Three years had swept by, with their lights and shadows, bringing no change to the house of Mr. Wyman, save the daily unfolding of Dawn's character, and the deepening happiness of all.
Mr. Wyman had promised Dawn that when she was eighteen he would take her to Europe.
Miss Vernon passed her time very happily, dividing it between teaching, study, and labor, and found herself improving daily, both spiritually and physically; indeed, such a change had come over her whole nature, that she could scarce believe herself the same being that entered Mr. Wyman's home, three years previous. Life opened daily to her such rich opportunities for usefulness and growth, that no day seemed long enough to execute her plans.
Mr. Temple, whom the reader will remember as one of the guests of the party, came often to Mr. Wyman's, and soon found himself greatly interested in Miss Vernon.
It was a new experience to her to contrast him with Hugh, and to learn to analyze the new feeling which suffused her being,—that deep, undercurrent which lies beneath all surface emotions and interests, namely, Love.
How broad, deep and rich her being grew. How near and dear to her now seemed Hugh, her friend and brother. How sharply were the lines of their true relation defined,—a relation as pure as untrodden snow. Her heart overflowed with thankfulness to the giver of all good, who had brought her feet into such pleasant paths of peace.
In the same spot where ten years ago Mr. Wyman and fair Alice were seated, sat Herbert Temple and Florence. The night was as fair and cloudless, while the rustle of the trees alone broke the stillness. Pale moonbeams rested at their feet, while words of love flowed between them.
“I think I found my way to your heart the first evening I saw you, for I felt my being thrill as though I had another life pulsing with my own; am I right?”
She raised her eyes to his, and answered in words which he ever treasured,—
“It was so, Herbert. I felt as though I was stepping from my own confines; as though some strong hand had taken mine, and infused new life into my being. It was when you played, Herbert, that I was absorbed in your soul.”
“It was you, Florence, who helped me to play. I felt and was inspired by your interest, your appreciation, for no one can do such things alone. I never play as I did that night, when alone. Now, that I shall have you always to help, shall we not be happy?”
“O, Herbert, will these days last? Will love bind us the same in years to come?”
“No, not the same; but deeper, holier, if we do not exhaust ourselves by free ownership.”
“You talk like Hugh,” she said, resting her hand on his arm, and looking out on the soft, still scene before them.
“I would I could talk like him. While I admit no oracles, I confess I admire his views, and his life which is a perfect transcript of his theories.”
“He is a noble man, Herbert, and has done much towards my development. I thought I loved him all I could, but since you have come to my life, I feel nearer than ever to him.”
“Such is the law, and beautiful it is, that true love expands our being, while the opposite contracts it. Hugh's views at first seemed wild, and rather disorderly, but close contact with the man, and opportunities of knowing him, in public and private, have made me acquainted with his worth. Love him always, Florence, and when I take you to my home never fear that I shall not understand you need to see him at times alone, for he will need you. You have been friends, and friends need each other. I am not taking you from him in soul and heart; I will but help you to give yourself to him, with your being made richer by my love.”
Florence had no words with which to thank him. She only nestled closer to the heart which loved her so well.
“How lovely this night is,” she said, breaking the long silence which followed; “the stillness is so sacred, I would not for worlds disturb it with a sound, even of the sweetest music.”
“Your words give me much comfort, Florence, for long have I wanted some one who could sympathize with me on that subject. To most persons, sound alone is considered music; to me, a night like this should not be jarred save by soft vibrations of aeolian strings. And the same of beautiful scenery. I cannot bear to hear one burst forth in song, for the landscape is to me, in itself, a Te Deum, a perfect song of praise.”
“I am made happy by your words, Herbert, for there are moments when music seems to me to be so sadly out of place, that I feel almost like crushing the instrument and performer together. And now may I ask you, why the music of some performers gives me pain instead of pleasure? I know, but I want your answer. We will take Miss York, for instance; she is full of hearty, earnest life, robust and strong. I know she plays in time and tune, and sings correctly, but I feel all out of tune, and completely disharmonized when she performs in my presence.”
“I fully comprehend your feelings. I have had the same myself, and my interpretation of it is that I cannot accept the music through her organism; or, rather, her atmosphere being between the subject and the auditor, the latter feels only time and sound, not music, not the idea the composer designed to convey. Is not that it?”
“Exactly. After all, there are very few who are organized sufficiently delicate to translate music.”
“True, Florence; how many seek the glorious art, not for its uplifting power, but as a means of display. Let us love it for the good it does for mankind, and use it, not for the end, but as a means, of enjoyment.”
“I play but seldom, Herbert, dearly as I love it.”
“I am not sorry to hear that. I think that greater good is obtained by not being too much in its immediate sphere. Of course greater mechanical skill is acquired by constant practice, but I know by my own experience that when the soul has reached a certain height of culture, the physical nature becomes subordinate to the spiritual, and is controlled by it, because the two natures are then replete with harmony, and the fullness of the one finds expression through the other,—the hand moves in complete obedience to the spirit. Dearly as I love music, I cannot hear or execute it too often. On this I am pleased to see we agree. The air is growing chilly; we will go in and sing one song before we part. What shall it be?”
