Three years had swept by, with their lights and shadows, bringing no
change to the house of Mr. Wyman, save the daily unfolding of Dawn's
character, and the deepening happiness of all.
Mr. Wyman had promised Dawn that when she was eighteen he would take her
to Europe.
Miss Vernon passed her time very happily, dividing it between teaching,
study, and labor, and found herself improving daily, both spiritually
and physically; indeed, such a change had come over her whole nature,
that she could scarce believe herself the same being that entered Mr.
Wyman's home, three years previous. Life opened daily to her such rich
opportunities for usefulness and growth, that no day seemed long enough
to execute her plans.
Mr. Temple, whom the reader will remember as one of the guests of
the party, came often to Mr. Wyman's, and soon found himself greatly
interested in Miss Vernon.
It was a new experience to her to contrast him with Hugh, and to
learn to analyze the new feeling which suffused her being,--that deep,
undercurrent which lies beneath all surface emotions and interests,
namely, Love.
How broad, deep and rich her being grew. How near and dear to her now
seemed Hugh, her friend and brother. How sharply were the lines of their
true relation defined,--a relation as pure as untrodden snow. Her heart
overflowed with thankfulness to the giver of all good, who had brought
her feet into such pleasant paths of peace.
In the same spot where ten years ago Mr. Wyman and fair Alice were
seated, sat Herbert Temple and Florence. The night was as fair and
cloudless, while the rustle of the trees alone broke the stillness. Pale
moonbeams rested at their feet, while words of love flowed between them.
“I think I found my way to your heart the first evening I saw you, for
I felt my being thrill as though I had another life pulsing with my own;
am I right?”
She raised her eyes to his, and answered in words which he ever
treasured,--
“It was so, Herbert. I felt as though I was stepping from my own
confines; as though some strong hand had taken mine, and infused new
life into my being. It was when you played, Herbert, that I was absorbed
in your soul.”
“It was you, Florence, who helped me to play. I felt and was inspired by
your interest, your appreciation, for no one can do such things alone.
I never play as I did that night, when alone. Now, that I shall have you
always to help, shall we not be happy?”
“O, Herbert, will these days last? Will love bind us the same in years
to come?”
“No, not the same; but deeper, holier, if we do not exhaust ourselves by
free ownership.”
“You talk like Hugh,” she said, resting her hand on his arm, and looking
out on the soft, still scene before them.
“I would I could talk like him. While I admit no oracles, I confess
I admire his views, and his life which is a perfect transcript of his
theories.”
“He is a noble man, Herbert, and has done much towards my development.
I thought I loved him all I could, but since you have come to my life, I
feel nearer than ever to him.”
“Such is the law, and beautiful it is, that true love expands our being,
while the opposite contracts it. Hugh's views at first seemed wild, and
rather disorderly, but close contact with the man, and opportunities
of knowing him, in public and private, have made me acquainted with his
worth. Love him always, Florence, and when I take you to my home never
fear that I shall not understand you need to see him at times alone, for
he will need you. You have been friends, and friends need each other.
I am not taking you from him in soul and heart; I will but help you to
give yourself to him, with your being made richer by my love.”
Florence had no words with which to thank him. She only nestled closer
to the heart which loved her so well.
“How lovely this night is,” she said, breaking the long silence which
followed; “the stillness is so sacred, I would not for worlds disturb it
with a sound, even of the sweetest music.”
“Your words give me much comfort, Florence, for long have I wanted some
one who could sympathize with me on that subject. To most persons, sound
alone is considered music; to me, a night like this should not be jarred
save by soft vibrations of aeolian strings. And the same of beautiful
scenery. I cannot bear to hear one burst forth in song, for the
landscape is to me, in itself, a Te Deum, a perfect song of praise.”
“I am made happy by your words, Herbert, for there are moments when
music seems to me to be so sadly out of place, that I feel almost like
crushing the instrument and performer together. And now may I ask you,
why the music of some performers gives me pain instead of pleasure? I
know, but I want your answer. We will take Miss York, for instance; she
is full of hearty, earnest life, robust and strong. I know she plays
in time and tune, and sings correctly, but I feel all out of tune, and
completely disharmonized when she performs in my presence.”
