VIII.

Homeagain! Home? what satire in the word!If home is where the heart is, where's my home?Well: here's my easel; here my old piano;Here the memorials of my early days!Here let me try at least to be content.This din of rolling wheels beneath my window,Let it renew for me the ocean's roar!II.It is the heart makes music musical!My neighbor has a mocking-bird: its songHas been as little heeded as the noiseOf rattling wheels incessant; but to-dayOne of its strains brought all Elysium backInto my heart. What was it? What the tieLinking it with some inexpressive joy?At length I solve the mystery! Those notes,Pensively slow and sadly exquisite,Were what the wood-thrush piped at early dawnAfter that evening passage in the boat,When stars came out, that never more shall set.Oh! sweet and clear the measured cadence fellUpon my ear in slumber—and I woke!I woke, and listened while the first faint flushOf day was in the east; while yet the groveShowed only purple gloom, and on the beachThe tidal waves with intermittent rushBroke lazily and lent their mingling chime.And O the unreckoned riches of the soul!The possible beatitudes, of whichA glimpse is given, a transitory glimpse,So rarely in a lifetime! Then it was,Hearing that strain, as if all joy the PastHad in its keeping,—all the Future held,—All love, all adoration, and all beauty,—Made for a moment the soul's atmosphere,And lifted it to bliss unspeakable.O splendor fugitive! O transport rare!Transfiguring and glorifying life!III.This strange, inexplicable human heart!My lawyer sends me more good news; he writes:"The picture's sale will reach ten thousand copies,And for the first year only! We shall haveA big bill to send in; and do not fearBut the 'old man' will pay it, every dime.To escape the heavy damages the lawAllows for such infringement, he'll be gladTo compromise for the amount I fix;And what I shall compel him to disgorgeWill simply be fair copyright on allYour published works; and this will give you clearSome fifteen thousand dollars, not to speakOf a fixed interest in future sales."So writes my lawyer. Now one would supposeThat news like this would make me light of heart,Spur my ambition; and, as taste of bloodFires the pet tiger, even so touch of goldWould rouse the sacred appetite of gain.But with attainment cometh apathy;And I was somewhat happier, methinks,When life was all a struggle, and the prayer,"Give me my daily bread," had anxious meaning.IV.Is it then true that woman's proper sphereIs in the affections? that she's out of placeWhen these are balked, and science, art, or tradeHas won the dedication of her thought?Nay! the affections are for all; and he,Or she, has most of life, who has them most.O, not an attribute of sex are they!Heart loneliness is loneliness indeed,But not for woman any more than man,Were she so trained, her active facultiesCould have a worthy aim.What worthier,Than the pursuit, the discipline of beauty?He who finds beauty helps to interpret God:For not an irreligious heart can dwellIn him who sees and knows the beautiful.I'll not believe that one whom Art has chosenFor a high priest can be irreverent,Sordid, unloving; his veil-piercing eyeSees not in life the beauty till it seesGod and the life beyond; not in a dreamOf Pantheistic revery where allIn all is lost, diluted, and absorbed,And consciousness and personalityVanish like smoke forever; but all real,Distinct, and individual, though allEternally dependent on the One!Who gave the Eye to see, shall He not see?Who gave the Heart to feel, shall He not love?Of knowledge infinite we know a letter,A syllable or two, and thirst for more:Is there not One, Teacher at once and Cause,Who comprehends all beauty and all science,Holding infinity, that, step by step,We may advance, and find, in what seems goodTo Him, our gladness and our being's crown?If this were not, then what a toy the world!And what a mockery these suns and systems!And how like pumping at an empty cisternWere it to live and study and aspire!Come, then, O Art! and warm me with thy smile!Flash on my inward sight thy radiant shapes!August interpreter of thoughts divine,Whether in sound, or word, or form revealed!Pledge and credential of immortal life!Grand arbiter of truth! Consoler! come!Come, help even me to seek thee and to find!V.Winter is here again; it sees me stillAt work upon my picture. This presentsTwo vases, filled with flowers, upon a slab."Which will you choose?" I call it: 'tis in oil.Three hours a day are all I give to it,So fine the work, so trying to the eyes.Thus have I ample time for teaching Rachel:A good child and affectionate! I've foundHer aptitude; she has a taste in bonnets,With an inventive skill in ornament.And so I have her regularly taughtBy an accomplished milliner; and RachelAlready promises to lead her teacher.Had I a fortune, still I'd have her feelThat she must conquer something worthily;Something to occupy her active powers,And yield a fair support, should need require.VI.Whom should I meet to-day but Meredith!My washerwoman, Ellen Blount, is ill,So ill I fear she never will be well.'Tis the old story, every day renewed:A little humble, tender-hearted woman,Tied to a husband whom to call a bruteWould be to vilify the quadrupeds!A fellow, who must have his pipe, his whiskey,And his good dinner, let what may befallHis wife and children. He could take the pittanceShe got from her hard toil, and spend it onHimself and his companions of the jug.When out of work, as he would often be,Then double toil for her! with peevish wordsFrom him, the sole requital of it all!Child after child she bore him; but, compelledToo quickly after childbirth to returnTo the old wash-tub, all her sufferingsReacted on the children, and they died,Haply in infancy the most of them,—Until but one was left,—a little boy,Puny and pale, gentle and uncomplaining,With all the mother staring from his eyesIn hollow, anxious, pitiful appeal.In this one relic all her love and hopeAnd all that made her life endurableAt length were centred. She had saved a dollarTo buy for him a pair of overshoes;But, as she went to get them, Blount waylaid her,Learnt that she had the money, forced it from her.Poor Teddy had to go without his shoes.'Twas when the January thaw had madeThe streets a-reek with mud and melting snow.Poor Teddy wet his feet, took cold, and died."Come soon, mamma," were his last feeble words.Blount was a cunning ruffian; well he knewHow far to go, and where and when to pause.Fluent and specious with his tongue, he kept,In his small sphere, a certain show of credit;And he could blow in tune for mother church,Though few the pennies he himself would give her."Cast off the wretch," was my advice to Ellen.She loved him not; she might as well have triedTo love a load that galled and wearied her.But custom, social fear, and, above all,Those sacramental manacles the churchHad bound her in, and to the end would keep,Forbade the poor, scared, helpless little womanTo free herself, by one condign resolve,From the foul incubus that sucked her life.So a false sense of duty kept her tied,Feeding in him all that was pitiless.And now she's dying. I had gone to-dayTo take some little dainties, cream and fruit,And there, administering consolation,Was Meredith.Hearing his tones of faith,Seeing his saintly look of sympathy,I felt, there being between us no dissentIn spirit, dogmas were of small account:And so I knelt and listened to his prayer.At length he noticed me, and recognized."Miss Percival!" he cried; "can this be you?But when and why did you return from England?""I've never been in England, never beenOut of my native country," I replied."But that is unaccountable," said he;"For I've seen letters, written as from you,Signed with your name, acknowledging receiptsOf certain sums of money, dated London.""No money have I had but what I've earned,"Was my reply; "and who should send me money?"Said he: "I have a carriage at the door;I would learn more of this; you'll not objectTo take a seat with me? Thank you; that's right."Leaving the patient in good hands, we went,And through the noisy streets drove to the Park.Then all I'd ever known about my parentsHe drew from me; and all my historySince I had parted from him; noted downCarefully my address, and gave me his.Then to my lodgings driving with me back,He left me with aBenedicite!He's rich: has he been sending money, then?What means it all? Conjecture finds no clew.VII.Gently as thistle-downs are borne awayFrom the dry stem, went Ellen yesterday.I heard her dying utterance; it was:"I'm coming, Teddy! Bless you, dear Miss Linda!"No priest was by, so sudden