DAWN OF THE MORNING

CHAPTER XIII

There were no pleasant memories about the room Dawn occupied for her to look about upon for the last time, and bid good-by. Long ago Mrs. Van Rensselaer had cleared away every trace of her predecessor, by remodelling all the rooms, and taking for her own the large, sunny one which had been occupied by the child. If there had been memories left after the overhauling, they would have been made hateful by the new occupant. Dawn had been away from home so long that during this brief stay she had been given a guest-room, and now she turned from it without a glance, if anything, to get away from the place that had witnessed her deepest grief.

She would have liked to run down into the old garden and get one more glimpse of her woods, the ravine, the old mill, and the moss-covered dam, with the babbling brook in the distance, but that of course would be thought unpardonable; so she walked quietly downstairs, turning over in her mind the comfort it was that during the journey she was not to be entirely alone with the man she had married. She did not know where she was going. She had not cared to inquire which of several houses he had told her about had finally been purchased. She was going with him as any thoughtless child might have gone.

If only the step-mother had let what conscience she had guide her, and had told the girl the truth, many things might have been different. If allowed to hear the earnest profession of love from Charles Winthrop's lips, Dawn would undoubtedly have gone to him gladly, out of the shadow of horror that seemed about to engulf her. A sweet memory of her wedding morning would have been saved to her, and she would have been spared much pain. The step-mother might have kept her contented conscience, too, to the end of her days, and not been tormented with the thought that she had veered from the righteous path.

But Dawn did not know, and went down the stairs with a heavy heart, looking for only a brief alleviation of her trouble. She determined that she would not look at her husband, if possible, until this stranger was gone.

The little bustle of departure was over at last. They put her into the carriage, and still Harrington Winthrop had not appeared. She began to feel her heart beating wildly at the thought that he would soon be coming to sit beside her. Some one standing on the piazza asked where Mr. Winthrop had gone, and some one else said that his mother had sent for him, that she was conscious again and had wished to see him before he left. Dawn thought they were speaking of Harrington. She wished his mother would keep him a long time, and then it occurred to her that the train would go, and the young man with it probably, and she would be left, after all, to take the journey alone with her husband. Of course it would have to be alone with him sooner or later, for the rest of her life, but oh, how she dreaded it!

Then, to her inexpressible relief, Charles came rushing down the stairs, and some one called out a question about his father:

"Is not Mr. Winthrop going to be able to get away just to the station?"

Dawn again thought they were speaking of Harrington.

"Yes," said Charles; "he will be down in a moment. He told me to drive on, and he would come in our carriage, which is here, you know."

With that, he jumped into the seat beside Dawn, the servant fastened the carriage door, and the horses started on their way down the curving carriage drive and out through the great gate, with its two white balls on the tops of the white pillars.

Dawn could scarcely believe it true that she was going to the station without Harrington. His mother must be very ill indeed, poor lady! Was it wrong to be glad, she wondered, because it gave her another reprieve, brief though it might be?

She had tucked the spray of roses into the bosom of her travelling frock—a dark green silk, plaided with bars of black, and a little black silk mantilla, which made her feel quite grown-up, and which, Mrs. Van Rensselaer had been assured by the New York merchants, was the very latest thing for brides. A great, wide poke-bonnet of white chip, trimmed with dark green ribbons and a modest plume to match, framed her sweet face, and helped to hide its shyness as she sat tremblingly happy at her escape. Her hands, in pretty gray kid gloves, lay meekly folded in her lap. Nothing about her demure manner told of the tumult of emotions in her heart.

Beside her sat a friend—she knew that by the light in his eyes. Before her was a brief ride to the inn where the train stopped. It would last but a few minutes, and during that time she would like to say something, to have him say something, anything, just to feel the pleasant comradeship which she had seen in his eyes, that she might remember him always, her one friend. But her tongue was tied, and her eyes could not raise themselves to look upon his face any more than if he had been the dreaded husband.

