"I'm glad you spurned it as you did!" cried Linda,

Produced by Julia Miller, Meredith Bach and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This

file was produced from images generously made available

by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

[Transcriber's Note:

Endnote markers have been added for the reader's convenience.]

THE WOMAN WHO DARED.

THE

WOMAN WHO DARED.

BY

EPES SARGENT.

"Honest liberty is the greatest foe to dishonest license."

JOHN MILTON.

BOSTON:

ROBERTS BROTHERS.

1870.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by

EPES SARGENT,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of

Massachusetts.

UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,

CAMBRIDGE.

To ---- ----.

_Spring saw my little venture just begun;

And then your hospitable message came,

Inviting me to taste the strawberries

At Strawberry Hill. I went. How long I stayed,

Urged by dear friends and the restoring breeze,

Let me not say; long enough to complete

My rhythmic structure; day by day it grew,

And all sweet influences helped its growth.

The lawn sloped green and ample till the trees

Met on its margin; and the Hudson's tide

Rolled beautiful beyond, where purple gleams

Fell on the Palisades or touched the hills

Of the opposing shore; for all without

Was but an emblem of the symmetry

I found within, where love held perfect sway,

With taste and beauty and domestic peace

For its allies._

_We do not praise the rose,

Since all who see it know it is the rose;

And so, dear lady, praise of thee would seem,

To all who know thee, quite superfluous.

But if from any of these thoughts be shed

Aught of the fragrance and the hue of truth,

To thee I dedicate the transient flower

In which the eternal beauty reappears;

Knowing, should poison mingle with the sweet,

Thou, like the eclectic bee, with instinct sure,

Wilt take the good alone, and leave the bad._

_E. S._

CONTENTS.

PAGE

I. OVERTURE 1

II. THE FATHER'S STORY 7

III. THE MOTHER'S STORY 39

Linda's Lullaby 41

IV. PARADISE FOUND 93

The Mother's Hymn 100

V. LINDA 115

Help me, dear Chords 143

Be of good Cheer 147

VI. BY THE SEASIDE 177

Linda's Song 189

Under the Pines 203

VII. FROM LINDA'S DIARY 211

VIII. FROM MEREDITH'S DIARY 235

IX. BESIDE THE LAKE 249

NOTES 263

THE WOMAN WHO DARED.

I.

OVERTURE.

Blest Power that canst transfigure common things,

And, like the sun, make the clod burst in bloom,--

Unseal the fount so mute this many a day,

And help me sing of Linda! Why of her,

Since she would shrink with manifest recoil,

Knew she that deeds of hers were made a theme

For measured verse? Why leave the garden flowers

To fix the eye on one poor violet

That on the solitary grove sheds fragrance?

Themes are enough, that court a wide regard,

And prompt a strenuous flight; and yet from all,

My thoughts come back to Linda. Let me spare,

As best I may, her modest privacy,

While under Fancy's not inapt disguise

I give substantial truth, and deal with no

Unreal beings or fantastic facts:

Bear witness to it, Linda!

Now while May

Keeps me a restive prisoner in the house,

For the first time the Spring's unkindness ever

Held me aloof from her companionship,

However roughly from the east her breath

Came as if all the icebergs of Grand Bank

Were giving up their forms in that one gust,--

Now while on orchard-trees the struggling blossoms

Break from the varnished cerements, and in clouds

Of pink and white float round the boughs that hold

Their verdure yet in check,--and while the lawn

Lures from yon hemlock hedge the robin, plump

And copper-breasted, and the west wind brings

Mildness and balm,--let me attempt the task

That also is a pastime.

What though Spring

Brings not of Youth the wonder and the zest;

The hopes, the day-dreams, and the exultations?

The animal life whose overflow and waste

Would far out-measure now our little hoard?

The health that made mere physical existence

An ample joy; that on the ocean beach

Shared with the leaping waves their breezy glee;

That in deep woods, or in forsaken clearings,

Where the charred logs were hid by verdure new,

And the shy wood-thrush lighted; or on hills

Whence counties lay outspread beneath our gaze;

Or by some rock-girt lake where sandy margins

Sloped to the mirrored tints of waving trees,--

Could feel no burden in the grasshopper,

And no unrest in the long summer day?

Would I esteem Youth's fervors fair return

For temperate airs that fan sublimer heights

Than Youth could scale; heights whence the patient vision

May see this life's harsh inequalities,

Its rudimental good and full-blown evil,

Its crimes and earthquakes and insanities,

And all the wrongs and sorrows that perplex us,

Assume, beneath the eternal calm, the order

Which can come only from a Love Divine?

A love that sees the good beyond the evil,

The serial life beyond the eclipsing death,--

That tracks the spirit through eternities,

Backward and forward, and in every germ

Beholds its past, its present, and its future,

At every stage beholds it gravitate

Where it belongs, and thence new-born emerge

Into new life and opportunity,

An outcast never from the assiduous Mercy,

Providing for His teeming universe,

Divinely perfect not because complete,

But because incomplete, advancing ever

Beneath the care Supreme?--heights whence the soul,

Uplifted from all speculative fog,

All darkening doctrine, all confusing fear,

Can see the drifted plants, can scent the odors,

That surely come from that celestial shore

To which we tend; however out of reckoning,

Swept wrong by Error's currents, Passion's storms,

The poor tossed bark may be?

Descend, my thoughts!

Your theme lies lowly as the ground-bird's nest;

Why seek, with wings so feeble and unused,

To soar above the clouds and front the stars?

Descend from your high venture, and to scenes

Of the heart's common history come down!

II.

THE FATHER'S STORY.

