Mrs. Deane found the hours drag heavily while her parents remained. She was not like her former self, and they could not but notice the change.
It was the first time in their married life that she wished them at home. One hour alone with her husband would have set all right; but there were none, for business seemed to press in from all quarters, and every moment of his time, far into the night, was occupied in writing.
They saw nothing of each other save in the presence of their parents, for Mr. Deane only snatched a few hours' sleep at early dawn, and awoke just in time to prepare for breakfast. They were estranged, and circumstances to embitter the sad state of affairs seemed to daily multiply.
The fourth evening after the arrival, there was a slight pause in the pressure of his business, but feeling no inclination to join the family, knowing that Mabel and himself would be in feelings miles apart, he called again upon Miss Evans.
To his relief he found her alone, for he longed for another communion with a mind so comprehensive, and a soul so pure as her own. She noticed the look of sadness on his face, and was glad her own heart was light and her soul strong in trust, that she might administer to him.
Had he come last night, she said to herself, how little could I have done for him, for my own soul was dark with grief, my lips dumb. His face bore a more buoyant look as her words of hope and thoughtful sayings appealed to his good judgment, and before long it glowed with joy like her own. He forgot the cloud that had arisen over himself and Mabel; forgot her words that so wounded his soul; and only her best and true self was mirrored on his heart, as he listened to the vital truths which flowed from the lips of the noble woman in whose presence he sat.
“Our conversation the other night,” he said, “awakened such new emotions, or rather aroused feelings which were dormant, that I could not resist the strong impulse I felt to call on you again and renew our conversation.”
“I am very glad you have come, for it does my soul good to see others interested in these newly-developed views, and recognizing the great needs of humanity, and the imperative demands of our natures.”
“I have felt,” remarked Mr. Deane, “for a long time that the church, the subject of our last conversation, needs more life; that it must open its doors to all rays of light, and not longer admit only a few, and that those doors must be broad enough and high enough, that whatever is needed for the advancement of mankind may enter therein, come from whence it may, and called by whatever name it may be. In a word, the church must go on in advance of the people, or at least with them, else it will be left behind and looked upon as a worn out and useless institution.”
“I am glad to hear you express your thoughts thus, and hope you will give them as freely at all times, for too many who entertain these views do not speak them, standing in fear of what their friends or the church may say or do. Of such there are tens of thousands. Give them utterance. Every honest man and woman should, and thus aid in hastening on the day of true life and perfect liberty. While I value associative effort, I would not for a moment lose sight of individual thinking and acting. We do not have enough of it. The church has much to adopt to bring it into a healthy condition. To-day it ignores many valuable truths which retired individuals hold, while it feeds its hearers on husks. Finding better food for their souls outside, they go, and cannot return, because the truths they hold would not be accepted.”
“We have made rapid advances in art and science, Miss Evans, but the church has lagged behind, until at length we find that more christianity is found outside than inside its walls.”
“True. The best men and women I have ever known, have never sat at the table of the Lord, so called, have never broken the bread and drank the wine, yet their souls have tasted life-everlasting when they have given in His name food to the hungry and clothing to the naked. Each soul is a temple and each heart a shrine. The only thing the church can do to-day is, to reach forth and take its life from the world. All the accessions of art must be unfolded, if she would keep alive. Fortify it with these things, and we shall not see, as we do now, in every town and city even, the whole burden of its support resting on one or two individuals. If it has life enough it will stand; if it refuse light, such persons only retard its progress, although strictly conscientious in their position. I think one of its greatest errors is in keeping one pastor too long. How can the people be fed, and draw life from one fount alone?”
“True,” he said, “and is not that view applicable to our social and domestic as well as to our religious state? Can we draw life always from one person?”
“No; nor was it ever intended that men and women should so exhaust each other. The marriage law is too arbitrary; it allows no scope for individual action, and yet the subject is so delicate, so intricate, that none but the keenest and nicest balanced minds dare attempt to criticise, much less improve it. The misconstructions of a person's motives are so great that many who see its errors, tremble and fear to speak of them. But if we are to bring any good to the covenant, so sacred in its offices, we must point out its defects and seek to remedy them, and I sometimes think it will be my mission to help it to higher states. Although such a task would be far from enviable, I will willingly give my thoughts to those who are struggling, at the risk of being misunderstood nine times in ten, as I probably shall be.”
“Then please give me your best thoughts, Miss Evans, for I need all the light I can get, not only for myself, but for others.”
“I am but a scholar, like yourself, Mr. Deane, and I sometimes think that all I may hope to do will be but to lift the burden an instant from the pilgrim's shoulder, that deeper breath may be taken for the long and often dreary journey.”
