LINDA.

The news of the great railroad accident

And of the sudden death of Percival,

Coming so soon upon intelligence

Of his rare fortune in the legacy

From Kenrick, occupied the public mind

For a full day at least, and then was whelmed

In other marvels rushing thick upon it.

The mother and the daughter, who still bore

The name of Percival, came back from Paris

At once, on getting the unlooked-for news.

When Linda, after three weeks had elapsed,

Re-entered, with a swelling heart, the house

To her so full of sacred memories,

She was accosted by an officer

Who told her he had put his seal on all

The papers, plate, and jewelry belonging

To the late Albert Percival,— and asked

If in her keeping were a watch and ring,

Also some money, found upon his person:

If so, would she please give them up, and he,

Who had authority to take them, would

Sign a receipt for all such property,

And then the rightful heir could easily

Dispose of it, as might seem best to her.

“The rightful heir?” gasped Linda, taking in

Not readily the meaning of the words,—

“Do you not know that I'm the rightful heir

And only child of Albert Percival?”

“Pardon me,” said the officer, “the child,

Recognized by the law, is not yourself,

But Harriet Percival, the only heir,—

For so the court adjudges,— and to her

All property, both personal and real,

Must be made over. She, no doubt, will deal

Kindly in your peculiar case, and make

A suitable provision —”

“Hold!” cried Linda,

Her nostrils’ action showing generous blood

As clearly as some matchless courser shows it

After a mighty race,— “Your business,

But not your comments! And yet, pardon me —

I'm hasty,— you meant well; but you would have me

Render you up the watch and pocket-book

Found on my father's person, and delivered

To me his daughter. That I'll only do,

When more authority than you have shown

Compels me, and my lawyer bids me yield.”

“Here is my warrant,” said the officer,

“And my instructions are explicit.” Then,

The spirit of the gentleman disdaining

The action he was sent for, he rejoined:

“But the law's letter shall not make me do

An incivility, perhaps a wrong.

And so, relying on your truth, I leave you,

Assured that you'll be ready to respond

To all the law can ask. And now, good day!”

Left to her own decisions, Linda sought

At once the best advice; and such had been

Her training, that she was not ignorant

Who among counsellors were trusted most

In special ways. Kindly and patiently

Her case was taken up and thoroughly

Sifted and tried. No hope! No flaw! No case!

So craftily had every step been taken,

With such precaution and such legal care,—

So diligently had the mesh been woven,

Enclosing Percival and all of his,—

That nothing could be done except put off

The payment of the Kenrick legacy

For some six months,— when it was all made over

To the reputed child, already rich

Through the law's disposition of the sums

Which Percival had been compelled to pay.

After the legal test, with brave composure

Linda surveyed her lot. Enough was left,

From sale of jewels that had been her mother's,

For a few months’ support, with frugal care.

Claim to these jewels and the money found

Upon her mother's person had been laid

Too eagerly by the contesting party,

Who said that Percival, in dying last,

Was heir to the effects; but since the claim

Could only be upheld by proving marriage,

The claimants sorrowfully gave it up.

One day as Linda stood with folded hands

Before her easel, on which lay a painting

Of flowers autumnal, grouped with rarest skill,—

The blue-fringed gentian, the red cardinal,

With fern and plumy golden-rod intwined,—

A knock aroused her, and the opened door

Disclosed a footman, clad in livery,

Who, hat in hand, asked if a lady might

Come up to see the pictures. “Certainly,”

Was the reply; and, panting up the stairs,

A lady came whose blazonry of dress

And air of self-assured, aggressive wealth

Spoke one well pleased to awe servility.

As when by some forecasting sense the dove

Knows that the hawk, though out of sight and still,

Is hovering near, even so did Linda feel

An enemy draw nigh; felt that this woman,

Who, spite of marks a self-indulgent life

Leaves on the face, showed vestiges of beauty,

Was she who first had cast the bitterness

Into that cup of youth which Linda's father

Was made to taste so long.

And yet ( how strangely,

In this mixed web of life, the strands of good

Cross and inweave the evil! ) to that wrong

Might he have tracked a joy surpassing hope,—

The saving angel who, in Linda's mother,

Had so enriched his being;— might have tracked

( Mysterious thought! ) Linda herself, his child,

The crown of every rapture, every hope

The lady, known as Madame Percival,

Seated herself and turned a piercing look

On Linda, who blenched not, but stood erect,

With calm and serious look regarding her.

The lady was the first to lower her eyes;

She then, with some embarrassment, remarked:

“So! you're an artist! Will you let me see

Some of your newest paintings?” Linda placed

Three of her choicest pieces on the easel,

And madame raised her eyeglass, looked a moment,

Said, “Very pretty,” and then, breaking through

Further constraint, began: “You may not know me;

My name is Percival; you, I suppose,

Bear the same name by courtesy.‘ Tis well:

The law at last has taught you possibly

Our relative positions. Of the past

We will say nothing; no hard thought is left

Against you in my heart; I trust I know

The meaning of forgiveness; what is due

To Christian charity. In me, although

The church has but a frail, unworthy child,

Yet would I help my enemy; remove her

From doubtful paths, and see her fitly placed

With her own kindred for protection due.

Hear my proposal now, in your behalf:

If you will go to England, where your aunts

And relatives reside,— and first will sign

A paper promising you'll not return,

And that you never will resume your suit,—

I will advance your passage-money, and

Give you five thousand dollars. Will you do it?”

