The next day, while Dawn wandered over the hills, her father conversed
with Miss Vernon on what to his mind constituted an education.
“I know that all our growth is slow, but I wish to take the right steps
if possible in the right direction; I wish my daughter to be wholly, not
fractionally developed. There are certain parts of her nature which
I shall trust to no one. Her daily lessons, a knowledge respecting
domestic affairs, a thorough comprehension of the making and cost of
wearing apparel, and a due regard to proper attire, I shall trust to
you, if you are competent to fill such a position, and I think you are.”
“I have seen so much misery,” he continued, “resulting from the
inability of some women to make a home happy, that I have resolved if my
child lives to years of maturity, all accomplishments shall give way,
if need be, to this one thing, a thorough knowledge of domestic affairs.
Society is so at fault in these matters, and women generally have such
false ideas of them, that I despair of reforming any one. If I can
educate my daughter to live, or rather approximate in some degree, to
my ideal of a true woman's life, it is all I can expect. Are you fond of
domestic life, Miss Vernon?”
He turned so abruptly upon her that she feared her hesitation might be
taken for a lack of feeling on the subject, and yet she could not bear
the thought that one whose ideal was so near her own, did not fully
comprehend her upon such a theme; but there was no mistaking her meaning
when she replied,--
“I love home, and all that makes that spot holy. I only regret that my
one-sided labor and my circumstances have kept me from mingling, to any
great extent, in its joys and responsibilities. My ideal life would be
to work, study and teach, but as no opportunities for doing so have been
presented to me, and having had no home of my own, I have been obliged
to work on in my one-sided way, unsatisfying as it has been.”
“It shall be so no more, Miss Vernon. If you will call my house your
home, so long as we harmonize, you shall have an opportunity to realize
your wishes, and I will see that your services are well requited.”
She was too full of gratitude to speak, but a tear started from her eye,
and Mr. Wyman noticed that she turned aside to brush it away.
“You will stay with us, Miss Vernon, I am sure of that. Take Dawn into
the kitchen every day, no matter if she rebels, as I fear she may, and
slowly, but thoroughly educate her in all those seemingly minor details
of household economy. Cause her to feel the importance of these things,
and teach her to apply herself diligently to labor. I am not anxious
that she should make any exhibition of her mental accomplishments, for
I have learned to dislike parlor parades, and the showing off of
children's acquirements. I do not want Dawn to dazzle with false how,
but to be what she seems, and of use to the world. At the close of each
day I shall question her about her studies, and show to her that I
am interested not only in her books, but in her domestic attainments.
Supply to her, as well as you can, that material, the want of which is
so great a loss to a young girl, and your happiness shall be my study.
Treat her as you would an own dear child, and when she gives you
trouble, send her to me. I fear I may have wearied you, Miss Vernon, and
as the day is so fine, had you not better take a walk?”
She was already too anxious to go by herself, and think of the happiness
which was about opening for her. It seemed too much. All the years that
had passed since her dear mother's death had been so lonely. No one
had ever understood her nature, or seemed to think her anything but
a machine to teach the children their daily lessons. But now what a
prospective! How earnestly would she begin her new life; and burdened
with this thought she walked to the edge of a green wood, and sat down
to weep tears of pure joy.
When she returned she found her room filled with mosses and trailing
vines, which Dawn had gathered for her. She was rapidly learning to love
the child, and felt lonely when she was out of her sight.
In the evening they sat together,--father, child, and teacher, or
companion, as she really was to them, in the library, communing in
silence, no word breaking the spell, until Dawn did so by asking Miss
Vernon if she played.
She glanced longingly at the beautiful instrument, which had not been
opened since Mrs. Wyman's death, and said,--
“I do play and sing, but not as well as I hope to with opportunities for
practice.”
“Do open the piano, papa, it will spoil shut up so.”
“So it will, Dawn. I will open it this moment,” and he silently accused
himself for keeping it closed so long.
“Do you love music, Dawn?” asked Miss Vernon, “can you sing?”
“You shall hear her, and then judge. Come, darling, while I play your
favorite song;” and he commenced the prelude to a low, sweet air. She
began at first tremulously, but gained confidence at each word, until at
length her sweet, childish tones rose pure and clear above the voice of
her father, who hummed rather than sang the song in his deep, rich bass.
His eyes were full of tears when they closed, for that hymn was his
wife's favorite. He had taught it to Dawn, without telling her that her
mother ever sung it.
“It seemed just as though mamma was here and sang too, papa, did n't
it?”
“Mamma, no doubt, is with us. I am glad my little girl feels her
presence, and always remember that she is with you, too, when you feel
tempted to do wrong.”
