Dawn

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Mr. Bernard brought to Dawn a folio of drawings, some of Ralph's
early sketches, which they looked over together until the hour of
retiring, when the evening closed with a calm and natural prayer,
such as was nightly heard in that pleasant home.

"I shall claim Miss Wyman to-morrow," said Beatrice; "I have a great
many subjects which I wish to talk upon with her; so, brother, you
will see that our friend, Mrs. Austin, is entertained."

"We will engage to make you very sorry that you are not of our
party," he answered, as they separated for the night.

"Now you are mine for a few hours," said Miss Bernard, after
breakfast, to her guest, as she led the way, followed by Dawn, to a
little room which she had fitted up, and in which she studied or
mused, sewed or wrote, as the mood prompted. The walls were hung
with pictures, her own work, some in oil, others in crayon; all
landscapes of the most poetic conception and delicate finish.

"I have always longed for the power to express my thoughts in
pictures. What a keen enjoyment it must be, Miss Bernard, to have
such a resource within one's self."

"I think the power resides in every person, and only waits a
quickening, like all other powers."

Dawn thought of the hour in Germany when Ralph sat and sketched her
portrait, and the intervening time was as though it had not been. It
was but yesterday, and she sat again by his side watching the deep
life of his eyes, eyes on which she would never look again. Were
they closed forever? "O, heart so desolate. O, lone and barren
shore, where are the waves of joy? All receded; all; and she seemed
to stand upon the beach alone, while a chill ran over her.

"You are chilly, Miss Wyman, let me close the window."

But Dawn heard not, saw not; for before her vision appeared a face
all radiant with life, toned by a look of intensest sympathy; while
on the brow glittered a star so radiant that mortal might not gaze
upon it. Its rays seemed to enter her very soul, and pierce it with
life and light, bathing it with a flood of joy. It was no longer
dark, her face beamed with a strange light when Miss Bernard turned
to call her attention to some pictures which were unfinished.

"You seemed far away, Miss Wyman," said she. "It's so like Basil. He
has such moments of abstraction, and almost takes me with him."

"I was away for a moment; but what a lovely picture you have here."

"It's one I am trying to copy, but I make little progress."

"Truth is not necessarily literal, is it? If so, I should make a
poor copyist."

"It is not; and there is where most persons fail. 'The Divine can
never be literal, and there is in all art a vanishing point, where
the Divine merges itself into the ideal.' And that vanishing point
is seen in the human composition, as well as in natural objects,
that point where we lose ourselves in the Divine, and merge our own
being into that greater, grander being. You are an artist, Miss
Wyman, you group human souls and portray them in all their
naturalness; not on canvas, for that could not be, but spiritually
to our inner sight.

"I love art in whatever form it may come to glorify life, for true
art is catholic, beneficent, touching with its mystic wand every
soul within its reach, thrilling even the sluggish and the
slumbering with a new sense of the Divine bounty which makes this
world so lovely and fair."

Miss Bernard looked grateful for the rich appreciation of her guest,
which she had scarce dared hope to find; and from art they drifted
to life and some of its present needs, glowing with friendly
recognition as they advanced and found each possessed with similar
views. Thus do we meet pilgrims on the way, at some unexpected turn,
when we thought ourselves alone upon the road.

"I know by these pictures, Miss Bernard," said Dawn, "that your life
is full of practicality."

"You surprise me, for every stranger thinks that I do nothing else."

"If nothing else, you would not do this, or anything of a fanciful
nature."

"I see you have had some experience, for very few entertain that
sentiment."

"I have seen enough to know that those whose time is at their own
disposal rarely accomplish anything, either practical or beautiful.
The one helps the other, and one who delves hardest in the
practical, rises ofttimes highest in the ideal."

"It is true of my own self, and others. My experiences have been
varied and deep in human life and I have learned that time is of no
value unless it is estimated by the amount of labor that can be
accomplished. When thus estimated, however it may be employed, the
results are productive of good to the individual."

"How I wish, Miss Bernard, that the whole human family might have
just enough labor and time for improvement which they need. Life
looks so hard and inharmonious at times, when we see thousands
toiling from early morn till night, with no moments for thought or
culture, that we cannot but ask where justice to God's children is
meted out."

