Chapter 7
Stand on the cliff near by,--southeasterly Are only waves on waves to the horizon; But easterly, less than two miles across, And forming with the coast-line, whence you look, The harbor's entrance, stretches Eastern Point, A lighthouse at its end; a mile of land Arm-like thrust out to keep the ocean off; So narrow that beyond its width, due east, You see the Atlantic glittering, hardly made Less inconspicuous by the intervention. The cottage fare, the renovating breeze, The grove, the piny odors, and the flowers, Rambles at morning and the twilight time, Sea-bathing, joyous and exhilarant, Siestas on the rocks, with inhalations Of the pure breathings of the ocean-tide,-- Soon wrought in both the maidens visible change. Each day their walks grew longer, till at last A ten-mile tramp was no infrequent one.
"And where to-day?" asked Rachel, one fair morning. "To Eastern Point," said Linda; "with our baskets! For berries, there's no place like Eastern Point; Blackberries, whortleberries, pigeon-pears,-- All we shall find in prodigality!" And so by what was once the old stage-road Contiguous to the shore, and through the woods,-- Though long abandoned save by scenery-hunters, And overgrown with grass and vines and bushes; Then leaving on their right the wooded hill Named from the rattlesnakes, now obsolete; Then by the Cove, and by the bend of shore Over Stage-rocks, by little Half-moon beach, Across the Cut, the Creek, by the Hotel, And through the village, even to Eastern Point,-- The maidens went, and had a happy day. And, when the setting sun blazed clear and mild, And every little cloud was steeped in crimson, To a small wharf upon the harbor side, Along the beach they strolled, and looked across The stretch of wave to Norman's Woe;--and Linda Wistfully said: "Heigho! I own I'm tired; And you, too, Rachel, you look travel-worn, And hardly good for four miles more of road. Could we but make this short cut over water! What would I give now for a boat to take us To Webber's Cove! O, if some timely oarsman Would only come and say, 'Fair demoiselles, My skiff lies yonder, rocking on the tide, And eager to convey you to your home!' Then would I----Rachel!"
"What, Miss Percival?" "Look at those men descending from the ridge!" "Well, I can see an old man and a young." "And is that all you have to say of them?" "How should I know about them? Ah! I see! Those are the two we met three weeks ago,-- The day we left New York,--met in the cars." "Ay, Rachel, and their name is Lothian; Father and son are they. Who would have thought That they would find their way to Eastern Point?" "Why not, as well as we, Miss Percival? Look! To the wharf they go; and there, beside it, If I'm not much mistaken, lies a boat. The wished-for oarsman he! O, this is luck! They're going to the boat,--he'll row us over, I'll run and ask him. See you to my basket." "Rachel! Stop, Rachel! Fie, you forward girl! Don't think of it: come back! back, back, I say!"
But Rachel did not hear, or would not heed, Straight to the boat she ran, and, as the men Drew nigh and stopped,--to Linda's dire dismay She went up and accosted them, and pointed To Norman's Woe,--then back to her companion,-- And then, with gesture eloquent of thanks For some reply the younger man had made, She seemed to lead the way, and he to follow Along the foot-path to the granite bench Where Linda sat, abashed and wondering. And, when they stood before her, Rachel said "Miss Percival, here's Mr. Lothian; He has a boat near by, and will be glad To give us seats and row us both across." Charles Lothian bowed, and Linda, blushing, said, "Against my orders did this little lady Accost you, sir, but I will not affect Regret at her success, if you're content." "More than content, I'm very glad," said Charles; "My boat is amply large enough for four, And we are bound, it seems, all the same way. My father and myself have taken rooms At Mistress Moore's, not far from where you live: So count your obligation very slight." "An obligation not the first!" said Linda. "So much the better!" said Charles Lothian: "Come, take my arm, and let me hold your basket. What noble blackberries! I'll taste of one." "Why not of two? As many as you will?" "Thank you. You've been adventurous, it seems." "Yes, Fortune favors the adventurous: See the old proverb verified to-day!" "Praise a good day when ended. Here's my father: Father, Miss Percival!" The senior bowed, And said, "I used to know--" And then, as if Checked by a reminiscence that might be Unwelcome, he was silent, and they went All to the boat. "Please let me take an oar," Said Linda. "Can you row?" asked Charles. "A little! My father taught me." Then old Lothian Looked at her with a scrutinizing glance.
