Dawn

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"If you do not believe us, then seek one proof of his wrong dealing,
which you can find any day, at a small cottage near the uplands, on
the road to L--. 'Tis only a mile from here, Miss, and we would
advise you to acquaint yourself with the fact. Take our good advice
and leave this house. That is all we can say to you. Of course, if
you remain here, you will not be admitted into respectable society."

"I will not leave his house while he remains the friend and brother
he is to me now."

"No virtuous woman will permit you, then, to enter her house;
remember this, Miss Vernon," and the tall lady assumed an attitude
of offended dignity.

"I see," she continued, "our visit has done but little save to
arouse you. It may be at some future day, you will thank us for our
advice to you this morning. We must go now. Good day, Miss."

"Good morning," replied Miss Vernon, rising and accompanying them to
the door, scarce able to repel the strong tide of grief, or bear up
under the weight of sadness that was bearing down her soul.

"My brief, happy days so soon, O, how soon, gone by, and over," she
said, after she had closed the door; and she sank on her knees and
prayed as only those have prayed before, in like trouble.

She knew not how long she knelt there, but she was roused by Dawn's
sweet voice, which was always music to her soul, saying, "Please,
may I come, Miss Vernon?"

She rose and held out her arms to receive the little one, who stood
hesitatingly on the threshold of the library, then pressing the dear
child to her heart, found a sweet sense of relief in doing so.

"I know what makes you feel so, Miss Vernon."

"What, Dawn, tell me all you feel," and she sank upon a seat and
rested her face on her hand.

"I was looking over the drawings, and feeling very happy, when the
room grew dark and cold, so cold I was frightened. Then I heard
something say, 'Fear not, Dawn,' and I laid my head down upon the
couch, and saw you standing in a damp, cold valley, on either side
of which were beautiful green mountains, whose tops overlooked all
the towns around. They were so steep that no one could climb them.
While you stood there, a great cloud came directly over your head.
It was full of rain, and it burst and flooded the whole valley. I
feared you would be drowned; but you rose with the water, instead of
its going over you, and when the tide was as high as the mountain,
you stepped to its highest point, on the beautiful green grass, and
sat down. Slowly the waters went down and left you on the
mountain-top, where you could never have gone without the flood.
Then I looked up, and the room was all full of sunshine just as it
was before. I felt cold, and I heard the women go, and then-"

"Then what, Dawn?"

"Then I came to you. The cloud is over you now, but the high green
mountain is more lovely than the valley, and overlooks all the
pleasant vales and hills around. Do you care if the clouds burst
now, Miss Vernon?"

"No, child, I will stand firm and sure while the rain descends. O,
Dawn, so justly named, come and soothe my brow, for it aches so
hard."

The child passed her soft, white hands over the forehead of Miss
Vernon, and the throbbing pain passed away under her magic touch.

The bell rang for dinner long before they were ready for the
summons, but they soon took their places at the table, yet with
little appetite for food.

"A poor compliment you pay my dinner," said Aunt Susan, as she came
to remove the dishes, and prepare for dessert. "I suppose you are
both lonely without Mr. Wyman. I, too, miss his pleasant face and
smile to-day."

How Miss Vernon wished she had not spoken his name just then.

The form of dinner over, Miss Vernon and Dawn dressed themselves for
their walk, knowing that they must start in good season, as it was a
long way to the house, and they would need to rest a little before
their return.

"I almost question, Dawn, if I should go to Miss Evans while this
cloud is over me," remarked Miss Vernon, feeling as though she was
seeking counsel from one her superior in wisdom, rather than
addressing a mere child.

"Why, Miss Evans is just what you need to-day. She is as calm as the
lovely lake on which we sailed last week."

"Well, I need her to-day; but should I carry my state to her?"

"Why, she is like a great stream that carries all lesser streams to
the ocean of truth," said Dawn, in a voice not her own, and so deep
and thrilling that it made her teacher start and gaze with new
wonder upon the child.

"Then we will go this very minute, Dawn; and through the pleasant
fields, that we may avoid the dusty road."

CHAPTER VI.

Miss Evans sat quietly reading, when a gentle ring at the door,
which seemed to reach her heart rather than her ears, aroused her
from an intensely interesting chapter; but she laid the book aside,
and promptly answered the call.

