In a pleasant room in Frankfort, on a slight eminence which overlooked
the river Maine, sat a young man, of about thirty years, in deep
meditation. His face showed traces of recent suffering; his broad, high
brow was white as marble, and his hands, though large, were soft and
delicate as a woman's. Near by sat a young girl, whose physiogomy
showed close relationship to the invalid. She was his sister, and was
travelling with him, hoping that change of air and scenery might produce
a beneficial effect on his health.
“I think you seem stronger than when we came, Ralph; don't you?” She had
been watching the color flickering on his face and lips, the last half
hour.
“Yes, the air of Frankfort has done me good, and the present fatigue is
only the result of my journey.”
“I am glad to hear you say so; it confirms my impression, which is, that
you will recover.”
“Heaven grant it may be so. Long suffering has robbed me of the buoyancy
of hope. I think I have not enjoyed myself more at any time during my
illness, than while we were at Heidelberg, among its castles.”
“I hope you will enjoy your stay here as much. You know how long you
have wished to see the birthplace of Goethe.”
“I have, and expect to see his statue to-morrow, which will be pleasure
enough for one day; at least for an invalid. Do you remember his
'Sorrows of Werter,' Marion? In what work has the depth of men's
emotional nature been so sounded?”
“I remember you read it to me last winter, while I was working those
slippers you have on.”
“Ah, yes; delightful days they were, too. I wonder if I shall be able to
see Dannecker's Ariadne the same day?”
“I have forgotten, Ralph, the figure.”
“It is that of a beautiful female riding on a panther. The light is let
in through a rosy curtain, and falling upon the form, is absorbed and
incorporated into the marble.”
“How beautiful; I wish we could go to-day.”
“I shall be stronger to-morrow, and perhaps be able to sketch a little
before I leave.”
“Ah, if you could. What a pity that we had to come away from Heidelburg
without your being able to add anything to your folio.”
“It was; but if I recover my health, as you think I will, I shall go
again, and see how that place of beauty looks to me in full vigor.”
“I wonder if there are many visitors at the hotel? Taking our meals as
we do in our rooms, we see but little of them.”
“There have been several arrivals to-day,” she answered.
“And there are more coming. Sister, I feel strangely here. The feeling
has deepened ever since I came. I feel a soul; some one near me; a being
strong in soul and body, and more lovely than any one I have ever met.”
Marion looked distressed. She feared his mind was wandering. In vain she
tried to hide her look of concern; he saw it, and relieved her fears by
his words and manner.
“It is not mere fancy, nor mental illusion, my dear sister, but
something real and tangible. I feel it in my entire being: some one is
coming to make me whole.”
“A woman?”
“Yes; a woman such as you nor I have never looked upon.”
“You are weary now, Ralph; will you not lie down?”
“I will to please you; but I am far from being weary.”
She smoothed his pillow, and led him to the couch. At that instant a
carriage drove to the door, and several persons alighted.
Marion turned her gaze from the strangers to her brother. Never in her
life had she seen him look as he did then. His eyes glowed, not with
excitement, but with new life. The color mounted to cheeks and forehead,
while he kept pacing up and down the room, too full of joy and emotion
to utter a single sentence.
“What is it, brother?”
This question, anxiously put, was all she could say, for she perceived,
dimly, a sense of some approaching crisis.
Her anxious look touched him, and he threw himself on the couch, and
permitted her to pass her hand gently over his brow.
“There; it's over now.”
“What, Ralph?”
“The strange tremor of my being. Marion, some one has come to this
hotel, who will strangely affect my future life.”
“The woman,--the soul you felt in the air?” she inquired, now excited in
turn.
“Yes, the soul has come; my soul. I shall look on her before to-morrow's
sun has set. I feel an affiliation, a quality of life which never
entered my mental or physical organization before. And Marion, this
quality is mine by all the laws of Heaven.” He sank back upon the couch
like a weary child, and soon passed into a sweet slumber.
Marion watched the color as it came into his face. It was the flush of
health, not the hectic tinge of disease; and his breath, once labored
and short, was now easy and calm as an infant's.