The little mansion had its fill of sunshine;

The western windows overlooked the Hudson

Where the great city's traffic vexed the tide;

The front received the Orient's early flush.

Here dwelt three beings, who the neighbors said

Were husband, wife, and daughter; and indeed

There was no sign that they were otherwise.

Their name was Percival; they lived secluded,

Saw no society, except some poor

Old pensioner who came for food or help;

Though, when fair days invited, they would take

The omnibus and go to see the paintings

At the Academy; or hear the music

At opera or concert; then, in summer,

A visit to the seaside or the hills

Would oft entice them.

Percival had reached

His threescore years and five, but stood erect

As if no touch of age had chilled him yet.

Simple in habit, studious how to live

In best conformity with laws divine,--

Impulsive, yet by trial taught to question

All impulses, affections, appetites,

At Reason's bar,--two objects paramount

Seemed steadily before him; one, to find

The eternal truth, showing the constant right

In politics, in social life, in morals,--

The other, to apply all love and wisdom

To education of his child--of Linda.

Yet, if with eye anointed, you could look

On that benign and tranquil countenance,

You might detect the lines which Passion leaves

Long after its volcano is extinct

And flowers conceal its lava. Percival

Was older than his consort, twenty years;

Yet were they fitly mated; though, with her,

Time had dealt very gently, leaving face

And rounded form still youthful, and unmarred

By one uncomely outline; hardly mingling

A thread of silver in her chestnut hair

That affluent needed no deceiving braid.

Framed for maternity the matron seemed:

Thrice had she been a mother; but the children,

The first six winters of her union brought,

A boy and girl, were lost to her at once

By a wall's falling on them, as they went,

Heedless of danger, hand in hand, to school.

To either parent terrible the blow!

But, three years afterward, when Linda came,

With her dark azure eyes and golden hair,

It was as if a healing angel touched

The parents' wound, and turned their desolation

Into a present paradise, revealing

Two dear ones, beckoning from the spirit-land,

And one, detaining them, with infant grasp,

Feeble, yet how resistless! here below.

And so there was great comfort in that household:

And those unwhispered longings both had felt

At times, that they might pass to other scenes

Where Love would find its own, were felt no more:

For Linda grew in beauty every day;

Beauty not only of the outward mould,

Sparkling in those dear eyes, and on the wind

Tossing those locks of gold, but beauty born,

In revelations flitting o'er the face,

From the soul's inner symmetry; from love

Too deep and pure to utter, had she words;

From the divine desire to know; to prove

All objects brought within her dawning ken;

From frolic mirth, not heedless but most apt;

From sense of conscience, shown in little things

So early; and from infant courtesy

Charming and debonair.

The parents said,

While the glad tears shone brimming in their eyes,

"Oh! lacking love and best experience

Are those who tell us that the purity

And innocence of childhood are delusion;

Or that, so far as they exist, they show

The absence of all mind; no impulses

Save those of selfish passion moving it!

And that, by nature desperately wicked,[1]

The child learns good through evil; having no

Innate ideas, no inborn will, no bias.

Here, in this infant, is our confutation!

O self-sufficing physiologist,

Who, grubbing in the earth, hast missed the stars,

We ask no other answer to thy creed

Than this, the answer heaven and earth supply."

Now sixteen summers had our Linda seen,

And grown to be a fair-haired, winsome maid,

In shape and aspect promising to be

A softened repetition of her mother;

And yet some traits from the paternal side

Gave to the head an intellectual grace

And to the liquid eyes a power reserved,

Brooding awhile in tender gloom, and then

Flashing emotion, as some lofty thought,

Some sight of pity, or some generous deed,

Kindled a ready sympathy whose tears

Fell on no barren purpose; for with Linda

To feel, to be uplifted, was to act;

Her sorest trials being when she found

How far the wish to do outran the power.

Often would Percival observe his child,

And study to divine if in the future

Of that organization, when mature,

There should prevail the elements that lead

Woman to find the crowning charm of life

In the affections of a happy marriage,

Or if with satisfactions of the mind

And the aesthetic faculty, the aims

Of art and letters, the pursuits of trade,

Linda might find the fresh activities

He craved for her, and which forecasting care

Might possibly provide.

His means were small,

Merged in a life-annuity which gave

All that he held as indispensable

To sanative conditions in a home:

Good air, good influences, proper food.

By making his old wardrobe do long service

He saved the wherewith to get faithful help

From the best teachers in instructing Linda;

And she was still the object uppermost.

Dawned the day fair, for Linda it was fair,

And they all three could ramble in the Park.

If on Broadway the ripe fruit tempted him,

Linda was fond of fruit; those grapes will do

For Linda. Was the music rich and rare?

Linda must hear it. Were the paintings grand?

Linda must see them. So the important thought

Was always Linda; and the mother shared

In all this fond parental providence;

For in her tender pride in the dear girl

There was no room for any selfish thought,

For any jealous balancing of dues.

"My child," said Percival, one summer day,

As he brought in a bunch of snow-white roses,

Ringed with carnations, many-leafed and fragrant,

"Take it, an offering for your birthday; this

Is June the twelfth, a happy day for me."

"How fresh, how beautiful!" said Linda rising

And kissing him on either cheek. "Dear father,

You spoil me for all other care, I fear,

Since none can be like yours."

"Why speak of that?"

He with a start exclaimed; "my care must be

Prolonged till I can see you safely fixed

In an assured and happy womanhood.

Why should it not be so? Though sixty-five,

How well am I, and strong! No, Linda, no;

Dream not of other tendance yet awhile;

My father lived to eighty, and his father

To eighty-five; and I am stronger now

Than they were, at my age."