was her going.When Blount came in, there was no tendernessIn his sleek, gluttonous look; although he tried,Behind his handkerchief, to play the mourner.What will he do without a drudge to tread on?Counting himself a privileged lord and master,He'll condescend to a new victim soon,And make some patient waiter a sad loser.VIII."Some patient waiter!" Such a one I know.There was a time when I resolved, if everI could secure a modest competence,I would be married; and the competenceIs now secure—but where is my resolve?Shall I conclude 'tis all fatality?Leave it to chance, and take no active stepMyself to seek what I so hope to find?Accepting it as heaven's fixed ordinance,That man should change his single lot at will,But woman be the sport of circumstance,A purposeless and passive accident,Inert as oysters waiting for a tide,But not like oysters, sure of what they wait for?"Ah! woman's strength is in passivity,"Fastidio says, shaking his wise, wise head,And withering me with a disdainful stare.Nay! woman's strength is in developing,In virtuous ways, all that is best in her.No superstitious waiting then be mine!No fancy that in coy, alluring arts,Rather than action, modest and sincere,Woman most worthily performs her part.Here am I twenty-five, and all aloneIn the wide world; yet having won the right,By my own effort, to hew out my lot,And create ties to cheer this arid waste.How bleak and void my Future, if I standWaiting beside the stream, until some Prince—Son of Queen Moonbeam by King Will-o'-the wisp—Appears, and jumping from his gilded boat,Lays heart and fortune at my idle feet!Ye languid day-dreams, vanish! let me act!But ah! Fastidio says, "A woman's wooingMust always be offensive to a manOf any dignity." The dignityThat modest truth can shock is far too frailAnd sensitive to mate with love of mine,Whose earnestness might crush the feeble handLinked in its own. So good by, dignity!I shall survive the chill of your repulse.Defiance, not of Nature's law, but Custom's,Is what disturbs Fastidio. Does he thinkThat aman'swooing never is offensiveTowoman'sdignity? In either sexThe disaffection is not prompted byThe wooing but the wooer; love can neverBe an unwelcome tribute to the lover;Though freedom premature, or forwardnessUnwarranted, may rightly fail to win.And so I'll run my risk; for I confess—(Keep the unuttered secret, sacred leaf!)—That there is one whom I could love—could die for,Would he but—Tears? Well, tears may come from strengthAs well as weakness: I'll not grudge him these;I'll not despair while I can shed a tear.IX.I've found him—seen him! The DirectoryGave me his residence. He keeps a school,One for young ladies only; and at onceMy coward heart hit on a good excuseFor calling on him: Would he take a pupil?Rachel, my protégée? Of course he would.A flush of tender, joyful wonderment,Methought, illumed his face at seeing me;Then, as it faded, I was grieved to markHow pale and thin and worn with care he looked.I took my leave, promising to returnWithin a week; and on the outer stepsI met his father. "Turn and walk with meA square or two," said I; and he complied."What ails him?" I inquired. "Only hard work:He puts too much of conscience into it.Needs help, but shrinks from debt, and so keeps onDoing the labor two or three should share.What shall I do, Miss Percival, to stop it?""I know not,—only something must be done,And that at once," said I, in tones which madeThe old man turn to get a look at me.I hailed an omnibus, and there we parted....What if I write Charles Lothian a letter?Nay, I'll not skulk behind a sheet of paper,But face to face say what I have to say.This very evening must I call again.Let a firm will bear up my fainting heart!X.And so at eight o'clock the carriage came,And entering it I drove to Lothian's.At last I was alone with him once more!He had been sitting at a table heapedWith manuscripts, and these he was correcting."I'm here to interrupt all this," said I;"Too long you've kept your brain upon the stretch:Why be so heedless of your health, your life?""But what are they to you, Miss Percival?""And that is what I've come to let you know,"Said I, emboldened by the offered foothold.He flushed a little, only just a little,—Replying, "ThatI'm curious to learn."And then, like one who, in the dark, at firstMoves cautiously, but soon runs boldly on,I said: "Rash gambler that I am, I've comeTo put upon the hazard of a dieMuch of my present and my future peace;Perhaps to shock, repel, and anger you,Since 'twill not be unwarned that I offend.I know you guess my purpose, and you shrinkFrom hearing me avow it; but I will,And that in homely English unadorned.I'm here to offer you my hand; the heartThat should go with it has preceded it,And dwells with you, so you can claim your own,Or gently bid it go, to trouble youNever again. If 'tis unwomanlyThis to avow, then I'm unlike my sex,Not false to my own nature,—ah! not false.I must be true or die; I cannot playA masker's part, disguising hopes that clingNearest my brooding heart. But, say the word,'I cannot love you,' and the bird who leavesThe cage where he has pined will sooner tryTo enter it again, than I returnTo utter plaint of mine within your hearing."With throbbing heart and burning face I ceased.Twice, thrice he tried to stop me; but my wordsCame all too quick and earnestly for that.And then resigned he listened. I had seen,Or dreamed I had, at first a sacred joyAt my avowal sparkle in his eyes,And then an utter sadness follow it,Which chilled me, and I knew that I had failed."O divine Pity! what will you not brave?"He answered, and the dew was in his eyes,—"You bring her here, even to abase herselfTo rescue me! Too costly sacrifice!Here do not dwell the Graces and the Loves,But Drudgery is master of the house.Dear lady, elsewhere seek the answering bloom."A hope flashed up. "Do you suppose," said I,"That any impulse less supreme than love—Love bold to venture, but intemerate—Could bring me here—that Pity could do this?""I believe all," he answered, "all you say;But do not bid me whisper more than this:The circumstances that environ me,And which none know,—not even my father knows,—Shut me out utterly from any hopeOf marriage or of love. A wretch in prisonMight better dream of marrying than I.But O sweet lady! rashly generous,—Around whom, a protecting atmosphere,Floats Purity, and sends her messengersWith flaming swords to guard each avenueFrom thoughts unholy and approaches base,—Thou who hast made an act I deemed uncomelySeem beautiful and gracious,—do not doubtMy memory of thy worth shall be the same,Only expanded, lifted up, and touchedWith light as dear as sunset radianceTo summer trees after a thunder-storm."And there was silence then between us two.Thought of myself was lost in thought for him.What was my wreck of joy, compared with his?Health, youth, and competence were mine, and heWas staking all of his to save another.If my winged hopes fell fluttering to the ground,Regrets and disappointments were forgottenIn the reflection, He, then, is unhappy!"Good by!" at length I said, giving my hand:"Even as I was believed, will I believe.You do not deal in hollow compliment;And we shall meet again if you're content.The good time will return—and I'll return!""If you return, the good time will returnAnd stay as long as you remain," said he.XI.It is as I supposed: an obstacleWhich his assumption of his father's debtsHas raised before him unexpectedly!I did not let a day go by beforeI saw the elder Lothian, and he,Distressed by what I told him of a secret,Applied himself to hunting up a keyTo the mysterious grief: at last he got it,Though not by means that I could justify.In Charles's private escritoire he foundA memorandum that explained it all.Among the obligations overlooked,In settling up the firm's accounts, was oneOf fifty thousand dollars, payableTo an estate, the representativesOf which were six small children and a widow,Dependent now on what they could deriveOf income from this debt; and manfullyCharles shoulders it, although it crushes him;And hopes to keep his father ignorant.I can command one quarter of the sumAlready—but the rest? That staggers me.And yet why should I falter? Look athim!Let his example be my high incentive.I'll be his helpmate, and he shall not know it.Poor Charles! I'll toil for him,—to him devoteAll that I have of energy and skill,All I acquire. Ambition shall not mountLess loftily for having Love to help it.Come forth, my easel! All thy work has beenGirl's play till now; now will I truly venture.I've a new object now—to rescuehim!And he shall never know his rescuerFrom lips