During the voyage home, Dawn was too indrawn to converse much with her father. He saw her state, and delicately left her to herself, except at brief intervals. What a help is such an one to us in our moods-one who knows when to leave us, and as well when to linger.
The days went swiftly by. As they neared home, Dawn's abstracted manner warmed to its usual glow, and parent and child talked earnestly of the joy of returning to their own dear fireside. With deepened life within, and extended views of happiness, how pleasantly would the days glide on, lit with the sunlight of the happy faces they were so soon to behold.
The autumn had just flashed its beauties on the forest trees, when Mr. Wyman and Dawn drew near their home. It was sunset when they reached the little station at L—and saw their carriage waiting, and Martin, their faithful servant, holding Swift. A bright face peeped out from a corner of the carriage. One bound to the platform, and Florence and Dawn were clasped in each other's arms. Tears sprang to Hugh's eyes as he held her hand and read in her happy face that all was well with herself and friends. The old horse even gave them a kindly greeting, turning his head and looking upon the joyous group, then pawing the ground as if anxious to take them to their home. They were not long in catching the hint, and soon Martin gave Swift the reins, and he pranced along as though his burden weighed no more than a feather.
“Who do you think is at our house?” inquired Florence.
“I have been too long away from yankee land to 'guess'; tell me at once, Florence.”
“Miss Weston, whom we met at the sea-shore.”
Dawn held up both hands with delight.
“Why did you not mention it in your last letter?”
“Because she arrived since I wrote.”
“I hope she is to stay awhile with us,” said Dawn.
“We shall need all the balancing power we can bring to offset our enthusiasm. Do you not think so, Florence?” asked Mr. Wyman.
“I do, indeed. I expect Dawn's earnestness will kindle such desires among these home-loving people, that by next spring, all L—will embark for Europe.”
“Some fuel will not ignite,” said Dawn, casting a mischievous glance at Florence.
“I think foreign travel has injured my pupil's manners,” remarked Mrs. Temple, assuming an air of dignity.
“Yes, you must take her in charge immediately,” answered her father. “But here we are at our own gate. Stop, Martin,” and with a bound he sprang from the carriage. He could sit no longer. The familiar trees which his own hand had planted, spread their branches as though to welcome his return. Brilliant flowers flashed smiles of greeting. The turf seemed softer, and more like velvet than he had ever seen it; the marble statues on the lawn more elegant than all the beautiful things he had looked upon while away. Some hand had trailed the vines over the pillars of the house; the birds sang, and the air seemed full of glad welcomings. The good, honest face of Aunt Susan met them at the hall door, and a warm, hearty shake of the hand was the greeting of each.
Flowers everywhere,—pendant from baskets, and grouped in vases; vines everywhere,—laid as by a summer breeze, on marble busts and statuettes; blossoms everywhere:-but where was she whose thoughtfulness and taste was made manifest in all these?
Impatiently he passed to the drawing-room, then to the library, and a feeling of blank disappointment rose in his breast, for she he so much expected to see, was not there to greet him.
“I forgot to tell you,” said Aunt Susan, “that no sooner was the carriage gone for you, then Miss Evans was called to a very sick friend. She left this note for you.”
Hugh hastily opened it, and found a line expressing regret that such summons should come at such an hour, and welcoming him home with all the warmth of a true and earnest soul.
“O father! is it not heavenly to be back again?” and the sensitive daughter fell weeping with joy into her father's arms. He pressed her to his heart, held her as though she had been away from him all these years, instead of at his side beholding the wonders of the Old World. “Dawn, Dawn, my darling girl,” was all he could say.
“Where is she?” she inquired, suddenly rising.
“Who?”
“Miss Evans. Strange I have not thought of her since we entered our home.”
“She is away. Here is her note, which will explain her absence.”
Dawn read it without looking at the words, and said:
“The house is full of her. I like her sphere; she must not go away from us.”
Her father glanced wonderingly towards her. How strangely woven into his own life was the tissue of his child's, how vibratory had their existence become.
“Shall she not always stay, dear father? You will need some one-some one with you.”
The last words were slow and measured. What was it that seemed drifting from his grasp just then? What more of joy was receding from his life-sphere?
“Dawn, my child,” he said, “You are not going from me?”
“Why, poor frightened papa, I am not so easily got rid of. I am not going, but some one is coming, coming, I feel it, close to you, yet not one to sever us. There are some natures that bind others closer, as some substances unite by the introduction of a third element.”
