Dawn of the Morning

by Grace Livingston Hill

It was quite gradual, her return to consciousness, as if the atmosphere of sweetness and melody pervaded her soul, and stirred it from its slumber in spite of itself, bringing new life and a great peace.

At first she did not open her eyes, nor think where she was. It was enough that she smelled the pines and felt the soft lap of nature where she lay. It seemed still, very still and restful; cool and sweet and dark. That she knew with her eyes closed. Up above, where the birds sang, she seemed to feel a golden light coming, coming, and knew that it would soon grow into morning. But now she might just allow herself this little time to lie still and listen and wait. There came to her consciousness a thrill of freedom that in her fright and hurry the night before she had not realized. For months now she had been half-planning to run away from the things that were saddening her life, and now she had done it. She was free! Free to order her small life for herself.

Down deep in her heart tugged the agony of a great loss, yet it was as of the loss of something she had never really had—only dreamed of briefly. She would not let herself think of Charles now. She wanted to keep his memory as something sweet to take out and look at sometimes when she was lonely, but that could not be until the first bitterness of the shame of her union to him was past. She wanted to forget the scene in his mother's room, her terrible helplessness before the onslaught of the woman's tongue; and just to rest and feel that she was free.

Freedom meant getting away from Harrington Winthrop and from her step-mother, and from her father's wrath, or his possible efforts to shape her life. What else it meant, she had yet to learn. She supposed there was some place in the world where she might work for what she needed. The thought of her livelihood did not trouble her. Youth feels equal to its own support always, if it has any spirit at all. Dawn had plenty of spirit, and felt sure she could earn her "board and keep." At present, she was concerned only in getting rested and getting away as far as possible from all the evil things which seemed to have combined to crush her.

The light came on, and the morning entered the forest. A saucy little squirrel ran up the tree beneath which the girl lay, and, poised on a high twig, looked down and chattered at her noisily. Down fell a bit of bark upon Dawn's face, and, laughing involuntarily, she sat up and looked about her. The dim aisles of the forest were lit with golden lights now, and the birds, their matins almost finished, were hurrying about with breakfast preparations. A wood-thrush spilled his liquid notes out now and then, like a silver spoon dropped into a glass. A robin called his mate, and a blackbird whistled forth a silken melody. Dawn laughed aloud again at the squirrel, and tossed back the curls that had come loose from the confining comb during her sleep. It was good just to be here and to be free.

The squirrel chattered back at her and ran up the tree. Dawn unpinned her bundle and made her simple toilet. There was no brook near, where she could wash her face, but perhaps she would come to one by and by. She combed out her hair as well as she could with only a back-comb, and did it up on her head, for she must have dignity now if she were going out in the world to shift for herself. Then she looked over her small possessions carefully, as a shipwrecked mariner might take account of the wreckage he had saved. She took a kind of fierce joy in the thought that she had brought none of the elaborate garments which her step-mother had prepared for her trousseau. They were all the simple school garments that had been put at the bottom of her trunk.

She rolled up the bundle again and pinned it closely, then tied her bonnet on demurely, straightened her frock, and was ready for the day.

A soft little pathway of light beckoned her through the woods, and she followed it, her bundle tucked under her cape, her hand-bag with its cords safely twisted about her wrist.

The bar of light grew brighter and broader, and led her to another road. Unwittingly, she had come a way that would take her far from the place where she started more directly than any other she could have chosen. The sight of the white road in the dewy morning light gave her new zest for her journey. Her sleep, short though it had been, had rested her wonderfully, and she was eager to get on her way.

She climbed the fence and fairly flew down the road. It was very early, and she would be far on her way before people were up and stirring. There were mile-posts on this road, and guide-boards sometimes at cross-roads. That meant that a stage-route came that way. She studied the next guide-board carefully, and decided that she was on the direct route to New York, and that the miles might mean from New York to somewhere else. Not Albany, of course, for she must be far to the west of that. Perhaps she would find out later, as she went on. What if she should go as far as New York? How long would it take her? She could not go all at once, probably; but gradually she might work her way down. Why not? The world was before her. She would watch the mile-posts and see how long it took her to go a mile.