The indignant No, surging in Linda's heart,

Paused as if language were too weak for it,

When, in that pause, the opening of the door

Disclosed a lady younger than the first,

Yet not unlike in features, though no blonde,

And of a figure small and delicate.

“Now, Harriet!” cried the elder of the two,

Annoyed, if not alarmed, “you promised me

You would not quit the carriage.” — “Well, what then?

I changed my mind. Is that a thing uncommon?

Whom have we here? The name upon the door

Is Percival; and there upon the wall

I see a likeness of my father. So!

You, then, are Linda Percival! the child

For whom he could abandon me, his first!

Come, let me look at you!” — “Nay, Harriet,

This should not be. Come with me to the carriage;

Come! I command you.” — “Pooh! And pray, who cares

For your commands? I move not till I please.

We are half-sisters, Linda, but I hate you.”

“Excuse me,” Linda answered quietly,

“But I see no resemblance to my father

In you. Your features, form, complexion, all

Are quite unlike.” — “Silence! We've had enough.”

“What did she say?” cried Harriet. “Do not heed

A word of hers; leave her and come with me.”

“She said, I bear no likeness to my father:

You heard her!” — “‘ Twas in malice, Harriet.

Of course she would say that.” — “But I must have

That photograph of him upon the wall:

‘ Tis unlike any that I've ever seen.”

And with the word she took it from the nail

And would have put it in her pocket, had not

Linda, with sudden grasp, recovered it.

Darker her dark face grew, when Harriet

Saw herself baffled; taking out her purse

She drew from it a thousand-dollar bill,

And said, “Will this procure it?” — “Harriet!

You're mad to offer such a sum as that.”

“Old woman, if you anger me, you'll rue it!

I ask you, Linda Percival, if you

Will take two thousand dollars for that portrait?”

And Linda answered: “I'll not take your money:

The portrait you may have without a price;

I'm not without a copy.” — “Well, I take it;

But mark you this: I shall not hate you less

For this compliance; nay, shall hate you more;

For I do hate you with a burning hatred,

And all the more for that smooth Saxon face,

With its clear red and white and Grecian outline;

That likeness to my father ( I can see it ),

Those golden ringlets and that rounded form.

Pray, Madame Percival, where did I get

This swarthy hue, since Linda is so fair,

And you are far from being a quadroon?

Good lady, solve the riddle, if you please.”

“There! No more idle questions! Two o'clock?

That camel's hair at Stewart's will be sold,

Unless we go this minute. Such a bargain!

Come, my dear, come!” And so, cajoling, coaxing,

She drew away her daughter, and the door

Closed quickly on the two. But Linda stood

In meditation rapt, as thought went back

To the dear parents who had sheltered her;

Contrasting their ingenuous love sincere

And her own filial reverence, with the scene

She just had witnessed. So absorbed she was

In visions of the past, she did not heed

The opening of the door, until a voice

Broke in upon her tender revery,

Saying, “I've come again to get your answer

To my proposal.” Tranquillized, subdued

By those dear, sacred reminiscences,

Linda, with pity in her tone, replied:

“Madame, I cannot entertain your offer.”

“And why not, Linda Percival?” exclaimed

The imperious lady.— “I'm not bound to give

My reasons, madame.” — “Come, I'll make the sum

Ten thousand dollars.” — “Money could not alter

My mind upon the subject.” — “Look you, Linda;

You saw my daughter. Obstinate, self-willed,

Passionate as a wild-cat, jealous, crafty,

Reckless in use of money when her whims

Are to be gratified, and yet at times

Sordid as any miser,— she'll not stop

At artifice, or violence, or crime,

To injure one she hates — and you she hates!

Now for your sake and hers, I charge you leave

This country, go to England;— close at once

With my most liberal offer.”

“Madame, no!

This is my home, my birthplace, and the land

Of all my efforts, hopes, and aspirations;

While I have work to do, here lies my field:

I cannot quit America. Besides,

Since candor now is best, I would not take

A dole from you to save myself from starving.”

The lady's eyes flashed choler. She replied:

“Go your own gait; and, when you're on the street,

As you'll be soon, blame no one but yourself.

I've done my part. Me no one can accuse

Of any lack of charity or care.

For three weeks more my offer shall hold good.

After that time, expect no further grace.”

And, with a frown which tried to be disdain,

But which, rebuked and humbled, fell before

The pitying candor of plain Innocence,

Out of the room she swept with all her velvet.

These interviews had made our Linda feel

How quite alone in the wide world she stood.

A letter came, after her parents’ death,

From her aunt, Mrs. Hammersley, requesting

A loan of fifty pounds, and telling all

The family distresses and shortcomings:

How this one's husband had proved not so rich

As was expected; how another's was

A tyrant and a niggard, so close-fisted

He parcelled out with his own hands the sugar

For kitchen use; and how another's still,

Though amply able to receive their mother,

A widow now, had yet refused to do it,

And even declined to make a contribution

For her support. And so the gossip ran.

The picture was not pleasant. With a sigh

Not for herself, but others, Linda penned

A letter to her aunt, relating all

The events that made her powerless to aid

Her needy kinsfolk. She despatched the letter,

Then sat and thought awhile.

“And now for duty!”

She cried, and rose. She could not think of duty

Except as something grateful to her parents.

They were a presence so securely felt,

And so related to her every act,—

Their love was still so vigilant, so real,

That to do what, and only what, she knew

They would approve, was duty paramount;

And their approval was the smile of God!