Her face looked the welcome her heart gave them, as she asked Dawn
and her teacher into her cool, airy room. It was one of those snug,
homelike spots, made bright by touches of beauty. Here a vase of
flowers, there a basket of work; books, pictures, every chair and
footstool betokened the taste of the occupant, and the air of home
sacredness that pervaded all, soon made Miss Vernon at ease.

"We could n't help coming," said Dawn, as Miss Evans removed her hat
and mantle, and her glowing features confirmed the assertion.

"Just the kind of visitors I like, fresh and spontaneous. We shall
have a nice time, I know, this lovely afternoon."

"Can I walk in your garden, Miss Evans?"

"Certainly. But are you not too tired, now?"

"O, no," and Dawn was out of sight the next instant.

"I have brought you a book, Miss Evans, which Mr. Wyman requested me
to bring, myself."

"O, yes," she said, glancing at the title, "the one he promised to
loan me so long ago. Is he away from home?"

"He left this morning."

"You must miss him very much."

"We do."

Miss Evans saw, with a woman's intuition, that something was
weighing on the mind of her visitor, and kindly sought to divert her
thoughts. The conversation brightened a little, yet it was apparent
that Miss Vernon's interest flagged, and that her mind grew
abstracted.

"I shall not relieve her, unless I probe the wound," said Miss Evans
to herself, and she boldly ventured on grounds which her subtle
penetration discovered to be the cause of her gloom.

"You find my friend, Mr. Wyman, an agreeable companion, I hope, Miss
Vernon?"

"He has ever been so, and very kind and thoughtful."

"He is a true gentleman, and a man of honor, as well of refinement
and noble character."

Miss Vernon breathed freer.

"You have made him very happy," resumed Miss Evans, "by consenting
to remain with him and his daughter. They are both much attached to
you."

A flush of pain she could not conceal passed over the face of the
caller. "O, if I might but speak to you as I would," she said,
almost fainting with emotion.

"Do tell me in words what you have already so plainly told me in
your looks. Tell me freely the cause of the shadow that hangs over
you."

In response to this appeal, Florence related the experience of the
morning.

"I am not at all surprised at this," said Miss Evans, after the
statement had been made, "for well I know the dark surmisings that
the dwellers in this little village have worked up into imaginary
evils. Sages would no doubt assert that all rumors have some degree
of truth, however slight, for a foundation. This may be true; at
least I will not deny that it is so, but the instigators of the
cruel slanders in this case have nothing but ignorance upon which to
base them. Hugh Wyman is what some might call eccentric. The fact
is, he is so far beyond the majority of his fellow men that he
stands alone, and is the cause of great clamor among those who do
not know him. He expresses his views upon social questions freely
but wisely. His opinions respecting the social relations that should
exist between men and women, and their right to selfhood, are not
his alone, but are held by the best minds in the world; and his home
is often visited by men and women of the largest culture and
ability, both as thinkers and writers. I do not wonder for a moment
that your equilibrium was disturbed by these shallow-brained women.
And now before I advocate my friend's honesty and virtue farther, I
will tell you, what no one save myself and he knows, of one of the
women who called upon you this morning. It is your due, after what
has occurred, and belongs to this moment. I believe in such moments
it is right to raise the veil of the past. Listen:--

"A few years ago, one of that number who came to you, sought by
every subterfuge and art, to gain the affections of Hugh Wyman.
Intellectually, spiritually, in every way his inferior, of course he
could not for a moment desire her society. Yet she sought him at all
times, and when, at last, he told her in words what he had all along
so forcibly expressed by his acts, that he had not even respect for
her, and bade her cease her maneuverings, she turned upon him in
slander; and even on his wedding day asserted that his fair Alice
was a woman of no repute--abandoned by her friends. Nor is this
all;-one year after the marriage of Hugh, she gave birth to a child;
it was laid at night at his door, and he was charged with being its
father."

"But was she married, then?"

"No. She subsequently went to a small village in N--, and married."

"Did the town people believe her story?"

"A few-but proofs of his innocence long since established the
falsity of the charge, except in the minds of those who seem to
delight only in that which dispoils the character of another."

"But his wife? did she too suffer with doubt?"

"Never. Not for a moment was her faith in her husband clouded."

"And this child must be the one they spoke of to deceive me."

