Chapter 9

Another summons! In the drawing-room, Whom should I meet but Denison? His stare Had something vicious in it; but we bowed, And he remarked: "I hear that Harriet, Caught in your Catholic net, is turning saint. No foul play, priest! She's not in a condition To make a will, or give away her money. Remember that, and do not waste your words." My color rose, and the brute Adam in me Would, uncontrolled, have surely knocked him down. But I cast off temptation, and replied: "Sir, I'm responsible to God, not man." I left him, and passed on to Harriet. I found her greatly moved; an interview She had been having with her mother caused The agitation. "Take me hence!" she cried; "I'll not remain another day or hour Under this roof. I tell you, I'm not safe With these two, watching, dogging, maddening me." She rang the bell, and to the servant said: "My carriage, and that quickly!" Then to me: "I'll show them that I'm mistress of my fortune And of myself. Call on me in an hour At the Fifth Avenue Hotel, for there Henceforth I make my home." And there I called, as she had ordered, and we met In her own parlor. "What I wish," said she, "Is to give all I have, without reserve, For the foundation that I've planned. I'll send Directions to my lawyer, and the papers Shall be prepared at once."--"Before you do it, Let me learn more of you and yours," said I: "Who was your father?" Then, to my surprise, I learnt that he was one whom I had met Some years before,--in his death-hour had met. "But you've a sister?" suddenly I asked. Surprised, she answered: "A half-sister--yes-- I've seen her only once; for many years I lived in Europe; she's in England now, And married happily. On three occasions I've sent her money."--"Do you correspond?" "Not often; here are letters from her, full Of thanks for all I've given her."--"In your will Shall you remember her?"--"If you advise it." "Then I advise a liberal bequest. And now I must attend a sufferer Who waits my help."--"Father, I would confess." "Daughter, be quick: I listen." Harriet Then gave a sad recital of a trial And a divorce; and (but reluctantly) Told of a terrible suspicion, born Of a remark, dropped by a servant once, Concerning her unlikeness to her father: But never could she wring a confirmation Of the distressing story from her mother. "Tell her," said I, "you mean to leave your sister A handsome legacy." She promised this. Then saying I would call the following day, I hurried off to see poor Ellen Blount.

V.

A new surprise! There, by the patient's bed, I came on Linda, Harriet's half-sister! (Reputed so, at least, but here's a doubt.) I questioned her, and now am satisfied Treason and forgery have been at work, Defeating Harriet's sisterly intent; Moreover, that the harrowing surmise, Waked by a servant's gossip overheard, Is, in all probability, the truth! And, if we so accept it, what can I Advise but Harriet's complete surrender Of all her fortune to the real child And proper heir of Albert Percival? But ah! 'tis now devoted to the Church! Here's a divided duty; I must lay The case before a higher power than mine.

VI.

I've had a long discussion with the bishop. I placed before him all the facts, beginning With those of my own presence at the death Of Linda's parents; of her father's letter Received that day, communicating news Of Kenrick's large bequest; the father's effort In dying to convey in legal form To his child Linda all this property; The failure of the effort; his decease, And all I knew of subsequent events. And the good bishop, after careful thought, Replied: "Some way the mother must be brought To full confession. Of her guilt no doubt!" I told him I had charged it on the daughter To tell her mother of the legacy Designed for Linda; this, perchance, might wring Confession from the guilty one. He seemed To think it not unlikely, and remarked: "When that is got, there's but a single course For you to urge on Harriet; for, my son, I need not tell a Christian gentleman, Not to say priest, that this peculiar case We must decide precisely as we would If the Church had in it no interest: Let Harriet at once give up, convey, Not bequeathe merely, all she has to Linda. Till she does this, her soul will be in peril; When she does this, she shall be made the ward Of Holy Church, and cared for to the end." I kissed his hand and left. How his high thoughts Poured round my path a flood of light divine! Why did I hesitate, since he could make The path of duty so directly clear!

VII.

Harriet's intimation to her mother That she should leave a good part of her wealth To her half-sister brought things to a crisis. To-day my visit found the two together: Harriet, in an agony of tears, Cried to me, as I entered,--"'Tis all true! God! She confesses it--confesses it! Confesses, too, she never sent the money, And that the letters were all forgeries! And thinks, by this confession, to secure My fortune to herself! Ah! Can this woman Be, then, my mother?"

Hereupon the woman, Crimson with rage at being thus exposed, Exclaimed, "Unnatural daughter--" But before Her wrath could vent itself, she, with a groan, Fell in convulsions. Medical assistance Was had at once. Then Denison came in, Aghast at what had happened; for he knew His wife's estate was all in lands and houses, And would, if she should die, be Harriet's, Since the old lady superstitiously Had still put off the making of a will. All help was vain, and drugs were powerless. Paralysis had struck the heated brain, Driving from mortal hold the consciousness: It reappeared not in one outward sign, And before midnight life had left the clay.

