The Woman Who Dared Part 7

V.

LINDA.

The news of the great railroad accident And of the sudden death of Percival, Coming so soon upon intelligence Of his rare fortune in the legacy From Kenrick, occupied the public mind For a full day at least, and then was whelmed In other marvels rushing thick upon it.

The mother and the daughter, who still bore The name of Percival, came back from Paris At once, on getting the unlooked-for news.

When Linda, after three weeks had elapsed, Re-entered, with a swelling heart, the house To her so full of sacred memories, She was accosted by an officer Who told her he had put his seal on all The papers, plate, and jewelry belonging To the late Albert Percival,--and asked If in her keeping were a watch and ring, Also some money, found upon his person: If so, would she please give them up, and he, Who had authority to take them, would Sign a receipt for all such property, And then the rightful heir could easily Dispose of it, as might seem best to her.

"The rightful heir?" gasped Linda, taking in Not readily the meaning of the words,-- "Do you not know that I'm the rightful heir And only child of Albert Percival?"

"Pardon me," said the officer, "the child, Recognized by the law, is not yourself, But Harriet Percival, the only heir,-- For so the court adjudges,--and to her All property, both personal and real, Must be made over. She, no doubt, will deal Kindly in your peculiar case, and make A suitable provision--"

"Hold!" cried Linda, Her nostrils' action showing generous blood As clearly as some matchless courser shows it After a mighty race,--"Your business, But not your comments! And yet, pardon me-- I'm hasty,--you meant well; but you would have me Render you up the watch and pocket-book Found on my father's person, and delivered To me his daughter. That I'll only do, When more authority than you have shown Compels me, and my lawyer bids me yield."

"Here is my warrant," said the officer, "And my instructions are explicit." Then, The spirit of the gentleman disdaining The action he was sent for, he rejoined: "But the law's letter shall not make me do An incivility, perhaps a wrong.

And so, relying on your truth, I leave you, a.s.sured that you'll be ready to respond To all the law can ask. And now, good day!"

Left to her own decisions, Linda sought At once the best advice; and such had been Her training, that she was not ignorant Who among counsellors were trusted most In special ways. Kindly and patiently Her case was taken up and thoroughly Sifted and tried. No hope! No flaw! No case!

So craftily had every step been taken, With such precaution and such legal care,-- So diligently had the mesh been woven, Enclosing Percival and all of his,-- That nothing could be done except put off The payment of the Kenrick legacy For some six months,--when it was all made over To the reputed child, already rich Through the law's disposition of the sums Which Percival had been compelled to pay.

After the legal test, with brave composure Linda surveyed her lot. Enough was left, From sale of jewels that had been her mother's, For a few months' support, with frugal care.

Claim to these jewels and the money found Upon her mother's person had been laid Too eagerly by the contesting party, Who said that Percival, in dying last, Was heir to the effects; but since the claim Could only be upheld by proving marriage, The claimants sorrowfully gave it up.

One day as Linda stood with folded hands Before her easel, on which lay a painting Of flowers autumnal, grouped with rarest skill,-- The blue-fringed gentian, the red cardinal, With fern and plumy golden-rod intwined,-- A knock aroused her, and the opened door Disclosed a footman, clad in livery, Who, hat in hand, asked if a lady might Come up to see the pictures. "Certainly,"

Was the reply; and, panting up the stairs, A lady came whose blazonry of dress And air of self-a.s.sured, aggressive wealth Spoke one well pleased to awe servility.

As when by some forecasting sense the dove Knows that the hawk, though out of sight and still, Is hovering near, even so did Linda feel An enemy draw nigh; felt that this woman, Who, spite of marks a self-indulgent life Leaves on the face, showed vestiges of beauty, Was she who first had cast the bitterness Into that cup of youth which Linda's father Was made to taste so long.

And yet (how strangely, In this mixed web of life, the strands of good Cross and inweave the evil!) to that wrong Might he have tracked a joy surpa.s.sing hope,-- The saving angel who, in Linda's mother, Had so enriched his being;--might have tracked (Mysterious thought!) Linda herself, his child, The crown of every rapture, every hope

The lady, known as Madame Percival, Seated herself and turned a piercing look On Linda, who blenched not, but stood erect, With calm and serious look regarding her.

