Chapter 4

"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 God 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 God? 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 destitute."

"Not destitute, my father!" Linda cried; "Far back as thought can go, you taught me this: To help myself; to seek, in my own mind, Companionship 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 assail 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-shore 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 appetites, and every meal Had its best stimulant in cheerfulness. "Where shall we go to pass 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. Pass 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 shore of that land thou dost know-- There soon wilt thou go with me hence.

III.

There soon wilt thou go with me hence-- But where, O my soul! where to be? In that region, that region immense, The loved and the lost shall we see?

IV.

The loved and the lost shall we see! For Love all it loves shall make near; Type and outcome of Love shall it be-- Our home in that infinite sphere!

A day's excursion to a favorite spot-- Choice nook among the choicest of Long Island, (Paradise Found, he called it playfully)-- Had oft been planned; and one day Percival Said: "Let us go to-day!"--"No, not to-day!" Cried Linda, with a shudder.--"And why not? It is the very day of all the year! There's an elastic coolness in the air, Thanks to the thunder-shower we had last night: A day for out-of-doors! Your reasons, Linda? Tears in your eyes! Nay, I'll not ask for reasons. We will not go."--"Yes, father, let us go. Whence came my No abrupt, I could not say; It was a sudden freak, and what it meant You know as well as I. Shall we get ready?" "Ay, such a perfect day is rare; it seems To bring heaven nearer to my understanding; Life, life itself is joy enough! to be,-- To breathe this ether, see that arch of blue, Is happiness."--"But 'tis the soul that makes it; What would it be, my father, without love?" "Ay, without love, love human and divine, No atmosphere of real joy can be."

Not long the time mother and daughter needed To don their simple, neat habiliments. A postman handed Percival a letter As they descended from the door to take The carriage that would bear them to the station; For they must go by rail some twenty miles To reach this paradise of Percival's.

When they were in the cars, and these in motion, Percival drew the letter from his pocket, And, while he read, a strange expression stole Over his features. "Now what is it, father?" Then with a sigh which her quick ear detected As one that masked a pleasurable thought, He said: "Poor little Linda!"--"And why poor?" "Because she will not be so rich again In wishes unfulfilled. That grand piano You saw at Chickering's--what was the price?" "Twelve hundred dollars only."--"It is yours! That painting you admired so--that by Church-- What did they ask for it?"--"Two thousand dollars." "'Tis cheap at that. We'll take it. Whose turn-out Was it that struck your fancy?"--"Miss Van Hagen's!" "Well, you shall have one like it, only better. Look! What a charming cottage! How it stands, Fronting the water, flanked by woods and gardens! For sale, I see. We'll buy it. No, that house Yonder upon the hill would suit us better; Our coachman's family shall have the cottage."

"What is it all, my father? You perplex me," Said Linda, with a smile of anxious wonder. "In brief, my little girl," said Percival, "You're grown to be an heiress. Let your mother Take in that letter. Read it to her, Linda." It was a letter from executors Of the late Arthur Kenrick, making known That in his several large bequests was one Of a full million, all to Percival. The mother's heart flew to the loved ones gone; She sighed, but not to have them back again; That were a wish too selfish and profane. And then, the first surprise at length allayed, Calmly, but not without a natural joy At being thus lifted to an affluent lot, The three discussed their future. Should they travel? Or should they choose some rural site, and build? Paradise Found would furnish a good site! Now they could help how many! Not aloof From scenes of destitution had they kept: What joy to aid the worthy poor! To save This one from beggary! To give the means To that forsaken widow, overworked, With her persistent cough, to make a trip, She and her children, city-pinched and pale, To some good inland farm, and there recruit! Many the plans for others they conceived! Many the joyful--

Ah! a shivering crash! A whirl of splintered wood and loosened iron! Then shrieks and groans of pain....

A broken rail Had done it all. Now for the killed and wounded! Ghastly the spectacle! And happy those Whom Death had taken swiftly! Linda's mother Was one of these--a smile upon her lips, But her breast marred--peacefully she had passed. Percival's wound was mortal, but he strove, Amid the jar of sense, to fix his mind On one absorbing thought--a thought for Linda: For she, though stunned, they told him, would survive, Motherless, though--soon to be fatherless! And something--ah! what was it?--must be done, Done, too, at once. "O gentlemen, come here! Paper and pen and ink! Quick, quick, I pray you! No matter! Come! A pencil--that will do. Help me to make a will--I do bequeathe-- Where am I? What has happened? God be with me! Yes, I remember now--the will! the will! No matter for the writing! Witness ye That I bequeathe, convey, and hereby give To this my only child, named Linda--Linda-- God! What's my name? Where was I? Percival To Linda Percival--Is this a dream? What would I do? My heart is drowned in blood. God help me. Linda--Linda!"

