“It is a faith sublime and sure,That ever round our headAre hovering on noiseless wing,The spirits of the dead.”
It has been said that nothing is more difficult than to demonstrate a self-evident truth. To those who feel and know of this guardianship of friends, gone beyond, this affiliation of soul with soul, language is powerless to transmit the conviction. It must be felt and experienced, not reasoned into the mind, because it is a component of the soul, a legitimate portion of its life.
“I must go, and remain away a long time,” said Dawn to her father, one morning, after they had just finished reading a letter from Florence.
“And why, may I ask?”
“Because we are replete with the same kind of life; our minds are set to the same strain, and exhaust each other. I can be more to myself and others, if I go, you will enter mother's sphere more completely in my absence, and thus shall we both be refreshed and strengthened.”
“I feel the truth of your words, and I am glad to know that your philosophy of life so fully accords with my own.”
“We have a superabundance of one quality of life in our home, and a change is absolutely requisite for our mental as well as for our physical well-being. Absence from it, separation between us, a going out into new atmospheres, a social mingling with persons we do not daily come in contact with, will produce the most beneficial results. This is what every family at times needs. One great objection I have to our marriage system is, that as society is now constittuted, it allows no freedom to the individual. The two are so exclusively together that they lose knowledge of themselves. They suffer physically and intellectually. On the other hand, if more freedom existed, if their lives took a broader scope, each would know each more perfectly, and absorb from others that vigor which would develop a natural growth of their own. For my part, I can never submit to the existing rules of married life.”
“The analogies of the natural world to human life are good, for the rocky shore symbolizes the highest power of the human soul, which is endurance rather than action. To most persons such characters seem vapid and sentimental, lacking force and tone, and generally unfitted for the enterprises of the world. And yet there are forces in man beside the grappling and hammering manifestations of the day. There is a greater mastery in control, than in the exercise of power. An angry man may evince more energy than he who keeps calm in the heat of provocation, but the latter is the man of most power. In the common circumstances of life we must act, and act lawfully; but to bear and suffer is alone the test of virtue, for there come hours of pain and mental anguish when all action is vain, when motion of limb and mind is powerless; then do we learn
“How sublime it is To suffer and be strong.”
“Then do we learn the great lesson that there is no quality more needed in our life than endurance. There is so much which occurs outside the circle of our own free will, accidents both mental and physical.”
“And yet we feel there can be no accident.”
“Nothing in the highest analysis which can be termed such, for all things are either in divine order, or under human responsibility, which latter power is too limited. What we term accidents are parts of, and belong to, the general plan, and when these occur, they serve to inspire us with endurance, which is no minor virtue-it is achievement-and bears its impress on the face. These thoughts are those of another, who has so well expressed them, that I have given them to you in his own language.”
“I shall profit by your words, dear father. I shall need much of that heavenly quality which is so little appreciated, and apt to be mistaken for lack of force.”
“May you grow in all the Christian graces, and be life and light to yourself and others, always remembering that your light is none the less for lighting another's torch.”
“I shall go to-day to G—. Will you drive there, yourself alone?”
“I will.”
An hour later they were on their way to a quiet village, a few miles from the Wyman's, where lived a friend of Dawn and her father, with whom she would stay a few days. The ride was delightful, and their communion so close and deep, that when they parted, it seemed as though they had never realized before, their need of each other. This feeling of tenderness brought them nearer in soul, if that were possible. It was like moonlight to the earth, mellowing and softening all lines and angles.
“Dearest father, did I ever love you before?” said Dawn, throwing herself on his breast, at parting.
“If you had not been working yourself so many years into my heart, you could not touch its very centre as you do now,” he said, wiping the moisture from his eyes, and folding her more tenderly to himself. “Partings are but closest approaches, drawings of the heart-strings, which tell how strong the cords are which bind us to each other.” The door of the friend's house was thrown open just at this point of his remarks, and a welcome face smiled on Dawn, who sprung from her seat beside her father, into the arms of her friend.
“Take good care of her, and send her home when you are weary,” said her father, and turned his face homeward, but lingered long in spirit in the atmosphere of his child.
As he wound his way slowly up the long, shady avenue, that led to his home, another love came to his bosom, and transfused his being with a different, but equally uplifting life. A moment more, and he held that other love close to his heart, the woman whom he had chosen to brighten his days and share his happiness.
“It seems as though Dawn had returned with you,” she said, as she received his loving caress.