"Life is strangely interspersed with clouds and sunshine. I know
that somewhere all will find recompense for such seeming losses, and
that what we now look upon as evil will be seen to be good and best
for all. Did I not know this, Miss Wyman, I should have little heart
to go on. Of one thing I am certain, and that is, we must each keep
working, performing the labor of the day, and some time the great
united good will come from all this individual work. It is but an
atom that each one does, but it counts as the grain of sand on the
sea-shore, and helps by its infinitesimal portion toward the
aggregate."

"Did you ever feel, Miss Bernard, that extended vision of life's
conditions incapacitated us for real, vigorous service?"

"I have felt at times it might be so, but am convinced that it does
not; it only deepens our effort and endeavor."

"I have often thought that I was unfitted for life, from the very
fact that I saw so much to be done."

"When we see so much it makes us meditate, and that very condition
gives birth to greater power."

"True, and yet I often wish I did not see so much. Why do I not
oftener feel a power somewhat commensurate with the demand and
wish?"

"I suppose, because the power is born of the time and the need, and
not a burden to encumber us on our way. It is not of material
nature; cannot be packed and stored away for some occasion that may
arise, but is proportioned and adapted to the kind and quality of
the requirement."

"You have explained it just as I felt it somewhere in my soul. The
thought in me needed the quickening of another mind. You do me good,
Miss Bernard, every moment. O, how much we need interchange of
thought."

"We do, indeed, in order to know ourselves, if nothing more. But I
see that you are weary. Stay with us and rest, will you? New
atmospheres are good to throw off fatigue in."

"I should indeed be delighted to stay here. Was Ralph fond of being
here?"

"Very; and he is here now."

"Then you believe in the presence of spirits, and their cognizance
of us, and we of them?"

"Yes, for many years, and have been led by their advice."

"I am at rest. I find many who believe in communion, but not
communication. I accept both."

"And so do I. We will compare experiences, and have many happy
hours. How much we shall all enjoy. You must know my brother, Miss
Wyman, for he, too, loved Ralph with all the ardor of his deep
nature."

The next hour Dawn sat alone in communion with self, wondering at
the daily events of life, and her own deepening womanhood. Life to
her was growing richer each day. She felt that she was catching the
divine breath, and coming into celestial harmony, which is the
soul's true state. O, what bliss awaits us, when we have passed from
the exterior to the interior life; a state not of worlds, but of
soul, where we come into divine submission, and can say, "Thy will,
not mine, be done."

CHAPTER XXX.

Mrs. Austin left the next day, and the soul-united trio were alone.
Only those who know the value of fresh minds and blending qualities
of heart and spirit, can realize how much they enjoyed together. To
Dawn, Basil seemed new and old,--old in acquaintance, as we ever find
those who have pursued the same current of thought; new in the power
of presenting truth to her mind, in fresh combination and coloring.
He had all the delicacy of Ralph, with more mental vigor, and
broader experiences.

His sister, Dawn learned to love better every day, as she witnessed
the exercise of her varied powers, all working in harmony, and
rounding her life into completeness.

"I could live here forever," she exclaimed, one morning, when nature
was sparkling with diamond drops of dew, and singing her morning
praises.

"Then stay forever," said a voice, deep and musical, at her side.
"Why not stay forever? for we should stay where we live the most,"
said Basil, laying his hand on her head. "I suppose, however, the
'forever' meant, so long as your life here is replete with
enjoyment, did it not?"

"Yes, I suppose that is our definition of 'forever,' and as it is a
portion of it, we may properly call it thus."

"Then see that you stay your 'forever,' and make us happy in so
doing," and his earnest eyes fastening their gaze on hers, told how
dearly he loved to have her there.

The bell rang for breakfast, and the little party brought bright
faces and fresh thoughts to the meal.

"Would you like to sail upon the pond, to-day?" inquired Miss
Bernard of Dawn.

"Nothing better, if there are lilies we can gather."

"There is a plenty, so we shall go. You will see my brother in a new
phase to-day, Miss Wyman, for nothing calls forth the sweetness of
his nature like sailing."

"I should advise one to go often, if it had that effect," said Dawn
scarce daring to lift her eyes.

"I cannot afford to be exercised that way often," he answered,
looking, it seemed to her, almost stern.

