Dawn

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Masks were drawn over aching hearts; jealousies, envyings, and all
strifes were put at bay, and the better natures of all were called
forth, and responded, each to each. Palm grasped palm, that had not
in the ordinary relations of life thrilled with contact for many
years. Hearts that had grown cold and callous under slights, and
chilling indifferences, were warmed anew in the social atmosphere
which filled the whole house; and then the sound of music swept
through the rooms, lifting all out of their narrowness into higher
and better states.

Mr. Wyman had a word of cheer and love for all, and delicately
brought such temperaments together as could best enjoy
companionship, and for the time kept himself aloof from those he
loved best, that others might partake of their genial natures.

"Can you tell me who that tall, graceful lady is?" asked Miss
Vernon, before Mr. Wyman was aware that she was at his side.

"A Mrs. Hammond," he replied, without looking at her.

"She is very elegant," continued Miss Vernon.

"She is, externally."

"What, not lovely in mind? Can it be that such an exterior covers
unloveliness?"

"I fear it does. I have known her many years, and although she is a
woman of decorous manners, and some polish, she has none of the
elements of a true lady, to me."

"Why, Mr. Wyman, see how thoughtful she seems of those around her,"
said Florence, her eyes still fixed upon the engaging stranger.

"Yes, I see all that, and all the externalism of her life. It is all
acting. Within, that woman is cold and heartless. She is sharp
enough, and quick in her instincts, but give me hearts in
conjunction with heads."

"Why, then, did you invite her?" she accompanied this inquiry with a
most searching glance.

"For the same reason I invited all. I want them to mingle, for the
time to lose their sense of individual importance, their feelings of
selfishness, or in a few words, to throw off the old and take on the
new."

"Are you enjoying yourself, Florence?"

"Yes, very much. I like to see so many people together, and absorb
the spirit of the occasion."

"I am glad you do. Come this way." He led her to a remote part of
the room, where stood a tall, dark-eyed stranger.

"Miss Vernon, Mr. Temple" and he watched their eyes as they met, and
knew he had linked two souls for at least one evening's enjoyment.

A bustling woman, who could not conceive of any christianity outside
of church-going, came and stood beside Miss Evans, and commenced a
conversation by saying,--

"There seems to be plenty of people in our village, though we don't
see many of them at church."

This was put forth as a preface, designed to exhibit the character
of a forthcoming volume, but Miss Evans adroitly changed the subject
to one of general interest.

Just at this point, a stir was made, a rustling of silks was heard,
and the way opened for a young prodigy in music, considered by his
parents to be the wonder of the nineteenth century; one of those
abstracted individuals who seem to live apart from the multitude,
speaking to no one, save in monosyllables, and walking about, with
an air of superiority, constantly nurtured by his doating parents'
admiration,--at home a tyrant, abroad a monkey on exhibition.

After a flourish of sounds, and several manipulations, each
accompanied with a painful distortion of countenance, he commenced a
long and tedious sonata,--tedious, because ill-timed. On a suitable
occasion it would have been grand and acceptable. Of course the
music was wasted on the air, because it had only a mental rendering.

The anxious parents looked around for the expected applause. It did
not come. Only a few murmured, "How very difficult," while a sense
of relief was so manifest, that none could have failed to realize
that such elaborate performances should be reserved for a far
different occasion. But we are slow in learning the fitness of
things, and that everything has its proper time and place.

The next performer was a sprightly girl of seventeen, who played
several airs, and sung some sweet and simple songs, charming all
with their light and graceful beauty.

Mr. Wyman then led his friend and guest, Mr. Temple, to the
instrument. He touched it with a master hand. One forgot everything
save melodious tones; forgot even that there was a medium, through
which those tones were conveyed to the senses. The performer lost
self, lost all save the author's idea, until, at length, the
ecstatic sounds came soft and clear as light from a star. There was
no intervention of self; his whole being was subordinate to the
great creation--the soul of the theme. Eyes grew moist as the music
floated on the air in one full, continuous strain. Hearts beat with
new pulsations; hopes soared anew; sorrows grew less; life seemed
electric, full of love; sharp lines, and irregularities of mind were
touched, softened, and toned to harmony under the swelling notes,
now soft, sweet, and dulcet; now broad, high, and upsoaring. No
words broke the heavenly spell when the performer left the
instrument, but each thrilled heart became a temple, in which only
love and beauty dwelt.