Then he died; And, chasing from his face that glare of anguish, Came a smile beatific as if angels Had soothed his fears and hushed him into calm.

Her father's cry was all unheard by Linda, Or by her mortal senses all unheard. Perhaps a finer faculty, removed From the external consciousness afar, Took it all in; for when she woke at last To outward life, and looking round beheld No sign of either parent, she sank back Into a trance, and lay insensible For many hours. Then rallying she once more Seemed conscious; and observing the kind looks Of an old woman and a man whose brow Of thought contrasted with his face of youth, She calmly said: "Don't fear to tell me all; I think I know it all; an accident With loss of life; my father and my mother Among--among the killed. Enough! Your silence Explains it now. So leave me for a while. Should I need help, I'll call. You're very good."

When they returned, Linda was sitting up Against the pillow of the bed; her hands Folded upon her breast; her open eyes Tearless and glazed, as if celestial scenes, Clear to the inner, nulled the outer vision. The man drew near, touched her upon the brow, And said, "My name is Henry Meredith." She started, and, as on an April sky A cloud is riven, and through the sudden cleft The sunshine darts, even so were Linda's eyes Flooded with conscious lustre, and she woke.

It was a neatly furnished cottage room In which she lay, and nodding eglantine, With its sweet-scented foliage and rath roses, Rustled and shimmered at the open window. "How long have I been lying here?" asked Linda. "Almost two days," said Meredith.--"Indeed! I read, sir, what you'd ask me, in your looks; And to the question on your mind I answer, If all is ready, let the funeral be This afternoon. Ay, in the village ground Let their remains be laid. The services May be as is convenient." "Of what faith Were they?"--"The faith of Christ."--"But that is vague. The faith of Christ? Mean you the faith _in_ Christ? Faith in the power and need of his atonement?"

"All that I mean is, that they held the faith Which was the faith of Christ, as manifest In his own words, unwrenched by others' words. So to no sect did they attach themselves; But from all sects drew all the truth they could In charity; believing that when Christ Said of the pure in heart, 'They shall see God,' He meant it; spoke no fragment of a truth; Deferred no saying, qualifying that; Set no word-trap for unsuspecting souls; Spoke no oracular, ambiguous phrase, Intending merely the vicarious pure; Reserved no strange or mystical condition To breed fine points of doctrine, or confound The simple-minded and the slow of faith. Heart-purity and singleness and love, Fertile in loving acts, sole proof of these, Summed up for them, my father and my mother, All nobleness, all duty, all salvation, And all religion."

With a heavy sigh Meredith turned away. "I'll not discuss Things of such moment now," said he. "One rock, One only rock, amid the clashing waves Of human error, have I found,--the rock On which Christ built his Church. Heaven show you it!" "Heaven show me truth! let it be on the rock, Or in the sand. You'll say Amen to that?" "I say Amen to what the Church approves, For I myself am weak and fallible, Depraved by nature, reprobate and doomed, And ransomed only by the atoning blood Of a Redeemer more divine than human. But controversy is not timely now: The papers, jewels, money, and what clothes Could properly be taken, you will find In a small trunk of which this is the key. At three o'clock the carriage will be ready."

Linda put forth her hand; he gravely took it, And holding it in both of his the while, Said: "Should you lack a friend, remember me. I was a witness to your father's death. Your mother must have died without a pang. He, by a strenuous will, kept death at bay A minute, and his dying cry was Linda! Hardly can he have felt his sufferings, Such the intentness of his thought for you!" The fount of tears was happily struck at last, And Linda wept profusely. Meredith Quitted the room; but the old woman sat Beside the bed, her thin and shrunken fingers Hiding themselves in Linda's locks of gold, Or with a soothing motion parting them From a brow fine and white as alabaster. At length, like a retreating thunder-storm, The sobs grew faint and fainter, and then ceased.

After a pause, said Linda to the lady, "Is he your grandson?"--"Ay, my only one; A noble youth, heir to a splendid fortune; A scholar, too, and such a gentleman! Young; ay, not twenty-four! What a career, Would he but choose! Society is his, To cull from as he would. He throws by all, To be a poor tame priest, and take confessions Of petty scandals and delinquencies From a few Irish hussies and old women!" "We all," said Linda, "hear the voice of duty In different ways, and many not at all. Honor to him who heeds the sacred claim At any cost of life's amenities And tenderest ties! We see the sacrifice;-- We cannot reckon up the nobleness It called for, and must call for to the end."

V.

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.