The Woman Who Dared

Never was No administered more gently
Or more decisively than in her answer
To the proposal in the crumpled letter.

---

Musing before a picture Linda sat.
"In my poor little range of art," thought she,
"I feel an expert's confidence; I know
These things are unexcelled; and yet why is it
They do not bring their value? Come, I'll try
Something more difficult,—put all my skill,
Knowledge, and work into one little piece."
Bravely she strove: it was a simple scene,
But with accessories as yet untried,
And done in oil with microscopic care;
An open window with a distant landscape,
And on the window-sill a vase of flowers.
It was a triumph, and she knew it was.
"Come, little housekeeper," she said to Rachel,
"We'll go and seek our fortune." So she put
Under her arm the picture, and they went
To show it to the dealer who had bought
Most of her works. But on her way she met
A clerk of the establishment, who said:
"Come into Taylor's here and take an ice;
I'd like to tell you something for your good."

When they all three were seated, Brown began:
"You may not see me at the store again;
For a ship's cousin wants my place, and so,
With little ceremony, I'm dismissed.
Now, if you've no objection, tell me what
The old man gave you for that composition
In which a bird—a humming-bird, I think—
Follows a child who has a bunch of flowers."
"Yes, I remember. Well, 'twas fifteen dollars."
"Whew! He said fifty. Is it possible?
You've seen the chromo copy, I suppose?"
"The chromo? I've seen nothing of a chromo.
Never has my consent been given to publish!"
"That's little to the purpose, it would seem.
A hundred thousand copies have been sold
Of all your pieces, first and last. You stare?"
A light broke in on Linda. All at once
The mystery that hung upon her strivings
Lay solved; the cloud was lifted; and she saw
That all this while she had not weighed her talents
In a false balance; had not been the dupe
Of her own aspirations and desires.
With eyes elate and hope up-springing fresh
In her glad heart, she cried, "And are you sure?"
"'Tis easily confirmed. Go ask the printer;
Only my number is below the mark."

From Brown, then, Linda got particulars,
Showing 'twas not a random utterance.
"'Tis strange," she said, "that I've not seen the chromos
At the shop windows."—"Only recently,"
Said he, "have they been sold here in the city;
The market has been chiefly at the West.
The old man thought it policy, perhaps,
To do it on the sly, lest you should know.
Well, well, in that bald head of his he has
A mine!" Then Linda struck the bell, and said:
"This is my entertainment, Mr. Brown;
Please let me pay for it." And Brown's "O no"
Was not so wholly irresistible
That Linda did not have her way in this.
They parted.

"Why, Miss Percival," said Rachel,
"You look precisely as you did that day
You fired the pistol in the woods,—you do!
I watched your eye, and knew you would not fail."
"'Tis to bring down a different sort of game,
We now go forth."—"But you forget your pistol."
"This time we shall not need one. Did I not
Say we were going forth to seek our fortune?
Well, Rachel, my dear child, we've found it,—found it."
"O, I'm so glad! (How rapidly you walk!)
And shall we have the old piano back?"
"Ay, that we shall! And you shall go to-morrow
And take a present to the poor blind aunt
And her old mother,—for they love you well."
"A present! Why, Miss Percival, there's nothing
I do so love to do as to make presents.
I've made three in my lifetime; one a ring
Of tortoise-shell; and one—"

But here they entered
A picture-store. A man who stood alert,
With thumbs hooked in the arm-holes of his vest,
Advanced to welcome her. The "old man" he,
Of Brown's narration; not so very old,
However; not quite thirty-five, in fact.
The capital which made his note so good
Was a bald head; a head you could not question;
A head which was a pledge of solvency,
A warrant of respectability!
The scalp all glossy; tufts above the ears!
This head he cultivated carefully,
And always took his hat off when he went
To ask a discount or to clinch a bargain.
"Ah! my young friend, Miss Percival," he cried,
"You've something choice there, if I'm not mistaken."
Linda took off the wrapper from her picture
And showed it.