There, in that holy atmosphere, a soul burst its fetters and went
home. Old Mrs. Norton, who came with such glorious anticipations,
sank back upon the pillow upon which she was resting, while
listening to the soul-ravishing sounds, and died.

No feeling of awe came over the people assembled; but all felt as
though they, too, had entered within the confines of the silent
land.

Gently they raised her form as one would a child who had fallen
asleep.

There, in the presence of the still, pale face, they parted, with
better, truer natures than when they met.

CHAPTER XVI.

The months wore away, and Margaret applied herself closely to her
labor, and became a favorite with her companions. Gladly would she
have changed places with most of them, but they knew not the secret
sorrow which was wearing her bloom away. Her sighs grew more
frequent, as the time rapidly approached when she must leave them.

Again and again she resolved to go to Mrs. Armstrong, and tell her
all her grief, but the remembrance of her kindness made her cheek
turn scarlet when the thought suggested itself. No, she could not
reveal it to one whom she loved so well. She must go far away, and
hide her shame from the eyes of all who had befriended her, and she
had made many friends, yet would have lingered a few weeks longer,
had she not one evening just at dark espied an old gentleman from
her village, an acquaintance of her father's. She could not bear the
thought that she must be carried back, to scenes so closely allied
to her sufferings, and bear the scorn of those who knew her. She
could not endure that, and fearing that the person whom she had seen
might some time meet and recognize her, she hastened the
preparations for a change. Again she collected her clothing, now
more valuable, packed it and awaited some indication of the
direction in which she should move.

She must once more see the face of that good woman, who had been so
faithful and kind to her; and after many efforts to call upon her,
finally gained courage and did so.

A strange thrill came over Mrs. Armstrong, as she heard the gate
close, and a well-known step on the gravel walk. Margaret patted her
old friend Trot as she approached the house, and somewhat surprised
Mrs. Armstrong with her presence when she entered.

"I am glad to see you," said Mrs. Armstrong, with her usual kind
look of welcome, but with a deep tremor in her voice. "Come and sit
by me, Margaret, and let me see if your hard labor is wearing you
out. I have thought for some weeks that you looked pale."

Margaret trembled in every limb, as she took the seat her friend
offered her, for a searching glance accompanied her friend's words.
Just then a strange thought flashed through Mrs. Armstrong's mind-a
thought she could not put aside, and she tried in every way to win
the poor girl's confidence, and perhaps might have succeeded had
there not been heard the sound of footsteps outside. Trot's loud
bark made them both start and turn their faces to the window.
Margaret gave one glance,--and she needed not a second to assure her
that the caller was none other than the old gentleman she had seen
on the street. In a moment there was a knock at the door. While Mrs.
Armstrong answered the call, Margaret made one bound from the
sitting room to the kitchen, and from thence into the open air, and
flew as fast as her feet could carry her, towards her boarding
house.

As she turned from the principal street, a woman accosted her, and
inquired the way to the Belmont House. Glad of anything that would
even for a moment take her thoughts from herself, she offered to
show her the way.

The darkness was so great, she had no fear of being recognized, as
she walked in silence with the stranger. One thought filled her
whole being, and the problem with her was, how she could escape from
N--, and where should she find shelter?

"Perhaps you can tell me," said the lady, in a clear, silvery voice,
"of some young girl, or two, or three even, whom I can get to return
with me to B--."

"I am here," she continued, "in search of help; good American help.
I am so worn with foreign servants that I can endure them no
longer."

Margaret's heart gave one bound. Here was her opportunity, and she
only needed the courage to offer her services.

"Perhaps you would go?" said the stranger, who looked for the first
time on Margaret's face, as they stopped in the light that shone
brilliantly in front of the Belmont House. "Or, maybe you do not
work for a living. Excuse me, if I have made a blunder."

"I do," answered Margaret, "and would like to go with you if I can
earn good wages."

"I will see that you are well remunerated, provided you suit me. I
shall go to-morrow, in the noon train. If I do not succeed in
getting any others beside yourself, will you meet me at the
station?"

Margaret replied in the affirmative, and retraced her steps,
pondering upon how she should secrete herself during the intervening
period.

