The day that Dawn left school to go back to her home was one long agony
to her.
All the other girls were happy in the thought of home-going, some of
them looking forward to returning for another year, others to entering
into a bright girlhood filled with gaieties. But to Dawn it meant going
into the gray of a looming fate where never again would she be happy,
never again free.
Ever since the day of the play when she had seen her future husband
frown, she had looked forward to her marriage with terror.
He had not come after that, but instead wrote her long letters full of
plans about the house, _their house_, that they were to occupy
_together_. The letters impressed that thought most deeply and made the
whole hateful to her. It grew to seem that it was _his_ house, and she
would be his prisoner in it. Yet somehow he had succeeded in impressing
her with the feeling that she was pledged to him in sacred honor, and
that it would be a dreadful thing to break a tie like that. This was
made stronger by her father's letters, which now grew more frequent, as
if he sought to atone to his motherless child for the wrong he had done
her.
Just the day before her home-going there came one of these letters, in
which he told her that everything had been prepared for her marriage to
take place within a week after her arrival. He told her of the
trousseau which his wife had prepared for her, which was as elaborate
and complete as such an outfit could be for one of her station in life.
He also spoke about the dignity of her origin, and with unwonted
elaboration commended her judgment in selecting so old and so fine a
family as that of the house of Winthrop with which to ally herself. He
added that it would have pleased her mother's family, and that Mr.
Winthrop was one of his oldest and most valued friends.
Somehow that letter seemed to Dawn to put the seal of finality upon her
fate. There was no turning back now. Just as her father used to compel
her to go upstairs alone when he discovered that she was afraid of the
dark, so she felt that if he once discovered her dislike for her future
husband he would but hasten the marriage, and be in league with her
husband against her always.
When the time came to leave the school, she clung with such fervor about
the neck of the impassive Friend Ruth that the astonished lady almost
lost her breath, and a strange wild thrill went through her unmotherly
bosom, as of something that might have been and was lost. She looked
earnestly down into the beautiful face of the girl who had so often
defied her rules, and saw an appeal in those lovely eyes to which she
would most certainly have responded had she understood, for she was a
good woman and always sought to do her best.
But the boat left at once, and clinging arms had perforce to be removed.
Once on the deck with the others, Dawn looked back at Friend Ruth as
impassively as always, though the usually calm face of the woman
searched her out with troubled glance, still wondering what had come
over her wild young pupil. Somehow, as she watched the steamer plough
away until Dawn was a mere blur with the others, Friend Ruth could not
help being glad that the beautiful dark curls had never been cut.
The day was perfect, and the scenery along the Palisades had never
looked more beautiful, yet Dawn saw nothing of it. She sat by the rail
looking gloomily down into the water, and a curious fancy seized her
that she would like to float out there on the water forever and get away
from life. Then she began to consider the possibility of running away.
It was not the first time this thought had entered her mind. The week
before she left the school, she had thought of it seriously, and even
planned the route, but always at night there had come that fearful dream
of her future husband following her, and bringing her home to a
life-long punishment.
She had almost got her courage up to the point of deciding to disappear
in the crowd at Albany, and so elude the people with whom she was
expected to journey to her home, when, to her dismay, she looked down at
the landing-place where they were stopping, a few miles below Albany,
and saw her father coming on board the boat. He had not expected to be
able to meet her and had written that she was to come with acquaintances
of his. Her heart stood still in panic, and for a moment she looked
wildly at the rail of the steamer, as if she might climb over and
escape. Then in a moment her father had seen her and stood beside her.
He stooped and kissed her forehead coldly, almost shyly. This startled
her, too, for he had not kissed her since the days before her mother was
sent away, and a strange, sharp pain went through her heart, a pang of
things that might have been. She looked up in wonder. She did not know
how like her dead mother she had grown.
But the stern face was cold as ever, and his voice conveyed no smallest
part of the emotion he felt at sight of her lovely face.
He talked to her gravely of her school life, and then he went on to
speak of the Winthrop family, and to tell her in detail bits of its
history calculated to make her understand its importance.
Dawn listened with growing alarm at the thought of all that would be
expected of her. Yet not a breath of her trouble did she allow her
father to see. It might have made a difference if she could have known
how her father's heart was aching with the anguish of his great mistake,
and perhaps if the father could have known the breaking of the young
heart it might have melted the coldness of his reserve and brought some
sympathy to the surface. But they could not see, and the agony went on.
Dawn walked sadly, reluctantly, into the unloved, unloving home. As the
days dragged by, she grew to have a haunted look, and the rose flush on
her sweet round cheek faded to a marble white, while under her eyes were
dark circles.
