Her eyes were wide open an hour before the dawn; as the faint light streamed through the east and glowed brighter and brighter along the rim of the south that she could see from her position on the pillow, she arose, wrapped a shawl about her, and went to the window to watch the new morning. On the last night of the old year she had watched the sunset standing at her western window, then the light had gone out of her life and all the world was dark; now, in the new year, her private and personal new year, the light was rising, creeping up slowly into the sky, the gold, the faint rose and the bright rose running into each other, softening, blending, glowing deeper and deeper as she watched. This new morning that was an old morning to so many other eyes that were looking out upon it; this new morning that would be again for Dinah, perhaps, and for all the other girls that were growing up into God’s kingdom on the earth! The robins in Mr. Bird’s apple orchard were awake, too, and chanticleer down the road had proclaimed the opening of another new day with all his lusty might. She wondered, as she listened and looked, if Felix were standing in the light of the morning on the porch, or he might be walking up and down the long garden path. And thanking God? She wished that she were thanking God. She was thanking Him for the light, the colors, the refreshing, misty air, the robins and the white and pink wealth of apple blossoms; but she was not thanking Him because Felix Harrison loved her.
“And that night they caught nothing.”
The words repeated themselves with startling clearness. What connection could they possibly have with the sunrise? Oh, now she knew; it was because the fishermen had seen the Lord upon the shore in the morning.
She had caught nothing; all her night of toil had been fruitless; she had striven and hoped and dreamed, oh, how she had dreamed of all that she would do and become! And now she could not be glad of any thing.
The years had ended in having Felix Harrison love her; that was all. She had lived her childhood and girlhood through for such a time as this.
This new year had brought more hard things to bear than any of the old years; if she could only tell some one who would care and sympathize with her and help her not only to bear but to do and to become; but her father would be justly angry and exclaim, “Madness, daughter,” her mother would laugh and look perplexed, Miss Jewett would say, “O, Tessa, Tessa, I didn’t think such a thing of you,” and Mr. Towne—but she had no right to think of him! And Gus! He would look at her steadily and say nothing; he would be disappointed in her if he knew that she could promise with her lips, with no love in her heart save the love of regret, compassion, and contrition for all that she had so unconsciously caused him to suffer. And how could she reveal to Felix, poor Felix! the plain, cold truth! how she shrank from him as soon as she was alone and could think! how as the morning grew brighter and her world more real she shrank from him yet more and more! how the very thought of his presence, of his tight arms around her, and his smooth face close to hers gave her a feeling of repulsion that she had never felt towards any human being before! She felt that she must flee to the ends of the earth rather than to endure him. But it was done; she must keep her word; he should never guess; she would write a note and slip it into his hand to-day, he would be sure to press through the crowd towards her as she came out of church. She would write it now and be at rest. Her writing-desk stood open, pages of manuscript were laid upon it. She selected a sheet of lemon-colored note paper, and wrote a message, hurriedly, in pencil. Never afterward would she write a word upon lemon-colored paper.
“Do not come to me, dear Felix—” she hesitated over the adjective, erased the words, and dropped the sheet into her waste paper basket and found another: “Do not come to me, Felix, until I send for you, please. I am not strong. I want to be alone. Do not think me unkind, you know that I always did like to be alone. Do not expect too much of me; I am not what you think; I am a weak, impulsive woman, too tender-hearted to be wise, or to be just towards myself or towards you. If you want me to love you, ask it of Him, who is love; do not ask it of me, I am not love. But do not be troubled, I have given my word, I am not a covenant-breaker, I will be true.”
She folded it, not addressing it, and placed it in the pocket of the dress that she would wear to church; as she passed the window she saw Dr. Lake driving towards home. Shivering, although the sun was high enough to shine on the apple blossoms, she crept back to bed, nestling close to sleepy Dine who loved her morning nap better than the sunrise. Her confused thoughts ran hither and thither; she found herself repeating something that she and Mr. Hammerton had learned together years ago,
“‘Yes,’ I answered you last night;
‘No,’ this morning, sir, I say;
Colors seen by candlelight
Do not look the same by day.”
Mr. Hammerton said that he and the Wadsworth girls had learned “miles” of poetry together. The Harrisons were not at church. When had such a thing happened before? Her fingers were on the note in her pocket as she passed down the aisle.