of mine,—no, though I die for it,With the sweet secret undisclosed,—my heartGlad in the love he never may requite!VIII.FROM MEREDITH'S DIARY.I.Incalculablyselfish and corrupt,Well may man need a sacrifice divineTo expiate infinity of sin.Few but a priest can know the fearful depthOf human wickedness. At times I shrinkFaint and amazed at what I have to learn:And then I wonder that the Saviour saidHis yoke is easy and his burden light.Ah! how these very murmurs at my lotShow that not yet into my heart has creptThat peace of God which passeth understanding!II.Among my hearers lately there has beenA lady all attention to my words:Thrice have I seen that she was deeply moved;And to confession yesterday she came.Let me here call her Harriet. She isBy education Protestant, but wavers,Feeling the ground beneath her insecure,And would be led unto the rock that isHigher than she. A valuable convert;Not young; in feeble health; taxed for two millions;And she would found, out of her ample means,A home for orphans and neglected children.Heaven give me power to lead the stray one safeInto the only fold; securing thusAid for the church, salvation for herself!III.A summons took me to her house to-day.Her mother and her step-father composeWith Harriet the household. I refrainFrom putting real names on paper here.Let me then call the man's name, Denison;He's somewhat younger than his wife, a ladyAdvanced in years, but her heart wholly setOn the frivolities of fashion still.I see the situation at a glance:A mercenary marriage on the partOf Denison, whose hungry eyes are fixedUpon the daughter's property; the motherUnder his evil influence, and expectingThe daughter to die soon, without a will,Thus leaving all to them;—and HarrietNot quite so dull but she can penetrateDenison's motive and her mother's hope!A sad state for an invalid who feelsThat any hour may be her last! To-dayHarriet confessed; for she has been alarmedBy some bad symptoms lately. As she urged it,I sent word to the bishop, and he came,And she was formally confirmed, and takenUnto the bosom of the Church, and thereMay her poor toiling spirit find repose!IV.Another summons! In the drawing-room,Whom should I meet but Denison? His stareHad something vicious in it; but we bowed,And he remarked: "I hear that Harriet,Caught in your Catholic net, is turning saint.No foul play, priest! She's not in a conditionTo make a will, or give away her money.Remember that, and do not waste your words."My color rose, and the brute Adam in meWould, uncontrolled, have surely knocked him down.But I cast off temptation, and replied:"Sir, I'm responsible to God, not man."I left him, and passed on to Harriet.I found her greatly moved; an interviewShe had been having with her mother causedThe agitation. "Take me hence!" she cried;"I'll not remain another day or hourUnder this roof. I tell you, I'm not safeWith these two, watching, dogging, maddening me."She rang the bell, and to the servant said:"My carriage, and that quickly!" Then to me:"I'll show them that I'm mistress of my fortuneAnd of myself. Call on me in an hourAt the Fifth Avenue Hotel, for thereHenceforth I make my home." And thereI called, as she had ordered, and we metIn her own parlor. "What I wish," said she,"Is to give all I have, without reserve,For the foundation that I've planned. I'll sendDirections to my lawyer, and the papersShall be prepared at once."—"Before you do it,Let me learn more of you and yours," said I:"Who was your father?" Then, to my surprise,I learnt that he was one whom I had metSome years before,—in his death-hour had met."But you've a sister?" suddenly I asked.Surprised, she answered: "A half-sister—yes—I've seen her only once; for many yearsI lived in Europe; she's in England now,And married happily. On three occasionsI've sent her money."—"Do you correspond?""Not often; here are letters from her, fullOf thanks for all I've given her."—"In your willShall you remember her?"—"If you advise it.""Then I advise a liberal bequest.And now I must attend a suffererWho waits my help."—"Father, I would confess.""Daughter, be quick: I listen." HarrietThen gave a sad recital of a trialAnd a divorce; and (but reluctantly)Told of a terrible suspicion, bornOf a remark, dropped by a servant once,Concerning her unlikeness to her father:But never could she wring a confirmationOf the distressing story from her mother."Tell her," said I, "you mean to leave your sisterA handsome legacy." She promised this.Then saying I would call the following day,I hurried off to see poor Ellen Blount.V.A new surprise! There, by the patient's bed,I came on Linda, Harriet's half-sister!(Reputed so, at least, but here's a doubt.)I questioned her, and now am satisfiedTreason and forgery have been at work,Defeating Harriet's sisterly intent;Moreover, that the harrowing surmise,Waked by a servant's gossip overheard,Is, in all probability, the truth!And, if we so accept it, what can IAdvise but Harriet's complete surrenderOf all her fortune to the real childAnd proper heir of Albert Percival?But ah! 'tis now devoted to the Church!Here's a divided duty; I must layThe case before a higher power than mine.VI.I've had a long discussion with the bishop.I placed before him all the facts, beginningWith those of my own presence at the deathOf Linda's parents; of her father's letterReceived that day, communicating newsOf Kenrick's large bequest; the father's effortIn dying to convey in legal formTo his child Linda all this property;The failure of the effort; his decease,And all I knew of subsequent events.And the good bishop, after careful thought,Replied: "Some way the mother must be broughtTo full confession. Of her guilt no doubt!"I told him I had charged it on the daughterTo tell her mother of the legacyDesigned for Linda; this, perchance, might wringConfession from the guilty one. He seemedTo think it not unlikely, and remarked:"When that is got, there's but a single courseFor you to urge on Harriet; for, my son,I need not tell a Christian gentleman,Not to say priest, that this peculiar caseWe must decide precisely as we wouldIf the Church had in it no interest:Let Harriet at once give up, convey,Not bequeathe merely, all she has to Linda.Till she does this, her soul will be in peril;When she does this, she shall be made the wardOf Holy Church, and cared for to the end."I kissed his hand and left. How his high thoughtsPoured round my path a flood of light divine!Why did I hesitate, since he could makeThe path of duty so directly clear!VII.Harriet's intimation to her motherThat she should leave a good part of her wealthTo her half-sister brought things to a crisis.To-day my visit found the two together:Harriet, in an agony of tears,Cried to me, as I entered,—"'Tis all true!God! She confesses it—confesses it!Confesses, too, she never sent the money,And that the letters were all forgeries!And thinks, by this confession, to secureMy fortune to herself! Ah! Can this womanBe, then, my mother?"Hereupon the woman,Crimson with rage at being thus exposed,Exclaimed, "Unnatural daughter—" But beforeHer wrath could vent itself, she, with a groan,Fell in convulsions. Medical assistanceWas had at once. Then Denison came in,Aghast at what had happened; for he knewHis wife's estate was all in lands and houses,And would, if she should die, be Harriet's,Since the old lady superstitiouslyHad still put off the making of a will.All help was vain, and drugs were powerless.Paralysis had struck the heated brain,Driving from mortal hold the consciousness:It reappeared not in one outward sign,And before midnight life had left the clay.VIII.Meek and submissive as a little childIs Harriet now; she has no will but thatThe Church imposes as the will divine."Your fortune, nearly doubled by this death,Must all," said I, "be now conveyed to Linda.""Let it be done," she cried, "before I sleep!"And it was done to-night—securely done,—I being Linda's representative.To-morrow I must take her the good news.IX.After the storm, the rainbow, child of light!Such the transition, as I pass to Linda!I found her hard at work upon a picture.With wonder at Heaven's ways she heard my news.Shocked at the tragic death, she did not hideHer satisfaction at the tardy actBringing the restitution of her own.Three things she asked; one was that I would placeAt once a certain person in possessionOf a large sum, not letting him find outFrom whom it came; another was to haveThis great change in her fortunes kept a secretAs long as she might wish; the third and lastWas that she might be privileged to waitOn Harriet with a sister's loving care.All which I promised readily should be,So