A sharp ring of the door-bell interrupted further conversation, and Mr. Deane, bowing to the intruder, as such she seemed at that moment to be, bade Miss Evans good evening, and departed.
The caller was a gossiping woman, who kept many domestic fires alive with her fuel of scandalous reports.
“Dear me, Miss Evans,” she said, as soon as comfortably seated, “was n't that Mr. Deane? Yes, I thought so; but my eye-sight 'aint over good, and then he looked so sad-like; maybe he 'aint well,” and she looked inquiringly to Miss Evans, who replied,—
“I think he is in his usual health; a little worn, perhaps, with business. How is your family, Mrs. Turner?”
“O, tol'rable, thank ye. But Mr. Deane did n't say anything, did he, about his folks?
“His folks? What do you mean, Mrs. Turner?”
“Law me, I might as well tell as not, now I've said what I have. Why you see Miss Moses who nusses Mrs. Baker, was up ter Mrs. Brown's last night, and Mrs. Deane's hired gal was there, and she told Mrs. Brown's man that Mr. Deane and his wife had some pretty hard words together, and that her folks-her father and mother-was 'goin ter take her home.”
“Mrs. Turner, I have no interest in this gossip; we will change the subject if you please.”
“Lor, don't be 'fended; I only-I mean I meant no harm.”
“You may not; but this idle habit of retailing the sayings of others, is worse than folly. It's a great wrong to yourself and the individuals spoken of.”
“Well, I did n't think to have such a lectur',” said the woman, affecting a feeling of good nature, “I say as I said afore, I meant no harm. I like Mr. and Mrs. Deane very much, and thought it was too bad for such things to be said.”
“Is marm here?” inquired a coarse voice at the door, and a red, chubby face was thrust in the narrow opening.
“Why, Josiah Turner, I told you ter go ter bed an hour ago. Well, I must go, Miss Evans. I 'spose my boy won't go without me,” and taking her son by the hand, she departed.
“A storm upon their domestic horizon, I fear, is coming, if not already there,” said Miss Evans, setting down and resting her lead upon her hands. “I wish he had not come. Something may be charged to me-but why should I fear. I have said simply what I felt was right. I must expect to encounter many storms in this voyage whose haven of peace is-where? None knoweth.”
She fastened her door, and after lifting her heart in prayer for guidance, retired.
Mr. Deane found his wife alone when he returned, and one could have seen by his manner how glad he was to find her so.
“It seems a month, Mabel, since I have seen you alone.”
She only remarked that she feared her parents felt his absence from home.
“I do think, Howard,” she continued, “that you could give us a little of your time. It is due to my parents. It must seem to them that you willingly absent yourself, and it is hard for me to convince them to the contrary.”
“I am sorry that any such impression should have worked its way into their minds. They ought to know that it is quite a sacrifice for me to devote myself so closely to business. I hope, Mabel, you are wrongly impressed as regards them, and it may be that your own state has more to do with it than theirs. This is the first evening I have had to myself since they have been here.”
“And why was this not spent at home?”
“Because I cannot assume to be what I am not, and you know I am not at rest; that our harmony is disturbed. Could I have seen you alone, I should have been at home before this.”
“You have sought society, I suppose, more congenial?”
“Mabel, be careful. You may so unnerve me that I may say much that I shall be sorry for.”
“Howard?”
“Well, Mabel.”
“I think I shall return with father and mother. They will go home day after to-morrow.”
He did not raise his eyes, nor appear in the least anxious to detain her, but merely said:
“Where are they this evening?”
“At Mrs. Norton's. They went to tea. I felt too ill to accompany them.”
“Are you very ill, Mabel?”
“I feel far from well, and yet it does not seem to be from physical indisposition. It is something deeper.”
“True, my poor wife, we have become estranged; and what has caused it?”
She looked thoughtfully at him a moment, but no answer came from her lips.
“I think we had better part awhile. It will do us both good.”
She started, scarce expecting such a remark from him.
“Then my presence has, indeed, become irksome to you?” Her tone and manner implied more than she cared to display.
“You know better than that, Mabel; but I-we both are sadly out of harmony; perhaps have exhausted each other. Let us part, and each find ourselves. We shall be brighter and happier when we come together, Mabel; shall we not?” and he laid his hand tenderly on her head.
O, why cannot two at least see things in their true light? Why was it that she remained so blind to the real state of affairs? Either ignorance or wilfulness kept her from the light, and coldly bidding him good night, she left the room.
The next day was indeed gloomy. Mabel's parents had become acquainted, not with the facts, but with a distorted view of the case, and in their eyes she was a greatly abused woman. It was no longer any use for her husband to exert himself for their happiness, the poison of prejudice had entered their minds, and tinctured every thought.
