Dawn

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"I wonder if there are many visitors at the hotel? Taking our meals
as we do in our rooms, we see but little of them."

"There have been several arrivals to-day," she answered.

"And there are more coming. Sister, I feel strangely here. The
feeling has deepened ever since I came. I feel a soul; some one near
me; a being strong in soul and body, and more lovely than any one I
have ever met."

Marion looked distressed. She feared his mind was wandering. In vain
she tried to hide her look of concern; he saw it, and relieved her
fears by his words and manner.

"It is not mere fancy, nor mental illusion, my dear sister, but
something real and tangible. I feel it in my entire being: some one
is coming to make me whole."

"A woman?"

"Yes; a woman such as you nor I have never looked upon."

"You are weary now, Ralph; will you not lie down?"

"I will to please you; but I am far from being weary."

She smoothed his pillow, and led him to the couch. At that instant a
carriage drove to the door, and several persons alighted.

Marion turned her gaze from the strangers to her brother. Never in
her life had she seen him look as he did then. His eyes glowed, not
with excitement, but with new life. The color mounted to cheeks and
forehead, while he kept pacing up and down the room, too full of joy
and emotion to utter a single sentence.

"What is it, brother?"

This question, anxiously put, was all she could say, for she
perceived, dimly, a sense of some approaching crisis.

Her anxious look touched him, and he threw himself on the couch, and
permitted her to pass her hand gently over his brow.

"There; it's over now."

"What, Ralph?"

"The strange tremor of my being. Marion, some one has come to this
hotel, who will strangely affect my future life."

"The woman,--the soul you felt in the air?" she inquired, now excited
in turn.

"Yes, the soul has come; my soul. I shall look on her before
to-morrow's sun has set. I feel an affiliation, a quality of life
which never entered my mental or physical organization before. And
Marion, this quality is mine by all the laws of Heaven." He sank
back upon the couch like a weary child, and soon passed into a sweet
slumber.

Marion watched the color as it came into his face. It was the flush
of health, not the hectic tinge of disease; and his breath, once
labored and short, was now easy and calm as an infant's.

Some wondrous change seemed to have been wrought upon him. What was
it? By what subtle process had his life blood been warmed, and his
being so strongly affiliated with another life? and where was the
being whose life had entered into his? Beneath the same roof,
reading the beautiful story of "Evangeline."

The next morning Ralph arose, strong and refreshed, having slept
much better than he had for many months.

"Such rest, Marion," he said, "will soon restore me to health," and
his looks confirmed the truth of his statement.

"I should think you had found life's elixir, or the philosopher's
stone, whose fabled virtues were buried with the alchemists of old.
But who is the fairy, Ralph, and when shall we behold her face?"

"Before the sun has set to-day," he answered, confidently.

Marion smiled, looked slightly incredulous, and sat down to her
books and work.

Towards the close of the day, her attention was attracted by a
graceful figure approaching the river bank. Her hat had fallen from
her head, displaying its beautiful contour, and in her hair were
wild flowers, so charmingly placed, that they seemed as though they
had grown there. She watched her with the deepest interest, and
turned to beckon her brother to the window, when lo! he was directly
behind her, and had seen the fair maiden all the while. He had been
drawn there by an irresistible power, and in the single glance he
felt the assurance that she was the being who was to bless his life.
He would have given much, then, to have seen her face, and having
watched her till out of sight, went to his couch for rest.

Marion looked on his placid features, and hope sprung up in her
breast. She felt that her brother was, by some mysterious power,
improving, and knew that he would fully recover his health. The
flood-tides of affection flowed to the surface, and she wept tears
of joy.

Towards sunset they walked out together. Even the mental excitement
caused by looking upon Goethe's statue, and the beautiful Ariadne
had not exhausted him as formerly, and he was able to go into the
evening air for the first time for many months.

They returned to their rooms, and talked of the stranger.

"Is she not lovely?" asked Marion, after long silence.

But in that dreamy silence, Ralph had, in spirit, been absent from
his sister and present with her of whom she inquired. The sound of
her voice brought him back; he started and said,--

"Who?"

"Why the stranger, of whom we were speaking."

"Lovely?" he replied; "she is more than that, she is holy, heavenly,
pure. But let us talk no more tonight, dear; I am weary."

The link was broken; her words had called him from the sphere of the
beautiful stranger, and he needed rest.

"Just what I feared," she said to herself, "he is mentally excited,
and to-morrow will droop."

Contrary to her fears, however, he awoke fresh and bright on the
morrow, and able to visit with her, many places of interest. He did
not see the stranger that day, nor the one succeeding.