far as my poor human will could order.Said Linda then: "Tell Harriet, her schemeFor others' welfare shall not wholly fail;That in your hands I'll place a sum sufficientTo plant thegermat least of what she planned."X.I've taken my last look of Harriet:She died in Linda's arms, and comfortedWith all the Church could give of heavenly hope.Slowly and imperceptibly does TimeWork out the dreadful problem of our sins!Not often do we see it solved as hereIn plain results which he who runs may read.Not always is the sinner's punishmentShown in this world. May the Eternal MercyCleanse us from secret faults, nor, while we markAnother's foulness, blind us to our own!IX.BESIDE THE LAKE.Thesun of August from a clear blue skyShone on Lake Saranac. The South-wind stirredMildly the woods encircling, that threw downA purple shadow on the liquid smoothnessGlassing the eastern border, while the westLay bared to light.Wild, virgin nature all!Except that here and there a partial clearing,Made by the sportsman's axe for summer tents,Dented the massive verdure, and revealedA little slope of bank, dotted with stumpsAnd brown with slender aromatic leavesShed from the pine, the hemlock, and the firIn layers that gave a soft and slippery carpet.Near one of these small openings where the breezeCrept resinous and cool from evergreensBehind them, while the sun blazed bright before,—Where with the pine-trees' vapory depth of hueThe whiteness of a spacious tent contrasted,Beside which, on a staff, the nation's flagFlung out its crimson with protecting pride,—Reclined a wife and husband, looking downLess on the glorious lake than on the gloryThat, through a gauzy veil, played round the headOf a reposing infant, golden-tressed,Asleep upon a deer-skin at their feet,While a huge dog kept watchful guard beyond:For there lay little Mary Merivale.Boats on the lake showed that this group detachedWere part of a well-chosen company.Here children ran and frolicked on the beach;There an old man, rowed by two guides, stood upWith rod and line and reel, while swiftly flewThe reel, announcing that a vigorous troutJust then had seized the hook. Came the loud cry,—"Look, Charles! Look, Linda! See me land him now!Don't touch him with your scoop, men! I can fetch him,"—In tones not unfamiliar to our ears.And there, six boats swept by, from which the voicesOf merry children and their elder friends—Mothers and fathers, teachers, faded aunts,Dyspeptic uncles, wonderfully curedAll by this tonic, Adirondack air—Came musical and loud: a strange collection,Winnowed by Rachel (now the important queenOf all this sanitary revelry)From her acquaintance in the public schools;Whence her quick sympathies had carried herStraight to the overworked, the poor, the ailing,Among the families of her associates,When Linda planned this happy enterpriseOf a grand camping-out for one whole month.The blind aunt and the grandmother, of course,High and important persons, Rachel's aids,Graced the occasion; for the ancient dameHad lived in such a region in her youth,And in all sylvan craft was proudly wise:Declaring that this taste of life would addSome ten years to her eighty-five, at least.On went the boats, all large and safely manned,In competition not too venturesome.Then, from a rocky outlook on the hill,There came a gush of music from a band,Employed to cheer with timely melodyThis strange encampment in the wilderness.Hark! Every voice is hushed as down the lakeThe breathing clarions accordant sendThe tune of "Love Not" to each eager ear!The very infant, in its slumber, smiledAs if a dream of some old paradiseHad been awakened by the ravishment."Look at the child!" cried Linda; "mark that smile!All heaven reflected in a dew-drop! See!""And all the world grasped in that little fist,—At least as we esteem the world!" cried Charles."And yet," said Linda, "'tis a glorious world:See how those families enjoy themselves!""And who created all this happiness?"The husband said,—"who, after God, but Linda?Who spends her money, not in rearing pilesOf cold and costly marble for her pride,—Not in great banquets for the rich and gayWho need them not, and laugh at those who give,—Where, at one feast, enough is spent to makeAll these poor people radiant for a month,—But in exhilarations coming fromCommunicated joy and health and life,—The happiness that's found in making happy.""All selfishness!" cried Linda; "selfishness!I seek my happiness, and others theirs;Only my tastes are different; more plebeian,Haply, they'd say; but, husband mine, reflect!You, too, I fear, are lacking in refinement:Would this have been, had you not acquiescedIn all these vulgar freaks, and found content,Like me, in giving pleasure to the needy?And tell me—passing to another point—Where would have been the monarch of this joy,That little child,—that antepast of blissSuch as the angels taste,—had I recoiledFrom daring as I did, even when I knewHe I most wished to win would think me bold?""Ah! little wife," cried Charles, "I've half a mindTo tell you what I've never told you yet.Yes, Iwilltell you all, although it mayEnd the complacent thought that Linda did it—Did it by simply daring to propose!Know, then, a constant track of you I kept,Even while I seemed to shun you. I could kneelBefore your recollection in my heart,When you regarded me as shy and cold.And, while by poverty held reticent,I saw, supreme among my hopes, but Linda!Before we left the sea-side I had learnt,Through gossip of my worthy landlady,Where you would go, returning to New York.I found your house; I passed it more than onceWhen, like a beacon, shone your study-lamp.The very night before you called upon meTo ask, would I take Rachel as my pupil,(How kind in you to patronize my school!)I sought an anodyne for my despairIn watching for your shadow on the curtain."Discovery of that unexpected debt,Owed by my father, killed the last faint hopeWhich I had cherished; and our interview—Your daring offer of this little hand—But made me emulous to equal youIn self-renouncing generosity;And so, I frankly told you what I told:That love and marriage were not in my lot."Ten days elapsed, and then from utter gloomI sprang to cheerful light. My father's partner,The man named Judd, who robbed us all one day,Had a compunctious interval, and sentA hundred thousand dollars back to us—Why do you smile?""Go on. 'Tis worth a smile.""That very day I cleared myself from debt;That very day I sued for Linda's hand;That very day she gave it willingly;And the next month beheld us two made one.And so it would have been, if you, my dear,Had made no sign, and waited patiently.But ah! what luck was mine! After two days,The news arrived that Linda was an heiress.An heiress! Think of it; and I had said,Never, no, never would I wed an heiress!But 'twas too late for scruples; I was married,—Caught in the trap I always meant to shun!"Then Linda, mischief in her smile, exclaimed:"O simple Charles! The innocent dear man!Who doubts but woman ought to hold her tongue,And wait till he, the preordained, appear?That hundred thousand dollars, you are sure,Was from your father's partner—was from Judd?""Of course it was,—from Judd, and no one else!Who could have sent the money, if not Judd?No doubt it came from Judd! My father said,'Twas conscience-money, and restored by Judd,Who had become a deacon in the Church.Why did you ask me whether I was sureThe hundred thousand dollars came from Judd?What are you smiling at, provoking Linda?""O, you're so quick, so clever, all you men!And women are so dull and credulous,So easily duped, when left to go alone!What you would prove is, that my daring step,In being first to make a declaration,Was needless, since priority in loveWas yours, and your intention would have broughtThe same result about without my seeking.Know then, the money was not yours untilI'd got the news of my recovered fortune;From me the money came, and only me;And all that story of a Judd, turned deacon,Grown penitent and making restitution,Was a mere myth, invented by your father,Lest you might hesitate to take the money.Now if I had not sought you as I did,And if I had not put you to the test,And if I had not learnt your secret grief,We might have lived till we were gray and bentBefore a step of yours had brought us nearer.""Outflanked! I own it, and I give it up!"Cried Charles, all flushing with astonishment:"But how I'll rate that ancient fisherman,My graceless father, for deceiving me!See him stand there, as if with conscience void,Throwing the line for innocent, fat trout!With that grave face, saying the money cameFrom Judd,—from Deacon Judd! I'll deacon him!"

