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 pa.s.sage 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 beat.i.tudes, 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 appet.i.te 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 s.e.x 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 G.o.d: 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 G.o.d 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 apt.i.tude; 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.