"I fear they have gone," said his sister, as Ralph walked nervously
through the room. "I saw several go last evening, and she may have
been among the number."

"No, no; she has not gone. I should feel her absence were she away.
I should have no strength, but lose what I have gained, and droop. I
feel her here under this roof. I am approaching her, and shall,
within a few hours, look on her face, and hear her voice."

"Ah, Ralph, don't get too much excited, for I want you to look well
when father and mother join us at Paris. They will be overjoyed to
see how much you have improved."

He made a hasty gesture, which she did not see, and then, ashamed at
his feeling of impatience, went and sat beside her, and arranged the
silks in her basket. Engaged in this light pastime, he did not hear
a low rap at the door.

"Come in," rose to the lips of Marion; then the thought flashed on
her mind that the caller might be a stranger, and she arose and
opened the door.

"Have you a guide-book you can loan me?"

The voice thrilled Ralph's being to its centre. He raised his eyes
and said,--

"Come in; we will find the book for you."

To Marion's surprise she entered and seated herself by the window,
but never for a moment took her eyes from the features of Ralph.

His hands trembled violently as he searched for the book among a
pile on the table, and Marion had to find it at last, and pass it to
the stranger, who took it, but moved not. Her eyes seemed
transfixed, her feet fastened to the floor.

"This is the person who has drawn my life so since I came here. He
is ill, but will recover," she said, stepping towards him, and
placing her soft, white hand upon his brow.

During this time Ralph was speechless, and felt as though he was
struck dumb. He trembled in every limb, as she gently led him to the
couch and motioned him to lie down. Then his limbs relaxed, his
breath became calm, the face lost all trace of weariness, and he
passed into a deep, mesmeric sleep. "Fold on fold of sleep was o'er
him," and the fair one stood silently there, her eyes dreamy and far
off, until his being was fully enrapt in that delicious state which
but few on earth have experienced.

Then silently she withdrew, while Marion whispered in her ear, "Come
again; please do, for this is so new and strange to me."

"I will," she said, and quietly departed.

An hour passed, and he did not awake; another, and still he
slumbered. "Can it be? O, is it the sleep which precedes death? I
fear it may be," and the anxious sister, musing thus, suppressed a
rising sigh. He moved uneasily. She had disturbed the delicate state
by her agitated thoughts.

"O, if she would come," said Marion, "I should have no fear."

At that instant the door opened, and the wished for visitor glided
in.

"Has she read my thought?"

"Fear not," whispered the stranger, in a voice and manner not her
own, "thy brother but sleepeth. All is well; disease will have left
him when he awakes. I will stay awhile."

A volume of thanks beamed from Marion's face at these words, as she
took her seat close by the side of the fair girl.

At the end of the third hour he awoke. The stranger glided from the
room just as his eyes were opening, and Marion closed the door, and
went and sat beside him.

"What was it like, Ralph? O! how strange it all seems to me."

"Like? sister mine; like dew to the parched earth; strength to the
languished; light unto darkness. What was it like? Mortal cannot
compare it to anything under the heavens. It was as though my being
soared on downy clouds-the old passing out, weariness falling as I
ascended, and all sense of pain laid aside as one would a garment
too heavy to be worn. I knew I slept. I was inspired with currents
of a new life. I was lulled by undulating waves of light; each
motion giving deeper rest, followed by a delicious sense of
enjoyment without demand of action; a balancing of all the being. O!
rest, such rest, comes to man but once in a lifetime. But where is
the fair one to whom I am so much indebted for all this?" He glanced
around the room.

"Gone. She left just as you were waking. But tell me, Ralph, is it
the mesmeric sleep that has so strengthened you, and with which you
are so charmed?"

"It must be. What wondrous power that being has; Marion, I am as
strong and well as ever; look at me, and see if my appearance does
not verify my assertion."

She looked and believed. The past hour had developed a wonder
greater than could be found among all the works of art in that great
city; for Christ, the Lord, had been there and disease had fled.

Ralph and Marion met the strangers quite often, and passed many
happy hours in her society. Marion rallied her brother on his long
tarry at Frankfort, at which he smiled, saying, "I cannot go while
she remains." No more was said concerning his departure, it being
her pleasure to go or stay, as he wished.

One bright morning, they sat under the trees. Ralph was sketching,
while Marion and the young lady who had so entranced him, were
amusing themselves with some portraits which he had drawn a long
time previous, when a servant delivered a letter to Marion. She
opened it eagerly, and said, "It's from mother, Ralph, and we must
meet her in Paris by the twentieth; it's now the seventh."

A look of disappointment passed over his face, which was soon chased
away by smiles, at the words of their companion who said:

"How singular. Father and myself are going there. We leave
to-morrow."

