The Woman Who Dared Part 5

In the same old familiar room we met: Eager I gave my hand; but he drew back, Folded his arms, and said, with half a smile: ''Tis not for me; still am I under ban!'

'I'm glad of that!' cried I; ''twill help to show How slight, to love like mine, impediments Injustice can pile up!'

"He took my hand, And, for the first time, we exchanged a kiss.

Then we sat down and freely talked. Said he: 'Baffled in all my efforts to procure Reversal of my sentence, I resolved To terminate one misery at least: Yearly the court compelled me, through my bondsmen, To render an account of all my income, Of which the larger portion must be paid For the support of my betrayer, and The child, called, by a legal fiction, mine.

To this annoyance of an annual dealing With her attorney, I would put an end; And so I compromised by giving up Two thirds of all my property at once.

This leaves me free from all entanglement With her or hers,--though with diminished means.

"'And now, since still you venture to confide Wholly in me, my Mary Merivale,-- And since you would intrust your happiness To one who can but give you love for love,-- To make our income certain, 'tis my plan Straightway my little remnant to convert Into a joint annuity, to last During our natural lives: this will secure A fair, though not munificent support.

And since for me you put the gay world by, And since for you I make no sacrifice, Now shape our way of life as you may choose.'

"This I disclaimed; but we at last arranged That on the morrow, in the presence of My poor friend Lucy, and my sister Julia, We two should take each other by the hand As emblem of a pledge including all Of sacred and inviolable, all Of holy and sincere, that man and woman, Uniting for connubial purposes, And with no purpose foreign to right love, Can, with responsible intelligence, Give to each other in the face of G.o.d, And before human witnesses.

"And so The simple rite--if such it could be called-- Took place. A formal kiss was interchanged, And then we all knelt down, and Percival Met our hearts' need with such a simple prayer As by its quickening and inspiring faith Made us forget it was another's voice, Not our own hearts, that spoke. My sister Julia Wept, not for me, but for herself, poor child!

The chill, the gloom of an unhappy future Crept on her lot already, like a mist Foreshadowing the storm; she saw, not distant, All the despair of a regretful marriage Menacing her and driving forth her children.

It did not long delay. Her spendthrift lord, After a squander of his own estate, And after swindling my confiding father Of a large sum, deserted wife and children, To play the chevalier of industry At Baden, or at Homburg, and put on More of the aspect of the beast each day.

Three children have his blood to strive against.

Poor Julia! What she has to live on now Was given by Linda's father. We found means, Also, to set up our poor sewing-girl, My old companion, Lucy, in a trade In which she thrives,--she and a worthy husband.

"What said my parents? Well, I wrote them soon, Relating all the facts without reserve, And asking, 'Would it be agreeable to them To have a visit from us?' They replied, 'It will not be agreeable, for our house Is one of good repute.'--Not three years after, A joint appeal came to us for their aid To the amount of seven hundred pounds.

We sent the money, and it helped to smooth Their latter days; perhaps to mitigate The anger they had felt; and yet not they: Of the ungenerous words addressed to us My father never knew.

"We met my sisters, Through Julia's urging, I believe, and proudly I let them see what sort of man I'd chosen.

We travelled for a time in England; then, In travel and in study, spent three years Upon the Continent; and sailed at last For the great land to which my thoughts had turned So often--for America. Arriving Here in New York, we took this little house, Scene of so many joys and one great woe; And yet a woe so full of heavenly life We should not call it by a mournful name.

"At length our Linda came to make all bright; And I can say, should the great summoner Call me this day to leave you, liberal Heaven More than my share of mortal bliss already Would have bestowed. Yes, little Linda came!

To spoil us for all happiness but that In which she too could share--the dear beguiler!

And with the sceptre of her love she ruled us, And with a happy spirit's charm she charmed us, Artfully conquering by shunning conquest, And by obeying making us obey.

And so, one day, one happy day in June, We all sat down together, and her mother Told her the story which here terminates."

IV.

PARADISE FOUND.

"You might have made it longer," murmured Linda, Who with moist eyes had listened, and to whom The time had seemed inexplicably brief.

Then with an arm round either parent's neck, And with a kiss on either parent's cheek, She said: "My lot is as the good G.o.d gave it; And I'd not have it other than it is.

Could a permit from any human lips Have made me any more a child of G.o.d?

Have made me any more your child, my parents?

Have made me any more my own true self?

Happy, and oh! not diffident to feel My right to be and breathe the common air?

Could any form of words approving it Have made us three more intimately near?

Have made us three more exquisitely dear?

Ah! if it could, our love is not the love I hold it now to be--immortal love!"