Homeagain! Home? what satire in the word!If home is where the heart is, where's my home?Well: here's my easel; here my old piano;Here the memorials of my early days!Here let me try at least to be content.This din of rolling wheels beneath my window,Let it renew for me the ocean's roar!II.It is the heart makes music musical!My neighbor has a mocking-bird: its songHas been as little heeded as the noiseOf rattling wheels incessant; but to-dayOne of its strains brought all Elysium backInto my heart. What was it? What the tieLinking it with some inexpressive joy?At length I solve the mystery! Those notes,Pensively slow and sadly exquisite,Were what the wood-thrush piped at early dawnAfter that evening passage in the boat,When stars came out, that never more shall set.Oh! sweet and clear the measured cadence fellUpon my ear in slumber—and I woke!I woke, and listened while the first faint flushOf day was in the east; while yet the groveShowed only purple gloom, and on the beachThe tidal waves with intermittent rushBroke lazily and lent their mingling chime.And O the unreckoned riches of the soul!The possible beatitudes, of whichA glimpse is given, a transitory glimpse,So rarely in a lifetime! Then it was,Hearing that strain, as if all joy the PastHad in its keeping,—all the Future held,—All love, all adoration, and all beauty,—Made for a moment the soul's atmosphere,And lifted it to bliss unspeakable.O splendor fugitive! O transport rare!Transfiguring and glorifying life!III.This strange, inexplicable human heart!My lawyer sends me more good news; he writes:"The picture's sale will reach ten thousand copies,And for the first year only! We shall haveA big bill to send in; and do not fearBut the 'old man' will pay it, every dime.To escape the heavy damages the lawAllows for such infringement, he'll be gladTo compromise for the amount I fix;And what I shall compel him to disgorgeWill simply be fair copyright on allYour published works; and this will give you clearSome fifteen thousand dollars, not to speakOf a fixed interest in future sales."So writes my lawyer. Now one would supposeThat news like this would make me light of heart,Spur my ambition; and, as taste of bloodFires the pet tiger, even so touch of goldWould rouse the sacred appetite of gain.But with attainment cometh apathy;And I was somewhat happier, methinks,When life was all a struggle, and the prayer,"Give me my daily bread," had anxious meaning.IV.Is it then true that woman's proper sphereIs in the affections? that she's out of placeWhen these are balked, and science, art, or tradeHas won the dedication of her thought?Nay! the affections are for all; and he,Or she, has most of life, who has them most.O, not an attribute of sex are they!Heart loneliness is loneliness indeed,But not for woman any more than man,Were she so trained, her active facultiesCould have a worthy aim.What worthier,Than the pursuit, the discipline of beauty?He who finds beauty helps to interpret God:For not an irreligious heart can dwellIn him who sees and knows the beautiful.I'll not believe that one whom Art has chosenFor a high priest can be irreverent,Sordid, unloving; his veil-piercing eyeSees not in life the beauty till it seesGod and the life beyond; not in a dreamOf Pantheistic revery where allIn all is lost, diluted, and absorbed,And consciousness and personalityVanish like smoke forever; but all real,Distinct, and individual, though allEternally dependent on the One!Who gave the Eye to see, shall He not see?Who gave the Heart to feel, shall He not love?Of knowledge infinite we know a letter,A syllable or two, and thirst for more:Is there not One, Teacher at once and Cause,Who comprehends all beauty and all science,Holding infinity, that, step by step,We may advance, and find, in what seems goodTo Him, our gladness and our being's crown?If this were not, then what a toy the world!And what a mockery these suns and systems!And how like pumping at an empty cisternWere it to live and study and aspire!Come, then, O Art! and warm me with thy smile!Flash on my inward sight thy radiant shapes!August interpreter of thoughts divine,Whether in sound, or word, or form revealed!Pledge and credential of immortal life!Grand arbiter of truth! Consoler! come!Come, help even me to seek thee and to find!V.Winter is here again; it sees me stillAt work upon my picture. This presentsTwo vases, filled with flowers, upon a slab."Which will you choose?" I call it: 'tis in oil.Three hours a day are all I give to it,So fine the work, so trying to the eyes.Thus have I ample time for teaching Rachel:A good child and affectionate! I've foundHer aptitude; she has a taste in bonnets,With an inventive skill in ornament.And so I have her regularly taughtBy an accomplished milliner; and RachelAlready promises to lead her teacher.Had I a fortune, still I'd have her feelThat she must conquer something worthily;Something to occupy her active powers,And yield a fair support, should need require.VI.Whom should I meet to-day but Meredith!My washerwoman, Ellen Blount, is ill,So ill I fear she never will be well.'Tis the old story, every day renewed:A little humble, tender-hearted woman,Tied to a husband whom to call a bruteWould be to vilify the quadrupeds!A fellow, who must have his pipe, his whiskey,And his good dinner, let what may befallHis wife and children. He could take the pittanceShe got from her hard toil, and spend it onHimself and his companions of the jug.When out of work, as he would often be,Then double toil for her! with peevish wordsFrom him, the sole requital of it all!Child after child she bore him; but, compelledToo quickly after childbirth to returnTo the old wash-tub, all her sufferingsReacted on the children, and they died,Haply in infancy the most of them,—Until but one was left,—a little boy,Puny and pale, gentle and uncomplaining,With all the mother staring from his eyesIn hollow, anxious, pitiful appeal.In this one relic all her love and hopeAnd all that made her life endurableAt length were centred. She had saved a dollarTo buy for him a pair of overshoes;But, as she went to get them, Blount waylaid her,Learnt that she had the money, forced it from her.Poor Teddy had to go without his shoes.'Twas when the January thaw had madeThe streets a-reek with mud and melting snow.Poor Teddy wet his feet, took cold, and died."Come soon, mamma," were his last feeble words.Blount was a cunning ruffian; well he knewHow far to go, and where and when to pause.Fluent and specious with his tongue, he kept,In his small sphere, a certain show of credit;And he could blow in tune for mother church,Though few the pennies he himself would give her."Cast off the wretch," was my advice to Ellen.She loved him not; she might as well have triedTo love a load that galled and wearied her.But custom, social fear, and, above all,Those sacramental manacles the churchHad bound her in, and to the end would keep,Forbade the poor, scared, helpless little womanTo free herself, by one condign resolve,From the foul incubus that sucked her life.So a false sense of duty kept her tied,Feeding in him all that was pitiless.And now she's dying. I had gone to-dayTo take some little dainties, cream and fruit,And there, administering consolation,Was Meredith.Hearing his tones of faith,Seeing his saintly look of sympathy,I felt, there being between us no dissentIn spirit, dogmas were of small account:And so I knelt and listened to his prayer.At length he noticed me, and recognized."Miss Percival!" he cried; "can this be you?But when and why did you return from England?""I've never been in England, never beenOut of my native country," I replied."But that is unaccountable," said he;"For I've seen letters, written as from you,Signed with your name, acknowledging receiptsOf certain sums of money, dated London.""No money have I had but what I've earned,"Was my reply; "and who should send me money?"Said he: "I have a carriage at the door;I would learn more of this; you'll not objectTo take a seat with me? Thank you; that's right."Leaving the patient in good hands, we went,And through the noisy streets drove to the Park.Then all I'd ever known about my parentsHe drew from me; and all my historySince I had parted from him; noted downCarefully my address, and gave me his.Then to my lodgings driving with me back,He left me with aBenedicite!He's rich: has he been sending money, then?What means it all? Conjecture finds no clew.VII.Gently as thistle-downs are borne awayFrom the dry stem, went Ellen yesterday.I heard her dying utterance; it was:"I'm coming, Teddy! Bless you, dear Miss Linda!"No priest was by, so sudden was her going.When Blount came in, there was no tendernessIn his sleek, gluttonous look; although he tried,Behind his handkerchief, to play the mourner.What will he do without a drudge to tread on?Counting himself a privileged lord and master,He'll condescend to a new victim soon,And make some patient waiter a sad loser.VIII."Some patient waiter!" Such a one I know.There was a time when I resolved, if everI could secure a modest competence,I would be married; and the competenceIs now secure—but where is my resolve?Shall I conclude 'tis all fatality?Leave it to chance, and take no active stepMyself to seek what I so hope to find?Accepting it as heaven's fixed ordinance,That man should change his single lot at will,But woman be the sport of circumstance,A purposeless and passive accident,Inert as oysters waiting for a tide,But not like oysters, sure of what they wait for?"Ah! woman's strength is in passivity,"Fastidio says, shaking his wise, wise head,And withering me with a disdainful stare.Nay! woman's strength is in developing,In virtuous ways, all that is best in her.No superstitious waiting then be mine!No fancy that in coy, alluring arts,Rather than action, modest and sincere,Woman most worthily performs her part.Here am I twenty-five, and all aloneIn the wide world; yet having won the right,By my own effort, to hew out my lot,And create ties to cheer this arid waste.How bleak and void my Future, if I standWaiting beside the stream, until some Prince—Son of Queen Moonbeam by King Will-o'-the wisp—Appears, and jumping from his gilded boat,Lays heart and fortune at my idle feet!Ye languid day-dreams, vanish! let me act!But ah! Fastidio says, "A woman's wooingMust always be offensive to a manOf any dignity." The dignityThat modest truth can shock is far too frailAnd sensitive to mate with love of mine,Whose earnestness might crush the feeble handLinked in its own. So good by, dignity!I shall survive the chill of your repulse.Defiance, not of Nature's law, but Custom's,Is what disturbs Fastidio. Does he thinkThat aman'swooing never is offensiveTowoman'sdignity? In either sexThe disaffection is not prompted byThe wooing but the wooer; love can neverBe an unwelcome tribute to the lover;Though freedom premature, or forwardnessUnwarranted, may rightly fail to win.And so I'll run my risk; for I confess—(Keep the unuttered secret, sacred leaf!)