"Why?" inquired his sister, laughing.

"Because it so completely exhausts me to be called out into a high,
spiritual state too often."

"You speak of conditions as compartments, brother. May we not blend
the whole, into one perfect state?"

"We may harmonize and unite, but each distinct faculty must forever
have a separate action, like the functions of the human body,
perfect in parts, to make a perfect whole."

"I perceive your meaning, yet it does not attenuate me, at least I
do not feel that it does, when the spiritual and affectional parts
of my nature are exercised."

"One reason is because your balancing power is greater than mine;
another, there is more spiritual elasticity in women than in men.
Women rebound in a breath; men take a more circuitous route."

"You have explained yourself very well, yet we hope to see you
to-day in your best mood."

"My companions would draw me into that state. When will you both be
ready?" he asked, rising.

"At nine o'clock."

"Then be at the lower garden gate at that hour." Having give this
direction, Basil went to give some orders for the day, while Dawn
and Beatrice dressed themselves for the sail.

"Wear something which you do not fear to soil, Miss Wyman; and have
you a broad-brimmed hat to protect you from the sun?"

"I have. It is one of the staple articles of my wardrobe. I never go
from home without it."

They were soon ready, and found Basil at the gate at the appointed
hour. The lake lay calm and clear in its woodland setting. They
glided for miles over its smooth surface, and each felt the other's
need of silence. A gentle breeze just stirred the waters into
ripples, breaking the stillness of the hour.

"The correspondence of speech," said Basil, giving the boat a sudden
turn, and displaying some drooping willows on the shore which were
duplicating their graceful branches in the clear waters.

"When we are passive, do not they of the upper world thus throw
their image upon our minds?" he said, looking earnestly on the
reflection of the branches.

Dawn thrilled at the beautiful analogy, and thought of one unseen
who might be, perhaps, at that time, enjoying the outer world
through her tranquil state, if not through her senses.

"I sailed once on this lake with Ralph. It was such a day as this,"
said Basil. "O, how he enjoyed it. He loved the water, everything
from brook to ocean."

"I wonder if he is near us to day?" said Miss Bernard.

Dawn wept. Her spirit was full of love and harmony, and the tears
gushed forth like waters leaping from joyous cascades. They were not
tears of sorrow or of loneliness, but crystal drops of emotion.

"There are harmonists whose fingers,
From the pulses of the air,
Call out melody that lingers
All along the golden stair
Of the spiral that ascendeth
To the paradise on high,
And arising there emblendeth
With the music of the sky."

And there they were lifted, and dwelt.

"We are approaching the lilies now," said Basil, feeling that he
must break the deep spiritual atmosphere into which they were all
passing. "We must keep on the earth-side a little longer," he said,
playfully.

"Long enough to gather some of these beautiful lilies at least,"
said his sister, as she gazed lovingly into his deep, tender eyes.

He swung the boat round, and gathering a handful, threw them at the
feet of Dawn.

"I will twine you a garland," said Beatrice, taking some of the
lilies and weaving their long stems together.

"No, no. There are but few who can wear lilies alone, Miss Bernard.
Some may wear them, but not I."

"You are not the best judge, perhaps, as to what becomes your
spiritual and physical nature," said Basil.

"I know my states, and that lilies are not suited to my present
condition," answered Dawn.

"Since you will not be crowned, Miss Wyman, will you please pass
that basket? I think we all need to descend into more normal
conditions; we are too sublimated." Following this suggestion he
allowed the boat to float without guidance, while they partook of
the delicate yet substantial repast.

The evening carnation tinged the clouds about the setting sun as
they sailed homeward, gathering lilies on their way. The bells from
a village near by were ringing, and the sound came distinctly over
the water, musical and sweet to the ear.

"Do you remember the passage in Pilgrim's Progress, where the bells
in heaven were ringing, over the river?" said Beatrice to them both.

"I do," said Dawn, earnestly. "O, that we all were across that
river. When shall we be there?"

"I suppose when our usefulness is most needed here," said Basil, in
a tone which caused them both to start.

"Why, brother?"

"Because that seems to be the law of life. All men and women go when
most needed here; as the rose dies when its tinge is brightest, its
blossom fullest."

"And that is our time," said Dawn.

"And God's," he answered.