“She is with me, and never so near as now. Heaven grant I may not make her an idol,” he said, fervently, and then, almost regretting his words, he gazed tenderly into the eyes of his wife.
“You would find me no iconoclast,” she said, “for I, too, love her with my whole heart, and am jealous at times of all that takes her from us. Yet she must go; day must go, for we need the change which night brings.”
“True,” answered Hugh, “no mortal could live continually in such concentrated happiness as I enjoy in the companionship of my child.” He looked into the face of her who sat beside him, and saw in its every feature love, true love for him and his own, and he thanked God for the blessings of his life, laid his head on that true woman's breast, and wept tears of joy.
It was twilight when they rose from their speechless communion, and each felt how much more blessed is the silence of those we love, than the words of one whose being is not in harmony with our own.
It was a relief to Dawn to drop out of her intense sphere into the easy, contented, every-day life of her friend. They were not alike in temperament or thought. It was that difference which drew them together, and made it agreeable for them to associate at times. Such association brought rest to Dawn, and life to her friend. There was little or no soul-affiliation, consequently no exhaustion. It was the giving out of one quality, and the receiving of another entirely different, instead of the union of two of the same kind, hence there was not the reaction of nervous expenditure, which two ever feel, who perfectly blend, after a period of enjoyment. How wise is that provision which has thrown opposites into our life, that we may not be too rapidly consumed. For pure joy is to the soul what fire is to material objects, brilliant, but consuming.
“I am going to have some company to-night, charming people most of them. I think you will enjoy them, Dawn; at least I hope so,” remarked Mrs. Austin, rocking leisurely in her sewing chair.
“No doubt I shall.” She was not called upon to tell how she should enjoy them. Amused she might be, but enjoyment, as Dawn understood it, was out of the question with such a class as came that evening, and to each of whom Mrs. Austin seemed very proud to introduce her friend.
Among the guests was one who attracted the particular attention of Dawn, not from grace of person or mind, although he had them, but from some interior cause. He was tall, and rather elegant in appearance, a kind of external beauty which draws most women, and wins admirers in every circle.
At a glance Dawn perceived that although mentally brilliant, he had not the spiritual and moral compliment. By his side stood a woman of the world, whom Dawn at once knew to be his wife, and on her, she felt that involuntarily her look was steadily, almost immovably fixed.
She felt like testing the power of inner vision. It seemed to her that the woman was weighing heavily upon the man, holding him to earth rather than in any way uplifting him to heaven in his aspirations. She saw that the chain which bound them, was large, coarse, and flashed like gold. This led her to conclude that she married him for his wealth. She saw that the chain was wound around them both so tight that it was almost suffocating, and that the links that passed over the woman's heart were corroded and black.
At the instant that Dawn noticed this, some one approached the lady and asked her to seat herself at the piano. She consented, and after a great many excuses and unnecessary movements, began to play. A dark cloud took her place at the side of her husband when she left, which became greatly agitated as the music proceeded, and soon there issued from it a female form. That face Dawn had surely seen somewhere; she passed her hand over her brow and endeavored to recall the familiar features.
Like a flash it came; it was poor Margaret's face, white and glorified, but with a shade of sadness resting upon it.
Dawn's whole being quivered with emotion. She saw nothing now in the room but that form, and the earthly one beside it. The young man pressed his hand to his brow, as though in troubled thought, and moved from where he stood, shivering in every limb.
“Are you cold, Mr. Bowen?” some one inquired of him; the window was closed to shut out the chill air; but the chill which ran over his frame, no material substance could keep off, for it was caused by a spirit touching him.
“I declare, he looks as though he was frozen,” said his wife, rising from the instrument amid the usual applause, and drawing close to him, she whispered in his ear, “You look precisely as you did the day we met that hearse and one carriage. Come, it's a shame to be so abstracted.” Then, addressing Mrs. Austin, she expressed a wish to be introduced to the gentleman who came in last, and the introduction followed.
Nearer and nearer she went. She could not do otherwise, until at last Dawn stood beside Clarence Bowen, the destroyer of Margaret's earthly happiness. The face in the cloud grew brighter; hope seemed to glow from its features, as she stood there and found her way to his troubled soul, with all the native instinct and delicacy of a true woman. She talked of life and its beauties, its opportunities to do good, and of uplifting the down-fallen; still the face shone on, till it seemed to her that every person present must have seen it, as she did. Such presences are no more discernable by the multitude, than are the beautiful principles of life, which lie every day about us, but which though not seen by them, are none the less visible to the few.