“Child, you are my very breath; how can you come closer to me?”
“By having a new set of sympathies in your being aroused; by expansion. Was my mother farther removed or brought nearer to you, when she gave birth to a new claimant upon your love?”
“Brought nearer, and made dearer a thousand times.”
“Do you understand me now, father?”
“I feel strange to-day, Dawn. It came over me when I left the carriage,—a something I fain would put away, but cannot. Some other time we will talk upon it.”
“May we come in?”
The door was flung wide open, and Florence and her husband stood before them. The children were in the garden just at that moment. The tea-bell rang, and soon they all formed a happy group around the bounteous board.
Revelations come to us sometimes in flashes, at others in partial glimpses. The revelation of Hugh Wyman's feelings towards one he had known but as a friend, came slowly. There was no sudden lifting of the veil, which concealed the image from his sight. It rose and fell, as though lifted by the wind,—and that merely a chance breeze,—no seeming hand of fate controling it.
How should ho know himself; how fathom the strange fluttering of his heart, the quickening breath, the flashing blood, at times when he most earnestly sought to put such emotions away. What meant his child's close words touching his dim thoughts floating like nebulae in his mind? What was this vague questioning state, with no revelations, no answers? He tried to put it away, but each endeavor brought it closer, and he yielded at last to the strange spell.
Three days after their arrival, Miss Evans came from the house of mourning to their home of joy.
Hugh met her suddenly in the garden, whither she had gone in search of Dawn. But where was “Hugh,” her brother, when they met? Not before her. The person had the manners of a stranger, instead of a long absent friend returned.
She sought Dawn, and met with a cordial welcome from her, which in some measure removed the chill from her heart.
Dawn struggled long that night with her feelings. Her thoughts would wander over the sea to one who had so deeply touched her sympathies. Her last meeting with him was in Paris. He then stood with his sister gazing on Schoffer's picture, which so beautifully represents the gradual rise of the soul through the sorrows of earth to heaven. This beautiful work of art “consists of figures grouped together, those nearest the earth bowed down and overwhelmed with the most crushing sorrow; above them are those who are beginning to look upward, and the sorrow in their faces is subsiding into anxious inquiry; still above them are those who, having caught a gleam of the sources of consolation, express in their faces a solemn calmness; and still higher, rising in the air, figures with clasped hands, and absorbed, upward gaze, to whose eye the mystery has been unveiled, the enigma solved, and sorrow glorified.”
That picture floated through her mind.
“Shall I ever be among the 'glorified,'” she asked of her inner self; “among those who see the divine economy of suffering, which purifies the soul from all grossness? I must banish the thought of him from my mind,” she exclaimed, vehemently. “I must have no earthly moorings; far, far out on life's tumultuous sea, I see myself buffeting the waves alone.” Thus spoke reason, while her soul kept up the swelling tide of emotion, and soon away went thought and feeling far over the blue sea, where he was yet gazing on the beauties of the Old World.
Would chance once more send him across her path? Would she ever again look into those eyes of such wondrous depth? These were the thoughts which floated through her mind-the last she experienced before passing into dreamland.
Lulled in sweet sleep, she seemed to stand upon a shore watching the waves which threw, at each inflowing, beautiful shells at her feet. They were all joined in pairs, but none were rightly mated; all unmatched in size, form and color. What hand shall arrange them in order? Who will mate them, and re-arrange their inharmonious combinings?
She tried to tear a few asunder. She could not separate them, for they were held so firmly by the thick slime of the sea, that no hand could disunite them. 'They must go back, and be washed again and again by the waves,' a voice within seemed to say, 'on eternity's broad shore they will all be mated. They symbolize human life, and what in the external world are called marriages. The real mate is in the sea, but not joined to its like.'
A feeling of impatience came over her, as she saw the shells roll back, and the incoming tide still throwing more at her feet. The feeling deepened, and she awoke.
It was midnight; a gentle breeze scarce stirred the curtains of her windows and bed, and there broke over the room a wave of sound.
Dawn knew that some one was there, yet no fear of the visitant came upon her. She only feared her breath might disturb the delicate atmosphere which filled the room, growing at each moment more rarified and delicate in its quality. She knew that the presence could be none other than that of her mother, for none but she could so permeate her being, and fill the room with such an air of holiness, and she felt that in the atmosphere which was thus gathering, her angelic form must soon become cognizant to her sight. As these thoughts filled her mind, the rays of light began to converge and centre at her side. Her eyes seemed rivited to the spot, as she saw the dim but perfect outline of a form. It grew more tangible, until at last the form of her mother stood saintly and glorified before her.
