The Woman Who Dared Part 2

That evening, when the feast of strawberries Had been partaken, and the happy three Sat down together, Linda asked: "And now, May I not hear the rest?"--"To-morrow, Linda, You shall hear all," said Percival; "but now, That brain of yours must tranquillize itself Before you try to sleep; and so, to-night, Let us have 'Annie Laurie,' 'Bonnie Doon,'

And songs that most affront the dainty ear Of modern fashion." Linda played and sang A full half-hour; then, turning on her chair, Said, "Now shall mother sing that cradle ditty You made for me, an infant. Mother, mine, Imagine you are rocking me to sleep, As in those far-off days."

Replied the mother: "O the dear days! yet not more dear than these!

For frugal Linda brings along with her All of her past; the infant's purity, The child's confiding love, and now, at last, The maiden's free and quick intelligence!

Be ever thus, my Linda; for the pure In heart shall carry an immortal youth Into the great to-come. That little song-- Well I remember the delightful time When 'twas extemporized; when, with my pen, I noted down the words, while, by your crib, Your father sat, and you, with little fists Drawn tight, would spring and start, as infants will, Crowing the while, and chuckling at the words Not comprehended yet, save in the smiles That with them went! 'Twas at the mellow close Of an autumnal day, and we were staying In a secluded village, where a brook Babbled beneath our window, and the hum Of insects soothed us, while a louder note From the hoa.r.s.e frog's ba.s.soon would, now and then, Break on the cricket's sleepy monotone And startle laughter." Here the matron paused; Then sweeping, with a firm, elastic touch, The ivory keys, sang

LINDA'S LULLABY.

I.

Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!

For to sleep our dear Linda is going; All good little lambs be reposing, For Linda one eyelid is closing.

II.

O frogs! what a noise you are making!

O crickets! now don't keep her waking!

Stop barking, you little dog Rover, Till Linda can get half-seas over.

III.

Little birds, let our word of love reach you,-- Go to bed, go to sleep, I beseech you; On her little white coverlet lying, To sleep our dear Linda is trying.

IV.

Hush! sing just as softly as may be; Sing lullaby, lullaby, baby!

Now to sleep this dear Linda is going,-- Murmur low, little rivulet flowing!

The next day, when the heat kept all at home, And they were gathered in the library, Where fitfully a lazy southern breeze Would stir the languid curtains, Percival Said, turning to the mother: "Mary, now Your story best will supplement my own; Tell it." She answered: "Let it be so, then; My life is but the affluent to yours, In which it found its amplitude and rest.

"My parents dwelt in Liverpool; my father, A prosperous merchant, gave to business His time and active thoughts, and let his wife Rule all beside with rigor absolute.

My maiden name was Mary Merivale.

There were eight daughters of us, and of these I was the fourth. We lived in liberal style, And did not lack the best society The city could afford. My heedful mother, With eight undowered girls to be disposed of, Fearfully healthy all, and clamorous For clothes and rations, entered on a plan To which she steadily adhered: it was, To send the younger fry to boarding-schools, And keep one virgin only, at a time, And she the oldest, on her hands to marry.

So they came forward in their order: Julia, And Isabel, and Caroline; until I was dragged forth from maps and lexicons, Slate-pencils and arithmetics, and put Candidate Number Four, upon the list.

"My elder sisters had been all 'well-married'; That is, to parties able to provide Establishments that Fashion would not scorn; What more could be desired by loving parents?

As for resistance to her will, when once She set her heart upon a match, my mother Would no more bear it than a general Would bear demur from a subordinate When ordered into action. If a daughter, When her chance offered, and was checked as good, Presumed, from any scruple of dislike, To block the way for her successor, then Woe to that daughter, and no peace for her Did she not, with an utter selfishness, Stand in her younger sister's light? imperil The poor child's welfare? doom her possibly To an old maid's forlorn and cheerless lot?

"And so, with an imperious will, my mother Would sweep away all hindrances, all doubts.

She was, besides, the slave of system; having Adopted once the plan of bringing forward No daughter till the previous one was mated, It was a sacred custom; 'twas her own!

It had worked well; must not be broken through.

So my poor sisters went; and some of them With doubting hearts.

"In me, my zealous mother Found metal not so malleable quite.

One of my teachers at the boarding-school, A little woman who got scanty pay For teaching us in French and German, fed Her lonely heart with dreams of what, some day, Shall lift her s.e.x to n.o.bler life. She took A journal called 'The Good Time Coming,' filled With pleadings for reform of many kinds,-- In education, physical and mental, Marriage, the rights of women, modes of living.

Weekly I had the reading of it all; Some of it crude enough, some apt and just, Forcibly put, and charged with vital facts.

At last these had for me a fascination That quite eclipsed the novels of the day.

"I learnt, that, bound up in the moral law, Are laws of health and physical control, Unheeded in the family and school; How fashion, stupid pride, and love of show, The greed of gain, or the pursuit of pleasure, Empty and frivolous, make men and women False to their natures, cruel to each other And to the unborn offspring they devote To misery through ill-a.s.sorted unions, Or habits reckless of maternal dues; How marriage, sacredest of mortal steps, Is entered on from motives all unworthy; Social ambition, mercenary aims, The dread of poverty, of singleness,-- The object of uniting families,-- And momentary pa.s.sion fatuous.