"Live long!" cried Linda,

"For whom have I to love me, to befriend,

You and my mother gone?"

"Your mother, child?

She should outlive me by some twenty years

At least. God grant, her sweet companionship

May be your strength and light when I'm not here,

My matchless little girl, my precious Linda!"

"Ah! how Love magnifies the thing it loves!"

Smiling she said: "when I look in the glass,

I see a comely Miss; nay, perhaps pretty;

That epithet is her superlative,

So far as person is concerned, I fear.

Grant her a cheerful temper; that she gets

From both her parents. She is dutiful,--

No wonder, for she never is opposed!

Strangely coincident her way is yours;

Industrious, but that's her mother's training.

Then if you come to gifts of mind--ah me!

What can she show? We'll not pronounce her dull;

But she's not apt or quick; and all she gets

Is by hard work, by oft-repeated trials,

Trials with intermissions of despair.

The languages she takes to not unkindly;

But mathematics is her scourge, her kill-joy,

Pressing her like a nightmare. Logic, too,

Distresses and confuses her poor brain;

Oh! ask her not for reasons. As for music--

Music she loves. Would that Love might inspire

The genius it reveres so ardently!

Has she no gift for painting? Eye for form

And coloring I truly think she has;

And one thing she can do, and do it well;

She can group flowers and ferns and autumn leaves,

Paint their true tints, and render back to nature

A not unfaithful copy.

"This the extent

Of her achievements! She has labored hard

To mould a bust or statue; but the clay

Lacked the Pygmalion touch beneath her hands.

She'll never be a female Angelo.

She must come down content to mother Earth,

And study out the alphabet which Summer

Weaves on the sod in fields or bordering woods.

Such is your paragon, my simple father!

But now, this ordinary little girl,

So seeming frank, (whisper it low!) is yet

So deep, so crafty, and so full of wiles,

That she has quite persuaded both her parents--

In most things sensible, clear-seeing people--

That she is just a prodigy indeed!

Not one of goodness merely, but of wit,

Capacity, and general cleverness!"

"There, that will do, spoilt darling! What a tongue!"

Percival said, admiring while he chided.

"O the swift time! Thou'rt seventeen to-day;

And yet, except thy parents and thy teachers,

Friends and companions thou hast hardly known.

'Tis fit that I should tell thee why our life

Has been thus socially estranged and quiet.

Sit down, and let me push the arm-chair up

Where I can note the changes in thy face;

For 'tis a traitor, that sweet face of thine,

And has a sign for every fleeting thought.

"But here's our little mother! Come, my dear,

And take a seat by Linda; thou didst help me

To graft upon the bitter past a fruit

All sweetness, and thy very presence now

Can take the sting from a too sad remembrance."

The mother placed her hand upon his brow

And said: "The water-lily springs from mud;

So springs the future from the past." Then he:

"My father's death made me, at twenty-one,

Heir to a fortune which in those slow days

Was thought sufficient: I had quitted Yale

With some slight reputation as a scholar,

And, in the first flush of ingenuous youth

When brave imagination's rosy hue

Tinges all unknown objects, I was launched

Into society in this great place;--

Sisterless, motherless, and having seen

But little, in my student life, of women.

"All matrons who had marriageable girls

Looked on me as their proper prey, and spread

Their nets to catch me; and, poor, verdant youth,

Soon I was caught,--caught in a snare indeed,

Though by no mother's clever management.

Young, beautiful, accomplished, she, my Fate,

Met me with smiles, and doomed me while she smiled

Nimble as light, fluent as molten lead

To take the offered mould,--apt to affect

Each preference of taste or sentiment

That best might flatter,--affable and kind,

Or seeming so,--and generous to a fault,--

But that was when she had a part to play,--

Affectionate--ah! there too she was feigning--

As I look calmly back, to me she seems

The simple incarnation of a mind

Possessed of all the secrets of the heart,

And quick to substitute a counterfeit

For the heart's genuine coin, and make it pass;

But void of feeling as the knife that wounds!

And so the game was in her hands, and she

Played it with confident, remorseless skill

Even to the bitter end.

"Yet do not think

The inner prescience never stirred or spoke:

Veiled though it be from consciousness so strangely,

And its fine voice unheard amid the din

Of outward things, the quest of earthly passion,

There is an under-sense, a faculty

All independent of our mortal organs,

And circumscribed by neither space nor time.

Else whence proceed they, those clairvoyant glimpses,

That vision piercing to the distant future,

Those quick monitions of impending ruin,

If not from depths of soul which consciousness,

Limited as it is in mortal scope,

May not explore? Yet there serenely latent,

Or with a conscious being all their own,

Superior and apart from what we know

In this close keep we call our waking state,

Lie growing with our growth the lofty powers

We reck not of; which some may live a life

And never heed, nor know they have a soul;

Which many a plodding anthropologist,

Philosopher, logician, scientist,

Ignore as moonshine; but which are, no less,

Actual, proven, and, in their dignity

And grasp and space-defying attributes,

Worthy to qualify a deathless spirit

To have the range of an infinity

Through an unending period--at once

A promise and a proof of life immortal.

"One night, one mild, sweet night in early June,

We two had paced the drawing-room together

Till ten o'clock, and then I took my leave

And walked along the street, a square or more,

When suddenly I looked up at a star,

And then, a thought I could not fail to heed,

From the soul's awful region unexplored,

Rushed, crying, 'Back! Go back!' And back I went,

As hastily as if it were a thing

Of life or death. I did not stop to pull

The door-bell, but sprang up alert and still

To the piazza of the open window,

Drew back a blind inaudibly, looked in,

And through the waving muslin curtain, saw--

Well, she was seated in a young man's lap,

Her head upon his shoulder.