Dawn found on her dressing table that night a garland of lilies and
red roses.

"Passion and purity," she said. "O, this will do for human heads."
She laid long that night wondering whether Basil or his sister
twined it. It did not seem like Beatrice, and yet she scarce thought
he would do it. It lay between them, however, and pondering on that,
and the day's keen enjoyment, she fell asleep, nor woke till morn.

Miss Bernard was very busy that day from necessity, she said, and
partly to balance the state of the day previous.

"I shall want your company this afternoon for a drive," she said to
Dawn; "this morning the library, piano and garden are at your
disposal, to use at your pleasure. I have domestic duties to
perform, and hope you will make yourself as comfortable as
possible."

So little time, and so much to enjoy. First, Dawn went into the
garden and gathered some flowers for the library; then she played an
hour, she thought, but it proved to be two, on looking at the clock,
and the remainder of the morning was passed with books. The bell
rang for dinner long before she thought it could be time, so quickly
and pleasantly had the hours passed away.

After dinner and a little rest, they started on their drive.

"I am going to take you to a little village, or cluster of houses,
to see how its peculiar atmosphere affects you," remarked Miss
Bernard.

After a pleasant drive through shaded streets and roads, they came
in sight of a church spire, then a few cottages here and there, and
were soon in the centre of the village, when Miss Bernard looked
inquiringly to her guest.

"How frigid and cold it seems here. Why, there is such a desolate,
unsocial feeling I should not live out half my days if I had to
remain in such a place. Have I indicated its peculiarity?"

"Perfectly."

"But what is the cause of it? Surely the scenery, so lovely and
calm, ought to inspire the deepest sentiments of social life in the
hearts of the inhabitants."

"One cause is too much wealth; another, too few people. The place
needs the addition of two or three hundred families to give it life
and impetus. Each family now here has settled into itself, and grown
conventional and rusty. Most of the people have considerable mental
ability, but lock and bar their souls and hearts so closely that
their better feelings cannot flow at all, nor find their legitimate
sphere of action. They are all nice, quiet people, read a good deal,
adopt theories and fine drawn sentiments in profession, but never
make them of any use to themselves or others. They have considerable
mental sympathy, but none of heart and soul. They seem to live by
rule. No spontaneous outgushes of their nature are ever seen, for
they have dropped into a kind of polite externalism, and lost all
the warm magnetic currents of life."

"But are there not a few exceptions?"

"A very few, but the cold is so severe that it soon freezes out
their warm life, and the good that they would do is put far from
their reach. They are a very pious, church-going people, and
invariably as a class, look upon all forms of entertainment, such as
assemblies and theatricals, as out of order, and sinful. Of course
the young people grow old long before their time, and leave the
place, and you know that one of the saddest sights on earth is a
little village deserted of youth. All this might be remedied by an
infusion of a strong social force; but, one or two families who have
lived very different lives, and have taken up their abode in it, can
do but little towards so desirable a change. The little hall which
we are now passing should have a series of assemblies each winter,
concerts, private theatricals, meetings for conversation, and the
like, in which all, free of caste limitation, might take part. Now
it is seldom lighted with gay and joyous faces. The young have no
spirited life, consequently the old have none; for it's the merry
beating of their hearts, and happy faces which enkindles and
rejuvenates the joys of their elders. Everything joyous is looked
upon as innovation, and frowned down. Those who reach out for a
little more life, become frost-bitten, and gladly retire within
themselves. I have given you a sad picture, I know, but it's true,
not only of this but of many places."

"It is sad, indeed, because 't is true."

"Notice this little vine-clad cottage, which we are approaching,"
said Miss Bernard.

"It's a lovely spot; I hope the people are adapted to it."

"They are not, or, rather, are not suited to their conditions. It is
occupied by two maiden ladies, who do not know how to live and get
the most out of life, and each other. They live too close, too
enwrapped within themselves. They should have separate interests, or
occupations; but instead of that, they live in each other's
atmosphere every day, go together and return together, see the same
people at the same time, when their interviews should be varied, and
each at times alone. Thus their magnetisms have become so
interblended, that one has nothing to give the other. Now, Miss
Wyman, after such mutual exhaustion, what can they have for each
other?"

