Dawn

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"So cold! Well, I can live without his love," she said to herself,
and turned to leave the room. He glanced at her lithe form, and all
the lover-like feelings of early years came over him. He longed to
fold her once more to his heart, and rose to follow her.

"Good night, sir," came from her lips in icy tones, and he returned
to his labors, chilled, heart-sick and weary, where we will leave
him and turn back one chapter to the cause of all this
misconception, and see if we find in it aught but words of truth,
and principles which should be understood by all.

Like too many women, Mrs. Deane had striven to keep her husband
wholly to herself. She could not realize that one who is determined
in her own way and time to get the whole, may not get even a part.
She wanted him entirely for herself, ignorant of the fact, or if
knowing, rebellious against it, that his being would flow to herself
after a temporary receding, far richer in love. Alas, how many women
are dwarfing noble men, and cheating themselves out of the highest
enjoyments of life.

Of Miss Evans she knew nothing, save by report. Like the many, she
allowed her prejudices to control her, and avoided all opportunities
of making the acquaintance of a worthy woman, one who was fast
becoming life and light to minds of a high order. The thoughts which
had thrilled the heart and soul of her husband we will record for
the benefit of those who may be struggling for light.

Howard Deane walked to the village post office that evening with no
other thought than of receiving his papers and returning home. While
there, he met Hugh Wyman, who requested him, as it was on his way,
to take a magazine to Miss Evans. He did not hesitate to grant the
request of his friend. Reaching her home he found her alone, and
common courtesies led them into conversation. This at first touched
only upon daily events, but soon it led into deeper channels, and
their individual thoughts were brought out upon religious subjects,
each receiving suggestions from the standpoint of the other.

"I am impatient, I know," said Miss Evans, as the subject warmed and
brightened under the glow of words, "to see the day when my long
cherished ideas will be wrought into actual life. Will it not be
grand when religion shall no longer be an abstract, soulless
science, a musty theology, but a living, vital truth, lived and
acted, not merely professed and preached; when the human family
shall be united in one bond, and man love to do his brother good;
when he who is strong, shall care for him who is weak; when daily
deeds of kindness shall be accepted as true worship; when the golden
rule shall be the only creed of mankind, and woman shall throw upon
her erring sisters the blessed veil of charity. The world is full of
need to-day. It never so much needed the labor of every earnest man
and woman as now. All can work for its advancement; some speak, some
write, others act, and thus unitedly aid in ushering in the
millenium of humanity. Religion is to me only a daily life of
goodness. The church has little but form. We want vital christianity
flowing from heart to heart; and prayers, not at stated times, but
when souls mount heavenward, whether in words or deeds, to be
recognized as true worship. When our churches shall be adorned by
art; when the theatre, now so little understood, is employed as a
lever of moral power, equal if not greater than the church, for
reaching the heart, and enriching the intellect; when these two
forces approach each other, then shall we have a real church and
true worship. Art in every form must be acknowledged as the great
mediator between God and man, and when this is done we shall have a
completeness in our worship, which is little dreamed of now. To my
mind, the drama appears as the great instructor of the coming time--
greater than the church, more potent, hence more effectual, and
will, I think, at some day occupy its place. I have talked long, but
the fullness of the theme must be my excuse."

"I am but too glad to hear expressions of such thoughts from any
one. I have been for a long time reaching for something more
satisfactory than I have received. The forms of worship have long
been dull and void of life to me."

"Too long have our minds been lumbered with doctrines, instead of
principles," said Miss Evans, her face glowing with earnest thought,
"but the signs of the times are now glorious. Men will no longer
feed on husks and dry bones. The call is every day for light, more
light, and theories are fast giving place to human experiences. A
strong current of individual life, too, is setting in, which
inspires every speaker and writer with high and noble thoughts, and
they are forced to give bread and not stones to the multitude. We
shall, I hope, Mr. Deane, live to see the coming of the new day, for
surely we have little but darkness now, and yet all the light we
could use, I suppose, else it would have come before."

"I trust we shall, and if men and women are true to the light they
have, the day will soon be here. But, really, Miss Evans," he said,
looking at his watch, "'t is almost ten o'clock; how rapidly the
moments have flown."