O, the rapt ecstacy of such an hour; the soothing influence which flows into the brain when a mortal is thus blessed.
Dawn tried to speak; her lips parted, but no sound issued, and she learned that there is another communion than that of words, which mortals hold with those who have passed into a broader and deeper life.
Slowly the form faded away; first the limbs, then the shadows, or semi-transparent clouds, rose gradually, till nought but the white effulgent brow beamed out; yet but for an instant, then all was gone.
A rest deeper than that of sleep came over her. She closed her eyes to shut out the darkness, and retain the vision, and remained thus until slowly the golden orb of day rolled his chariot over the eastern hills, when reluctantly she arose, and the heavenly spell was broken.
“Dear Pearl, how good you are to come and see us,” burst from the lips of Dawn, when, two hours later, she entered the parlor of her teacher and clasped the hand of Miss Weston. “I shall claim her to-day; may I not, Florence?” and without waiting for a reply, she carried her to her own home.
They talked long and earnestly; Dawn's description of her travels entertaining her guest exceedingly, and it was noon ere they were aware that one half of the morning had passed away.
“And now I have talked long enough, and will stop; but may I ask you where you propose to spend the coming winter? If you are not positively engaged, I want you to stay with Florence and myself.”
“I am going to the quiet little town of B—, to remain for an indefinite period with some dear friends, relatives of my dear Edward, who have just returned from Europe. I had a letter from them yesterday, saying they were all safe at home, and should be looking for me next week.”
“Then all my plans must fail.”
“As far as having me here for so long a time; but how I wish you could know Ralph and Marion, Dawn.-Why, what is the matter; what is it, dear Dawn?”
“Nothing but a sharp pain. It's all over now. Were your friends in-in Paris last month?” her voice trembled as she spoke.
“Yes. But how pale you look. Dawn, you must be ill.”
“I am not. I did not sleep well last night. But Pearl, I have seen your friends.”
“Seen them; seen Ralph?” exclaimed Miss Weston, in joyous surprise. “Is his not a fine character? And Marion, his sister, is she not lovely?”
“I know them but little. They were at a hotel in Frankfort, where we stopped. I first met them there, and again in Paris, twice, accidentally.”
“How strange,” continued Miss Weston. “Will they not be greatly surprised when I tell them I know you?”
Dawn laid her hand heavily on her friend's shoulder, saying:
“Miss Weston, I have my reasons, which sometime I may explain to you, for asking you not to mention my name to any member of that family.” It was the same bright face which years ago was turned on her with words of consolation; the same childish pleading, for Dawn's face was a type of her spirit,—free, innocent and pure. “Will you promise without an explanation?”
“I will, strange as it seems; but, may I ask you one question, before we leave this subject?”
“Certainly.”
“Has Ralph or Marion ever injured you?”
“Never. I think very highly of them both.”
The subject was dismissed, and although their words floated to interesting topics, no deep feeling could be experienced by either, for each had become insphered and separate; one pondering, despite her efforts to the contrary, upon the strange request; the other thinking how strangely fate had again approximated lives which, in her present state, she could only see, must be kept apart.
Little did Dawn think she should meet in her own home, one who knew Ralph. It seemed an indication that she might meet him again, when and where she knew not, but of one thing she was certain, the meeting could not be one of friendship only. A conflict of emotions pulsed through her being. She could not converse, and plainly told her friend that she was too abstracted to be companionable.
“Go to Florence,” she said, “and tell her she may have you the rest of the day. To-morrow—to-morrow,” she said slowly, “I shall want you, for then I shall be myself.”
When Margaret Thorne left N—, it was with the intention of following the old woman's warning, and avoiding the stranger.
“Where shall I go?” was the ever prominent question, repeated again and again, to the end of the journey.
At last the train stopped at the busy city; the close of the journey had come, but no end to her restless thoughts. While she was thus musing, she was aroused by the usual, “Have a hack? a hack, miss?” This seemed to indicate her next step. She handed her baggage check to the person who addressed her, and directed him to drive to a public house.
Seated in the carriage she was somewhat relieved of the feeling of uncertainty which had oppressed her. Alas, the poor girl did not know that at that moment the woman of evil deeds was directing the coachman where to carry the helpless victim.
