Chapter 8
On they rode, After these words, in silence for a mile Upon their homeward way. Then Lothian: "And what will your address be, in the city?" "I do not know, nor care," said Linda, switching Her horse's ear, to start a quicker trot. Another mile of silence! "Look!" cried he; "The lighthouse light salutes us!"--"Yes, I see." "Why do you go so fast?"--"I'll slacken speed If you desire it. There!" They breathed their horses; Then Lothian: "Indeed, I hope that we Shall meet again."--"Why not? The world is wide, But I have known a letter in a bottle, Flung over in mid-ocean, to be found And reach its owner. Doubtless, we may meet." "I'm glad to find you confident of that." Silence again! And so they rode along Till they saw Rachel coming from the house To greet them. Charles helped Linda to dismount, Held out his hand, and said, "Good by, Miss Linda." "Good by!" she cheerily answered; "bid your father Good by for me. And so you go indeed To-morrow?"--"Yes, we may not meet again." "Well; pleasant journey!"--"Thank you. Good by, Rachel." He rode away, leading her panting horse; And, when the trees concealed him, Linda rushed Up stairs, and locked the door, and wept awhile.
As, early the next morning, she looked forth On the blue ocean from the open window, "Now, then, for work!" she cried, and drew her palm Across her brow, as if to thrust away Thoughts that too perseveringly came back She heard a step. 'Tis he! "I hardly hoped, Miss Percival, to find you up so early: Good by, once more!"--"Good by! Don't miss the train." At this a shadow fell on Lothian's face, As with uplifted hat and thwarted smile, He turned away. Then off with hasty stride He walked and struck the bushes listlessly.
"What did I mean by speaking so?" said Linda, With hand outstretched, as if to draw him back. "Poor fellow! He looked sad; but why--but why Is he so undemonstrative? And why Could he not ask again for my address, I'd like to know?" Poor Linda! She could preach, But, like her elders, could not always practise.
VII.
FROM LINDA'S DIARY.
I.
Home again! Home? what satire in the word! If home is where the heart is, where's my home? Well: here's my easel; here my old piano; Here the memorials of my early days! Here let me try at least to be content. This din of rolling wheels beneath my window, Let it renew for me the ocean's roar!
II.
It is the heart makes music musical! My neighbor has a mocking-bird: its song Has been as little heeded as the noise Of rattling wheels incessant; but to-day One of its strains brought all Elysium back Into my heart. What was it? What the tie Linking it with some inexpressive joy? At length I solve the mystery! Those notes, Pensively slow and sadly exquisite, Were what the wood-thrush piped at early dawn After that evening passage in the boat, When stars came out, that never more shall set. Oh! sweet and clear the measured cadence fell Upon my ear in slumber--and I woke! I woke, and listened while the first faint flush Of day was in the east; while yet the grove Showed only purple gloom, and on the beach The tidal waves with intermittent rush Broke lazily and lent their mingling chime. And O the unreckoned riches of the soul! The possible beatitudes, of which A glimpse is given, a transitory glimpse, So rarely in a lifetime! Then it was, Hearing that strain, as if all joy the Past Had in its keeping,--all the Future held,-- All love, all adoration, and all beauty,-- Made for a moment the soul's atmosphere, And lifted it to bliss unspeakable. O splendor fugitive! O transport rare! Transfiguring and glorifying life!
III.
This strange, inexplicable human heart! My lawyer sends me more good news; he writes: "The picture's sale will reach ten thousand copies, And for the first year only! We shall have A big bill to send in; and do not fear But the 'old man' will pay it, every dime. To escape the heavy damages the law Allows for such infringement, he'll be glad To compromise for the amount I fix; And what I shall compel him to disgorge Will simply be fair copyright on all Your published works; and this will give you clear Some fifteen thousand dollars, not to speak Of a fixed interest in future sales." So writes my lawyer. Now one would suppose That news like this would make me light of heart, Spur my ambition; and, as taste of blood Fires the pet tiger, even so touch of gold Would rouse the sacred appetite of gain. But with attainment cometh apathy; And I was somewhat happier, methinks, When life was all a struggle, and the prayer, "Give me my daily bread," had anxious meaning.
