Dawn

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"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 Maenad, 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 purity
Of a feeling far above.
I love to turn to thee, fair girl,
As one within whose heart
Earth 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."

"Blushing rose!
Blown in the morning-thou shalt fade ere noon:
What boots a life that in such haste forsakes thee?
Thou 'rt wondrous frolic being to die so soon,
And passing proud a little color makes thee."

And now came the most interesting point, to see what flowers he
would place upon his sister's plate.

First, a handful of violets. "Faithfulness," thought Dawn, "he is
right thus far." And then, as though his thoughts rose with the
sentiment, he laid snowballs gently around them, while these words
flashed upon her mind:

"Should sorrow o'er thy brow
Its darkened shadow fling,
And hopes that cheer thee now,
Die in their early spring;
Should pleasure, at its birth,
Fade like the hues of even,
Turn thou away from earth--
There's rest for thee in heaven.
"If ever life should seem
To thee a toilsome way,
And gladness cease to beam
Upon its clouded day;
If, like the weary dove,
O'er shoreless ocean driven,
Raise thou thine eyes above--
There's rest for thee in heaven."

"And now we will each make a contribution to Basil" said his sister,
smiling on him in a manner which told how dear he was to her.

She passed the basket to Dawn, who blushed and trembled at first,
not with fear, but pleasure.

"The offering," said his sister, "is to be an expression of the
sentiments, which, in the opinion of each of us, are most in keeping
with his character."

Dawn reached forth, and drew, without hesitation, a cluster of
verbenas, and one white water-lily.

"Sensibility and purity of heart. She has read him aright," thought
Miss Bernard.

"Gentle as an angel's ministry
The guiding hand of love should be,
Which seeks again those chords to bind
Which human woe hath rent apart."

"She has seen my brother's very heart, his most noble self," she
repeated to herself, as she passed the basket to Mrs. Austin, who
plucked a Clyconthas, and laid it on his plate, with a blossom of
Iris.

"Benevolence," said Dawn, and to her mind these beautiful words were
suggested;

"Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief,
Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold?
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief;
Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold?
'Tis when the rose is wrapped in many a fold
Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there
Its life and beauty; not when, all unrolled,
Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair,
Breathes freely its perfume throughout the ambient air.
Rouse to some work of high and holy love,
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know.
Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;
The good began by thee shall onward flow
In many a branching stream, and wider grow;
The seed that in these few and fleeting hours
Thy hand unsparing and unwearied sow,
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,
And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers."

But one more offering, and that from his sister. She drew the bay
leaf, of which the wreath to adorn the conqueror and the poet is
made, and, while the eyes of the two women rested on her, drew forth
also the pale, but sweet-scented mountain pink, signifying
aspiration, beautifully expressed by Percival in these lines:

"The world may scorn me, if they choose-I care
But little for their scoffings. I may sink
For moments; but I rise again, nor shrink
From doing what the faithful heart inspires.
I will not falter, fawn, nor crouch, nor wink,
At what high-mounted wealth or power desires;
I have a loftier aim, to which my soul aspires."

"We regret that we must leave, now," said Mrs. Austin to her friend,
after they had returned to the drawing-room and conversed awhile.

"We would gladly detain you longer, but knowing you have a long
drive, we cannot conscientiously do so," said Miss Bernard; "but may
we not hope to see you both, again?"

"Not unless you return our visit; we cannot take another long drive
right away, having so many ways to move, and so little time to
spare. But come and see us whenever you can."

"Thank you," replied Miss Bernard, and Basil bowed, while his eyes
rested on Dawn.

"We should both be happy to see you again, Miss Wyman," he said,
taking her hand, and the horses having been brought to the door, he
helped her into the saddle first, and then Mrs. Austin.

They bounded away, and were soon far from the hospitable home,
discussing, as they rode side by side, the merits and beauties of
its occupants.

"I did not tell you Miss Bernard's name. I think her brother did not
mention it while we were there; now what do you think it can be?"

"I do not know; perhaps Margaret-a pearl. No, not that; maybe,
Agathe, which signifies good; and yet I do not feel I have it yet."

"No; guess again."

"I thought once while there, it might be Beatrice, for she seems
like one who blesses."

"You are right. That is her name, and most nobly does she illustrate
its signification."