A new interest glowed in the young man's face; he felt that he had met a woman divested of the usual vanities of most of her sex. His being awoke to life under the new current of earnest words which flowed in his own narrow stream of life. The waters deepened-he felt that there was something better, higher to live for, as he gazed on the glowing face before him.
During all the conversation, his thoughts kept flowing back to the green grove, and the sweet, innocent face of Margaret. There was surely nothing in the face before him to recall that likeness, yet the bitter waters of memory kept surging over him, each word reflecting the image of the wronged girl.
The face which had all the time been visible to Dawn, slowly faded away, and when the last outline had passed from her sight, she ceased talking, and left him alone with his thoughts.
Alone with those bitter reflections, heaven only might help him, for the chains that bound him to earth were many and strong.
He could not resist the impulse to ask permission to call upon Dawn some day while she remained at Mrs. Austin's, which she readily granted, and then the party broke up, with a strange murmur of voices, and rustling of silks.
“Was it not delightful? I hope you had a good time, Dawn,” was the first remark of Mrs. Austin, after the last of the company had left.
“I have enjoyed it very much,” and she answered truthfully; but little did her friend surmise in what manner.
It was a relief to be in her room alone that night, and think over the thrilling experience of the evening. And this is one of the lights the world rejects, and calls by every other name but holy. A light which reveals the inner state, and shows the needs of the human soul. It may be rejected, but it cannot be destroyed. Man may turn his back upon it, yet it shines on, though he wilfully refuses to enjoy the blessing it imparts. The testimony of one who lives in a dark, narrow lane, that the sun does not exist, would not be considered of any value. Supposing one chooses to close his eyes, and declare that it is not morning; shall those whose eyes are open accept his assertion? Alas, how true it is that many are talking thus, with closed mental vision, from the rostrum and the pulpit. Let each see for himself, and take no man's word upon any subject any farther than that word gives hope and encouragement. Each must do his own thinking, and look upon every effort of another, to limit his range of thought or debar him from the investigation of every new presentation of truth, as an attempt to deprive him of his liberty.
When Clarence next met Dawn he was greatly dejected. She thought he appeared too old and wan for one of his years. The brow on which the light of hope and life should repose, was indeed wrinkled, and furrowed with unrest because the spirit was ill at ease. There was a claim upon him, a voice calling for retribution, which through the very law of life, aside from personal wrong, would not let him rest; and was only in the presence of Dawn that he experienced anything like repose. His wife and friends taunted him daily upon his depression, because they were far from his soul, and could not comprehend the agony which was working therein. Many thus live only on the surface of life, and see only results. What a righting of affairs will come when all are able to see the soul's internal; when darkness shall be made light. That time is rapidly approaching.
Dawn sat beside him, the same grieved but saintly face shone out, in the atmosphere.
“I have heard, Miss Wyman, that you sometimes have interior sight-that you can see conditions of the mind, and the cause of its depressions. May I ask you if you can at present, penetrate my state, and ascertain the cause of this unrest?”
She was silent for a moment. The workings of her own mind were visible on her features. She scarce knew how to break the truth to him, but soon lighting up she said:
“I think I have seen at least one cause of your unrest. There is a spirit presence now in this room, a young and lovely girl whom you have at some time neglected.” She did not say “wronged.”
He started to his feet.
“The face, Miss Wyman; can you describe her appearance?” his words and manner indicating his interest, if not belief, in her power.
“She has light blue eyes, heaven blue, and brown hair. She is a little taller then myself, has a very fair complexion, and she holds a wreath of oak leaves in front of you.”
Clarence turned deadly pale.
“I think she must have been once dear to you, by the look of sweet forgiveness which she gives you.”
He groaned aloud.
“Now she holds in her arms a child-a bright-eyed boy, which has your look upon its face.”
He started with a defiant look, but this changed in an instant to one of grief, and he leaned his head upon his hands and wept.
Slowly the fair face faded away; then Dawn knew all, and knowing all, how great a comforter did she become to him! Angels smile on and mingle in such scenes; mortals see but the surface, and wonder why they thus mingle, with the usual earthly questioning, whether it is for any good that the two thus come together.
The long pent-up grief passed away, in a measure, and Clarence felt as though in the presence of an angel, so sweet and soothing were the words of promise, and tender rebuke which came from the lips of Dawn and flowed to his heart, strengthening his purpose to become a better man.