The ocean billows melted into one, And that stretched level as a marble floor. All winds were hushed, and only sunset tints From purple cloudlets, edged with fiery gold, And a bright crimson fleece the sun had left, Fell on the liquid plain incarnadined. The very pulse of ocean now was mute; From the far-off profound, no throb, no swell! Motionless on the coastwise ships the sails Hung limp and white, their very shadows white. The lighthouse windows drank the kindling red, And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit.
"A heavenly eve!" sighed Linda, rapt in praise, As with poised oars the two looked oceanward. Then, keeping time, they pulled out from the shore. "But you row well!" cried Charles. "I might return The compliment," said Linda. "See that duck! How near, how still he floats! He seems to know The holy time will keep him safe from harm." "Had I a gun," said Charles--"You would not use it," Cried Linda, flushing. "And why not?" quoth he. "'Nobility obliges'; sympathy Now makes all nature one and intimate; And we'd respect, even in a duck, his share In this tranquillity, this perfect rest." "I'm glad, then, that I'm gunless," Charles replied. "Hear him!" the sire exclaimed; "he'd have you think He's a great sportsman. Be not duped, my dear! He will not shoot nor fish! He got a wound At Gettysburg, I grant you,--what of that? He would far rather face a battery Than kill a duck, or even hook a cunner." "See now," said Charles, "the mischievous effect Of this exhilarating Cape Ann air! 'Tis the first taunt I've heard from lips of his Since my return from Europe. Look you, father, If I'm to be exposed before young ladies, Your rations shall be stopped, and your supply Of oxygen reduced,--with no more joking. Don't eye those berries so feloniously. Because you've now an appetite,--because You've just begun to gain a little flesh,-- Must I be made the target of your jeers?"
Smiling, but with sad eyes, the father said: "Ah! Charlie, Charlie, when I think of it,-- Think how you've thrown, poor boy, your very life Into the breach of ruin made for me,-- Sacrificed all, to draw the lethal dart Out of my wounded honor--to restore--" "Give us a song, Miss Percival, a song!" Charles, interrupting, said. "The time, the place, Call for a song. Look! All the lighthouses Flash greeting to the night. There Eastern Point Flames out! Lo, little Ten Pound Island follows! See Baker's Island kindling! Marblehead Ablaze! Egg Rock, too, off Nahant, on fire! And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge! Like the wise virgins, all, with ready lamps! Now might I turn fire-worshipper, and bow In adoration at this solemn rite: I'll compromise, however, for a song." "Lest you turn Pagan, then, I'll sing," quoth Linda. And, while they rested on their oars, she sang.
LINDA'S SONG.
A little bird flew To the top of a tree: The sky it was blue, And the bird sang to me. So tender and true was the strain The singer, I hoped, would remain; O little bird, stay and prolong The rapture the grief of that song!
A little thought came, Came out of my heart; It whispered a name That made me to start: And the rose-colored breath of my sigh Flushed the earth and the sea and the sky. Delay, little thought! O, delay, And gladden my life with thy ray!
"Such singing lured Ulysses to the rocks!" Old Lothian said, applauding. "Charles, look out, Or, ere we reck of it, this reckless siren Will have us all a wreck on Norman's Woe. See to your oars!--Where are we drifting, man?" "Who would not drift on such a night as this?" Said Charles; "all's right." Then, heading for the Cove, Slowly and steadily the rowers pulled.
