Dawn

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22

All matter is mediumistic. Life is tributary, one phase to another,
and soul to soul speaks suggestively.

The ocean has its fullness from tributary streams which flow to its
bed.

Lives alone are great that are willing to be fed.

CHAPTER XII.

Summer's soft foliage changed to gold and red, and the distant
hill-tops rested their brown summits against blue and sapphire
skies. A soft mist lay over the scene, almost entrancing, to the
soul, while the senses seemed wrapped in that dream-cloud which
borders the waking and sleeping worlds.

Seven times had the cyprus turned to a golden flame, beside the
grave of fair Alice.

Seven times had the pines nodded over the snow-white bed, under
which lay her sacred dust.

Seven years had gone by with their lights and shadows, since he laid
her form beneath the green sod-and wept as only those have wept,
whose light has gone out from their dwelling.

Rich and full had these years been in their strange experiences,
while firm as a rock had grown his faith in the unseen whose love
and guardianship is round us as the atmosphere is about the earth.
It was a fact to him and not sentiment alone, that, though his Alice
had passed on to a higher existence, her life was more clearly than
ever blended with his own. Like warp and woof, their souls seemed
woven, and he would sooner have doubted his material existence, than
question her daily presence.

The days grew richer in glory, till one by one, the dry leaves
withered and fell to the ground, as even our brightest hopes must
sometimes fade and fall. The sky was darker and more lowery. The air
lost its balmy softness, and was harsh and chilly, till no sign of
foliage was seen,--nought but the leafless branches stretching their
bare arms towards the sky. The meadows were brown and cheerless. The
silvery brooks trilled out no merry song. Life grew hushed and still
without, while more joyous became the tones of happy hearts within
pleasant homes. Fires blazed on the hearth-stones, and charity went
abroad, to administer to those whom Christ has said, "Ye have always
with you." Cities were gay with life, and people went to and fro
from homes of plenty, with quick, earnest steps, as though life was
a continuous chain of golden links.

The thoughtful walked amid all these lively scenes, and wondered if
the gay plumage covered only happy breasts.

The gay passed on, and thought only of joy and their own pleasures,
dreaming not that saddened lives had an existence near at hand.

Afar from all this life and gaiety, stood a low, brown cottage in a
barren spot, upon the brow of a hill. No trees sheltered it, giving
that air of protection which ever sends delight to the beholder. No
indication of taste or culture met the sight; naught but a bare
existence, and every-day toil to sustain it, impressed the
passer-by.

One day when the wind blew loud and bleak, and the snow fell fast, a
young girl looked from that cottage window, upon the scene before
her, with that abstraction which one feels when all hope has
withered, and every fresh impulse of a young heart has been chilled.

She scarcely realized that the afternoon was fast wearing away,
until the entrance of one, who, in a sharp, shrill voice, thus
addressed her: "Well, Margaret Thorne, I hope you have looked out of
that ere winder long 'nough for one day. I've been inter this room
fifty times at least, and you hav n't stirred an inch. Now go and
get supper, milk the cows, and feed the pigs; and mind, don't forget
to fodder that young heifer in the new stall-and look here, you lazy
thing, this stocking won't grow any unless it's in your hands, so
when supper's over, mind you go to work on 't."

Margaret went quickly to her duties, glad to escape from the sound
of that voice, and be alone with her own thoughts.

This was but a portion of her daily life of drudgery. The old house
was no home to her, now that her dear mother was laid in the little
church-yard. She could just remember her. It was years before, when,
a little child, she used to hear a sweet voice singing her to sleep
every night. The remembrance of that, and of the bright smile which
greeted her each morning, was all that made her life endurable. She
had no present-no future. It was this bright recollection on which
she was pensively meditating that stormy afternoon.

Margaret's mother, Mary Lee, had married when very young, a man
greatly her inferior. She was one of those gentle, timid beings, who
can not endure, and brave their way through a cold world, much less
a daily contact with a nature so crude and repulsive as that of her
husband's. She longed to live for her child's sake, but the rough
waves of life beat rudely against her bark-it parted its hold, the
cold sea swept over it, and earth, so far as human sight went, knew
her no more.