“Can he who fully repents be wholly forgiven,” he asked, in a tone of deepest want.
“God's mercies are for such and his forgiveness is free, full, and eternal. It does not flow all at once: it must be obtained by long-suffering and earnest asking, that we may know its value, and how precious is the gift.”
“Do you think if I were to go beyond, where dwells that one I have wronged, I could be with her and walk by her side?”
“If your repentance was pure and complete. You would be where your soul was attracted.”
“Do spirits feel the change in our states? If we are sorry for our misdeeds, can they see that we are?”
“Their mission to earth as helps and guardians to mortals would be of little use if they could not. They rise and fall with us. They administer to us, and learn of us. The worlds are like warp and woof. We stay or go where our labor is, wherever the soul may be which has claim upon us.”
“This must be sight then, real vision, for such a person as you have described I once loved and wronged. But the hour is late, I must go, yet I hope you will permit me to call upon you once more. Can I have your promise to see me again, before you leave the place?”
“If I remain I shall be most happy to see you. Remember that all your efforts to do right will relieve and elevate this friend who is around you, who cannot leave you, until her mind has become assimilated with yours, and the balance of your nature is restored by the infusing of her life into yours. If she is relieved by your act, rest will follow; if not, the opposite. This is a law of nature, and cannot be set aside, no more than two on the earth living disharmonized and misunderstood, can find rest away from, or out of, each other.'
“I deeply thank you,” he said, “for your kind words. May all happiness be yours forever.” And then they parted, not the same as when they met, but linked together by the chain of sympathy and common needs.
Clarence heard not the words of his wife that night as he entered his home, who after a while grew weary of his absent replies, and found consolation in sleep. But to him sleep was not thought of. All night he laid awake, his being transfused with a new current of thought, and his life going out and soaring upward into a higher existence. The warp of a new garment was set in the loom. What hand would shape and weave the woof?
When day broke over the hills another morning burst on his senses, and Clarence Bowen, of the gay world, was not the same as before, but a man of high resolves and noble purposes, trying to live a better life.
Slowly his higher nature unfolded. Very slowly came the truths to his mind, as Dawn presented them with all the vigor and freshness of her nature. She told him the story of Margaret, of her death and burial, and of her father; and while he listened with tear-dimmed eyes, his soul became white with repentance. As Dawn spoke, the vision came and went,—each time with the countenance more at rest. It was an experience such as but few have; only those who seen beyond, and know that mortals return to rectify errors after their decease.
There could be no rest for either, until a reconciliation was effected. Happy he who can stand between the two worlds and transmit the most earnest wishes of the unseen, to those of earth. The mission, though fraught with many sorrows, is divine and soul-uplifting to the subject. But who can know these truths save one who has experiened them? The human soul has little power of imparting to another its deepest feelings. We may speak, but who will believe, or sense our experiences? An ancient writer says: “There are many kinds of voices in the world, but none of them without signification. Therefore, if I know not the meaning of the voice, I shall be unto him that speaketh a barbarian, and he that speaketh shall be a barbarian unto me.”
“When you tell me of these things I believe; they are real to me,” said Clarence, “but if I read them, or hear them related as the experience of others, they are dull and meaningless; why is this?”
“I suppose it is because you so feel my life and assurance of them, that in my atmosphere they become real and tangible to you.”
“I think it must be so. I may yet find strength enough to walk alone.”
“You will walk with her who comes to mingle her happiness with yours, and to help bear your crosses.”
“Is it wrong to wish to die?”
“It is better, I think, to desire to live here our appointed time, and ultimate the purpose of our earthly existence.”
“But I can never be happy here, for there are none who understand me.”
“Seek to understand yourself, and that will draw others to you. It matters but little whether we are understood in this world, when we think of the long eternity before us. There is danger of becoming morbid on that point. We lose time and ground in many such meditations. Our gaze becomes too much inward, and we lose sight of life's grand panorama while thus closed in. We can see ourselves most clearly in others; our weakness and our strength. We need to go out, more than to look within. Do you not in conversing with me feel yourself more, than you do when alone?”
“I do. Another essence, or quality of life mingling with our own gives us our own more perfectly. Will all this power go with us to the other world, or do we leave much behind?”
“Nothing but the husk-the dust is left here. Whatever is, shall be. Should you or I pass on, to-day, we should still preserve our individuality of thought and being.”