VIII.

Meek and submissive as a little child Is Harriet now; she has no will but that The Church imposes as the will divine. "Your fortune, nearly doubled by this death, Must all," said I, "be now conveyed to Linda." "Let it be done," she cried, "before I sleep!" And it was done to-night--securely done,-- I being Linda's representative. To-morrow I must take her the good news.

IX.

After the storm, the rainbow, child of light! Such the transition, as I pass to Linda! I found her hard at work upon a picture. With wonder at Heaven's ways she heard my news. Shocked at the tragic death, she did not hide Her satisfaction at the tardy act Bringing the restitution of her own. Three things she asked; one was that I would place At once a certain person in possession Of a large sum, not letting him find out From whom it came; another was to have This great change in her fortunes kept a secret As long as she might wish; the third and last Was that she might be privileged to wait On Harriet with a sister's loving care. All which I promised readily should be, So far as my poor human will could order. Said Linda then: "Tell Harriet, her scheme For others' welfare shall not wholly fail; That in your hands I'll place a sum sufficient To plant the _germ_ at least of what she planned."

X.

I've taken my last look of Harriet: She died in Linda's arms, and comforted With all the Church could give of heavenly hope. Slowly and imperceptibly does Time Work out the dreadful problem of our sins! Not often do we see it solved as here In plain results which he who runs may read. Not always is the sinner's punishment Shown in this world. May the Eternal Mercy Cleanse us from secret faults, nor, while we mark Another's foulness, blind us to our own!

IX.

BESIDE THE LAKE.

The sun of August from a clear blue sky Shone on Lake Saranac. The South-wind stirred Mildly the woods encircling, that threw down A purple shadow on the liquid smoothness Glassing the eastern border, while the west Lay bared to light.

Wild, virgin nature all! Except that here and there a partial clearing, Made by the sportsman's axe for summer tents, Dented the massive verdure, and revealed A little slope of bank, dotted with stumps And brown with slender aromatic leaves Shed from the pine, the hemlock, and the fir In layers that gave a soft and slippery carpet.

Near one of these small openings where the breeze Crept resinous and cool from evergreens Behind them, while the sun blazed bright before,-- Where with the pine-trees' vapory depth of hue The whiteness of a spacious tent contrasted, Beside which, on a staff, the nation's flag Flung out its crimson with protecting pride,-- Reclined a wife and husband, looking down Less on the glorious lake than on the glory That, through a gauzy veil, played round the head Of a reposing infant, golden-tressed, Asleep upon a deer-skin at their feet, While a huge dog kept watchful guard beyond: For there lay little Mary Merivale.

Boats on the lake showed that this group detached Were part of a well-chosen company. Here children ran and frolicked on the beach; There an old man, rowed by two guides, stood up With rod and line and reel, while swiftly flew The reel, announcing that a vigorous trout Just then had seized the hook. Came the loud cry,-- "Look, Charles! Look, Linda! See me land him now! Don't touch him with your scoop, men! I can fetch him,"-- In tones not unfamiliar to our ears. And there, six boats swept by, from which the voices Of merry children and their elder friends-- Mothers and fathers, teachers, faded aunts, Dyspeptic uncles, wonderfully cured All by this tonic, Adirondack air-- Came musical and loud: a strange collection, Winnowed by Rachel (now the important queen Of all this sanitary revelry) From her acquaintance in the public schools; Whence her quick sympathies had carried her Straight to the overworked, the poor, the ailing, Among the families of her associates, When Linda planned this happy enterprise Of a grand camping-out for one whole month. The blind aunt and the grandmother, of course, High and important persons, Rachel's aids, Graced the occasion; for the ancient dame Had lived in such a region in her youth, And in all sylvan craft was proudly wise: Declaring that this taste of life would add Some ten years to her eighty-five, at least.

On went the boats, all large and safely manned, In competition not too venturesome. Then, from a rocky outlook on the hill, There came a gush of music from a band, Employed to cheer with timely melody This strange encampment in the wilderness. Hark! Every voice is hushed as down the lake The breathing clarions accordant send The tune of "Love Not" to each eager ear! The very infant, in its slumber, smiled As if a dream of some old paradise Had been awakened by the ravishment.

"Look at the child!" cried Linda; "mark that smile! All heaven reflected in a dew-drop! See!" "And all the world grasped in that little fist,-- At least as we esteem the world!" cried Charles. "And yet," said Linda, "'tis a glorious world: See how those families enjoy themselves!" "And who created all this happiness?" The husband said,--"who, after God, but Linda? Who spends her money, not in rearing piles Of cold and costly marble for her pride,-- Not in great banquets for the rich and gay Who need them not, and laugh at those who give,-- Where, at one feast, enough is spent to make All these poor people radiant for a month,-- But in exhilarations coming from Communicated joy and health and life,-- The happiness that's found in making happy."