Charles was kept busy for a minute or two, bowing to the guests who had lined themselves up along the driveway to see the couple depart. Dawn glanced shyly at them from her lowered lids, and smiled now and then as she recognized a relative or the kindly face of an old servant. Then the carriage passed out into the street, while her companion sat back very close to her, as if she needed him, and, reaching over, took one of her little cold hands in his strong, warm one. It brought comfort and a thrill of joy. Dawn did not stop to question if he had a right, or if she were doing wrong to allow such familiarity in a stranger, with her, a married woman, and belonging to another man. Such questions had not been brought up for her consideration, though she had a few fixed little principles of her own, sweet and fine and natural. But now she thought only on her great need, and how this strong hand met it. She longed to turn and fling her tired head upon his big, high shoulder and weep out her sorrow.

She did not do so, of course, but sat quietly with her hand enfolded in his for a moment, and dared to lift her sweet eyes to his. Then, without any warning, the tears, which had been repressed so long she had forgotten any danger from them, sprang into her eyes.

He thought her heart was tender with memories of the home she was leaving, and perhaps, he thought jealously, she was sighing for her false fiancé; but with a lover's true impulse, and in spite of the village street through which they were passing—although it happily chanced that this was a quiet part—he bent and kissed her.

An old lady out among her flowers in the front yard saw them, and nodded to herself: "Bless their dear hearts! May they always be so happy!" and brushed away a tear as she thought of a grave upon a hillside, and a day far agone when her own hopes were put beneath the ground.

It was a very short drive. Almost immediately after they had passed the old lady's house, they turned a corner which brought them into the liveliest part of the town, where people were stretching their necks to watch them, and all was stir and bustle. Only a few rods away stood the inn, with the railroad tracks gleaming in the distance. People were already gathering to watch for the incoming train; and some few to go a journey, though there were not so many travellers in those days.

With his kiss upon her lips and a tumult of strange joy in her heart, Dawn was handed from the carriage to the platform. Then her heart stood still with fear again, as she remembered who was to come in the other carriage, soon after them.

A part of the company had started on foot for the station, among them Betty Winthrop, and they now came trooping up around the bride and groom, with laughing talk of slippers and rice which they had reserved for the novelty of throwing at a train instead of a carriage.

Dawn was surrounded and taken possession of. She had no further opportunity to wonder, or to think, or to fear. But over her there hovered a sense of calamity, for with that kiss had come a consciousness that she was not being loyal to her own ideals of what a wife should be, and it troubled her more than had all her fears. Nevertheless, it had been sweet, and she kept trying to cast it aside with the thought that it was over forever now and she would have no further cause to err in this way again. Perhaps the kiss was sent to comfort her on the dreary way she had yet to go.

The other carriage drove up at last. It had been a long time coming, for Madam Winthrop had returned to consciousness only to fall from one fit of weeping into another, and then to blame the unfortunate girl, whom she called "that little scheming hussy," declaring that "she wasn't satisfied with leading astray a man of integrity like Harrington, but when she found it was impossible to make him swerve from his duty she had worked upon Charles's tender heart and made him marry her out of pity."

She was scarcely to blame, poor lady, for her nerves had been on a continual strain for many hours, and when one took into account her extraordinary love for the son who had left her when but a boy, and whose faults she had entirely overlooked, it was not strange. But it was hard on her son Charles, and on her devoted husband, whose love for her was deep, yet whose desire to make everybody else happy and comfortable was also great. It had been a trial to him, indeed, that she should behave in this unseemly way in the house of his friend. He had found it useless to talk with her or to try to pacify her, so at last he left her with his sister until she should grow calm, and hastened in the carriage to see the bridal couple off. It had been arranged that Charles should bring his young wife home for the present until further arrangements for their new life could be made.

Dawn's heart bounded with excitement when she saw that no one was sitting in the carriage but the elder Mr. Winthrop. She did not know whether to be glad or sorry. If he did not come in time for the train, perhaps her new friend would go on without them, and yet, after what had happened, perhaps it was right that he should. But her heart sank at the thought, and involuntarily she lifted her eyes to drink in the strong, handsome outlines of his face.

Charles Winthrop turned instantly and met the gaze of his wife with a look of such deep love, reverence, and tender care that it sent the color rushing to her cheeks, and the blood bounding through her heart. It seemed almost as if she were again on the point of tears, so many emotions had followed one another through her weary soul that morning; but just then there came a distant rumble, and they said the train was coming. Everybody rushed at Dawn at once and kissed her. Betty fairly smothered her, saying: "Oh, you dear, dear, dear! I shall have you to-night at home!"