"Quick of ear

As the chased hare, she heard me; started up,

Ran to the curtain, eagerly drew me in,

And said, while joy beamed tender in her eyes,

'My brother Ambrose, just arrived from Europe!'

So swift she was, she did not give me time

Even for one jealous pang. I took his hand,

And saying, 'Anna's brother must be mine,'

I bade them both good-night, and went my way:

So was I fooled,--my better angel baffled!

"And yet once more the vivid warning came,

Flashed like quick truth from her own eyes. We stood

Together in a ball-room, when a lady,

To me unknown, came up, regarded me

With strange compassion in her curious glance,

And then, with something less divine than pity,

Looked down on my betrothed, and moved away.

I turned to Anna, but upon her face,

There was a look to startle like a ghost;

Defiance, deadly fear, and murderous hate

Were all so wildly blended! But 'twas gone--

Gone like a flash before I well could mark it;

And in its place there came a luminous smile,

So childlike sweet, such type of heavenly candor,

It would have served for a Madonna's mouth,

To make the pilgrim's adoration easy.

'Who was that lady, Anna?' I inquired.

'A Mrs. Lothian,' was her reply:

'A lovely person, although somewhat haughty.'

We returned home soon after, and no more

Was said of it.

"The rapid weeks flew by,

And Anna plied her powers to charm, but still

Not all the subtle glamour of her presence

Could bind in sleep my pleading monitor.

And so at last I said: 'We both are young:

Let us, as earnest of a mutual wish

To share a perfect love, or none at all,

Absolve each other here, without condition,

From this engagement; and, if three years hence

We both are of one heart, then shall we find

The means to make it known; of that be sure!

Are you in your own loyalty so fixed

As to accept the challenge? Would you prize

The love of any man, who could not bear

A test so simple?'

"The first word I spoke

Made all my meaning plain to her; she shook,

But more perhaps with anger than with grief;

She turned her face away, and covered it

With both her hands, and so remained until

I had done speaking; then she rose at once,

Her face averted still, (she durst not show it!)

And grasped my hand, and, in a husky tone

Sheathing her wrath, exclaimed: 'To-morrow, come

At twelve--at twelve!' and rushed out of the room.

"Prompt at the hour I went; and in the parlor

Sat down expectant; and she entered soon,

Clad all in white; upon her face the marks

Of passionate tears, and a beseeching sorrow

In every look! A desk of ivory,

Borne in her hands, she placed upon the table;

I rose to meet her, but she motioned me

To keep my seat; then, with an arm thrown over

A high-backed chair, as if to keep from falling,

(The attitude was charming, and she knew it),

She said: 'Take back the little desk you gave me;

In it are all your letters,--all your gifts.

Take them, and give me mine.'

"The last few words

Came as if struggling through a crowd of sobs.

What could I do but lead her to the sofa,

Sit by her side, take her white hand, and say:

'This is no final separation, Anna;

It is a trial merely of our loves?'

"'A light affair perhaps to you,' she said,

'But death to me. As whim or pleasure points,

You can go here, go there, and lead the life

You most affect; while I, the home-kept slave

Of others' humors, must brave poverty,

Neglect and cruel treatment.'--'Did you say

Poverty, Anna?'--'Do not breathe a word

Of what I tell you: father is a bankrupt,

Or soon will be; and we shall be compelled

To quit our freestone house, and breathe the air

Of squalid want. From that I'd not recoil,

Could I have loving looks and words; for what

Is poverty if there's but love to gild it?

Ah! poverty'--'Nay, Anna, poverty

You shall not know, only accept from me

The means to fix you in becoming plenty.'

'Never!' she cried; 'ah! cruel to propose it!'

And then more tears; till, touched and foiled, I said,

Looking her in the face while she gazed up

In mine with eager tenderness,--'Accept

A happy home, if I can help to make it.

We will be married, Anna, when you please.'

"And so she had her way, and we were married;

And the next day all Wall Street was aroused

By news that brave Papa had won renown

Not simply as a bankrupt, but a swindler,

Escaping, by the skin of his teeth, the Tombs.

'No matter! Papa has a son-in-law,

A greenhorn, as they say, who occupies

A stately house on the Fifth Avenue,

And, in his hall, Papa will hang his hat.'

And, in all this, Rumor but hit the truth.

"Six months rolled by. Repeatedly I asked,

'Where's Brother Ambrose?' He, it seems, was held

In such request by government, that rarely

Could he be spared for home enjoyment; but

At length I did encounter Brother Ambrose,

And once again I found him--

"Well, the scales

Dropped from my eyes. I asked no other proof

Than a quick look I saw the two exchange,--

Forgetful of a mirror at their side,--

To see I was betrayed. He was no brother.

I sought more proof; but they, imagining

I knew more than I did, were swift to act.

Before I could find steps for a divorce

She stole a march upon me, and herself

Took the initiative, and played the victim,

Nipping me as a culprit in the law.

"It was a plot so dexterously framed,

All the precautions and contrivances

Were with such craft foreplanned; the perjuries

Were all so well adjusted; my pure life

Was made to seem so black; the witnesses

Were so well drilled, so perfect in their parts,--

In short, it was a work of art so thorough,

I did not marvel at the Court's decision,

Which was, for her,--divorce and alimony;

For me,--no freedom, since no privilege

Of marrying again. Such the decree!"

"I'm glad you spurned it as you did!" cried Linda,

While her cheeks flushed, and hot, indignant tears,

Responded to her anger. Then she kissed

Her father on each cheek, and tenderly

Embraced her mother too; and they, the while,

With a slight moisture in their smiling eyes,

Exchanged a nod. Then Percival to Linda:

"Why, what an utter rebel you would be,

You little champion of the higher law!

