Dawn by Mrs. Harriet A. Adams
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Mrs. Harriet A. Adams >> Dawn
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22 Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)
DAWN.
BOSTON:
LONDON:
1868.
DAWN.
CHAPTER I.
They sat together in the twilight conversing. Three years, with
their alternations of joy and grief had swept over their married
life, bringing their hearts into closer alliance, as each new
emotion thrilled and upheaved the buried life within.
That night their souls seemed attuned to a richer melody than ever
before; and as the twilight deepened, and one by one the stars
appeared, the blessed baptism of a heavenly calm descended and
rested upon their spirits.
"Then you think there are but very few harmonious marriages, Hugh?"
"My deep experience with human nature, and close observations of
life, have led me to that conclusion. Our own, and a few happy
exceptions beside, are but feeble offsets to the countless cases of
unhappy unions."
"Unhappy; why?" he continued, talking more to himself than to the
fair woman at his side; "people are only married fractionally, as a
great thinker has written; and knowing so little of themselves, how
can they know each other? The greatest strangers to each other whom
I have ever met, have been parties bound together by the marriage
laws!"
"But you would not sunder so holy a bond as that of marriage, Hugh?"
"I could not, and would not if I could. Whatever assimilates,
whether of mind or matter, can not be sundered. I would only destroy
false conditions, and build up in their places those of peace and
harmony. While I fully appreciate the marriage covenant, I sorrow
over the imperfect manhood which desecrates it. I question again and
again, why persons so dissimilar in tastes and habits, are brought
together; and then the question is partly, if not fully answered, by
the great truth of God's economy, which brings the lesser unto the
greater to receive, darkness unto light, that all may grow together.
I almost know by seeing one party, what the other is. Thus are the
weak and strong--not strength and might--coupled. Marriage should be a
help, and not a hindrance. In the present state of society, we are
too restricted to know what marriage is. Either one, or both of
those united, are selfish and narrow, allowing no conditions in
which each may grow."
"Do I limit you, Hugh?"
"No, dearest, no; I never meant it should be so, either. When I gave
you my love, I did not surrender my individual life and right of
action. All of my being which you can appropriate to yourself is
yours; you can take no more. What I take from you, is your love and
sympathy. I cannot exhaust or receive you wholly."
"But I give you all of myself."
"Yet I can only take what I can absorb or receive into my being. The
qualities of a human soul are too mighty to be absorbed by any one."
"What matters it if I am content in your love that I wish for none
other?"
"I have often feared, dear Alice, that your individual life was lost
in your love for me."
"What matters it, if you give me yourself in return?"
"It matters much. If we are not strong for ourselves, we are not
strength to each other. If we have no reserve force, we shall in
time consume each other's life. We can never be wholly another's."
"Am I not wholly yours, dear Hugh?" she said, raising her eyes
tenderly to his, in that summer twilight.
"Not all mine, but all that I can receive."
"It may be true, but it seems cold to me," she replied, a little
sadly.
"Too much philosophy and not enough love for your tender woman
nature, is it not, darling?"
"I think you have explained it. I feel as though you were drifting
away from me, Hugh, when you talk as you do to-night. Although I
dearly love progress and enlarged views of life, I do not like many
of the questions that are being agitated in reference to marriage."
"Because you do not take comprehensive views of the matter. I can, I
think, set you clear on the whole subject, and divorce from your
mind the thought that liberty is license. Liberty, in its full, true
meaning, is the pure action of a true manhood, in obedience to the
laws of the individual. For a simple illustration, look at our
neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Danforth. She, as you well know, is an
ambitious woman; smart, and rather above the majority of her
neighbors, intellectually, but not spiritually. Her husband is a
kind-hearted man, content to fill an ordinary station in life, but
spiritually far her superior. His nature is rich in affection; her
nature is cold and intellectual. He knows nothing of other woman's
views, consequently has no standard by which to form an estimate of
those of his wife. If she was wise, as well as sharp, she would see
that she is standing in her own light; for the man whom she wishes
to look upon her, and her only, will soon be a pure negation, a mere
machine, an echo of her own jealousy and selfish pride. Now,
freedom, or his liberty, would give him the right to mingle and
converse with other women; then he would know what his wife was to
him, while he would retain himself and give to her his manhood,
instead of the mere return of her own self. At present he dare not
utter a word to which she does not fully subscribe. She talks of his
'love' for her; it should be his 'servility.' They live in too close
relation to be all they might to each other. I have heard her
proudly assert, that he never spent an evening from home! I think
they are both to be pitied; but, am I making the subject of freedom
in any degree clear to your mind, my patient wife?"
