"If I had put a pistol at her head, My lady mother would not so have started.

'What! a mere girl--and you can entertain Such thoughts! so selfish, gross, unmaidenly!'

'If,' I replied, 'I'm old enough to dream Of marriage, as you bid me, then 'tis time For me to think of all the risk I run.

Selfish, you call it; gross, unmaidenly; Is it unmaidenly to hesitate In the surrender of my maiden state?

Your epithets belong to those who fail To think at all, or only think of this: What's the man's income? Will he let me have A house in the right quarter? Keep a carriage?

And is he in society? Such women Plant nightshade, and affect to wonder why The growth is not of lilies and carnations!'

"'So! just let loose from school,' replied my mother, 'You'd teach me what is womanly! Pert minx!

Tell me in simple English what you mean By your objections to this match, so largely Above your merits?'--'This is what I mean: For reasons that are instincts more than reasons, And therefore not to be explained to those Who in them do not share, as you do not, I would not wed this man,--not if I loved him.'

'Enough! You've had your turn; and now prepare To make a visit to your father's cousin In Nova Scotia; there, perhaps, you may Find a congenial mate among the clowns And roughs provincial. Go and pack your trunk.

Fool your own opportunities away; You shall not thrust your sister out of hers.'

"I did not pack my trunk; another suitor, One twice as rich as Dudley, kindled hopes Anew in my poor mother's breast; and so Susan was kept at school another season, And I was put upon the course once more, My training perfect and my harness new!

"Who could object to Arthur Pennington?

Son of a wealthy manufacturer, A type he was of English adolescence, Trained by harmonious culture to the fulness Of all that Nature had supplied; a person That did not lack one manly grace; a mind Which took the mould that social pressure gave, Without one protest native to itself.

In the accepted, the conventional, He looked for Truth, nor ever had a doubt Whether she might not hide in some deep well Rather than flaunt her modest purity In dusty highways. With my disposition To challenge all that human dogmatism Imperious would impose upon my thought, What pretty yoke-fellows for life should we, Arthur and I, have been! Misled by hopes Which were inspired too fondly by my mother, He, too, proposed, and was of course rejected.

"Then the storm broke! The cup of my offences Was overflowed at last. Now must I go-- Go, where she cared not; only disappear From her domain; she washed her hands of me!

Hundreds of pounds had been invested in me,-- My dresses, jewelry, and entertainments,-- And here was the result! But no more money, From her, must I expect; my father's income Had not for years been equal to his outlays.

Any day he might be compelled to change His style of living; all had been kept up For the advantage of myself and sisters; And here was all the grat.i.tude I showed!

"This time my mother was in earnest; so Now must I lay my plans to go at once.

Whither? to seek a transient home with one Of my own married sisters? Ah! the thought Of being dependent galled me like a spur.

No! go to work,--a voice within me said: Think of the many thousands of your s.e.x Who, young and giddy, not equipped like you, Are thrown upon the world to battle with it As best they may! Now try your closet virtue; See if your theory can stand the proof,-- If trial will not warp your sense of right.

When Poverty shall dog your every step, And at your scanty or unwholesome meal Sit down, or with you, in your thin attire, Go shivering home at night from ill-paid toil,-- Then see if you can keep your feet from straying; Then choose as only Conscience bids you choose!

"The sewing-girl who worked upon my dress, The day of the great ball, was Lucy Merle; I found her saving up her petty means To go to London, to get better wages,-- And said: 'Well, Lucy, let us go together.'

She sold some jewels for me, and we went.

"In London! two unfriended girls in London!

We hired a room, and got employment soon, Such as it was; but small the recompense!

Though Lucy, quicker at her work than I, Could earn enough to live upon--almost.

For her the change was slight.

"A year we toiled In company; and I'll not tell you all The hardships, trials, wrongs, we underwent.

In my blue trunk you'll find a little pistol, Got for our joint protection in those days.

May it be near you, should you ever need it!

Finding, at length, I could no longer earn My share of our expenses by the needle, I sought a situation as a nurse.

And in 'The Times' I advertised my 'Want.'

An answer came, directing me to call Upon the writer at a certain hour.

I went. I met a man of middle age Whose name was Percival. I thought his manner Was coldly kind.

"'You're very young,' he said, 'To fill the situation of a nurse.

What reference have you?' Not a distant thought Of such a need had ever troubled me!

'I bring,' said I, 'no reference.'--'That's a pity.

What pledge have I of character?'--'Not any.'

And then, impatient at this let, I cried: 'Look in my face, and if you find not there Pledge of my truth, Heaven help me, for 'tis all-- All I can give!'--'Ah! my poor child,' said he, 'Such warrant have I learnt to take with doubt; For I have known a face, too beautiful, With look of innocence and shining candor, Prove but the ambush of duplicity, Pitiless and impure. But let me not Distrust too far.' Then he turned up the gas, And, with a scrutiny intent and grave, Perused my face. 'What is your name?' he asked, After a silence.--'Mary Merivale.'