“The Evening Song to the Virgin,” she answered.
Seating himself at the instrument, he played the prelude soft and low, then their voices mingled in that graceful, gliding song, as only voices can mingle that are united in the harmony of love.
It filled the whole air with sweetness, and Hugh's senses revelled in the holy spell, as he sat alone on the piazza, thinking of the past, his lovely Alice, and the beautiful child which was left to bless his years.
No other song followed; none could. Florence listened to the retreating footsteps of her lover, and then sat in the moonlight to think of her joys.
Howard Deane was weary. Life had not gone pleasantly with him, since we introduced him to the reader. His business, so lucrative and once full of interest, demanding his closest attention, now seemed of no account. Existence had become to him a round of duties mechanically performed. The very air was leaden, and void of life. He needed a revivifying influence, something to invigorate him. His energies languished, and there seemed no one to extend to him a helping hand, as his wife was at deadly variance with those who could have given him what he was so much in want of.
The fire had gone out on his domestic altar, for no trusting wife sat there. She was dark and heavy in soul. They had become strangers to each other, not by roaming, but by a too close relationship.
Mrs. Deane had returned only bodily to her home; her heart and mind were on a sea of doubt, at the mercy of every wind and wave. No ripple of love broke their long silence, as they sat together in their home. They each felt lonely, and would have been far less so apart. Mr. Deane at length broke the spell, by saying,—
“I am going to the mountains next week, Mabel; would you like to go?”
“I am going home. Mother has sent for me. I may as well be there as here; no one will miss me.”
She had better have left the words unsaid, and saw it herself in the dark, contracted brow of her husband, who replied,—
“I shall go alone. It is best I should. You can remain with your parents the remainder of the season, for I shall not be back for months,” then abruptly left the room.
The words were as decisive as his manner. She felt she had gone too far, and would have given worlds to retract. But it was too late; he was now out of hearing.
What had come over their lives? They were treading a road thick with dust, which rose at every step, soiling their once white garments. Surely they needed a baptism to make them pure.
The cloud which overhung their sky held the heavenly water which would make them clean.
It came in the form of sickness. Their eldest boy laid ill and near unto death. Hope and fear alternated in their hearts as they stood beside the little one, and saw a raging fever course through his veins, and day by day the full form wasted away. Thus the baptismal waters flowed over their souls, and they wept together. Joy beamed from their faces when the dread crisis was past, and they were told he would live. Through sorrow they were reunited. They had wandered, but were returning with life and love in their hearts, and crowns of forgiveness in their hands. Thus do we ever become strong through our sufferings, and seeming evils work our good, for they are parts of the great unity of life.
Mrs. Deane lessened her prejudices, and learned to know and love those whom her husband had found worthy, and among them, Miss Evans. With her she passed many pleasant hours, and that noble woman made known to her, many paths of rest and peace which she had previously through her ignorance and jealousy, persistently shunned.
The years sped on; some were gathered to their homes above; some found new relations and strong ties to bind them here, until, at length, Dawn's eighteenth birth-day came, bright and sunny over the eastern hills. On the morrow, with her father, she was to leave for the city where they were to embark for England. The morning was passed in receiving the calls of friends, and later Mr. and Mrs. Temple and Miss Evans came to dine with them. The evening was spent by Dawn alone with her father.
The next day, Florence, now a happy wife and mother, came to see them off. It had seemed to her for a month previous that all her partings with them had been final adieus, and now the moment was at hand which was really to separate them-for how long she knew not. It was not strange that a vein of sadness ran through the pleasure of the hour. But each strove to conceal aught that would mar the joy with which Dawn anticipated her journey, and the gladness which Florence would experience on their return was by her made to do service at this their time of departure.
Hugh took the hand of Florence in his own, and held it so closely that his very soul seemed to vibrate its every nerve. Then his lips touched her brow; fond good-byes were exchanged, the quick closing of the carriage door was heard, and they were gone.
Statue-like stood Florence for several moments, then going to the room she had for so many years occupied, she permitted her tears to flow, tears which she had kept back so nobly for their sake. Her husband walked through the garden with a sense of loneliness he scarce expected to experience; and then back to the library, where he awaited the appearance of his wife.
She came down soon with a smile on her face, but the swollen eyes showed the grief she had been struggling with.
“We must look cheerful for Miss Evans' sake,” he said, kissing her; for, somehow he felt as though she too had gone, and he must assure himself that it was not her shadow alone that stood before him.
“It is so nice,” she said brightly, “that Hugh has prevailed on Miss Evans to remain here during his absence. It would be so lonely with only Aunt Susan at home. As it is, we can see the library and drawing-room open, and we shall not feel his absence so keenly.”
“And what a charming place for her to write her book in,” remarked Herbert, walking to the bay-window that overlooked the garden.
“We can come over every week and see her and the house, which will be next thing to seeing Dawn and her father,” said his wife, earnestly.
Despite all his theory, his large and unselfish heart, a strange feeling came over him, a cloud flitted over his sunny nature. It was hardly discernable, and yet were it to take a form in words, might have displayed itself thus: “I fear she loves them better than me.” He shook the feeling off, as though it was a tempter, and said fondly:
“As our friend Hugh arranged that we take tea in his home to-night, we will go and meet Miss Evans, who, I think, must be near by this time.”