But, when the moon shone crescent in the west, And the faint outline of the part obscured Thread-like curved visible from horn to horn,-- And Jupiter, supreme among the orbs, And Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth, And the great concave opened like a flower, Unfolding firmaments and galaxies, Sparkling with separate stars, or snowy white With undistinguishable suns beyond,-- They paused and rested on their oars again, And looked around,--in adoration looked. For, gazing on the inconceivable, They felt God is, though inconceivable;-- And, while they mutely worshipped, suddenly A change came over Linda's countenance, And her glazed mortal eyes were functionless; For there, before her in the boat, stood two Unbidden, not unwelcome passengers, Her father and her mother....
"Why, Miss Linda, Wake! Are you sleeping? What has been the matter? Here we've been waiting for you full five minutes. And I have called, and Mr. Lothian He too has called, and yet you make no answer!" "Rachel! What is it? There! Excuse me all, If I seemed impolite. Now, then, I'm ready. A strong pull shall it be? So! Let her dart!"
And in ten minutes they were at the landing And on their homeward way; and, as they parted, The spoils were shared, and the old man accepted One of the baskets, and all cried, "Good night!"
* * * * *
The morning sea-fog like an incense rose Up to the sun and perished in his beam; The sky's blue promise brightened through the veil. With her unopened sketch-book in her hand, Linda stood on the summit looking down On Norman's Woe, and felt upon her brow The cooling haze that foiled the August heat. Near her knelt Rachel, hunting curiously For the fine purple algae of the clefts. Good cause had Linda for a cheerful heart; For had she not that day received by mail A copy of "The Prospect of the Flowers,"-- Published in chromo, and these words from Diggin? "Your future is assured: my bait is swallowed, Bait, hook, and sinker, all; now let our fish Have line enough and time enough for play, And we will land him safely by and by. A good fat fish he is, and thinks he's cunning. Enclosed you'll find a hundred-dollar bill; Please send me a receipt. Keep very quiet."
Yet Linda was not altogether happy. Why was it that Charles Lothian had called Once, and once only, after their adventure? Called just to ask her, How she found herself? And, Did she overtask herself in rowing? How happened it, in all her walks and rambles, They rarely met, or, if they met, a bow Formal and cold was all the interview? While thus she mused, she started at a cry: "Ah! here's our siren, cumbent on the rocks! Where should a siren be, if not on rocks?" Old Lothian's voice! He came with rod and line To try an angler's luck. Behind him stepped Charles, who stood still, as if arrested, when He noticed Linda.
Then, as if relenting In some resolve, he jumped from rock to rock To where she leaned; and, greeting her, inquired: "Have you been sketching?"--"No, for indolence Is now my occupation."--"Here's a book; May I not look at it?"--"You may."--"Is this An album?"--"'Tis my sketch-book."--"Do you mean These are your sketches, and original?" "Ay, truly, mine; from nature every one." "But here we have high art! No amateur Could color flower like that."--"Ah! there you touch me; For I'm no amateur in painting flowers,-- I get my living by it."--"I could praise That sea-view also,--what a depth of sky! That beach,--that schooner flying from a squall,-- If I'm a judge, here's something more than skill!"
Then the discourse slid off to woman's rights; For Lothian held a newspaper which told Of some convention, the report of which Might raise a smile. One of the lady speakers, It seems, would give her sex the privilege Of taking the initiative in wooing, If so disposed!