Sit down, and hear me out."

"If such their justice,"

Cried Linda, irrepressible and panting,

"Who would not spurn it, and hurl back defiance

To all the Justice Shallows on the Bench--

To them and their decrees!"

"My little girl,"

The father said, "the heart's impulsive choice

May guide us safely when the act must be

Born of the instant, but let Reason rule

When Reason may. For some twelve years, I lived

A wandering life in Europe; not so crushed

By my most harsh experience but I

Could find, in study and in change of scene,

How much of relish life has for the mind

As well as the affections; still I felt

Mine was a nature in which these must play

No secondary part; and so the void

Enlarged as age drew nearer; and at forty

A weariness of life came over me,

And I was sick at heart; for many a joy

Had lost the charm that made it joy. I took

A house in London, all for solitude,

And there got what you may not find in Egypt,

Or on Mont Blanc.

"One day as I was crossing

An obscure street, I saw a crowd of workmen

Gathered around a man upon the ground:

A rafter from a half-built house had fallen,

And he was badly injured. Seeing none

To act with promptness in the case, I hailed

A cab, and had him driven to my house.

Finding he was a fellow-countryman,

I gave him one of my spare rooms, and sent

For the best surgeon near. His report was,

The wound itself was nothing serious,

But there was over-action of the brain,

Quite independent, which might lead to danger,

Unless reduced in season; and the patient

Should have the best of watching and attendance,

And not be left to brood on any trouble,

But be kept cheerful. Then with some directions

For diet, sedatives, and laxatives,

The doctor bowed, received his fee, and left.

My guest lay sad and silent for a while,

Then turned to me and said: 'My name is Kenrick;

I'm from Chicago--was a broker there.

A month ago my wife eloped from me;

And her companion, as you may surmise,

Was one I had befriended--raised from nothing.

I'm here upon their track."

"'Why so?' I asked.

'What do you want of them?'--'What do I want?'

He stretched his eyes at me inquiringly.

'How strange,' said I, 'the inconsistency!

Here's a true man would try to overtake

An untrue mate! If she's not sterling gold

And loyal as the loadstone,--not alone

In every act, but every thought and throb,--

Why should you care who puts her to the proof,

Takes her away, and leaves you free again?

Show me 'tis an illusion I adore,

And I will thank you, though it be in anguish.

To no false gods I bow, if I can help it!'

"'Could I,' said Kenrick, 'have him only once

Where I could take him by the throat, and measure

My strength with his!'--'Tut, tut! the kind physician

Who warns you of some lurking taint, to which

The cautery should be applied at once,

Is not, in act, if not intent, your friend

More certainly than he you rave against.

And you've been jealous, I suppose, at times,

Of the poor runaway?'--'Ay, that I have!

Bitterly jealous.'

"'Jealousy and love

Were never yet true mates; for jealousy

Is born of selfish passion, lust, or pride,

While love is so divine and pure a thing,

It only takes what cannot be withheld.

It flies constraint. All that it gives is given,

Even as the lily renders up its perfume,

Because it cannot help it. Would it crave

Return less worthy? Would it be content

With a grudged gift? Then it is something else,

Not love--not love! Ah me! how men and women

Cozen themselves with words, and let their passions

Fool them and blind, until they madly hug

Illusions which some stunning shock like yours

Puts to the proof, revealing emptiness.

Have you a loving heart, and would you feed it

On what the swine have left,--mock it with lies?'

'Speak this to me again, when I am stronger,'

Said Kenrick, smiling faintly. Then I left him,

And taking up 'The Times' looked thro' the list

Of 'Wants'; and one amid the many hundred

Instantly caught my eye. It merely said:

'Wanted, by a young woman, strong and healthy,

A place as nurse for any invalid.

Address 681, Times Office.' So

I wrote and told 681 to call

Upon me at a certain hour.

"And now,

My dear, this little girl with eager eyes

Has, for a summer morning, heard enough.

The weather is the crown of all that June

Has of most fair,--the year's transcendent day;

When the young foliage and the perfect air

Intoxicate the birds, and put our hearts

In harmony with their extravagance

Of joy and love. Come, come! To slight this day

Would be a sin. We'll ramble in the Park,

And take our dinner there, and see the flowers,

The children, and the swans, and all the places

Which Linda used to love in babyhood,

When, in her little carriage, like a queen

She'd sit, receiving homage from all eyes."

The father had his way; and in the Park

They spent the happy time, and felt the charm

Which harmony complete with Nature brings

When loving spirits, unpreoccupied,

Gain by surrender, and grow rich by giving.

O sunshine and blue sky and genial airs!

To human happiness, like daily bread,

Your blessings come, till the unthinking heart

Recks not the debt we owe your silent powers.

If ye can give so much, what may not He

Of whose omnipotence ye are but shadows

Have in reserve in his eternities!

III.

THE MOTHER'S STORY.

That evening, when the feast of strawberries

Had been partaken, and the happy three

Sat down together, Linda asked: "And now,

May I not hear the rest?"--"To-morrow, Linda,

You shall hear all," said Percival; "but now,

That brain of yours must tranquillize itself

Before you try to sleep; and so, to-night,

Let us have 'Annie Laurie,' 'Bonnie Doon,'

And songs that most affront the dainty ear

Of modern fashion." Linda played and sang

A full half-hour; then, turning on her chair,

Said, "Now shall mother sing that cradle ditty

You made for me, an infant. Mother, mine,

Imagine you are rocking me to sleep,

As in those far-off days."

Replied the mother:

"O the dear days! yet not more dear than these!