It was Mr. Wyman's desire that Miss Evans should be at his house as soon after they were gone as possible, and establish herself within it. She granted his wish, and requested them to bid her adieu at her own home, which she would close immediately after, and repair to his.
“What an atmosphere she will have to work in,” said Florence, as she arranged a delicate vine over a marble bust. “But come, it will be lonely for Miss Evans to walk all the way by herself, to-day.”
They met her just turning into the path. She had a wreath on her arm, Dawn's parting gift, and a beautiful moss rose-bud in her hair, which Hugh gave her when he bade her good-bye.
“How were they, happy?” were the first words of Florence, anxious to hear a moment later from her dear ones.
“Very happy and bright,” answered Miss Evans, with an inward struggle to keep back a tide of emotion. Florence clasped her hand, and held it in a manner which said, “Let us be close friends while they are away, and help each other.”
The firm pressure assured her that we may talk without words, they entered the house, and sat down to a nice repast, which Dawn had prepared with her own hands, while the room was fragrant with blossoms which she had gathered an hour before her departure.
After supper they walked in the garden, and when twilight came on, returned to the house, and listened to the charming music which came from the instrument, under Herbert's magic touch.
“I expect we shall all dream of sunny France, and dreamy Italy,” said Miss Evans, after the music had ceased, and the time for words had come.
“If we expect to dream, we must place ourselves in proper condition; so we must bid you good night, Miss Evans,” said Mr. Temple, rising.
“I did not expect my words to hasten your departure, Mr. Temple. Can you not stay longer?”
“Not another moment,” he answered, taking his wife's bonnet and shawl, which she had brought from the hall, and putting them upon her. “I expect Florence has gone with our good friends. Come and see us, Miss Evans, soon. Good night; I will speak for both. Florence has gone away in spirit.”
At this Florence roused, and kissed Miss Evans good night. She had no words. She was very weary, and felt glad to know that her home was not far off, only a pleasant walk, for Hugh would not consent that there should be a great distance between them, so long as the freedom to build where they chose was allowed.
Florence was indeed weary; neither the morrow, nor the deep love and devotion of her husband brought her strength back, but she pined day by day.
Miss Evans carried flowers, Dawn's favorites, to her each day, with the hope that she would revive. On the contrary, they only served to keep the spell of languor upon her. At last her husband grew alarmed, and one evening after she had retired to rest, earlier than usual, he sought Miss Evans, who, hearing his step on the carriage path, knew he was alone, and expected to be summoned to his wife.
“How is Florence, to-day?” she inquired, as soon he was seated.
“The same languor oppresses her, and I have come to speak with you about it. Can you enlighten me in regard to her state? Some strange fears have crept into my mind, I suppose, because my nerves are weak, in my anxiety for her.” Here he paused, as though he dared not entertain the thought, much less make it known to another.
In an instant she read his fears.
“I think I understand the cause of your wife's languor, for, although not an educated physician, I lay some claim to a natural perception of the causes of physical and mental ills.”
“Some people are magnetically related.” She continued. “I think Hugh and your wife were bound by spiritual laws which are as sacred as physical. They lived upon each other's magnetism. She will droop for a while, but revive when she receives his letters. He will not feel the change so sensitively, as he has new life and interests before him every moment. This relation ought to be better understood, and will be, I trust, with many others, which are not now recognized as having an existence.”
“Then you think she will recover?”
“Certainly; and a change for the better will be apparent as soon as she receives his first letter. She is only attenuated now, reaching after him, her friend and instructor for so many years.”
“I feared-I almost-forgive me, Miss Evans, for the strange thought, that Florence might, after all, have loved Hugh better than myself. I will not stand in her or any woman's way to happiness, if I know it.”
“Drive that thought from your mind, Herbert.” As she said this with so much depth of earnestness, he noticed that her manner and tone betrayed not a shadow of surprise at his confession, and his face turned inquiringly to her.
“It was a wicked thought, I know; let it rest with you, Miss Evans.”
“It is buried,” she said, “and will never know a resurrection. But as to its being wicked, it was far from that, and very natural.”
“Your words allay my fears, and strengthen my trust.”
“They have lived such an earnest life together that his was a constituent, a part of her own. No wonder that she drooped when this union of vital sympathy was divided. Neither is it strange that you should be agitated by doubts and fears; but let me assure you again, that she by this attraction is none the less your own. She will feel an infusion of his life through his letters, and regain her wonted strength. She is yours, and his too; and more to you because she is much to him.”
A smile of peace settled over his disturbed features, as he took her hand, saying,—
“You have made me strong and trustful, and from this hour my life will flow in broader and deeper channels. My present is bright; my future all radiant with hope.”
“I am very glad that your call has resulted so pleasantly,” said Miss Evans, and as Mr. Temple left she sent her love to Florence, with the assurance that she would soon have the pleasure of welcoming her again to the home of Dawn.
