThey do not bring their value? Come, I'll trySomething more difficult,—put all my skill,Knowledge, and work into one little piece."Bravely she strove: it was a simple scene,But with accessories as yet untried,And done in oil with microscopic care;An open window with a distant landscape,And on the window-sill a vase of flowers.It was a triumph, and she knew it was."Come, little housekeeper," she said to Rachel,"We'll go and seek our fortune." So she putUnder her arm the picture, and they wentTo show it to the dealer who had boughtMost of her works. But on her way she metA clerk of the establishment, who said:"Come into Taylor's here and take an ice;I'd like to tell you something for your good."When they all three were seated, Brown began:"You may not see me at the store again;For a ship's cousin wants my place, and so,With little ceremony, I'm dismissed.Now, if you've no objection, tell me whatThe old man gave you for that compositionIn which a bird—a humming-bird, I think—Follows a child who has a bunch of flowers.""Yes, I remember. Well, 'twas fifteen dollars.""Whew! He said fifty. Is it possible?You've seen the chromo copy, I suppose?""The chromo? I've seen nothing of a chromo.Never has my consent been given to publish!""That's little to the purpose, it would seem.A hundred thousand copies have been soldOf all your pieces, first and last. You stare?"A light broke in on Linda. All at onceThe mystery that hung upon her strivingsLay solved; the cloud was lifted; and she sawThat all this while she had not weighed her talentsIn a false balance; had not been the dupeOf her own aspirations and desires.With eyes elate and hope up-springing freshIn her glad heart, she cried, "And are you sure?""'Tis easily confirmed. Go ask the printer;Only my number is below the mark."From Brown, then, Linda got particulars,Showing 'twas not a random utterance."'Tis strange," she said, "that I've not seen the chromosAt the shop windows."—"Only recently,"Said he, "have they been sold here in the city;The market has been chiefly at the West.The old man thought it policy, perhaps,To do it on the sly, lest you should know.Well, well, in that bald head of his he hasA mine!" Then Linda struck the bell, and said:"This is my entertainment, Mr. Brown;Please let me pay for it." And Brown's "O no"Was not so wholly irresistibleThat Linda did not have her way in this.They parted."Why, Miss Percival," said Rachel,"You look precisely as you did that dayYou fired the pistol in the woods,—you do!I watched your eye, and knew you would not fail.""'Tis to bring down a different sort of game,We now go forth."—"But you forget your pistol.""This time we shall not need one. Did I notSay we were going forth to seek our fortune?Well, Rachel, my dear child, we've found it,—found it.""O, I'm so glad! (How rapidly you walk!)And shall we have the old piano back?""Ay, that we shall! And you shall go to-morrowAnd take a present to the poor blind auntAnd her old mother,—for they love you well.""A present! Why, Miss Percival, there's nothingI do so love to do as to make presents.I've made three in my lifetime; one a ringOf tortoise-shell; and one—"But here they enteredA picture-store. A man who stood alert,With thumbs hooked in the arm-holes of his vest,Advanced to welcome her. The "old man" he,Of Brown's narration; not so very old,However; not quite thirty-five, in fact.The capital which made his note so goodWas a bald head; a head you could not question;A head which was a pledge of solvency,A warrant of respectability!The scalp all glossy; tufts above the ears!This head he cultivated carefully,And always took his hat off when he wentTo ask a discount or to clinch a bargain."Ah! my young friend, Miss Percival," he cried,"You've something choice there, if I'm not mistaken."Linda took off the wrapper from her pictureAnd showed it.An expression of surpriseCame to the "old man's" features; but he hid itBy making of his hand a cylinderAnd looking through it, like a connoisseur.These were his exclamations: "Clever! Ay!Style somewhat new; landscape a shade too bright;The sky too blue, eh? Still a clever picture,—One of your best. Shall we say twenty dollars?"Taking the picture, Linda said, "Good morning!I'm in a hurry now, and you'll excuse me.""Will you not leave it?"—"No, I'm not disposedTo part with it at present."—"Thirty dollarsWould be a high price for it, but to aid youI'll call it thirty."