Mrs. Austin left the next day, and the soul-united trio were alone. Only
those who know the value of fresh minds and blending qualities of heart
and spirit, can realize how much they enjoyed together. To Dawn, Basil
seemed new and old,--old in acquaintance, as we ever find those who
have pursued the same current of thought; new in the power of presenting
truth to her mind, in fresh combination and coloring. He had all the
delicacy of Ralph, with more mental vigor, and broader experiences.
His sister, Dawn learned to love better every day, as she witnessed the
exercise of her varied powers, all working in harmony, and rounding her
life into completeness.
“I could live here forever,” she exclaimed, one morning, when nature was
sparkling with diamond drops of dew, and singing her morning praises.
“Then stay forever,” said a voice, deep and musical, at her side. “Why
not stay forever? for we should stay where we live the most,” said
Basil, laying his hand on her head. “I suppose, however, the 'forever'
meant, so long as your life here is replete with enjoyment, did it not?”
“Yes, I suppose that is our definition of 'forever,' and as it is a
portion of it, we may properly call it thus.”
“Then see that you stay your 'forever,' and make us happy in so doing,”
and his earnest eyes fastening their gaze on hers, told how dearly he
loved to have her there.
The bell rang for breakfast, and the little party brought bright faces
and fresh thoughts to the meal.
“Would you like to sail upon the pond, to-day?” inquired Miss Bernard of
Dawn.
“Nothing better, if there are lilies we can gather.”
“There is a plenty, so we shall go. You will see my brother in a new
phase to-day, Miss Wyman, for nothing calls forth the sweetness of his
nature like sailing.”
“I should advise one to go often, if it had that effect,” said Dawn
scarce daring to lift her eyes.
“I cannot afford to be exercised that way often,” he answered, looking,
it seemed to her, almost stern.
“Why?” inquired his sister, laughing.
“Because it so completely exhausts me to be called out into a high,
spiritual state too often.”
“You speak of conditions as compartments, brother. May we not blend the
whole, into one perfect state?”
“We may harmonize and unite, but each distinct faculty must forever
have a separate action, like the functions of the human body, perfect in
parts, to make a perfect whole.”
“I perceive your meaning, yet it does not attenuate me, at least I do
not feel that it does, when the spiritual and affectional parts of my
nature are exercised.”
“One reason is because your balancing power is greater than mine;
another, there is more spiritual elasticity in women than in men. Women
rebound in a breath; men take a more circuitous route.”
“You have explained yourself very well, yet we hope to see you to-day in
your best mood.”
“My companions would draw me into that state. When will you both be
ready?” he asked, rising.
“At nine o'clock.”
“Then be at the lower garden gate at that hour.” Having give this
direction, Basil went to give some orders for the day, while Dawn and
Beatrice dressed themselves for the sail.
“Wear something which you do not fear to soil, Miss Wyman; and have you
a broad-brimmed hat to protect you from the sun?”
“I have. It is one of the staple articles of my wardrobe. I never go
from home without it.”
They were soon ready, and found Basil at the gate at the appointed hour.
The lake lay calm and clear in its woodland setting. They glided
for miles over its smooth surface, and each felt the other's need of
silence. A gentle breeze just stirred the waters into ripples, breaking
the stillness of the hour.
“The correspondence of speech,” said Basil, giving the boat a sudden
turn, and displaying some drooping willows on the shore which were
duplicating their graceful branches in the clear waters.
“When we are passive, do not they of the upper world thus throw their
image upon our minds?” he said, looking earnestly on the reflection of
the branches.
Dawn thrilled at the beautiful analogy, and thought of one unseen who
might be, perhaps, at that time, enjoying the outer world through her
tranquil state, if not through her senses.
“I sailed once on this lake with Ralph. It was such a day as this,” said
Basil. “O, how he enjoyed it. He loved the water, everything from brook
to ocean.”
“I wonder if he is near us to day?” said Miss Bernard.
Dawn wept. Her spirit was full of love and harmony, and the tears gushed
forth like waters leaping from joyous cascades. They were not tears of
sorrow or of loneliness, but crystal drops of emotion.
“There are harmonists whose fingers,
From the pulses of the air,
Call out melody that lingers
All along the golden stair
Of the spiral that ascendeth
To the paradise on high,
And arising there emblendeth
With the music of the sky.”
And there they were lifted, and dwelt.
“We are approaching the lilies now,” said Basil, feeling that he must
break the deep spiritual atmosphere into which they were all passing.