There are two classes that are specially liable to disease,—those who live grossly, and whose lives are spent in scenes of excitement, and those who are finely organized, so delicately constituted, that their nerves vibrate to every jar, not only of the physical but of the moral atmosphere.
There are persons whose routine of daily life is seldom if ever disturbed; whose minds are at ease on material questions. Having enough, and to spare, they seek their pleasure from day to day, with scarcely an interruption of their established course. Such may well be free from the ills of the flesh, and being so, they complacently attack the less fortunate, those whose lives are tumultuous and heavily-laden with their own and other's needs; applying to them such remarks as, “They might live more regular.” “They work too much.” “They do not work enough.” “They go about too much.” “They do do not go about enough;” and having delivered their opinions, these self-satisfied mortals settle themselves down in their comforts, thanking God they are not as other men.
There are lives that are shaken with convulsions; circumstances over which no mortal has control, surge their wild, tempest-waves over them, and all their wishes are of no avail; they must take what is borne to them. Raying out life every moment; pressed on every side, with every faculty strained to its greatest tension, is it a matter of wonder that they become weak, that they sicken and suffer?
Sickness is not a sin, neither is its presence derogatory to our nature. It implies a susceptibility to the inharmonies of life, and is complimentary than otherwise to our organization. They are not to be envied who have never known an hour of pain and languor, for they come not under the discipline and instruction of one of life's great teachers. They are apt to be harsh, and cold, and unfeeling towards their fellows; apt to be boastful of their own strength, and regardless of the delicate sensibilities of others. While we should studiously endeavor to live in harmony with the laws of our being, it is nevertheless true that with all the caution we may exercise, we cannot avoid, if we are spiritually true, the jarring of the inharmonies of this world, and from this as much if not more than from any other cause, come the ills and pains of our earthly life.
These disturbances of the spirit produce to those of fine natures a similar disturbance of their physical condition; then disease follows and makes sad havoc with the temple of the soul.
On a subject so intricate as the cause of disease, only a few hints can here be given.
People become sickly from living too long together; from pursuing continuously one branch of study or labor; from meeting too often with one class of minds; from living on one kind of food, or on food cooked by one person; besides, there are countless other causes; agitations of mind, overtasked and irregular lives are constantly generating impure magnetisms, with which the whole atmosphere is tainted, and which those who are susceptible are forced to absorb.
As there are many causes of disease, there must be many ways of cure. No one system can regulate the disturbances of the complex machinery of the human frame.
Dr. Franklin subjected himself to what was denominated the air bath, as a remedial agent. Others believed in the direct action of the sun, placing themselves beneath glass cupolas to receive it; while still later we have the water-cure, which is thought by many to heal all diseases. These are right in combination, but no one will cure alone.
Does the strong man, with steady nerves, compact muscle, and perfect arterial circulation, need the same remedy when ill, as a less vigorous person, one whose hourly suffering is from a diseased nervous organization?
One member of a family argues that because he can bathe in ice water, another, with more feeble circulation, can do the same, and realize the same results. One man will take no medicine, another swallow scarcely anything else, and thus we find extremes following each other.
One ideaism in this direction is as much to be avoided as in any other. The man of good sense says, “I will take whatever is required to restore the balance of my system.”
Of mental disorders we know little. Asylums for their treatment have multiplied in our midst, but few of the thousands of educated physicians are qualified to minister to a mind diseased. Past modes will not do for to-day. Our conditions are not the same. Our lives are faster, our needs greater. Our grand-parents lived in the age of muscle; we exist in the nerve period, and have new demands, both in our mental and physical structure.
And new light will come in answer to the demand. The eye of clairvoyance is already penetrating beyond science, and traversing the world of causes.
Eagerly Florence broke the seal of her first letter from Hugh. He had arrived safely, and wafted over the sea his own and Dawn's love and remembrance.
“Dawn desires to go to Germany, first,” he wrote, “and as I have business with parties in Berlin, I shall gratify her wish. I thought, all along, how much I wished you were with us, but since writing I feel different. I need you at home to express myself to, when I am overflowing with thought. If you were at my side, when I am seeing all these things, we should both have the feast together, and be done. Now, in rehearsing it to you, I enjoy it over again. Very much we shall have to talk about, when we meet again. How I would like to transmit to your mind the vivid impressions of my own, when I first put my foot on the soil of England; but such things are not possible, and sometime I hope you will be here yourself, and feel the thrill of the old world under your feet.”
This portion of the long and interesting letter so refreshed her, that Miss Evans, when she came in after tea, guessed at once the cause of the sparkling eye that greeted her.
“Letters are wonderful tonics,” said Mr. Temple, laughingly, as he glanced toward Florence.
“That depends from whom they come,” she answered, and repented of it as soon as said. She looked up after a while, but there was no shadow on his face. She saw that he was sharing her joy, and then she knew that not a ripple of doubt would ever disturb their smoothly flowing life.
Miss Evans left at an early hour, and reaching her home, wrote till nearly midnight. Her nature was one that was most elastic at night; her brilliancy seemed to come with the stars.