It was a painful parting. Misconception on one side, and deep suffering with pride, upon the other. No lighting of the eyes, no pressure of the hand, no warm good-bye, to keep his heart alive while she was away.
He stood, after the cars had left, deeply pondering the strange affair, until the crowd jostled him, and brought him back to the external world, with its toil, its sounds of mirth, and its varied forms of life.
What a break in his usual peaceful life; what a void he found in his soul when he entered the silent home. There was no lingering atmosphere of love about the rooms; everything was put away out of sight. The order was painful, and he left to seek companionship if not sympathy.
“What is it like, Dawn?”
“Like a great Soul that has absorbed a million lives into its own, and cannot rest, it is so full of joy and sadness,” and she fixed her gaze more intently on the foam-crested waves.
It was the first time she had seen the ocean, and her father's keen enjoyment watching her enraptured, wondering gaze, afforded Miss Vernon another source of pleasure, aside from the wide expanse of beauty, which stretched from shore to horizon.
The three, according to Mr. Wyman's promise, had come to enjoy the pleasures and beauties of the seaside for a few weeks, as well as to see the different phases of human character which were daily thronging there.
It was intensely interesting to Miss Vernon to watch the child's eager interest in this glorious display of nature, and her strange insight into the character of the people with whom they were in daily contact.
There was one faint, gentle girl, about twenty years of age, who walked every evening alone, and whom Miss Vernon watched with great interest.
“I like her, too,” said Dawn, coming close to her teacher one evening, as she walked up and down on the beach.
“Who? and how do you know I like her.”
“Why, the lady there, walking in front of us. I feel you like her.”
“I am glad you do, Dawn. And now tell me why you love her.”
“I love her because she is white.”
“You mean that she is pure. I think she is.”
“Yes. I mean that and something else.”
“What?”
“In one of my lessons, you told me, that some objects were white, because they absorbed none of the rays, but reflected all.”
“You must explain your singular application-or in plain words, tell me how she reflects all, and takes none.”
“Why, because she don't take the life from people, but gives to them.”
“You know just what I mean-she throws it back to themselves purified by her light.” And the child's face was not her own, another's shone through it.
“Very good, Dawn, I hope we shall sometime know this pure young lady, and receive a brightness from her,” said Miss Vernon, talking more to herself than the strange child who was dancing at that moment in time to the waves.
“According to your scientific symbol, I suppose we shall see some black people here before we go,” she said laughingly to the child.
“Yes, there are plenty of those everywhere. They take all the light, and give none out. But see, Miss Vernon, the lady is sitting on a rock and weeping, may I go to her?”
“Would it not be an intrusion?”
“Yes, sometimes, but not now. May I go? Papa would let me, I think.”
“You must ask him. I had rather not give you such a liberty.”
“Then I will,” and she flew at the top of her speed to the bank where he was sitting.
“May I go and see that lady out on the rock, papa?”
“Why? Do you know her?”
“No, but I must go,” and as she spoke Dawn's eyes had that strange look which betokened an inner vision.
“Yes, daughter, go,” was his answer, and she bounded from his side, and was close to the weeping stranger, in an instant.
Her father watched her with the deepest interest, and almost wished himself within hearing.
She did not approach the stranger quietly, but with one bound sprang and threw her arms around her neck, saying in a voice deeper and stronger than her own:
“Pearl, I am here. Weep no more!”
The young girl thrilled, but not with terror, for to her such things were of frequent occurrence. Yet the proof to her now of the presence of the unseen was of such a positive nature, more tangible than she had felt for months, that all her accumulated doubts gave way, and the pure waters of faith flowed over her soul.
Here, among strangers, where none knew her name, or her grief, had the voice of her loved one spoken. Why should she doubt? Why should thousands, who have every day a similar experience?
She rose from her position, and taking the hand of the child, which thrilled strangely to her touch, walked towards the house.
“Do you love the sea?” she asked of the little stranger.
“O, ever so much. I mean to ask papa to live here forever,” and she looked enthusiastically towards the receding waves.
“Do you live here?” asked Dawn.
“No; my home is far away. I come here to rest.”
“Was that what made you weep? Was you weary?”
“Yes, dear. My soul is very weary at times.”
“Is the sea weary when it moans?” and she looked wonderingly over the wide expanse of changing waves.
“I think it is; but I must leave you now; I see your friends are looking for you.”
But Dawn would not let her pass on. She held her hand tighter, and said:
“This is my papa, and this is my teacher.”
“I hope my child has not annoyed you, Miss,” said Mr. Wyman, as he gazed on the face of the beautiful stranger before them.