And thus her fate was sealed; her child was born in a house of sin, and its little eyes first opened in its dark, immoral atmosphere.
The woman had managed all so cunningly that Margaret did not know but that she was in a respectable house, nor see her until it was too late. Then, knowing her helplessness, the woman, by subtle flatteries and approaches in her hour of womanly need, at a time when she was weak and susceptible to seemingly kind attentions, won her confidence. The child of circumstances caught at the broken staff held out for her as a drowning one seeks any hold in a storm. In her hour of sorrow and destitution, she accepted the only aid which was proffered her, for aid she must have, and she was not able to command her choice.
Day by day the woman into whose hands she had fallen, worked herself into her life and affection, until at length Margaret began to think there might be worse persons than those about her, and greater sins in the wide world than those which were committed beneath the roof which now sheltered her.
Creatures of circumstance as we are, we are too apt to attribute to our own strength of purpose the virtue, so called, in which we pride ourselves. Women in happy homes, by pleasant hearths, and surrounded with every means of social enjoyment, take credit to themselves for their upright demeanor, and indulge in bitter denunciation of those, who, less fortunately circumstanced, yield to the tempter's allurements. Little do they think of what they themselves might have been, but for the protection which some good angel has thrown around them. It would be well for us all to pause and think, and ask our souls the question which this thought suggests.
As has been seen, Margaret Thorne came not willingly to the home in which she now was, neither did she willingly remain. Circumstances not of her own making, governed her; and may it not be there are many similarly situated. To such the world owes its pity, not its condemnation.
The “social evil” is not confined to the houses which the public marks as its only abode, but is to be found in many of those in which the marriage ceremony is supposed to have insured chastity.
In these, too often, the unwelcome child is ushered into being, the fruit of a prostitution more base than any which is called by that name, because sanctioned and shielded by a covenant of holiness. If any children are illegitimate such are. If any mothers are to be condemned, they are those, who, vain and foolish, filled with worldly ambition, angrily regret that their time is encroached upon by the demands of their dependent offspring. In vain the little ones reach out for the life and love which should be freely given them; then, finding it not, fade and die like untimely flowers. Thousands of innocent beings go to the grave every year from no other cause than this, that though born in wedlock they are the offspring of passion, and not the children of love.
Sad as these thoughts are, they are nevertheless true. An hour's walk in any community, will bring to any one's observation inharmonious children. Let the married reflect, and closely question themselves, in order that they may know the true relation which they bear to the children who are called by their name. Better by far that a child of pure love be brought into the world, with a heart to love it, a hand to lead it, and a soul to guide it, than a child of passion, to be hated and forsaken by those who should care for and protect it.
Little can be done by one generation to right this wrong, but that little should be done with earnestness.
“I will not forsake it,” said Margaret, looking into the eyes of her child; eyes that fastened on hers such a questioning gaze, that it made her heart beat fast, and the scalding tears flow down her cheeks; eyes that resembled those that once flashed on her the light of passion, which she mistook for that of pure affection.
Years rolled on, and she struggled with life, trying to support herself and child by her efforts. But, alas, the taint was on her; none would help her to a better existence, and she fell to rise no more this side the grave.
Not suddenly did she surrender her womanhood, but slowly, as hope after hope failed, and all her efforts were met with a foul distrust.
The years that came and went by, bringing happiness to many, brought none to her. One night the angel of death stole noiselessly to her side, and took her only earthly comfort,—her child. His fair face and innocent smile had repaid her a hundred fold for the frowns of the world she had met. Now she had no moorings, no anchor in the broad sea of existence.
“I shall die some day,” she said, “and perhaps the angels will forgive me.” So she walked alone, and cared not what came to her life, or filled the measure of her days on earth.
Miss Evans sat alone in her home, musing, as she had often done. She had just been reading passages from “Dream Life,” having opened the book at random to a chapter entitled, “A Broken Hope.” Was life mocking her at every step? She turned the pages listlessly, and “Peace” flashed before her vision. Peace, at last. No matter how great the struggle, rest shall be ours. We may not attain what we have striven for on earth, but peace will come, and the “rest which the world knows not of.”
But her mind did not feel the promise then. Life seemed growing dull, insipid. The course of the chariot wheels of progress, were impeded. What had become of her earnest, working self, whose deepest happiness was in laboring for humanity? Why were her hands so idle, and her mind so listless? Question rose on question, until her mind seemed plunging into a sea whose troubled waves moaned and dashed against her life-bark, giving her spirit no repose. Why was she floating on this restless sea?