For frugal Linda brings along with her

All of her past; the infant's purity,

The child's confiding love, and now, at last,

The maiden's free and quick intelligence!

Be ever thus, my Linda; for the pure

In heart shall carry an immortal youth

Into the great to-come. That little song--

Well I remember the delightful time

When 'twas extemporized; when, with my pen,

I noted down the words, while, by your crib,

Your father sat, and you, with little fists

Drawn tight, would spring and start, as infants will,

Crowing the while, and chuckling at the words

Not comprehended yet, save in the smiles

That with them went! 'Twas at the mellow close

Of an autumnal day, and we were staying

In a secluded village, where a brook

Babbled beneath our window, and the hum

Of insects soothed us, while a louder note

From the hoarse frog's bassoon would, now and then,

Break on the cricket's sleepy monotone

And startle laughter." Here the matron paused;

Then sweeping, with a firm, elastic touch,

The ivory keys, sang

LINDA'S LULLABY.

I.

Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!

For to sleep our dear Linda is going;

All good little lambs be reposing,

For Linda one eyelid is closing.

II.

O frogs! what a noise you are making!

O crickets! now don't keep her waking!

Stop barking, you little dog Rover,

Till Linda can get half-seas over.

III.

Little birds, let our word of love reach you,--

Go to bed, go to sleep, I beseech you;

On her little white coverlet lying,

To sleep our dear Linda is trying.

IV.

Hush! sing just as softly as may be;

Sing lullaby, lullaby, baby!

Now to sleep this dear Linda is going,--

Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!

The next day, when the heat kept all at home,

And they were gathered in the library,

Where fitfully a lazy southern breeze

Would stir the languid curtains, Percival

Said, turning to the mother: "Mary, now

Your story best will supplement my own;

Tell it." She answered: "Let it be so, then;

My life is but the affluent to yours,

In which it found its amplitude and rest.

"My parents dwelt in Liverpool; my father,

A prosperous merchant, gave to business

His time and active thoughts, and let his wife

Rule all beside with rigor absolute.

My maiden name was Mary Merivale.

There were eight daughters of us, and of these

I was the fourth. We lived in liberal style,

And did not lack the best society

The city could afford. My heedful mother,

With eight undowered girls to be disposed of,

Fearfully healthy all, and clamorous

For clothes and rations, entered on a plan

To which she steadily adhered: it was,

To send the younger fry to boarding-schools,

And keep one virgin only, at a time,

And she the oldest, on her hands to marry.

So they came forward in their order: Julia,

And Isabel, and Caroline; until

I was dragged forth from maps and lexicons,

Slate-pencils and arithmetics, and put

Candidate Number Four, upon the list.

"My elder sisters had been all 'well-married';

That is, to parties able to provide

Establishments that Fashion would not scorn;

What more could be desired by loving parents?

As for resistance to her will, when once

She set her heart upon a match, my mother

Would no more bear it than a general

Would bear demur from a subordinate

When ordered into action. If a daughter,

When her chance offered, and was checked as good,

Presumed, from any scruple of dislike,

To block the way for her successor, then

Woe to that daughter, and no peace for her

Did she not, with an utter selfishness,

Stand in her younger sister's light? imperil

The poor child's welfare? doom her possibly

To an old maid's forlorn and cheerless lot?

"And so, with an imperious will, my mother

Would sweep away all hindrances, all doubts.

She was, besides, the slave of system; having

Adopted once the plan of bringing forward

No daughter till the previous one was mated,

It was a sacred custom; 'twas her own!

It had worked well; must not be broken through.

So my poor sisters went; and some of them

With doubting hearts.

"In me, my zealous mother

Found metal not so malleable quite.

One of my teachers at the boarding-school,

A little woman who got scanty pay

For teaching us in French and German, fed

Her lonely heart with dreams of what, some day,

Shall lift her sex to nobler life. She took

A journal called 'The Good Time Coming,' filled

With pleadings for reform of many kinds,--

In education, physical and mental,

Marriage, the rights of women, modes of living.

Weekly I had the reading of it all;

Some of it crude enough, some apt and just,

Forcibly put, and charged with vital facts.

At last these had for me a fascination

That quite eclipsed the novels of the day.

"I learnt, that, bound up in the moral law,

Are laws of health and physical control,

Unheeded in the family and school;

How fashion, stupid pride, and love of show,

The greed of gain, or the pursuit of pleasure,

Empty and frivolous, make men and women

False to their natures, cruel to each other

And to the unborn offspring they devote

To misery through ill-assorted unions,

Or habits reckless of maternal dues;

How marriage, sacredest of mortal steps,

Is entered on from motives all unworthy;

Social ambition, mercenary aims,

The dread of poverty, of singleness,--

The object of uniting families,--

And momentary passion fatuous.

So I resolved, God helping, to be true

To my own self, and that way true to all.

"The fete that signalized my coming out

Was, so my mother said, the costliest yet.

Whole greenhouses were emptied to adorn

Our rooms with flowers; a band played in the hall;

The supper-table flashed with plate and silver

And Dresden ware and bright Bohemian glass;

The wines and viands were profuse and rare;

And everybody said, 'twas a grand ball.

"But what of her, for whom it was the flourish

Of trumpets blown to celebrate her entrance

Into society? Let others speak!

These the remarks I had to overhear:

'She's rather pretty.'--'Pretty is the word.'

'But not so dashing as the elder sisters.'

'Cleverer though, perhaps,'--'She takes it coolly.

Her heart's not in the ball; that's evident.'

'Where is it? Is she bookish?'--'So I've heard.'

'Unlike the rest, then.'--'That straw-colored silk

Should have had flounces.'--'Is that hair her own?'

