Dawn of the Morning

by Grace Livingston Hill

The months that followed were terrible to Charles. After a few days of keeping the matter quiet and hoping they would find her by themselves, they made the disappearance public, and the whole countryside joined in the search.

The greatest drawback to success was that so few people had seen Dawn since she grew up. The servants in her father's house had seen her during the week she had been home from school, but scarcely any one else except for a passing glance on the street. All searching was in vain. There were notices put in the papers of that region. They sent to her old school for knowledge of her; they left no stone unturned. And the wonder of it is that Dawn's friend, the minister, or some of the selectmen, especially Silas Dobson, did not see the notices that appeared in New York papers and in those of smaller towns, and connect the mysterious disappearance with the new teacher that had come to their village. But the old clergyman had vouched for her, and there was apparently no mystery about her. This good man did not often have opportunity to read papers of other towns, save his regular weekly religious sheet. Then, too, the place where Dawn had found refuge was small and insignificant, and not on the line of most travel. She could not have been better sheltered from the searchers.

It was the day after Charles had been to see the body of a young woman who had been found in the river some fifty miles distant from his home, that he became ill with typhoid fever.

Not for a day had he rested or given up his search. When one clue failed, he went to the next with restless, feverish energy, and a haunted look in his eyes. The boy had become a man, and the man was bearing a heavy burden. His father saw it, and grieved for him. His mother saw it, and accused herself. His sisters saw it, and did their best to help him. Betty was constantly thinking up new plans for the search, and saying comforting, cheering things to her brother. Charles loved her dearly for it, but nothing brought relief. His affection for Dawn had been such as rarely grows in a human heart, even after years of acquaintance. It had sprung full-bloomed into being, and filled his whole soul. It is said that to the average man love is but an incident, while to a woman it is the whole of life. If that be so, there are exceptions, and Charles was one of them. He kept his love for his girl-wife as the greatest thing life had for him, and thought of nothing else day or night but to find her.

No one dared to suggest his going back to college. That would be to admit that the search was hopeless, and that might prove fatal to Charles. The neighbors had begun to shake their heads and pity him. It was even whispered that the girl might have run away with another man, though no one ventured to say such a thing in the hearing of the family.

If it had been in these days of telegraphs and telephones, railroads and detectives, it would have been but a matter of days until they had found her, but in those times travel and search were long and hard. There seemed little hope. It was the third dead face which Charles had searched for likeness to the girl he loved. He came home worn and exhausted, his spirit utterly discouraged and weary, and he was an easy prey to the disease which gripped him from the first in its most violent form.

Silence and sadness settled down upon the Winthrop household while the life of Charles was held in the balance. The father carried on the search for the lost wife more vigorously than ever, believing that the sight of her might bring his boy back even from the grave; but nothing developed.

News from the Van Rensselaers gave no hope of the paralyzed man's recovery. He was lying like a thing of stone, unable to move. He could not even make a sound. Only his eyes followed his tormented wife, like haunting spirits sent to condemn her. The face was set in its stern expression, like a fallen statue of his proud, imperious self.

It was mid-winter before Charles began slowly to creep back to life, and there was still no clue to Dawn. They dreaded to have him ask about her; though they had noticed how he had searched their faces every morning after consciousness returned to him. He knew as well as they that nothing had been accomplished toward finding her.

One day he seemed more cheerful and a little stronger, and called old Mr. Winthrop to his side.