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 then I shall be myself.”
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