—"Could you not say fifty?""You're joking with me now, Miss Percival.""Then we will end our pleasantry. Good by.""Stay! You want money: I shall be ashamedTo let my partners know it, but to showHow far I'll go for your encouragement—Come! I'll say fifty dollars."The "old man"Lowered his head, so that the burnished scalpMight strike her eye direct. ImpenetrableTo that appeal, Linda said: "I can getA hundred for it, I believe. Good day!""Stop, stop! For some time our intent has beenTo make you a small present as a proofOf our regard; now will I merge it inA hundred dollars for the picture. Well?""Nay, I would rather not accept a favor.I must go now,—will call again some day."Desperate the "old man" moved his head aboutIn the most striking lights, and patted itWildly at last, as if by that mute actTo stay the unrelenting fugitive.In vain! She glided off, and Rachel with her."Where now, Miss Percival?"—"To make a callUpon a lawyer for advice, my dear."Thoughtfully Diggin listened to the case,So clearly stated that no part of itWas left to disentangle. "Let me look,"He said, "at your new picture; our first stepShall be to fix the right of publicationIn you alone. Expect from me no praise,—For I'm no judge of art. Fine points of law,Not fine points in a picture, have engagedMy thoughts these twenty years. While you wait here,I'll send my clerk to copyright this painting.What shall we call it?"—"Call it, if you please,'The Prospect of the Flowers.'"—"That will do.Entered according to—et cetera.Your name is—" "Linda Percival."—"I thought so.Here, Edward, go and take a copyrightOut for this work, 'The Prospect of the Flowers.'First have it photographed, and then depositThe photographic copy with the Court."Then Diggin paced the room awhile, and ranThrough his lank hair his fingers nervously.At length his plan took shape; he stopped and said"You shall take back your picture to this dealer;Tell him 'tis not for sale, but get his promiseTo have it, for a fortnight, well displayedAt his shop window. This he'll not refuse.Don't sell at any price. What's your address?Edward shall go with you: 'tis well to haveA witness at this juncture. Write me downThe printer's name Brown gave you. Ay, that's right.Now go; and if the picture is removed—For purposes we'll not anticipate—As it will be—we'll corner the 'old man,'And his bald head sha'n't save him. By the way,If you want money let me be your banker;I'm well content to risk a thousand dollarsOn the result of my experiment."The picture was removed, as he foretold.Ten weeks went by; then Linda got it back."It is the pleasant season," said the lawyer;"Here are three hundred dollars. You start back!Miss Linda, I shall charge you ten per centOn all you borrow. Oh! You do not likeTo be in debt. This is my risk, not yours.If I recover nothing, then no debtShall be by you incurred,—so runs the bond!Truly, now, 'tis no sentimental loan:I trust another's solvency, not yours.At length you understand me,—you consent!Now do not go to work; but you and RachelGo spend a long vacation at the seaside.You want repose and sunshine and pure air.Be in no hurry to return. The longerYou're gone, the better. For a year at leastWe must keep dark. That puzzles you. No matter.Here, take my card, and should you any timeNeed money, do not hesitate to drawOn me for funds. There! Not a word! Good by!"In the cars, eastward bound! A clear, bright dayAfter a rain-storm; and, on both sides, verdure;Trees waving salutations, waters gleaming.The brightness had its type in Linda's looks,As, with her little protégée, she satAnd savored all the beauty, all the bloom.On the seat back of them, two gentlemenChatted at intervals in tones which LindaCould hardly fail to hear, though little heeding.But now and then, almost unconsciously,She found herself attending to their prattle.Said Gossip Number One: "You see that veteranIn the straw hat, and the young man beside him:Father and son are they. Old Lothian,Five months ago, was high among the trustedOf our chief bankers; Charles, his only son,By a maternal uncle's death enriched,Kept out of Wall Street; turned a stolid earTo all high-mounting schemes for doubling wealth,His taste inclining him to art and letters.But Lothian had a partner, Judd,—a scamp,As the result made evident; and JuddOne day was missing; bonds, securities,And bills, deposits of confiding folk,Guardians, and widows, and old men retired,All had been gobbled up by Judd—convertedInto hard cash—and Judd had disappeared.Despair for Lothian! a man whose wordNo legal form could make more absolute.Crushed, mortified, and rendered powerless,He could not breast the storm. The mental strainThrew him upon his bed, and there he layTill Charles, from Italy in haste returning,Found his old sire emaciate and half deadFrom wounded honor. 'Come! no more of this!'Cried Charles; 'how happened it that you forgotYou had a son? All shall be well, my father.'He paid off all the liabilities,And found himself without three thousand dollarsOut of a fortune of at least a million.What shall we call him, imbecile or saint?His plan is now to set up as a teacher.Of such a teacher let each thrifty fatherBeware, or he may see his only sonTurn out a poor enthusiast,—perhaps—Who knows?