'Well, Mary, I engage you; come at once.

In the next room asleep reclines our patient.

As for your wages, we will say two guineas A week, if you're content.'--'O, perfectly!'

"So, groping in my darkness, I at length Hit on the door that issued into light.

Long talks between the patient and his friend Were frequent, and they heeded not my presence.

Little by little Percival soon told The story that you've heard, and more which you May never hear in earthly interviews.

An eager listener, I would treasure up Each word, each look; and on my soul at last Dawned the pure ray by which I saw those traits, The spirit's own, that harmonized so well With all the outward showed of good and n.o.ble.

Strange that he took no notice of the way My very life was drifting! But to him I seemed a child, and his paternal airs Froze me and checked.

"A paragraph, 'The Times'

Had published, when the accident took place, Mentioned that Kenrick was a millionnaire, Though quite a young man still.

"A month went by And he was able to sit up awhile; And soon, with me beside him in the carriage, To take a drive;--when one day, Percival Said to me: 'Mary, you and I must try The span to-day; our patient shall keep house.'

My heart beat wildly; Kenrick looked as if Approving the arrangement; so we went.

'I wished,' said Percival, 'to talk with you In private; do not answer if I put Questions that may embarra.s.s or annoy; It is no idle curiosity, Prompting me now. We see that you were born To something better than this drudgery: If not reluctant, tell me who you are.'

'O, willingly!' I said.

"And so I told him All, from the first. He heard me patiently; And then remarked: 'But do you never long For that secure and easy life at home?

You will go back to Liverpool, perchance, When you've had quite enough of servitude And toil precarious.'--'I go not back,'

Said I, 'while health and liberty are left.

The home that's grudged is not the home for me.

Give me but love, and like the reed I yield; Deal with me harshly, you may break, not bend me.'

'Ah! there is something wrong in all these things,'

Replied he, musing.

"'Yes,' I said; 'consider What I've been telling of my mother's way Of marrying her daughters; well, my mother Is but the product of that social system, Hollow and false, which leaves for dowerless girls Few honorable outlooks for support Excepting marriage.[2] Poor, dependent, helpless, Untaught in any craft that could be made To yield emolument,--our average women,-- What can they do but take the common path Which my poor mother would have made _me_ try, And lead some honest man to think that they Are wedding _him_, and not his bank-account?

Let woman, equally with man, be bred To learn with thoroughness some craft or trade By which she may support herself at least, You place her more at liberty to shun Unions, no priest, no church can sanctify!'[3]

"Percival eyed me with a puzzled look, Then said: 'The time is on its way, I hope, When from her thraldom woman will come forth, And in her own hands take her own redress; When laws disabling her shall not be made Under the cowardly, untested plea That man is better qualified than woman To estimate her needs and do her justice.

Justice to her shall be to man advancement; And woman's wit can best heal woman's wrongs.

Accelerate that time, all women true To their own s.e.x,--yet not so much to that As to themselves and all the human race!

But pardon me; I wander from the point,-- Following you. Now tell me, could you make America your home?'

"The sudden question Made my heart leap, and the hot crimson rush Up to my brow. Silent I bowed my head, And he continued thus: 'If it should be, That one, not wholly alien to your tastes,-- A man not quite so young as you, perhaps, But not beyond his prime,--an honest man,-- I will not say with ample means, for that Would jar upon your heart,--one who could make Your home a plentiful and happy one,-- Should offer you his hand,--would it deter you To know that in America your lot Must henceforth be?'

"My breath came quick,--my eyes Turned swift away, lest he should mark their joy And count his prize too cheaply won. I sighed, But did not speak. 'May I go on?' he asked.

A 'yes' distinct, though faint, flew from my lips.

'May I,' said he, 'tell Kenrick he may hope?'

'What!' cried I, looking up, with something fiercer Than mere chagrin in my unguarded frown."

Linda broke in upon the story here, And turning to her father with a smile Tender as dawning light, yet arch and gay, Cried, "Fie, my father! Could you be so dull?

How could you treat my future mother so?"

"Nay, do not blame me hastily," said he, With glad paternal eyes regarding her; "How could a modest man--and I was one-- Suppose that youth and wealth, and gracious gifts Of person, such as Kenrick wore so well, Could fail to win? Truly I did not dream, Spite of the proverb, Love could be so blind."

Tossing her head with mock vindictive air, Like sweet sixteen, the mother then resumed: "Kenrick, it seems, being a bashful man,-- And somewhat shy, perhaps, because I knew He was but recently in mad pursuit Of an unfaithful spouse, a runaway, Commissioned Percival to try the ground, Obscure and doubtful, of my woman's will.

My absolute 'What!' was unequivocal.

Then turning to the coachman, Percival, Said, 'Home, now, home! and quickly!'

"Home we rattled, And both were silent to our journey's end.

An eager glance he gave me as he touched My hand to help me from the carriage. He Has told me since that I returned the look With one which, if not actually scorn, Was next of kin to scorn, and much resembling:-- All the chimera of his guilty conscience.