"Nothing but exhaustion; and how many live in the same way, plodding
through life, growing old before their time, losing power, or
magnetism, which is power, every day. Such persons close their eyes
to any light one might throw upon their path, and I see no way, but
for all such to remain where they are. It is lamentably true that
comparatively few of the inhabitants of earth are growing people;
most of them are content with a slow, dull routine of daily life.
I'd rather see persons full of zeal and purpose, even though their
impulsive nature might lead them to commit many mistakes, rather
than one whose life seems purposeless."

"So had I. Motion is life; and in that motion we do many things
which we afterwards regret, yet find them to have been the
legitimate results of life; so I suppose we should not regret
anything."

"Nothing which has occurred outside or independent of our will or
design."

"It is hard to tell where our own will commences to act; is it not,
Miss Bernard?"

"I sometimes question whether we can; yet in order for our lives to
be individualized there must be some point where we lay aside our
personal will, disengage it, as it were, from the causes or outside
forces, which seem to be ever propelling us."

"What do you consider the most quiescent state of the soul?"

"That state in which the mind clearly perceives it could not have
afforded to have dispensed with one personal experience, least of
all, with one sorrow which formed a part of that experience."

"How few can subscribe to that, save in theory, yet I know by the
few years of my own life, that I could not lose one of my
experiences, least of all, those that deepened the mind; or gave me
higher, broader views of life. I hope I shall live many years, Miss
Bernard, for the more we know of this life, the better prepared
shall we be to live and enjoy the other."

"They are so interwoven that one must really know both well in order
to act and live well in either."

"Have you ever seen with your interior perceptions the conditions of
mortals who have passed beyond the vale? I have felt their states,
but have never seen them. I think you also have, for I have heard
from your friend, Miss Wyman, of your wondrous power to see at
times, those who have thrown aside the mortal. I should be deeply
interested in a relation of any of your experiences at some future
time when you feel inclined to give them; for my faith in the
ability of spirits to return to earth, and influence us, is as deep
and strong as my trust in God."

"In some quiet hour, I will tell you many of my personal
experiences. It is a strange, dual life I live, and sometimes I feel
myself in such mixed states, that I scarcely know my mooring, if,
indeed, I have any."

"Some do not, I think."

"I am one, then, of that class; I seem to belong everywhere, and to
everybody."

"I am quite certain of two, to whom you belong-myself and
brother-but here we are in sight of home, and Basil is waiting for
us on the piazza."

"It is pleasant to have a brother like yours, and to me to look upon
the relation you bear to each other, for usually the relation of
brother and sister is so ordinary and means so little."

"He is a noble man and brother, and has done much toward developing
my spirit. I want you to know him well, and learn what a friend and
companion he can be to woman."

At that moment they wound around the drive, and he came to meet
them, his face full of kindness and affection, greeting his sister
as though she had been gone weeks, instead of hours only; and
bestowing a look of generous hospitality upon Dawn, whose thoughts
seemed to grow richer every moment in his presence.

CHAPTER XXXI.

Gladly would Dawn have spent many days with Basil and his sister,
but her life was too active to allow her to tarry long in one place.
On the evening of the day, the events of which were narrated in our
last chapter, a note was placed in her hand from Mrs. Austin,
stating that she was ill and needed her presence.

"You cannot go before to-morrow," broke in both sister and brother,
at once.

"We must make much of this evening," said Beatrice.

"And spend it as though it was our last together; for life's
conditions are so uncertain," remarked Basil, in that far-off tone,
in which he often spoke.

"We may have many experiences before another meeting, yet I hope we
shall come together again soon."

"How shall we spend our evening?" said Miss Bernard to her brother,
yet looking at Dawn.

"Naturally. Let it take its own course." Their eyes at that instant
rested on Dawn, whose features glowed with a heavenly light and
sweetness.

"It is a trance symptom," said Basil. "Let us keep ourselves
passive."

The light of the room seemed to vibrate with life, and their bodies
to be so charged with an electric current so etherial that it seemed
that their spirits must be freed from all earthly hold. And then
there came a calm over all. The features of Dawn seemed to change to
those of one so familiar to them in their early days, that they
started with surprise.

"I was on earth known as Sybil Warner," said a voice which seemed
not that of Dawn, and yet her vocal organs were employed to speak
the name.

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