Page after page fell from her desk to the floor; thought followed thought, till the mortal light seemed to give place to the divine. At length the theme grew so mighty, and words seemed so feeble to portray it, that she laid down the pen and wept,—wept not tears of exhaustion, but of joy at the soul's prospective. Sublime was the scene before her vision; enrapturing the prospect opening before earth's pilgrims, and she felt truly thankful that she was privileged to point out the way to those whose faith was weak, and who walked tremblingly along the road.
She gathered her pages, laid them in order, and then wrote the following in her journal:
“Night, beautiful night; dark below but brilliant above. I am not alone. These stars, some of them marking my destiny, know well my joys and my griefs. They are shining on me now. The waters are darkest nearest the shore, and perchance I am near some haven of rest. I have been tossed for many a year, yet, cease my heart to mourn, for my joys have been great. The world looks on me, and calls me strong. Heaven knows how weak I am, for this heart has had its sorrows, and these eyes have wept bitter tears. The warm current of my love has not departed; it has turned to crystals around my heart, cold, but pure and sparkling. There is a voice that can melt them, as the sun dissolves the frost.-I turn a leaf. This shall not record so much of self, or be so tinged with my own heart's pulsations,—this page now fair and spotless.
“I thought, a month ago, this feeling would never come again. I hold my secret safe; why will my nerves keep trembling so, when down, far down in my soul, I feel so strong?
“To-night I must put around my heart a girdle of strong purpose, and bid these useless thoughts be gone. I must not pulsate so intensely with feeling. My fate is to stand still and weave my thoughts into garlands for others. I must lay a heavy mantle on my breast, and wrap fold after fold upon my heart, that its beating may not be heard. Why have we hearts? Heads are better, and guide us to safer ports.
“'T is past the midnight hour. What scratches of the pen I have put upon this virgin page. So does time mark us o'er and o'er. We must carry the marks of his hand to the shore of the great hereafter. Beyond, we shall drink from whatever fount will best suffice us. Here, we must take the cup as 't is passed to us, bitter or sweet-'t is not ours to choose. These boundaries of self are good. Where should we roam if left to our inclinations? Let me trust and wait God's own time and way.”
“Dear Florence,” wrote Dawn, some months after they had been away, “I have seen gay, smiling France, and beautiful Italy with its wealth of sunlight, and its treasures of art. I have seen classic Greece,—of which we have talked so many hours,—and its fairy islands nestling in the blue Archipelago,—isles where Sappho sang. I have been among the Alps, and have seen the sunset touch with its last gleam, the eternal waste of snow; but more than all, I love dear Germany, the land of music and flowers, scholarship and mystic legends.
“Now, my good friend and teacher, how shall I describe to you my state amid all this new life? At first I felt as though my former existence had been one long sleep, or as I suppose the mineral kingdom might feel in passing to the vegetable order, as some one has expressed it.
“It was an awakening that thrilled my being with intensest delight; a fullness which left nothing to hope for. A new revelation of life has arisen within me, as sudden and grand as the appearing of those mysterious isles which are upheaved in a single night from the depths of the ocean.
“A deeper pulsation than I have ever known, now stirs my blood. I feel the claims of humanity calling me to labor. My purpose is strong; I shall return with this thrill in my heart, and become one of God's willing instruments. That He will own me, I feel in every heart-beat. My mission is to erring women, and you, my friend, will smile, I know, on my purpose.
“The other night I dreamed that a beautiful being stood by my side, while a light, such as I have never seen on earth, shone about her.
“'Tell me,' I said, 'why this heavenly halo is around you? and if I, too, may become like you?'
“'Listen.' She answered. 'Years ago, I lived on earth and passed through much suffering. I seemed to be placed in a close, high building, into which all the light that could enter came from above. I could only look up, with no power to turn to the right or left. After being years in this state, the rays coming thus directly from above, cleansed my soul, whitened my garment, and made it spotless. This light became a part of myself; it followed me to the other world, and now, when I approach earth, it enables me to see all the errors and virtues of humanity. Wouldst thou be willing to become a light by which pilgrims can see the way to Heaven?'
“'I would. My only desire is to do good,' I replied.
“'It is easy to desire this,' she remarked, sadly.
“'But wouldst thou be willing to be almost annihilated, were it by that only you might become a lamp to the pilgrim's feet?'
“I looked into my heart, and think I spoke truthfully, when I answered that I would.
“'Then thou art accepted,' the angel said. 'It shall not be literal annihilation, although akin to it, for all your earthly desires must be swept away; all ambition, fame, learning, friends, must be sacrificed upon this altar. The light you will bear is fed alone from heavenly sources. Think again, child, if all these things can be as naught.'
“I searched my soul once more. One answer, one word broke from my lips,—'Amen.'
“'T is well,' the angel visitant said; 'thy being shall be turned to light.'
“I awoke. The morning sun shone in my windows, and laid in golden bars upon my bed. I thought long of the vision of the night, and then sat down to pen it to you. To me it is significant. Write and tell me if it seems but a dream to you. I should like to be permitted to glorify my name, and be the 'Dawn' of light to some of earth's weary pilgrims.”
