There soon wilt thou go with me hence-- But where, O my soul! where to be?

In that region, that region immense, The loved and the lost shall we see?

IV.

The loved and the lost shall we see!

For Love all it loves shall make near; Type and outcome of Love shall it be-- Our home in that infinite sphere!

A day's excursion to a favorite spot-- Choice nook among the choicest of Long Island, (Paradise Found, he called it playfully)-- Had oft been planned; and one day Percival Said: "Let us go to-day!"--"No, not to-day!"

Cried Linda, with a shudder.--"And why not?

It is the very day of all the year!

There's an elastic coolness in the air, Thanks to the thunder-shower we had last night: A day for out-of-doors! Your reasons, Linda?

Tears in your eyes! Nay, I'll not ask for reasons.

We will not go."--"Yes, father, let us go.

Whence came my No abrupt, I could not say; It was a sudden freak, and what it meant You know as well as I. Shall we get ready?"

"Ay, such a perfect day is rare; it seems To bring heaven nearer to my understanding; Life, life itself is joy enough! to be,-- To breathe this ether, see that arch of blue, Is happiness."--"But 'tis the soul that makes it; What would it be, my father, without love?"

"Ay, without love, love human and divine, No atmosphere of real joy can be."

Not long the time mother and daughter needed To don their simple, neat habiliments.

A postman handed Percival a letter As they descended from the door to take The carriage that would bear them to the station; For they must go by rail some twenty miles To reach this paradise of Percival's.

When they were in the cars, and these in motion, Percival drew the letter from his pocket, And, while he read, a strange expression stole Over his features. "Now what is it, father?"

Then with a sigh which her quick ear detected As one that masked a pleasurable thought, He said: "Poor little Linda!"--"And why poor?"

"Because she will not be so rich again In wishes unfulfilled. That grand piano You saw at Chickering's--what was the price?"

"Twelve hundred dollars only."--"It is yours!

That painting you admired so--that by Church-- What did they ask for it?"--"Two thousand dollars."

"'Tis cheap at that. We'll take it. Whose turn-out Was it that struck your fancy?"--"Miss Van Hagen's!"

"Well, you shall have one like it, only better.

Look! What a charming cottage! How it stands, Fronting the water, flanked by woods and gardens!

For sale, I see. We'll buy it. No, that house Yonder upon the hill would suit us better; Our coachman's family shall have the cottage."

"What is it all, my father? You perplex me,"

Said Linda, with a smile of anxious wonder.

"In brief, my little girl," said Percival, "You're grown to be an heiress. Let your mother Take in that letter. Read it to her, Linda."

It was a letter from executors Of the late Arthur Kenrick, making known That in his several large bequests was one Of a full million, all to Percival.

The mother's heart flew to the loved ones gone; She sighed, but not to have them back again; That were a wish too selfish and profane.

And then, the first surprise at length allayed, Calmly, but not without a natural joy At being thus lifted to an affluent lot, The three discussed their future. Should they travel?

Or should they choose some rural site, and build?

Paradise Found would furnish a good site!

Now they could help how many! Not aloof From scenes of dest.i.tution had they kept: What joy to aid the worthy poor! To save This one from beggary! To give the means To that forsaken widow, overworked, With her persistent cough, to make a trip, She and her children, city-pinched and pale, To some good inland farm, and there recruit!

Many the plans for others they conceived!

Many the joyful--

Ah! a shivering crash!

A whirl of splintered wood and loosened iron!

Then shrieks and groans of pain....

A broken rail Had done it all. Now for the killed and wounded!

Ghastly the spectacle! And happy those Whom Death had taken swiftly! Linda's mother Was one of these--a smile upon her lips, But her breast marred--peacefully she had pa.s.sed.

Percival's wound was mortal, but he strove, Amid the jar of sense, to fix his mind On one absorbing thought--a thought for Linda: For she, though stunned, they told him, would survive, Motherless, though--soon to be fatherless!

And something--ah! what was it?--must be done, Done, too, at once. "O gentlemen, come here!

Paper and pen and ink! Quick, quick, I pray you!

No matter! Come! A pencil--that will do.

Help me to make a will--I do bequeathe-- Where am I? What has happened? G.o.d be with me!

Yes, I remember now--the will! the will!

No matter for the writing! Witness ye That I bequeathe, convey, and hereby give To this my only child, named Linda--Linda-- G.o.d! What's my name? Where was I? Percival To Linda Percival--Is this a dream?

What would I do? My heart is drowned in blood.

G.o.d help me. Linda--Linda!"