“I fully comprehend your feelings. I have had the same myself, and
my interpretation of it is that I cannot accept the music through her
organism; or, rather, her atmosphere being between the subject and the
auditor, the latter feels only time and sound, not music, not the idea
the composer designed to convey. Is not that it?”
“Exactly. After all, there are very few who are organized sufficiently
delicate to translate music.”
“True, Florence; how many seek the glorious art, not for its uplifting
power, but as a means of display. Let us love it for the good it does
for mankind, and use it, not for the end, but as a means, of enjoyment.”
“I play but seldom, Herbert, dearly as I love it.”
“I am not sorry to hear that. I think that greater good is obtained by
not being too much in its immediate sphere. Of course greater mechanical
skill is acquired by constant practice, but I know by my own experience
that when the soul has reached a certain height of culture, the physical
nature becomes subordinate to the spiritual, and is controlled by it,
because the two natures are then replete with harmony, and the fullness
of the one finds expression through the other,--the hand moves in
complete obedience to the spirit. Dearly as I love music, I cannot hear
or execute it too often. On this I am pleased to see we agree. The air
is growing chilly; we will go in and sing one song before we part. What
shall it be?”
“The Evening Song to the Virgin,” she answered.
Seating himself at the instrument, he played the prelude soft and low,
then their voices mingled in that graceful, gliding song, as only voices
can mingle that are united in the harmony of love.
It filled the whole air with sweetness, and Hugh's senses revelled in
the holy spell, as he sat alone on the piazza, thinking of the past, his
lovely Alice, and the beautiful child which was left to bless his years.
No other song followed; none could. Florence listened to the retreating
footsteps of her lover, and then sat in the moonlight to think of her
joys.
Howard Deane was weary. Life had not gone pleasantly with him, since we
introduced him to the reader. His business, so lucrative and once full
of interest, demanding his closest attention, now seemed of no account.
Existence had become to him a round of duties mechanically performed.
The very air was leaden, and void of life. He needed a revivifying
influence, something to invigorate him. His energies languished, and
there seemed no one to extend to him a helping hand, as his wife was at
deadly variance with those who could have given him what he was so much
in want of.
The fire had gone out on his domestic altar, for no trusting wife sat
there. She was dark and heavy in soul. They had become strangers to each
other, not by roaming, but by a too close relationship.
Mrs. Deane had returned only bodily to her home; her heart and mind were
on a sea of doubt, at the mercy of every wind and wave. No ripple of
love broke their long silence, as they sat together in their home. They
each felt lonely, and would have been far less so apart. Mr. Deane at
length broke the spell, by saying,--
“I am going to the mountains next week, Mabel; would you like to go?”
“I am going home. Mother has sent for me. I may as well be there as
here; no one will miss me.”
She had better have left the words unsaid, and saw it herself in the
dark, contracted brow of her husband, who replied,--
“I shall go alone. It is best I should. You can remain with your parents
the remainder of the season, for I shall not be back for months,” then
abruptly left the room.
The words were as decisive as his manner. She felt she had gone too far,
and would have given worlds to retract. But it was too late; he was now
out of hearing.
What had come over their lives? They were treading a road thick with
dust, which rose at every step, soiling their once white garments.
Surely they needed a baptism to make them pure.
The cloud which overhung their sky held the heavenly water which would
make them clean.
It came in the form of sickness. Their eldest boy laid ill and near unto
death. Hope and fear alternated in their hearts as they stood beside the
little one, and saw a raging fever course through his veins, and day
by day the full form wasted away. Thus the baptismal waters flowed over
their souls, and they wept together. Joy beamed from their faces when
the dread crisis was past, and they were told he would live. Through
sorrow they were reunited. They had wandered, but were returning with
life and love in their hearts, and crowns of forgiveness in their hands.