'I think so?'--'She's no dancer.'--'Apathetic

As any duchess.'--'The young men seem shy;

She doesn't put them at their ease, 'tis plain.'

'See, the old woman chides her; she deserves it;

She'll not pick up admirers if she plays

My Lady Cool so grandly. Watch mamma.

The hook is nicely baited; where are all

The gudgeons it should lure? I marvel not

Mamma is in a fluster; tap, tap, tap,

See her fan go! No strategy, no effort,

No dandy-killing shot from languid eyes,

On that girl's part! And all this fuss for her!'

"The gossips, in these random whisperings,

Made some good shots, that failed not of the mark.

The lights, the roses, the voluptuous music,

The shining robes, the jewels, the bright faces

Engrossed me not so much as one pale face,

Youthful but pinched, which I had seen a moment,

An hour before, reflected in the mirror

At which I stood while nimble dressing-maids

Helped to array me. A poor girl had brought

The bodice of my silken robe, on which

She had been working closely; and my mother

Chided her for delay; but no reply

Was made, save only what the pleading eyes

Could not withhold. Then tendering a scrap

Of paper, record of her paltry charge,

She meekly stood. 'Pooh! bring it here next week,'

My mother said. 'No!' turning round, I cried;

'Let her be paid at once; there must be money

In the house somewhere; it may be a loss,

An inconvenience, for her to come back

Just for a trifling sum.'--'Impertinent!'

My mother kindling, cried. 'Do you rule here?'

'I can return,' timidly said the girl.

Then a gold thimble from my drawer I took,

And offered it, remarking, 'Keep or sell it,

To hold you good for all your wasted time.'

'My time,--what is it worth?' replied the girl,

Motioning her refusal, but with smiles

Of speechless gratitude, and then escaping

Before I could prevent her.

"'Novel-reading

Has brought you to this insipidity,'

My mother said: 'such sentimental pap,

You never got from me. Come, hurry down;

Put off that sullen look. The carriages

Begin to roll; the guests are on the stairs.

Learn to command your smiles, my dear. Now go.'

"So down I went, but in no conquering mood.

I did not scrutinize the festive dresses;

Of the sad hearts I thought, the poor thin hands

That put of life somewhat in every stitch

For a grudged pittance. All disguises fell;

Voices betrayed the speakers in their tones,

Despite of flattering words; and smiles revealed

The weariness or hatred they would hide.

And so, preoccupied and grave, I looked

On all the gayety; and reigning belles

Took heart to find in me no coming rival.

"Lent now was near; the time of all diversion

And visiting was over; and my mother

Summed up her griefs in this one lamentation:

'The season gone, and not one offer yet!

You, Mary, are the first one of my daughters

Whose coming-out so flat a failure proved.

Think of your sister Julia; her first winter

Brought Hammersley to her feet. A splendid match!

First cousin to a lord! How envious

Were all the dowagers at my success!

If I've not done all that a mother could,

Tell me wherein I've failed. Yet one year more

I shall allow you for your trial. Then,

If you have made no step in the direction

Of matrimony, why, you must go off

To Ireland, to America, or France,

And leave the field for your next younger

For Susan.'--'She is welcome to it now,'

I said, with something like disdain, I fear,

In my cold smile.--'My plans are laid, you know,'

Replied my mother; 'find your duty in

A simple acquiescence; I know best.'

"'Tis said the woman always is to blame

If a man ventures to commit himself

In a proposal unacceptable.

The rule has its exceptions; for I gave

No word, no inkling of encouragement

To Captain Dudley; yet I had an offer

From Captain Dudley. Young, and elegant,

Though of a stock somewhat attenuate;

Rich, though a younger son; a gentleman,

A scholar,--what good reason could I give

For saying Nay to such an applicant?

'Explain!' my mother cried, with brow severe;

'Is not his character without a flaw?'

'So far as known to me.'--'Is he a fool?'

'Far from it; culture and good sense are his.'

'Could you not love him?'--'Very tenderly,

Perhaps, with time to aid.'--'Has any one

Preoccupied your heart?'--'My heart is free,

And has been always free.'--'Indeed? Then why

Refuse to be the wife of this young man?'

'Simply because he's not the man I'd choose

To be the father of a child of mine.'

"If I had put a pistol at her head,

My lady mother would not so have started.

'What! a mere girl--and you can entertain

Such thoughts! so selfish, gross, unmaidenly!'

'If,' I replied, 'I'm old enough to dream

Of marriage, as you bid me, then 'tis time

For me to think of all the risk I run.

Selfish, you call it; gross, unmaidenly;

Is it unmaidenly to hesitate

In the surrender of my maiden state?

Your epithets belong to those who fail

To think at all, or only think of this:

What's the man's income? Will he let me have

A house in the right quarter? Keep a carriage?

And is he in society? Such women

Plant nightshade, and affect to wonder why

The growth is not of lilies and carnations!'

"'So! just let loose from school,' replied my mother,

'You'd teach me what is womanly! Pert minx!

Tell me in simple English what you mean

By your objections to this match, so largely

Above your merits?'--'This is what I mean:

For reasons that are instincts more than reasons,

And therefore not to be explained to those

Who in them do not share, as you do not,

I would not wed this man,--not if I loved him.'

'Enough! You've had your turn; and now prepare

To make a visit to your father's cousin

In Nova Scotia; there, perhaps, you may

Find a congenial mate among the clowns

And roughs provincial. Go and pack your trunk.

Fool your own opportunities away;

You shall not thrust your sister out of hers.'

"I did not pack my trunk; another suitor,

One twice as rich as Dudley, kindled hopes

Anew in my poor mother's breast; and so

Susan was kept at school another season,

And I was put upon the course once more,

My training perfect and my harness new!