Then they hurried her to a seat in the railway carriage, and Charles sat down beside her. Nobody seemed to think it strange that he had done so, and nobody said it was too bad her husband was detained. They did not even seem to be looking for him, and wondering why he was not there. Dawn was bewildered and fairly held her breath, wondering if it could be possible that she was to start off on her wedding journey without the bridegroom. Though, she had not been to many weddings, she knew enough to feel that her situation was a strange one. The only explanation she could think of was that his mother had been so ill that he had to remain with her for a time, and would come later and explain. But even then it made her heart sink to think that he should have cared so little for her embarrassment that he had sent her no word. It augured ill for the future. Nevertheless, she was conscious of a great relief that he had not come, and a great comfort in the presence of this other man.

There was a good deal of fun and confusion when at last the train started, with a showering of rice and old slippers, and a stretching of necks from the other carriages to see what it was all about. But they were soon under way, and Dawn sat back with intense delight to enjoy the new sensation of a railway ride, without the expected attendant inconvenience of an unloved husband. It was perhaps not ideal, but she could not help it, and when one's heart has been breaking slowly for weeks and rapidly for the last few hours, it is but nature to let it throb on naturally for a few minutes if it will. How could she help being happy? The sky was blue, blue; the bits of water they glimpsed far away, the winding ribbon of the river in the distance, were blue also. The trees seemed fairly to spread themselves in the summer sunshine, and the whole world looked washed anew for happiness, basking in the sunlight of heaven. The birds that flew away at sound of the strange creature that went rumbling through the country, the sleepy cows that grazed diligently upon the hillsides, the dull sheep that raised unwondering eyes and bleating voice at the moving monster, all seemed new creations to the girl. She cried out with delight at everything, and Charles entered into her joy.

It was not Charles's first ride upon a train, therefore when she asked some question about their wonderful mode of travel he fell to explaining it all carefully to her, with a learned manner that fascinated her, and before she knew it she was watching his face and his eyes, and her heart was glowing with the thought of him. Then he suddenly caught her hand that lay in her lap, and, taking its forefinger between his own thumb and finger, her hand enclosed in his, he made it point to a tiny white house nestled upon a hillside far away, with a glimpse of water in the distance and a shelter of feathery trees all about.

"There! See there!" he cried. "Do you see that house up there? How would you like it if you and I lived there?"

Instantly that little house seemed to Dawn a very heaven of peace, to which she would gladly fly from the grander house that she thought awaited her at the end of her journey. She caught her breath and pressed her free hand hard upon her frightened, happy heart, and cried, "Oh! Oh!" so wistfully that he stooped and kissed her once, and then again, and whispered, "Darling! My darling!"

They were alone in their carriage, you remember, and as the train was not then going round a curve, but was sleepily jogging through a lovely wooded place, no one in any of the other carriages could see.

Dawn felt the thrill of his touch go through her again, and then her conscience roused, and she drew herself away, quite shyly, and not at all as if she were angry. Her cheeks were crimson under her drooping lashes.

Her lover watched her adoringly. He was shy himself, and felt that maybe he had gone too far in a public place like a railway carriage; but she had been so charming, and was she not his?

Then her trembling lips brought out a question which shot a pang of jealous pain through his heart.

"Won't you tell me—please—where is—m'—where is——" She hesitated painfully, wishing he would understand and finish the sentence for her; but he only looked down anxiously, trying to understand what she wanted.

"Won't you please tell me where—Mr. Winthrop is?"

He understood at once that she did not mean his father, but his scoundrel brother. His face shadowed with a frown. Was she, then, thinking only of him who had tried to cover her with shame and disgrace? And would it always be so, that she would hark away from his love to that which had gone before? He sighed impatiently, but tried to answer her gently, a strange pity in his voice:

"I thought they had told you. It was strange they did not. He took the train at once. He found it was necessary, you understand."

"Oh!" There was immense relief in Dawn's exclamation, and the color came back to her cheeks, which had grown pale with apprehension when she asked the question.