She nestled her head on his bosom and wept. Tears of joy or sorrow? Only
they whose souls are finely and intensely strung, can know what made her
weep.
“You must sing for us now, Miss Vernon,” he said, and would have led her
to the instrument, but for the burden of love, which was resting on his
heart.
“I play only simple songs, Mr. Wyman, and, indeed, am quite out of
practice.”
“You have some gems stowed away, I know; please sing us one.”
She arose, and after a few trembling notes, sang a sweet song with such
pathos and richness that Mr. Wyman called again for more and more. Dawn
was wild with joy, and then her father, after Miss Vernon declined to
play more, proposed that they should sing an evening hymn.
In this they all joined, Miss Vernon's rich contralto blending sweetly
with Dawn's pure soprano.
Their dreams were sweet and peaceful that night. Their souls had all met
and harmonized, and harmony ever brings rest.
The following day Miss Vernon looked over Dawn's clothing, and laid
aside whatever needed repairing. She was just folding some aprons, when
the child rushed into the room, saying,--
“O, Miss Vernon, I must wear my blue dress to-day.”
“Why that one?”
“Because I feel good, and blue is heavenly, so let me wear it, please,
will you?”
“It's rather short, Dawn, but I suppose it will cover all your goodness
for one day, will it not?”
“O, don't laugh, I feel truly good to-day, and any other dress would not
do.”
“You shall have it, Dawn. I am glad you like to dress according to your
feelings. I do myself.”
“Then how do you feel to-day, and what shall you dress in?”
“I feel very, very happy, but have no garment to symbolize my feelings.”
“I don't want you to wear that grey dress, though, to-day?”
“Why?”
“Because it don't say anything.”
“Nor my black?”
“O, no, no!”
“How will the drab with blue trimmings suit?”
“It's just the dress. You are silent, and have been rather sad, you
know, Miss Vernon, and the blue is the glimmer of sky above your old,
dull life. Do wear the drab with blue ribbons.”
“I will, Dawn. My life is brighter, because I have some one to love;”
and she pressed her lips warmly to the cheeks of her little charge.
When Mr. Wyman came in to dinner he thought he had never seen
Dawn looking so fresh and beautiful, while his eyes rested in full
satisfaction on Miss Vernon's lovely form, so becomingly arrayed. He
liked the absence of the black dress, for its removal seemed to betoken
a happier life, a life which he knew she needed, and which he mentally
resolved she should possess, so far as he could contribute to it.
At the table, Mr. Wyman was talkative and gay, touching lightly here
and there, upon subjects, without argument. It was conversation, not
discussion, or an array of opinions, which flowed from the minds of
those around the board, and of such a nature that all could join, from
young to old.
Miss Vernon delighted in watching him as his eyes rested tenderly on
his child. It was charming to witness such a tender relation existing
between father and daughter.
The days flew swiftly by, and the still, peaceful Sabbath dawned.
How tranquil, and yet how full of life it seemed to Miss Vernon as she
sat at her window and gazed on the scene of beauty before her. A lovely
spring morning-the distant hills soft and mellow; the emerald fields
glittering with dew-the tasseled pines nodding in the gentle breeze-and
the whole atmosphere vibrating with the tones of the Sabbath bells.
“Surely,” she said, “I need no form of worship. God is in all this.
I wonder if I must go from all these beauties to a temple made with
hands.”
“Is n't this pleasanter than sitting in a bare walled church?” said
Dawn, who had entered the room so softly that Miss Vernon was only made
aware of her presence by this inquiry.
“I think it is. Do you go to church?”
“No. Papa does sometimes, but he never makes me go.”
“I hope not.”
“Shall you go to-day, Miss Vernon?”
“Not if I can act my pleasure.”
“I am so glad, for papa said if you did not go, we would all take a
walk, but if you wished to go, he would harness Swift and take you.
“I had much rather take the walk to-day. Some day, I shall want to go to
your church.”
“There, papa is ready, I hear him in the hall. Get your hat, Miss
Vernon.”
“But you forget he has not yet invited me.”
“Dawn, ask Miss Vernon whether she will take a walk with us, or go to
church?” said Mr. Wyman, at that moment calling from the foot of the
stairs.
Miss Vernon was not long in making known her choice, for she sprang and
put on her hat, and in a few moments the three were walking through the
garden towards the woods and fields.
“Which direction, Miss Vernon, shall we take?”
“Any; it's all lovely.”
“Then lead the way, Dawn, and mind you act as a good pilot, and do not
get us into any brooks.”