Some wondrous change seemed to have been wrought upon him. What was it?
By what subtle process had his life blood been warmed, and his being
so strongly affiliated with another life? and where was the being whose
life had entered into his? Beneath the same roof, reading the beautiful
story of “Evangeline.”
The next morning Ralph arose, strong and refreshed, having slept much
better than he had for many months.
“Such rest, Marion,” he said, “will soon restore me to health,” and his
looks confirmed the truth of his statement.
“I should think you had found life's elixir, or the philosopher's stone,
whose fabled virtues were buried with the alchemists of old. But who is
the fairy, Ralph, and when shall we behold her face?”
“Before the sun has set to-day,” he answered, confidently.
Marion smiled, looked slightly incredulous, and sat down to her books
and work.
Towards the close of the day, her attention was attracted by a graceful
figure approaching the river bank. Her hat had fallen from her head,
displaying its beautiful contour, and in her hair were wild flowers, so
charmingly placed, that they seemed as though they had grown there. She
watched her with the deepest interest, and turned to beckon her brother
to the window, when lo! he was directly behind her, and had seen the
fair maiden all the while. He had been drawn there by an irresistible
power, and in the single glance he felt the assurance that she was the
being who was to bless his life. He would have given much, then, to have
seen her face, and having watched her till out of sight, went to his
couch for rest.
Marion looked on his placid features, and hope sprung up in her breast.
She felt that her brother was, by some mysterious power, improving,
and knew that he would fully recover his health. The flood-tides of
affection flowed to the surface, and she wept tears of joy.
Towards sunset they walked out together. Even the mental excitement
caused by looking upon Goethe's statue, and the beautiful Ariadne had
not exhausted him as formerly, and he was able to go into the evening
air for the first time for many months.
They returned to their rooms, and talked of the stranger.
“Is she not lovely?” asked Marion, after long silence.
But in that dreamy silence, Ralph had, in spirit, been absent from his
sister and present with her of whom she inquired. The sound of her voice
brought him back; he started and said,--
“Who?”
“Why the stranger, of whom we were speaking.”
“Lovely?” he replied; “she is more than that, she is holy, heavenly,
pure. But let us talk no more tonight, dear; I am weary.”
The link was broken; her words had called him from the sphere of the
beautiful stranger, and he needed rest.
“Just what I feared,” she said to herself, “he is mentally excited, and
to-morrow will droop.”
Contrary to her fears, however, he awoke fresh and bright on the morrow,
and able to visit with her, many places of interest. He did not see the
stranger that day, nor the one succeeding.
“I fear they have gone,” said his sister, as Ralph walked nervously
through the room. “I saw several go last evening, and she may have been
among the number.”
“No, no; she has not gone. I should feel her absence were she away. I
should have no strength, but lose what I have gained, and droop. I feel
her here under this roof. I am approaching her, and shall, within a few
hours, look on her face, and hear her voice.”
“Ah, Ralph, don't get too much excited, for I want you to look well when
father and mother join us at Paris. They will be overjoyed to see how
much you have improved.”
He made a hasty gesture, which she did not see, and then, ashamed at his
feeling of impatience, went and sat beside her, and arranged the silks
in her basket. Engaged in this light pastime, he did not hear a low rap
at the door.
“Come in,” rose to the lips of Marion; then the thought flashed on her
mind that the caller might be a stranger, and she arose and opened the
door.
“Have you a guide-book you can loan me?”
The voice thrilled Ralph's being to its centre. He raised his eyes and
said,--
“Come in; we will find the book for you.”
To Marion's surprise she entered and seated herself by the window, but
never for a moment took her eyes from the features of Ralph.
His hands trembled violently as he searched for the book among a pile
on the table, and Marion had to find it at last, and pass it to the
stranger, who took it, but moved not. Her eyes seemed transfixed, her
feet fastened to the floor.
“This is the person who has drawn my life so since I came here. He is
ill, but will recover,” she said, stepping towards him, and placing her
soft, white hand upon his brow.