In a pleasant room in Frankfort, on a slight eminence which overlooked the river Maine, sat a young man, of about thirty years, in deep meditation. His face showed traces of recent suffering; his broad, high brow was white as marble, and his hands, though large, were soft and delicate as a woman's. Near by sat a young girl, whose physiogomy showed close relationship to the invalid. She was his sister, and was travelling with him, hoping that change of air and scenery might produce a beneficial effect on his health.
“I think you seem stronger than when we came, Ralph; don't you?” She had been watching the color flickering on his face and lips, the last half hour.
“Yes, the air of Frankfort has done me good, and the present fatigue is only the result of my journey.”
“I am glad to hear you say so; it confirms my impression, which is, that you will recover.”
“Heaven grant it may be so. Long suffering has robbed me of the buoyancy of hope. I think I have not enjoyed myself more at any time during my illness, than while we were at Heidelberg, among its castles.”
“I hope you will enjoy your stay here as much. You know how long you have wished to see the birthplace of Goethe.”
“I have, and expect to see his statue to-morrow, which will be pleasure enough for one day; at least for an invalid. Do you remember his 'Sorrows of Werter,' Marion? In what work has the depth of men's emotional nature been so sounded?”
“I remember you read it to me last winter, while I was working those slippers you have on.”
“Ah, yes; delightful days they were, too. I wonder if I shall be able to see Dannecker's Ariadne the same day?”
“I have forgotten, Ralph, the figure.”
“It is that of a beautiful female riding on a panther. The light is let in through a rosy curtain, and falling upon the form, is absorbed and incorporated into the marble.”
“How beautiful; I wish we could go to-day.”
“I shall be stronger to-morrow, and perhaps be able to sketch a little before I leave.”
“Ah, if you could. What a pity that we had to come away from Heidelburg without your being able to add anything to your folio.”
“It was; but if I recover my health, as you think I will, I shall go again, and see how that place of beauty looks to me in full vigor.”
“I wonder if there are many visitors at the hotel? Taking our meals as we do in our rooms, we see but little of them.”
“There have been several arrivals to-day,” she answered.
“And there are more coming. Sister, I feel strangely here. The feeling has deepened ever since I came. I feel a soul; some one near me; a being strong in soul and body, and more lovely than any one I have ever met.”
Marion looked distressed. She feared his mind was wandering. In vain she tried to hide her look of concern; he saw it, and relieved her fears by his words and manner.
“It is not mere fancy, nor mental illusion, my dear sister, but something real and tangible. I feel it in my entire being: some one is coming to make me whole.”
“A woman?”
“Yes; a woman such as you nor I have never looked upon.”
“You are weary now, Ralph; will you not lie down?”
“I will to please you; but I am far from being weary.”
She smoothed his pillow, and led him to the couch. At that instant a carriage drove to the door, and several persons alighted.
Marion turned her gaze from the strangers to her brother. Never in her life had she seen him look as he did then. His eyes glowed, not with excitement, but with new life. The color mounted to cheeks and forehead, while he kept pacing up and down the room, too full of joy and emotion to utter a single sentence.
“What is it, brother?”
This question, anxiously put, was all she could say, for she perceived, dimly, a sense of some approaching crisis.
Her anxious look touched him, and he threw himself on the couch, and permitted her to pass her hand gently over his brow.
“There; it's over now.”
“What, Ralph?”
“The strange tremor of my being. Marion, some one has come to this hotel, who will strangely affect my future life.”
“The woman,—the soul you felt in the air?” she inquired, now excited in turn.
“Yes, the soul has come; my soul. I shall look on her before to-morrow's sun has set. I feel an affiliation, a quality of life which never entered my mental or physical organization before. And Marion, this quality is mine by all the laws of Heaven.” He sank back upon the couch like a weary child, and soon passed into a sweet slumber.
Marion watched the color as it came into his face. It was the flush of health, not the hectic tinge of disease; and his breath, once labored and short, was now easy and calm as an infant's.
Some wondrous change seemed to have been wrought upon him. What was it? By what subtle process had his life blood been warmed, and his being so strongly affiliated with another life? and where was the being whose life had entered into his? Beneath the same roof, reading the beautiful story of “Evangeline.”
The next morning Ralph arose, strong and refreshed, having slept much better than he had for many months.
“Such rest, Marion,” he said, “will soon restore me to health,” and his looks confirmed the truth of his statement.
“I should think you had found life's elixir, or the philosopher's stone, whose fabled virtues were buried with the alchemists of old. But who is the fairy, Ralph, and when shall we behold her face?”
“Before the sun has set to-day,” he answered, confidently.
Marion smiled, looked slightly incredulous, and sat down to her books and work.
Towards the close of the day, her attention was attracted by a graceful figure approaching the river bank. Her hat had fallen from her head, displaying its beautiful contour, and in her hair were wild flowers, so charmingly placed, that they seemed as though they had grown there. She watched her with the deepest interest, and turned to beckon her brother to the window, when lo! he was directly behind her, and had seen the fair maiden all the while. He had been drawn there by an irresistible power, and in the single glance he felt the assurance that she was the being who was to bless his life. He would have given much, then, to have seen her face, and having watched her till out of sight, went to his couch for rest.