“And our loves will unfold there, and we be free, think you, to associate with whom we love?”
“I have no doubt of it in my own mind, but can scarce expect another to feel the conviction as I do. We shall be better understood there. Here we have inharmonious natures of our own and others to contend with. These are given to us and are brought about us without any ability in ourselves to accept or reject. Our surroundings are not always what we would wish them, and few find rest or harmony of soul while here. And yet all this is necessary for proper unfoldment and development, else it would not be. Few weary pilgrims reach in this life the many mansions prepared for the soul; few find their fullness of soul-enjoyment. I have seen some of these weary ones as they entered the other world and were led to places of rest. As they caught a single glimpse of the peace and rest awaiting them, their faces glowed with the light of a divine transfiguration; yet they knew that the bliss they had been permitted to look upon, and to hope for, could be theirs only as they were developed into a state of perfect appreciation of it. Even so the person who enters the most fully and understandingly into our own feelings, grasps and holds the most of us. I am yours and you are mine just so far as we can fathom and comprehend each other.”
“I had never thought of that before. How little do they who claim us as their own, know of the existence of this law; and yet the more I consider it, the more do I see its beauty, its truth, and the harmony of all its parts.”
Dawn was greatly pleased in seeing how readily he recognized her position, and continued:
“The relation which such claimants bear to us is one purely external in its nature, and oft-times painful. It is a kind of property ownership which ought to be banished from social life. It should be cast out and have no place nor lot with us, for those higher and divine principles cannot dwell with us until these things are regarded as of the past, and now worthless.”
“But might not the new flow in naturally, and displace the old?”
“That is partly true, but when content with our condition we feel the need of no other. This is one reason why to many, the blessings in store for them are seemingly so long in coming. The man who is struggling with adversity, and sees nothing but darkness and want surrounding him, fondly imagines that in the possession of abundance he would find rest and peace. And yet he could never be blest while in that condition of feeling, though all wealth were his. But having passed through, and out of, this condition, and learned that the exertion induced by privation was the best possible means of his growth, then, wealth might come to him and be a blessing and a power. Blessings will come to us when we are prepared by culture or discipline to rightly employ them for our own good and the good of others.”
“Your thoughts have made me truly blest. You have withdrawn the dark veil which has hung over me so long. I must surely call this a blessing.”
“And the darkness was the same, for it has led you to appreciate the light.”
He took her hand at parting, and pressed it with the warmth of generous gratitude, bade her adieu and went out into the darkness of the evening, but with rays of the morning of life shining in his soul.
“Dawn! Dawn! where are you?” called Mrs. Austin from the library after Mr. Bowen had left. “I'm glad that stupid fellow has gone,” she continued, “for we want you to sing for us.”
How could she sing? The sentiment which would suit her mood would not surely be fitted to those who would listen; but forcing her real state aside, she played and sung several lively songs.
“Delightful!” exclaimed her friend, “we mean to have more of your company now, and keep such stupid people as Clarence Bowen away, he is so changed; he used to be very gay and lively; what do you find in him, Dawn?”
“A need; a great soul need. He wants comforting.”
“What, is he sad? He ought to be the merriest, happiest fellow alive. He has enough of this world's goods, and a most brilliant woman for a wife.”
“These alone cannot give happiness. True, lasting happiness is made up of many little things on which the world places but little value. He has much to make him thoughtful and earnest, and very little to make him gay.”
“You are so unlike everybody else, Dawn. Now I like life; real, hearty, earnest life. I don't care a straw for hidden causes. I want what's on the surface. I think we were put here to enjoy ourselves and make each other happy.”
“So do I; but what you call 'happiness,' might to some, be mere momentary excitement, mere transient pleasure. To me, the word happiness means something deeper; a current, which holds all the ripples of life in its deep channel.”
“Well, if happiness is the deep undercurrent, as you say, I don't want it. I want the ripples, the foam, and the sparkle. So let us go to bed and rest, and to-morrow ride over the hills on horseback. I'll take Arrow, he's fiery, and you may take Jessie. Will you? You need some roses on your cheek.” And the joyous-hearted woman kissed the pale face of her friend till the flush came on her cheeks and brow.
“There; now you look like life; you seemed a moment since as still and white as snow!”
“Your warm nature has surely changed the condition of things, for I feel more like riding just now than sleeping.”
“That's good. Suppose we have a moonlight race?”