“Far from it, sir. She has comforted me. Children, under ordinary circumstances, are ever welcome, but when they bring proof-”
She stopped, fearful that she might not be understood.
“I comprehend it, Miss. I saw another life than her own in her eyes, else I should not have permitted her to have gone to you.”
“I thank you both,” said the gentle girl, and bowing gracefully, she went towards the house.
“Is she not white, Miss Vernon?” asked Dawn, exultingly, when the stranger was out of hearing.
“Yes, she is beautiful and pure.”
“I hope she was comforted, for her face has a look of sorrow, deeper than we often see on one so young,” remarked Mr. Wyman, who had been enlightened by Miss Vernon on Dawn's strange application of soul-science.
“Yes, she was, papa. Some one in the air made me speak and call her name. It's 'Pearl'; is n't it pretty? O, see those clouds, papa,” she cried, with thrilling ecstasy; “I hope they will look just like that when I die.”
“You are weary now, darling; we must go in,” said her father, watching with jealous eyes the snow-white and crimson clouds which lay on the horizon, just above the foaming waves.
“There are some people here from L—,” said Miss Vernon, as she and Mr. Wyman sat together on the piazza the next morning, watching the changing sea.
“Ah, who are they; any of our friends?”
“I have never seen them at your house. Two ladies,—a Mrs. Foster and sister. Do you know them?”
“I know that there are such people in L—. When did they arrive? I have not seen them.”
“Last evening; but you do not look particularly pleased. Will they disturb you?”
“I do not mean they shall, although they are busybodies, and know every one's affairs better than their own.”
“So I judged by their conversation last evening, which I could not but overhear, as they talked so loud, their room being next to mine, and their door open.”
“Of whom were they speaking?”
“Of a Mr. and Mrs. Deane. I think I have heard you allude to them.”
“I have; nice good people too. As usual, I suppose they were charging them with all sorts of foibles and misdemeanors.”
“I heard one of them assert that Mr. and Mrs. Deane had parted, and that she had gone to live with her parents.”
“It cannot be! Howard Deane is too just and honorable for anything of that nature; but if they have, there are good reasons for it. I think I will write him this very morning, and urge him to come and bring his wife to this beautiful spot for a few days. Will you lend me your folio, Florence? Mine is up two flights of stairs, and I would really like to be waited on this morning.”
She flew to her room, and returned and placed it before him, and then went in search of Dawn.
Selecting a delicate sheet from its orderly arranged contents he commenced,—
“My Dear Friend Howard.
“Come and spend a few days in this loveliest of—”
At this point a strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and another placed over his eyes.
“I am here;” said a well-known voice, “so throw aside pen and paper. We will commence in a better way.”
“Why? when? where did you come from, and how came you to select this place?”
“I came this morning; arrived ten minutes ago from L—. Did not 'select' this place; the place drew me here. Now I have answered all your interrogatories, may I ask you how long you have been here, and why you did not let me know you were coming?”
“Two days only. I should have told you, but did not suppose you could leave for a moment, knowing the pressure of your business. But how is your wife? She is here of course?”
His averted face did not reveal the look of pain which passed over it, as he replied:
“She is not well, and went home with her mother.”
“So you was lonely and betook yourself to this scene of life to pass the hours away. You could not have chosen a better place. I hope the period of your stay here is not limited to a few days.”
“Instead of that it is indefinite.”
The tone of his voice was too sad to be mistaken, and Mr. Wyman began to think that there might be some truth in the rumor which Florence had heard.
He glanced at Mr. Deane's face, and read all he had failed to see when he first met him.
“I hope nothing has occurred to mar your pleasure while here; at least nothing but what the waves will wash away?”
“The sea is a good place for the soul-weary, as well as for the light of heart. I cannot, however, leave my burden here. I am, indeed, very sad, Hugh. Are you much engaged? If not, we will take a walk together,” he said, in tones which plainly implied a need of a companion like Mr. Wyman.
“I have nothing to do, now you have arrived and saved me the laborious effort of writing to you.”
“Then you wished me here?”
“I did. My thoughts went out to you this morning. I felt that you needed a change.”
“I do indeed;” and they walked together for awhile, then sat beneath the shade of a tree, whose long outstretched branches seemed to wave benedictions on their heads.
“I need change, but human sympathy most. Mabel has gone from me. It is not a corporal separation only, but one of soul and heart.”
“Mabel gone! Is it, indeed, true? But the separation cannot last; she will surely return to your love and protection. Howard, I am glad you are h; ere. Some unseen power must have brought you to this place, where you can unburden your grief, and take better and clearer views of the case.”
“Then you think she will come again to me?”
“Certainly; and you will both be stronger for the temporary separation.”