Thus do we ever become strong through our sufferings, and seeming evils
work our good, for they are parts of the great unity of life.
Mrs. Deane lessened her prejudices, and learned to know and love those
whom her husband had found worthy, and among them, Miss Evans. With her
she passed many pleasant hours, and that noble woman made known to
her, many paths of rest and peace which she had previously through her
ignorance and jealousy, persistently shunned.
The years sped on; some were gathered to their homes above; some found
new relations and strong ties to bind them here, until, at length,
Dawn's eighteenth birth-day came, bright and sunny over the eastern
hills. On the morrow, with her father, she was to leave for the city
where they were to embark for England. The morning was passed in
receiving the calls of friends, and later Mr. and Mrs. Temple and Miss
Evans came to dine with them. The evening was spent by Dawn alone with
her father.
The next day, Florence, now a happy wife and mother, came to see them
off. It had seemed to her for a month previous that all her partings
with them had been final adieus, and now the moment was at hand which
was really to separate them-for how long she knew not. It was not
strange that a vein of sadness ran through the pleasure of the hour.
But each strove to conceal aught that would mar the joy with which
Dawn anticipated her journey, and the gladness which Florence would
experience on their return was by her made to do service at this their
time of departure.
Hugh took the hand of Florence in his own, and held it so closely that
his very soul seemed to vibrate its every nerve. Then his lips touched
her brow; fond good-byes were exchanged, the quick closing of the
carriage door was heard, and they were gone.
Statue-like stood Florence for several moments, then going to the room
she had for so many years occupied, she permitted her tears to flow,
tears which she had kept back so nobly for their sake. Her husband
walked through the garden with a sense of loneliness he scarce expected
to experience; and then back to the library, where he awaited the
appearance of his wife.
She came down soon with a smile on her face, but the swollen eyes showed
the grief she had been struggling with.
“We must look cheerful for Miss Evans' sake,” he said, kissing her; for,
somehow he felt as though she too had gone, and he must assure himself
that it was not her shadow alone that stood before him.
“It is so nice,” she said brightly, “that Hugh has prevailed on Miss
Evans to remain here during his absence. It would be so lonely with only
Aunt Susan at home. As it is, we can see the library and drawing-room
open, and we shall not feel his absence so keenly.”
“And what a charming place for her to write her book in,” remarked
Herbert, walking to the bay-window that overlooked the garden.
“We can come over every week and see her and the house, which will be
next thing to seeing Dawn and her father,” said his wife, earnestly.
Despite all his theory, his large and unselfish heart, a strange feeling
came over him, a cloud flitted over his sunny nature. It was hardly
discernable, and yet were it to take a form in words, might have
displayed itself thus: “I fear she loves them better than me.” He shook
the feeling off, as though it was a tempter, and said fondly:
“As our friend Hugh arranged that we take tea in his home to-night, we
will go and meet Miss Evans, who, I think, must be near by this time.”
It was Mr. Wyman's desire that Miss Evans should be at his house as soon
after they were gone as possible, and establish herself within it. She
granted his wish, and requested them to bid her adieu at her own home,
which she would close immediately after, and repair to his.
“What an atmosphere she will have to work in,” said Florence, as she
arranged a delicate vine over a marble bust. “But come, it will be
lonely for Miss Evans to walk all the way by herself, to-day.”
They met her just turning into the path. She had a wreath on her arm,
Dawn's parting gift, and a beautiful moss rose-bud in her hair, which
Hugh gave her when he bade her good-bye.
“How were they, happy?” were the first words of Florence, anxious to
hear a moment later from her dear ones.
“Very happy and bright,” answered Miss Evans, with an inward struggle to
keep back a tide of emotion. Florence clasped her hand, and held it in
a manner which said, “Let us be close friends while they are away, and
help each other.”
The firm pressure assured her that we may talk without words, they
entered the house, and sat down to a nice repast, which Dawn had
prepared with her own hands, while the room was fragrant with blossoms
which she had gathered an hour before her departure.