Her father saw the look, but knew not what it meant. Yet it pierced his
soul, for it was the same look that her mother had worn in her coffin,
and he was the readier to have the marriage hastened, both for her sake
and his own, for he realized she was not happy here in the home where
there was so much to remind her of what had passed. He felt she never
would forgive him, and that her only hope was to be happily married.
Winthrop had so represented her feelings to him that he had taken it for
granted she was only too eager to go to a home of her own.
The house had been bought--at least, the father supposed so--not knowing
that but a small payment had been made, with a promise to pay the
balance soon after the marriage. The young man had laid his plans
nicely, and meant to profess that some investment of his had failed,
making it impossible for him to make the final payments, and that he had
disliked to postpone the marriage or to tell of his predicament, feeling
sure that he would have the money by the time the payment was due.
Naturally, his wife's fortune would suffice to pay for the house, which
of course she would not let go then. If the house was not exactly what
he had described to the little school-girl, certainly it was large
enough and showy enough to make up for the lack of some of the things
which had seemed important to her; and he had taken care that it should
be so far from the home of her father that the latter could keep no eye
on his son-in-law's business affairs. If all went well, he intended to
have his wife's fortune in his own hands before their first year of
married life should have passed. After that it would not matter to him
whether the girl was pleased with her home or not. She could no longer
help herself.
But of all this the father suspected nothing.
Dawn took no interest in her clothes. The step-mother was chagrined
that after all her efforts Dawn was not pleased.
"I should think you might show a little gratitude, after all the trouble
I've taken," Mrs. Van Rensselaer snapped angrily.
Dawn turned wide eyes of astonishment upon her.
"For what?" she asked. "I didn't want the things. I supposed you did it
to please father."
"Didn't want them!" exclaimed her step-mother. "And how would you expect
to get married without them?"
"I don't want to be married!" said Dawn desperately, and then closed her
lips tightly, with a frightened look toward the door. She had not meant
to let any one know that. The words had come of themselves out of her
weary heart.
"Well, upon my word! You're the queerest girl! Any other girl in the
world would be in high feather over your chances; but you always were
the stubbornest, most contrary creature that ever drew breath. Whatever
did you say you'd get married for if you didn't want to?"
"I don't think I ever did," said the girl sadly. "It just came in spite
of me."
"That's all foolishness. Don't talk such things to me. No girl has to
be married unless she chooses, and I'll warrant you had your hand in it
from the start. Besides, it's too late to talk of such things now. It
wouldn't be honorable to draw back now, after he's got the house bought
and all."
"I know it," said Dawn miserably, and stood looking out the window
blindly, swallowing hard to keep back the tears. She felt that she must
have reached the limit of her endurance when she would let her
step-mother see her state of mind.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer eyed her keenly, suspiciously. At last she ventured
another question.
"Have you got any other beau in your head, Jemima?" she said. "Because
if you have, you'd better put him out pretty suddenly. If your father
should find it out, he would--I don't know what he would do. He would
certainly punish you well, big girl as you are. Is that what's the
matter? Answer me! Have you got another beau?"
Dawn looked up with great angry, flashing eyes, horror changing into
contempt.
"I have never even thought of such a dreadful thing!" she said, with a
withering look, and swept haughtily from the room. But on the way
upstairs the color crept slowly into her cheeks, and her eyes drooped
half-ashamed. Was there? Yes, there was some one else enshrined within
her heart, some one whose face had smiled in sympathy just once, and
toward whom she felt as she had never felt to any human being save her
mother. Of course he was nothing to her but the vision of a moment, and
never, never, could he be called by the hateful word her stepmother had
used, that detestable word "beau." It seemed to the poor, tried child
as if she could almost kill any one who used that word.
After that, Dawn endured her misery in secret, speaking not at all,
unless spoken to. The older woman looked at her curiously, almost
nervously, sometimes, as if the girl were half uncanny. She was glad in
her heart that the day of the wedding was close at hand, for if she knew
anything about signs, that girl was on the verge of throwing over a fine
marriage, and then they would have her on their hands for years,
perhaps. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had suffered not a little for her share in
the tragedy of these lives with which she had bound up her own, and was
not willing to endure more. She shut her thin lips and determined to
watch the girl carefully and prevent if possible any slip between cup
and lip.
Meantime, with ever-growing dread, Dawn counted the hours, and watched
sleepless through the long nights, now calling on her dead mother for
help, now praying to be saved in some way from the nameless fear which,
try as she would, she could not shake off. The family relatives on both
sides were gathering and starting, some on long journeys, to attend the
wedding.