IV.
Is it then true that woman's proper sphere Is in the affections? that she's out of place When these are balked, and science, art, or trade Has won the dedication of her thought? Nay! the affections are for all; and he, Or she, has most of life, who has them most. O, not an attribute of sex are they! Heart loneliness is loneliness indeed, But not for woman any more than man, Were she so trained, her active faculties Could have a worthy aim.
What worthier, Than the pursuit, the discipline of beauty? He who finds beauty helps to interpret God: For not an irreligious heart can dwell In him who sees and knows the beautiful. I'll not believe that one whom Art has chosen For a high priest can be irreverent, Sordid, unloving; his veil-piercing eye Sees not in life the beauty till it sees God and the life beyond; not in a dream Of Pantheistic revery where all In all is lost, diluted, and absorbed, And consciousness and personality Vanish like smoke forever; but all real, Distinct, and individual, though all Eternally dependent on the One! Who gave the Eye to see, shall He not see? Who gave the Heart to feel, shall He not love? Of knowledge infinite we know a letter, A syllable or two, and thirst for more: Is there not One, Teacher at once and Cause, Who comprehends all beauty and all science, Holding infinity, that, step by step, We may advance, and find, in what seems good To Him, our gladness and our being's crown? If this were not, then what a toy the world! And what a mockery these suns and systems! And how like pumping at an empty cistern Were it to live and study and aspire! Come, then, O Art! and warm me with thy smile! Flash on my inward sight thy radiant shapes! August interpreter of thoughts divine, Whether in sound, or word, or form revealed! Pledge and credential of immortal life! Grand arbiter of truth! Consoler! come! Come, help even me to seek thee and to find!
V.
Winter is here again; it sees me still At work upon my picture. This presents Two vases, filled with flowers, upon a slab. "Which will you choose?" I call it: 'tis in oil. Three hours a day are all I give to it, So fine the work, so trying to the eyes. Thus have I ample time for teaching Rachel: A good child and affectionate! I've found Her aptitude; she has a taste in bonnets, With an inventive skill in ornament. And so I have her regularly taught By an accomplished milliner; and Rachel Already promises to lead her teacher. Had I a fortune, still I'd have her feel That she must conquer something worthily; Something to occupy her active powers, And yield a fair support, should need require.
VI.
Whom should I meet to-day but Meredith! My washerwoman, Ellen Blount, is ill, So ill I fear she never will be well. 'Tis the old story, every day renewed: A little humble, tender-hearted woman, Tied to a husband whom to call a brute Would be to vilify the quadrupeds! A fellow, who must have his pipe, his whiskey, And his good dinner, let what may befall His wife and children. He could take the pittance She got from her hard toil, and spend it on Himself and his companions of the jug. When out of work, as he would often be, Then double toil for her! with peevish words From him, the sole requital of it all! Child after child she bore him; but, compelled Too quickly after childbirth to return To the old wash-tub, all her sufferings Reacted on the children, and they died, Haply in infancy the most of them,-- Until but one was left,--a little boy, Puny and pale, gentle and uncomplaining, With all the mother staring from his eyes In hollow, anxious, pitiful appeal. In this one relic all her love and hope And all that made her life endurable At length were centred. She had saved a dollar To buy for him a pair of overshoes; But, as she went to get them, Blount waylaid her, Learnt that she had the money, forced it from her. Poor Teddy had to go without his shoes. 'Twas when the January thaw had made The streets a-reek with mud and melting snow. Poor Teddy wet his feet, took cold, and died. "Come soon, mamma," were his last feeble words. Blount was a cunning ruffian; well he knew How far to go, and where and when to pause. Fluent and specious with his tongue, he kept, In his small sphere, a certain show of credit; And he could blow in tune for mother church, Though few the pennies he himself would give her. "Cast off the wretch," was my advice to Ellen. She loved him not; she might as well have tried To love a load that galled and wearied her. But custom, social fear, and, above all, Those sacramental manacles the church Had bound her in, and to the end would keep, Forbade the poor, scared, helpless little woman To free herself, by one condign resolve, From the foul incubus that sucked her life. So a false sense of duty kept her tied, Feeding in him all that was pitiless. And now she's dying. I had gone to-day To take some little dainties, cream and fruit, And there, administering consolation, Was Meredith.