She walked rapidly back to her home, and thought how fortunate it
was that her room-mates were absent that night, and good Mrs.
Crawford would never suspect that the quiet girl up stairs was
planning how she could escape with her clothing. The darkness of the
evening favored her, and the noise within prevented any that might
be without, from being noticed.

She enclosed the balance due for her board, in an envelope, sealed,
and directed it to Mrs. Crawford, and laid it on the little table at
which she had stood so many mornings, weary in body and sick in
soul.

She hoped she would not encounter any one on the stairs, and to her
relief she did not. For an instant she paused, as she heard the
footsteps of the good housewife walking from the pantry to the
dining-room, intent on her useful life, uncouth, illiterate, but
kind and well-meaning. A tear stole over her cheek as she listened
for the last time to that firm step, which never seemed to flag in
its daily rounds, and one which often, when the day's work was over,
went lightly to the bedside of the sick. But no time must be lost;
the door was opened and closed, and she was once again out in the
world, a wanderer. She knew not what her next step was to be.
Standing there in the silence and darkness of the night, she clasped
her hands, and with earnest prayer, implored Divine guidance.

Down through the earthly shadows, through clouds of oppression,
swept a mother's pure, undying love. Love for her wronged child, and
pity for her state; for angel's missions are not in halls of light,
amid scenes of mirth, but far away in desolate homes, with the
oppressed and the forsaken, bringing hope to the despairing, comfort
to the lonely, joy to the sad, and rest to weary hearts.

A thought darted through her mind, and she rose firm and collected,
as though a human hand had been outstretched for her aid. Who shall
question that it was a mother that spoke to her at that moment?

She arose, and as noiselessly as possible wended her way to a small
and obscure dwelling, inhabited by a strange old woman, known to all
the villagers, as possessing a wondrous power of vision, by which
she professed to foretell the future, and decide questions of love
and business.

Margaret had often heard the girls in the factory speak of her, and
knew that they frequently consulted her; but she had always shrank
from the thought of going to her dwelling, though often importuned
by them to do so. Now, how gladly her feet turned that way, as to
her only refuge, for she well knew if she was searched for, no one
would think of going there to find her.

She reached the place at last, and with beating heart and dizzy
brain, raised her hand and rapped very softly at the door. Then the
thought flashed over her, that some one might be there who knew her,
and hope fled for an instant.

The rap, low as it was, soon brought the old woman, who opened the
door and said in a voice tremulous but sweet, "Come in, my dear. I
saw last night that a stranger was to visit me at this hour; yes,
it's the same face," then motioned for her to pass in.

Margaret's first thought was that some evil was intended, and she
trembled and grew pale.

"No fears, my child," said the woman, as though she had read her
very thought, "angels are around you, guarding your life. I do only
my part of the work, which is to keep you to-night."

And this was the strange woman of whom she had heard so munch. Her
fears vanished, she took the proffered seat, and without a shadow of
distrust, drank the glass of cordial which was passed to her.

A feeling of rest came over her,--a rest deeper than sleep imparts.
She leaned back in the chair, pillowed her head against the cushion,
and felt more peaceful than she had for many months.

A strange curiosity pervaded her being, as she watched the woman
moving about the room, to know of her former life-the life of her
maidenhood,--and learn if others beside herself had loved and been
betrayed.

"I shall have no visitors to-night," said the woman, seating herself
opposite to Margaret.

"Do you often afford a shelter to strangers, as you have to me
to-night?"

"Yes, child; many a sorrow-laden traveller, worn with life, seeks my
lowly cot."

"Sorrow-laden and worn with life," said Margaret, repeating the
words to herself; "she must have known my past experience;" and she
wished she would go on, for somehow her words comforted her.

"Yes, there are more sinned against than sinning," she continued. "I
knew that you was coming, or rather some one, for last night in my
dreams I saw a form, and now I know it was your own, floating on a
dark stream. There was no boat in sight, no human being on shore, to
save you. The cold waters chilled you, till you grew helpless, and
the waves bore you swiftly to the ocean. I cried for help, and was
awakened by my effort. That stream represents your past, and here
you are now in my dwelling. Some one has wronged you, girl?"

She did not see the tinge on the pale cheek of Margaret, but
continued, "Yes, wronged; but I see clouds and darkness before you,
and then happiness, but not the joys of earth. Something higher,
holier, my child."

A light seemed to have gathered over the face of the speaker, and
her words, although strange and new to Margaret, seemed full of
truth and meaning.