An expression of surprise
Came to the "old man's" features; but he hid it
By making of his hand a cylinder
And looking through it, like a connoisseur.
These were his exclamations: "Clever! Ay!
Style somewhat new; landscape a shade too bright;
The sky too blue, eh? Still a clever picture,—
One of your best. Shall we say twenty dollars?"
Taking the picture, Linda said, "Good morning!
I'm in a hurry now, and you'll excuse me."
"Will you not leave it?"—"No, I'm not disposed
To part with it at present."—"Thirty dollars
Would be a high price for it, but to aid you
I'll call it thirty."—"Could you not say fifty?"
"You're joking with me now, Miss Percival."
"Then we will end our pleasantry. Good by."
"Stay! You want money: I shall be ashamed
To let my partners know it, but to show
How far I'll go for your encouragement—
Come! I'll say fifty dollars."

The "old man"
Lowered his head, so that the burnished scalp
Might strike her eye direct. Impenetrable
To that appeal, Linda said: "I can get
A hundred for it, I believe. Good day!"
"Stop, stop! For some time our intent has been
To make you a small present as a proof
Of our regard; now will I merge it in
A hundred dollars for the picture. Well?"
"Nay, I would rather not accept a favor.
I must go now,—will call again some day."
Desperate the "old man" moved his head about
In the most striking lights, and patted it
Wildly at last, as if by that mute act
To stay the unrelenting fugitive.
In vain! She glided off, and Rachel with her.
"Where now, Miss Percival?"—"To make a call
Upon a lawyer for advice, my dear."

Thoughtfully Diggin listened to the case,
So clearly stated that no part of it
Was left to disentangle. "Let me look,"
He said, "at your new picture; our first step
Shall be to fix the right of publication
In you alone. Expect from me no praise,—
For I'm no judge of art. Fine points of law,
Not fine points in a picture, have engaged
My thoughts these twenty years. While you wait here,
I'll send my clerk to copyright this painting.
What shall we call it?"—"Call it, if you please,
'The Prospect of the Flowers.'"—"That will do.
Entered according to—et cetera.
Your name is—" "Linda Percival."—"I thought so.
Here, Edward, go and take a copyright
Out for this work, 'The Prospect of the Flowers.'
First have it photographed, and then deposit
The photographic copy with the Court."

Then Diggin paced the room awhile, and ran
Through his lank hair his fingers nervously.
At length his plan took shape; he stopped and said
"You shall take back your picture to this dealer;
Tell him 'tis not for sale, but get his promise
To have it, for a fortnight, well displayed
At his shop window. This he'll not refuse.
Don't sell at any price. What's your address?
Edward shall go with you: 'tis well to have
A witness at this juncture. Write me down
The printer's name Brown gave you. Ay, that's right.
Now go; and if the picture is removed—
For purposes we'll not anticipate—
As it will be—we'll corner the 'old man,'
And his bald head sha'n't save him. By the way,
If you want money let me be your banker;
I'm well content to risk a thousand dollars
On the result of my experiment."

The picture was removed, as he foretold.
Ten weeks went by; then Linda got it back.
"It is the pleasant season," said the lawyer;
"Here are three hundred dollars. You start back!
Miss Linda, I shall charge you ten per cent
On all you borrow. Oh! You do not like
To be in debt. This is my risk, not yours.
If I recover nothing, then no debt
Shall be by you incurred,—so runs the bond!
Truly, now, 'tis no sentimental loan:
I trust another's solvency, not yours.
At length you understand me,—you consent!
Now do not go to work; but you and Rachel
Go spend a long vacation at the seaside.
You want repose and sunshine and pure air.
Be in no hurry to return. The longer
You're gone, the better. For a year at least
We must keep dark. That puzzles you. No matter.
Here, take my card, and should you any time
Need money, do not hesitate to draw
On me for funds. There! Not a word! Good by!"