“I could bear it better were I not so sensitive to the opinion of the world.”
“You must rise above that. There is no growth to him who, seeking the new, fears to lose his grasp on the old. These backward glances retard the pilgrim on his way. Do what you feel to be right, and care for no man's words or opinions.”
“I wish I had your strength, Hugh.”
“I think you were sent here to me to be strengthened. God's hand is in the cloud as well as the sunshine, and I know He will work good from the seeming evil that encompasses you.”
“Your words cause me at least to hope.”
“This separation will work good for both of you.”
“I felt myself, when I found my love doubted and my truthfulness questioned, that it would be best for us.”
“Then you favored it?”
“I did.”
“I am glad it was so. You will each have an opportunity to know yourselves, and how much you are to each other. When together, words take the place of thoughts, while absence ever kindles the flame of holy love, and by its light we see our own short-comings, and our companion's virtues. Were I you, I should look on this as one of the greatest opportunities of my life to test my heart's true feelings towards one whose affection had grown cold, or rather whose understanding had become clouded; for I doubt not her heart is as warm as when you led her to the altar. Like yonder receding wave, her love will return to you again, while to her restless soul you must be as firm as this rocky coast.”
“Woman's love,” he continued, “is stronger, mightier than man's. It is no argument against their devotion that they are changeable. So is this ocean. Each hour a different hue comes upon its surface, but the depth is there. Thus is woman's soul full of varied emotions; the surface play is sometimes dark, at others reflecting the blue of the heavens above. Yes, they are deeper, higher than ourselves, and every day's experience attests to the fact of their superior delicacy and nicer perceptions. Their keen insight into daily matters, their quick sense of everything pertaining to religious and social life, are to me proofs of their fine qualities.”
“But their inconsistency at times wars with your assertions.”
“No; it is sterner stuff that reasons most; they are nicer in their perceptions, and feel instinctively their way into questions over which we work and solve alone by long reasoning.”
“I believe it is so.”
“Then you have advanced one step. We cannot appreciate woman too highly. That many do foolish things is no proof that many are not wise and good, bearing crosses day after day which would make you and I ready to lie down and die-they ever do great things, either good or bad, and men, I hope, will some day place her image next to his maker's, and look upon it as to him the holiest and highest on earth-the best gift of God.”
“Why, Hugh, you are wild upon this subject.”
“I am awake, and hope I shall never slumber.”
“Your words have given me rest, and stirred my best emotions. I will write to Mabel to-night. But yesterday and I felt that all women were as fickle as these waters. I am changed, and your remarks have caused me to think differently.
“I have not changed your mind, I have only brought some of your better feelings to the surface.”
“And what is that but change?”
“It may be, that it is. Do you not see that something mightier than yourself brought you here, where your morbid feelings will pass away,—though I do not wonder that you felt as you did, neither can I blame you. The human soul has many sides, and turns slowly to the light.”
“If I had your penetration, I could bear the discords of life.”
“We must learn not only to bear them, but to gather wisdom from their teachings. If we cannot grow under to-day's trial, we surely cannot under to-morrow's.”
“I begin to feel that we shall both be better for this estrangement.”
“You will, and come together, on a higher plane. Married people live in such close relations that each becomes absorbed by the other, and then having nothing fresh to give, what was once attraction becomes repulsion. I see these things so plainly myself that the criticism, and may be, censure of a multitude, jealous of personal freedom, affects me no more than the passing breeze. I know that if I stand upon a mount and behold a beautiful scene beyond, that it is there, although the people below may declare with positiveness that it is not. A man knows nothing of the value of his wife who sees not other women and learns their thoughts.”
“True. I have felt for a long time that I needed a fresh mind with which to hold converse, and my seeking one, although accidental, has brought about this state of things.”
“And that person?”
“Was Miss Evans.”
“I remember; and the evening, I asked you to call and leave the magazine. Little did I think of such a result, which I should regret, perhaps, did I not fully believe that all things are ordered and arranged for our best good. Long and prayerfully I have studied this question, so vital and so closely allied to our best interests. I could not gleam even a ray of truth did I not live above the crowd and fearlessly pursue my own way. I see no escape from our thraldom, but through soul expanse, and this is produced only through soul liberty. I loved my Alice most when I was learning her through others; I am still learning and loving her each day, through my child and our friend Miss Vernon. With all our laws, we have and ever have had haunts of vice. Will the emancipation of soul increase their number? I think not. If men and women can be brought together on loftier planes we shall not have these excresences. The sexes need to be purely blended; they will approach each other, and it is for society to say how. Block up harmless social avenues and we shall have broad roads to destruction. I know husbands and wives who are consuming, instead of refreshing each other's lives. Yes, Howard, this is your great opportunity to take your position and draw your wife up to it. Life will be a new thing to you, and all of us who can accept these truths. Our present forms and ceremonies hold us apart, and there is scarcely a ripple of spontaneity upon life's surface. The highest hours, and those most productive of good, are when two souls converse and reflect each other's innermost states.”