Hearing his tones of faith, Seeing his saintly look of sympathy, I felt, there being between us no dissent In spirit, dogmas were of small account: And so I knelt and listened to his prayer. At length he noticed me, and recognized. "Miss Percival!" he cried; "can this be you? But when and why did you return from England?" "I've never been in England, never been Out of my native country," I replied. "But that is unaccountable," said he; "For I've seen letters, written as from you, Signed with your name, acknowledging receipts Of certain sums of money, dated London." "No money have I had but what I've earned," Was my reply; "and who should send me money?" Said he: "I have a carriage at the door; I would learn more of this; you'll not object To take a seat with me? Thank you; that's right."
Leaving the patient in good hands, we went, And through the noisy streets drove to the Park. Then all I'd ever known about my parents He drew from me; and all my history Since I had parted from him; noted down Carefully my address, and gave me his. Then to my lodgings driving with me back, He left me with a _Benedicite_! He's rich: has he been sending money, then? What means it all? Conjecture finds no clew.
VII.
Gently as thistle-downs are borne away From the dry stem, went Ellen yesterday. I heard her dying utterance; it was: "I'm coming, Teddy! Bless you, dear Miss Linda!" No priest was by, so sudden was her going. When Blount came in, there was no tenderness In his sleek, gluttonous look; although he tried, Behind his handkerchief, to play the mourner. What will he do without a drudge to tread on? Counting himself a privileged lord and master, He'll condescend to a new victim soon, And make some patient waiter a sad loser.
VIII.
"Some patient waiter!" Such a one I know. There was a time when I resolved, if ever I could secure a modest competence, I would be married; and the competence Is now secure--but where is my resolve? Shall I conclude 'tis all fatality? Leave it to chance, and take no active step Myself to seek what I so hope to find? Accepting it as heaven's fixed ordinance, That man should change his single lot at will, But woman be the sport of circumstance, A purposeless and passive accident, Inert as oysters waiting for a tide, But not like oysters, sure of what they wait for? "Ah! woman's strength is in passivity," Fastidio says, shaking his wise, wise head, And withering me with a disdainful stare. Nay! woman's strength is in developing, In virtuous ways, all that is best in her. No superstitious waiting then be mine! No fancy that in coy, alluring arts, Rather than action, modest and sincere, Woman most worthily performs her part. Here am I twenty-five, and all alone In the wide world; yet having won the right, By my own effort, to hew out my lot, And create ties to cheer this arid waste. How bleak and void my Future, if I stand Waiting beside the stream, until some Prince-- Son of Queen Moonbeam by King Will-o'-the wisp-- Appears, and jumping from his gilded boat, Lays heart and fortune at my idle feet! Ye languid day-dreams, vanish! let me act!
But ah! Fastidio says, "A woman's wooing Must always be offensive to a man Of any dignity." The dignity That modest truth can shock is far too frail And sensitive to mate with love of mine, Whose earnestness might crush the feeble hand Linked in its own. So good by, dignity! I shall survive the chill of your repulse. Defiance, not of Nature's law, but Custom's, Is what disturbs Fastidio. Does he think That a _man's_ wooing never is offensive To _woman's_ dignity? In either sex The disaffection is not prompted by The wooing but the wooer; love can never Be an unwelcome tribute to the lover; Though freedom premature, or forwardness Unwarranted, may rightly fail to win. And so I'll run my risk; for I confess-- (Keep the unuttered secret, sacred leaf!)-- That there is one whom I could love--could die for, Would he but--Tears? Well, tears may come from strength As well as weakness: I'll not grudge him these; I'll not despair while I can shed a tear.
