Basil and his sister sat longer that summer evening than was their wont.
There was a deeper intoning of sentiment, a closer blending of thought,
or rather, their individual states had been more clearly defined by the
day's incidents.
They were of those rare types of mind which know just how far they can
be together, and not detract from each other; just when the mental
and spiritual assimilation was becoming attenuated, and each needed
solitude. Thus they were constantly coming each to the other, and
consequently drew from exhaustless fountains of intellectual and
physical strength.
Life is replete with harmonies ready to inflow, if we are but receptive
and delicate enough to receive and appropriate them. Blest are they who
recognize life's indications, its index-fingers which are pointing each
hour to some new experience, which will deepen and expand our lives.
Generally there is great danger of two persons settling into themselves,
as these two seemed to have done, but Basil and Beatrice were so
catholic they could afford it, in fact they needed just the close
companionship which they held. The brother, with his colossal spirit,
lofty and original, moving forward through life with that slow majesty
which indicates the wholeness of the individual, unlike the airy advance
of natures which rush with but one faculty quickened, and mistake speed
for greatness, supplied the sister with that manly, noble quality, which
must ever exist in the real or ideal of every woman. No wonder her warm,
beneficent nature expanded daily, until her heart seemed a garden full
of flowers of love and gratitude.
Did life at times seem dim and hazy, and the mind full of a thousand
doubts, he could dispel the cloud, wrench the truth from its old
combinations, and present it to her in striking contrast with its
opposite error.
No wonder that new purposes and aspirations were born every hour in that
woman's heart, impregnated by his manliness of quality. Yet each drew
through the subtle texture of soul a different hue of life, as in a bed
of flowers, from the same sunlight, one draws crimson, another azure, as
though conscious of the harmony of complement and difference.
“I feel a rich, deep vein of thought to-night,” said Beatrice, “as
though I could write a poem or a book, so vivid are my thoughts.”
“Your life has been a poem, full of sweetly blended words. You have
lived yours out, while others have written theirs.”
“But there is such power in books, Basil.”
“I know it well. 'Some books are drenched sands on which a great soul's
wealth lies all in heaps, like a wrecked argosy.' And some are sweet and
full of passion-tones, and you feel on every leaf that you are turning,
as though their heart-beats were going into yours; that they were dying
that you might have life. Books are indeed great, but lives are greater;
lives that are full of earnest purpose, and that fail not, even though
the tide beats strong about them and the heavens hang thick and dark
with clouds. The greatest poems are true lives, now surging with grief
and passion, now pulsing with joy-notes, thrilling on each page of life.
Some books, as well as persons, make us feel as though we stood in the
presence of a king, while some give us tears. Some books and some beings
dome us like a sky. Sister, you are the dome which ever overarches my
life,--if day, with its azure and ermine clouds; if night, with its
stars. Nay, do not write a book, but breathe and live your life out each
day.”
“Yet I know that you, Basil, could write one, and make it full and
perfect.”
“I could make one full of words, if not of thought; but come, the night
is passing, we shall scarce have an hour's rest before sunrise.”
“Indeed, I think we are in a fair way to see its early brightness.”
To their dreams and life we will leave them awhile, knowing that to such
hearts will ever come peace, whether sleeping or waking.
Past midnight, that silent hour when the earth is peopled with
other forms. It is the hour for the brain to receive the most subtle
influences, whether sleeping or waking.
Some kinds of sleep bring us brighter states than day gives us. They
are awakenings, in which the understanding, instead of being dethroned,
acquires a power and vivacity beyond what it possesses when the external
form is awake and active. The soul seems emancipated from earthly
trammels. The ruling thought of a man's life is not unlikely to shape
itself into dreams, the constant thought of the day may encroach on the
quiet of the night. Thus Columbus dreamed that a voice said unto him,
“God will give thee the keys of the gates of the ocean.” So any earnest
longing, resting on our minds when we composed ourselves to sleep, may
pass over into our sleeping consciousness, and be reproduced, perhaps in
some happier mood.
Modern writers on the phenomena of sleep, usually concur in the
assertion that man's sleeping thoughts are meaningless, and that
dreams are, therefore, untrustworthy. Such was not the opinion of
our ancestors. They attached great importance to dreams and their
interpretations. They had resort to them for guidance in cases of
difficulty, or great calamity. We do not claim for all dreams, a divine
or reliable character, but that some are to be trusted, every individual
of any experience can testify. Plato assumes that all dreams might be
trusted, if men would only bring their bodies into such a state,
before going to sleep, as to leave nothing that might occasion error or
perturbation in their dreams.
A young lady, a native of Ross-shire, in Scotland, who was devotedly
attached to an officer, with Sir John Moore in the Spanish war, became
alarmed at the constant danger to which her lover was exposed, until she
pined, and fell into ill health. Finally, one night in a dream, she saw
him pale, bloody, and wounded in the breast, enter her apartment. He
drew aside the curtains of the bed, and with a mild look, told her
he had been slain in battle, bidding her, at the same time, to be
comforted, and not take his death to heart.
