Dawn of the Morning

by Grace Livingston Hill

Dawn did not look beyond the hem of her garments, but kept her long lashes drooping on her crimson cheeks, a lovely but frightened bride. She felt keenly the moment the service began, and knew that she was surrendering forever her liberty and girlhood. Good-by to everything that she had ever counted happy in this life. No house, no pretty dishes, no handsome furniture, could ever make up for that now, and her heart cried out in anguish that she had not vetoed the idea when it was first proposed to her, before it had gone so far that retraction was dishonorable.

When the vows were read, and she heard their terrible binding import, she longed to cry out her horror in a great, echoing, "No!" that should leave no doubt in any mind, and would even penetrate to the good minister's deaf ears. But her tongue was tied by fear of her father and his friends, and she dared not lift her voice. Yet she would not speak to make promises her heart could not echo, and so she stood silent, with no nod of her head, no breath of a "yes." The minister, after waiting an instant for the desired assent, passed monotonously and solemnly on to the end, and pronounced those two, who knew each of the other as little almost as it was possible for two human beings to know, man and wife.

During the prayer that followed, Dawn had hard work to keep back the tears that were struggling to creep out and cool her flushed cheeks; but the breath of the roses at her breast seemed to steal up and comfort her, and once, just before the end, a strong hand, warm and gentle, was placed over her gloved one for just an instant, with a pressure that seemed to promise help. Yet because she thought it was an unloved hand, it only made her heart beat the more wildly, and she was glad when the prayer was ended and the hand was taken away.

They came crowding about her after it was over, in the order of their rank, stiffly at first and with great formality. The bride still kept her eyes drooped, barely glancing up at those who took her hand or kissed her and never once lifting her eyes to the man who stood by her side. It was the first and only mandate of her step-mother's that she obeyed to the letter and to the end.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer gave her a cold kiss, and whispered that she was doing very well; and her father gave her the second kiss she could remember from him since he had sent her own mother away, and said in a low tone: "Poor child! I hope you will be happy now!"

She puzzled over that sentence long. Why had he called her "poor child," and yet seemed so sure by his tone that she had attained a height upon which happiness was assured? It touched her more than anything else that he had ever said to her.

Mr. Winthrop bowed low over Dawn's hand and told her he was glad to have another dear daughter, and Madam Winthrop, coming up from the side away from the bridegroom, graciously kissed her and called her a sweet child. Then she turned to meet her son, and stopped aghast, saying, "Charles! Where is Harrington?"

Now, Dawn might have heard the disturbance and been much enlightened, and all Mrs. Van Rensselaer's fine plans might have been exposed, if it had not been that Madeleine and Cordelia stepped up to their new sister-in-law close behind their mother, while Betty had rushed in and smothered her with kisses, whispering: "Oh, you darling sister! How I am going to enjoy you!" The three girls stood gushing and fluttering over the young bride, so that she did not hear what went on.

For, as it happened, Charles bent low over his mother, so that the stream of relatives should not hear, and said in a quiet voice:

"Mother dear, congratulate me instead of Harrington. It is I who have been married. Harrington has just gone away on the train with his wife and children. Don't feel sorry, little Mother. You would not let us tell you. Be careful, Mother; people are looking, watching you. Mother!"