After supper they walked in the garden, and when twilight came on,
returned to the house, and listened to the charming music which came
from the instrument, under Herbert's magic touch.
“I expect we shall all dream of sunny France, and dreamy Italy,” said
Miss Evans, after the music had ceased, and the time for words had come.
“If we expect to dream, we must place ourselves in proper condition; so
we must bid you good night, Miss Evans,” said Mr. Temple, rising.
“I did not expect my words to hasten your departure, Mr. Temple. Can you
not stay longer?”
“Not another moment,” he answered, taking his wife's bonnet and shawl,
which she had brought from the hall, and putting them upon her. “I
expect Florence has gone with our good friends. Come and see us, Miss
Evans, soon. Good night; I will speak for both. Florence has gone away
in spirit.”
At this Florence roused, and kissed Miss Evans good night. She had no
words. She was very weary, and felt glad to know that her home was not
far off, only a pleasant walk, for Hugh would not consent that there
should be a great distance between them, so long as the freedom to build
where they chose was allowed.
Florence was indeed weary; neither the morrow, nor the deep love and
devotion of her husband brought her strength back, but she pined day by
day.
Miss Evans carried flowers, Dawn's favorites, to her each day, with the
hope that she would revive. On the contrary, they only served to keep
the spell of languor upon her. At last her husband grew alarmed, and
one evening after she had retired to rest, earlier than usual, he sought
Miss Evans, who, hearing his step on the carriage path, knew he was
alone, and expected to be summoned to his wife.
“How is Florence, to-day?” she inquired, as soon he was seated.
“The same languor oppresses her, and I have come to speak with you about
it. Can you enlighten me in regard to her state? Some strange fears have
crept into my mind, I suppose, because my nerves are weak, in my anxiety
for her.” Here he paused, as though he dared not entertain the thought,
much less make it known to another.
In an instant she read his fears.
“I think I understand the cause of your wife's languor, for, although
not an educated physician, I lay some claim to a natural perception of
the causes of physical and mental ills.”
“Some people are magnetically related.” She continued. “I think Hugh and
your wife were bound by spiritual laws which are as sacred as physical.
They lived upon each other's magnetism. She will droop for a while, but
revive when she receives his letters. He will not feel the change so
sensitively, as he has new life and interests before him every moment.
This relation ought to be better understood, and will be, I trust, with
many others, which are not now recognized as having an existence.”
“Then you think she will recover?”
“Certainly; and a change for the better will be apparent as soon as she
receives his first letter. She is only attenuated now, reaching after
him, her friend and instructor for so many years.”
“I feared-I almost-forgive me, Miss Evans, for the strange thought, that
Florence might, after all, have loved Hugh better than myself. I will
not stand in her or any woman's way to happiness, if I know it.”
“Drive that thought from your mind, Herbert.” As she said this with so
much depth of earnestness, he noticed that her manner and tone betrayed
not a shadow of surprise at his confession, and his face turned
inquiringly to her.
“It was a wicked thought, I know; let it rest with you, Miss Evans.”
“It is buried,” she said, “and will never know a resurrection. But as to
its being wicked, it was far from that, and very natural.”
“Your words allay my fears, and strengthen my trust.”
“They have lived such an earnest life together that his was a
constituent, a part of her own. No wonder that she drooped when this
union of vital sympathy was divided. Neither is it strange that you
should be agitated by doubts and fears; but let me assure you again,
that she by this attraction is none the less your own. She will feel
an infusion of his life through his letters, and regain her wonted
strength. She is yours, and his too; and more to you because she is much
to him.”
A smile of peace settled over his disturbed features, as he took her
hand, saying,--
“You have made me strong and trustful, and from this hour my life will
flow in broader and deeper channels. My present is bright; my future all
radiant with hope.”
“I am very glad that your call has resulted so pleasantly,” said Miss
Evans, and as Mr. Temple left she sent her love to Florence, with the
assurance that she would soon have the pleasure of welcoming her again
to the home of Dawn.