"I lose all idea of time when I feel the beating and pulsing of a
human soul," responded Miss Evans. "I hope you will come again and
bring your wife; I only know her by features; I really wish to know
her through her thoughts."

"I will, I thank you," and he left, full to overflowing, impatient
to impart to his wife the thoughts of an earnest soul. We have met
him in his home, and know the result,--the sharp reverse side of most
of life's best experiences.

CHAPTER IX.

Mrs. Deane found the hours drag heavily while her parents remained.
She was not like her former self, and they could not but notice the
change.

It was the first time in their married life that she wished them at
home. One hour alone with her husband would have set all right; but
there were none, for business seemed to press in from all quarters,
and every moment of his time, far into the night, was occupied in
writing.

They saw nothing of each other save in the presence of their
parents, for Mr. Deane only snatched a few hours' sleep at early
dawn, and awoke just in time to prepare for breakfast. They were
estranged, and circumstances to embitter the sad state of affairs
seemed to daily multiply.

The fourth evening after the arrival, there was a slight pause in
the pressure of his business, but feeling no inclination to join the
family, knowing that Mabel and himself would be in feelings miles
apart, he called again upon Miss Evans.

To his relief he found her alone, for he longed for another
communion with a mind so comprehensive, and a soul so pure as her
own. She noticed the look of sadness on his face, and was glad her
own heart was light and her soul strong in trust, that she might
administer to him.

Had he come last night, she said to herself, how little could I have
done for him, for my own soul was dark with grief, my lips dumb. His
face bore a more buoyant look as her words of hope and thoughtful
sayings appealed to his good judgment, and before long it glowed
with joy like her own. He forgot the cloud that had arisen over
himself and Mabel; forgot her words that so wounded his soul; and
only her best and true self was mirrored on his heart, as he
listened to the vital truths which flowed from the lips of the noble
woman in whose presence he sat.

"Our conversation the other night," he said, "awakened such new
emotions, or rather aroused feelings which were dormant, that I
could not resist the strong impulse I felt to call on you again and
renew our conversation."

"I am very glad you have come, for it does my soul good to see
others interested in these newly-developed views, and recognizing
the great needs of humanity, and the imperative demands of our
natures."

"I have felt," remarked Mr. Deane, "for a long time that the church,
the subject of our last conversation, needs more life; that it must
open its doors to all rays of light, and not longer admit only a
few, and that those doors must be broad enough and high enough, that
whatever is needed for the advancement of mankind may enter therein,
come from whence it may, and called by whatever name it may be. In a
word, the church must go on in advance of the people, or at least
with them, else it will be left behind and looked upon as a worn out
and useless institution."

"I am glad to hear you express your thoughts thus, and hope you will
give them as freely at all times, for too many who entertain these
views do not speak them, standing in fear of what their friends or
the church may say or do. Of such there are tens of thousands. Give
them utterance. Every honest man and woman should, and thus aid in
hastening on the day of true life and perfect liberty. While I value
associative effort, I would not for a moment lose sight of
individual thinking and acting. We do not have enough of it. The
church has much to adopt to bring it into a healthy condition.
To-day it ignores many valuable truths which retired individuals
hold, while it feeds its hearers on husks. Finding better food for
their souls outside, they go, and cannot return, because the truths
they hold would not be accepted."

"We have made rapid advances in art and science, Miss Evans, but the
church has lagged behind, until at length we find that more
christianity is found outside than inside its walls."

"True. The best men and women I have ever known, have never sat at
the table of the Lord, so called, have never broken the bread and
drank the wine, yet their souls have tasted life-everlasting when
they have given in His name food to the hungry and clothing to the
naked. Each soul is a temple and each heart a shrine. The only thing
the church can do to-day is, to reach forth and take its life from
the world. All the accessions of art must be unfolded, if she would
keep alive. Fortify it with these things, and we shall not see, as
we do now, in every town and city even, the whole burden of its
support resting on one or two individuals. If it has life enough it
will stand; if it refuse light, such persons only retard its
progress, although strictly conscientious in their position. I think
one of its greatest errors is in keeping one pastor too long. How
can the people be fed, and draw life from one fount alone?"

"True," he said, "and is not that view applicable to our social and
domestic as well as to our religious state? Can we draw life always
from one person?"