A hand was laid upon her shoulder. She turned, and the warm blood tinged her cheeks and brow.
“Hugh!”
“Arline!”
It was the first time for years that the sound of her own name had thrilled her so deeply.
He sat by her, took her hands in his own, and had never seemed to belong to her so much as in that hour.
“I never was more delighted to see you,” she said, unaware of the tide of emotion which his answer would awaken.
“I am glad, indeed, that it is so. Then I do not seek you to be repulsed. I love you, Arline.”
She was not startled by this avowal, as it might have been supposed she would have been, and yet she never thought to hear words like those pass his lips. Like dew upon withering flowers they came, and she looked up, saying,—
“How long has this feeling existed in your heart, Hugh?”
“Since I found I could love more than one, and yet love that one deeper and more tenderly.”
“And when was that?”
“When I first saw my home after my foreign trip. Until then, I had but one feeling towards you, and that, you know, was a brother's love.”
“I do.”
“But tell me,” he said, as though a new thought had impressed him, “how long have you loved me?”
“Always, Hugh.”
“Always?” he repeated. “And yet you kept that love a secret to every soul but your own. It is well, and in order. I could not have known it before. May I ever prove worthy of such devotion, such true love. Arline, our love has not the fire of passion, but a purer flame burns upon its altar, one which consumes not, while it illumines our way.”
For many hours they sat together, much of the time in silence, their souls communing in that language which has not an earthly expression. Soon the current of their lives mingled; the green banks of peace were in view. Night adorned itself in the robes of morning; doubt and questioning gave place to faith and trust.
She went to his home to walk daily with one whom God had made to vibrate in soul to that of her own earnest life. There was no crowd to witness the external rite; only a chosen few who could enter into the true spirit of the occasion, were present, while over them hovered the angelic form of the dear, departed Alice, happy indeed, that a woman's affection and gentleness had come to bless him whom she too so truly loved.
Dawn was radiant with emotion at the union. “Another life now enfolds me,” she said to her father, when they were alone for the first time after the ceremony. “I knew she was coming; I felt it when we came home. You did not seek it, father, it came to you; it was to be; and now as you have some one to sit by your side, I may roam a little, may I not?”
“Ah, yes; I remember a certain pair of eyes over the sea, which more than once flashed on a young lady who shall be nameless.”
Dawn suddenly interrupted this remark by the exclamation, “Ah, don't, father, don't!” and her tone struck him as sadly out of place for the time and occasion; so he said no more, but wondered at her strange, and to him at that moment, unaccountable manner.
“What a peculiar wedding,” said every one; “just like the Wymans, they never do anything like any one else.”
“What he found to admire in Miss Evans, is more than I can see,” said one of the busy-bodies who favored Miss Vernon with a call on a certain memorable morning.
“He's a curious man,” said an old lady, between a yawn and a smile, “and nobody ever could understand him.”
These, and a hundred similar expressions equally unimportant, were heard, and then all was still again.
The new pair took up the deep current of their lives with united strength, and merged their efforts into one channel, each distinct, but flowing in time to the divine order, enriching each other's lives.
Some lives are steady, with a continuous flow of discipline; other's convulsive and terrible in their wild upheavings. Slowly we learn the goodness of God's mercy, which sends the storm that whitens our garments, making them pure as snow. When our song should be praise, we fly here and there bemoaning our fate, crossing and re-crossing the path which leads into life, instead of walking therein, and following it out to its glorious goal.
Slowly we learn to take each day, and fill it with our best endeavor, leaving to-morrow to God. Life's experiences should teach us to find where our work begins and where it ends; but in our learning, how we project ourselves, and exalt our own little knowledge.
Like children, we meddle with our father's tools, and so retard the blessing. When we learn to work with God, then will our lives be in divine order, and flow deep and peaceful to the end. Our impatient movements cut the threads in the heavenly warp, and the garment which was to enfold us is delayed in its making.
It has been said, “Man is his own worst enemy,” and life's experience proves the truth of the assertion. But our final success is born of our present failures. It is in our efforts to ascend the stream, and thus rowing against the current, that we gain strength. Without resistance life would be a negation, and our running, sparkling river, become a stagnant pool.
Dawn brightened with the rising sun, or rather the cloud went by, leaving her in all her native brilliancy. Miss Weston spent her last day with her, and then went to her friends, with permission to write whenever she felt disposed, but with the caution not to say anything of her to Ralph or Marion.