IX.
I've found him--seen him! The Directory Gave me his residence. He keeps a school, One for young ladies only; and at once My coward heart hit on a good excuse For calling on him: Would he take a pupil? Rachel, my protegee? Of course he would. A flush of tender, joyful wonderment, Methought, illumed his face at seeing me; Then, as it faded, I was grieved to mark How pale and thin and worn with care he looked. I took my leave, promising to return Within a week; and on the outer steps I met his father. "Turn and walk with me A square or two," said I; and he complied. "What ails him?" I inquired. "Only hard work: He puts too much of conscience into it. Needs help, but shrinks from debt, and so keeps on Doing the labor two or three should share. What shall I do, Miss Percival, to stop it?" "I know not,--only something must be done, And that at once," said I, in tones which made The old man turn to get a look at me. I hailed an omnibus, and there we parted.... What if I write Charles Lothian a letter? Nay, I'll not skulk behind a sheet of paper, But face to face say what I have to say. This very evening must I call again. Let a firm will bear up my fainting heart!
X.
And so at eight o'clock the carriage came, And entering it I drove to Lothian's. At last I was alone with him once more! He had been sitting at a table heaped With manuscripts, and these he was correcting. "I'm here to interrupt all this," said I; "Too long you've kept your brain upon the stretch: Why be so heedless of your health, your life?" "But what are they to you, Miss Percival?" "And that is what I've come to let you know," Said I, emboldened by the offered foothold. He flushed a little, only just a little,-- Replying, "_That_ I'm curious to learn." And then, like one who, in the dark, at first Moves cautiously, but soon runs boldly on, I said: "Rash gambler that I am, I've come To put upon the hazard of a die Much of my present and my future peace; Perhaps to shock, repel, and anger you, Since 'twill not be unwarned that I offend. I know you guess my purpose, and you shrink From hearing me avow it; but I will, And that in homely English unadorned. I'm here to offer you my hand; the heart That should go with it has preceded it, And dwells with you, so you can claim your own, Or gently bid it go, to trouble you Never again. If 'tis unwomanly This to avow, then I'm unlike my sex, Not false to my own nature,--ah! not false. I must be true or die; I cannot play A masker's part, disguising hopes that cling Nearest my brooding heart. But, say the word, 'I cannot love you,' and the bird who leaves The cage where he has pined will sooner try To enter it again, than I return To utter plaint of mine within your hearing."
With throbbing heart and burning face I ceased. Twice, thrice he tried to stop me; but my words Came all too quick and earnestly for that. And then resigned he listened. I had seen, Or dreamed I had, at first a sacred joy At my avowal sparkle in his eyes, And then an utter sadness follow it, Which chilled me, and I knew that I had failed.
"O divine Pity! what will you not brave?" He answered, and the dew was in his eyes,-- "You bring her here, even to abase herself To rescue me! Too costly sacrifice! Here do not dwell the Graces and the Loves, But Drudgery is master of the house. Dear lady, elsewhere seek the answering bloom." A hope flashed up. "Do you suppose," said I, "That any impulse less supreme than love-- Love bold to venture, but intemerate-- Could bring me here--that Pity could do this?"