"No; nor was it ever intended that men and women should so exhaust
each other. The marriage law is too arbitrary; it allows no scope
for individual action, and yet the subject is so delicate, so
intricate, that none but the keenest and nicest balanced minds dare
attempt to criticise, much less improve it. The misconstructions of
a person's motives are so great that many who see its errors,
tremble and fear to speak of them. But if we are to bring any good
to the covenant, so sacred in its offices, we must point out its
defects and seek to remedy them, and I sometimes think it will be my
mission to help it to higher states. Although such a task would be
far from enviable, I will willingly give my thoughts to those who
are struggling, at the risk of being misunderstood nine times in
ten, as I probably shall be."

"Then please give me your best thoughts, Miss Evans, for I need all
the light I can get, not only for myself, but for others."

"I am but a scholar, like yourself, Mr. Deane, and I sometimes think
that all I may hope to do will be but to lift the burden an instant
from the pilgrim's shoulder, that deeper breath may be taken for the
long and often dreary journey."

A sharp ring of the door-bell interrupted further conversation, and
Mr. Deane, bowing to the intruder, as such she seemed at that moment
to be, bade Miss Evans good evening, and departed.

The caller was a gossiping woman, who kept many domestic fires alive
with her fuel of scandalous reports.

"Dear me, Miss Evans," she said, as soon as comfortably seated, "was
n't that Mr. Deane? Yes, I thought so; but my eye-sight 'aint over
good, and then he looked so sad-like; maybe he 'aint well," and she
looked inquiringly to Miss Evans, who replied,--

"I think he is in his usual health; a little worn, perhaps, with
business. How is your family, Mrs. Turner?"

"O, tol'rable, thank ye. But Mr. Deane did n't say anything, did he,
about his folks?

"His folks? What do you mean, Mrs. Turner?"

"Law me, I might as well tell as not, now I've said what I have. Why
you see Miss Moses who nusses Mrs. Baker, was up ter Mrs. Brown's
last night, and Mrs. Deane's hired gal was there, and she told Mrs.
Brown's man that Mr. Deane and his wife had some pretty hard words
together, and that her folks-her father and mother-was 'goin ter
take her home."

"Mrs. Turner, I have no interest in this gossip; we will change the
subject if you please."

"Lor, don't be 'fended; I only-I mean I meant no harm."

"You may not; but this idle habit of retailing the sayings of
others, is worse than folly. It's a great wrong to yourself and the
individuals spoken of."

"Well, I did n't think to have such a lectur'," said the woman,
affecting a feeling of good nature, "I say as I said afore, I meant
no harm. I like Mr. and Mrs. Deane very much, and thought it was too
bad for such things to be said."

"Is marm here?" inquired a coarse voice at the door, and a red,
chubby face was thrust in the narrow opening.

"Why, Josiah Turner, I told you ter go ter bed an hour ago. Well, I
must go, Miss Evans. I 'spose my boy won't go without me," and
taking her son by the hand, she departed.

"A storm upon their domestic horizon, I fear, is coming, if not
already there," said Miss Evans, setting down and resting her lead
upon her hands. "I wish he had not come. Something may be charged to
me-but why should I fear. I have said simply what I felt was right.
I must expect to encounter many storms in this voyage whose haven of
peace is-where? None knoweth."

She fastened her door, and after lifting her heart in prayer for
guidance, retired.

Mr. Deane found his wife alone when he returned, and one could have
seen by his manner how glad he was to find her so.

"It seems a month, Mabel, since I have seen you alone."

She only remarked that she feared her parents felt his absence from
home.

"I do think, Howard," she continued, "that you could give us a
little of your time. It is due to my parents. It must seem to them
that you willingly absent yourself, and it is hard for me to
convince them to the contrary."

"I am sorry that any such impression should have worked its way into
their minds. They ought to know that it is quite a sacrifice for me
to devote myself so closely to business. I hope, Mabel, you are
wrongly impressed as regards them, and it may be that your own state
has more to do with it than theirs. This is the first evening I have
had to myself since they have been here."

"And why was this not spent at home?"

"Because I cannot assume to be what I am not, and you know I am not
at rest; that our harmony is disturbed. Could I have seen you alone,
I should have been at home before this."

"You have sought society, I suppose, more congenial?"

"Mabel, be careful. You may so unnerve me that I may say much that I
shall be sorry for."