“I protest against any such proceeding, being the lord and master of this manor,” said her husband, looking up from his book, in which they supposed he was too deeply engaged to hear their conversation.
Reader, don't trust a gentleman who has his eyes on the page of a volume when two ladies are conversing.
“Then I suppose there's nothing left for us but to go to bed.”
“Yes, a something else,” said her husband.
“What?”
“Go to sleep.”
“Stupid! I suppose you think you have made a brilliant speech.”
“On the contrary I think it the reverse. I never waste scintillations of genius on unappreciative auditors.”
“Edward Austin! you deserve to be banished a week from ladies' society. Come Dawn, let us retire.”
It was in this pleasant, light vein of thought that Dawn recovered her mental poise, and she sank into a sweet and profound slumber, which otherwise would not have come to her. Thus do we range from one sphere to another, and learn, though slowly, that all states are legitimate and necessary, the one to the other. The parts of life contribute to the perfection of the whole. Each object has its own peculiar office, as it has its own form. The tulip delights with its beauty, the carnation with its perfume, the unseemly wormwood displeases both taste and smell, yet in medicinal value is superior to both. So each temperament, each character, has its good and bad. The one has inclinations of which the other is incapable.
“This is a world of hints, out of which each soul seizes what it needs.” So from other lives we draw and appropriate continually into our own, and we need the manifestations of life to make us harmonious. Each person draws something from us that none other can, and imparts out of its special quality that which we cannot receive from any other. We need at times to surrender our will, to merge ourselves into another sphere, and loose the tension of our own action; this surrender being to the mind what sleep is to the brain.
The whole of life does not flow through any one channel; we drink from many streams. “A ship ought not to be held by one anchor, nor life by a single hope.” Slowly we learn life's compliments, and the value of its component parts. Many threads make up the web, and many shades the design. As we advance in experiences, we feel that we could not have afforded to have lost one shade, however dark it may have been. Time, the silent weaver, sits by the loom, seeing neither the light nor shade, but only the great design which grows under his hand in the immortal web.
The morning was clear and lovely. Mrs. Austin and Dawn rode over the hills, their spirits rising at every step, under the exhilarating exercise. A fresh breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, and made the whole air sweet and vital. Birds carolled their songs, and made the woods vocal with praise. Nature seemed set to a jubilant key; while fresh inspiration flowed into the heart of man as he gazed on the scene so redolent with life and beauty.
“You are as radiant as the day,” said Mrs. Austin, drawing in Arrow a little, and coming to the side of Dawn.
“Thank you for your compliment, but it's more the reflection of the outer world, than a manifestation of myself. One cannot but be bright on such a morning.”
“I cannot hold Arrow in longer, or I might argue on that point.” In a moment she was out of sight, round the bend of the road.
“She does me good every moment. I sometimes wish I did not see the conditions of life, and its states as I do. I must keep on the surface a little more,—so run along Jessie,” said Dawn, giving the gentle animal a little touch of the whip that caused her to canter away briskly and catch up with Arrow. Yet it was but for an instant, for Arrow bounded off as he heard the approach, and horse and rider were soon as far in the distance as before.
At the end of the long road Mrs. Austin halted, and reined Arrow under a tree to wait for her friend.
“You are quite a stranger,” said Dawn, coming up at a slow pace. “I've been taking time to enjoy the scenery.”
“So I perceive. I thought you had dismounted and was sketching, or writing a sonnet to the woods.”
“It were most likely to have been the latter, as I never sketch anything but human character.”
“Then tell me what I am like. Sketch me as I am.”
“You are unlike every one else,” said Dawn, in an absent manner.
“That's a diversion. Come to the point, and define me. I'm a riddle, I know.”
“If you have got thus far, you can analyze yourself. It's a good beginning to know what you are.”
“But I cannot unriddle myself. I have, under my rippling surface, a few deep thoughts, and good ones, and they make me speak and act better, sometimes. I am not all foam, Dawn.”
“I never supposed you were. There is a depth in you that you have never fathomed, because your life has been gay, and you have never needed the truths which lie deep, and out of sight.”
“But I'd rather go up than down; much rather.”
“Depth is height, and height is depth.”
“So it is. I never thought of that before. Dawn, you could make a woman of me. Edward does not call me into my better self as you do. Why is it?”
“I suppose because he does not need that manifestation of your being. Your lives are both set to sweetly flowing music. You have never felt the sting of want and suffering, either mental or physical, nor witnessed it to any great extent in others.”