"All selfishness!" cried Linda; "selfishness! I seek my happiness, and others theirs; Only my tastes are different; more plebeian, Haply, they'd say; but, husband mine, reflect! You, too, I fear, are lacking in refinement: Would this have been, had you not acquiesced In all these vulgar freaks, and found content, Like me, in giving pleasure to the needy? And tell me--passing to another point-- Where would have been the monarch of this joy, That little child,--that antepast of bliss Such as the angels taste,--had I recoiled From daring as I did, even when I knew He I most wished to win would think me bold?"

"Ah! little wife," cried Charles, "I've half a mind To tell you what I've never told you yet. Yes, I _will_ tell you all, although it may End the complacent thought that Linda did it-- Did it by simply daring to propose! Know, then, a constant track of you I kept, Even while I seemed to shun you. I could kneel Before your recollection in my heart, When you regarded me as shy and cold. And, while by poverty held reticent, I saw, supreme among my hopes, but Linda! Before we left the sea-side I had learnt, Through gossip of my worthy landlady, Where you would go, returning to New York. I found your house; I passed it more than once When, like a beacon, shone your study-lamp. The very night before you called upon me To ask, would I take Rachel as my pupil, (How kind in you to patronize my school!) I sought an anodyne for my despair In watching for your shadow on the curtain.

"Discovery of that unexpected debt, Owed by my father, killed the last faint hope Which I had cherished; and our interview-- Your daring offer of this little hand-- But made me emulous to equal you In self-renouncing generosity; And so, I frankly told you what I told: That love and marriage were not in my lot.

"Ten days elapsed, and then from utter gloom I sprang to cheerful light. My father's partner, The man named Judd, who robbed us all one day, Had a compunctious interval, and sent A hundred thousand dollars back to us-- Why do you smile?"

"Go on. 'Tis worth a smile."

"That very day I cleared myself from debt; That very day I sued for Linda's hand; That very day she gave it willingly; And the next month beheld us two made one. And so it would have been, if you, my dear, Had made no sign, and waited patiently. But ah! what luck was mine! After two days, The news arrived that Linda was an heiress. An heiress! Think of it; and I had said, Never, no, never would I wed an heiress! But 'twas too late for scruples; I was married,-- Caught in the trap I always meant to shun!"

Then Linda, mischief in her smile, exclaimed: "O simple Charles! The innocent dear man! Who doubts but woman ought to hold her tongue, And wait till he, the preordained, appear? That hundred thousand dollars, you are sure, Was from your father's partner--was from Judd?"

"Of course it was,--from Judd, and no one else! Who could have sent the money, if not Judd? No doubt it came from Judd! My father said, 'Twas conscience-money, and restored by Judd, Who had become a deacon in the Church. Why did you ask me whether I was sure The hundred thousand dollars came from Judd? What are you smiling at, provoking Linda?" "O, you're so quick, so clever, all you men! And women are so dull and credulous, So easily duped, when left to go alone! What you would prove is, that my daring step, In being first to make a declaration, Was needless, since priority in love Was yours, and your intention would have brought The same result about without my seeking. Know then, the money was not yours until I'd got the news of my recovered fortune; From me the money came, and only me; And all that story of a Judd, turned deacon, Grown penitent and making restitution, Was a mere myth, invented by your father, Lest you might hesitate to take the money. Now if I had not sought you as I did, And if I had not put you to the test, And if I had not learnt your secret grief, We might have lived till we were gray and bent Before a step of yours had brought us nearer." "Outflanked! I own it, and I give it up!" Cried Charles, all flushing with astonishment: "But how I'll rate that ancient fisherman, My graceless father, for deceiving me! See him stand there, as if with conscience void, Throwing the line for innocent, fat trout! With that grave face, saying the money came From Judd,--from Deacon Judd! I'll deacon him!"

"What! you regret it, do you, Master Charles? The crooked ways that brought you where you are You would make straight, and have the past undone? To think that by a woman you've been wooed, To think that by a woman you've been won, Is thought too humbling and too scandalous; Is an indignity too hard to bear! Oh! well, sir, well; do as you please; the child Goes with its mother, though; remember that." And here the infant threw its eyelids back, Revealing orbs, blue as the shadows cast On Saranac's blue by overhanging woods. Said Lothian, snatching up the smiling wonder, And handing it, with kisses, to the mother: "Take all your woman's rights; even this, the best: Are we not each the richer by the sharing Of such a gift? I'll not regret your daring."

NOTES.

PAGE 11.