"Howard?"

"Well, Mabel."

"I think I shall return with father and mother. They will go home
day after to-morrow."

He did not raise his eyes, nor appear in the least anxious to detain
her, but merely said:

"Where are they this evening?"

"At Mrs. Norton's. They went to tea. I felt too ill to accompany
them."

"Are you very ill, Mabel?"

"I feel far from well, and yet it does not seem to be from physical
indisposition. It is something deeper."

"True, my poor wife, we have become estranged; and what has caused
it?"

She looked thoughtfully at him a moment, but no answer came from her
lips.

"I think we had better part awhile. It will do us both good."

She started, scarce expecting such a remark from him.

"Then my presence has, indeed, become irksome to you?" Her tone and
manner implied more than she cared to display.

"You know better than that, Mabel; but I-we both are sadly out of
harmony; perhaps have exhausted each other. Let us part, and each
find ourselves. We shall be brighter and happier when we come
together, Mabel; shall we not?" and he laid his hand tenderly on her
head.

O, why cannot two at least see things in their true light? Why was
it that she remained so blind to the real state of affairs? Either
ignorance or wilfulness kept her from the light, and coldly bidding
him good night, she left the room.

The next day was indeed gloomy. Mabel's parents had become
acquainted, not with the facts, but with a distorted view of the
case, and in their eyes she was a greatly abused woman. It was no
longer any use for her husband to exert himself for their happiness,
the poison of prejudice had entered their minds, and tinctured every
thought.

It was a painful parting. Misconception on one side, and deep
suffering with pride, upon the other. No lighting of the eyes, no
pressure of the hand, no warm good-bye, to keep his heart alive
while she was away.

He stood, after the cars had left, deeply pondering the strange
affair, until the crowd jostled him, and brought him back to the
external world, with its toil, its sounds of mirth, and its varied
forms of life.

What a break in his usual peaceful life; what a void he found in his
soul when he entered the silent home. There was no lingering
atmosphere of love about the rooms; everything was put away out of
sight. The order was painful, and he left to seek companionship if
not sympathy.

CHAPTER X.

"What is it like, Dawn?"

"Like a great Soul that has absorbed a million lives into its own,
and cannot rest, it is so full of joy and sadness," and she fixed
her gaze more intently on the foam-crested waves.

It was the first time she had seen the ocean, and her father's keen
enjoyment watching her enraptured, wondering gaze, afforded Miss
Vernon another source of pleasure, aside from the wide expanse of
beauty, which stretched from shore to horizon.

The three, according to Mr. Wyman's promise, had come to enjoy the
pleasures and beauties of the seaside for a few weeks, as well as to
see the different phases of human character which were daily
thronging there.

It was intensely interesting to Miss Vernon to watch the child's
eager interest in this glorious display of nature, and her strange
insight into the character of the people with whom they were in
daily contact.

There was one faint, gentle girl, about twenty years of age, who
walked every evening alone, and whom Miss Vernon watched with great
interest.

"I like her, too," said Dawn, coming close to her teacher one
evening, as she walked up and down on the beach.

"Who? and how do you know I like her."

"Why, the lady there, walking in front of us. I feel you like her."

"I am glad you do, Dawn. And now tell me why you love her."

"I love her because she is white."

"You mean that she is pure. I think she is."

"Yes. I mean that and something else."

"What?"

"In one of my lessons, you told me, that some objects were white,
because they absorbed none of the rays, but reflected all."

"You must explain your singular application-or in plain words, tell
me how she reflects all, and takes none."

"Why, because she don't take the life from people, but gives to
them."

"You know just what I mean-she throws it back to themselves purified
by her light." And the child's face was not her own, another's shone
through it.

"Very good, Dawn, I hope we shall sometime know this pure young
lady, and receive a brightness from her," said Miss Vernon, talking
more to herself than the strange child who was dancing at that
moment in time to the waves.

"According to your scientific symbol, I suppose we shall see some
black people here before we go," she said laughingly to the child.

"Yes, there are plenty of those everywhere. They take all the light,
and give none out. But see, Miss Vernon, the lady is sitting on a
rock and weeping, may I go to her?"

"Would it not be an intrusion?"

"Yes, sometimes, but not now. May I go? Papa would let me, I think."