“We must keep on the earth-side a little longer,” he said, playfully.
“Long enough to gather some of these beautiful lilies at least,” said
his sister, as she gazed lovingly into his deep, tender eyes.
He swung the boat round, and gathering a handful, threw them at the feet
of Dawn.
“I will twine you a garland,” said Beatrice, taking some of the lilies
and weaving their long stems together.
“No, no. There are but few who can wear lilies alone, Miss Bernard. Some
may wear them, but not I.”
“You are not the best judge, perhaps, as to what becomes your spiritual
and physical nature,” said Basil.
“I know my states, and that lilies are not suited to my present
condition,” answered Dawn.
“Since you will not be crowned, Miss Wyman, will you please pass that
basket? I think we all need to descend into more normal conditions; we
are too sublimated.” Following this suggestion he allowed the boat
to float without guidance, while they partook of the delicate yet
substantial repast.
The evening carnation tinged the clouds about the setting sun as they
sailed homeward, gathering lilies on their way. The bells from a village
near by were ringing, and the sound came distinctly over the water,
musical and sweet to the ear.
“Do you remember the passage in Pilgrim's Progress, where the bells in
heaven were ringing, over the river?” said Beatrice to them both.
“I do,” said Dawn, earnestly. “O, that we all were across that river.
When shall we be there?”
“I suppose when our usefulness is most needed here,” said Basil, in a
tone which caused them both to start.
“Why, brother?”
“Because that seems to be the law of life. All men and women go when
most needed here; as the rose dies when its tinge is brightest, its
blossom fullest.”
“And that is our time,” said Dawn.
“And God's,” he answered.
Dawn found on her dressing table that night a garland of lilies and red
roses.
“Passion and purity,” she said. “O, this will do for human heads.” She
laid long that night wondering whether Basil or his sister twined it. It
did not seem like Beatrice, and yet she scarce thought he would do it.
It lay between them, however, and pondering on that, and the day's keen
enjoyment, she fell asleep, nor woke till morn.
Miss Bernard was very busy that day from necessity, she said, and partly
to balance the state of the day previous.
“I shall want your company this afternoon for a drive,” she said to
Dawn; “this morning the library, piano and garden are at your disposal,
to use at your pleasure. I have domestic duties to perform, and hope you
will make yourself as comfortable as possible.”
So little time, and so much to enjoy. First, Dawn went into the garden
and gathered some flowers for the library; then she played an hour,
she thought, but it proved to be two, on looking at the clock, and the
remainder of the morning was passed with books. The bell rang for dinner
long before she thought it could be time, so quickly and pleasantly had
the hours passed away.
After dinner and a little rest, they started on their drive.
“I am going to take you to a little village, or cluster of houses, to
see how its peculiar atmosphere affects you,” remarked Miss Bernard.
After a pleasant drive through shaded streets and roads, they came in
sight of a church spire, then a few cottages here and there, and were
soon in the centre of the village, when Miss Bernard looked inquiringly
to her guest.
“How frigid and cold it seems here. Why, there is such a desolate,
unsocial feeling I should not live out half my days if I had to remain
in such a place. Have I indicated its peculiarity?”
“Perfectly.”
“But what is the cause of it? Surely the scenery, so lovely and calm,
ought to inspire the deepest sentiments of social life in the hearts of
the inhabitants.”
“One cause is too much wealth; another, too few people. The place
needs the addition of two or three hundred families to give it life
and impetus. Each family now here has settled into itself, and grown
conventional and rusty. Most of the people have considerable mental
ability, but lock and bar their souls and hearts so closely that their
better feelings cannot flow at all, nor find their legitimate sphere
of action. They are all nice, quiet people, read a good deal, adopt
theories and fine drawn sentiments in profession, but never make them of
any use to themselves or others. They have considerable mental sympathy,
but none of heart and soul. They seem to live by rule. No spontaneous
outgushes of their nature are ever seen, for they have dropped into a
kind of polite externalism, and lost all the warm magnetic currents of
life.”
“But are there not a few exceptions?”
“A very few, but the cold is so severe that it soon freezes out their
warm life, and the good that they would do is put far from their reach.