Marion looked on his placid features, and hope sprung up in her breast. She felt that her brother was, by some mysterious power, improving, and knew that he would fully recover his health. The flood-tides of affection flowed to the surface, and she wept tears of joy.
Towards sunset they walked out together. Even the mental excitement caused by looking upon Goethe's statue, and the beautiful Ariadne had not exhausted him as formerly, and he was able to go into the evening air for the first time for many months.
They returned to their rooms, and talked of the stranger.
“Is she not lovely?” asked Marion, after long silence.
But in that dreamy silence, Ralph had, in spirit, been absent from his sister and present with her of whom she inquired. The sound of her voice brought him back; he started and said,—
“Who?”
“Why the stranger, of whom we were speaking.”
“Lovely?” he replied; “she is more than that, she is holy, heavenly, pure. But let us talk no more tonight, dear; I am weary.”
The link was broken; her words had called him from the sphere of the beautiful stranger, and he needed rest.
“Just what I feared,” she said to herself, “he is mentally excited, and to-morrow will droop.”
Contrary to her fears, however, he awoke fresh and bright on the morrow, and able to visit with her, many places of interest. He did not see the stranger that day, nor the one succeeding.
“I fear they have gone,” said his sister, as Ralph walked nervously through the room. “I saw several go last evening, and she may have been among the number.”
“No, no; she has not gone. I should feel her absence were she away. I should have no strength, but lose what I have gained, and droop. I feel her here under this roof. I am approaching her, and shall, within a few hours, look on her face, and hear her voice.”
“Ah, Ralph, don't get too much excited, for I want you to look well when father and mother join us at Paris. They will be overjoyed to see how much you have improved.”
He made a hasty gesture, which she did not see, and then, ashamed at his feeling of impatience, went and sat beside her, and arranged the silks in her basket. Engaged in this light pastime, he did not hear a low rap at the door.
“Come in,” rose to the lips of Marion; then the thought flashed on her mind that the caller might be a stranger, and she arose and opened the door.
“Have you a guide-book you can loan me?”
The voice thrilled Ralph's being to its centre. He raised his eyes and said,—
“Come in; we will find the book for you.”
To Marion's surprise she entered and seated herself by the window, but never for a moment took her eyes from the features of Ralph.
His hands trembled violently as he searched for the book among a pile on the table, and Marion had to find it at last, and pass it to the stranger, who took it, but moved not. Her eyes seemed transfixed, her feet fastened to the floor.
“This is the person who has drawn my life so since I came here. He is ill, but will recover,” she said, stepping towards him, and placing her soft, white hand upon his brow.
During this time Ralph was speechless, and felt as though he was struck dumb. He trembled in every limb, as she gently led him to the couch and motioned him to lie down. Then his limbs relaxed, his breath became calm, the face lost all trace of weariness, and he passed into a deep, mesmeric sleep. “Fold on fold of sleep was o'er him,” and the fair one stood silently there, her eyes dreamy and far off, until his being was fully enrapt in that delicious state which but few on earth have experienced.
Then silently she withdrew, while Marion whispered in her ear, “Come again; please do, for this is so new and strange to me.”
“I will,” she said, and quietly departed.
An hour passed, and he did not awake; another, and still he slumbered. “Can it be? O, is it the sleep which precedes death? I fear it may be,” and the anxious sister, musing thus, suppressed a rising sigh. He moved uneasily. She had disturbed the delicate state by her agitated thoughts.
“O, if she would come,” said Marion, “I should have no fear.”
At that instant the door opened, and the wished for visitor glided in.
“Has she read my thought?”
“Fear not,” whispered the stranger, in a voice and manner not her own, “thy brother but sleepeth. All is well; disease will have left him when he awakes. I will stay awhile.”
A volume of thanks beamed from Marion's face at these words, as she took her seat close by the side of the fair girl.
At the end of the third hour he awoke. The stranger glided from the room just as his eyes were opening, and Marion closed the door, and went and sat beside him.
“What was it like, Ralph? O! how strange it all seems to me.”
“Like? sister mine; like dew to the parched earth; strength to the languished; light unto darkness. What was it like? Mortal cannot compare it to anything under the heavens. It was as though my being soared on downy clouds-the old passing out, weariness falling as I ascended, and all sense of pain laid aside as one would a garment too heavy to be worn. I knew I slept. I was inspired with currents of a new life. I was lulled by undulating waves of light; each motion giving deeper rest, followed by a delicious sense of enjoyment without demand of action; a balancing of all the being. O! rest, such rest, comes to man but once in a lifetime. But where is the fair one to whom I am so much indebted for all this?” He glanced around the room.
“Gone. She left just as you were waking. But tell me, Ralph, is it the mesmeric sleep that has so strengthened you, and with which you are so charmed?”
“It must be. What wondrous power that being has; Marion, I am as strong and well as ever; look at me, and see if my appearance does not verify my assertion.”
She looked and believed. The past hour had developed a wonder greater than could be found among all the works of art in that great city; for Christ, the Lord, had been there and disease had fled.