One balmy spring day, when the blue skies seemed wedded to the
emerald hills, they laid her form away, and little Margaret had lost
a mother's earthly protection.

In less than a year after that sweet face went out of the home,
another came to take her place; a woman in form and feature, but in
nature a tyrant, harsh and cruel.

For little Margaret she had no love, nought but bitter words; while
her father, growing more silent and morose each day, and finding his
home a scene of contest, absented himself, and passed most of his
leisure hours with more congenial companions in the village.

Margaret grew to womanhood with but a limited education; indeed, a
very meagre one, such only as she could obtain from an irregular
attendance at the village school, in summer when the farm work was
lightest, and in winter, a day now and then when the bleak weather
and the rough, almost impassable roads allowed her to reach the
place which was to her far more pleasant than any other on earth.

It was her hands which done the heaviest and hardest work of the
family. No word of cheer or praise ever passed her mother's lips.
All this, and it was no wonder her life was crushed out, that her
step had no lightness, and her eye none of the vivacity of youth.
The out-door work, such as caring for the cattle, was, at last added
to her other burdens; yet all this she would have done willingly,
could her soul have received something which she felt she so much
needed-the light and blessing of love. She was deeply impressed with
this when she entered other homes on errands, and she longed for the
warmth of affection she saw manifested in every look and word of
their happy inmates. Yet her poor, crushed nature dared not rise and
assert its rights. She had been oppressed so long, that the mind had
lost all native elasticity, and one whose sympathies were alive
would have looked on her as a blighted bud-a poor uncared for
flower, by life's road-side.

It was quite dark when she finished her milking, and went to give
the young heifer her hay. She loved this animal more than any living
thing beside the old house dog, and as she patted her soft hide, the
creature turned on her eyes which seemed full of love, as if to show
to her that there is some light in the darkest hour, something
compensatory in the lowliest form of labor. Margaret lingered beside
the animal, and thought how much better she loved her than she did
her present mother. "I love you, Bessie," she said, as the creature
stretched forth her head to scent the warm milk in the pail. "I 've
a good mind to, Bessie; you want some, don't you?" and without
stopping to think of the consequences, she turned some of the
contents of the pail into Bessie's trough.

"Margaret Thorne! I wonder if you don't know when it's dark. It's
high time your work was done!" screamed her mother at the top of her
voice. She seized her pails and ran to the house, making all
possible haste to strain and set the milk away. But Mrs. Thorne took
it from her hands, saying, "Go and 'tend to the supper. I'll do this
myself."

"There ain't as much as there ought to be inter two quarts," said
her mother, returning and looking the girl squarely in the eye.
"What does this mean? I'd like to know."

Margaret was awe-struck. She dared not tell her that she had given
some to Bessie, and yet she could not tell an untruth. One struggle,
and she answered: "I gave some to Bessie," letting fall a dish in
her fright. It broke into atoms.

"Careless jade you! Break my dishes and steal my milk; giving it
without my leave to a dumb beast. There, take that," and she gave
her a sharp blow on the face.

It was not the blow that made the poor girl's blood tinge her
cheeks, but the sense of degradation; the low life she was living,
in daily contact with one so overbearing, coarse, and rude.

She did not weep, but one might have known by those suppressed sobs,
that the heart's love was being sapped, all its feelings outraged.

At that moment her father came in, and finding supper delayed,
commenced scolding in a loud voice.

"I tell ye what, woman, I won't work and provide, to be treated in
this ere way. D' ye hear?" and he came close to Margaret and looked
into her face.

"Yes, sir. I was late to-night."

"Yer allus late, somehow. Why don't yer stir round and be lively
like other gals, and be more cheery like?"

His poor, rough nature was beginning to feel the need of a better
life.

"Let her work as I have, and she'll be thankful to have a roof over
her head, let alone the things I make her," broke in Mrs. Thorne.
"When I was a gal, I had to work for my bread and butter." Having
thus relieved her mind, she flew busily about, and the supper was
soon ready, to which they sat down, but not as to a homelike repast.
Such a thing was not known in that house.

The evening, as usual, passed in a dull routine of drudgery, and
Margaret was, as she had been hundreds of times before, glad to
reach its close and retire to her room.