During this time Ralph was speechless, and felt as though he was struck
dumb. He trembled in every limb, as she gently led him to the couch
and motioned him to lie down. Then his limbs relaxed, his breath became
calm, the face lost all trace of weariness, and he passed into a deep,
mesmeric sleep. “Fold on fold of sleep was o'er him,” and the fair one
stood silently there, her eyes dreamy and far off, until his being
was fully enrapt in that delicious state which but few on earth have
experienced.
Then silently she withdrew, while Marion whispered in her ear, “Come
again; please do, for this is so new and strange to me.”
“I will,” she said, and quietly departed.
An hour passed, and he did not awake; another, and still he slumbered.
“Can it be? O, is it the sleep which precedes death? I fear it may be,”
and the anxious sister, musing thus, suppressed a rising sigh. He moved
uneasily. She had disturbed the delicate state by her agitated thoughts.
“O, if she would come,” said Marion, “I should have no fear.”
At that instant the door opened, and the wished for visitor glided in.
“Has she read my thought?”
“Fear not,” whispered the stranger, in a voice and manner not her own,
“thy brother but sleepeth. All is well; disease will have left him when
he awakes. I will stay awhile.”
A volume of thanks beamed from Marion's face at these words, as she took
her seat close by the side of the fair girl.
At the end of the third hour he awoke. The stranger glided from the room
just as his eyes were opening, and Marion closed the door, and went and
sat beside him.
“What was it like, Ralph? O! how strange it all seems to me.”
“Like? sister mine; like dew to the parched earth; strength to the
languished; light unto darkness. What was it like? Mortal cannot compare
it to anything under the heavens. It was as though my being soared on
downy clouds-the old passing out, weariness falling as I ascended, and
all sense of pain laid aside as one would a garment too heavy to be
worn. I knew I slept. I was inspired with currents of a new life. I was
lulled by undulating waves of light; each motion giving deeper rest,
followed by a delicious sense of enjoyment without demand of action; a
balancing of all the being. O! rest, such rest, comes to man but once in
a lifetime. But where is the fair one to whom I am so much indebted for
all this?” He glanced around the room.
“Gone. She left just as you were waking. But tell me, Ralph, is it the
mesmeric sleep that has so strengthened you, and with which you are so
charmed?”
“It must be. What wondrous power that being has; Marion, I am as strong
and well as ever; look at me, and see if my appearance does not verify
my assertion.”
She looked and believed. The past hour had developed a wonder greater
than could be found among all the works of art in that great city; for
Christ, the Lord, had been there and disease had fled.
Ralph and Marion met the strangers quite often, and passed many happy
hours in her society. Marion rallied her brother on his long tarry at
Frankfort, at which he smiled, saying, “I cannot go while she remains.”
No more was said concerning his departure, it being her pleasure to go
or stay, as he wished.
One bright morning, they sat under the trees. Ralph was sketching,
while Marion and the young lady who had so entranced him, were amusing
themselves with some portraits which he had drawn a long time previous,
when a servant delivered a letter to Marion. She opened it eagerly, and
said, “It's from mother, Ralph, and we must meet her in Paris by the
twentieth; it's now the seventh.”
A look of disappointment passed over his face, which was soon chased
away by smiles, at the words of their companion who said:
“How singular. Father and myself are going there. We leave to-morrow.”
Marion excused herself, and ran to her room to answer her mother's
letter. The two thus left alone, sat silent for some time, until Ralph
broke the calm with these words, “I long to know the name of one who has
so long benefited me. I only know you as Miss Lyman. I should like
to treasure your christian name, which I am sure is bright, like your
nature.”
“My surname is Wyman, not Lyman, and my christian name, Dawn.”
“How strange! How beautiful!” almost involuntarily exclaimed Ralph.
“Will you allow me, Dawn,” he said, after a brief silence, “to sketch
your profile?”
“Certainly, when will you do it?”
“Now, if you have no objection.”
“I have not the slightest, provided I can have a duplicate, in case I
like it.”