"Indeed, why not?" cried Linda. "Indeed, you almost take my breath away With your Why not, Miss Percival! Why not?" "Yes, I repeat,--if so disposed, why not? For why should woman any more than man Play the dissembler, with so much at stake? I know the ready taunt that here will rise: 'Already none too backward are our girls In husband-seeking.' Seeking in what way? Seeking by stratagem and management,-- Not by frank, honest means! What food for mirth 'Twould give to shallow men to see a woman Court the relation, intertwined with all Of purest happiness that she may crave,-- The ties of wife and mother! O, what pointing, Sneering, and joking! And yet why should care Thoughtful and pure and wisely provident, That Nature's sacred prompting shall not fail, Be one thing for a man, and quite another For her, the woman? Why this flimsy mask? This playing of a part, put on to suit, Not the heart's need, but Fashion custom-bound? Feigning we must be sought, and never seek? Now, through these social hindrances and bars, The bold, perhaps the intriguing, carry off Prizes the true and modest ought to win. And so we hear it coarsely said of husbands, 'Better a poor one far, than none at all!' A thought ignoble, and which no true woman Should harbor for a moment. Give her freedom, Freedom to seek, and she'll not harbor it! Because if woman, equally with man, Were privileged thus, she would discriminate Much more than now, and fewer sordid unions Would be the sure result. For what if man Were chained to singleness until some woman Might seek his hand in marriage, would he be Likely as now to make a wise election? Would he not say, 'Time flies; my chances lessen And I must plainly take what I can get?' True, there are mercenary men enough, Seeking rich dowries; they'd find fewer dupes, Were women free as men to seek and choose, Banish the senseless inequality, And you make marriage less a vulgar game In which one tries to circumvent the other. Oh! all this morbid ribaldry of _men_, And all this passive imbecility, And superstitious inactivity, Dissimulation and improvidence, False shame and lazy prejudice of _women_, Where the great miracle of sex concerns us, And Candor should be innocently wise, And Knowledge should be reverently free,-- Is against nature,[9]--helps to hide the way Out of the social horrors that confound us, And launches thousands into paths impure, Shutting them out from holy parentage."
"I hold," said Charles, "the question is not one Of reasoning, but of simple sentiment. As it would shock me, should a woman speak In virile baritone, so would I shudder To hear a grave proposal marriageward In alto or soprano."
"'Twould depend! Depend on love," said Linda; "love potential, Or present."--"Nay, 'twould frighten love!" cried Charles,-- "Kill it outright."--"Then would it not be love! What! would you love a woman less because She durst avow her love, before the cue Had been imparted by your lordly lips? Rare love would that be truly which could freeze Because the truth came candid from her heart, And in advance of the proprieties!" "But may the woman I could love," cried Charles, "Forbear at least the rash experiment!" "I doubt," said Linda, "if you know your heart; For hearts look to the substance, not the form. Why should not woman seek her happiness With brow as unabashed as man may wear In seeking his? Ah! lack of candor here Works more regrets, for woman and for man, Than we can reckon. Let but woman feel That in the social scheme she's not a cipher, The remedy, be sure, is not far off."
"To me it seems," said Lothian, "that you war Against our natural instincts: have they not Settled the point, even as the world has done?" Said Linda: "Instincts differ; they may be Results of shallow prejudice or custom. The Turk will tell you that polygamy Is instinct; and the savage who stalks on In dirty painted grandeur, while his squaw Carries the burdens, might reply that instinct Regulates that. So instinct proves too much. Queens and great heiresses are privileged To intimate their matrimonial choice,-- Simply because superiority In power or riches gives an apt excuse: Let a plurality of women have The wealth and power, and you might see reversed What now you call an instinct. When a higher Civilization shall make woman less Dependent for protection and support On man's caprice or pleasure, there may be A higher sort of woman; one who shall Feel that her lot is more in her own hands, And she, like man, a free controlling force, Not a mere pensioner on paternal bounty Until some sultan throws the handkerchief."