Thus wore the winter slowly away, and the days so full of labor,
unrelieved by pleasure of any kind, were fast undermining the health
and spirits of the sad girl.

When spring came, her step was slower and her cheek paler, but there
was no eye of love to mark those changes, and her labors were not
lessened. At length her strength gave way, and a slow fever coursed
through her veins as the result of over-taxation. The languor it
produced was almost insupportable, and she longed for the green
woods, and the pure air, and a sight of running waters.

Mrs. Thorne saw that something must be done, and finally consented
that Margaret might take a little recreation in the manner she had
proposed, accompanying her consent with the remark that she thought
it a very idle way of spending one's time.

Margaret's constant companion in her rambles was the faithful dog
Trot, who highly enjoyed this new phase of life, and with him at her
side she had nothing to fear.

The change brought new life to her wasted system, and as she conned
over the beauties around, watched the sparkle of the running brooks,
and listened to the songs of the free birds, she wished that her
life was as free and beautiful.

One day while trimming a wreath of oak leaves, she thought she heard
footsteps, and the low growl of Trot, before she had time to turn
her head, confirmed her impression that some one was approaching.

She turned, and encountered the gaze of a stranger, who said in a
deep, pleasant voice:

"I have lost my way, I believe. Is this Wilton Grove, Miss?"

"It is," she answered, not daring to raise her eyes.

"Thank you. I was not quite sure, yet I thought I followed the
direction," said the stranger, and gracefully bowing, departed.

In all her life so bright and manly a face had never crossed her
path. And that voice-it seemed to answer to something down deep in
her soul. It kindled a fire which was almost extinct, and that fire
was hope. Perhaps she would some day see people just like him, live
with them, and be young and happy.

Old Trot seemed to share her new-found pleasure, and looked
knowingly into her face, as much as to say, "There are some folks in
the world worth looking at."

She went home that night to dream of other forms and faces than
those she had been so long accustomed to, and slept more sound than
she had for many months.

Weeks passed away, and the bloom came back to Margaret's cheek, a
new life was in her eye, for the voice of love had spoken to her
heart, and the blood leaped till the color of her face vied with
that of the roses.

The young man whom she met that day in the grove, often found his
way to that spot, not by mistake but by inclination, attracted by
the fair face of Margaret. Again and again he came, till his glowing
words kindled the flame of hope to love, and it became a source of
greatest pleasure to him to watch her dreamy eyes glow with
brightness under his repeated vows of constancy.

Clarence Bowen was the only son of a city merchant of great wealth,
acquired by his own indefatigable industry. His son had inherited
none of his father's zeal for business, and after repeated efforts
to make him what nature had never intended he should be, he sent him
to study law at the college in D--, a thriving town a few miles from
Margaret's home. It was while there, and in an hour when weary with
study, he wandered away to the spot where he accidentally met her.
His nature being not of the highest order, he did not hesitate to
poison her mind with flattering words, until at length he won her
heart, not as a pearl of great price, a treasure for himself, but as
a bauble, which he might cast aside when its charm had departed.

Sad indeed was the day to her in which he told her she could never
be his wife. Pity her, ye who in happy homes have kind friends to
guide your hearts into peace, and refresh your souls with a true and
perfect love. Have charity, and raise not hand nor voice against one
who, had her life been cast in as pleasant places as yours, would
not have trusted so fondly in a broken reed, or listened so
confidingly to the siren voice of the tempter. She had pined for a
warm heart and a faithful love. She had trusted and been betrayed.
You owe her your pity, not your condemnation.

"Did you say you were not going to marry me, Clarence?" and asking
this, she cast her eyes to the ground, and sobbed like a child.

"No, girl; you ought to have known I could not. I have no money but
that which my father supplies me with to pay my board and expenses.
I have nothing to support--"

She looked so pale he dared not say more.

"Go on," she at length said, pressing her hand closer to her heart,
lest its strong beating might too plainly betray her feelings.

"And even could I support you, my father would disown me were I to
take such a step."

"Then you never loved me, Clarence. You only sought your own
pleasure and--and my--my ruin?"

She broke down. Life had nothing now for her but shame and sorrow.
Alas, the world has no pity for its children.

Hard indeed must have been his heart, had it not relented then. He
went and placed his hand upon her head, saying,

"I would marry you, Margaret, if I had money enough," and just that
moment he meant it.

