Dawn

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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."

CHAPTER XXII.

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.

CHAPTER XXIII.

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.

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