—an advocate of woman's rights!"Attracted by the story, Linda triedTo get a sight of him, the simpleton;And, when she saw his face, it seemed to herStrangely familiar. Was it in a dreamThat she had once beheld it? Vain the attemptOf peering memory to fix the whereAnd when of the encounter! Yet she knewThat with it was allied a grateful thought.Then Rachel spoke and made the puzzle clear:"The man who sent us in his carriage home,That day you fainted,—don't you recollect?""Ay, surely! 'tis the same. No dream-face that!Charles Lothian, is he? If his acts are folly,Then may I be a fool! Such fools are rare.How tender of his father he appears!I wonder where they're going."When, at Springfield,Father and son got out, a sigh, or ratherThe ghost of one, and hardly audible,Escaped from Linda. Then Charles Lothian,While the cars waited, caught her eye, and bowed.So he remembered her! "Now that was odd.But the bell sounds; the locomotive puffs;The train moves on. Charles Lothian, good by!Eastward we go; away from you—away—Never to meet again in this wide world;—Like ships that in mid-ocean meet and part,To meet no more—O, nevermore—perchance!"VI.BY THE SEASIDE.Borneswiftly to the North Cape of the Bay,Still on the wings of steam the travellers went;And tenderly the purple sunset smiledUpon their journey's end; a little cottageWith oaks and pines behind it, and, before,High ocean crags, and under them the ocean,Unintercepted far as sight could reach!Foliage and waves! A combination rareOf lofty sylvan table-land, and then—No barren strip to mar the interval—The watery waste, the ever-changing main!Old Ocean, with a diadem of verdureCrowning the summit where his reach was stayed!The shore, a line of rocks precipitous,Piled on each other, leaving chasms profound,Into whose rifts the foamy waters rushedWith gurgling roar, then flowed in runlets backTill the surge drove them furiously in,Shaking with thunderous bass the cloven granite!Yet to the earth-line of the tumbled cliffsThe wild grass crept; the sweet-leafed bayberryScented the briny air; the fern, the sumach,The prostrate juniper, the flowering thorn,The blueberry, the clinging blackberry,Tangled the fragrant sod; and in their midstThe red rose bloomed, wet with the drifted spray.From the main shore cut off, and isolatedBy the invading, the circumfluent waves,A rock which time had made an island, spreadWith a small patch of brine-defying herbage,Is known as Norman's Woe; for, on this rock,Two hundred years ago, was Captain Norman,In his good ship from England, driven and wreckedIn a wild storm, and every life was lost.Stand on the cliff near by,—southeasterlyAre only waves on waves to the horizon;But easterly, less than two miles across,And forming with the coast-line, whence you look,The harbor's entrance, stretches Eastern Point,A lighthouse at its end; a mile of landArm-like thrust out to keep the ocean off;So narrow that beyond its width, due east,You see the Atlantic glittering, hardly madeLess inconspicuous by the intervention.The cottage fare, the renovating breeze,The grove, the piny odors, and the flowers,Rambles at morning and the twilight time,Sea-bathing, joyous and exhilarant,Siestas on the rocks, with inhalationsOf the pure breathings of the ocean-tide,—Soon wrought in both the maidens visible change.Each day their walks grew longer, till at lastA ten-mile tramp was no infrequent one."And where to-day?" asked Rachel, one fair morning."To Eastern Point," said Linda; "with our baskets!For berries, there's no place like Eastern Point;Blackberries, whortleberries, pigeon-pears,—All we shall find in prodigality!"And so by what was once the old stage-roadContiguous to the shore, and through the woods,—Though long abandoned save by scenery-hunters,And overgrown with grass and vines and bushes;Then leaving on their right the wooded hillNamed from the rattlesnakes, now obsolete;Then by the Cove, and by the bend of shoreOver Stage-rocks, by little Half-moon beach,Across the Cut, the Creek, by the Hotel,And through the village, even to Eastern Point,—The maidens went, and had a happy day.And, when the setting sun blazed clear and mild,And every little cloud was steeped in crimson,To a small wharf upon the harbor side,Along the beach they strolled, and looked acrossThe stretch of wave to Norman's Woe;—and LindaWistfully said: "Heigho! I own I'm tired;And you, too, Rachel, you look travel-worn,And hardly good for four miles more of road.Could we but make this short cut over water!What would I give now for a boat to take usTo Webber's Cove! O, if some timely oarsmanWould only come and say, 'Fair demoiselles,My skiff lies yonder, rocking on the tide,And eager to convey you to your home!'Then would I——Rachel!""What, Miss Percival?""Look at those men descending from the ridge!""Well, I can see an old man and a young.""And