In the cars, eastward bound! A clear, bright day
After a rain-storm; and, on both sides, verdure;
Trees waving salutations, waters gleaming.
The brightness had its type in Linda's looks,
As, with her little protégée, she sat
And savored all the beauty, all the bloom.
On the seat back of them, two gentlemen
Chatted at intervals in tones which Linda
Could hardly fail to hear, though little heeding.
But now and then, almost unconsciously,
She found herself attending to their prattle.
Said Gossip Number One: "You see that veteran
In the straw hat, and the young man beside him:
Father and son are they. Old Lothian,
Five months ago, was high among the trusted
Of our chief bankers; Charles, his only son,
By a maternal uncle's death enriched,
Kept out of Wall Street; turned a stolid ear
To all high-mounting schemes for doubling wealth,
His taste inclining him to art and letters.
But Lothian had a partner, Judd,—a scamp,
As the result made evident; and Judd
One day was missing; bonds, securities,
And bills, deposits of confiding folk,
Guardians, and widows, and old men retired,
All had been gobbled up by Judd—converted
Into hard cash—and Judd had disappeared.
Despair for Lothian! a man whose word
No legal form could make more absolute.
Crushed, mortified, and rendered powerless,
He could not breast the storm. The mental strain
Threw him upon his bed, and there he lay
Till Charles, from Italy in haste returning,
Found his old sire emaciate and half dead
From wounded honor. 'Come! no more of this!'
Cried Charles; 'how happened it that you forgot
You had a son? All shall be well, my father.'
He paid off all the liabilities,
And found himself without three thousand dollars
Out of a fortune of at least a million.
What shall we call him, imbecile or saint?
His plan is now to set up as a teacher.
Of such a teacher let each thrifty father
Beware, or he may see his only son
Turn out a poor enthusiast,—perhaps—
Who knows?—an advocate of woman's rights!"

Attracted by the story, Linda tried
To get a sight of him, the simpleton;
And, when she saw his face, it seemed to her
Strangely familiar. Was it in a dream
That she had once beheld it? Vain the attempt
Of peering memory to fix the where
And when of the encounter! Yet she knew
That with it was allied a grateful thought.
Then Rachel spoke and made the puzzle clear:
"The man who sent us in his carriage home,
That day you fainted,—don't you recollect?"
"Ay, surely! 'tis the same. No dream-face that!
Charles Lothian, is he? If his acts are folly,
Then may I be a fool! Such fools are rare.
How tender of his father he appears!
I wonder where they're going."

When, at Springfield,
Father and son got out, a sigh, or rather
The ghost of one, and hardly audible,
Escaped from Linda. Then Charles Lothian,
While the cars waited, caught her eye, and bowed.
So he remembered her! "Now that was odd.
But the bell sounds; the locomotive puffs;
The train moves on. Charles Lothian, good by!
Eastward we go; away from you—away—
Never to meet again in this wide world;—
Like ships that in mid-ocean meet and part,
To meet no more—O, nevermore—perchance!"

Borne swiftly to the North Cape of the Bay,
Still on the wings of steam the travellers went;
And tenderly the purple sunset smiled
Upon their journey's end; a little cottage
With oaks and pines behind it, and, before,
High ocean crags, and under them the ocean,
Unintercepted far as sight could reach!
Foliage and waves! A combination rare
Of lofty sylvan table-land, and then—
No barren strip to mar the interval—
The watery waste, the ever-changing main!
Old Ocean, with a diadem of verdure
Crowning the summit where his reach was stayed!
The shore, a line of rocks precipitous,
Piled on each other, leaving chasms profound,
Into whose rifts the foamy waters rushed
With gurgling roar, then flowed in runlets back
Till the surge drove them furiously in,
Shaking with thunderous bass the cloven granite!
Yet to the earth-line of the tumbled cliffs
The wild grass crept; the sweet-leafed bayberry
Scented the briny air; the fern, the sumach,
The prostrate juniper, the flowering thorn,
The blueberry, the clinging blackberry,
Tangled the fragrant sod; and in their midst
The red rose bloomed, wet with the drifted spray.
From the main shore cut off, and isolated
By the invading, the circumfluent waves,
A rock which time had made an island, spread
With a small patch of brine-defying herbage,
Is known as Norman's Woe; for, on this rock,
Two hundred years ago, was Captain Norman,
In his good ship from England, driven and wrecked
In a wild storm, and every life was lost.

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.

"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 algæ 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.

"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."

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.