"Shall I find rest on earth?" she inquired.

"No, not here; above," the old woman lifted her eyes toward heaven,
then said:

"You are stepping into sorrow now; going with one who will degrade
you. Do not follow her. Though her outer garments are of purple and
fine linen, her spiritual robe is black and unseemly."

"Where? O, tell me, then, where to go," exclaimed Margaret, her
whole face pale with terror.

"Go nowhere at present. I see nothing now; all is dark before me.
Stay beneath my roof, till light breaks. I see that you will need a
mother's care ere long."

Here the poor girl's long pent up tears flowed in torrents; tears
such as angels pity. It was a long time ere she grew calm; and when
peace came, it was like that of a statue, she was cold and silent.
No future stretched before her, nothing but a present, sad and
hopeless, in which circumstances had placed her.

"Shall I tell you the story of my girl-life," said the strange,
weird woman, putting a fresh supply of wood upon the fire, which had
fallen into embers.

Margaret's interest manifested itself in her face, as she answered,
"I would like to know if others have suffered like myself?"

"It will help you bear your own burden better, and perhaps show you
that none escape the fire. I will proceed with my narrative."

"Many years ago, so many that it seems as though ages must have
intervened, I loved a young and elegant man, who returned my
affection with all the devotion which an earnest, exacting nature
like mine could desire. I was the only child of wealthy parents, who
spared no pains or expense on my education. With them I visited
Europe, and while there, met this person, who seemed to be all that
mortal could aspire to; refined, educated, and the possessor of a
fortune. The alliance was the consummation of my fond parents'
wishes. I will pass over the weeks of bliss which followed our
engagement, and speak of scenes fraught with the most intense
excitement to myself and others. We were at Berlin when my
engagement was sanctioned by my parents. A few weeks subsequent,
there arrived at the hotel at which we were stopping, a family of
most engaging manners. We were at once attracted to them, and in a
few days words of kindly greeting were exchanged, and finding them
very genial, a warm friendship soon existed between us. The family
consisted of parents, three sons, and two daughters. Laura, the
eldest, was the one to whom I was particularly drawn. She was tall,
graceful, and had about her an air of elegance, which showed
unmistakably, her early associations. But to the point: I had been
walking with my lover one evening, in the summer moonlight, and had
retired to my room, strangely fatigued. I had never before parted
from Milan, my betrothed, with such a lassitude as then pervaded my
entire being. I had always felt buoyant and strong.-That night, as I
laid on my bed, seeking in vain the rest which sleep might give me,
I seemed suddenly to float out in the air, to rise above my body,
and yet I distinctly felt its pulsations. The next moment, the sound
of voices attracted me, and though I was in my room, and the persons
in conversation in a distant apartment, yet I could hear every word
which was uttered. What was my horror to see, for my sight was open
as strangely clear as my hearing, the beautiful Laura sitting beside
Milan, his arm encircling her waist. I tried to speak, but no sound
came from my lips. I shook with fear and wonder. I had surely died,
I thought, just then, and this is the vision and hearing of the soul
released from flesh. 'O, Milan, hear me, hear me,' I cried in
anguish. But no sound of my own lips floated on the air. Nothing was
heard but their words, which I was obliged to hear. And O, how my
heart was turned to stone, and my brain to fire, as these words came
to my ears:

"'Love her! Why, dearest Laura, whom I have adored so long, and whom
chance has again brought into my path,--how can you question my
affection for you,' and then I saw that he knelt at her feet!

"'I think I heard but yesterday, that you were engaged,' continued
the fair and brilliant girl, at whose feet he still remained.

"'O, angel of my heart, will no words convince you that I love you
beyond, above all women? I have in times past exhausted the language
of love in speaking to your heart, Laura, are you heartless? I can
plead no more.'

"'I saw the tears glitter on her face as purely white as marble,
then her lips parted and these words fell on my ear,--

"'O, Milan, I would that I could divine my feeling towards you. My
heart is full of love for you, but my reason falters, and something
within me tells, I must not accept you. I feel thrills of horror at
times, even when my affection turns toward you. I cannot fathom the
strange mystery.' She bowed her face in her hands and wept. I saw
him rise from his kneeling posture, and walk away to hide his
emotions. I felt the fearful contest going on within himself, and
then all grew dark. I heard no sound again, though I listened
intently. I seemed back again in my form-sleep at last came to my
weary senses. In dreams, then, I was walking again with him, by a
beautiful lake, over which a storm had just passed, leaving a lovely
rainbow arching its bosom. I felt the pressure of his hand, as he
held mine, and saw his eyes beam tenderly into mine own.