Self-culture, work, and needful exercise,—

This was her simple summing-up of duties

Immediately before her, and to be

Fulfilled without more parleying or delay.

She found that by the labor of a month

In painting flowers from nature, she could earn

Easily sixty dollars. This she did

For two years steadily. Then came a change.

From some cause unexplained, her wild-flower sketches,

Which from their novelty and careful finish

At first had found a ready sale, were now

In less demand. Linda was not aware

That these elaborate works, to nature true,

Had been so multiplied in copies, made

By hand, or printed by the chromo art,

As to be sold at prices not one fifth

As high as the originals had cost.

Hence her own genius winged the storm and lent

The color to the cloud, that overhung

Her prospect, late so hopeful and serene.

Now came her year of struggle! Narrow means,

Discouragement, the haunting fear of debt!

One summer day, a day reminding her

Of days supremely beautiful, immortal,

( Since hallowed by undying love and joy ),

A little girl, the step-child, much endeared,

Of a poor artisan who dwelt near by

On the same floor with Linda, came to her

And said: “You promised me, Miss Percival,

That some fine day you'd take me in the cars

Where I could see the grass and pluck the flowers.”

“Well, Rachel Aiken, we will go to-day,

If you will get permission from your father,”

Said Linda, longing for the woodland air.

Gladly the father gave consent; and so,

Clad in her best, the little damsel sat,

While Linda filled the luncheon-box, and made

The preparations needful.

“What is that?”

Asked Rachel, pointing to an open drawer

In which a case of polished ebony

Glittered and caught the eye. “A pistol-case!”

“And is the pistol loaded?” — “I believe so.”

“And will you take it with you?” — “Well, my dear,

I did not think to do so: would you have me?”

“Yes, if we're going to the woods; for panthers

Lurk in the woods, you know.” — “I'll take it, Rachel;

We call this a revolver. See! Four times

I can discharge it.” At a block of wood

She aimed and fired; then carefully reloaded

The piece, and put it in a hidden pocket.

Some ten miles from the city, at a place

Rich in diversity of wood and water,

They left the cars. Rachel's delight was wild.

Never was day so lovely! Never grass

So green! And O the flowers! “Look, only look,

Miss Percival! What is it? Can I pluck

As many as I want?” — “Ay, that's a harebell.”

“And O, look here! This red and yellow flower!

Tell me its name.” — “A columbine. It grows

In clefts of rocks. That's an anemone:

We call it so because the leaves are torn

So easily by the wind; for anemos

Is Greek for wind.” — “Oh! here's a buttercup!

I know that well. Red clover, too, I know.

Is n't the dandelion beautiful?

And O, Miss Percival, what flower is this?”

“That's a wild rose.” — “What, does the rose grow wild?

But is not that delightful? A wild rose!

And I can take as many as I want!

I did not dream the country was so fine.

How very happy must the children be

Who live here all the time!‘ Tis better far

Than any garden; for, Miss Percival,

The flowers are here all free, and quite as pretty

As garden flowers. O, hark! Did ever bird

So sweetly sing?” — “That was a wood-thrush, dear.”

“O darling wood-thrush! Do not stop so soon!

Look there, on that stone wall! What's that?” — “A squirrel.”

“Is that indeed a squirrel? Are you sure?

How I would like a nut to throw to him!

What are these little red things in the grass?”

“Wild strawberries, my dear.” — “Wild strawberries!

And can I eat them?” — “Yes, we'll take a plate

And pick it full, and eat them with our dinner.”

“O, will not that be nice? Wild strawberries

That we have picked ourselves!”

And so the day

Slid on to noon; and then, it being hot,

They crossed a wall into a skirting wood,

And there sat down upon a rocky slab

Covered with dry brown needles of the pine,

And ate their dinner while the birds made music.

“‘ Tis a free concert, ours!” said Rachel Aiken:

“How nice this dinner! What an appetite

I'm having all at once! My father says

That I must learn to eat: I soon could learn

In such a place as this! I wish my father

Himself would eat; he works too hard, I fear;

He works in lead: and the lead makes him ill.

See what nice clothes he buys me! I'm afraid

He pays for me more than he can afford,

Seeing he has a mother to support

And a blind sister; for, Miss Percival,

I'm but his step-child, and my mother died

Two years ago; then my half-sister died,

His only little girl, and now he says

That I am all he has in the wide world

To love and cherish dearly,— all his treasure.

What would I give if I could bring him here

To these sweet woods, away from lead and work!”

So the child prattled. Then, the gay dessert

Of berries being ended, Linda sat

On the rock's slope, and peeled the mosses off

Or looked up through the branches of the pines

At the sky's blue, while Rachel played around.

From tree to tree, from flower to flower, the child

Darted through leafy lanes, when, all at once,

A scream roused Linda.

To her feet she sprang!

Instinctively ( but not without a shudder )

She grasped the little pistol she had brought

At the child's prompting; from the rock ran down,

And, at a sudden bend, encountered three

Young lusty ruffians, while, a few rods off,

Another lifted Rachel in his arms,

And to the thicker wood beyond moved on.

The three stood side by side as if to bar

The path to Linda, and their looks meant mischief.

The lane was narrow. “For your life, make way!”

She cried, and raised the pistol. “No, you do n't

Fool us by tricks like that!” the foremost said:

“And so, my lady —” But before the word

Was out there was a little puff of smoke,

With an explosion, not encouraging,—

And on the turf the frightened caitiff lay.