It was not by words that they knew each other, but when their eyes met each felt that the other had passed some ordeal which made their souls akin.
The stranger to whom Miss Vernon had been so drawn, met her on the beach the next morning, and asked her to walk with her.
“I would like to tell you,” she said, “of my strange experience last night; perhaps these things are not new to you,” and she went on in a confiding tone at Miss Vernon's visible look of deep interest;—
“I was weeping, as you may have noticed, when your strange and lovely pupil came to me,—weeping for the loss of one to whom I was betrothed. No mortal save myself knew the name which he gave me on the day of our engagement. It was 'Pearl.' My own name is Edith Weston. Judge of my emotion and surprise, when that child-a total stranger-came and spake my name in his exact tones. I have had other tests of spirit presences as clear and as positive, but none that ever thrilled me like this. Do you wonder that I already love that child with a strange, deep yearning?”
“I do not. I have myself had proof through her that our dear departed linger around, and are cognizant of our sorrows as well as our joys.”
“Perhaps you too have loved.”
“Yes; but not like yourself. My mother's love is the only love I have known.”
“And you are an orphan like myself?”
“I am.”
“That is what drew us together. And may I know your name?”
“Florence Vernon. And I was attracted to you the first time I saw you.”
“I cannot tell you how glad I am to experience these proofs of human ties. It is a pleasure to me to think that wherever we go we shall meet some one who loves us. I am a dependent character, as you no doubt have perceived. I need the assurance and support of stronger minds even when I see my own way clear. Some there are who can see and go forth. I need to be led.”
“I hope you are fortunate enough to have some stronger mind about you. We are not all alike, and the vine nature must have something upon which it may cling and find support, or otherwise it will trail in the dust.”
“I am not thus fortunate. I have no one on whom to lean, or to whom I can look for guidance. Shall you remain long here?” she asked, fearing she had spoken too freely of herself.
“We shall stay until we have received all that this atmosphere and these scenes can supply us with. It will then be our duty to go.”
“I like that. I must go away very soon to join my aunt who is obliged to remain among the mountains, as the sea air does not agree with her. But look, Miss Vernon, here comes Mr. Wyman and another gentleman!” and she seemed greatly disappointed at the interruption.
“Miss Weston, Mr. Deane,” said Florence, introducing them, and the next instant she watched with earnest gaze the look of admiration which he gave the timid girl. It was not a bold or intrusive look, but such an one as a man might have bestowed were he suddenly ushered into the presence of his highest conception of female worth and loveliness.
Every line of his features betokened the keenest admiration, while her glance was far over the sea. Hugh saw the look, too, and was glad.
Miss Vernon trembled, she knew not why. She wished that he had not come to the sea-shore, and that the beautiful stranger was all her own.
The four walked together on the beach, until the heat of the day, and then Miss Weston withdrew.
“The finest face I ever saw,” said Mr. Deane, watching her figure till she was out of sight, “and as lovely in soul as in form and features, I perceive.” Then turning to Miss Vernon, he said:
“I see you harmonize. I am really glad it is so, for you can help each other very much.”
Mr. Deane dropped the conversation, and assumed an air of abstraction, his gaze fixed on the blue waves-his thoughts none knew where.
Hugh and Florence walked to the house and seated themselves in the shade, within view of the sea. Then he told her in his clear, brief way, of what had transpired between Mr. Deane and his wife, with the remark that it was far better she should be informed of the true state of affairs, and thus be guarded against the evil of false reports.
“I saw your look of concern when he met Miss Weston-”
She looked wonderingly in his face.
“You feared for him, and her then. That was natural. I see beyond, and that no harm will come from any attachment that may arise. I hope to see them often together.”
“Mr. Wyman, if I did not know you, I should sometimes fear your doctrines.”
“I have no doctrines.”
“Well, theories then.”
“No theories either. I follow nature, and leave her to perfect all things. Sometimes you think I am not sufficiently active; that I sit an idle looker on.
“What! do you know my every thought-everything that passes through my mind?” she asked, a a little agitated.
“Nearly all, or rather that which goes with your states of progression.”
She was vexed a little, but as the lesser ever turns to the greater, the earth to the sun for light,—so she, despite difference of temperament and mental expansion, was inclined to rest on his judgment.
