Dawn of the Morning

by Grace Livingston Hill

"Yes," said Charles; "he will be down in a moment. He told me to drive on, and he would come in our carriage, which is here, you know."

With that, he jumped into the seat beside Dawn, the servant fastened the carriage door, and the horses started on their way down the curving carriage drive and out through the great gate, with its two white balls on the tops of the white pillars.

Dawn could scarcely believe it true that she was going to the station without Harrington. His mother must be very ill indeed, poor lady! Was it wrong to be glad, she wondered, because it gave her another reprieve, brief though it might be?

She had tucked the spray of roses into the bosom of her travelling frock—a dark green silk, plaided with bars of black, and a little black silk mantilla, which made her feel quite grown-up, and which, Mrs. Van Rensselaer had been assured by the New York merchants, was the very latest thing for brides. A great, wide poke-bonnet of white chip, trimmed with dark green ribbons and a modest plume to match, framed her sweet face, and helped to hide its shyness as she sat tremblingly happy at her escape. Her hands, in pretty gray kid gloves, lay meekly folded in her lap. Nothing about her demure manner told of the tumult of emotions in her heart.

Beside her sat a friend—she knew that by the light in his eyes. Before her was a brief ride to the inn where the train stopped. It would last but a few minutes, and during that time she would like to say something, to have him say something, anything, just to feel the pleasant comradeship which she had seen in his eyes, that she might remember him always, her one friend. But her tongue was tied, and her eyes could not raise themselves to look upon his face any more than if he had been the dreaded husband.

Charles was kept busy for a minute or two, bowing to the guests who had lined themselves up along the driveway to see the couple depart. Dawn glanced shyly at them from her lowered lids, and smiled now and then as she recognized a relative or the kindly face of an old servant. Then the carriage passed out into the street, while her companion sat back very close to her, as if she needed him, and, reaching over, took one of her little cold hands in his strong, warm one. It brought comfort and a thrill of joy. Dawn did not stop to question if he had a right, or if she were doing wrong to allow such familiarity in a stranger, with her, a married woman, and belonging to another man. Such questions had not been brought up for her consideration, though she had a few fixed little principles of her own, sweet and fine and natural. But now she thought only on her great need, and how this strong hand met it. She longed to turn and fling her tired head upon his big, high shoulder and weep out her sorrow.

She did not do so, of course, but sat quietly with her hand enfolded in his for a moment, and dared to lift her sweet eyes to his. Then, without any warning, the tears, which had been repressed so long she had forgotten any danger from them, sprang into her eyes.

He thought her heart was tender with memories of the home she was leaving, and perhaps, he thought jealously, she was sighing for her false fiancé; but with a lover's true impulse, and in spite of the village street through which they were passing—although it happily chanced that this was a quiet part—he bent and kissed her.

An old lady out among her flowers in the front yard saw them, and nodded to herself: "Bless their dear hearts! May they always be so happy!" and brushed away a tear as she thought of a grave upon a hillside, and a day far agone when her own hopes were put beneath the ground.

It was a very short drive. Almost immediately after they had passed the old lady's house, they turned a corner which brought them into the liveliest part of the town, where people were stretching their necks to watch them, and all was stir and bustle. Only a few rods away stood the inn, with the railroad tracks gleaming in the distance. People were already gathering to watch for the incoming train; and some few to go a journey, though there were not so many travellers in those days.