The lady was the first to lower her eyes; She then, with some embarra.s.sment, remarked: "So! you're an artist! Will you let me see Some of your newest paintings?" Linda placed Three of her choicest pieces on the easel, And madame raised her eyegla.s.s, looked a moment, Said, "Very pretty," and then, breaking through Further constraint, began: "You may not know me; My name is Percival; you, I suppose, Bear the same name by courtesy. 'Tis well: The law at last has taught you possibly Our relative positions. Of the past We will say nothing; no hard thought is left Against you in my heart; I trust I know The meaning of forgiveness; what is due To Christian charity. In me, although The church has but a frail, unworthy child, Yet would I help my enemy; remove her From doubtful paths, and see her fitly placed With her own kindred for protection due.

Hear my proposal now, in your behalf: If you will go to England, where your aunts And relatives reside,--and first will sign A paper promising you'll not return, And that you never will resume your suit,-- I will advance your pa.s.sage-money, and Give you five thousand dollars. Will you do it?"

The indignant No, surging in Linda's heart, Paused as if language were too weak for it, When, in that pause, the opening of the door Disclosed a lady younger than the first, Yet not unlike in features, though no blonde, And of a figure small and delicate.

"Now, Harriet!" cried the elder of the two, Annoyed, if not alarmed, "you promised me You would not quit the carriage."--"Well, what then?

I changed my mind. Is that a thing uncommon?

Whom have we here? The name upon the door Is Percival; and there upon the wall I see a likeness of my father. So!

You, then, are Linda Percival! the child For whom he could abandon me, his first!

Come, let me look at you!"--"Nay, Harriet, This should not be. Come with me to the carriage; Come! I command you."--"Pooh! And pray, who cares For your commands? I move not till I please.

We are half-sisters, Linda, but I hate you."

"Excuse me," Linda answered quietly, "But I see no resemblance to my father In you. Your features, form, complexion, all Are quite unlike."--"Silence! We've had enough."

"What did she say?" cried Harriet. "Do not heed A word of hers; leave her and come with me."

"She said, I bear no likeness to my father: You heard her!"--"'Twas in malice, Harriet.

Of course she would say that."--"But I must have That photograph of him upon the wall: 'Tis unlike any that I've ever seen."

And with the word she took it from the nail And would have put it in her pocket, had not Linda, with sudden grasp, recovered it.

Darker her dark face grew, when Harriet Saw herself baffled; taking out her purse She drew from it a thousand-dollar bill, And said, "Will this procure it?"--"Harriet!

You're mad to offer such a sum as that."

"Old woman, if you anger me, you'll rue it!

I ask you, Linda Percival, if you Will take two thousand dollars for that portrait?"

And Linda answered: "I'll not take your money: The portrait you may have without a price; I'm not without a copy."--"Well, I take it; But mark you this: I shall not hate you less For this compliance; nay, shall hate you more; For I do hate you with a burning hatred, And all the more for that smooth Saxon face, With its clear red and white and Grecian outline; That likeness to my father (I can see it), Those golden ringlets and that rounded form.

Pray, Madame Percival, where did I get This swarthy hue, since Linda is so fair, And you are far from being a quadroon?

Good lady, solve the riddle, if you please."

"There! No more idle questions! Two o'clock?

That camel's hair at Stewart's will be sold, Unless we go this minute. Such a bargain!

Come, my dear, come!" And so, cajoling, coaxing, She drew away her daughter, and the door Closed quickly on the two. But Linda stood In meditation rapt, as thought went back To the dear parents who had sheltered her; Contrasting their ingenuous love sincere And her own filial reverence, with the scene She just had witnessed. So absorbed she was In visions of the past, she did not heed The opening of the door, until a voice Broke in upon her tender revery, Saying, "I've come again to get your answer To my proposal." Tranquillized, subdued By those dear, sacred reminiscences, Linda, with pity in her tone, replied: "Madame, I cannot entertain your offer."

"And why not, Linda Percival?" exclaimed The imperious lady.--"I'm not bound to give My reasons, madame."--"Come, I'll make the sum Ten thousand dollars."--"Money could not alter My mind upon the subject."--"Look you, Linda; You saw my daughter. Obstinate, self-willed, Pa.s.sionate as a wild-cat, jealous, crafty, Reckless in use of money when her whims Are to be gratified, and yet at times Sordid as any miser,--she'll not stop At artifice, or violence, or crime, To injure one she hates--and you she hates!

Now for your sake and hers, I charge you leave This country, go to England;--close at once With my most liberal offer."

"Madame, no!

This is my home, my birthplace, and the land Of all my efforts, hopes, and aspirations; While I have work to do, here lies my field: I cannot quit America. Besides, Since candor now is best, I would not take A dole from you to save myself from starving."

The lady's eyes flashed choler. She replied: "Go your own gait; and, when you're on the street, As you'll be soon, blame no one but yourself.

I've done my part. Me no one can accuse Of any lack of charity or care.

For three weeks more my offer shall hold good.

After that time, expect no further grace."

And, with a frown which tried to be disdain, But which, rebuked and humbled, fell before The pitying candor of plain Innocence, Out of the room she swept with all her velvet.

These interviews had made our Linda feel How quite alone in the wide world she stood.

A letter came, after her parents' death, From her aunt, Mrs. Hammersley, requesting A loan of fifty pounds, and telling all The family distresses and shortcomings: How this one's husband had proved not so rich As was expected; how another's was A tyrant and a n.i.g.g.ard, so close-fisted He parcelled out with his own hands the sugar For kitchen use; and how another's still, Though amply able to receive their mother, A widow now, had yet refused to do it, And even declined to make a contribution For her support. And so the gossip ran.

The picture was not pleasant. With a sigh Not for herself, but others, Linda penned A letter to her aunt, relating all The events that made her powerless to aid Her needy kinsfolk. She despatched the letter, Then sat and thought awhile.

"And now for duty!"

She cried, and rose. She could not think of duty Except as something grateful to her parents.

They were a presence so securely felt, And so related to her every act,-- Their love was still so vigilant, so real, That to do what, and only what, she knew They would approve, was duty paramount; And their approval was the smile of G.o.d!

Self-culture, work, and needful exercise,-- This was her simple summing-up of duties Immediately before her, and to be Fulfilled without more parleying or delay.

She found that by the labor of a month In painting flowers from nature, she could earn Easily sixty dollars. This she did For two years steadily. Then came a change.

From some cause unexplained, her wild-flower sketches, Which from their novelty and careful finish At first had found a ready sale, were now In less demand. Linda was not aware That these elaborate works, to nature true, Had been so multiplied in copies, made By hand, or printed by the chromo art, As to be sold at prices not one fifth As high as the originals had cost.

Hence her own genius winged the storm and lent The color to the cloud, that overhung Her prospect, late so hopeful and serene.

Now came her year of struggle! Narrow means, Discouragement, the haunting fear of debt!

One summer day, a day reminding her Of days supremely beautiful, immortal, (Since hallowed by undying love and joy), A little girl, the step-child, much endeared, Of a poor artisan who dwelt near by On the same floor with Linda, came to her And said: "You promised me, Miss Percival, That some fine day you'd take me in the cars Where I could see the gra.s.s and pluck the flowers."

"Well, Rachel Aiken, we will go to-day, If you will get permission from your father,"

Said Linda, longing for the woodland air.

Gladly the father gave consent; and so, Clad in her best, the little damsel sat, While Linda filled the luncheon-box, and made The preparations needful.

"What is that?"

Asked Rachel, pointing to an open drawer In which a case of polished ebony Glittered and caught the eye. "A pistol-case!"

"And is the pistol loaded?"--"I believe so."

"And will you take it with you?"--"Well, my dear, I did not think to do so: would you have me?"

"Yes, if we're going to the woods; for panthers Lurk in the woods, you know."--"I'll take it, Rachel; We call this a revolver. See! Four times I can discharge it." At a block of wood She aimed and fired; then carefully reloaded The piece, and put it in a hidden pocket.

Some ten miles from the city, at a place Rich in diversity of wood and water, They left the cars. Rachel's delight was wild.

Never was day so lovely! Never gra.s.s So green! And O the flowers! "Look, only look, Miss Percival! What is it? Can I pluck As many as I want?"--"Ay, that's a harebell."

"And O, look here! This red and yellow flower!