—That there is one whom I could love—could die for,Would he but—Tears? Well, tears may come from strengthAs well as weakness: I'll not grudge him these;I'll not despair while I can shed a tear.IX.I've found him—seen him! The DirectoryGave me his residence. He keeps a school,One for young ladies only; and at onceMy coward heart hit on a good excuseFor calling on him: Would he take a pupil?Rachel, my protégée? Of course he would.A flush of tender, joyful wonderment,Methought, illumed his face at seeing me;Then, as it faded, I was grieved to markHow pale and thin and worn with care he looked.I took my leave, promising to returnWithin a week; and on the outer stepsI met his father. "Turn and walk with meA square or two," said I; and he complied."What ails him?" I inquired. "Only hard work:He puts too much of conscience into it.Needs help, but shrinks from debt, and so keeps onDoing the labor two or three should share.What shall I do, Miss Percival, to stop it?""I know not,—only something must be done,And that at once," said I, in tones which madeThe old man turn to get a look at me.I hailed an omnibus, and there we parted....What if I write Charles Lothian a letter?Nay, I'll not skulk behind a sheet of paper,But face to face say what I have to say.This very evening must I call again.Let a firm will bear up my fainting heart!X.And so at eight o'clock the carriage came,And entering it I drove to Lothian's.At last I was alone with him once more!He had been sitting at a table heapedWith manuscripts, and these he was correcting."I'm here to interrupt all this," said I;"Too long you've kept your brain upon the stretch:Why be so heedless of your health, your life?""But what are they to you, Miss Percival?""And that is what I've come to let you know,"Said I, emboldened by the offered foothold.He flushed a little, only just a little,—Replying, "ThatI'm curious to learn."And then, like one who, in the dark, at firstMoves cautiously, but soon runs boldly on,I said: "Rash gambler that I am, I've comeTo put upon the hazard of a dieMuch of my present and my future peace;Perhaps to shock, repel, and anger you,Since 'twill not be unwarned that I offend.I know you guess my purpose, and you shrinkFrom hearing me avow it; but I will,And that in homely English unadorned.I'm here to offer you my hand; the heartThat should go with it has preceded it,And dwells with you, so you can claim your own,Or gently bid it go, to trouble youNever again. If 'tis unwomanlyThis to avow, then I'm unlike my sex,Not false to my own nature,—ah! not false.I must be true or die; I cannot playA masker's part, disguising hopes that clingNearest my brooding heart. But, say the word,'I cannot love you,' and the bird who leavesThe cage where he has pined will sooner tryTo enter it again, than I returnTo utter plaint of mine within your hearing."With throbbing heart and burning face I ceased.Twice, thrice he tried to stop me; but my wordsCame all too quick and earnestly for that.And then resigned he listened. I had seen,Or dreamed I had, at first a sacred joyAt my avowal sparkle in his eyes,And then an utter sadness follow it,Which chilled me, and I knew that I had failed."O divine Pity! what will you not brave?"He answered, and the dew was in his eyes,—"You bring her here, even to abase herselfTo rescue me! Too costly sacrifice!Here do not dwell the Graces and the Loves,But Drudgery is master of the house.Dear lady, elsewhere seek the answering bloom."A hope flashed up. "Do you suppose," said I,"That any impulse less supreme than love—Love bold to venture, but intemerate—Could bring me here—that Pity could do this?""I believe all," he answered, "all you say;But do not bid me whisper more than this:The circumstances that environ me,And which none know,—not even my father knows,—Shut me out utterly from any hopeOf marriage or of love. A wretch in prisonMight better dream of marrying than I.But O sweet lady! rashly generous,—Around whom, a protecting atmosphere,Floats Purity, and sends her messengersWith flaming swords to guard each avenueFrom thoughts unholy and approaches base,—Thou who hast made an act I deemed uncomelySeem beautiful and gracious,—do not doubtMy memory of thy worth shall be the same,Only expanded, lifted up, and touchedWith light as dear as sunset radianceTo summer trees after a thunder-storm."And there was silence then between us two.Thought of myself was lost in thought for him.What was my wreck of joy, compared with his?Health, youth, and competence were mine, and heWas staking all of his to save another.If my winged hopes fell fluttering to the ground,Regrets and disappointments were forgottenIn the reflection, He, then, is unhappy!"Good by!" at length I said, giving my hand:"Even as I was believed, will I believe.You do not deal in hollow compliment;And we shall meet again if you're content.The good time will return—and I'll return!""If you return, the good time will returnAnd stay as long as you remain," said he.XI.It is as I supposed: an obstacleWhich his assumption of his father's debtsHas raised before him unexpectedly!I did not let a day go by beforeI saw the elder Lothian, and he,Distressed by what I told him of a secret,Applied himself to hunting up a keyTo the mysterious grief: at last he got it,Though not by means that I could justify.In Charles's private escritoire he foundA memorandum that explained it all.Among the obligations overlooked,In settling up the firm's accounts, was oneOf fifty thousand dollars, payableTo an estate, the representativesOf which were six small children and a widow,Dependent now on what they could deriveOf income from this debt; and manfullyCharles shoulders it, although it crushes him;And hopes to keep his father ignorant.I can command one quarter of the sumAlready—but the rest? That staggers me.And yet why should I falter? Look athim!Let his example be my high incentive.I'll be his helpmate, and he shall not know it.Poor Charles! I'll toil for him,—to him devoteAll that I have of energy and skill,All I acquire. Ambition shall not mountLess loftily for having Love to help it.Come forth, my easel! All thy work has beenGirl's play till now; now will I truly venture.I've a new object now—to rescuehim!And he shall never know his rescuerFrom lips of mine,—no, though I die for it,With the sweet secret undisclosed,—my heartGlad in the love he never may requite!VIII.FROM MEREDITH'S DIARY.I.Incalculablyselfish and corrupt,Well may man need a sacrifice divineTo expiate infinity of sin.Few but a priest can know the fearful depthOf human wickedness. At times I shrinkFaint and amazed at what I have to learn:And then I wonder that the Saviour saidHis yoke is easy and his burden light.Ah! how these very murmurs at my lotShow that not yet into my heart has creptThat peace of God which passeth understanding!II.Among my hearers lately there has beenA lady all attention to my words:Thrice have I seen that she was deeply moved;And to confession yesterday she came.Let me here call her Harriet. She isBy education Protestant, but wavers,Feeling the ground beneath her insecure,And would be led unto the rock that isHigher than she. A valuable convert;Not young; in feeble health; taxed for two millions;And she would found, out of her ample means,A home for orphans and neglected children.Heaven give me power to lead the stray one safeInto the only fold; securing thusAid for the church, salvation for herself!III.A summons took me to her house to-day.Her mother and her step-father composeWith Harriet the household. I refrainFrom putting real names on paper here.Let me then call the man's name, Denison;He's somewhat younger than his wife, a ladyAdvanced in years, but her heart wholly setOn the frivolities of fashion still.I see the situation at a glance:A mercenary marriage on the partOf Denison, whose hungry eyes are fixedUpon the daughter's property; the motherUnder his evil influence, and expectingThe daughter to die soon, without a will,Thus leaving all to them;—and HarrietNot quite so dull but she can penetrateDenison's motive and her mother's hope!A sad state for an invalid who feelsThat any hour may be her last! To-dayHarriet confessed; for she has been alarmedBy some bad symptoms lately. As she urged it,I sent word to the bishop, and he came,And she was formally confirmed, and takenUnto the bosom of the Church, and thereMay her poor toiling spirit find repose!IV.Another summons! In the drawing-room,Whom should I meet but Denison? His stareHad something vicious in it; but we bowed,And he remarked: "I hear that Harriet,Caught in your Catholic net, is turning saint.No foul play, priest! She's not in a conditionTo make a will, or give away her money.Remember that, and do not waste your words."My color rose, and the brute Adam in meWould, uncontrolled, have surely knocked him down.But I cast off temptation, and replied:"Sir, I'm responsible to God, not man."I left him, and passed on to Harriet.I found her greatly moved; an interviewShe had been having with her mother causedThe agitation. "Take me hence!" she cried;"I'll not remain another day or hourUnder this roof. I tell you, I'm not safeWith these two, watching, dogging, maddening me."She rang the bell, and to the servant said:"My carriage, and that quickly!" Then to me:"I'll show them that I'm mistress of my fortuneAnd of myself. Call on me in an hourAt the Fifth Avenue Hotel, for thereHenceforth I make my home." And thereI called, as she had ordered, and we metIn her own parlor. "What I wish," said she,"Is to give all I have, without reserve,For the foundation that I've planned. I'll sendDirections to my lawyer, and the papersShall be prepared at once."—"Before you do it,Let me learn more of you and yours," said I:"Who was your father?" Then, to my surprise,I learnt that he was one whom I had metSome years before,—in his death-hour had met."But you've a sister?" suddenly I asked.Surprised, she answered: "A half-sister—yes—I've seen her only once; for many yearsI lived in Europe; she's in England now,And married happily. On three occasionsI've sent her money."—"Do you correspond?""Not often; here are letters from her, fullOf thanks for all I've given her."—"In your willShall you remember her?"—"If you advise it.""Then I advise a liberal bequest.And now I must attend a suffererWho waits my help."—"Father, I would confess.""Daughter, be quick: I listen." HarrietThen gave a sad recital of a trialAnd a divorce; and (but reluctantly)Told of a terrible suspicion, bornOf a remark, dropped by a servant once,Concerning her unlikeness to her father:But never could she wring a confirmationOf the distressing story from her mother."Tell her," said I, "you mean to leave your sisterA handsome legacy." She promised this.Then saying I would call the following day,I hurried off to see poor Ellen Blount.V.A new surprise! There, by the patient's bed,I came on Linda, Harriet's half-sister!(Reputed so, at least, but here's a doubt.)I questioned her, and now am satisfiedTreason and forgery have been at work,Defeating Harriet's sisterly intent;Moreover, that the harrowing surmise,Waked by a servant's gossip overheard,Is, in all probability, the truth!And, if we so accept it, what can IAdvise but Harriet's complete surrenderOf all her fortune to the real childAnd proper heir of Albert Percival?But ah! 