Ralph and Marion met the strangers quite often, and passed many happy hours in her society. Marion rallied her brother on his long tarry at Frankfort, at which he smiled, saying, “I cannot go while she remains.” No more was said concerning his departure, it being her pleasure to go or stay, as he wished.
One bright morning, they sat under the trees. Ralph was sketching, while Marion and the young lady who had so entranced him, were amusing themselves with some portraits which he had drawn a long time previous, when a servant delivered a letter to Marion. She opened it eagerly, and said, “It's from mother, Ralph, and we must meet her in Paris by the twentieth; it's now the seventh.”
A look of disappointment passed over his face, which was soon chased away by smiles, at the words of their companion who said:
“How singular. Father and myself are going there. We leave to-morrow.”
Marion excused herself, and ran to her room to answer her mother's letter. The two thus left alone, sat silent for some time, until Ralph broke the calm with these words, “I long to know the name of one who has so long benefited me. I only know you as Miss Lyman. I should like to treasure your christian name, which I am sure is bright, like your nature.”
“My surname is Wyman, not Lyman, and my christian name, Dawn.”
“How strange! How beautiful!” almost involuntarily exclaimed Ralph.
“Will you allow me, Dawn,” he said, after a brief silence, “to sketch your profile?”
“Certainly, when will you do it?”
“Now, if you have no objection.”
“I have not the slightest, provided I can have a duplicate, in case I like it.”
He complied readily, and she took a position requisite for the work.
“Look away over the river, if you please.”
He did not know how much these words implied. Her gaze was far away, and would ever be, for her real home was beyond.
He succeeded at the first effort, and asked her judgment upon it.
“Truthful and correct,” she said. “Now another for me, if you please.”
“This is yours. I shall idealize mine, and in it I shall sketch you as you appear to me. Mine would not please you, I know.”
“You judge me correctly. I wish my portrait to be exactly like myself.”
“Yet if you sketched, you would want to draw your friends profiles as they appeared to you, would you not?”
“Certainly. Is this your speciality, heads, or do you go to nature and reproduce her wonderous moods and shades with your pencil?”
“My great ideal is Nature. You, too, are an artist.”
“I have no talent whatever, but the deepest sympathy with Nature, and an appreciation of her harmonies.”
“Do you not paint flowers, or sketch home scenes?”
“I have never used pencil or brush, and yet I feel at times such longings within me to give expression to my states, I think I must have, at least, some latent power in that direction.”
“As all have. I could teach you in a very short time, to sketch woods, hills, and skies.”
“I think I should never copy. You don't know how foreign it is to my nature to copy anything. I should respect artists more if they did not copy so much. I reverence the past; I honor and admire the pure lives and noble works of those who are gone; but where are the new saints and the new masters? Was genius buried with Michael Angelo and Raphael? The same God who inspired their lives, inspires ours. We can make ourselves illustrious in our own way. We may not all paint, but whatever our work is, that should we do as individuals. If we copy, we shall have no genius to transmit to future generations.”
Dawn wished to be pardoned if she had wearied her listener, but she saw at once, as she looked on his face, that the thoughts she had expressed were accepted, and that her words had not fallen on unappreciative ears.
“You have spoken my own views, and if my health remains, I shall give the world my best efforts in my own way. Nature shall be my study. I will not fall a worshipper, like Correggio, to light and shade, but use them as adjuncts to the great idea which must ever dwell in the soul of the faithful artist, to give the whole of nature.”
“I would not have spoken so much upon a theme even so dear to me as this, had I not felt that you would accept my thoughts, and therefore knew that I should not weary you.”
“I shall see you before you go,” he said, retaining her hand which she extended, as she arose to leave.
“I should be very sorry not to bid you good-bye. Have you my portrait?” He handed it to her, and walked with her to the hotel.
“To-morrow she will depart, I may never see her again. Never! No, it cannot be. I shall see her, live near her, feel her life flowing into mine each day. It must be, I shall droop and fade without her, as the flower without dew or water.” He went in and found the letter written, sealed and directed to Paris. He loved the word, since she was going there.
Dawn went to her room and wrote her last letter from the land of music, flowers, legends and art.
“Dear Ones at Home:-To-morrow we bid good-bye to this land of beauty, which so accords with my feelings. We shall bid adieu to its mountains, its castles, and its works of art. When you receive this we shall have visited Paris, thence to London to embark for home. 'Home,' dear word. All my roamings will only make me love home better, and those whose lives are so woven in with mine. Tell Herbert he must come here to have his inspiration aroused. When he has walked upon Mont Blanc; when he has sailed on the Rhine, stood by Lakes Geneva and Lucerne, and by the blue Moselle, then he will feel that his whole life has been a fitting prelude to a rapturous burst of immortal song. He must come to Germany before he can fathom the sea of sound, or understand in fullness what the rippling waves of sweet music are saying. Florence, Herbert! do not let old age come on you, before you see this land, if none other. It is growing dark, or I would write more. Were I to sing a song to-night it would be, 'Do they miss me at home?' Three years have passed; I could stay as many more and not see half of that which would interest and instruct me, yet I feel ready to leave, for I know it to be my duty to do so. May the waves bear us safely to the arms of those who love us. Yours ever, DAWN.”