The consequence of the dream was fatal to the poor girl, who died a few
days afterward, desiring her parents to note down the date of her dream,
which she was confident would be confirmed. It was so. The news shortly
after reached England that the officer had fallen at the battle of
Corunna, on the very day in the night of which his betrothed had beheld
the vision.
Another, a lady residing in Rome, dreamed that her mother, who had been
several years dead, appeared to her, gave her a lock of hair, and said,
“Be especially careful of this lock of hair, my child, for it is your
father's, and the angels will call him away from you to-morrow.”
The effect of the dream on her mind was such, that, when she awoke, she
experienced the greatest alarm, and caused a telegraphic notice to be
instantly dispatched to England, were her father was, to inquire after
his health. No immediate reply was received; but, when it did come, it
was to the effect that her father had died that morning at nine o'clock.
She afterwards learned, that, two days before his death, he had
caused to be cut off, a lock of his hair, and handed it to one of his
daughters, who was attending on him, telling her it was for her sister
in Rome.
Well authenticated cases might be multiplied till they filled volumes;
but the two we have cited, suffice to prove that in sleeping, as well
as in waking hours, our minds may receive impressions of truth, or,
that the spirit goes out to other scenes, and there takes cognizance of
events and conditions.
Dawn slept on; her beautiful white face was still and upturned, as
though gazing into the heavens. The excitement of the day had gone,
and the look of keen pleasure on her features was changed to one of
intensest emotion, for she was away, her spirit beside one whose life
seemed almost ebbing out of this state of existence. She saw his pale
features half hidden in the snowy pillows, the deep, soft eyes looking
as though in search of one they loved; and then she heard him call her
name, in tones touching and tender. She wept, and awoke. The sun was
shining brightly through the window. She arose, and dressed for her
departure, and, to the surprise of her friend, announced her intention
of leaving that morning for home.
“You are no more to be depended on than the rest of your sex, Miss
Wyman,” remarked Mr. Austin, who really enjoyed having her with them.
She was in no mood to reply in the same spirit, but said quietly:
“I have concluded not to tire you out completely this time, for I want
to come again.”
“I think your going must be the result of some very hasty conclusion,
Dawn. I had no intimation of it last evening. Really, unless you are
ill, you are quite unfair to leave us so soon.” Mrs. Austin having made
this remark, glanced for the first time at Dawn's white face. What had
come over her? Was it Dawn who sat there so still and white? “Are you
ill?” she asked, the tremor of her voice betraying her deep solicitude
for the welfare of her visitor.
“No; but anxious. I must go to-day, however, or I shall be sick, and on
your hands.”
“I'd a deal rather you should be on my hands, than weighing on my heart,
as you are now,” and Mrs. Austin expressed the hope, after her husband
had left, that she would confide to her the cause of her departure and
sudden appearance of illness.
“I have had an unpleasant dream,” said Dawn, when they were alone,
feeling that some explanation was due her friend, “and I must go home.”
“A dream! O, fie, I never mind them. Why, I once had a most frightful
one about Ned. He was away on a journey, and I dreamt that the boat
caught fire, and every one on board was lost. I even went so far as too
see a messenger coming to tell me of the disaster.”
“But had not your mind been agitated through the day?”
“Why, I had read of some dreadful disasters, to be sure, and then I
had retired at a late hour, after getting my mind wrought up about the
liabilities of danger, which, of course, accounted for it-but was your
dream about your father?”
“No.”
“Why must you go? Do you think any one is in danger? I think it was the
result of the long ride, don't you?
“I do not. My dream was purely impressional, and outside of the effect
of daily incidents. Yes, I must go, Fannie, and right away.”
“In that case I shall ride home with you,” and she rang for the man to
harness the horse.
Each busy with her own thoughts they rode in silence for a long
distance, a silence which was only broken by Dawn's exclamation of
pleasure, as they came in sight of her home.
The next day she sat beside the bed of Ralph, whose snow-white face and
attenuated form, showed how fast he was passing away.
He gazed long and tenderly into her face, as she sat there, their souls
holding their last earthly communion. His spirit was all aglow with
life, and trust, while the shadow of separation rested on her, and
dimmed her faith and vision.
“But for a little while, Dawn, and then we shall meet again; perhaps, to
be united.”
How the words entered her heart, for now, under the cloud, she felt, O
how keenly, that her state had hastened him home. His was the vine-like
nature that must cling to another, or die. It was all dark to her
then, and added to the pang of separation, was the thought of her cold
indifference. He, all gentleness and love, lie in rays of light; all her
vision and life had gone into him to help him over the river.
“And you do not dread to go, Ralph?” she said, her voice choking with
emotion.
“Fear? I only long to do so; to be there, where all is peace and rest;”
and the rapt, upturned gaze, confirmed his words.
“It will be always day there,” he continued; “none of these weary nights
which have been so long and lonely-”
“O, Ralph, live; live for me. I have been blind and wayward. O, come
back, and we will live for each other.”
“In my father's house are many mansions; I go to prepare a place for
you.”
The words sounded far, far away.