“I think I must take one more look at the sea before winter closes in,” said Dawn to her father, one pleasant day when the air was still and the foliage bright with autumn hues.
“You will be obliged to go alone, then, for I have too many duties, to accompany you,” he said, and after a moment's pause, he asked, “Can you not wait a day or two?”
He read an answer in her pleading eyes, which said, “To-day, or not at all; I am in the mood, and must go now.”
“Go, then,” he said, “but do not allow the waves to steal you away.”
It seemed to him that she was slipping from his life; and indeed she was receding, but only to flow again more freely and strongly to him. As the tide which sweeps out and comes back, each time making a farther inroad upon the shore, so she was outflowing and inflowing, each tidal return beating deeper into his soul. We must flow out to the ocean, to the depth of living waters, if we would win a firmer abiding in the hearts of those we love.
Dawn walked upon the beach, the very spot where in childhood her ardent spirit first looked upon the sea. Idly, some might think, she wore the hours away, gathering white pebbles, and throwing them into the waters.
How long she continued thus, thinking of the past and musing of the future, she knew not. With her, one thought was uppermost, and that was of Ralph, whose letters to her had of late been warm with that spirit which sooner or later glows in every heart. She felt that to him she had a duty to perform which at the farthest could not long be deferred, and she knew that to meet it, required a strength and a singleness of purpose which would call into service all the philosophy she could command.
The deep silence that surrounded her was at length broken by the sound of a footstep; then a voice was heard, that seemed to her, in her half-entranced state, to come from the world of spirits. She started, as the voice sounded nearer. She knew whose voice it was, yet she only whispered to herself, “How strange,” and still gazed upon the sea, while a feeling pervaded her whole soul, akin to joy supernal.
“Dawn, Dawn; I have found you at last, and by the sea!”
Still she looked on the restless waters. There are moments in every life when speech fails, when words are powerless, when the soul can only express itself by silence. Such a moment came to Dawn.
Ralph took her hand in his own. She turned on him a gaze which seemed to bring her soul nearer to his own than ever before, and they walked slowly side by side. Then he told her that his sister and a friend were on the beach, a mile below; that they had all three come to take one more look at the sea, and to gather mosses.
“I knew not why I had such a strong desire to come here,” he said “but now see clearly what drew me in this direction. The feeling to come was overpowering, and I could not resist it.”
They walked, and conversed of all the past, until finally, the question of so momentous interest to both was approached, and Ralph pleaded as none but a lover can.
A long silence ensued. Hope and fear, doubt and uncertainty, came and went, and every moment seemed to him an age.
Dawn at length turned her face slowly towards him, and then raised her eyes to heaven, as if imploring its aid. The deep working of her spirit was plainly depicted upon her features; first the conflict, then the triumph.
“I must walk alone. I love you, Ralph, as I have never loved before; but I have a mission on earth; one which I cannot share with another. To its service I dedicate my life.”
She sprang towards him, threw her arms for an instant around his neck; then, tearing herself away, was gone before he could fully realize what had happened.
Slowly the reality of what had occurred came upon him, like a storm more terrible for its slow approach.
“O, that I had not seen her to-day,” he said, “for then hope would have been left me. Now, all is over. With me life must be gone through with mechanically, not lived earnestly; happiness must be relinquished, peace and rest prayed for.”
When Marion and Edith came in search of him, the crisis of his great grief was past, but the white face showed it was not the Ralph who left them.
“Why, you are ill; what has happened?” was his sisters' ejaculation.
“I came near sinking.”
“Were you bathing?” they both asked, together.
“In sorrow's sea,” he was about to say, but kept the words back, and appeared cheerful for their sakes.
“Then a wave did really come over you, Ralph?” said his sister, looking anxiously into his face.
“Yes, a strong one. I came near going under.”
They did not know that he spoke in correspondences, and accepted the literal explanation, which was true in the abstract.
“You look as though you had concentrated a dozen years into one day,” said Mr. Wyman, as he met Dawn at the door.
“I have had a very intense day.”
“You should have taken more time, child.”
This was her first unshared sorrow, and she longed to be away, alone. It seemed as though an ocean rolled, for the time, between herself and her father, and she hastily left him and sought her room. That night none but angels witnessed her struggles, and the peace which afterwards flowed into her troubled heart.