is that all you have to say of them?""How should I know about them? Ah! I see!Those are the two we met three weeks ago,—The day we left New York,—met in the cars.""Ay, Rachel, and their name is Lothian;Father and son are they. Who would have thoughtThat they would find their way to Eastern Point?""Why not, as well as we, Miss Percival?Look! To the wharf they go; and there, beside it,If I'm not much mistaken, lies a boat.The wished-for oarsman he! O, this is luck!They're going to the boat,—he'll row us over,I'll run and ask him. See you to my basket.""Rachel! Stop, Rachel! Fie, you forward girl!Don't think of it: come back! back, back, I say!"But Rachel did not hear, or would not heed,Straight to the boat she ran, and, as the menDrew nigh and stopped,—to Linda's dire dismayShe went up and accosted them, and pointedTo Norman's Woe,—then back to her companion,—And then, with gesture eloquent of thanksFor some reply the younger man had made,She seemed to lead the way, and he to followAlong the foot-path to the granite benchWhere Linda sat, abashed and wondering.And, when they stood before her, Rachel said"Miss Percival, here's Mr. Lothian;He has a boat near by, and will be gladTo give us seats and row us both across."Charles Lothian bowed, and Linda, blushing, said,"Against my orders did this little ladyAccost you, sir, but I will not affectRegret at her success, if you're content.""More than content, I'm very glad," said Charles;"My boat is amply large enough for four,And we are bound, it seems, all the same way.My father and myself have taken roomsAt Mistress Moore's, not far from where you live:So count your obligation very slight.""An obligation not the first!" said Linda."So much the better!" said Charles Lothian:"Come, take my arm, and let me hold your basket.What noble blackberries! I'll taste of one.""Why not of two? As many as you will?""Thank you. You've been adventurous, it seems.""Yes, Fortune favors the adventurous:See the old proverb verified to-day!""Praise a good day when ended. Here's my father:Father, Miss Percival!" The senior bowed,And said, "I used to know—" And then, as ifChecked by a reminiscence that might beUnwelcome, he was silent, and they wentAll to the boat. "Please let me take an oar,"Said Linda. "Can you row?" asked Charles. "A little!My father taught me." Then old LothianLooked at her with a scrutinizing glance.The ocean billows melted into one,And that stretched level as a marble floor.All winds were hushed, and only sunset tintsFrom purple cloudlets, edged with fiery gold,And a bright crimson fleece the sun had left,Fell on the liquid plain incarnadined.The very pulse of ocean now was mute;From the far-off profound, no throb, no swell!Motionless on the coastwise ships the sailsHung limp and white, their very shadows white.The lighthouse windows drank the kindling red,And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit."A heavenly eve!" sighed Linda, rapt in praise,As with poised oars the two looked oceanward.Then, keeping time, they pulled out from the shore."But you row well!" cried Charles. "I might returnThe compliment," said Linda. "See that duck!How near, how still he floats! He seems to knowThe holy time will keep him safe from harm.""Had I a gun," said Charles—"You would not use it,"Cried Linda, flushing. "And why not?" quoth he."'Nobility obliges'; sympathyNow makes all nature one and intimate;And we'd respect, even in a duck, his shareIn this tranquillity, this perfect rest.""I'm glad, then, that I'm gunless," Charles replied."Hear him!" the sire exclaimed; "he'd have you thinkHe's a great sportsman. Be not duped, my dear!He will not shoot nor fish! He got a woundAt Gettysburg, I grant you,—what of that?He would far rather face a batteryThan kill a duck, or even hook a cunner.""See now," said Charles, "the mischievous effectOf this exhilarating Cape Ann air!'Tis the first taunt I've heard from lips of hisSince my return from Europe. Look you, father,If I'm to be exposed before young ladies,Your rations shall be stopped, and your supplyOf oxygen reduced,—with no more joking.Don't eye those berries so feloniously.Because you've now an appetite,—becauseYou've just begun to gain a little flesh,—Must I be made the target of your jeers?"Smiling, but with sad eyes, the father said:"Ah! Charlie, Charlie, when I think of it,—Think how you've thrown, poor boy, your very lifeInto the breach of ruin made for me,—Sacrificed all, to draw the lethal dartOut of my wounded honor—to restore—""Give us a song, Miss Percival, a song!"Charles, interrupting, said. "The time, the place,Call for a song. Look! All the lighthousesFlash greeting to the night. There Eastern PointFlames out! Lo, little Ten Pound Island follows!See Baker's Island kindling! MarbleheadAblaze! Egg Rock, too, off Nahant, on fire!And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge!Like