She ran gaily on before, and they soon found themselves on the verge of
a rich, mossy dell.
“O, is it not beautiful, papa? I shall carry all this lovely moss home.”
“No, Dawn, let it remain. Gather a few specimens from here and there,
but do not mar the general beautiful effect. It is ours now; we can not
make it more so by carrying it home to fade and die. Can we, darling?”
“No. You are always right and good, papa.”
“To-morrow others may come here, and the lovely scene will be as
pleasing to them as to us. There is a possession, Miss Vernon, other
than that which the world recognizes; and it is always pleasant to me to
think that though a man may build himself a palace, and call himself
its proprietor, he alone really owns it whose eyes see the most of its
beauties, and whose soul appropriates them. And so, a lovely spot like
this, or the finest garden may belong to the passer-by whose purse does
not contain a penny.”
“How it smoothes in life the inequalities of station, and makes us
content to admire, rather than strive for ownership.”
“I see by your fervent enjoyment of the scene around us, Miss Vernon,
that you, too, have discarded some of the old forms of worship, or
rather found that a true worship of the divine is not limited by four
walls.”
“I have. For a long time I have seen so much bigotry, and so great a
lack of all the Christian virtues, even in the most liberal churches,
that I have felt I must seek my own mode of enjoying the Sabbath.”
“I long ago found my true relation to all places and forms of devotion,”
remarked Mr. Wyman. “I do not for a moment ignore the church, nor what
Christianity has done for us, yet while I see the good the church
has accomplished, I also see its shortcomings and regret them. As an
individual, I can say that I have done with most church organizations. I
have heard good and earnest words spoken by clergymen in the pulpit once
a week, and as good from the lips of working people at their tasks every
day. I do not undervalue the influence that the forms of worship have on
the masses. While they need them, they must remain where they are, and
have them. I only want the church to be so liberal, that men and women
who feel that they are getting life in another direction, will be
recognized by it to be as good and true to their needs, as though they
sat within its walls. How much have we at the present day of this? Who
is large enough to feel that we cannot always draw from one fount? We
are not machines, to be continually run in one direction.”
“What do you think of our sabbath schools. Do they not need a new life,
too?”
“Unquestionably. I think they need an infusion of dramatic life;
something that interests while it instructs. Dry catechisms are not
suited to the children of our day. We want the living present, and not
the dead past. If I was called to superintend a sabbath school, I
would have a little play enacted by a portion of the children, and then
another portion, until all were actors in their turn.”
“If you express your opinions, I fear you will wait a long time for a
call?”
“I do not crave the position; I am only anxious to see the effect of my
theory in practice. Children need demonstration; need muscular action.
But I am, perhaps, wearying you.”
“Go on. I am interested in all that relates to new phases of life.”
“I should astonish some divines of the conservative order, were I to
publish my views of social and religious life. I would sooner give money
to build theatres, than churches. Everywhere I would cultivate a
love for the drama, which is the highest and most impressive form of
representing truth. My being is stirred to greater depths by good acting
than it can possibly be by mere preaching. I shall be happy to see
the day when religion is acknowledged to be the simple living out of
individual lives, always toned, of course, by pure morality. I hope to
see acts of kindness looked upon as religion, instead of a mere personal
attendance upon worship. But I have talked too long. Where is Dawn?”
They walked on, and soon found her sitting on a moss-covered stone,
twining a wreath of wild flowers. She looked like a queen, as she was
for a time, of that beautiful dell.
“Have flowers souls, papa?” she asked, as he approached her.
“I hope they are immortal, at least in type. But why do you ask?”
“Because these flowers I have gathered will fade and die, and if they
have souls they will not love me for gathering them, will they?”
“Perhaps all the sweetness of these flowers, when they die, passes into
the soul of the one who gathers them.”
“O, how pretty! That makes me think about the little girl who played
with me one day and got angry. You told me that she was better for the
bad feeling I had; that I had taken some of her evil, because I could
overcome it-it with good.”
“I am glad you remember so well what I tell you. Now as we cannot
tell whether flowers have souls or not, we will believe that all their
sweetness passes into ours.”
“But if I should kill a serpent?”
“You must cover the evil with good.”
“But, papa, people come to our house all full of evil things, like
serpents. Don't they have enough good to cover them, or why do I feel
them so plain?”
“I fear not; or, rather, their goodness has not been cultivated and made
large enough to absorb the evil. We must go home now, or Aunt Susan will
be waiting for us.”
The three walked home together, in harmony with nature and themselves.
They found their dinner waiting, and the simple meal neatly prepared,
was graced with a vase of beautiful flowers.