“Yes, we will live together above, not here. God has so ordered it, my
own Dawn. I shall be light, perhaps, to you, even in that far-off
land. Nay, 'tis not 'far'; 't is here. I shall dwell in your heart
close-close-closer than ever.”
He closed his eyes and rested for a few moments. Then, arousing, he
clasped her hands firmly, as though he would bear her away with him as
he took his heavenward flight.
“Look there,” he said, “the river! go close with me-for this is our last
moment. Dawn, I am yours; not even death can part us. I am not going;
I am coming closer than any earthly relation could bring me to you;
coming-call them.”
Parents and sister stood beside the bed with tearful eyes. To them he
was going far away.
Dawn saw not the death-dew on the marble brow, nor heeded the passing
breath. Another sight was given her, and while they stood so statue-like
with anguish, her eyes beheld a soft mist gather like snowflakes on the
head; and while the breath grew quick and short, this seemed to pulsate
with life, until a face was outlined there. That face the same, yet not
the same, but her own dear Ralph's, immortalized, set in a softer, finer
light. Her being pulsated with new joy. A tide of life seemed to have
flown into her heart, leaving no room for pain.
A moan struck on her ear; so sad that she started, and the vision fled.
“O, Ralph, my own loved boy; he's gone, he's gone,” burst from the
mother's sorrowing heart, as they bore her from the room.
Marion stood dumb with grief, while the poor stricken father bowed his
head and wept bitter tears for his lost son.
Had Dawn no grief, that she could stand there and look so calmly on?
What made her feel so indifferent to the dead form on which she gazed?
Because his life, the life that had once animated it, had passed into
hers, and they were one and united. Ralph, warm with life, was imaged in
her heart and mind. The clay he bore about him, that husk, had no claim
upon her being now, and with scarce a look at the body, she walked away.
“I think she could never have loved him, or she would not seem so cold,”
were the words that floated to her as she passed from the room where lay
all that was mortal of Ralph.
It was as near as she could expect to be understood here, in a world
where so much of her real self was hidden; but such words touched her
sensibilities none the less, notwithstanding her philosophy. They went
deep, like an arrow, into her heart, and then she knew that the house of
mourning was no place for her; that she must go, and to the world appear
cold and unfeeling, while her heart was ready to burst with its deep
emotion.
She left them, and they never knew how dearly she loved him, nor how
close his soul was linked with her own. They mourned him as dead, while
to her he became each hour a reality, a tangible, living presence, full
of tenderness and love.
Miss Weston met Dawn as she passed out of the house, with that look of
tender pity, which says, “I know you suffer.” In that look their souls
met and mounted to higher states. They could not speak, for the tears
which flowed over the graves of their dead; their sorrows made them one
and akin.
“You will return by to-morrow,” said Miss Weston, as she parted with
Dawn at the gate, supposing that she designed returning to be present at
the funeral.
“No, I cannot.”
“Why, Dawn! not follow dear Ralph to his grave?”
“I have no Ralph to bury. He is resurrected-gone higher.”
“But the family, they surely-”
“They will not miss me. I am not a part of their lives now. They do not
know me, nor do I know myself.”
Here trust, light, and vision left; the weakness of flesh uprose, and
she went down into the dark valley of grief.
She gave a parting pressure of the hand to her friend, and walked slowly
to the station. Alone; O, what relief do our tears give us, when no one
can see them flow. In that dim, summer twilight she walked. Fast fell
the tears over her cheeks. None but angels knew the sobs, the agony of
desolation which swept over her, and like a pall hung between herself
and heaven.
It was midnight when she arose from prayer, but morning to her soul.
Peace had come; the dove had returned with the olive branch; the waters
had gone down, and green banks shored the wild sea of sorrow.
She spent the day of the funeral ceremonies alone in the solitude of the
woods. Full of meaning now came to her these words of Christ: “Let the
dead bury their dead;” and this was her first personal realization of
the truth. Alone, yet not alone. That presence, unseen, but real, was
with her, soothing the harshness of sorrow, filling her heart with peace
and comfort. Just as the sun sank in clouds of sapphire and crimson, his
form stood, radiant, joyous, and life-like before her. It was no myth,
no hallucination of the mind. Close, within reach, yet she could not
touch him; he stood there, the same Ralph, with all the tenderness of
love on his beaming face which he bore in life. No loneliness came over
her as the vision faded slowly away; he seemed to dissolve and flow
into her heart. The soft twilight, the singing of birds, and charming
landscape, with the breath of summer floating on the air, came like
sweet accompaniments to the melody which was pulsing her being, and
giving her new strength and vigor for life.
She knew, that to her Ralph would each day be a sustaining power, and
give life a dual action. When weary of the outer, she could turn within
and find one conjoined by the holiest of ties unto her soul.
His life, too, was being unfolded through her, as it could never have
been on earth; and as years rolled on she saw how well and good it was
that he had passed on before her. There was more completeness to her
being than there could possibly have been, had they been united on earth
by the form of marriage.
When she emerged from the cloud, all this light transfused her being,
and she had no tears, because there was no separation.