'tis now devoted to the Church!Here's a divided duty; I must layThe case before a higher power than mine.VI.I've had a long discussion with the bishop.I placed before him all the facts, beginningWith those of my own presence at the deathOf Linda's parents; of her father's letterReceived that day, communicating newsOf Kenrick's large bequest; the father's effortIn dying to convey in legal formTo his child Linda all this property;The failure of the effort; his decease,And all I knew of subsequent events.And the good bishop, after careful thought,Replied: "Some way the mother must be broughtTo full confession. Of her guilt no doubt!"I told him I had charged it on the daughterTo tell her mother of the legacyDesigned for Linda; this, perchance, might wringConfession from the guilty one. He seemedTo think it not unlikely, and remarked:"When that is got, there's but a single courseFor you to urge on Harriet; for, my son,I need not tell a Christian gentleman,Not to say priest, that this peculiar caseWe must decide precisely as we wouldIf the Church had in it no interest:Let Harriet at once give up, convey,Not bequeathe merely, all she has to Linda.Till she does this, her soul will be in peril;When she does this, she shall be made the wardOf Holy Church, and cared for to the end."I kissed his hand and left. How his high thoughtsPoured round my path a flood of light divine!Why did I hesitate, since he could makeThe path of duty so directly clear!VII.Harriet's intimation to her motherThat she should leave a good part of her wealthTo her half-sister brought things to a crisis.To-day my visit found the two together:Harriet, in an agony of tears,Cried to me, as I entered,—"'Tis all true!God! She confesses it—confesses it!Confesses, too, she never sent the money,And that the letters were all forgeries!And thinks, by this confession, to secureMy fortune to herself! Ah! Can this womanBe, then, my mother?"Hereupon the woman,Crimson with rage at being thus exposed,Exclaimed, "Unnatural daughter—" But beforeHer wrath could vent itself, she, with a groan,Fell in convulsions. Medical assistanceWas had at once. Then Denison came in,Aghast at what had happened; for he knewHis wife's estate was all in lands and houses,And would, if she should die, be Harriet's,Since the old lady superstitiouslyHad still put off the making of a will.All help was vain, and drugs were powerless.Paralysis had struck the heated brain,Driving from mortal hold the consciousness:It reappeared not in one outward sign,And before midnight life had left the clay.VIII.Meek and submissive as a little childIs Harriet now; she has no will but thatThe Church imposes as the will divine."Your fortune, nearly doubled by this death,Must all," said I, "be now conveyed to Linda.""Let it be done," she cried, "before I sleep!"And it was done to-night—securely done,—I being Linda's representative.To-morrow I must take her the good news.IX.After the storm, the rainbow, child of light!Such the transition, as I pass to Linda!I found her hard at work upon a picture.With wonder at Heaven's ways she heard my news.Shocked at the tragic death, she did not hideHer satisfaction at the tardy actBringing the restitution of her own.Three things she asked; one was that I would placeAt once a certain person in possessionOf a large sum, not letting him find outFrom whom it came; another was to haveThis great change in her fortunes kept a secretAs long as she might wish; the third and lastWas that she might be privileged to waitOn Harriet with a sister's loving care.All which I promised readily should be,So far as my poor human will could order.Said Linda then: "Tell Harriet, her schemeFor others' welfare shall not wholly fail;That in your hands I'll place a sum sufficientTo plant thegermat least of what she planned."X.I've taken my last look of Harriet:She died in Linda's arms, and comfortedWith all the Church could give of heavenly hope.Slowly and imperceptibly does TimeWork out the dreadful problem of our sins!Not often do we see it solved as hereIn plain results which he who runs may read.Not always is the sinner's punishmentShown in this world. May the Eternal MercyCleanse us from secret faults, nor, while we markAnother's foulness, blind us to our own!IX.BESIDE THE LAKE.Thesun of August from a clear blue skyShone on Lake Saranac. The South-wind stirredMildly the woods encircling, that threw downA purple shadow on the liquid smoothnessGlassing the eastern border, while the westLay bared to light.Wild, virgin nature all!Except that here and there a partial clearing,Made by the sportsman's axe for summer tents,Dented the massive verdure, and revealedA little slope of bank, dotted with stumpsAnd brown with slender aromatic leavesShed from the pine, the hemlock, and the firIn layers that gave a soft and slippery carpet.Near one of these small openings where the breezeCrept resinous and cool from evergreensBehind them, while the sun blazed bright before,—Where with the pine-trees' vapory depth of hueThe whiteness of a spacious tent contrasted,Beside which, on a staff, the nation's flagFlung out its crimson with protecting pride,—Reclined a wife and husband, looking downLess on the glorious lake than on the gloryThat, through a gauzy veil, played round the headOf a reposing infant, golden-tressed,Asleep upon a deer-skin at their feet,While a huge dog kept watchful guard beyond:For there lay little Mary Merivale.Boats on the lake showed that this group detachedWere part of a well-chosen company.Here children ran and frolicked on the beach;There an old man, rowed by two guides, stood upWith rod and line and reel, while swiftly flewThe reel, announcing that a vigorous troutJust then had seized the hook. Came the loud cry,—"Look, Charles! Look, Linda! See me land him now!Don't touch him with your scoop, men! I can fetch him,"—In tones not unfamiliar to our ears.And there, six boats swept by, from which the voicesOf merry children and their elder friends—Mothers and fathers, teachers, faded aunts,Dyspeptic uncles, wonderfully curedAll by this tonic, Adirondack air—Came musical and loud: a strange collection,Winnowed by Rachel (now the important queenOf all this sanitary revelry)From her acquaintance in the public schools;Whence her quick sympathies had carried herStraight to the overworked, the poor, the ailing,Among the families of her associates,When Linda planned this happy enterpriseOf a grand camping-out for one whole month.The blind aunt and the grandmother, of course,High and important persons, Rachel's aids,Graced the occasion; for the ancient dameHad lived in such a region in her youth,And in all sylvan craft was proudly wise:Declaring that this taste of life would addSome ten years to her eighty-five, at least.On went the boats, all large and safely manned,In competition not too venturesome.Then, from a rocky outlook on the hill,There came a gush of music from a band,Employed to cheer with timely melodyThis strange encampment in the wilderness.Hark! Every voice is hushed as down the lakeThe breathing clarions accordant sendThe tune of "Love Not" to each eager ear!The very infant, in its slumber, smiledAs if a dream of some old paradiseHad been awakened by the ravishment."Look at the child!" cried Linda; "mark that smile!All heaven reflected in a dew-drop! See!""And all the world grasped in that little fist,—At least as we esteem the world!" cried Charles."And yet," said Linda, "'tis a glorious world:See how those families enjoy themselves!""And who created all this happiness?"The husband said,—"who, after God, but Linda?Who spends her money, not in rearing pilesOf cold and costly marble for her pride,—Not in great banquets for the rich and gayWho need them not, and laugh at those who give,—Where, at one feast, enough is spent to makeAll these poor people radiant for a month,—But in exhilarations coming fromCommunicated joy and health and life,—The happiness that's found in making happy.""All selfishness!" cried Linda; "selfishness!I seek my happiness, and others theirs;Only my tastes are different; more plebeian,Haply, they'd say; but, husband mine, reflect!You, too, I fear, are lacking in refinement:Would this have been, had you not acquiescedIn all these vulgar freaks, and found content,Like me, in giving pleasure to the needy?And tell me—passing to another point—Where would have been the monarch of this joy,That little child,—that antepast of blissSuch as the angels taste,—had I recoiledFrom daring as I did, even when I knewHe I most wished to win would think me bold?""Ah! little wife," cried Charles, "I've half a mindTo tell you what I've never told you yet.Yes, Iwilltell you all, although it mayEnd the complacent thought that Linda did it—Did it by simply daring to propose!Know, then, a constant track of you I kept,Even while I seemed to shun you. I could kneelBefore your recollection in my heart,When you regarded me as shy and cold.And, while by poverty held reticent,I saw, supreme among my hopes, but Linda!Before we left the sea-side I had learnt,Through gossip of my worthy landlady,Where you would go, returning to New York.I found your house; I passed it more than onceWhen, like a beacon, shone your study-lamp.The very night before you called upon meTo ask, would I take Rachel as my pupil,(How kind in you to patronize my school!)I sought an anodyne for my despairIn watching for your shadow on the curtain."Discovery of that unexpected debt,Owed by my father, killed the last faint hopeWhich I had cherished; and our interview—Your daring offer of this little hand—But made me emulous to equal youIn self-renouncing generosity;And so, I frankly told you what I told:That love and marriage were not in my lot."Ten days elapsed, and then from utter gloomI sprang to cheerful light. My father's partner,The man named Judd, who robbed us all one day,Had a compunctious interval, and sentA hundred thousand dollars back to us—Why do you smile?""Go on. 'Tis worth a smile.""That very day I cleared myself from debt;That very day I sued for Linda's hand;That very day she gave it willingly;And the next month beheld us two made one.And so it would have been, if you, my dear,Had made no sign, and waited patiently.But ah! what luck was mine! After two days,The news arrived that Linda was an heiress.An heiress! Think of it; and I had said,Never, no, never would I wed an heiress!But 'twas too late for scruples; I was married,—Caught in the trap I always meant to shun!"Then Linda, mischief in her smile, exclaimed:"O simple Charles! The innocent dear man!Who doubts but woman ought to hold her tongue,And wait till he, the preordained, appear?That hundred thousand dollars, you are sure,Was from your father's partner—was from Judd?""Of course it was,—from Judd, and no one else!Who could have sent the money, if not Judd?No doubt it came from Judd! My father said,'Twas conscience-money, and restored by Judd,Who had become a deacon in the Church.Why did you ask me whether I was sureThe hundred thousand dollars came from Judd?What are you smiling at, provoking Linda?""O, you're so quick, so clever, all you men!And women are so dull and credulous,So easily duped, when left to go alone!What you would prove is, that my daring step,In being first to make a declaration,Was needless, since priority in loveWas yours, and your intention would have broughtThe same result about without my seeking.Know then, the money was not yours untilI'd got the news of my recovered fortune;From me the money came, and only me;And all that story of a Judd, turned deacon,Grown penitent and making restitution,Was a mere myth, invented by your father,Lest you might hesitate to take the money.Now if I had not sought you as I did,And if I had not put you to the test,And if I had not learnt your secret grief,We might have lived till we were gray and bentBefore a step of yours had brought us nearer.""Outflanked! I own it, and I give it up!"Cried Charles, all flushing with astonishment:"But how I'll rate that ancient fisherman,My graceless father, for deceiving me!See him stand there, as if with conscience void,Throwing the line for innocent, fat trout!With that grave face, saying the money cameFrom Judd,—from Deacon Judd! I'll deacon him!"

