Chapter 5

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. Isn'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 don'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.

I.

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.

II.

An infant on her knee I struck your keys, And you made sweet my earliest lullaby: From you I thought my requiem might come.

III.

Hard is the pang of parting, but farewell! Harder the shame would be, if help were not; Go, but your tones shall thrill forevermore.

IV.

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.

I.

Be of good cheer, O Soul! Angels are nigh; Evil can harm thee not, God hears thy cry.

II.

Into no void shalt thou Spring from this clay; His everlasting arm Shall be thy stay.

III.

Day hides the stars from thee, Sense hides the heaven Waiting the contrite soul That here has striven.

IV.

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: