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?
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 destitution 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 passed.
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? God 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—
God! 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.
God 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."