When morning came, with light and love in her face, she went below, and those who met her knew not the conflict of the night,—the great darkness,—so brilliant was her morning.
“I am going to the city, to-day, to make some purchases: my wardrobe needs replenishing.”
“Which announcement, I suppose, is an appeal to my purse,” remarked Mr. Wyman.
“I should put her on a shorter allowance, if I were you,” said his wife, “if she does not give us more of her company.”
“Are you aware that you have been roaming most of the time, Dawn, since the change in our home?” said her father, as he presented her the means for her purchases.
“Of course, having some one to take my place as housekeeper, I wish to enjoy my freedom a little.”
Mrs. Wyman looked troubled. Had she separated them? Was Dawn absenting herself on her account? A look of pain passed over her face, which she little knew the subject of her thoughts caught and interpreted.
“I am not going because you are here,” said Dawn at parting; “I am going because I feel impelled to. I am truly grateful to you, that your love came to bless my father's life. Do you believe me?”
“I do; and thank you from my heart for your words.” This was said with a depth of feeling that is always accompanied by the holy baptism of tears, and this was no exceptional occasion.
The first thought that came to Dawn, on her arrival in the city, was the dream of her childhood,—the pure white robe, and the damp, dark lanes.
“Perhaps my mission is close at hand,” she said, stepping aside to let an old man pass. She glanced at his sad, wrinkled face. It seemed as though other eyes were looking through her own into it. She took some money from her purse, and thrust it into his hand.
He closed his fingers mechanically over the bill; it was something more than money he needed.
“I am looking for-for-her,” he said, his eyes gazing on vacancy.
“Any one I can find for you?” inquired Dawn, touched by his gentle, childlike manner.
“Find her? Can you find Margaret? Why, she went away when she was a little gal; no, she has grown up-like you. But I guess she's lost; yes lost. O, my little Margy,—your own mammy, and your other mammy is dead, and I am all alone. Come, Margy, come,” he said, reaching forth his hands to Dawn.
“I am not Margy; but perhaps we can find her.” She drew nearer to him, and walked by his side down the street.
They passed along until the crowd grew more dense, and the sea of human forms, rushing and jostling, made her head swim.
What a variety; from childhood to age,—faces in which sorrow and hope were struggling; faces marked with lines and furrows; cheeks sunken by disease and many griefs; bright, glowing faces, fresh as flowers, before the dew had been parched by noon-day sun and heat. On, on they went,—the busy crowd, and the old man, and the maiden; he, looking at all, yet seeing none; she, gazing with restless vision, for what? for whom? How typical of life's great highway, on which we wander, looking for that which we know not; hoping, that out of the sea of faces, one will shine forth on us, to receive or give a blessing.
They passed spacious buildings, and came to those less pretentious in style. The crowd grew less dense, the apparel less showy and elegant; the low wooden houses contrasting strangely with the lofty edifices which they left behind. Little shops, with broken panes in every window; children ragged, idle, and brutal in their appearance, stirred the heart of the passer-by with a grief which no words could portray.
Dawn looked on them, and longed to gather them all into one fold of love and harmony. “O, guide me, Father, and help me to lead them to better lives,” was the earnest prayer of her soul.
“I am led hither to-day, that my sympathy with human want may be deepened,” she said to herself, while a thrill of joyous emotion pervaded her being, and faith laid hold more firm of the eternal anchor, which holds us fast, in the deep waters.
She was so indrawn that she did not notice the approach of a carriage, as they were on a street that ran at angles with the great thoroughfare, until a sharp cry from the old man aroused her to the state of affairs. He had been struck, and had fallen under the wheels. One moan, one convulsive motion of the features, and he was white as marble.
Before she had time to think or act, a shriek rent the air, and pierced the very soul of Dawn, for it was a wail from depths which few have fathomed. She turned to see from whom it came, and beheld a light female form bending low over the prostrate man. She was poorly clad, and her face bore every mark of the workings of great inward struggles. Two men raised the fallen one carefully, and carried him into a store near by. But it was only the clay they bore there; the soul had fled; gone to a world of a larger charity, and nobler souls than this.
“O, my father; my poor, old father,” broke from Margaret's lips, and her body swayed to and fro with its burden of grief.
Dawn took her hand; it was icy cold. Thus had the father and child met; one in the slumber of death; the other with the last sorrow of earth eating away what little of life remained in her. It was, truly, a pitiful scene, and touched all who witnessed it.