Then he died; And, chasing from his face that glare of anguish, Came a smile beatific as if angels Had soothed his fears and hushed him into calm.

Her father's cry was all unheard by Linda, Or by her mortal senses all unheard.

Perhaps a finer faculty, removed From the external consciousness afar, Took it all in; for when she woke at last To outward life, and looking round beheld No sign of either parent, she sank back Into a trance, and lay insensible For many hours. Then rallying she once more Seemed conscious; and observing the kind looks Of an old woman and a man whose brow Of thought contrasted with his face of youth, She calmly said: "Don't fear to tell me all; I think I know it all; an accident With loss of life; my father and my mother Among--among the killed. Enough! Your silence Explains it now. So leave me for a while.

Should I need help, I'll call. You're very good."

When they returned, Linda was sitting up Against the pillow of the bed; her hands Folded upon her breast; her open eyes Tearless and glazed, as if celestial scenes, Clear to the inner, nulled the outer vision.

The man drew near, touched her upon the brow, And said, "My name is Henry Meredith."

She started, and, as on an April sky A cloud is riven, and through the sudden cleft The sunshine darts, even so were Linda's eyes Flooded with conscious l.u.s.tre, and she woke.

It was a neatly furnished cottage room In which she lay, and nodding eglantine, With its sweet-scented foliage and rath roses, Rustled and shimmered at the open window.

"How long have I been lying here?" asked Linda.

"Almost two days," said Meredith.--"Indeed!

I read, sir, what you'd ask me, in your looks; And to the question on your mind I answer, If all is ready, let the funeral be This afternoon. Ay, in the village ground Let their remains be laid. The services May be as is convenient." "Of what faith Were they?"--"The faith of Christ."--"But that is vague.

The faith of Christ? Mean you the faith _in_ Christ?

Faith in the power and need of his atonement?"

"All that I mean is, that they held the faith Which was the faith of Christ, as manifest In his own words, unwrenched by others' words.

So to no sect did they attach themselves; But from all sects drew all the truth they could In charity; believing that when Christ Said of the pure in heart, 'They shall see G.o.d,'

He meant it; spoke no fragment of a truth; Deferred no saying, qualifying that; Set no word-trap for unsuspecting souls; Spoke no oracular, ambiguous phrase, Intending merely the vicarious pure; Reserved no strange or mystical condition To breed fine points of doctrine, or confound The simple-minded and the slow of faith.

Heart-purity and singleness and love, Fertile in loving acts, sole proof of these, Summed up for them, my father and my mother, All n.o.bleness, all duty, all salvation, And all religion."

With a heavy sigh Meredith turned away. "I'll not discuss Things of such moment now," said he. "One rock, One only rock, amid the clashing waves Of human error, have I found,--the rock On which Christ built his Church. Heaven show you it!"

"Heaven show me truth! let it be on the rock, Or in the sand. You'll say Amen to that?"

"I say Amen to what the Church approves, For I myself am weak and fallible, Depraved by nature, reprobate and doomed, And ransomed only by the atoning blood Of a Redeemer more divine than human.

But controversy is not timely now: The papers, jewels, money, and what clothes Could properly be taken, you will find In a small trunk of which this is the key.

At three o'clock the carriage will be ready."

Linda put forth her hand; he gravely took it, And holding it in both of his the while, Said: "Should you lack a friend, remember me.

I was a witness to your father's death.

Your mother must have died without a pang.

He, by a strenuous will, kept death at bay A minute, and his dying cry was Linda!

Hardly can he have felt his sufferings, Such the intentness of his thought for you!"

The fount of tears was happily struck at last, And Linda wept profusely. Meredith Quitted the room; but the old woman sat Beside the bed, her thin and shrunken fingers Hiding themselves in Linda's locks of gold, Or with a soothing motion parting them From a brow fine and white as alabaster.

At length, like a retreating thunder-storm, The sobs grew faint and fainter, and then ceased.

After a pause, said Linda to the lady, "Is he your grandson?"--"Ay, my only one; A n.o.ble youth, heir to a splendid fortune; A scholar, too, and such a gentleman!

Young; ay, not twenty-four! What a career, Would he but choose! Society is his, To cull from as he would. He throws by all, To be a poor tame priest, and take confessions Of petty scandals and delinquencies From a few Irish hussies and old women!"

"We all," said Linda, "hear the voice of duty In different ways, and many not at all.

Honor to him who heeds the sacred claim At any cost of life's amenities And tenderest ties! We see the sacrifice;-- We cannot reckon up the n.o.bleness It called for, and must call for to the end."