"Yes, I begin to see that it is higher and nobler to be free, and
far purer than I supposed."
"Yes, dear one," he said, drawing her close to his heart, "we must
at times go from what we most tenderly love, in order to be drawn
closer. The closest links are those which do not bind at all. It is
a great mistake to keep the marriage tie so binding, and to force
upon society such a dearth of social life as we see around us daily.
Give men and women liberty to enjoy themselves on high social
planes, and we shall not have the debasing things which are
occurring daily, and are constantly on the increase. If I should
take a lady of culture and refinement to a concert, a lecture, or to
a theatre, would not society lift up its hands in holy horror, and
scandal-mongers go from house to house? If men and women come not
together on high planes, they will meet on debasing ones. Give us
more liberty, and we shall have more purity. I speak these words not
impulsively; they are the result of long thinking, and were they my
last, I would as strongly and as fearlessly utter them."
"I feel myself growing in thought, to-night, Hugh, and O, how proud
I feel that the little being who is soon to claim our love, if all
is well, will come into at least some knowledge of these things."
In a few weeks she expected to become a mother, and was looking
hopefully forward to the event, as all women do, or should, who have
pleasant homes and worthy husbands.
"I, too, am glad that we can give it the benefit of our experience,
and shall be proud to welcome into the world a legitimate child."
"Why, Hugh! what do you mean? All children are legitimate, are they
not, that are born in wedlock?"
"Very far from it. In very many cases they are wholly illegitimate."
His wife looked eagerly for an explanation.
"All persons who are not living in harmony and love, are bringing
into the world illegitimate offspring. Children should be born
because they are wanted. A welcome should greet every new-born
child, and yet a mere physical relation is all that exists between
thousands of parents and children, while thousands who have not
given physical birth are more fitted by qualities of heart and soul
to be the parents of these spiritual orphans than the blood
relations, who claim them as their own. I often think that many in
the other life will find, even though they may have had no offspring
in this, that they have children by the ties of soul and
heart-affinity, which constitutes after all the only relationship
that is immortal."
Ten days after the above conversation, the eventful period came. All
night she lingered in pain, and at daybreak a bright and beautiful
daughter was laid at her side. But, alas! life here was not for her.
Mother and babe were about to be separated, for the fast receding
pulse told plainly to the watchful physician that her days were
numbered. Her anguished husband read it in the hopeless features of
the doctor, and leaning over the dear one he loved so well, be
caught from her these last words,--
"Call her DAWN! for is she not a coming light to you? See, the day
is breaking, Hugh,"--then the lips closed forever.
"Come back, come back to me, my loved, my darling one," broke from
the anguished heart of the stricken husband, and falling on his
knees beside the now lifeless form, he buried his face in his hands,
and wept.
But even grief cannot always have its sway.
A low, wailing cry from the infant moved his heart with a strange
thrill, he knew not whether of joy or pain, and rising from the
posture in which grief had thrown him, he went and bowed himself
over the silent form.
One gone, another come.
But the little being had her life in its veins, and slowly he felt
himself drawn earthward by this new claim upon his love and
sympathy.
A strange feeling came over him as the nurse took the little child,
and laid upon the bed the robes its mother had prepared for it.
It was too much, and the heart-stricken man left the room, and
locking himself in his library, where he had spent so many happy
hours with his lost one, gave full vent to the deep anguish of his
soul. He heard the kind physician's steps as he left, and no more.
For hours he sat bowed in grief, and silent, while sorrow's bitter
waters surged over him.
No more would her sweet smile light his home; no more her voice call
his name in those tender tones, that had so often been music to his
ears; no more could they walk or sit in the moonlight and converse.
Was it really true? Had Alice gone, or was it not all a troubled
dream?
Noon came, and his brow became more fevered. But there was no soft
hand to soothe the pain away. Night came, and still he sat and
mourned; and then the sound of voices reached his ears. He roused
himself to meet the friends and relations of his dear departed one,
and then all seemed vague, indefinite and dreamlike.