“This pure girl will give him a deeper faith in woman, unconsciously to herself, and he will become a better man; therefore fear not when you see them together, that he will lose his love for his wife. Yes, she will do him good, as you, Florence, are every day benefiting me.”
“Do I? Do I make you better?” she asked in a quick, nervous way; and her soul flooded her soft, brown eyes.
“You do, Florence, and make me stronger every day; while your deepening womanhood is my daily enjoyment. You give me an opportunity to know myself, and that there are many holy relations between men and women beside the conjugal.”
Mrs. Foster lost no time in informing the people of L—of the movements of Mr. Deane. She well knew there were persons who would circulate the report, and that it would finally reach his wife, even though she was several miles away. The report was, that Mr. Deane had brought a young lady to the sea-shore, and was seen walking with her every day and evening, and that they both were greatly enamoured with each other.
Strange to say, Mrs. Deane, weary and sad, left her parents and returned to her home just before her husband's letter reached its destination, and just in time to hear the narration of his strange conduct.
Howard gone, no one knew where, save from the vague and scandalous report of a few busy tongues; no letter telling where he was, and her soul sank, and all its good resolves faded away. When she left her parents that morning, she fully resolved to meet him with all the love of her heart, for she had found that love beneath the rubbish of doubt and jealousy that had for a time concealed it. It was not strange, therefore, that all the fond trust died out when she realized that he had gone, and the bitter waters returned stronger and deeper over her hope.
Shall we ever reach a world where we shall not have to plod through so much doubt and misgiving, and where our real feelings will be better understood?
“He will surely come back soon,” she said again and again to herself, while the veil of uncertainty hung black before her troubled vision. Every day she listened for his footsteps, till heart-sick and weary she returned to her parents, and told them all her grief and all her fears.
An hour later they handed her his letter, received an hour after her departure, and which her father had carried every day in his pocket and forgotten to re-mail to her.
While every one in L—was rehearsing the great wrong which, in their estimation, Mr. Deane had done his wife, she was eagerly absorbing every word of his warm-hearted letter, which he wrote on the day of his conversation with Mr. Wyman. Could she have received it before she returned again to her old home, how different would she and her parents have felt towards him. It was only for them she cared now. In vain she argued and tried to reinstate him in their good graces; but words failed, and she felt that time and circumstance alone were able to reconcile them.
She longed to go to him, but he had not asked her, and only said at the close:
“I shall return when I feel that we are ready to love each other as in the past. Not that I do not love you, Mabel, but I want all the richness of your affection, unclouded by distrust. We have been much to each other; we shall yet be more. When I clasp you to my heart again, all your fears will vanish. Be content to bear this separation awhile, for 'tis working good for us both.”
She read it over a score of times, felt the truthfulness of his words, but could not realize how it was possible for the separation to benefit them. To her the days seemed almost without end. To him they were fraught with pleasure, saddened they might be a little with a thought of the events so lately experienced, but gladdened by the sunshine of new scenes, inspirited with new and holy emotions. It was well for her weak faith that Mrs. Deane did not see him that very evening walking with Miss Weston upon the sea-shore, engaged in close conversation. She would have questioned how it was possible that under such conditions his love for herself was growing more intense; not thinking, in her shallow philosophy, that the contrast of two lives exhibits more fully the beauties of each, and that it was by this rule she was growing in his affections.
“We must wait awhile for our friends, Miss Weston; I see they are in the rear,” and he spread his shawl upon a rock, motioning her to be seated, close by the foam-white waves.
Mr. Wyman and Florence soon came along. They had forgotten the presence of every one. Nothing engaged their attention but the lovely scene before them, while the moon's light silvered the rippling surface of the waters. Their communion was not of words as they all sat together that lovely summer eve. Soul met soul, and was hushed and awed in the presence of so much that was entrancing, and when they separated each was better for the deep enjoyment they had mutually experienced.
“I may seem strange,” remarked Miss Weston to her new friend, Miss Vernon, the next morning, as they sat looking at the sea, so changed in its aspect from that of the evening before, “that I should in the company of comparative strangers, feel so little reserve. I know my aunt would chide me severely, but I have not felt so happy for many years. It may be that the influence of the ocean is so hallowed and peaceful that our souls live their truer lives, but I have never before opened my heart so fully to strangers. I wonder if I have overstepped any of the lines of propriety?”
“I might have thought so once, but I see and feel differently now. I think the soul knows its kin, and that it is not a matter of years but of states which causes it to unfold.”
“I am glad you feel so. I seemed so strange to myself, ever conservative, now so open and free. I do not feel towards any of the others here as I do towards you and your friends. I regret that I have not a few days more to enjoy you all,” she said quite sadly, “as my aunt has written for me to come to her the last of this week.”
