Dawn of the Morning

by Grace Livingston Hill

"I did not think it would be possible at first, but I have conquered my feelings, and am now willing to forgive you."

Dawn could do nothing but look at the woman in horror. Her tongue seemed tied. At last she stammered out:

"For what?"

"That is an entirely unnecessary question," said the cool voice. "You surely know how much trouble you have made. It is absurd to ignore it, or try to gloss it over. It seems strange that one so young as you should have had the power to make my poor, impulsive boy forget his duty. You should have known—but, then, I have forgiven you, and I will say no more about that. You are very beautiful, I must admit, and Harrington was always one who admired beauty, but I feel sure that of himself he would never have gone as far as he did. However, as I say, we will not talk of that. I have forgiven it, together, of course, with your other offences. And it is of the consequences of those that I feel it my duty to speak to you."

Dawn sat watching her, fascinated as is a bird sometimes when it keeps its eyes on a cat and is unable to move. It seemed to her she would scream if she only had the power, but the power of speech was gone for the time being.

"You know, of course, that Charles is very young. He isn't really a full-grown man yet. He hasn't finished his college course. You ought to understand that you must in no way interfere with his life, to spoil it. It ought to be enough for you that you have accepted his generous offer, when he was sorry for your being jilted by his brother, and kindly offered to take his place so as to save you from the mortification of having no wedding. I haven't an idea that Charles really expected you to think of it for a moment, but he is warm-hearted and always ready to offer help in any distress. It would have been far more seemly in you to decline the offer, and in your people to insist upon your doing so, if you did not know enough to do it yourself. But that is now too late to mend, so we will not speak of it, and, as I have said, I have fully forgiven it. What is unalterable is always best forgiven, if possible. What I wish to say is this:

"Having married my son under these most extraordinary circumstances, it becomes you to be most modest and retiring, and hereafter to put aside every personal consideration, in order that he may not be held back from his natural ambitions. I hope you get my meaning?"

A crimson flush had been stealing up into Dawn's cheeks, and the steel lights were coming into her eyes, but she was unable as yet to make any reply. The cool elder voice went on with the torture:

"I am willing, as I say, to forgive you, but I shall expect from you docility and a willingness to be guided by me in everything. As long as you remain in my house, which will, of course, be at least as long as my son remains in college, and as much longer as he deems wise afterward, I thought it was best for you to understand everything thoroughly at the start. Having robbed one of my sons of his happiness, and robbed me of the other one, it is becoming that you should walk circumspectly in every way. I have, of course, forgiven you. But it is a terrible thing which you have done——"

"Stop!"