With speechless joy and a new pride they gazed Into her fair and youthful countenance, Bright with ethereal bloom and tenderness.

Then smoothing back her hair, the father said: "An anxious thought comes to us now and then,-- Comes like a cloud: the thought that we as yet Have no provision from our income saved For Linda. My few little ventures, made In commerce, in a profitable hope, So adversely resulted that I saw My best advance would be in standing still.

As you have heard, all that we now possess Is in a life-annuity which ends With two frail lives--your mother's and my own.

So, should death overtake us both at once,-- And this I've looked on as improbable,-- Our little girl would be left dest.i.tute."

"Not dest.i.tute, my father!" Linda cried; "Far back as thought can go, you taught me this: To help myself; to seek, in my own mind, Companions.h.i.+p forever new and glad, Through studies, meditations, and resources Which nature, books, and crowded life supply.

And then you urged me to excel in something; ('Better do one thing thoroughly,' you said, 'Than fifty only tolerably well,')-- Something from which, with loving diligence, I might, should life's contingencies require, Wring a support;--and then, how carefully You taught me how to deal with slippery men!

Taught me my rights, the laws, the very forms By which to guard against neglect or fraud In any business--till I'm half a lawyer.

You taught me, too, how to protect myself, Should force a.s.sail me; how to hold a pistol, Carry it, fire it--Heaven save me from the need!

And, when I was a very little girl, You used to take me round to see the houses As they were built; the clearing of the land; The digging of the cellar; the foundations; You told me that the sand to make the mortar Ought to be fresh, and not the sea-sh.o.r.e sand; Else would the salt keep up a certain moisture.

And then we'd watch the framework, and the roofing; And you'd explain the office and the name Of every beam, and make me understand The qualities of wood, seasoning of timber, And how the masons, and the carpenters, The plasterers, the plumbers, and the slaters, Should do their work; and when they slighted it, And when the wood-work was too near the flue, The flue too narrow, or the draught defective: So that, as you yourself have often said, I'm better qualified than half the builders To plan and build a house, and guard myself From being cheated in the operation.

Fear not for me, my parents; spend your income Without a thought of saving. And besides, Had you not trained me aptly as you have, Am I not better--I--than many sparrows?

There is a heavenly Father over all!"

"Sweet arguer!" said Percival, "may He And his swift angels love and help our Linda!

Your mother and myself have tried of late To study how and where we might reduce Certain expenses that have been,----"

But here The dinner-bell broke in; and lighter thoughts-- Thoughts that but skim the surface of the mind, And stir not its profound--were interchanged As now more timely; for the Percivals Lacked not good appet.i.tes, and every meal Had its best stimulant in cheerfulness.

"Where shall we go to pa.s.s our holidays?"

The mother asked: "August will soon be here."

"What says our Linda?" answered Percival: "The seaside or the mountains shall it be?"

"Linda will go with the majority!

You've spilt the salt, papa; please throw a little Over your shoulder; there! that saves a quarrel.

To me you leave it, do you? to decide Where we shall go? Then hear the voice of wisdom: The mountain air is good, I love the mountains; And the sea air is good, I love the sea; But if you two prefer the mountain air,-- Go to the mountains. On the contrary,--"

"She's neutral!" cried the father; "what a dodger This little girl has grown! Come, now, I'll cast Into the scale my sword, and say we'll go To old Cape Ann. Does any slave object?

None. 'Tis a special edict. Pa.s.s the peas.

Our rendezvous shall be off Eastern Point.

There shall our Linda try the oar again."

Dinner was ended, and the gas was lit, And The Day's last edition had been put Into his hand to read, when suddenly Turning to Mary, with a sigh he said: "Kenrick, I see, is dead--Kenrick, our friend.

'Died in Chicago on the seventh instant,-- Leaves an estate valued at seven millions.'"

"Indeed! our faithful Kenrick--is he dead?

Leaves he a wife?"--"Probably not, my dear; Three months ago he was a single man; I had a letter from him, begging me, If I lacked funds at any time to draw On him, and not be modest in my draft."

"But that was generous; what did you reply?"

"I thanked him for his love, and promised him He should be first to hear of wants of mine.

Now let us to the music-room adjourn, And hear what will not jar with our regrets."

They went; and Mary mother played and sang; Played the 'Dead March in Saul' and sang 'Old Hundred,'

'Come, ye Disconsolate,' 'When thee I seek'-- And finally these unfamiliar words:--

I.

O, give me one breath from that land-- The land to which all of us go!

Even now, O my soul! art thou fanned By the breezes that over it blow.

II.

By the breezes that over it blow!

Though far from the knowledge of sense, The sh.o.r.e of that land thou dost know-- There soon wilt thou go with me hence.

III.