Miss Vernon could not help thinking how much more this fair being had to impart to her aunt, for this season of rest and enjoyment. “I wonder if the time will ever come,” she often asked herself, “when we can go when and where we gravitate, and not be forced mechanically.”
“I wish people could follow their natural attractions once in a while, at least,” said Miss Edith, and she fixed her fair blue eyes on the sea.
Florence started; for it seemed as though she had read her thoughts.
“I suppose these limitations and restrictions are for our good, else they would not be,” replied Miss Vernon.
“And the desire to shake them off is natural, if not right; is it not?”
“Natural, no doubt, and pleasant, if we could have the desire granted; but duty is greater than desire, and circumstances may at times impel us to the performance of the one rather than favor us with the gratification of the other. What I mean is, that it is our duty sometimes to take a part in scenes in which our hearts cannot fully sympathize.”
“And yet you say you are attracted heart and mind to Mr. Wyman and his daughter. Is it not possible that, notwithstanding this, your duty calls you elsewhere,—that some other soul may be in need of your presence?”
“You have questioned me very close, Miss Weston, but I will answer you promptly: I know of no one who needs me, else I should certainly go. Remember this,—in following our attractions we should never lose sight of our duties. They should go hand in hand.”
“Very true. I feel that my aunt needs me, and I will go at once; this very day. I have lost a part of my restless self, and gained the repose I so much needed, since I have been here; and I am indebted to you and your friends for the exchange. Now I will go where duty calls.”
“You have decided right, and I have no doubt you will be amply remunerated for the seeming sacrifice you are making of the few days of happiness you would have had in longer remaining here, had not the summons come for you to leave.”
“I do not doubt it; and yet Miss Vernon, I need your atmosphere. How I wish our lives could mingle for awhile.”
“If there ever comes a time when no earthly tie binds you, when duty will permit you to follow this attraction, come and live with us, and remain as long as you wish.”
“With you?” exclaimed the astonished girl. “Can I? Is Mr. Wyman willing?”
“He has authorized me to invite you.”
“But would it be right? Will it certainly be agreeable to him?”
“Most assuredly. We all love you, and as for Mr. Wyman, he never invites those to his home in whom he has no interest. So come. I know you will.”
“Thank him, for me,” warmly responded Miss Weston, “and I trust the time will arrive when I can more practically demonstrate how much I thank you all for your kindness.”
The morning was spent by Miss Weston in packing her trunk, and making ready for her departure, much to the surprise of Mr. Wyman, and to the disappointment of Mr. Deane, who had hoped for a longer enjoyment of hours of communion with one so rich in goodness and innocence of heart.
In her atmosphere all his hardness seemed to pass away. She was balm to his troubled soul; light to his darkened vision. She would go that day, and life, busy life, close over the fresh, happy hours, and perchance never again before his vision would come that fair young face.
He asked permission to ride with her to the station, and see to her baggage and tickets. It was cheerfully granted, and in a moment all was over. The train came, stopped but a second, then moved on, and was soon hid from sight by a sharp curve. Then his past life came over this little break, this brief respite, and he felt that he, too, was ready to go and kindle anew the waning flame upon his domestic hearth.
Dawn, to the surprise of her father, was greatly delighted when she found Miss Weston was going.
“She is wanted there; some one in the air told me,” she said, and clapped her hands in glee.
Her departure made quite a break in the little party, and when Mr. Deane made ready to go the next day, Florence and Mr. Wyman both felt that their own stay was about over.
Judge of their surprise two days after, to receive a note from Miss Weston, saying that her aunt had been seized with paralysis of the brain the day she arrived, and would not recover.
Every test of this nature strengthened Mr. Wyman in the belief in his daughter's vision, and he felt that there could be no safer light placed in his path for him to follow; a light which no more interferes with man's individuality or reasoning powers than the falling of the rays of the sun upon the earth.
The cry of the multitude is, that mediumship and impressibility detract from individual life, lessens the whole tone of manhood, and transforms the subject to a mere machine. Such conclusions are far from correct. Our whole being is enriched, and made stronger and fuller by true impressibility. Are we in any degree depleted if we for a time become messengers to bear from friend to friend, words of love, cheer and encouragement? Are we mere machines, because we obey the promptings of the unseen and go where sorrow sits with bowed head, or want and misery wait for relief? If so, we are in good service, and have the consciousness of knowing, that, being thus the instruments of God's will, we cannot be otherwise than dear to him.
All matter is mediumistic. Life is tributary, one phase to another, and soul to soul speaks suggestively.
The ocean has its fullness from tributary streams which flow to its bed.
Lives alone are great that are willing to be fed.