"'The storm is over,' he said, 'see how the waves are tipped with
golden rays.'

"Cheered by these words, I looked on the scene-the calmed lake, the
bow of promise,--with a feeling of rapturous delight thrilling my
whole being. Gazing thus earnestly, my attention was drawn to a
curious ripple on the lake's surface. Then I beheld a female form
rising from the waters, upon whose broad, white brow were these
words:-Loved and Deserted. Startled by this, I turned to look upon
Milan, but I saw him not. He had fled, and I was alone. All was
lonely and still as death.

"Tremblingly I pursued my way back. The sun was sinking behind the
hills, and darkness would overtake me before I could reach home. I
quickened my speed, when suddenly I stumbled over something in my
path. A light from the heavens, a flash of summer lightning revealed
a grave, from which the form of a fair, sweet girl arose, and said,
'Beware! He, too, loved me, and for his love I pined and died.' The
form vanished and the air seemed full of sounds of admonition, while
around me appeared hosts of beings of another world. My senses
reeled. I called for help, and must have cried aloud, for just then
I heard my mother's voice from the adjoining room,--'What is it,
Sibyl?' and when I awoke she was at my side.

"'Bring a light,' I cried, as I placed my hand on my forehead, which
was cold and damp with perspiration. Mother went to her room, and
returned with a candle and came to my bed side.

"I can remember her look of horror, as though it was but
yesterday-and her voice when she sobbed, rather than spoke these
words:-'My child, O, my poor child, what has happened?' Then she
fainted.

"I learned on the morrow, that my beautiful hair had turned white;
not one thread of my deep brown tresses was left, and my features
too, were shrunken. That night's vision had done the work of years
of suffering, and Sibyl Warner, the belle, the heiress, was no
longer an object of love.

"A physician was summoned the next morning, who pronounced me
suffering under mental hallucination, for I had told my mother all
my strange dream or vision. I had no way to prove that my lover was
treacherous, and I alone must suffer. But Laura. What was my duty
towards her? was my dominant thought, even while I sat writing, a
day or two after, a note to Milan, releasing him from his
engagement. Vainly my mother entreated me to see him just once more.
I was inexorable, and there being nothing now to bind us to Europe,
we made all possible haste to return to our native land.

"Laura came to bid me good-bye. I tried to speak my fears to her,
but my tongue seemed paralyzed. I kissed her warmly, and the tears
flowed over her pale, lovely face. We parted. I knew she would be
his bride ere long. I hoped she would be happy; but the revelation
of that night led me to fear that such might not be the case.

"The first week of our voyage home was very pleasant, but soon
after, a gale arose, and then a fearful storm set in. After being
tossed by wind and wave five days, our ship went down. O, that
morning so vividly present to my memory now. My parents were both
lost. I was saved with a few of the passengers, and most of the
ship's crew,--a vessel bound to my own native port, took us on board.
But what was life to me then, alone, and unloved as I must ever
after be.'

"It was not the Sibyl Warner who stepped on shore the day of our
arrival who had left it years before; not the young girl of
seventeen, but a woman, with love, trust, hope, all departed-a wreck
of her former self, and yet within, a strange light glittering. As
one sees, hung over dangerous, impassable ways at night, or half
sunken rocks, a light telling of danger, so I had thrown over my
entire being a blaze of fire, which, while it guided others, seemed
to be consuming myself. I possessed what is now called 'second
sight,' and could see the motives of persons, and their most secret
thoughts and designs. Life became burdensome because I could not
balance the power with any joy, until I learned that I must live for
others and not for myself, alone.

"My father's estate was settled at last, and I had means enough to
live in luxury and ease the rest of my days; but a strange inward
prompting continually urged me to give up my former mode of living.
I disposed of my property, exchanging it for ready money, and one
day found myself penniless, through the treachery of one who
professed to be my friend. I had not been allowed to learn his
motives, and fraudulent designs, because, as I subsequently saw, my
experience must be gained through toil and want, but when others
were in danger of losing their material goods, I could readily
discern their perils, and warn them.

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