To her feet she sprang!
Instinctively (but not without a shudder)
She grasped the little pistol she had brought
At the child's prompting; from the rock ran down,
And, at a sudden bend, encountered three
Young lusty ruffians, while, a few rods off,
Another lifted Rachel in his arms,
And to the thicker wood beyond moved on.
The three stood side by side as if to bar
The path to Linda, and their looks meant mischief.
The lane was narrow. "For your life, make way!"
She cried, and raised the pistol. "No, you don't
Fool us by tricks like that!" the foremost said:
"And so, my lady—" But before the word
Was out there was a little puff of smoke,
With an explosion, not encouraging,—
And on the turf the frightened caitiff lay.
Her road now clear, reckless of torn alpaca,
Over the scattered branches Linda rushed,
Till she drew near the leader of the gang,
Who, stopping, drew a pistol with one hand,
While with the other he held Rachel fast,
Placing her as a shield before his breast.
But Linda did not waver. Dropping into
The old position that her father taught her
When to the shooting-gallery they went,
She fired. An oath, the cry of pain and rage,
Told her she had not missed her aim,—the jaw
The ruffian left exposed. One moment more,
Rachel was in her arms. Taking a path
Transverse, they hit the public road and entered
The railroad station as the train came in.
When they were safely seated, and the engine
Began to throb and pant, a sudden pallor
Spread over Linda's visage, and she veiled
Her face and fainted; yet so quietly,
But one among the passengers observed it;
And he came up, and taking Rachel's place
Supported Linda; from a lady near
Borrowed some pungent salts restorative,
And finding soon the sufferer was herself,
Gave Rachel back her seat and took his own.
But at the city station, when arrived,
This gentleman came up, and bowing, said:
"Here stands my private carriage; but to-day
I need it not. Let my man take you home."
Linda demurred. His firm will urged them in,
And she and Rachel all at once were riding
With easy bowling motion down Broadway.
The evening papers had this paragraph:
"In Baker's Woods this morning two young men
Were fired on by a female lunatic
Without a provocation, and one wounded.
The bullet was extracted. Dr. Payson,
With his accustomed skill and promptitude,
Performed the operation; and the patient
Is doing well. We learn the unhappy woman—
She had with her a child—is still at large."
"I'm glad it was no worse," quoth Linda, smiling.
She kissed the pistol that had been her mother's,
Wiped it, and reverently put it by.
Three summers and an autumn had rolled on
Since the catastrophe that orphaned Linda.
Midwinter with its whirling snow had come,
And, shivering through the snow-encumbered streets
Of the great city, men and women went,
Stooping their heads to thwart the spiteful wind.
The sleigh-bells rang, boys hooted, and policemen
Told each importunate beggar to move on.
In a side street where Fashion late had dwelt,
But which the up-town movement now had left
A street for journeymen and small mechanics,
Dress-makers, masons, farriers, and draymen,
A female figure might be seen to enter
A lodging-house, and passing up two flights
Unlock a door that showed a small apartment
Neat, with two windows looking on the rear,
A small recess with a low, narrow bed,
A sofa, a piano, and three chairs.
'Twas noon, but in the sky no cleft of blue
Flashed the soft love-light like a lifted lid.
Clad plainly was the lady we have followed,—
But with a certain grace no modiste's art
Could have contrived. Youthful she was, and yet
A gravity not pertinent to youth
Gave to her face the pathos of that look
Which a too early thoughtfulness imparts;
And this was Linda,—Linda little changed,
Though nearer by four years to womanhood
Than when we parted from her in the shadow
Of a great woe.
Preoccupied she seemed
Now with some painful thought, and in a slow,
Half-automatic manner she replenished
With scanty bits of coal her little stove;
Then, with a like absorbed, uncertain air,
Threw off her cloak and bonnet, and sat down;
Motionless sat awhile till she drew forth
A pocket-book, and from it took a letter,
And read these words: "You guaranteed the debt:
It now has run three months, and if to-morrow
It is not paid, we must seek legal help."
A bill of wood and coal for Rachel's father—
Some twenty dollars only! And yet Linda
Saw not the way to pay it on the morrow.
He, the poor artisan, on whose account
She had incurred the liability,
Lay prostrate with a malady, his last,
In the small room near by, with little Rachel
His only watcher. What could Linda do?
At length, with lips compressed, and up and down
Moving her head as if to give assent
To some resolve, now fixed, she took her seat
At the piano,—from her childhood's days
So tenderly endeared, and every chord
Vibrating to some memory of her mother!
"Old friend,"—she sighed; then thought awhile and sang.
Help me, dear chords, help me to tell in song
The grief that now must say to you Farewell!
No music like to yours can ease my heart.
An infant on her knee I struck your keys,
And you made sweet my earliest lullaby:
From you I thought my requiem might come.
Hard is the pang of parting, but farewell!
Harder the shame would be, if help were not;
Go, but your tones shall thrill forevermore.