The Woman Who Dared

by Epes Sargent

"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,
Assured 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-assured, 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 surpassing 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 embarrassment, 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 eyeglass, 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 passage-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.