Her road now clear, reckless of torn alpaca,

Over the scattered branches Linda rushed,

Till she drew near the leader of the gang,

Who, stopping, drew a pistol with one hand,

While with the other he held Rachel fast,

Placing her as a shield before his breast.

But Linda did not waver. Dropping into

The old position that her father taught her

When to the shooting-gallery they went,

She fired. An oath, the cry of pain and rage,

Told her she had not missed her aim,— the jaw

The ruffian left exposed. One moment more,

Rachel was in her arms. Taking a path

Transverse, they hit the public road and entered

The railroad station as the train came in.

When they were safely seated, and the engine

Began to throb and pant, a sudden pallor

Spread over Linda's visage, and she veiled

Her face and fainted; yet so quietly,

But one among the passengers observed it;

And he came up, and taking Rachel's place

Supported Linda; from a lady near

Borrowed some pungent salts restorative,

And finding soon the sufferer was herself,

Gave Rachel back her seat and took his own.

But at the city station, when arrived,

This gentleman came up, and bowing, said:

“Here stands my private carriage; but to-day

I need it not. Let my man take you home.”

Linda demurred. His firm will urged them in,

And she and Rachel all at once were riding

With easy bowling motion down Broadway.

The evening papers had this paragraph:

“In Baker's Woods this morning two young men

Were fired on by a female lunatic

Without a provocation, and one wounded.

The bullet was extracted. Dr. Payson,

With his accustomed skill and promptitude,

Performed the operation; and the patient

Is doing well. We learn the unhappy woman —

She had with her a child — is still at large.”

“I'm glad it was no worse,” quoth Linda, smiling.

She kissed the pistol that had been her mother's,

Wiped it, and reverently put it by.

Three summers and an autumn had rolled on

Since the catastrophe that orphaned Linda.

Midwinter with its whirling snow had come,

And, shivering through the snow-encumbered streets

Of the great city, men and women went,

Stooping their heads to thwart the spiteful wind.

The sleigh-bells rang, boys hooted, and policemen

Told each importunate beggar to move on.

In a side street where Fashion late had dwelt,

But which the up-town movement now had left

A street for journeymen and small mechanics,

Dress-makers, masons, farriers, and draymen,

A female figure might be seen to enter

A lodging-house, and passing up two flights

Unlock a door that showed a small apartment

Neat, with two windows looking on the rear,

A small recess with a low, narrow bed,

A sofa, a piano, and three chairs.

‘ Twas noon, but in the sky no cleft of blue

Flashed the soft love-light like a lifted lid.

Clad plainly was the lady we have followed,—

But with a certain grace no modiste's art

Could have contrived. Youthful she was, and yet

A gravity not pertinent to youth

Gave to her face the pathos of that look

Which a too early thoughtfulness imparts;

And this was Linda,— Linda little changed,

Though nearer by four years to womanhood

Than when we parted from her in the shadow

Of a great woe.

Preoccupied she seemed

Now with some painful thought, and in a slow,

Half-automatic manner she replenished

With scanty bits of coal her little stove;

Then, with a like absorbed, uncertain air,

Threw off her cloak and bonnet, and sat down;

Motionless sat awhile till she drew forth

A pocket-book, and from it took a letter,

And read these words: “You guaranteed the debt:

It now has run three months, and if to-morrow

It is not paid, we must seek legal help.”

A bill of wood and coal for Rachel's father —

Some twenty dollars only! And yet Linda

Saw not the way to pay it on the morrow.

He, the poor artisan, on whose account

She had incurred the liability,

Lay prostrate with a malady, his last,

In the small room near by, with little Rachel

His only watcher. What could Linda do?

At length, with lips compressed, and up and down

Moving her head as if to give assent

To some resolve, now fixed, she took her seat

At the piano,— from her childhood's days

So tenderly endeared, and every chord

Vibrating to some memory of her mother!

“Old friend,” — she sighed; then thought awhile and sang.

Help me, dear chords, help me to tell in song

The grief that now must say to you Farewell!

No music like to yours can ease my heart.

An infant on her knee I struck your keys,

And you made sweet my earliest lullaby:

From you I thought my requiem might come.

Hard is the pang of parting, but farewell!

Harder the shame would be, if help were not;

Go, but your tones shall thrill forevermore.

Farewell! And O my mother, dost thou hear?

Farewell! But not to thoughts forever dear.

Farewell, but not to love — but not to thee!

When little Rachel, by her father sent,

Came in to take her lesson the next day,

Behold, no instrument was in the room!

What could it mean? “We must give up,” said Linda,

“Our music for a little while. Perhaps

I soon shall have my dear piano back.”

Then they went in to see the sufferer.

A smile lit up his face,— a grateful smile,

That lent a beauty even to Disease,

Pale, thin, and hollow-eyed:

“Is not the air

Quite harsh to-day?” he asked. “A searching air.”

“So I supposed. I find it hard to breathe.

Dear lady — but you've been a friend indeed!

In my vest-pocket you will find a wallet.

All that I have is in it. Take and use it.

A fellow-workman brought me yesterday

Fifty-two dollars, by my friends subscribed:

Take from it what will pay for coal and rent.

To-morrow some one of my friends will come

To see to what the morrow may require.

You've done so much, dear lady, I refrain

From asking more.” — “Ask all that you would have.”

“My little Rachel — she will be alone,

All, all alone in this wide, striving world:

An orphan child without a relative!

Could you make interest to have her placed

In some asylum?” — “Do not doubt my zeal

Or my ability to have it done.

And should good fortune come to me, be sure

Rachel shall have a pleasant home in mine.”