"I am glad, for I hoped it was. How strange their names should so
suit their natures," said Dawn, musingly.

"Not if you knew them and their ancestry. They are of German
descent, and believe in all sorts of traditions, and, as I have said
before, supernatural things. They live almost wholly in sentiment,
and are little known save by a very few. I like them, yet I cannot
tell why. When in their presence I feel a sort of transcendental
charm, a something intangible, but restful to my soul. It's only
with you and them, Dawn, that I ever feel thus, and that is why I
brought you together."

"I can never thank you enough, but I wish to know them better."

"You shall. Did I not see how they felt your sphere, as you
'impressionists' say."

"I hope they felt my desire for a better life, for it is a great
rest to be comprehended. It is as though some one took us by the
hand, and led us over the hard places of life."

"I wish I could feel and live as you do, Dawn. You seem to have
something so much deeper and richer in your life, than I have in
mine-but, I suppose you would say, if I wanted deeper thoughts, I
should search and find them."

"I should, most certainly; you have anticipated my answer. We have
what we aspire to--what we feel the need of."

"We are getting too earnest, it makes me feel almost sad. Come,
Arrow, let me see you speed over that shady road;" and away he flew
at the sound of his name, leaving Dawn and Jessie, who seemed in no
mood just then for galloping, far behind.

It was almost twilight when they reached home together, Mrs. Austin
having checked her horse's speed, for her friend to come up with
her. They had passed a most delightful day, and cosily seated in
their parlor, we will leave them talking as the twilight deepens
around, and go to the home of Basil and sister, who are conversing
upon the day's events.

"It seems as though somewhere, in this or another existence, I had
seen that face and form," said Basil to his sister.

"She is certainly very lovely, wherever you may have met her. She
may have been a dove, brother, and rested on your shoulder. I do not
know but that we should hesitate before we condemn the belief in a
transmigration of spirits, souls, and forces, when nature seems to
somewhat imply its truth in her kingdom?"

"Spirit cannot, in its countless transmigrations, be limited to the
little space which we call earth. The life of the universe is the
activity of its ever-living forces and existences, and their eternal
striving to separate or to unite.

"The belief in the transmigration of souls is of high antiquity, and
is worthy of more than a passing thought. A writer has said: 'Being
itself does not change, but only its relations. Mind and soul move
in other connections, according to divine ordinances. The strength
or weakness of the will, which the mind is conscious of, in itself,
by a natural necessity creates a distinction between the elevation
or the degradation of self. That is its heaven-this is its hell.
There is an infinite progress of spirit towards perfection in the
Infinite, as the solar systems with their planets wheel through the
realm of the immeasurable. All eternal activity! New union to be
going on of spirits and souls with new powers, which become their
serviceable instruments of contact with the All of things-this is
transmigration of souls. Any other kind of continued duration and
continued action is inconceivable to us. Whether upon earth, or in
other worlds, is a matter of indifference.' But one spirit sees
these things more clearly than another."

Basil stopped, and gazed long into the dim twilight, that light so
fitted for communion; and as he gazed he felt his mind going out
from his home, towards the being who had so touched his
soul-thoughts. Was it his counterpart, or second-self, that made him
feel that evening as though he had never known himself? What new
quality had so blended with his own, in that brief space of time, as
to quicken all his spiritual and intellectual perceptions? Would
they meet again? and when and where? were the concluding
interrogatories as he came back from his reverie, his thoughts
flowing again into audible language.

"You seem freshened, brother," said Beatrice, perceiving that he
lacked words for the full expression of his intense feelings.

"It's the power of a new mind. I am quickened in spirit."

"I see you are; and is it not wonderful how much a person whom we do
not daily meet can inspire us? What an impetus such an one brings to
us, even though but a few words may be spoken. Its fresh magnetic
life mingles with our own, and tinctures our inspirations and
aspirations with a new fervor.

"True; how much we have to learn regarding social intercourse. We
have in society so little spontaniety, that it will take many genial
natures like that of Miss Wyman to melt the frost away."

She saw that he was pleased with Dawn, and felt glad. It was almost
a relief to feel the strong tension of his love for her relax a
little. It is not often that sisters have thus to complain, but
Basil Bernard knew what love was, and how to enfold his object in an
atmosphere of delight. It was protective and uplifting, refining and
broadening, to all who felt it.

