Dawn of the Morning

by Grace Livingston Hill

CHAPTER XVIII

The next morning the roosters crowing under her window awakened her, and for the moment she thought she was back in school, with the barn-yard not far away; but other and unfamiliar sounds and odors brought her back to realities, and she remembered she was a lone traveller putting up at an inn.

She lay still for some time, thinking over the strangeness of it all, and the tragic happenings of the last few days. The thought of Charles brought tears to her eyes. The dearness and loss of him came over her as it had not had time to do while she was hurrying on her way. But this morning, for the first time, she felt that she was far from every one who knew her, and hidden securely so that she could never be found, and that she might look her life in the face and know what it all meant. It was inevitable that in reviewing her life the first and largest part of all should be Charles and her brief but sweet acquaintance with him. That she was his wife thrilled her with unspeakable joy. The fact that she had deliberately renounced him took away to some extent the sting of the manner in which she had been married.

As she thought it all over, she realized that the only real shame in the whole affair was that she had been about to marry Harrington Winthrop when her heart was full of fear and hatred for him. She seemed to see many things in a new light. In fact, the child had become a woman in the space of a few days, and she understood life better, though it was still one vast perplexity.

One thing remained of all the past, and that was the memory of the love of Charles. Even the remembrance of her dear mother was dimmed by it. It seemed to be the one eternal fact which stood out clearly, and in the light of which she must hereafter live. That he had been generous and kind enough to marry her for the sake of relieving her from humiliation, as his mother had intimated, only made Dawn love him the more. But because of the generosity of that act, she must never trouble him again. She had renounced him. It was the least she could do for him, under the circumstances, in return for his great kindness. But whatever happened, she must be true to his memory, and be such that he would always be proud of her if he should chance ever to hear of her, though she meant to take care that he did not.

If she had been a little older and wiser, if she had understood the ways of the world better, she would not have been so sure that she was taking the most direct way to reward Charles for his kindness to her. But she did not understand, and so was sincere and earnest in her mistaken way of being loyal to him. One thing, however, made her glad. She felt that no matter how far apart they might be during the rest of their lives, they had understood each other, and their souls had met in a deep, sweet joy. As she thought of the moment before supper at his home, when he had held her in that close embrace, and laid his face upon hers and kissed her, the sweetness and pain of it were too much for her, and with a sharp cry she hid her face in her pillow and wept bitterly.

It never occurred to her, poor little pilgrim, that he might be grieving just as deeply over her absence and the mystery of her whereabouts as was she for him, or she would have flown to him in spite of all mothers-in-law, and made him glad.

The tempest of her grief swept over her like a summer storm, and was gone. At her age she could not grieve long over what had been hers so briefly that it had scarcely become tangible. But as it had been the dearest happening of her life, and the only bright thing in her girlhood, it took the form of a mount of vision from which ever after she was to draw her inspiration for the doing of the monotonous tasks of life.

She arose and washed away the marks of the tears, and dressed herself carefully in her green silk for church, arranging her hair demurely on the top of her head, with the curls as little in evidence as possible. She wished to look old and dignified, as befitted a person travelling by herself, and looking for a chance to teach school.

The village was a pretty one, and as she walked down the street to the church her heart went out to it. As she sat in the tall pew where the beadle placed her, she glanced shyly around at the people who came in, and wished she might stop here and get something to do. Yet her heart shrank from any attempt to speak to them or beg their help.