“That's best of all. Thank you. God help you both.

Now, Rachel, say the little prayer I taught you.

... That was well said. Now kiss me for good night.

That's a dear little girl! I'll tell your mother

How good and diligent and kind you are;

How careful, too, of all your pretty clothes;

And what a nurse you've been,— how true and tender.

Rachel, obey Miss Percival. Be quick

To shun all evil. Fly from heedless playmates.

Close your young eyes on all impurity.

Cast out all naughty thoughts by holy prayer.

Love only what is good. Ah! darling child,

I hoped to shield you up to womanhood,

But God ordains it otherwise. May He

Amid the world's thick perils be your Guide!

There! Do not cry, my darling. All is well.

Sing us some pious hymn, Miss Percival.”

And Linda, with wet eyelids, sang these words.

Be of good cheer, O Soul!

Angels are nigh;

Evil can harm thee not,

God hears thy cry.

Into no void shalt thou

Spring from this clay;

His everlasting arm

Shall be thy stay.

Day hides the stars from thee,

Sense hides the heaven

Waiting the contrite soul

That here has striven.

Soon shall the glory dawn

Making earth dim;

Be not disquieted,

Trust thou in Him!

“O, thank you! Every word is true — I know it.

Sense hides it now, but has not always hid.

Remember, Rachel, that I say it here,

Weighing my words: I know it all is true.

God bless you both. I'm very, very happy.

My pain is almost gone. I'll sleep awhile.”

Rachel and Linda sat an hour beside him,

Silently watching. Linda then arose

And placed her hand above his heart:‘ twas still.

Tranquilly as the day-flower shuts its leaves

And renders up its fragrance to the air,

From the closed mortal senses had he risen.

One day the tempter sat at Linda's ear:

Sat and discoursed — so piously! so wisely!

She held a letter in her hand; a letter

Signed Jonas Fletcher. Jonas was her landlord;

A man of forty — ay, a gentleman;

Kind to his tenants, liberal, forbearing;

Rich and retired from active business;

A member of the Church, but tolerant;

A man sincere, cordial, without a flaw

In habits or in general character;

Of comely person, too, and cheerful presence.

Long had he looked on Linda, and at last

Had studied her intently; knew her ways,

Her daily occupations; whom she saw,

And where she went. He had an interest

Beyond that of the landlord, in his knowledge;

The letter was an offer of his hand.

Of Linda's parentage and history

He nothing knew, and nothing sought to know.

He took her as she was; was well content,

With what he knew, to run all other risks.

The letter was a good one and a frank;

It came to Linda in her pinch of want,

Discouragement, and utter self-distrust.

And thus the tempter spoke and she replied:

“You're getting thin; you find success in art

Is not a thing so easy as you fancied.

Five years you've worked at what you modestly

Esteem your specialty. Your specialty!

As if a woman could have more than one,—

And that — maternity! I do not speak

Of the six years you gave your art before

You strove to make it pay. Methinks you see

Your efforts are a failure. What's the end

Of all your toil? Not enough money saved

For the redemption of your pawned piano!

Truly a cheerful prospect is before you:

To hear your views would edify me greatly.”

“Yes, I am thinner than I was; but then

I can afford to be — so that's not much.

As for success — if we must measure that

By the financial rule,‘ tis small, I grant you.

Yes, I have toiled, and lived laborious days,

And little can I show in evidence;

And sometimes — sometimes, I am sick at heart,

And almost lose my faith in woman's power

To paint a rose, or even to mend a stocking,

As well as man can do. What would you have?”

“Now you speak reason. Let me see you act it!

Abandon this wild frenzy of the hour,

That would leave woman free to go all ways

A man may go! Why, look you, even in art,

Most epicene of all pursuits in life,

How man leaves woman always far behind!

Give up your foolish striving; and let Nature

And the world's order have their way with you.”

“Small as the pittance is, yet I could earn

More, ten times, by my brush than by my needle.”

“Ah! woman's sphere is that of the affections.

Ambition spoils her — spoils her as a woman.”

“Spoils her for whom?”

“For man.”

“Then woman's errand

Is not, like man's, self-culture, self-advancement,

But she must simply qualify herself

To be a mate for man: no obligation

Resting on man to qualify himself

To be a mate for woman?”

“Ay, the man

Lives in the intellect; the woman's life

Is that of the affections, the emotions;

And her anatomy is proof of it.”

“So have I often heard, but do not see.

Some women have I known, who could endure

Surgical scenes which many a strong man

Would faint at. We have had this dubious talk

Of woman's sphere far back as history goes:

‘ Tis time now it were proved: let actions prove it;

Let free experience, education prove it!

Why is it that the vilest drudgeries

Are put on woman, if her sphere be that

Of the affections only, the emotions?

He represents the intellect, and she

The affections only! Is it always so?

Let Malibran, or Mary Somerville,

De Staël, Browning, Stanton, Stowe, Bonheur,

Stand forth as proof of that cool platitude.

Use other arguments, if me you'd move.

Besides, I see not that your system makes

Any provision for that numerous class

To whom the affections are an Eden closed,—

The women who are single and compelled

To drudge for a precarious livelihood!

What of their sphere? What of the sphere of those

Who do not, by the sewing of a shirt,

Earn a meal's cost? Go tell them, when they venture

On an employment social custom makes

Peculiarly a man's,— that they become

Unwomanly! Go make them smile at that,—

Smile if they've not forgotten how to smile.”