“Why are we allowed to sit in the sunshine, then, if there is so much sorrow in the world?”
“You are saved for some work. When the worn laborers now in the field can do no more, perhaps you will be called forth.”
“O, Dawn, your words thrill me. Then we may not always be as happy as now?” and her glance seemed to turn inward on her joyous heart.
“You may be far happier, but not so full of life's pleasures.”
“Yes; I remember the deep, strong current, and the ripples. Let us go on, Dawn. I feel, I don't know how, but strange. Shall we start?”
“Certainly; I wait your move. Come, Jessie, show me another phase of your nature. I have seen how gentle you are; now go.”
At the word, the creature seemed to fly through the air, so swiftly did she leap over the ground, and Arrow was left behind.
At noon they stopped at a house on the mountain side, the home of an acquaintance of Mrs. Austin's, to refresh themselves and their horses.
“I have brought you to some strange people,” said Mrs. Austin, as they alighted, and a boy came and led their horses to the stable.
“Strange; in what way?”
“O; they believe in all sorts of supernatural things-in the doctrine of transmigration, second-sight, and every other impossible and improbable thing.”
“I am delighted. I shall be most happy to see them.”
“Because you yourself are so much inclined that way?”
“No. I should be more curious to see them if I were not interested in the things you have mentioned. But now I shall meet kindred souls, and in those I always find delight.”
“I've half a mind to take you home without even an introduction, for your impudence; as though I was not a 'kindred soul.'”
“It's too late, now, for here comes a lady and gentleman to welcome you.”
“Miss Bernard, my friend Miss Wyman, Mr. Bernard.”
Dawn took their proffered hands which seemed to thrill with a welcome, and they led the way to a large, old-fashioned parlor. The house was one of those delightful land-marks of the past generation, which we sometimes see. It stood on a high hill, or rather on a mountain shelf, shaded by lofty trees which seemed like sentinels stationed about to protect it from all intrusion. No innovations of modern improvement had marred the general keeping of the grounds and buildings, for any change would have been an injury to the general harmony of the whole. A large, clean lawn sloped to a woody edge in front, and in the rear of the dwelling were clusters of pines and oaks.
Miss Bernard could not be described in a book, nor sensed in a single interview, yet we must lay before the reader an outline to be filled by the imagination. She was a blending of all the forces, mental, moral, and spiritual. Her face was full of thought, without the sharp, defined lines, so common to most women of a nervous temperament. It impressed you at once with vigor and power; chastened by a deep, spiritual light, which shone over it like that of the declining sun upon a landscape. It seemed to burst from within, not having the appearance of proceeding from dross burning away, but like a radiance native to the soul, a part and quality of it, not an ignition which comes from friction and war within.
Basil, her brother, whose name indicated his nature, made every one feel as though transported to a loftier atmosphere. He seemed to belong among the stars. Dawn felt at home at once in his presence, which was a mystery to her friend, to whom he seemed intangible and distant. She had never seen upon the face of Dawn such rapt admiration as she saw there, when Basil conversed.
The conversation changed from external to inner subjects, just as the bell rung for dinner. At the table there were no strangers, and to Dawn it seemed as though she had always known them, and many times before, occupied the same place in their midst. Thus do those who are harmonious in spirit affiliate, regardless of material conditions.
A vase of elegant flowers decked the table, also a basket of blossoms, unarranged, which, at dessert, were placed on the plates of the guests.
A light shone from Basil's eyes, which did not escape Mrs. Austin's notice, as he placed a scarlet lily upon her plate.
“The wand-like lily which lifted up,As a Aenead, its radiant-colored cup,Till the fiery star, which is in its eye,Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.”
While these lines of Whittier's ran through her mind:
“I bring no gift of passion,I breathe no tone of love,But the freshness and the purityOf a feeling far above.I love to turn to thee, fair girl,As one within whose heartEarth has no stain of vanity,And fickleness no part.”
Then she watched him with deeper interest as he placed a spray of balm beside the lily.
“Balm that never ceases uttering sweets,Goes decking the green earth with drapery.”
“I wonder what he will give me,” she said to herself, almost impatiently, yet fearing the offering might not be complimentary, for she well knew that Basil Bernard was always truthful. He held already in his hand a rose, blooming and fresh as morning, which he put upon her plate, and beside it a spray of yellow jessamine. Grace and elegance-while the beautiful Mundi rose spoke its own language-“you are merry.”