There are some natures like that of an infant, ever asking for love,
and protecting arms. Such need to be carried on one's bosom, and
nestled, through their whole life. There are maternally protecting
arms that can bear them thus, and in the sphere of their life and
love their souls would rest. There are natures that will ever be as
children, and also those who can meet their wants.

Such clinging lives should be all infancy; they should be cared for,
until their souls are strong enough to stand alone.

Why is there so much that is fragmentary and unlinked? Why is the
vine left to trail, when the strong oak, with its giant trunk, is
standing bare? It's all in parts, disjointed, broken, as though some
world of glory had been torn asunder, and its portions scattered
here and there.

There is completeness somewhere-in the land beyond-where the sighs,
the tears, the passionate longings, the hopes and fears will be all
adjusted, and our souls rest in celestial harmony.

We cannot question but that it will be well with us there, if we
have striven for the good, our souls conceived of, here. If, with
good purpose and intent, we have out-wrought the hints and
suggestions which have been given us of life, we must find growing
states of rest, sometime, to repletion. It will not be all peace
there; for the two worlds are interblended, and shadow into each
other. There is an interplay of life and emotion forever, and to
those who sense it, a joy too deep to be portrayed by human words; a
truth which helps us to bear the sorrows of this life serenely, and
more fully appreciate its joys.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Basil and his sister sat longer that summer evening than was their
wont. There was a deeper intoning of sentiment, a closer blending of
thought, or rather, their individual states had been more clearly
defined by the day's incidents.

They were of those rare types of mind which know just how far they
can be together, and not detract from each other; just when the
mental and spiritual assimilation was becoming attenuated, and each
needed solitude. Thus they were constantly coming each to the other,
and consequently drew from exhaustless fountains of intellectual and
physical strength.

Life is replete with harmonies ready to inflow, if we are but
receptive and delicate enough to receive and appropriate them. Blest
are they who recognize life's indications, its index-fingers which
are pointing each hour to some new experience, which will deepen and
expand our lives.

Generally there is great danger of two persons settling into
themselves, as these two seemed to have done, but Basil and Beatrice
were so catholic they could afford it, in fact they needed just the
close companionship which they held. The brother, with his colossal
spirit, lofty and original, moving forward through life with that
slow majesty which indicates the wholeness of the individual, unlike
the airy advance of natures which rush with but one faculty
quickened, and mistake speed for greatness, supplied the sister with
that manly, noble quality, which must ever exist in the real or
ideal of every woman. No wonder her warm, beneficent nature expanded
daily, until her heart seemed a garden full of flowers of love and
gratitude.

Did life at times seem dim and hazy, and the mind full of a thousand
doubts, he could dispel the cloud, wrench the truth from its old
combinations, and present it to her in striking contrast with its
opposite error.

No wonder that new purposes and aspirations were born every hour in
that woman's heart, impregnated by his manliness of quality. Yet
each drew through the subtle texture of soul a different hue of
life, as in a bed of flowers, from the same sunlight, one draws
crimson, another azure, as though conscious of the harmony of
complement and difference.

"I feel a rich, deep vein of thought to-night," said Beatrice, "as
though I could write a poem or a book, so vivid are my thoughts."

"Your life has been a poem, full of sweetly blended words. You have
lived yours out, while others have written theirs."

"But there is such power in books, Basil."

"I know it well. 'Some books are drenched sands on which a great
soul's wealth lies all in heaps, like a wrecked argosy.' And some
are sweet and full of passion-tones, and you feel on every leaf that
you are turning, as though their heart-beats were going into yours;
that they were dying that you might have life. Books are indeed
great, but lives are greater; lives that are full of earnest
purpose, and that fail not, even though the tide beats strong about
them and the heavens hang thick and dark with clouds. The greatest
poems are true lives, now surging with grief and passion, now
pulsing with joy-notes, thrilling on each page of life. Some books,
as well as persons, make us feel as though we stood in the presence
of a king, while some give us tears. Some books and some beings dome
us like a sky. Sister, you are the dome which ever overarches my
life,--if day, with its azure and ermine clouds; if night, with its
stars. Nay, do not write a book, but breathe and live your life out
each day."

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