"It is. I will go with you some day to see him, and if your eyes can
detect the slightest resemblance to Hugh Wyman, I shall think you
are gifted with more than second sight. I do not wish to weary you,
Miss Vernon, but my friend's character is too sacred to me to be
thus assailed, and I not use all my powers to make known the truth,
and prove him innocent."

"I believe his views upon marriage are rather radical, are they not,
Miss Evans?"

"They are. I join him fully in all his ideas, for long have I seen
that our system needs thorough reformation, and that while the
marriage bond is holy, too many have desecrated it. I believe some
of the most inharmonious offspring are brought into the world, under
the sanction of marriage-children diseased, mentally and physically;
and worse than orphans. I do not say this to countenance
licentiousness. Indeed, I know that licentiousness is not all
outside of wedlock. It is to purify and elevate the low, and not to
give license to such, that earnest men and women are talking and
writing to-day. I do not blame you, Miss Vernon, for wishing proof
of Mr. Wyman's purity and honor. I like a mind that demands
evidence. And now, tell me, have I scattered or broken the cloud
that hung over you?"

"You have. I shall trust Mr. Wyman till I have some personal proof
that he is not all I feel him to be."

"That is the true course to pursue, my friend. In that way alone you
have your own life developed. If by word, look or deed he ever
betrays your trust, I shall call my intuitions vain, and all my
insight into human character mere idle conjecture."

"But I must go now, Miss Evans. I thank you much for the light which
you have given me, and your sympathy, all of which I so much
needed."

"Your position was indeed trying, but do you not feel that your
character will be deeper and stronger for this disturbance?"

"I feel as though I had lived through a long period."

"I have one question to put to you, which you must answer from your
soul's deep intuition, and not from your reason alone. Do you
believe Hugh Wyman guilty of the crimes charged against him?"

"I do not."

There was no hesitation in the answer; their souls met on
sympathetic ground, and those two women loved Hugh Wyman alike, with
a pure sisterly affection.

CHAPTER VII.

There are pauses in every life; seasons of thought after outward
experiences, when the soul questions, balances, and adjusts its
emotions; weighs each act, condemns and justifies self in one
breath, then throws itself hopefully into the future to await the
incoming tide, whether of joy or sorrow it knows not.

In such a state Florence Vernon found herself a few days after her
visit to Miss Evans. She thought when with her that no doubt could
ever shadow her heart again; but fears had crept over her, even
though she desired to be firm.

"Shall I stay and trust his nature, or go away and take up my old
life, and be again desolate and lonely? Which?" She kept asking this
again and again to herself. "I have been so happy here; but, if I
go, it must be before he returns. No! I will not. I will stay and
brave the talk, and-"

"Miss Vernon, please come down, papa has come!

"O, why did he come so soon? How I dread to meet him," were the
words that Florence found springing to her lips; but not hearing his
voice, she thought that Dawn must have been only in jest.

She listened again. Yes, Mr. Wyman was talking to Dawn in the hall.
She sat very still, and soon heard them both go into the garden;
then all was still. Again alone, she tried to analyze her emotions,
and see whether her deepest feeling was that of peace and rest, the
same she felt when she first entered the home of Mr. Wyman. It was
there, as it had been, but so agitated that the effort to ascertain
its presence gave back no deep trust to her questioning heart. The
bell rang for tea. She would gladly have stayed away, but could fame
no excuse, and after bathing her eyes, which were red and swollen,
she went slowly down stairs.

"I suppose you are surprised, Florence, among the rest, at my
unexpected presence. I did not myself expect to be at home so soon,
but meeting one of the firm with whom my business was connected, I
was but too glad to adjust it and return at once. I have felt very
weary, too, since the first day I left home, as though some cloud
was hanging over my home. My first thought was of Dawn, but her
rosy, happy face soon put to flight the apprehensions I had for her;
yet you, Florence, are not looking well; are you ill?"

"I am quite well, thank you."

He looked deeper than her words, and saw within a tumult of
emotions. He did not notice her farther, but talked with Dawn during
the remainder of the meal, and when they were through went alone to
walk.

"He shuns me," she said, as she went into her room and sat down, sad
and dejected, "what but wrong can make him appear so? But I will not
leave it thus. I will know from him to-night whether these reports
are true, and then if true, leave here forever. Happiness, like that
I have experienced the past few months is too great to last."

He sat alone in the library; she rapped softly at his door.

"Come in," he said kindly, and rose to meet her as she entered.