She looked up through her tears to him, and seeing the expression
which accompanied his words, mistook it for real sorrow at parting
from her, and answered in a hopeful, bright voice,--

"I can work ever so hard, and we might be married privately if you
chose, as no one knows us, and go away. You don't know how hard I
can work, Clarence."

"And then, sometime we might become rich," she continued, without
looking at his face, "and I would study, too, and improve myself.
Then we could return to your parents and be forgiven. They surely
could not blame us for loving each other. You will not forsake me,
will you, Clarence?"

He bowed his head. She thought he wept, and she continued her words
of cheer till he could bear it no longer.

She laid her bursting head upon his bosom saying, "I will go away
from here to-day, Clarence, and be no burden to you, till you can
support us both."

He nerved himself for the desperate emergency, and shook her off as
though she was poison, saying, in cold, measured words, not to be
this time misunderstood,--

"No, it cannot be; don't deceive yourself; you can never be my
wife," and then he left her.

Angels pity her. Heaven have mercy on her who sank prostrate with
grief that bright day on the green lap of earth. One heart-piercing
cry went up for help and mercy from above, and hope and love went
out of that heart, perhaps forever.

Faster and faster flew the betrayer, as though he would elude a
pursuer from whom he could not escape. But he could not close his
ears to that pleading voice, nor his eyes to that agonized look.
Aye, erring mortal, that sound will pierce your soul till some
reparation, some pure, unselfish deed, washes the sin away.

"Why, Clarence, you look as pale as a ghost; what on earth has
happened to you!" exclaimed his college chums, as he walked
breathless and weary into the house.

"I am sick," he answered, and went by himself to evade further
questions, which he knew would rend his soul with anguish. He early
repaired to his room, but found no rest, and finding himself unable
to attend to his studies the next day, obtained leave of absence.

CHAPTER XIII.

How long Margaret laid there, she never knew, but when she came to
consciousness she found herself in her own room, and her father
bending over her, with a look she had never seen on his face
before,--one of deep anxiety for her.

"All this ere comes from letting her go out in the air every day,"
were the first words which broke the silence, and conveyed to her
senses that any one beside her father was in the room.

All the recollection of her misery came over her then. She had
forgotten all, save that her father looked with eyes of love upon
her. The shrill voice broke the heavenly spell, and Magdalen knelt
again in prayer at the Saviour's feet.

She closed her eyes as though she would shut out the sorrow from her
soul, while a look of deep pain settled on her features which her
father mistook for physical suffering. There was something in her
pale face then, that reminded him of her dear, dead mother. It
touched the long buried love which had lain in his uncultured nature
many years, and he drew his sleeve roughly across his eyes to wipe
away the tears which would come, despite the searching glance of his
wife, who looked upon any demonstration of that kind as so much loss
to herself.

He thought Margaret would surely die. It must be some terrible
disease that caused her to look so white, and made her breathing so
low and still, and he resolved to go for a physician.

His decision met with little favor from Mrs. Thorne, who fretted
continually about the extra work and expense of a sick person,
interspersing her growls with the remark which seemed stereotyped
for the occasion:

"A nice job I've got on my hands for the summer."

"Come, I 'll have no more grumbling to-night. How long the poor girl
laid in the woods nobody knows. May-be she fainted and fell, and
them ere faintin' spells is dreadful dangerous, and I'm going for
the doctor, if it takes the farm to pay for 't."

When Caleb Thorne spoke like that, his wife well knew that words of
her own were of little avail, and she wisely concluded to keep
silent.

Margaret might have remained as she had fallen, faint and uncared
for in the woods, for a long time, had not the faithful dog, who
instinctively knew that something was wrong, ran furiously to the
house, and by strange motions and piteous pleading moans attracted
the attention of Mr. Thorne from his work. Trot would not act as he
did without cause. Caleb knew that, so he left his work and followed
the dog, who ran speedily towards the woods, momentarily looking
back to be sure that his master was close at hand, until he reached
the spot where Margaret laid.

He thought her lifeless, and raising her from the ground, bore her
home, while a heavier burden at his heart kept his eyes blinded, his
steps slow, and his walk uneven.

