 | The woman who dared |  |
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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!
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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
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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.
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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.
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IV.
Is it then true that woman's proper sphereIs 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
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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!
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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 stillAt work upon my picture. This presents
Two vases, filled with flowers, upon a slab.
“Which will you choose?” I call it: 't is 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
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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.
'T is 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.
'T was 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.”
My washerwoman, Ellen Blount, is ill,
So ill I fear she never will be well.
'T is 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.
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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.
'T was when the January thaw had made
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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.
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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?”
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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.
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 awayFrom the dry stem, went Ellen yesterday.
I heard her dying utterance; it was:
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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 't is 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!
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 't is 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,
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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—
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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.
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
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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 DirectoryGave 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 protégée? Of course he would.
A flush of tender, joyful wonderment,
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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?
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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 't will 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 't is 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”
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.”
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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 't will 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 't is 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,
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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.
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?”
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.
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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.”
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
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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.
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!”
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And stay as long as you remain,” said he.
XI.
It is as I supposed: an obstacleWhich 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,
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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!
| The woman who dared | |