A lady came in leading a little girl by the hand, a sweet-faced child with a chubby face, and ringlets in clusters on either cheek, held there by her fine white, dunstable straw bonnet, with its moss-rosebuds and face-ruche of soft lace. After they were seated, across the aisle, the little girl leaned over her mother and stared at Dawn, then smiled shyly, and the young wanderer felt that she had one friend in this strange place.
A sudden loneliness gripped her heart, and she wished she were a little girl again, sitting by her mother's side. How many, many times she had wished that the last few months! The thought made her heart ache, it was so old a hurt. She felt the smart of tears that wanted to swim out and blind her vision, but she straightened up and tried to look dignified, remembering that she was a woman now—a married woman. She wondered, would it be wrong to pretend, as she used to do at school sometimes? She wanted to pretend that Charles sat by her side, they two going to their first church service together. She decided there would be no harm in that, and moved a little nearer the corner to make room for her dear companion. It gave her a happy sense of not being alone, and she glanced up now and then as if he were there and she were watching him proudly. It was not hard to imagine him. She was good at such things. It thrilled her to think how his arm would be close to hers, his sleeve touching her hand, perhaps, as he held the hymn-book for her to sing with him. And to think that if only her marriage had been like others, she would in all probability have been singing beside him in his home church at this very minute! The thought of it almost brought the tears.
There were no hymn-books in the little village church, but the minister lined the hymn out, and Dawn stood up to sing with the rest, her clear voice lifting the tune till people near her turned to look at the sweet face. She tried to think that Charles was singing by her side, but when they came to the stanza:
When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain,
But we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.
it was almost too much for her, and she had to wink hard to keep back the tears, for it came over her that she could not hope to meet Charles again, but must go on with the being asunder always.
The minister had gray hair and a kindly face. He preached about comfort, and Dawn felt as if it were meant for her. As she listened, an idea came to her. She would go to the minister and ask him to help her find a school. Ministers knew about such things.
She went to the afternoon service also, and after it was over two or three women shook hands with her, looked curiously, admiringly at her rich silk gown, and asked her if she were a stranger.
She smiled and nodded shyly. Then the minister came and shook hands with her, and brought his tired-looking wife to speak to her. She watched them go across the churchyard together, and up the steps of the old parsonage. The minister seemed tired, too, but there was sympathy between the two that seemed to rest them both when they looked at each other and smiled. It touched the girl-wife. Here were two who had walked together, yet who seemed to be agreed, and to be happy in each other's company. She felt instinctively, from the minister's face, that he would not have sent his wife away from his home, no matter what she had done. He would not have thought she had done anything wrong in the first place. It came to Dawn that perhaps it had been her father's quick temper and hasty judgment that had made all the trouble for her mother. She remembered lately an unutterably sad expression about his eyes. Perhaps he was feeling sorry about it, and ashamed. It made the girl have a tenderer feeling for the father she had never really loved. She pitied him that he must live with her step-mother. She had not as yet connected Mrs. Van Rensselaer with her own present predicament. Her main sensations were dislike for her father's second wife, and thankfulness that she was out of her jurisdiction. It remained for deeper reflection to tell Dawn just how much her step-mother was to blame for her having been married to one man, supposing all the time that he was another.
The next morning quite early, Dawn attired herself in her little gray frock and tied her bonnet neatly, then, leaving her bundle in her room, ready to move in case her mission failed, she presented herself at the parsonage and asked to see the minister.
She was shown into the study, where the good man sat in a big hair-cloth chair by the open window, reading.