“I see that you're befogged, my little woman,

Chasing this ignis fatuus of the day!

Leave it, and settle down as woman should.

What has been always, must be to the end.

Always has woman been subordinate

In mind, in body, and in power, to man.

Let rhetoricians rave, and theorists

Spin their fine webs,— bow you to holy Nature,

And plant your feet upon the eternal fact.”

“The little lifetime of the human race

You call — eternity! The other day

One of these old eternal wrongs was ended

Rather abruptly; yet good people thought

‘ Twas impious to doubt it was eternal.

Because abuses have existed always,

May we not prove they are abuses still?

If for antiquity you plead, why not

Tell us the harem is the rule of nature,

The one solution of the woman problem?”

“Does not St. Paul —”

“Excuse me. Beg no questions.

St. Paul to you may be infallible,

But Science is so unaccommodating,

If not irreverent, she'll not accept

His ipse dixit as an axiom.

Here, in our civilized society,

Is an increasing host of single women

Who do not find the means of livelihood

In the employments you call feminine.

What shall be done? And my reply is this:

Let every honest calling be as proper

For woman as for man; throw open all

Varieties of labor, skilled or rough,

To woman's choice and woman's competition.

Let her decide the question of the fitness.

Let her rake hay, or pitch it, if she'd rather

Do that than scrub a floor or wash and iron.

And, above all, let her equality

Be barred not at the ballot-box; endow her

With all the rights a citizen can claim;

Give her the suffrage;let her have — by right

And not by courtesy — a voice in shaping

The laws and institutions of the land.

And then, if after centuries of trial,

All shall turn out a fallacy, a failure,

The social scheme will readjust itself

On the old basis, and the world shall be

The wiser for the great experiment.”

“But is sex nothing? Shall we recognize

No bounds that Nature clearly has defined,

Saying, with no uncertain tone, to one,

Do this, and to the other, Do thou that?

The rearing of young children and the care

Of households,— can we doubt where these belong?

Woman is but the complement of man

And not a monstrous contrariety.

Co-worker she, but no competitor!”

“All true, and no one doubts it! But why doubt

That perfect freedom is the best condition

For bringing out all that is best in woman

As well as man? Free culture, free occasion,

Higher responsibility, will make

A higher type of femininity,

Ay, of maternal femininity,—

Not derogate from that which now we have,

And which, through laws and limitations old,

Is artificial, morbid, and distort,

Except where Nature works in spite of all.

‘ Woman is but the complement of man!’

Granted. But why stop there? And why not add,

Man, too, is but the complement of woman?

And both are free! And Nature never meant,

For either, harder rule than that of Love,

Intelligent, and willing as the sun.”

“Ah! were men angels, women something more,

Your plan might work; but now, in married life,

One must be absolute; and who can doubt

That Nature points unerringly to man?”

“Then Nature's pointing is not always heeded.

Marriage should be a partnership of equals:

But now the theory would seem to be,

Man's laws must keep the weaker sex in order!

Man must do all the thinking, even for woman!

I do n't believe it; woman, too, can think,

Give her the training and the means of knowledge.

‘ O no!’ cries man,‘ the household and the child

Must claim her energies; and all her training

Must be to qualify the wife and mother:

For one force loses when another gains,

Since Nature is a very strict accountant;

And what you give the thinker or the artist,

You borrow from the mother and the wife.’

With equal truth, why not object to man

That what he gives the judge or politician

He borrows from the husband and the father?

The wife and mother best are qualified

When you allow the woman breadth of culture,

Give her an interest in all that makes

The human being's welfare, and a voice

In laws affecting her for good or ill.

To‘ suckle fools and chronicle small beer’

Is not the whole intent of womanhood.

Even of maternity‘ tis not the height

To produce many children, but to have

Such as may be a blessing to their kind.

Let it be woman's pure prerogative,

Free and unswayed by man's imperious pleasure

( Which now too often is her only law ),

To rule herself by her own highest instincts,

As her own sense of duty may approve,—

Holding that law for her as paramount

Which may best harmonize her whole of nature,

Educe her individuality,

Not by evading or profaning Nature,

But by a self-development entire.”

“Enough, enough! Let us split hairs no longer!

You hold a crumpled letter in your hand;

You know the writer; you esteem, respect him;

And you've had time to question your own heart.

What does it say? You blush,— you hesitate,—

That's a good symptom. Now just hear me out:

If culture is your aim, how opportune

A chance is this! Affluence, leisure, study!

Would you help others? He will help you do it.

Is health an object? Soon, exempt from care,

Or cheered by travel, shall you see restored

Your early bloom and freshness. Would you find

In love a new and higher life? You start!

Now what's the matter? Do not be a fool,—

A sentimentalist, forever groping

After the unattainable, the cloudy.

Come, be a little practical; consider

Your present state: look on that row of nails

Recipient of your wardrobe; see that bonnet,

All out of fashion by at least a month;

That rusty water-proof you call a cloak;

Those boots with the uneven heels; that pair

Of woollen gloves; this whole absurd array,

Where watchful Neatness battles Poverty,

But does not win the victory. Look there!

Would not a house on the great avenue

Be better than these beggarly surroundings?

Since you're heart-free, why not at once say Yes?”

“Sweet fluent tempter, there you hit the mark!

Heart-free am I, and‘ tis because of that

You're not entirely irresistible.

Your plea is simply that which lends excuse

To the poor cyprian whom we pass in scorn.