The funeral rites, the burial, the falling earth upon the coffin
lid; these all passed before him, then like one in a stupor he went
back to his home, and took up the broken threads of life again, and
learned to live and smile for his bright-eyed, beautiful Dawn. May
she be Dawn to the world, he said unto himself, as he looked into
her heaven-blue eyes; then thanked God that his life was spared to
guide her over life's rough seas, and each day brought fresh
inspirations of hope, new aspirations of strength, and more
confiding trust in Him whose ways are not as our ways.
CHAPTER II.
Dawn grew to be very beautiful. Every day revealed some new charm,
until Hugh feared she too might go and live with the angels. But
there was a mission for her to perform on the earth, and she lived.
Each day he talked to her of her mother, and kept her memory alive
to her beautiful traits, until the child grew so familiar with her
being as to know no loss of her bodily presence, save in temporal
affairs.
A faithful and efficient woman kept their house, and cared for
Dawn's physical wants; her father attending to her needs, both
mental and spiritual, until she reached the age of seven, when a
change in his business required him to be so often away from home,
that he advertised for a governess to superintend her studies and
her daily deportment.
"What was mamma like?" asked Dawn of her father one evening as they
sat in the moonlight together, "was she like the twilight?"
He turned upon the child with admiration, for to him nothing in
nature could better be likened unto his lost and lovely Alice.
"Yes, darling," he said, kissing her again and again, "mamma was
just like the twilight--sweet, tender, and soothing."
"Then I am not at all like mamma?" she remarked, a little sadly.
"And why?"
"Because I am strong and full of life. I always feel as though it
was just daylight. I never feel tired, papa, I only feel hushed."
"Heaven grant my daughter may never be weary," he said, and stooped
to kiss her, while he brushed away a tear which started as he did
so.
"I shall never be weary while I have you, papa. You will never leave
me, will you?"
"I hope to be spared many years to guard and love my charge."
A few days after, Dawn was surprised to find the governess, of whom
her father had spoken, in the library, and her father with his
carpet-bag packed, ready for a journey.
Am I not going too, papa?" she said, turning on him her face, as
though her heart was ready to burst with grief. It was their first
parting, and equally hard for parent and child.
"Not this time, darling, but in the summer we shall go to the
sea-shore and the mountains, and take Miss Vernon with us. Come,
this is your teacher, Dawn; I want you to be very good and obedient
while I am away," and then, looking at his watch, he bade them both
adieu.
He knew the child was weeping bitterly. All the way to the cars, and
on the journey through that long, sunny day, he felt her calling him
back. There could be no real separation between them, and it was
painful to part, and keep both so drawn and attenuated in spirit.
In vain Miss Vernon exerted herself to make the child happy. It was
of no use. Her delicate organism had received its first shock; but
in due time her spirit broke through the clouds in its native
brilliancy, and there was no lingering shadow left on her sky. Dawn
was as bright and smiling as she had been sad and dispirited.
"I will gather some wild flowers and make the room all bright and
lovely for papa," she said, and in a moment was far away.
"It's no use training her, you see, Miss," the good housekeeper
asserted, as a sort of an apology for the child, whom she loved
almost to idolatry, "might as well try to trap the sunlight or catch
moonbeams. She'll have her way, and, somehow to me, her way seems
always right. Will you please step out to tea, Miss, and then I will
go and look after her; or, if you like, you can follow that little
path that leads from the garden gate to the hill where she has gone
for her flowers."
Miss Vernon was glad to go; and after a light supper, was on her
way, almost fearful that the child might consider her an intruder,
for she instinctively felt that she must work her way into the
affections of her new charge.
She followed the path to the hill, and after walking for some time
and not finding Dawn, was about to retrace her steps, when she heard
a low, sweet voice, chanting an evening hymn. She sat upon a bed of
grey moss until the chanting ceased, and then went in the direction
from which the sound came.
There sat Dawn, with eyes uplifted, lips parted as though in
conversation, and features glowing with intensest emotion. Then the
eyes dropped, and her little hands were pressed to her heart, as
though the effort had been too great.
Slowly Miss Vernon stepped towards her. Dawn caught her eye, and
motioned her to come nearer.
"Are you not lonely here, child?" she asked.
"Lonely? O, no. I am not alone, Miss Vernon, God is here, and I am
so full I sing, or I should die. Did you hear me?"
"I did. Who taught you that beautiful chant?"
"No one; it grew in me; just as the flowers grow on the plants."
"I have an instructor here, and one I shall find more interesting
than tractable," mused the governess, as she looked upon the child.
But Dawn was not learned in one day, as she afterwards found.