"I believe all," he answered, "all you say; But do not bid me whisper more than this: The circumstances that environ me, And which none know,--not even my father knows,-- Shut me out utterly from any hope Of marriage or of love. A wretch in prison Might better dream of marrying than I. But O sweet lady! rashly generous,-- Around whom, a protecting atmosphere, Floats Purity, and sends her messengers With flaming swords to guard each avenue From thoughts unholy and approaches base,-- Thou who hast made an act I deemed uncomely Seem beautiful and gracious,--do not doubt My memory of thy worth shall be the same, Only expanded, lifted up, and touched With light as dear as sunset radiance To summer trees after a thunder-storm."
And there was silence then between us two. Thought of myself was lost in thought for him. What was my wreck of joy, compared with his? Health, youth, and competence were mine, and he Was staking all of his to save another. If my winged hopes fell fluttering to the ground, Regrets and disappointments were forgotten In the reflection, He, then, is unhappy! "Good by!" at length I said, giving my hand: "Even as I was believed, will I believe. You do not deal in hollow compliment; And we shall meet again if you're content. The good time will return--and I'll return!" "If you return, the good time will return And stay as long as you remain," said he.
XI.
It is as I supposed: an obstacle Which his assumption of his father's debts Has raised before him unexpectedly! I did not let a day go by before I saw the elder Lothian, and he, Distressed by what I told him of a secret, Applied himself to hunting up a key To the mysterious grief: at last he got it, Though not by means that I could justify. In Charles's private escritoire he found A memorandum that explained it all. Among the obligations overlooked, In settling up the firm's accounts, was one Of fifty thousand dollars, payable To an estate, the representatives Of which were six small children and a widow, Dependent now on what they could derive Of income from this debt; and manfully Charles shoulders it, although it crushes him; And hopes to keep his father ignorant. I can command one quarter of the sum Already--but the rest? That staggers me. And yet why should I falter? Look at _him_! Let his example be my high incentive. I'll be his helpmate, and he shall not know it. Poor Charles! I'll toil for him,--to him devote All that I have of energy and skill, All I acquire. Ambition shall not mount Less loftily for having Love to help it. Come forth, my easel! All thy work has been Girl's play till now; now will I truly venture. I've a new object now--to rescue _him_! And he shall never know his rescuer From lips of mine,--no, though I die for it, With the sweet secret undisclosed,--my heart Glad in the love he never may requite!
VIII.
FROM MEREDITH'S DIARY.
I.
Incalculably selfish and corrupt, Well may man need a sacrifice divine To expiate infinity of sin. Few but a priest can know the fearful depth Of human wickedness. At times I shrink Faint and amazed at what I have to learn: And then I wonder that the Saviour said His yoke is easy and his burden light. Ah! how these very murmurs at my lot Show that not yet into my heart has crept That peace of God which passeth understanding!
II.
Among my hearers lately there has been A lady all attention to my words: Thrice have I seen that she was deeply moved; And to confession yesterday she came. Let me here call her Harriet. She is By education Protestant, but wavers, Feeling the ground beneath her insecure, And would be led unto the rock that is Higher than she. A valuable convert; Not young; in feeble health; taxed for two millions; And she would found, out of her ample means, A home for orphans and neglected children. Heaven give me power to lead the stray one safe Into the only fold; securing thus Aid for the church, salvation for herself!
III.
A summons took me to her house to-day. Her mother and her step-father compose With Harriet the household. I refrain From putting real names on paper here. Let me then call the man's name, Denison; He's somewhat younger than his wife, a lady Advanced in years, but her heart wholly set On the frivolities of fashion still. I see the situation at a glance: A mercenary marriage on the part Of Denison, whose hungry eyes are fixed Upon the daughter's property; the mother Under his evil influence, and expecting The daughter to die soon, without a will, Thus leaving all to them;--and Harriet Not quite so dull but she can penetrate Denison's motive and her mother's hope! A sad state for an invalid who feels That any hour may be her last! To-day Harriet confessed; for she has been alarmed By some bad symptoms lately. As she urged it, I sent word to the bishop, and he came, And she was formally confirmed, and taken Unto the bosom of the Church, and there May her poor toiling spirit find repose!
IV.