the wise virgins, all, with ready lamps!Now might I turn fire-worshipper, and bowIn adoration at this solemn rite:I'll compromise, however, for a song.""Lest you turn Pagan, then, I'll sing," quoth Linda.And, while they rested on their oars, she sang.LINDA'S SONG.A little bird flewTo the top of a tree:The sky it was blue,And the bird sang to me.So tender and true was the strainThe singer, I hoped, would remain;O little bird, stay and prolongThe rapture the grief of that song!A little thought came,Came out of my heart;It whispered a nameThat made me to start:And the rose-colored breath of my sighFlushed the earth and the sea and the sky.Delay, little thought! O, delay,And gladden my life with thy ray!"Such singing lured Ulysses to the rocks!"Old Lothian said, applauding. "Charles, look out,Or, ere we reck of it, this reckless sirenWill have us all a wreck on Norman's Woe.See to your oars!—Where are we drifting, man?""Who would not drift on such a night as this?"Said Charles; "all's right." Then, heading for the Cove,Slowly and steadily the rowers pulled.But, when the moon shone crescent in the west,And the faint outline of the part obscuredThread-like curved visible from horn to horn,—And Jupiter, supreme among the orbs,And Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth,And the great concave opened like a flower,Unfolding firmaments and galaxies,Sparkling with separate stars, or snowy whiteWith undistinguishable suns beyond,—They paused and rested on their oars again,And looked around,—in adoration looked.For, gazing on the inconceivable,They felt God is, though inconceivable;—And, while they mutely worshipped, suddenlyA change came over Linda's countenance,And her glazed mortal eyes were functionless;For there, before her in the boat, stood twoUnbidden, not unwelcome passengers,Her father and her mother...."Why, Miss Linda,Wake! Are you sleeping? What has been the matter?Here we've been waiting for you full five minutes.And I have called, and Mr. LothianHe too has called, and yet you make no answer!""Rachel! What is it? There! Excuse me all,If I seemed impolite. Now, then, I'm ready.A strong pull shall it be? So! Let her dart!"And in ten minutes they were at the landingAnd on their homeward way; and, as they parted,The spoils were shared, and the old man acceptedOne of the baskets, and all cried, "Good night!"The morning sea-fog like an incense roseUp to the sun and perished in his beam;The sky's blue promise brightened through the veil.With her unopened sketch-book in her hand,Linda stood on the summit looking downOn Norman's Woe, and felt upon her browThe cooling haze that foiled the August heat.Near her knelt Rachel, hunting curiouslyFor the fine purple algæ of the clefts.Good cause had Linda for a cheerful heart;For had she not that day received by mailA copy of "The Prospect of the Flowers,"—Published in chromo, and these words from Diggin?"Your future is assured: my bait is swallowed,Bait, hook, and sinker, all; now let our fishHave line enough and time enough for play,And we will land him safely by and by.A good fat fish he is, and thinks he's cunning.Enclosed you'll find a hundred-dollar bill;Please send me a receipt. Keep very quiet."Yet Linda was not altogether happy.Why was it that Charles Lothian had calledOnce, and once only, after their adventure?Called just to ask her, How she found herself?And, Did she overtask herself in rowing?How happened it, in all her walks and rambles,They rarely met, or, if they met, a bowFormal and cold was all the interview?While thus she mused, she started at a cry:"Ah! here's our siren, cumbent on the rocks!Where should a siren be, if not on rocks?"Old Lothian's voice! He came with rod and lineTo try an angler's luck. Behind him steppedCharles, who stood still, as if arrested, whenHe noticed Linda.Then, as if relentingIn some resolve, he jumped from rock to rockTo where she leaned; and, greeting her, inquired:"Have you been sketching?"—"No, for indolenceIs now my occupation."—"Here's a book;May I not look at it?"—"You may."—"Is thisAn album?"—"'Tis my sketch-book."—"Do you meanThese are your sketches, and original?""Ay, truly, mine; from nature every one.""But here we have high art! No amateurCould color flower like that."—"Ah! there you touch me;For I'm no amateur in painting flowers,—I get my living by it."