The sun sank behind the hills just as they entered the garden
together. Dawn missed her father too much to be quite up to her
usual point of life, and she went and laid herself down upon a couch
in the library, and chatted away the hour before her bedtime. She
missed him more than she could tell; and then she thought to
herself, "Who can I tell how much I miss my father?"
"Did you ever have any body you loved go away, Miss Vernon?" she at
last ventured to ask, and her voice told what she suffered.
"I have no near friends living, dear child."
"What! did they all die? Only my mamma is dead; but I don't miss
her; I think she must be in the air, I feel her so. Have n't you any
father, Miss Vernon?"
"No. He died when I was quite young, and then my mother, and before
I came here I buried my last near relative-an aunt."
"But aunts don't know us, do they?"
"Why not? I don't quite understand you," she said, wishing to bring
the child out.
"Why, they don't feel our souls. I have got aunts and cousins, but
they seem away off, O, so far. They live here, but I don't feel
them; and they make me, O, so tired. They never say anything that
makes me thrill all over as papa does. Don't you see now what I
mean?"
"Yes, I see. Will you tell me after I have been here awhile, if I
make you tired?"
"I need not tell you in words. You will see me get tired."
"Very good. I hope I shall not weary you."
"I can tell by to-morrow, and if I do look tired you will go, won't
you?"
"Certainly; and for fear I may weary you now, I will retire, if you
will promise to go too."
She yielded willingly to Miss Vernon's wish, and was led to her
room, where the sensitive, pure being was soon at rest.
It seemed almost too early for any one to be stirring, when Miss
Vernon heard a little tap on her door, and the next moment beheld a
childish face peeping in.
"May I come?"
"Certainly. I hope you have had pleasant dreams, Dawn. Can you tell
me why they gave you such a strange name?"
"Strange? Why I am Dawn, that is the reason; and mamma was Twilight,
only her mother did n't give her the right name."
"Have you slept well?"
"I did n't know anything till I woke up. Was that sleeping well?"
"I think it was. Now will you tell me at what hour you have
breakfast, that I may prepare myself in season?"
"When papa is at home, at eight o'clock. This morning I am going to
see Bessie, the new calf, and Minnie Day's kittens, and Percy
Willard's new pony, so Aunt Sue says she can have breakfast any
time."
Miss Vernon upon this concluded that she need make no hasty toilet,
and sank back upon her pillow to think awhile of her new
surroundings.
Breakfast waited, but no Dawn appeared. Aunt Sue, fearing that the
toast and coffee might be spoiled, rang for Miss Vernon.
At eleven Dawn came in with soiled clothes and wet feet.
"O, Aunty, the pony was so wild, and the kittens so cunning, I could
n't come before."
"And see your clothes, Dawn. I must work very hard to-day to wash
and dry them. Now go to your room and change them all, and try to
remember others when you are in your enjoyments, won't you?"
"Yes, and I won't soil them again, auntie."
"Until the next time, I fear," said the kind housekeeper, who was,
perhaps, too forgiving with the strange, wild child.
The next day Dawn was filled with delight at her father's return. He
came early in the morning, and found his pet awake and watching for
his approach.
"O, papa, such a dream, a real dream, as I had last night. Sit right
here by the window, please, while I tell it to you."
"Perhaps your dream will be so real that we shall not want anything
more substantial for breakfast."
"O, it's better than food, papa."
"Well, go on, my pet."
"I was thinking how glad I should be to see my papa, when I went to
sleep and had this beautiful dream:--
"I was walking in a garden all full of flowers and vines, when I saw
my mother coming towards me, with something upon her arm. She came
close, and then I saw it was a robe, O, such a white robe, whiter
than snow. She put it on me, and it was too long. I asked if it was
for me why it was so long. 'You will grow,' she said, 'tall and
beautiful, and need the long garment.' Then she led the way, and
motioned me to follow. She led me down a dismal lane, and into a
damp, dreadful place, where the streets were all mud and dirt. 'O,
my dress,' I said, 'my pure white robe.' 'No dust and dirt can stain
it,' she replied, 'walk through that dark street and see.' I went,
and looked back at each step, but my pure white robe was not soiled,
and when I returned to her, it was as spotless as ever. Was it not a
lovely dream, and what does it mean, papa?"
"A lesson too deep for your childhood to comprehend, and yet I will
some day tell you. But here comes Miss Vernon, and the bell has rung
for breakfast."
CHAPTER III.
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,--
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