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

It is the heart makes music musical!My neighbor has a mocking-bird: its songHas been as little heeded as the noiseOf rattling wheels incessant; but to-dayOne of its strains brought all Elysium backInto my heart. What was it? What the tieLinking it with some inexpressive joy?At length I solve the mystery! Those notes,Pensively slow and sadly exquisite,Were what the wood-thrush piped at early dawnAfter that evening passage in the boat,When stars came out, that never more shall set.Oh! sweet and clear the measured cadence fellUpon my ear in slumber—and I woke!I woke, and listened while the first faint flushOf day was in the east; while yet the groveShowed only purple gloom, and on the beachThe tidal waves with intermittent rushBroke lazily and lent their mingling chime.And O the unreckoned riches of the soul!The possible beatitudes, of whichA glimpse is given, a transitory glimpse,So rarely in a lifetime! Then it was,Hearing that strain, as if all joy the PastHad in its keeping,—all the Future held,—All love, all adoration, and all beauty,—Made for a moment the soul's atmosphere,And lifted it to bliss unspeakable.O splendor fugitive! O transport rare!Transfiguring and glorifying life!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But ah! Fastidio says, "A woman's wooingMust always be offensive to a manOf any dignity." The dignityThat modest truth can shock is far too frailAnd sensitive to mate with love of mine,Whose earnestness might crush the feeble handLinked in its own. So good by, dignity!I shall survive the chill of your repulse.Defiance, not of Nature's law, but Custom's,Is what disturbs Fastidio. Does he thinkThat aman'swooing never is offensiveTowoman'sdignity? In either sexThe disaffection is not prompted byThe wooing but the wooer; love can neverBe an unwelcome tribute to the lover;Though freedom premature, or forwardnessUnwarranted, may rightly fail to win.And so I'll run my risk; for I confess—(Keep the unuttered secret, sacred leaf!)—That there is one whom I could love—could die for,Would he but—Tears? Well, tears may come from strengthAs well as weakness: I'll not grudge him these;I'll not despair while I can shed a tear.

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

And so at eight o'clock the carriage came,And entering it I drove to Lothian's.At last I was alone with him once more!He had been sitting at a table heapedWith manuscripts, and these he was correcting."I'm here to interrupt all this," said I;"Too long you've kept your brain upon the stretch:Why be so heedless of your health, your life?""But what are they to you, Miss Percival?""And that is what I've come to let you know,"Said I, emboldened by the offered foothold.He flushed a little, only just a little,—Replying, "ThatI'm curious to learn."And then, like one who, in the dark, at firstMoves cautiously, but soon runs boldly on,I said: "Rash gambler that I am, I've comeTo put upon the hazard of a dieMuch of my present and my future peace;Perhaps to shock, repel, and anger you,Since 'twill not be unwarned that I offend.I know you guess my purpose, and you shrinkFrom hearing me avow it; but I will,And that in homely English unadorned.I'm here to offer you my hand; the heartThat should go with it has preceded it,And dwells with you, so you can claim your own,Or gently bid it go, to trouble youNever again. If 'tis unwomanlyThis to avow, then I'm unlike my sex,Not false to my own nature,—ah! not false.I must be true or die; I cannot playA masker's part, disguising hopes that clingNearest my brooding heart. But, say the word,'I cannot love you,' and the bird who leavesThe cage where he has pined will sooner tryTo enter it again, than I returnTo utter plaint of mine within your hearing."

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

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

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

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

It is as I supposed: an obstacleWhich his assumption of his father's debtsHas raised before him unexpectedly!I did not let a day go by beforeI saw the elder Lothian, and he,Distressed by what I told him of a secret,Applied himself to hunting up a keyTo the mysterious grief: at last he got it,Though not by means that I could justify.In Charles's private escritoire he foundA memorandum that explained it all.Among the obligations overlooked,In settling up the firm's accounts, was oneOf fifty thousand dollars, payableTo an estate, the representativesOf which were six small children and a widow,Dependent now on what they could deriveOf income from this debt; and manfullyCharles shoulders it, although it crushes him;And hopes to keep his father ignorant.I can command one quarter of the sumAlready—but the rest? That staggers me.And yet why should I falter? Look athim!Let his example be my high incentive.I'll be his helpmate, and he shall not know it.Poor Charles! I'll toil for him,—to him devoteAll that I have of energy and skill,All I acquire. Ambition shall not mountLess loftily for having Love to help it.Come forth, my easel! All thy work has beenGirl's play till now; now will I truly venture.I've a new object now—to rescuehim!And he shall never know his rescuerFrom lips of mine,—no, though I die for it,With the sweet secret undisclosed,—my heartGlad in the love he never may requite!

Incalculablyselfish and corrupt,Well may man need a sacrifice divineTo expiate infinity of sin.Few but a priest can know the fearful depthOf human wickedness. At times I shrinkFaint and amazed at what I have to learn:And then I wonder that the Saviour saidHis yoke is easy and his burden light.Ah! how these very murmurs at my lotShow that not yet into my heart has creptThat peace of God which passeth understanding!

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

A summons took me to her house to-day.Her mother and her step-father composeWith Harriet the household. I refrainFrom putting real names on paper here.Let me then call the man's name, Denison;He's somewhat younger than his wife, a ladyAdvanced in years, but her heart wholly setOn the frivolities of fashion still.I see the situation at a glance:A mercenary marriage on the partOf Denison, whose hungry eyes are fixedUpon the daughter's property; the motherUnder his evil influence, and expectingThe daughter to die soon, without a will,Thus leaving all to them;—and HarrietNot quite so dull but she can penetrateDenison's motive and her mother's hope!A sad state for an invalid who feelsThat any hour may be her last! To-dayHarriet confessed; for she has been alarmedBy some bad symptoms lately. As she urged it,I sent word to the bishop, and he came,And she was formally confirmed, and takenUnto the bosom of the Church, and thereMay her poor toiling spirit find repose!

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

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

I've had a long discussion with the bishop.I placed before him all the facts, beginningWith those of my own presence at the deathOf Linda's parents; of her father's letterReceived that day, communicating newsOf Kenrick's large bequest; the father's effortIn dying to convey in legal formTo his child Linda all this property;The failure of the effort; his decease,And all I knew of subsequent events.And the good bishop, after careful thought,Replied: "Some way the mother must be broughtTo full confession. Of her guilt no doubt!"I told him I had charged it on the daughterTo tell her mother of the legacyDesigned for Linda; this, perchance, might wringConfession from the guilty one. He seemedTo think it not unlikely, and remarked:"When that is got, there's but a single courseFor you to urge on Harriet; for, my son,I need not tell a Christian gentleman,Not to say priest, that this peculiar caseWe must decide precisely as we wouldIf the Church had in it no interest:Let Harriet at once give up, convey,Not bequeathe merely, all she has to Linda.Till she does this, her soul will be in peril;When she does this, she shall be made the wardOf Holy Church, and cared for to the end."I kissed his hand and left. How his high thoughtsPoured round my path a flood of light divine!Why did I hesitate, since he could makeThe path of duty so directly clear!

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

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

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

After the storm, the rainbow, child of light!Such the transition, as I pass to Linda!I found her hard at work upon a picture.With wonder at Heaven's ways she heard my news.Shocked at the tragic death, she did not hideHer satisfaction at the tardy actBringing the restitution of her own.Three things she asked; one was that I would placeAt once a certain person in possessionOf a large sum, not letting him find outFrom whom it came; another was to haveThis great change in her fortunes kept a secretAs long as she might wish; the third and lastWas that she might be privileged to waitOn Harriet with a sister's loving care.All which I promised readily should be,So far as my poor human will could order.Said Linda then: "Tell Harriet, her schemeFor others' welfare shall not wholly fail;That in your hands I'll place a sum sufficientTo plant thegermat least of what she planned."

I've taken my last look of Harriet:She died in Linda's arms, and comfortedWith all the Church could give of heavenly hope.Slowly and imperceptibly does TimeWork out the dreadful problem of our sins!Not often do we see it solved as hereIn plain results which he who runs may read.Not always is the sinner's punishmentShown in this world. May the Eternal MercyCleanse us from secret faults, nor, while we markAnother's foulness, blind us to our own!

Thesun of August from a clear blue skyShone on Lake Saranac. The South-wind stirredMildly the woods encircling, that threw downA purple shadow on the liquid smoothnessGlassing the eastern border, while the westLay bared to light.

Wild, virgin nature all!Except that here and there a partial clearing,Made by the sportsman's axe for summer tents,Dented the massive verdure, and revealedA little slope of bank, dotted with stumpsAnd brown with slender aromatic leavesShed from the pine, the hemlock, and the firIn layers that gave a soft and slippery carpet.

Near one of these small openings where the breezeCrept resinous and cool from evergreensBehind them, while the sun blazed bright before,—Where with the pine-trees' vapory depth of hueThe whiteness of a spacious tent contrasted,Beside which, on a staff, the nation's flagFlung out its crimson with protecting pride,—Reclined a wife and husband, looking downLess on the glorious lake than on the gloryThat, through a gauzy veil, played round the headOf a reposing infant, golden-tressed,Asleep upon a deer-skin at their feet,While a huge dog kept watchful guard beyond:For there lay little Mary Merivale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go on. 'Tis worth a smile."

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

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

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

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