—"I could praiseThat sea-view also,—what a depth of sky!That beach,—that schooner flying from a squall,—If I'm a judge, here's something more than skill!"Then the discourse slid off to woman's rights;For Lothian held a newspaper which toldOf some convention, the report of whichMight raise a smile. One of the lady speakers,It seems, would give her sex the privilegeOf taking the initiative in wooing,If so disposed!"Indeed, why not?" cried Linda."Indeed, you almost take my breath awayWith your Why not, Miss Percival! Why not?""Yes, I repeat,—if so disposed, why not?For why should woman any more than manPlay the dissembler, with so much at stake?I know the ready taunt that here will rise:'Already none too backward are our girlsIn husband-seeking.' Seeking in what way?Seeking by stratagem and management,—Not by frank, honest means! What food for mirth'Twould give to shallow men to see a womanCourt the relation, intertwined with allOf purest happiness that she may crave,—The ties of wife and mother! O, what pointing,Sneering, and joking! And yet why should careThoughtful and pure and wisely provident,That Nature's sacred prompting shall not fail,Be one thing for a man, and quite anotherFor her, the woman? Why this flimsy mask?This playing of a part, put on to suit,Not the heart's need, but Fashion custom-bound?Feigning we must be sought, and never seek?Now, through these social hindrances and bars,The bold, perhaps the intriguing, carry offPrizes the true and modest ought to win.And so we hear it coarsely said of husbands,'Better a poor one far, than none at all!'A thought ignoble, and which no true womanShould harbor for a moment. Give her freedom,Freedom to seek, and she'll not harbor it!Because if woman, equally with man,Were privileged thus, she would discriminateMuch more than now, and fewer sordid unionsWould be the sure result. For what if manWere chained to singleness until some womanMight seek his hand in marriage, would he beLikely as now to make a wise election?Would he not say, 'Time flies; my chances lessenAnd I must plainly take what I can get?'True, there are mercenary men enough,Seeking rich dowries; they'd find fewer dupes,Were women free as men to seek and choose,Banish the senseless inequality,And you make marriage less a vulgar gameIn which one tries to circumvent the other.Oh! all this morbid ribaldry ofmen,And all this passive imbecility,And superstitious inactivity,Dissimulation and improvidence,False shame and lazy prejudice ofwomen,Where the great miracle of sex concerns us,And Candor should be innocently wise,And Knowledge should be reverently free,—Is against nature,[9]—helps to hide the wayOut of the social horrors that confound us,And launches thousands into paths impure,Shutting them out from holy parentage.""I hold," said Charles, "the question is not oneOf reasoning, but of simple sentiment.As it would shock me, should a woman speakIn virile baritone, so would I shudderTo hear a grave proposal marriagewardIn alto or soprano.""'Twould depend!Depend on love," said Linda; "love potential,Or present."—"Nay, 'twould frighten love!" cried Charles,—"Kill it outright."—"Then would it not be love!What! would you love a woman less becauseShe durst avow her love, before the cueHad been imparted by your lordly lips?Rare love would that be truly which could freezeBecause the truth came candid from her heart,And in advance of the proprieties!""But may the woman I could love," cried Charles,"Forbear at least the rash experiment!""I doubt," said Linda, "if you know your heart;For hearts look to the substance, not the form.Why should not woman seek her happinessWith brow as unabashed as man may wearIn seeking his? Ah! lack of candor hereWorks more regrets, for woman and for man,Than we can reckon. Let but woman feelThat in the social scheme she's not a cipher,The remedy, be sure, is not far off.""To me it seems," said Lothian, "that you warAgainst our natural instincts: have they notSettled the point, even as the world has done?"Said Linda: "Instincts differ; they may beResults of shallow prejudice or custom.The Turk will tell you that polygamyIs instinct; and the savage who stalks onIn dirty painted grandeur, while his squawCarries the burdens, might reply that instinctRegulates that. So instinct proves too much.Queens and great heiresses are privilegedTo intimate their matrimonial choice,—Simply because superiorityIn power or riches gives an apt excuse:Let a plurality of women haveThe wealth and power, and you might see reversedWhat now you call an instinct. When a higherCivilization shall make woman lessDependent for protection and supportOn man's caprice or pleasure, there may beA higher sort of woman; one who shallFeel that her lot is more in her own hands,And she, like man, a free controlling force,Not a mere pensioner on paternal bountyUntil some sultan throws the handkerchief."A cry of triumph from the fisherman,Exuberant at having caught a bass,Here ended the discussion, leaving LindaWith the last word. Charles went to chat with Rachel;And Linda, summoned by vociferationsFrom the excited, the transported captor,Descended to inspect the amazing fish."A beauty, is it not, Miss Percival?A rare one, too, for this part of the coast!'Twill be a study how to have it cooked.Now sit here, in the shadow of this rock.Your father's name was Albert Percival?So I supposed. I've often heard my wifeSpeak of him as of one she knew was wrongedMost foully in his wrestle with the law.Have you not met with Harriet Percival?""Once only, and our interview was brief.Is she not married?"