"Who could object to Arthur Pennington?

Son of a wealthy manufacturer,

A type he was of English adolescence,

Trained by harmonious culture to the fulness

Of all that Nature had supplied; a person

That did not lack one manly grace; a mind

Which took the mould that social pressure gave,

Without one protest native to itself.

In the accepted, the conventional,

He looked for Truth, nor ever had a doubt

Whether she might not hide in some deep well

Rather than flaunt her modest purity

In dusty highways. With my disposition

To challenge all that human dogmatism

Imperious would impose upon my thought,

What pretty yoke-fellows for life should we,

Arthur and I, have been! Misled by hopes

Which were inspired too fondly by my mother,

He, too, proposed, and was of course rejected.

"Then the storm broke! The cup of my offences

Was overflowed at last. Now must I go--

Go, where she cared not; only disappear

From her domain; she washed her hands of me!

Hundreds of pounds had been invested in me,--

My dresses, jewelry, and entertainments,--

And here was the result! But no more money,

From her, must I expect; my father's income

Had not for years been equal to his outlays.

Any day he might be compelled to change

His style of living; all had been kept up

For the advantage of myself and sisters;

And here was all the gratitude I showed!

"This time my mother was in earnest; so

Now must I lay my plans to go at once.

Whither? to seek a transient home with one

Of my own married sisters? Ah! the thought

Of being dependent galled me like a spur.

No! go to work,--a voice within me said:

Think of the many thousands of your sex

Who, young and giddy, not equipped like you,

Are thrown upon the world to battle with it

As best they may! Now try your closet virtue;

See if your theory can stand the proof,--

If trial will not warp your sense of right.

When Poverty shall dog your every step,

And at your scanty or unwholesome meal

Sit down, or with you, in your thin attire,

Go shivering home at night from ill-paid toil,--

Then see if you can keep your feet from straying;

Then choose as only Conscience bids you choose!

"The sewing-girl who worked upon my dress,

The day of the great ball, was Lucy Merle;

I found her saving up her petty means

To go to London, to get better wages,--

And said: 'Well, Lucy, let us go together.'

She sold some jewels for me, and we went.

"In London! two unfriended girls in London!

We hired a room, and got employment soon,

Such as it was; but small the recompense!

Though Lucy, quicker at her work than I,

Could earn enough to live upon--almost.

For her the change was slight.

"A year we toiled

In company; and I'll not tell you all

The hardships, trials, wrongs, we underwent.

In my blue trunk you'll find a little pistol,

Got for our joint protection in those days.

May it be near you, should you ever need it!

Finding, at length, I could no longer earn

My share of our expenses by the needle,

I sought a situation as a nurse.

And in 'The Times' I advertised my 'Want.'

An answer came, directing me to call

Upon the writer at a certain hour.

I went. I met a man of middle age

Whose name was Percival. I thought his manner

Was coldly kind.

"'You're very young,' he said,

'To fill the situation of a nurse.

What reference have you?' Not a distant thought

Of such a need had ever troubled me!

'I bring,' said I, 'no reference.'--'That's a pity.

What pledge have I of character?'--'Not any.'

And then, impatient at this let, I cried:

'Look in my face, and if you find not there

Pledge of my truth, Heaven help me, for 'tis all--

All I can give!'--'Ah! my poor child,' said he,

'Such warrant have I learnt to take with doubt;

For I have known a face, too beautiful,

With look of innocence and shining candor,

Prove but the ambush of duplicity,

Pitiless and impure. But let me not

Distrust too far.' Then he turned up the gas,

And, with a scrutiny intent and grave,

Perused my face. 'What is your name?' he asked,

After a silence.--'Mary Merivale.'

'Well, Mary, I engage you; come at once.

In the next room asleep reclines our patient.

As for your wages, we will say two guineas

A week, if you're content.'--'O, perfectly!'

"So, groping in my darkness, I at length

Hit on the door that issued into light.

Long talks between the patient and his friend

Were frequent, and they heeded not my presence.

Little by little Percival soon told

The story that you've heard, and more which you

May never hear in earthly interviews.

An eager listener, I would treasure up

Each word, each look; and on my soul at last

Dawned the pure ray by which I saw those traits,

The spirit's own, that harmonized so well

With all the outward showed of good and noble.

Strange that he took no notice of the way

My very life was drifting! But to him

I seemed a child, and his paternal airs

Froze me and checked.

"A paragraph, 'The Times'

Had published, when the accident took place,

Mentioned that Kenrick was a millionnaire,

Though quite a young man still.

"A month went by

And he was able to sit up awhile;

And soon, with me beside him in the carriage,

To take a drive;--when one day, Percival

Said to me: 'Mary, you and I must try

The span to-day; our patient shall keep house.'

My heart beat wildly; Kenrick looked as if

Approving the arrangement; so we went.

'I wished,' said Percival, 'to talk with you

In private; do not answer if I put

Questions that may embarrass or annoy;

It is no idle curiosity,

Prompting me now. We see that you were born

To something better than this drudgery:

If not reluctant, tell me who you are.'

'O, willingly!' I said.

"And so I told him

All, from the first. He heard me patiently;

And then remarked: 'But do you never long

For that secure and easy life at home?

You will go back to Liverpool, perchance,

When you've had quite enough of servitude

And toil precarious.'--'I go not back,'

Said I, 'while health and liberty are left.

The home that's grudged is not the home for me.

Give me but love, and like the reed I yield;

Deal with me harshly, you may break, not bend me.'

'Ah! there is something wrong in all these things,'

Replied he, musing.