A cry of triumph from the fisherman, Exuberant at having caught a bass, Here ended the discussion, leaving Linda With the last word. Charles went to chat with Rachel; And Linda, summoned by vociferations From the excited, the transported captor, Descended to inspect the amazing fish. "A beauty, is it not, Miss Percival? A rare one, too, for this part of the coast! 'Twill be a study how to have it cooked. Now sit here, in the shadow of this rock. Your father's name was Albert Percival? So I supposed. I've often heard my wife Speak of him as of one she knew was wronged Most foully in his wrestle with the law. Have you not met with Harriet Percival?" "Once only, and our interview was brief. Is she not married?"--"No, nor like to be, Although her fortune is a pretty one, Even for these times,--two millions, I believe; All which her mother may inherit soon; For Harriet is an invalid, but hoards Her income quite as thriftily as if She looked for progeny and length of days. The mother, as you may not be aware, Has married an aspiring gentleman Who means to build a palace on the Hudson, And Harriet's money hence is greatly needed." The mist now cleared, and the sun shone in power, So that the heat soon drove them to the woods. The senior took his capture home for dinner; Rachel strolled, picking berries by the brook; And, under lofty pines, sat Charles and Linda, And talked discursively, till Linda's thoughts, Inclining now to memory, now to hope, Vibrating from the future to the past, Took, in a silent mood, this rhythmic form.
UNDER THE PINES.
O pine-trees! bid the busy breeze be still That through your tops roars like the constant surge: Such was the sound I heard in happy days Under the pines.
In happy days, when those I loved were by; In happy days, when love was daily food; And jocund childhood, finding it, found joy Under the pines.
Again I hear the west-wind in your tops; Again I scent the odor you exhale; But sound and odor now provoke but tears Under the pines.
O pine-trees! shall a different joy be mine, One day when I shall seek your fragrant shade? Whisper it faintly, breezes, to my heart Under the pines.
"Truly, Miss Percival, you puzzle me," Said Charles, upon her silent revery Breaking abruptly in: "ay, you could fire And wound the villain bearing off the child, And you can brave the radical extreme On this great woman question of the day,-- Yet do you seem a very woman still, And not at all like any man I know,-- Not even like an undeveloped man! And I'm not greatly exercised by fear, Leaning here by your side thus lazily." "Don't mock me now," said Linda; "I'm not armed; Be generous, therefore, in your raillery." "Not armed? Then will I venture to propose That when the tide is low this afternoon We try the beach on horseback. Will you venture?" The joy that sparkled in her eyes said "Yes" Before her tongue could duplicate assent. Said Charles, "I'll bring the horses round at six." "I will be ready, Mr. Lothian."
There was no breach of punctuality: Though sighs, from deeper founts than tears, were heaved, When she drew forth the summer riding-habit Worn last when in the saddle with her father. "Here are the horses at the door!" cried Rachel; "A bay horse and a black; the bay is yours." When they were mounted, Lothian remarked: "Little Good Harbor Beach shall be our point; So called because an Indian once pronounced The harbor 'little good,' meaning 'quite bad'; A broad and open beach, from which you see Running out southerly the ocean side Of Eastern Point; its lofty landward end Gray with huge cliffs. There shall you mark 'Bass Rock,' Rare outlook when a storm-wind from the east Hurls the Atlantic up the craggy heights."
The air was genial, and a rapid trot Soon brought them to the beach. The ebb had left A level stretch of sand, wide, smooth, and hard, With not a hoof-mark on the glistening plain. The horses tossed their heads with snorting pride, Feeling the ocean breeze, as curved and fell Up the long line the creeping fringe of foam, Then backward slid in undulating glass, While all the west in Tyrian splendor flamed. "But this is life!" cried Linda, as she put Her horse to all his speed, and shook her whip. They skimmed the sand, they chased the flying wave, They walked their horses slow along the beach: And, as the light fell on a far-off sail, And made it a white glory to the eye, Said Linda: "See! it fades into the gray, And now 'tis dim, and now is seen no more! Yet would a little height reveal it still. So fade from memory scenes which higher points Of vision shall reveal: the beautiful, The good, shall never die; and so to-day Shall be a lasting, everlasting joy!"
"Would I might see more of such days!" said he, "In the obscure before me! Fate forbids. My time of idlesse terminates to-night. To-morrow to the city we return. Thither I go, to open, in October, A private school; and I must find a house And make my preparations."