—"No, nor like to be,Although her fortune is a pretty one,Even for these times,—two millions, I believe;All which her mother may inherit soon;For Harriet is an invalid, but hoardsHer income quite as thriftily as ifShe looked for progeny and length of days.The mother, as you may not be aware,Has married an aspiring gentlemanWho means to build a palace on the Hudson,And Harriet's money hence is greatly needed."The mist now cleared, and the sun shone in power,So that the heat soon drove them to the woods.The senior took his capture home for dinner;Rachel strolled, picking berries by the brook;And, under lofty pines, sat Charles and Linda,And talked discursively, till Linda's thoughts,Inclining now to memory, now to hope,Vibrating from the future to the past,Took, in a silent mood, this rhythmic form.UNDER THE PINES.O pine-trees! bid the busy breeze be stillThat through your tops roars like the constant surge:Such was the sound I heard in happy daysUnder the pines.In happy days, when those I loved were by;In happy days, when love was daily food;And jocund childhood, finding it, found joyUnder the pines.Again I hear the west-wind in your tops;Again I scent the odor you exhale;But sound and odor now provoke but tearsUnder the pines.O pine-trees! shall a different joy be mine,One day when I shall seek your fragrant shade?Whisper it faintly, breezes, to my heartUnder the pines."Truly, Miss Percival, you puzzle me,"Said Charles, upon her silent reveryBreaking abruptly in: "ay, you could fireAnd wound the villain bearing off the child,And you can brave the radical extremeOn this great woman question of the day,—Yet do you seem a very woman still,And not at all like any man I know,—Not even like an undeveloped man!And I'm not greatly exercised by fear,Leaning here by your side thus lazily.""Don't mock me now," said Linda; "I'm not armed;Be generous, therefore, in your raillery.""Not armed? Then will I venture to proposeThat when the tide is low this afternoonWe try the beach on horseback. Will you venture?"The joy that sparkled in her eyes said "Yes"Before her tongue could duplicate assent.Said Charles, "I'll bring the horses round at six.""I will be ready, Mr. Lothian."There was no breach of punctuality:Though sighs, from deeper founts than tears, were heaved,When she drew forth the summer riding-habitWorn last when in the saddle with her father."Here are the horses at the door!" cried Rachel;"A bay horse and a black; the bay is yours."When they were mounted, Lothian remarked:"Little Good Harbor Beach shall be our point;So called because an Indian once pronouncedThe harbor 'little good,' meaning 'quite bad';A broad and open beach, from which you seeRunning out southerly the ocean sideOf Eastern Point; its lofty landward endGray with huge cliffs. There shall you mark 'Bass Rock,'Rare outlook when a storm-wind from the eastHurls the Atlantic up the craggy heights."The air was genial, and a rapid trotSoon brought them to the beach. The ebb had leftA level stretch of sand, wide, smooth, and hard,With not a hoof-mark on the glistening plain.The horses tossed their heads with snorting pride,Feeling the ocean breeze, as curved and fellUp the long line the creeping fringe of foam,Then backward slid in undulating glass,While all the west in Tyrian splendor flamed."But this is life!" cried Linda, as she putHer horse to all his speed, and shook her whip.They skimmed the sand, they chased the flying wave,They walked their horses slow along the beach:And, as the light fell on a far-off sail,And made it a white glory to the eye,Said Linda: "See! it fades into the gray,And now 'tis dim, and now is seen no more!Yet would a little height reveal it still.So fade from memory scenes which higher pointsOf vision shall reveal: the beautiful,The good, shall never die; and so to-dayShall be a lasting, everlasting joy!""Would I might see more of such days!" said he,"In the obscure before me! Fate forbids.My time of idlesse terminates to-night.To-morrow to the city we return.Thither I go, to open, in October,A private school; and I must find a houseAnd make my preparations."On they rode,After these words, in silence for a mileUpon their homeward way. Then Lothian:"And what will your address be, in the city?""I do not know, nor care," said Linda, switchingHer horse's ear, to start a quicker trot.Another mile of silence! "Look!" cried he;"The lighthouse light salutes us!"—"Yes, I see.""Why do you go so fast?"—"I'll slacken speedIf you desire it. There!" They breathed their horses;Then Lothian: "Indeed, I hope that weShall meet again."