I've done my utmost to persuade myself

That I might love this man,— in time might love:

But all my arguments, enforced by yours,

Do not persuade me. I must give it up!”

Never was No administered more gently

Or more decisively than in her answer

To the proposal in the crumpled letter.

Musing before a picture Linda sat.

“In my poor little range of art,” thought she,

“I feel an expert's confidence; I know

These things are unexcelled; and yet why is it

They do not bring their value? Come, I'll try

Something more difficult,— put all my skill,

Knowledge, and work into one little piece.”

Bravely she strove: it was a simple scene,

But with accessories as yet untried,

And done in oil with microscopic care;

An open window with a distant landscape,

And on the window-sill a vase of flowers.

It was a triumph, and she knew it was.

“Come, little housekeeper,” she said to Rachel,

“We'll go and seek our fortune.” So she put

Under her arm the picture, and they went

To show it to the dealer who had bought

Most of her works. But on her way she met

A clerk of the establishment, who said:

“Come into Taylor's here and take an ice;

I'd like to tell you something for your good.”

When they all three were seated, Brown began:

“You may not see me at the store again;

For a ship's cousin wants my place, and so,

With little ceremony, I'm dismissed.

Now, if you've no objection, tell me what

The old man gave you for that composition

In which a bird — a humming-bird, I think —

Follows a child who has a bunch of flowers.”

“Yes, I remember. Well,‘ twas fifteen dollars.”

“Whew! He said fifty. Is it possible?

You've seen the chromo copy, I suppose?”

“The chromo? I've seen nothing of a chromo.

Never has my consent been given to publish!”

“That's little to the purpose, it would seem.

A hundred thousand copies have been sold

Of all your pieces, first and last. You stare?”

A light broke in on Linda. All at once

The mystery that hung upon her strivings

Lay solved; the cloud was lifted; and she saw

That all this while she had not weighed her talents

In a false balance; had not been the dupe

Of her own aspirations and desires.

With eyes elate and hope up-springing fresh

In her glad heart, she cried, “And are you sure?”

“‘ Tis easily confirmed. Go ask the printer;

Only my number is below the mark.”

From Brown, then, Linda got particulars,

Showing‘ twas not a random utterance.

“‘ Tis strange,” she said, “that I've not seen the chromos

At the shop windows.” — “Only recently,”

Said he, “have they been sold here in the city;

The market has been chiefly at the West.

The old man thought it policy, perhaps,

To do it on the sly, lest you should know.

Well, well, in that bald head of his he has

A mine!” Then Linda struck the bell, and said:

“This is my entertainment, Mr. Brown;

Please let me pay for it.” And Brown's “O no”

Was not so wholly irresistible

That Linda did not have her way in this.

They parted.

“Why, Miss Percival,” said Rachel,

“You look precisely as you did that day

You fired the pistol in the woods,— you do!

I watched your eye, and knew you would not fail.”

“‘ Tis to bring down a different sort of game,

We now go forth.” — “But you forget your pistol.”

“This time we shall not need one. Did I not

Say we were going forth to seek our fortune?

Well, Rachel, my dear child, we've found it,— found it.”

“O, I'm so glad! ( How rapidly you walk! )

And shall we have the old piano back?”

“Ay, that we shall! And you shall go to-morrow

And take a present to the poor blind aunt

And her old mother,— for they love you well.”

“A present! Why, Miss Percival, there's nothing

I do so love to do as to make presents.

I've made three in my lifetime; one a ring

Of tortoise-shell; and one —”

But here they entered

A picture-store. A man who stood alert,

With thumbs hooked in the arm-holes of his vest,

Advanced to welcome her. The “old man” he,

Of Brown's narration; not so very old,

However; not quite thirty-five, in fact.

The capital which made his note so good

Was a bald head; a head you could not question;

A head which was a pledge of solvency,

A warrant of respectability!

The scalp all glossy; tufts above the ears!

This head he cultivated carefully,

And always took his hat off when he went

To ask a discount or to clinch a bargain.

“Ah! my young friend, Miss Percival,” he cried,

“You've something choice there, if I'm not mistaken.”

Linda took off the wrapper from her picture

And showed it.

An expression of surprise

Came to the “old man's” features; but he hid it

By making of his hand a cylinder

And looking through it, like a connoisseur.

These were his exclamations: “Clever! Ay!

Style somewhat new; landscape a shade too bright;

The sky too blue, eh? Still a clever picture,—

One of your best. Shall we say twenty dollars?”

Taking the picture, Linda said, “Good morning!

I'm in a hurry now, and you'll excuse me.”

“Will you not leave it?” — “No, I'm not disposed

To part with it at present.” — “Thirty dollars

Would be a high price for it, but to aid you

I'll call it thirty.” — “Could you not say fifty?”

“You're joking with me now, Miss Percival.”

“Then we will end our pleasantry. Good by.”

“Stay! You want money: I shall be ashamed

To let my partners know it, but to show

How far I'll go for your encouragement —

Come! I'll say fifty dollars.”

The “old man”

Lowered his head, so that the burnished scalp

Might strike her eye direct. Impenetrable

To that appeal, Linda said: “I can get

A hundred for it, I believe. Good day!”

“Stop, stop! For some time our intent has been

To make you a small present as a proof

Of our regard; now will I merge it in

A hundred dollars for the picture. Well?”

“Nay, I would rather not accept a favor.

I must go now,— will call again some day.”

Desperate the “old man” moved his head about

In the most striking lights, and patted it

Wildly at last, as if by that mute act

To stay the unrelenting fugitive.