He complied readily, and she took a position requisite for the work.
“Look away over the river, if you please.”
He did not know how much these words implied. Her gaze was far away, and
would ever be, for her real home was beyond.
He succeeded at the first effort, and asked her judgment upon it.
“Truthful and correct,” she said. “Now another for me, if you please.”
“This is yours. I shall idealize mine, and in it I shall sketch you as
you appear to me. Mine would not please you, I know.”
“You judge me correctly. I wish my portrait to be exactly like myself.”
“Yet if you sketched, you would want to draw your friends profiles as
they appeared to you, would you not?”
“Certainly. Is this your speciality, heads, or do you go to nature and
reproduce her wonderous moods and shades with your pencil?”
“My great ideal is Nature. You, too, are an artist.”
“I have no talent whatever, but the deepest sympathy with Nature, and an
appreciation of her harmonies.”
“Do you not paint flowers, or sketch home scenes?”
“I have never used pencil or brush, and yet I feel at times such
longings within me to give expression to my states, I think I must have,
at least, some latent power in that direction.”
“As all have. I could teach you in a very short time, to sketch woods,
hills, and skies.”
“I think I should never copy. You don't know how foreign it is to my
nature to copy anything. I should respect artists more if they did not
copy so much. I reverence the past; I honor and admire the pure lives
and noble works of those who are gone; but where are the new saints and
the new masters? Was genius buried with Michael Angelo and Raphael? The
same God who inspired their lives, inspires ours. We can make ourselves
illustrious in our own way. We may not all paint, but whatever our
work is, that should we do as individuals. If we copy, we shall have no
genius to transmit to future generations.”
Dawn wished to be pardoned if she had wearied her listener, but she saw
at once, as she looked on his face, that the thoughts she had expressed
were accepted, and that her words had not fallen on unappreciative ears.
“You have spoken my own views, and if my health remains, I shall give
the world my best efforts in my own way. Nature shall be my study. I
will not fall a worshipper, like Correggio, to light and shade, but use
them as adjuncts to the great idea which must ever dwell in the soul of
the faithful artist, to give the whole of nature.”
“I would not have spoken so much upon a theme even so dear to me as
this, had I not felt that you would accept my thoughts, and therefore
knew that I should not weary you.”
“I shall see you before you go,” he said, retaining her hand which she
extended, as she arose to leave.
“I should be very sorry not to bid you good-bye. Have you my portrait?”
He handed it to her, and walked with her to the hotel.
“To-morrow she will depart, I may never see her again. Never! No, it
cannot be. I shall see her, live near her, feel her life flowing into
mine each day. It must be, I shall droop and fade without her, as the
flower without dew or water.” He went in and found the letter written,
sealed and directed to Paris. He loved the word, since she was going
there.
Dawn went to her room and wrote her last letter from the land of music,
flowers, legends and art.
“Dear Ones at Home:-To-morrow we bid good-bye to this land of beauty,
which so accords with my feelings. We shall bid adieu to its mountains,
its castles, and its works of art. When you receive this we shall have
visited Paris, thence to London to embark for home. 'Home,' dear word.
All my roamings will only make me love home better, and those whose
lives are so woven in with mine. Tell Herbert he must come here to have
his inspiration aroused. When he has walked upon Mont Blanc; when he has
sailed on the Rhine, stood by Lakes Geneva and Lucerne, and by the
blue Moselle, then he will feel that his whole life has been a fitting
prelude to a rapturous burst of immortal song. He must come to Germany
before he can fathom the sea of sound, or understand in fullness what
the rippling waves of sweet music are saying. Florence, Herbert! do not
let old age come on you, before you see this land, if none other. It is
growing dark, or I would write more. Were I to sing a song to-night it
would be, 'Do they miss me at home?' Three years have passed; I could
stay as many more and not see half of that which would interest and
instruct me, yet I feel ready to leave, for I know it to be my duty to
do so. May the waves bear us safely to the arms of those who love us.
Yours ever, DAWN.”