"You must ask him. I had rather not give you such a liberty."

"Then I will," and she flew at the top of her speed to the bank
where he was sitting.

"May I go and see that lady out on the rock, papa?"

"Why? Do you know her?"

No, but I must go," and as she spoke Dawn's eyes had that strange
look which betokened an inner vision.

"Yes, daughter, go," was his answer, and she bounded from his side,
and was close to the weeping stranger, in an instant.

Her father watched her with the deepest interest, and almost wished
himself within hearing.

She did not approach the stranger quietly, but with one bound sprang
and threw her arms around her neck, saying in a voice deeper and
stronger than her own:

"Pearl, I am here. Weep no more!"

The young girl thrilled, but not with terror, for to her such things
were of frequent occurrence. Yet the proof to her now of the
presence of the unseen was of such a positive nature, more tangible
than she had felt for months, that all her accumulated doubts gave
way, and the pure waters of faith flowed over her soul.

Here, among strangers, where none knew her name, or her grief, had
the voice of her loved one spoken. Why should she doubt? Why should
thousands, who have every day a similar experience?

She rose from her position, and taking the hand of the child, which
thrilled strangely to her touch, walked towards the house.

"Do you love the sea?" she asked of the little stranger.

"O, ever so much. I mean to ask papa to live here forever," and she
looked enthusiastically towards the receding waves.

"Do you live here?" asked Dawn.

"No; my home is far away. I come here to rest."

"Was that what made you weep? Was you weary?"

"Yes, dear. My soul is very weary at times."

"Is the sea weary when it moans?" and she looked wonderingly over
the wide expanse of changing waves.

"I think it is; but I must leave you now; I see your friends are
looking for you."

But Dawn would not let her pass on. She held her hand tighter, and
said:

"This is my papa, and this is my teacher."

"I hope my child has not annoyed you, Miss," said Mr. Wyman, as he
gazed on the face of the beautiful stranger before them.

"Far from it, sir. She has comforted me. Children, under ordinary
circumstances, are ever welcome, but when they bring proof-"

She stopped, fearful that she might not be understood.

"I comprehend it, Miss. I saw another life than her own in her eyes,
else I should not have permitted her to have gone to you."

"I thank you both," said the gentle girl, and bowing gracefully, she
went towards the house.

"Is she not white, Miss Vernon?" asked Dawn, exultingly, when the
stranger was out of hearing.

Yes, she is beautiful and pure."

"I hope she was comforted, for her face has a look of sorrow, deeper
than we often see on one so young," remarked Mr. Wyman, who had been
enlightened by Miss Vernon on Dawn's strange application of
soul-science.

"Yes, she was, papa. Some one in the air made me speak and call her
name. It's 'Pearl'; is n't it pretty? O, see those clouds, papa,"
she cried, with thrilling ecstasy; "I hope they will look just like
that when I die."

"You are weary now, darling; we must go in," said her father,
watching with jealous eyes the snow-white and crimson clouds which
lay on the horizon, just above the foaming waves.

"There are some people here from L--," said Miss Vernon, as she and
Mr. Wyman sat together on the piazza the next morning, watching the
changing sea.

"Ah, who are they; any of our friends?"

"I have never seen them at your house. Two ladies,--a Mrs. Foster and
sister. Do you know them?"

"I know that there are such people in L--. When did they arrive? I
have not seen them."

"Last evening; but you do not look particularly pleased. Will they
disturb you?"

"I do not mean they shall, although they are busybodies, and know
every one's affairs better than their own."

"So I judged by their conversation last evening, which I could not
but overhear, as they talked so loud, their room being next to mine,
and their door open."

"Of whom were they speaking?"

"Of a Mr. and Mrs. Deane. I think I have heard you allude to them."

"I have; nice good people too. As usual, I suppose they were
charging them with all sorts of foibles and misdemeanors."

"I heard one of them assert that Mr. and Mrs. Deane had parted, and
that she had gone to live with her parents."

"It cannot be! Howard Deane is too just and honorable for anything
of that nature; but if they have, there are good reasons for it. I
think I will write him this very morning, and urge him to come and
bring his wife to this beautiful spot for a few days. Will you lend
me your folio, Florence? Mine is up two flights of stairs, and I
would really like to be waited on this morning."

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