When the physician arrived, he saw, at a glance, that some great
trouble rested, like a dense cloud, on the girl's mind. Her restless
manner and desire to remain silent, showed plainly that some great
anguish was working its sorrow within, and silently he prayed to
heaven, that the young heart might find that relief which no art or
skill of his could impart. He could only allay the fever into which
her blood was thrown, and as he went out, left his orders, saying,
he would call again on the morrow.

"She's as well able to work as I am, this blessed minit,"
impetuously exclaimed Mrs. Thorne, who could ill brook the state of
affairs.

"If looks tell anything, her pale face aint no match for yourn in
health, Huldah," remarked Caleb, as he glanced somewhat
reproachingly at the full, red features of his wife.

"A white face aint allus a sign of sickness; here I might be next to
death, and my face be getting redder and redder at every pain,--but
then who cares for me? No one, as I knows on."

She turned and found she might have left her last words unspoken,
for Caleb had gone to milk the cows, and she was alone.

It was no sudden thought. Every hour since the day they found her in
the woods insensible, she had busily matured her plans. Those
words,--"You can never be my wife," made life to her of no moment,
save to find a spot of obscurity in which to conceal her shame, and
spare her old father the grief she knew it must bring him.

She must leave her home, none but strangers must know of her sorrow;
and when health returned and she went about her daily toils, a short
time prior to the crisis of her grief, she deeply thought upon where
she might turn her weary steps. She had heard of a factory in N--,
a town twenty miles distant, where girls earned a great deal of
money. She would go there and work until-O, the pain, the anguish of
her heart, as the terrible truth came close and closer every day
upon her. And then she would go. Where? No mother's love to help
her, no right granted her to bring another life into being. How
keenly upbraiding came to her at that moment the great truth, a
truth which cannot be too deeply impressed upon every human mind,
that no child should be ushered into this world without due
preparation on the part of its parents for its mental, moral and
physical well-being. Let pity drop a tear, for sad indeed was her
lot.

One day she gathered what little clothing she possessed, and made up
a small parcel preparatory to her departure, and as her only time of
escape would be in the night, she carefully concealed it, and went
about her work in her usual, silent manner.

One moonlight night when all was still, she took her little bundle
and went softly down stairs. Noiselessly she trod across the kitchen
floor, pulled the bolt, lifted the latch, and stood outside. For an
instant she paused. A rush of feelings came over her, a feeling of
regret, for it was hard even for her to break away from familiar
scenes, and leave the roof that had sheltered her; but it would not
do to linger long, for Trot might bark and arouse her father. Then
she could not bear the thought that she should never see the
faithful old dog again; and almost decided to go to him, but the
thought had scarcely entered her mind ere her old companion was at
her side. His keen sense of hearing had caught the sound of her
movements, though to her they had seemed noiseless, and he had come
from his kennel and stood at her side, looking up in her face as
though he knew all her plans.

Her courage almost forsook her as he stood there, wagging his tail
and eyeing her so closely. She feared that he would follow her, and
thought she must go back to her room and make a new start; but now
she was out of the house, and, perhaps she could not escape another
time without disturbing her parents. This thought nerved her to
carry out her resolve, and she walked rapidly away. One look at the
old house, as her step was on the hill which would soon hide it from
her view. One more look at old Trot, then she waved her hand for him
to go back, and swiftly walked as though borne by some unseen power.
The grey light of morning touched the eastern hills just as she lost
sight of her native village.

New scenes were before her, and from them she gathered fresh
inspiration. The houses scattered along the roadside, from which
persons were just coming forth to labor, gave her new feelings and
enlivened her way, until at length something like fear that she
might be recognized and sent back came upon her; but her fears were
groundless, and she passed on and soon came to a deep, wooded road,
closely hedged on either side by tall trees, whose spreading
branches seemed to her like protecting arms. There she could walk
slower, and breathe more free, and for the first time for many days
her mind relaxed its tension.

She was plodding along, musing upon the past and trying to discern
some outline of her future, when the sound of steps following her
caused the blood to leap to her face. Looking around she beheld
Trot, and ordered him back; but words were of no avail; he had
scented her footsteps thus far, and seemed determined to follow her
to her journey's end.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22