“Where shall we take him, miss?” said the police respectfully, to Dawn, whom he supposed, from her manifest interest, knew the parties.
“I do not know them, sir,” she replied, turning a look of deepest pity on Margaret.
“May I ask where your father shall be taken?” said Dawn tenderly, to Margaret.
“Taken? Why, home; no, it's a great way off; but don't bury him here in the wicked city. O, take him where the grass will wave over his grave, and the blue birds sing at early morn. O, do not bury him here,” she cried, clinging to Dawn with that confidence born of the soul when ushered, however strangely and suddenly, into the presence of truth and goodness.
“He shall be carried away to the green fields, and we will follow,” said Dawn, and stepping to a kindly-looking man in the crowd, she gave him orders to prepare a casket and shroud, and carry the body to the home of the poor woman who stood moaning beside her.
“Where shall we take him, Miss?” he said, stepping towards Margaret.
“Take him? I-I have no home. I was sent from my lodging this morning, because I had no money to pay. Take him anywhere, only let me go to his grave.”
Her pleading voice and look told that life had now but one more step for her. All was swept away; one hope after another had departed, and she stood alone in darkness.
Clarence Bowen, and his young and elegant wife, were riding in a part of the city whose broad avenues were overarched with trees all radiant with autumnal flames, when a hearse, followed by a single carriage, suddenly attracted the attention of the former.
Why was it that his whole frame shook, and the color left his face? His wife laughed and chatted by his side, and it was no uncommon sight in those streets to see a funeral pass. What was it, then, that so thrilled him? And his wife, too, she became alarmed as she glanced at his altered countenance.
From that lone carriage a face looked forth upon him. It looked with a vacant gaze. It was Margaret's face that, even she knew not why, stared upon Clarence. An electric chord seemed to connect the two,—the one with wealth and the vigor of life, the other with poverty and death.
“Why! what has come over you?” asked his wife. He was wandering again in the green woods, and stood once more by the innocent maiden's side. He heard not the voice that spoke to him, and she left him to his thoughts. The reins slackened in his grasp, and the horse walked at a slow pace, while his wife knew not of the bitter waters that were surging about his soul. Thus by our side do forms sit daily, while our thoughts glance backward and forward with lightning speed. At such times, the soul brings from the past its dead, to gaze on their lifeless forms, then turns and looks, with restless longing, towards the unknown, impenetrable future.
“Why! hus', I declare if you are not too stupid. I'll take the reins myself, if you do not arouse.”
She little knew how his soul was aroused then, and how great the conflict that was going on between self and conscience.
He struck the horse lightly, and they passed on while the little funeral cortege went slowly to the burial place for the poor and unknown dead.
It was a simple, and somewhat dreary place, which they reached at last. There were no cared-for flowers blossoming there, and the grass grew uncut around the nameless graves.
The old man with his spade had just finished his work. The last shovel-full of earth was thrown out when the hearse and carriage stopped at the gate, and the men bore the coffin slowly in, followed by Margaret and Dawn.
The angels must have wept had they seen the grief-prostrated form beside that grave, when the sound of the earth, as it fell on the coffin, came to the ear of the desolate-hearted Margaret.
Moan after moan broke forth, as they bore, rather than led her away to the carriage.
Homeless and friendless; where would the morrow find her? God tempered the wind to the shorn lamb, and sent his ministering angel in his own good time. Dawn had decided, on the way to the grave, to take her home, and gave the hackman directions to drive to the station.
The rain drops began to patter on the pavement, the air grew chill and heavy, adding to the gloom of the occasion, and it was a relief to both to step into the cars, and see faces lighted up by hopes, going to life's experiences, rather than floating away from them.
There was no action in the dumb soul, which sat beside Dawn. She had passed beyond question and agitation of thought. It was that simple quiescence which every soul feels when the curtain of sorrow has fallen, even amid scenes of hope and happiness; but to one whom hope had long since forsaken, and life's bitter experiences been often repeated, there could be no projection of self, nought but the Now, divested of all earthly interest.
The train rushed past hills, through valleys, fields and woods, like a thing of life and intelligence, and stopped at the station, where a carriage was waiting. Mechanically Margaret followed, and Martin, at Dawn's gesture, lifted her into the carriage. The smoke of the receding train rose and curled among the trees, assuming fantastic shapes, while the shrill whistle caused the cattle to race over the fields, and the lithe-winged warblers to recede into the forests. Just so does some great din of the world, falling on our ears, send us to our being's centre for rest.