She motioned him back to his seat. "Stay, do not rise," was all she
could say, and fell at his feet.

He lifted her gently, as a mother might have raised a weary child,
and placed her beside him. Then, taking her hand, cold with
excitement, in his own, said,--

"I knew, Florence, by my depression, that your grief called me home.
Some slander has reached your ears. Is it not so?"

"It is. I have trusted and doubted, until I scarce know my own
mind."

"Do you feel most at rest when you trust me?"

"I think-yes, I know I do. Forgive me," she continued, "if these
shadows had not fallen so suddenly on my path, I never should for a
moment have lost my trust in you. I have been shaken, convulsed, and
scarce know my best thoughts."

"You have, indeed. I know not who have thus disturbed you, but may
they never suffer as we both have, and more especially yourself. I
say I know not, and yet my suspicions may not be entirely without
foundation. And now remember, Florence, the moment you feel that I
am not what your ideal of a friend and brother should be, that
moment we had better part."

She started, and grew pale.

"I do not allude to the present, or to the scandal which has
unnerved and disturbed your state; nor can I expect you who are
learning to trust impressions rather than experiences, to feel
otherwise than you have. It was natural. I only wonder that you did
not go at once. Your remaining has shown me your worth, and a trait
of character which I admire. Now that the ordeal is passed, I shall
feel that you are my friend, even though slander, vile and dark, may
be hurled against me, as it is possible, for I have a battle to
fight for you, my friend, and all womankind. The rights of woman,
which have been ignored, or thought but lightly of, I shall strongly
advocate, as opportunity occurs. I shall be misunderstood, over and
underrated in the contest, but for that I care not. I only am too
impatient to see the day when your sex shall not marry for mere
shelter, and when labor of all kinds shall be open for their heads
and hands, with remuneration commensurate with their efforts. I am
anxiously looking for the time when their right to vote shall be
admitted them, not grudgingly, but freely and willingly given; for
is not woman God's highest work, and his best gift to man? Now, if
the shadows come again, in shape of scandal, think you, you can
trust me?"

"I can. I do, and can never doubt again. Forgive the past. I was
weak-"

"There is nothing to forgive," said Mr. Wyman, as he leaned over and
kissed her forehead.

The seal of brotherhood was set, and Hugh and Florence knew from
that hour the bond which bound them, and that it was pure and
spotless.

CHAPTER VIII.

Mrs. Deane sat rocking, and casting impatient glances at the little
clock upon the mantle. The book which she had an hour previous been
deeply interested in, lay closed upon her lap, while the nervous
glancing of her eye towards the door, told that she was anxiously
awaiting the arrival of some one. The clock struck ten, and rising
from her seat, she went to the window, and drawing the curtain
aside, looked out on the soft summer night. It was one of those
lovely evenings towards the close of the season, when the slightly
chilled air reminds one of cosy firesides, and close companionship
with those dearest to the heart. But her thoughts were not of a
peaceful cast. She was alone, and jealous of him who had left her
so. A moment later and the sound of footsteps was heard upon the
piazza; a sound which in earlier years she had heard with thrills of
pleasure. But to-night they only loosed the tension of long-pent
passion, and selfish thoughts of neglect. She sank into a chair, and
sat with the air of one deeply wronged, as her husband entered the
room.

"What, up and waiting for me?" he said, going towards her, his face
glowing with mental exhilaration.

She turned coldly from him, and took up her book. He drew it gently
from her, saying,--

"Listen, Mabel, to me. I want to talk with you awhile. You can read
when I am away."

"Yes, sir, I find ample opportunities for that," and she cast on him
a look of keen rebuke.

"Don't, Mabel; listen to me."

"I am all attention; why do you not proceed?"

"Do you think I can talk while you are in such a frame of mind?"

"Why, what would you have me do? I am waiting for your words of
wisdom, or, maybe, a lecture on the foibles of the sex in general,
and myself in particular; proceed, it's quite a relief, I assure
you, to hear a human voice after these lonely evenings, which seem
interminable."

"Why, Mabel, what do you mean? I have not spent an evening away from
you for nearly a year before this. My absence this evening has been
purely accidental, although I have passed it very agreeably."

"And may I ask where you find such delightful entertainment, that
kept you away till this late hour, for it is nearly midnight?"

"Yes. I have spent the evening with Miss Evans."