They are a very pious, church-going people, and invariably as a
class, look upon all forms of entertainment, such as assemblies and
theatricals, as out of order, and sinful. Of course the young people
grow old long before their time, and leave the place, and you know
that one of the saddest sights on earth is a little village deserted
of youth. All this might be remedied by an infusion of a strong social
force; but, one or two families who have lived very different lives, and
have taken up their abode in it, can do but little towards so desirable
a change. The little hall which we are now passing should have a series
of assemblies each winter, concerts, private theatricals, meetings for
conversation, and the like, in which all, free of caste limitation,
might take part. Now it is seldom lighted with gay and joyous faces. The
young have no spirited life, consequently the old have none; for it's
the merry beating of their hearts, and happy faces which enkindles and
rejuvenates the joys of their elders. Everything joyous is looked upon
as innovation, and frowned down. Those who reach out for a little more
life, become frost-bitten, and gladly retire within themselves. I have
given you a sad picture, I know, but it's true, not only of this but of
many places.”
“It is sad, indeed, because 't is true.”
“Notice this little vine-clad cottage, which we are approaching,” said
Miss Bernard.
“It's a lovely spot; I hope the people are adapted to it.”
“They are not, or, rather, are not suited to their conditions. It is
occupied by two maiden ladies, who do not know how to live and get the
most out of life, and each other. They live too close, too enwrapped
within themselves. They should have separate interests, or occupations;
but instead of that, they live in each other's atmosphere every day, go
together and return together, see the same people at the same time, when
their interviews should be varied, and each at times alone. Thus their
magnetisms have become so interblended, that one has nothing to give the
other. Now, Miss Wyman, after such mutual exhaustion, what can they have
for each other?”
“Nothing but exhaustion; and how many live in the same way, plodding
through life, growing old before their time, losing power, or magnetism,
which is power, every day. Such persons close their eyes to any light
one might throw upon their path, and I see no way, but for all such to
remain where they are. It is lamentably true that comparatively few of
the inhabitants of earth are growing people; most of them are content
with a slow, dull routine of daily life. I'd rather see persons full of
zeal and purpose, even though their impulsive nature might lead them to
commit many mistakes, rather than one whose life seems purposeless.”
“So had I. Motion is life; and in that motion we do many things which we
afterwards regret, yet find them to have been the legitimate results of
life; so I suppose we should not regret anything.”
“Nothing which has occurred outside or independent of our will or
design.”
“It is hard to tell where our own will commences to act; is it not, Miss
Bernard?”
“I sometimes question whether we can; yet in order for our lives to be
individualized there must be some point where we lay aside our personal
will, disengage it, as it were, from the causes or outside forces, which
seem to be ever propelling us.”
“What do you consider the most quiescent state of the soul?”
“That state in which the mind clearly perceives it could not have
afforded to have dispensed with one personal experience, least of all,
with one sorrow which formed a part of that experience.”
“How few can subscribe to that, save in theory, yet I know by the few
years of my own life, that I could not lose one of my experiences, least
of all, those that deepened the mind; or gave me higher, broader views
of life. I hope I shall live many years, Miss Bernard, for the more we
know of this life, the better prepared shall we be to live and enjoy the
other.”
“They are so interwoven that one must really know both well in order to
act and live well in either.”
“Have you ever seen with your interior perceptions the conditions of
mortals who have passed beyond the vale? I have felt their states, but
have never seen them. I think you also have, for I have heard from your
friend, Miss Wyman, of your wondrous power to see at times, those
who have thrown aside the mortal. I should be deeply interested in a
relation of any of your experiences at some future time when you feel
inclined to give them; for my faith in the ability of spirits to return
to earth, and influence us, is as deep and strong as my trust in God.”
“In some quiet hour, I will tell you many of my personal experiences.
It is a strange, dual life I live, and sometimes I feel myself in such
mixed states, that I scarcely know my mooring, if, indeed, I have any.”
“Some do not, I think.”
“I am one, then, of that class; I seem to belong everywhere, and to
everybody.”
“I am quite certain of two, to whom you belong-myself and brother-but
here we are in sight of home, and Basil is waiting for us on the
piazza.”
“It is pleasant to have a brother like yours, and to me to look upon the
relation you bear to each other, for usually the relation of brother and
sister is so ordinary and means so little.”
“He is a noble man and brother, and has done much toward developing
my spirit. I want you to know him well, and learn what a friend and
companion he can be to woman.”
At that moment they wound around the drive, and he came to meet them,
his face full of kindness and affection, greeting his sister as though
she had been gone weeks, instead of hours only; and bestowing a look
of generous hospitality upon Dawn, whose thoughts seemed to grow richer
every moment in his presence.