—"Why not? The world is wide,But I have known a letter in a bottle,Flung over in mid-ocean, to be foundAnd reach its owner. Doubtless, we may meet.""I'm glad to find you confident of that."Silence again! And so they rode alongTill they saw Rachel coming from the houseTo greet them. Charles helped Linda to dismount,Held out his hand, and said, "Good by, Miss Linda.""Good by!" she cheerily answered; "bid your fatherGood by for me. And so you go indeedTo-morrow?"—"Yes, we may not meet again.""Well; pleasant journey!"—"Thank you. Good by, Rachel."He rode away, leading her panting horse;And, when the trees concealed him, Linda rushedUp stairs, and locked the door, and wept awhile.As, early the next morning, she looked forthOn the blue ocean from the open window,"Now, then, for work!" she cried, and drew her palmAcross her brow, as if to thrust awayThoughts that too perseveringly came backShe heard a step. 'Tis he! "I hardly hoped,Miss Percival, to find you up so early:Good by, once more!"—"Good by! Don't miss the train."At this a shadow fell on Lothian's face,As with uplifted hat and thwarted smile,He turned away. Then off with hasty strideHe walked and struck the bushes listlessly."What did I mean by speaking so?" said Linda,With hand outstretched, as if to draw him back."Poor fellow! He looked sad; but why—but whyIs he so undemonstrative? And whyCould he not ask again for my address,I'd like to know?" Poor Linda! She could preach,But, like her elders, could not always practise.VII.FROM LINDA'S DIARY.I.

Never was No administered more gentlyOr more decisively than in her answerTo the proposal in the crumpled letter.

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

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

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

"Why, Miss Percival," said Rachel,"You look precisely as you did that dayYou fired the pistol in the woods,—you do!I watched your eye, and knew you would not fail.""'Tis to bring down a different sort of game,We now go forth."—"But you forget your pistol.""This time we shall not need one. Did I notSay we were going forth to seek our fortune?Well, Rachel, my dear child, we've found it,—found it.""O, I'm so glad! (How rapidly you walk!)And shall we have the old piano back?""Ay, that we shall! And you shall go to-morrowAnd take a present to the poor blind auntAnd her old mother,—for they love you well.""A present! Why, Miss Percival, there's nothingI do so love to do as to make presents.I've made three in my lifetime; one a ringOf tortoise-shell; and one—"

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

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

The "old man"Lowered his head, so that the burnished scalpMight strike her eye direct. ImpenetrableTo that appeal, Linda said: "I can getA hundred for it, I believe. Good day!""Stop, stop! For some time our intent has beenTo make you a small present as a proofOf our regard; now will I merge it inA hundred dollars for the picture. Well?""Nay, I would rather not accept a favor.I must go now,—will call again some day."Desperate the "old man" moved his head aboutIn the most striking lights, and patted itWildly at last, as if by that mute actTo stay the unrelenting fugitive.In vain! She glided off, and Rachel with her."Where now, Miss Percival?"—"To make a callUpon a lawyer for advice, my dear."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hold," said Charles, "the question is not oneOf reasoning, but of simple sentiment.As it would shock me, should a woman speakIn virile baritone, so would I shudderTo hear a grave proposal marriagewardIn alto or soprano."

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

"To me it seems," said Lothian, "that you warAgainst our natural instincts: have they notSettled the point, even as the world has done?"Said Linda: "Instincts differ; they may beResults of shallow prejudice or custom.The Turk will tell you that polygamyIs instinct; and the savage who stalks onIn dirty painted grandeur, while his squawCarries the burdens, might reply that instinctRegulates that. So instinct proves too much.Queens and great heiresses are privilegedTo intimate their matrimonial choice,—Simply because superiorityIn power or riches gives an apt excuse:Let a plurality of women haveThe wealth and power, and you might see reversedWhat now you call an instinct. When a higherCivilization shall make woman lessDependent for protection and supportOn man's caprice or pleasure, there may beA higher sort of woman; one who shallFeel that her lot is more in her own hands,And she, like man, a free controlling force,Not a mere pensioner on paternal bountyUntil some sultan throws the handkerchief."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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