So I resolved, G.o.d helping, to be true To my own self, and that way true to all.

"The fete that signalized my coming out Was, so my mother said, the costliest yet.

Whole greenhouses were emptied to adorn Our rooms with flowers; a band played in the hall; The supper-table flashed with plate and silver And Dresden ware and bright Bohemian gla.s.s; The wines and viands were profuse and rare; And everybody said, 'twas a grand ball.

"But what of her, for whom it was the flourish Of trumpets blown to celebrate her entrance Into society? Let others speak!

These the remarks I had to overhear: 'She's rather pretty.'--'Pretty is the word.'

'But not so dashing as the elder sisters.'

'Cleverer though, perhaps,'--'She takes it coolly.

Her heart's not in the ball; that's evident.'

'Where is it? Is she bookish?'--'So I've heard.'

'Unlike the rest, then.'--'That straw-colored silk Should have had flounces.'--'Is that hair her own?'

'I think so?'--'She's no dancer.'--'Apathetic As any d.u.c.h.ess.'--'The young men seem shy; She doesn't put them at their ease, 'tis plain.'

'See, the old woman chides her; she deserves it; She'll not pick up admirers if she plays My Lady Cool so grandly. Watch mamma.

The hook is nicely baited; where are all The gudgeons it should lure? I marvel not Mamma is in a fl.u.s.ter; tap, tap, tap, See her fan go! No strategy, no effort, No dandy-killing shot from languid eyes, On that girl's part! And all this fuss for her!'

"The gossips, in these random whisperings, Made some good shots, that failed not of the mark.

The lights, the roses, the voluptuous music, The shining robes, the jewels, the bright faces Engrossed me not so much as one pale face, Youthful but pinched, which I had seen a moment, An hour before, reflected in the mirror At which I stood while nimble dressing-maids Helped to array me. A poor girl had brought The bodice of my silken robe, on which She had been working closely; and my mother Chided her for delay; but no reply Was made, save only what the pleading eyes Could not withhold. Then tendering a sc.r.a.p Of paper, record of her paltry charge, She meekly stood. 'Pooh! bring it here next week,'

My mother said. 'No!' turning round, I cried; 'Let her be paid at once; there must be money In the house somewhere; it may be a loss, An inconvenience, for her to come back Just for a trifling sum.'--'Impertinent!'

My mother kindling, cried. 'Do you rule here?'

'I can return,' timidly said the girl.

Then a gold thimble from my drawer I took, And offered it, remarking, 'Keep or sell it, To hold you good for all your wasted time.'

'My time,--what is it worth?' replied the girl, Motioning her refusal, but with smiles Of speechless grat.i.tude, and then escaping Before I could prevent her.

"'Novel-reading Has brought you to this insipidity,'

My mother said: 'such sentimental pap, You never got from me. Come, hurry down; Put off that sullen look. The carriages Begin to roll; the guests are on the stairs.

Learn to command your smiles, my dear. Now go.'

"So down I went, but in no conquering mood.

I did not scrutinize the festive dresses; Of the sad hearts I thought, the poor thin hands That put of life somewhat in every st.i.tch For a grudged pittance. All disguises fell; Voices betrayed the speakers in their tones, Despite of flattering words; and smiles revealed The weariness or hatred they would hide.

And so, preoccupied and grave, I looked On all the gayety; and reigning belles Took heart to find in me no coming rival.

"Lent now was near; the time of all diversion And visiting was over; and my mother Summed up her griefs in this one lamentation: 'The season gone, and not one offer yet!

You, Mary, are the first one of my daughters Whose coming-out so flat a failure proved.

Think of your sister Julia; her first winter Brought Hammersley to her feet. A splendid match!

First cousin to a lord! How envious Were all the dowagers at my success!

If I've not done all that a mother could, Tell me wherein I've failed. Yet one year more I shall allow you for your trial. Then, If you have made no step in the direction Of matrimony, why, you must go off To Ireland, to America, or France, And leave the field for your next younger For Susan.'--'She is welcome to it now,'

I said, with something like disdain, I fear, In my cold smile.--'My plans are laid, you know,'

Replied my mother; 'find your duty in A simple acquiescence; I know best.'

"'Tis said the woman always is to blame If a man ventures to commit himself In a proposal unacceptable.

The rule has its exceptions; for I gave No word, no inkling of encouragement To Captain Dudley; yet I had an offer From Captain Dudley. Young, and elegant, Though of a stock somewhat attenuate; Rich, though a younger son; a gentleman, A scholar,--what good reason could I give For saying Nay to such an applicant?

'Explain!' my mother cried, with brow severe; 'Is not his character without a flaw?'

'So far as known to me.'--'Is he a fool?'

'Far from it; culture and good sense are his.'

'Could you not love him?'--'Very tenderly, Perhaps, with time to aid.'--'Has any one Preoccupied your heart?'--'My heart is free, And has been always free.'--'Indeed? Then why Refuse to be the wife of this young man?'

'Simply because he's not the man I'd choose To be the father of a child of mine.'