"That detestable strong-minded-"

"Mabel! I will not hear her spoken of in this manner."

"O, no indeed. All the men in L--are crazy after her society,--so
refined, so progressive, so intelligent. I am sick of it all. I
suppose you think we poor wives will submit to all this. No, no; I
shall not, for one. You will spend your evenings at home with me.
Howard Deane, you have no right to leave me for the society of any
woman, as you have to-night."

Having thus expended her breath and wrath, she sank back into her
hair and gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears. To her
limited sight, she was an injured woman. How different would she
have felt could she have kindly listened to the words which he was
longing to speak to her.

"O, Mabel, if you would only listen to me. To-night I have heard
such glorious thoughts that my whole being longed to share them with
you. Thoughts that would make any man or woman live a nobler and
better life. O, Mabel, be my helpmate. Do not turn from one who
loves you."

"A strange way to manifest your love for me, spending your hours
with other women,--"

"Stop, Mabel. I will, at least, have myself heard, and be free to
hear the thoughts of other women, as well as those of men. I begin
to believe that the words of Hugh Wyman are too true, 'marriage, in
nine cases out of ten, is a bondage-a yoke of tyranny, keeping two
souls fretting and wearing each other's lives away.'"

He stopped, fearful that he had gone too far, and looked earnestly
on the cold features of his wife. Forgive him, reader, he could not
help comparing her then with Miss Evans, the latter so calm,
earnest, and deep in her love for humanity and progressive life.

He stepped close to her side, and taking her hand as tenderly as a
lover might, said,--

"Mabel, forgive me; I was excited, and said too much. I love you, as
you well know, as I love no other woman, but I must have the
innocent freedom of enjoying a friend's society, even though that
friend be a woman.

"O, certainly, Mr. Deane. I would not for a moment debar you from
social pleasures. I see I am not congenial, and do not attract you.
Perhaps Miss Evans is your soul-affinity; if so, I beg you not to
let me stand in your way. I can go to my father's, any day."

"Mabel!" It was all he could utter, and went out of the room.

Alone, and left to her own reflections, she became more calm. A tear
of real penitence for her hasty words, stole down her cheek. "I will
go and tell Howard I am sorry for my unkind remarks," she said, as
she brushed it from her face, and she rose to do so. At that moment
a short, quick ring of the doorbell shook away the resolve, and she
trembled with fear, unable to answer the summons.

How thankful she felt to hear her husband's firm, manly step in the
hall, and then his voice, low and rich as ever, welcoming her own
parents. Why were they here? and what could have happened? were the
questions which came to her mind, as her mother rushed into the
room, followed by her father, with a carpet-bag and sundry packages.

"We have given you a surprise this time, I guess, Mabel," he said,
kissing her as tenderly as he used to when she sat upon his knee,
and listened to almost endless stories of his own making.

"But why is it that you are so late?" she asked, anxiously.

"The cars were delayed three hours by an accident, so instead of
arriving in good time, we have come in rather out of order, but not
unwelcome, Mabel, I know."

He did not see her face, or he might have feared that the welcome
was not as warm as usual. She answered quickly:

"Why, yes, father, you and mother are welcome at any time of day or
night," and yet she wished she was alone with Howard that moment.

"I told father," said her mother, looking at the clock, "that it was
so late we had better go to a hotel, but he would come, saying,
Howard would not mind getting up to give the old folks a welcome."

"We should have been very sorry to have had you done so. O, here
comes Howard," and the husband of Mabel entered, looking very pale.

"Late hours don't agree with you, my son. What has kept you up so
long?"

"Some winged messenger, I suspect, knowing you were coming; but you
must be weary," and he offered the new-comers refreshments from the
side board. Mabel, however, had flown to the dining-room and
prepared them something more substantial in the way of cold meats,
and a cup of tea, which she made in an incredibly short space of
time.

It was a relief when she had shown them to their room. She went
below and sat alone, hoping Howard would come to her. He had gone
into his study, where he sometimes passed a greater part of the
night in writing, for he was a lawyer by profession, being a man of
more than average abilities, his services were sought for many miles
around. Mabel waited, but he came not, and being unable longer to
bear delay, she sought him in his retreat.

"Mabel, you ought to be in bed; its now half past one. You will
scarce be able to entertain your father and mother, I fear, if you
do not go now," and he resumed his writing.

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