"Then he will not come on this train at all?" she asked, and a light broke into her eyes.

"You poor child!" said he gently. "Were you afraid of that?" He laid his hand over hers comfortingly.

"I have been so tired and so frightened," murmured Dawn; and now she had to let the tears come rolling down her cheeks, though she tried hard enough to keep them back. But somehow she felt he would understand it all, and she lay back and let him wipe them away with his large, cool handkerchief that smelled of rose-leaves; and between the tears he laid a kiss now and then that seemed like healing ointment to her sore heart, so she no more tried to contend with her conscience as to what was right for married women to do in such circumstances. She only knew she had found some one who acted toward her as she remembered her dear mother doing. The kisses seemed such as an angel's might be, if an angel stooped to kiss. So she ceased trying to understand, and just took the comfort of it. Perhaps it had been sent to her to help her in her time of need. Remember, she was very young, and had been facing a great terror.

They presently trundled out of the woods into a little village, and the comforting had to cease. Dawn sat up with rosy cheeks and bright eyes, the tears all gone, and looked about her with interest. They talked in low tones of the people they saw come and go on the platform, and laughed at a couple of geese who were squawking and gabbling at the train for coming so close to their nice mud-puddle by the track, putting in a natural protest against the march of civilization.

But an old lady with many bandboxes and a carpet-bag was put into their coach just before the train started on its way again, and there could be no more quiet confidences. Dawn had thought she would presently ask a few more questions about her husband, and why he had found it necessary to take another train. Most of all, she wanted to know when and where she was to meet him. But now there was no more opportunity to ask questions.

At Albany, they waited for the stage-coach, and walked about exploring the city, more absorbed in their own pleasant converse than in sight-seeing, however.

"Do you know, they have never told me your name. I heard it first in the ceremony this morning," said Charles, with a smile. "It is strange, isn't it? But we have had so little time, and before that I was away, and they always wrote of you as 'Miss Van Rensselaer.' I never asked your name because I liked to think of you as I saw you first, all spring blossoms, like some spirit of the air, and I thought a name might destroy the vision."

The pink came softly into the girl's cheek at his earnest words, and it filled her heart with a glow of pleasure like to nothing she had ever felt before.

"They wouldn't have told you my real name if you had asked," said she, showing her dimples in a smile answering to his. "I was christened Jemima, but my mother, my own dear mother, who died a good many years ago, told me my name was Dawn, and she always called me that. She wouldn't consent to my being named Jemima until she found out that the meaning of it was 'Dawn of the Morning,' and she always called me that. I always made everybody at school call me so too. They did not know the other name at school. I love the name because my mother loved it, and said it meant something sweet and dear to her."

She looked up, and the eyes she met were full of sweet understanding.

"Dawn! What a beautiful name! How glad I am it is that! It just fits you as I saw you first. You might have been personifying Dawn. You shall be the Dawn of my morning always."

They were in sight of the stage-coach now, and as they saw that the driver was preparing to start, they had to hurry to it, so they had no further opportunity to talk; but each had been given a vision into the heart of the other.

Dawn was still ignorant of where she was going, and as she sat in the coach and saw others climbing in to fill the seats, she suddenly realized that there would be no more opportunity now for the questions she should have asked while they were walking. But she had hesitated to spoil their pleasant walk, and had dismissed her fears and troubles, entering into the spirit that Charles had seemed to manifest.

As he sat close beside her through the long miles, his arm rested against hers, and now and again came a gentle pressure, as if he would let her know he was there. Then the remembrance of his lips upon hers swelled over her in a mingling of remorse and joy, and her heart cried out to itself, "Oh, I love him! I love him! What shall I do? If I only were not married, perhaps I might have him for a friend. I never had a real friend. But now, I suppose, I can never see him any more."

By and by, when they stopped to change horses, Charles found seats for them on the top of the coach with the driver. It was lovely up there, with a wide view of the beautiful country through which they were riding, and no one to bother them; for the old coach driver was not of a garrulous disposition, as most of those worthies were, and they had their talk to themselves. Still, he was there, and Dawn dared venture no more confidential questions.

The day drew to a close, and they came to the last change of horses before reaching the home of the Winthrops.