"_Oh! lacking love and best experience._"

An extreme Materialism here comes to the support of a grim theology. In his "Physiology and Pathology of the Mind," Dr. Maudsley says: "To talk about the purity and innocence of a child's mind is a part of that poetical idealism and willing hypocrisy by which man ignores realities and delights to walk in a vain show." Such sweeping generalizations do not inspire confidence in the writer's prudence. Christ was nearer the truth when he said, concerning little children,--"Of such is the kingdom of heaven."

PAGE 64.

"_Few honorable outlooks for support, Excepting marriage._"

Referring to the fact that in Massachusetts, during the ten years from 1859 to 1869, the increase of crime among women has been much greater than among men, Miss Catherine Beecher remarks: "But turning from these (the criminal class) to the daughters of the most wealthy class, those who have generous and devoted aspirations also feel that for them, too, there is no opening, no promotion, no career, except that of marriage,--_and for this they are trained to feel that it is disgraceful to seek. They have nothing to do but wait to be sought. Trained to believe marriage their highest boon, they are disgraced for seeking it, and must affect indifference._

"Meantime to do anything to earn their own independence is what father and brothers would deem a disgrace to themselves and their family. For women of high position to work for their livelihood, in most cases custom decrees as disgraceful. And then, if cast down by poverty, they have been trained to nothing that would earn a support, or, if by chance they have some resource, all avenues for its employment are thronged with needy applicants."

This is but a very mild statement of the social fictions under which woman is now suffering in mind, body, and estate; but it is valuable as coming from a witness who hopes that some less radical remedy than female suffrage will be found for existing evils. If the remedy lies with woman herself, as all admit, how can we expect her to act efficiently until she is a modifying force in legislation?

PAGE 65.

"_Unions, no priest, no church can sanctify._"

"The most absurd notions," says J. A. St. John, "have prevailed on the subject of matrimony. Marriage, it is said, is a divine institution, therefore marriages are made in heaven; but the consequence does not at all follow; the meaning of the former proposition simply being that God originally ordained that men and women should be united in wedlock; but that he determined what particular men and women should be united, every day's experience proves to be false. It is admitted on all hands that marriage is intended to confer happiness on those who wed. Now, if it be found that marriage does not confer happiness on them, it is an undoubted proof that they ought not to have been united, and that the sooner they separate the better; but from accepting this doctrine some persons are deterred by misrepresentations of scripture, others by views of policy, and others again by an entire indifference to human happiness. They regard men and women as mere animals, and, provided they have children, and rear them, nothing more."

"It is incredible," says Milton, "how cold, how dull, and far from all fellow-feeling we are, _without the spur of self-concernment_!"

PAGE 72.

"_Behold the world's ideal of a wife!_"

"All women," says John Stuart Mill, "are brought up from their very earliest years in the belief that their ideal character is the very opposite to that of man; not self-will and self-government by self-control, but submission and yielding to the control of others.... What is now called the nature of women is an eminently artificial thing,--the result of forced repression in some directions, unnatural stimulation in others."

The cowardice that is looked upon as disgraceful in a man is regarded by many as rather honorable than otherwise in a woman. False notions, inherited from chivalrous times, and growing out of the state of subjection in which woman has been bred, have generated this inconsistency. The truth is that courage is honorable to both sexes; to a Grace Darling and an Ida Lewis, a Madame Roland and a Florence Nightingale, as well as to a Bayard and a Shaw, a Napoleon and a Farragut.

PAGE 73.

"_That moment should the intimate relations Of marriage end, and a release be found!_"

In the United States the action of certain State legislatures, in increasing the facilities for divorce, has been a subject of alarm among persons bred under the influences of a more conservative system. It would be difficult to show as yet whether social morality is harmed or helped by the increased freedom. Nothing can be more deceptive and unsatisfactory than the statistics offered on both sides of the question. It is generally admitted, we believe, that in those countries where divorce is most difficult, the number of illegitimate births is largest, and the reputation of married women is most questionable. In the nature of things, much of the prevalent immorality being furtive and clandestine, it is impossible to estimate the extent of the evils growing out of illiberal laws in relation to matrimony. In any legislation on the subject women should have a voice.

PAGE 80.

"_Unlike the Church, I look on marriage as A civil contract, not a sacrament._"

Kenrick here refers of course to the Catholic Church, whose theory of marriage, namely, that it is a sacrament and indissoluble, when once contracted according to the forms of the Church, still influences the legislation and social prejudices of Protestant communities in respect to their own religious forms of marriage. It was not till the twelfth century, and under the auspices of Pope Innocent III., that divorce was prohibited by the civil as well as the canon law. But it is only a marriage between Catholics that is indissoluble under the Catholic system. In the case of a marriage of Protestants, the tie is not regarded as binding. A dissolution was actually granted in such a case where one of the parties turned Catholic, in 1857, by the bishop of Rio Janeiro, who pronounced an uncanonical marriage null and void. Modern legislation in establishing the validity of civil marriages aimed a severe blow at ecclesiastical privilege.