Marion excused herself, and ran to her room to answer her mother's
letter. The two thus left alone, sat silent for some time, until
Ralph broke the calm with these words, "I long to know the name of
one who has so long benefited me. I only know you as Miss Lyman. I
should like to treasure your christian name, which I am sure is
bright, like your nature."

"My surname is Wyman, not Lyman, and my christian name, Dawn."

"How strange! How beautiful!" almost involuntarily exclaimed Ralph.

"Will you allow me, Dawn," he said, after a brief silence, "to
sketch your profile?"

"Certainly, when will you do it?"

"Now, if you have no objection."

"I have not the slightest, provided I can have a duplicate, in case
I like it."

He complied readily, and she took a position requisite for the work.

"Look away over the river, if you please."

He did not know how much these words implied. Her gaze was far away,
and would ever be, for her real home was beyond.

He succeeded at the first effort, and asked her judgment upon it.

"Truthful and correct," she said. "Now another for me, if you
please."

"This is yours. I shall idealize mine, and in it I shall sketch you
as you appear to me. Mine would not please you, I know."

"You judge me correctly. I wish my portrait to be exactly like
myself."

"Yet if you sketched, you would want to draw your friends profiles
as they appeared to you, would you not?"

"Certainly. Is this your speciality, heads, or do you go to nature
and reproduce her wonderous moods and shades with your pencil?"

"My great ideal is Nature. You, too, are an artist."

"I have no talent whatever, but the deepest sympathy with Nature,
and an appreciation of her harmonies."

"Do you not paint flowers, or sketch home scenes?"

"I have never used pencil or brush, and yet I feel at times such
longings within me to give expression to my states, I think I must
have, at least, some latent power in that direction."

"As all have. I could teach you in a very short time, to sketch
woods, hills, and skies."

"I think I should never copy. You don't know how foreign it is to my
nature to copy anything. I should respect artists more if they did
not copy so much. I reverence the past; I honor and admire the pure
lives and noble works of those who are gone; but where are the new
saints and the new masters? Was genius buried with Michael Angelo
and Raphael? The same God who inspired their lives, inspires ours.
We can make ourselves illustrious in our own way. We may not all
paint, but whatever our work is, that should we do as individuals.
If we copy, we shall have no genius to transmit to future
generations."

Dawn wished to be pardoned if she had wearied her listener, but she
saw at once, as she looked on his face, that the thoughts she had
expressed were accepted, and that her words had not fallen on
unappreciative ears.

"You have spoken my own views, and if my health remains, I shall
give the world my best efforts in my own way. Nature shall be my
study. I will not fall a worshipper, like Correggio, to light and
shade, but use them as adjuncts to the great idea which must ever
dwell in the soul of the faithful artist, to give the whole of
nature."

"I would not have spoken so much upon a theme even so dear to me as
this, had I not felt that you would accept my thoughts, and
therefore knew that I should not weary you."

"I shall see you before you go," he said, retaining her hand which
she extended, as she arose to leave.

"I should be very sorry not to bid you good-bye. Have you my
portrait?" He handed it to her, and walked with her to the hotel.

"To-morrow she will depart, I may never see her again. Never! No, it
cannot be. I shall see her, live near her, feel her life flowing
into mine each day. It must be, I shall droop and fade without her,
as the flower without dew or water." He went in and found the letter
written, sealed and directed to Paris. He loved the word, since she
was going there.

Dawn went to her room and wrote her last letter from the land of
music, flowers, legends and art.

"Dear Ones at Home:-To-morrow we bid good-bye to this land of
beauty, which so accords with my feelings. We shall bid adieu to its
mountains, its castles, and its works of art. When you receive this
we shall have visited Paris, thence to London to embark for home.
'Home,' dear word. All my roamings will only make me love home
better, and those whose lives are so woven in with mine. Tell
Herbert he must come here to have his inspiration aroused. When he
has walked upon Mont Blanc; when he has sailed on the Rhine, stood
by Lakes Geneva and Lucerne, and by the blue Moselle, then he will
feel that his whole life has been a fitting prelude to a rapturous
burst of immortal song. He must come to Germany before he can fathom
the sea of sound, or understand in fullness what the rippling waves
of sweet music are saying. Florence, Herbert! do not let old age
come on you, before you see this land, if none other. It is growing
dark, or I would write more. Were I to sing a song to-night it would
be, 'Do they miss me at home?' Three years have passed; I could stay
as many more and not see half of that which would interest and
instruct me, yet I feel ready to leave, for I know it to be my duty
to do so. May the waves bear us safely to the arms of those who love
us. Yours ever, DAWN."

CHAPTER XXI.

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.

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