In vain! She glided off, and Rachel with her.

“Where now, Miss Percival?” — “To make a call

Upon a lawyer for advice, my dear.”

Thoughtfully Diggin listened to the case,

So clearly stated that no part of it

Was left to disentangle. “Let me look,”

He said, “at your new picture; our first step

Shall be to fix the right of publication

In you alone. Expect from me no praise,—

For I'm no judge of art. Fine points of law,

Not fine points in a picture, have engaged

My thoughts these twenty years. While you wait here,

I'll send my clerk to copyright this painting.

What shall we call it?” — “Call it, if you please,

‘ The Prospect of the Flowers.’” — “That will do.

Entered according to — et cetera.

Your name is —” “Linda Percival.” — “I thought so.

Here, Edward, go and take a copyright

Out for this work,‘ The Prospect of the Flowers.’

First have it photographed, and then deposit

The photographic copy with the Court.”

Then Diggin paced the room awhile, and ran

Through his lank hair his fingers nervously.

At length his plan took shape; he stopped and said

“You shall take back your picture to this dealer;

Tell him‘ tis not for sale, but get his promise

To have it, for a fortnight, well displayed

At his shop window. This he'll not refuse.

Do n't sell at any price. What's your address?

Edward shall go with you:‘ tis well to have

A witness at this juncture. Write me down

The printer's name Brown gave you. Ay, that's right.

Now go; and if the picture is removed —

For purposes we'll not anticipate —

As it will be — we'll corner the‘ old man,’

And his bald head sha'n' t save him. By the way,

If you want money let me be your banker;

I'm well content to risk a thousand dollars

On the result of my experiment.”

The picture was removed, as he foretold.

Ten weeks went by; then Linda got it back.

“It is the pleasant season,” said the lawyer;

“Here are three hundred dollars. You start back!

Miss Linda, I shall charge you ten per cent

On all you borrow. Oh! You do not like

To be in debt. This is my risk, not yours.

If I recover nothing, then no debt

Shall be by you incurred,— so runs the bond!

Truly, now,‘ tis no sentimental loan:

I trust another's solvency, not yours.

At length you understand me,— you consent!

Now do not go to work; but you and Rachel

Go spend a long vacation at the seaside.

You want repose and sunshine and pure air.

Be in no hurry to return. The longer

You're gone, the better. For a year at least

We must keep dark. That puzzles you. No matter.

Here, take my card, and should you any time

Need money, do not hesitate to draw

On me for funds. There! Not a word! Good by!”

In the cars, eastward bound! A clear, bright day

After a rain-storm; and, on both sides, verdure;

Trees waving salutations, waters gleaming.

The brightness had its type in Linda's looks,

As, with her little protégée, she sat

And savored all the beauty, all the bloom.

On the seat back of them, two gentlemen

Chatted at intervals in tones which Linda

Could hardly fail to hear, though little heeding.

But now and then, almost unconsciously,

She found herself attending to their prattle.

Said Gossip Number One: “You see that veteran

In the straw hat, and the young man beside him:

Father and son are they. Old Lothian,

Five months ago, was high among the trusted

Of our chief bankers; Charles, his only son,

By a maternal uncle's death enriched,

Kept out of Wall Street; turned a stolid ear

To all high-mounting schemes for doubling wealth,

His taste inclining him to art and letters.

But Lothian had a partner, Judd,— a scamp,

As the result made evident; and Judd

One day was missing; bonds, securities,

And bills, deposits of confiding folk,

Guardians, and widows, and old men retired,

All had been gobbled up by Judd — converted

Into hard cash — and Judd had disappeared.

Despair for Lothian! a man whose word

No legal form could make more absolute.

Crushed, mortified, and rendered powerless,

He could not breast the storm. The mental strain

Threw him upon his bed, and there he lay

Till Charles, from Italy in haste returning,

Found his old sire emaciate and half dead

From wounded honor.‘ Come! no more of this!’

Cried Charles;‘ how happened it that you forgot

You had a son? All shall be well, my father.’

He paid off all the liabilities,

And found himself without three thousand dollars

Out of a fortune of at least a million.

What shall we call him, imbecile or saint?

His plan is now to set up as a teacher.

Of such a teacher let each thrifty father

Beware, or he may see his only son

Turn out a poor enthusiast,— perhaps —

Who knows?— an advocate of woman's rights!”

Attracted by the story, Linda tried

To get a sight of him, the simpleton;

And, when she saw his face, it seemed to her

Strangely familiar. Was it in a dream

That she had once beheld it? Vain the attempt

Of peering memory to fix the where

And when of the encounter! Yet she knew

That with it was allied a grateful thought.

Then Rachel spoke and made the puzzle clear:

“The man who sent us in his carriage home,

That day you fainted,— do n't you recollect?”

“Ay, surely!‘ tis the same. No dream-face that!

Charles Lothian, is he? If his acts are folly,

Then may I be a fool! Such fools are rare.

How tender of his father he appears!

I wonder where they're going.”

When, at Springfield,

Father and son got out, a sigh, or rather

The ghost of one, and hardly audible,

Escaped from Linda. Then Charles Lothian,

While the cars waited, caught her eye, and bowed.

So he remembered her! “Now that was odd.

But the bell sounds; the locomotive puffs;

The train moves on. Charles Lothian, good by!

Eastward we go; away from you — away —

Never to meet again in this wide world;—

Like ships that in mid-ocean meet and part,

To meet no more — O, nevermore — perchance!”