Dawn of the Morning

by Grace Livingston Hill

"If I were you, I should keep still, Betty," advised Cordelia.

Betty pouted, and a solemn silence settled upon the three as the old gray horse plodded sleepily over the road. The occupants of the coach were by no means at ease. Aunt Martha sat shrivelled in the back seat, with the ready tears coursing silently down her cheeks. She had heard enough of what her brother had told his wife, to be filled with gloomy apprehensions. Aunt Martha was always sure of the worst.

Madam Winthrop sat severely silent, with her delicate, cameo features held high. Her keen blue eyes never wavered, nor did her firm, thin lips quiver. Apparently, she had not one misgiving, and her only regret seemed to be that the rest of the family had taken leave of their senses. She looked straight in front of her, ignoring the sad gray head of her husband, and the yellow curls of the strong young son with whom she was offended. They would all see their mistake soon enough, and meantime she was giving them a bit of a lesson not to doubt the idol of her heart. To do her justice, she firmly believed she was right, and was amazed that her husband had taken the attitude he had. Of course Harrington would not do such a dreadful thing. Such things did not happen in real life. It was out of the question. She dismissed the subject with that, and fell to going over her own arrangements and the wardrobe of the family, with satisfaction.

The sound of the horses' hoofs on the old corduroy road, and the husky crickets by the wayside, beat a funeral dirge for the heart of the Father in the front seat. His countenance was heavy, and now and again he brought forth an audible sigh.

The lugubrious attitude of her family annoyed Madam Winthrop. She turned to her sister-in-law sharply.

"For pity's sake, Martha, do stop snivelling! One would think you were going to a funeral instead of to a wedding. I must say I don't think you honor your nephew very much, showing such distrust in him. Do wipe your eyes and sit up. If you go on this way, you won't be able to come to the ceremony to-morrow morning, and you know how that will annoy Harrington. I must say, Mr. Winthrop, you are acting in a very strange manner, for the father of such a son."

She always called him Mr. Winthrop when he had offended her. At other times it was "Father."

Her husband turned in the seat and faced her solemnly. "Janet," he said sadly, "it's no use for you to try to blind yourself to the truth. You'll only have it harder to bear in the end. You might as well understand the awful truth that our boy Harrington has committed a great sin, and we ought to be thankful that it was discovered before any more harm was done. You don't seem to see what a task we've got before us to tell that father and his innocent young daughter that the man in whom they trusted, our son, has played them false."

"Now, Mr. Winthrop, I don't want to hear another word of such talk. You must be beside yourself!" Madam Winthrop half arose in her seat and cried out shrilly: "Stop it, I say! Don't you dare say such words in my presence again! If you do, I shall get right out of this carriage and walk! Walk, I tell you! And what will the servants think of you then? You will find out your mistake in due time, of course, and be ashamed of yourself. Until then I must ask you not to speak to me on the subject. No, Charles, don't you dare to interfere between me and your Father again. I have had enough of your disrespect for one day. Just keep absolutely quiet until you can speak in a proper way. I simply will not stand such talk."

She sat up with dignity, and spoke to them both as if they were naughty children. Her husband looked into her eyes sadly for a moment, and then turned deliberately back to his horses. He knew by former experience that it was well nigh impossible to convince his wife of anything against her will. Well, she would have to go on and take the consequences of her stubbornness. There was no other way. And perhaps it was as well, for, with her excitable nature, there was no telling what state it might throw her into, once she realized the truth about her idolized son. She might lose consciousness and have to be carried back, and so perhaps delay them. His first duty now was to tell the sad truth to his old friend Van Rensselaer and his poor daughter. Every step that the horses took made him shrink more and more from the task before him. It seemed that his shame and disgrace were being burnt into his soul with a red hot iron. He kept thinking how he should tell his story to his host when he reached his journey's end, and the horses' hoofs beat out the dirge of a funeral; while keeping pace behind, with decorous bearing, rode the two old servants, pondering what had cast a shadow over the gay party they had hoped to escort.