When Mrs. Van Rensselaer came down stairs a half-hour later she found
Charles in the parlor anxiously awaiting her coming. Her face was bland
and encouraging. She tried to smile, though smiles were foreign to her
nature.
"Well," she said, seating herself and signing to the young man to take a
chair opposite her, "she is naturally very much shocked."
"Of course she would be," said Charles, somewhat sadly, and waited.
"I think, as I said, it will take her a few hours to become adjusted to
the new state of things, and it would not be well for you to see her
to-night. There will be plenty of time in the morning. The hour was
set late, so that all the relatives could arrive, you know. She will
undoubtedly accept your proposal, but you must give her a little time."
"You think she will?" asked the young man, brightening. "Oh, that is
good! Certainly I can wait until morning. Poor little girl, it must be
very hard for her!"
A hard glitter in his hostess's eye did not encourage conversation along
these lines, and he soon excused himself to go and meet his father, who
had gone to the inn to see that the rest of the family were comfortable
for the night.
The household settled to quiet at last, but it was like the sullen
silence before a storm.
A heavy burden had fallen upon Mr. Van Rensselaer. He seemed to be
arraigned before his first wife's searching eyes, for the trouble that
had befallen their child. He could not get away from the vision of her
dead face.
His wife spent the night in feverish planning for the morning, a
fiendish determination in her heart to be rid of her step-daughter, no
matter to what she had to resort in order to compass it.
Mr. Winthrop had leisure now to think upon his oldest son, and the sin
which he had been about to commit, and tears trickled down his cheeks as
he watched through the long hours of the night. His wife vouchsafed him
no word or look. To all appearances, she was asleep, but no one ever
knew what struggles were going on within her soul. Perhaps she was
holding herself in abeyance for the coming of the beloved son who would
explain all.
In the spacious chamber assigned to him, Charles spent much of the night
in a vision with a white-robed girl upon a hillside, and his waking
visions and those sleeping were so blended that he was scarce aware when
starlight merged into morning, and he heard the birds twitter in the
branches near his window.
Of all that household, only Dawn slept. Her heart, bowed with its
burden of apprehension, had reached the limit of endurance, and the long
lashes lay still upon the white cheeks, while her soul ceased from its
troubling for a little while.
She awoke with a start of painful realization, while yet the first
crimson streak of morning lay in the east. Its rosy light reminded her
of the day, and what it was to mean for her. With a sound that was like
both a sob and a prayer, she rose quickly, and, slipping on the little
white gown she had worn the evening before, nor stopping to do more than
brush out the mass of curls, she hastened stealthily down the stairs
and, taking care to close the door behind her that her escape should not
be noticed, went out into the garden. She would slip back quietly,
before the guests were astir, she told herself. She wanted one more
hour to herself in the dewy garden, before life shut her in forever from
freedom and her girlhood.
Five minutes later, her step-mother, in dressing-gown and slippers,
crossed the hall hastily and pushed open the girl's door. She had
fallen asleep toward morning, and had slept later than she had intended.
But she had her plans carefully laid, and determined to settle the
girl's part before any one was up.
At that same instant, Charles, whose heart was alive for the
possibilities of the new day, stepped out on the balcony in front of his
window, and with easy agility swung himself over the railing and dropped
to the terrace beneath. He was too impatient to sleep longer, and felt
that somehow he would be nearer his heart's desire if he got out into
the dewy morning world.
He walked slowly down the carefully tended paths, into the garden,
stopping to notice a bird's note here, the glint of dew-drops over the
lawn, the newly opened flowers in the beds of poppies, bachelor buttons,
foxglove, asters, and sweet-peas. A great thorny branch that must have
evaded the gardener's careful training reached out as if to catch his
attention, and there upon its tip was a spray of delicate buds, just
half blown, exquisite as an angel's wings, and with the warm glow of the
sunrise in the sheathlike, curling petals. Were they white or pink or
yellow? A warm white, living and tender, like a maiden's cheek. He
reached for the spray and cut it off, feeling sure he could make his
peace with the mistress of the house when he confessed his theft. He
stood a moment looking at the beautiful roses, one almost full blown,
the other two just curling apart, like a baby trying to waken. He drank
in their fragrance in a long, deep breath, and then, thinking his
fanciful thoughts of the girl to whom he had given his heart so freely
before he yet knew her, he walked slowly on to the little arbor hid
among the yew trees.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer stood in the doorway of Dawn's room, aghast,
scarcely able to believe her eyes. Yes, the girl was gone. Where? was
her instant thought. Perhaps she had fled, and would make them more
trouble. A great fear clutched at the woman's heart lest she had made a
terrible mistake by not talking the matter over with her step-daughter
the night before, and making her understand what she was to do. Now,
perhaps, it would be found out by them all, and by her husband in
particular, that she had not yet told the girl anything. Mrs. Van
Rensselaer had a decided fear of her husband. Their wills had never
really clashed so far, but for some years she had had a feeling that if
they ever did, he would be terrible. She shrank back with a wild
heating of her heart, and looked about the shadowy hall as if she
expected to find the girl lurking there. Then her stern common-sense
came to the surface, and she went boldly into the room and made a
systematic search. It did not take but a minute to make sure that Dawn
was not there, and that wherever she was she had taken nothing with her,
save the clothes she had worn the evening before. It suddenly occurred
to the step-mother that she ought to have gone into the room before
retiring last night and made sure that her charge was there; but so sure
had she been that she had heard Dawn come in, it had not occurred to her
to do it. Besides, where could the girl go? She was very likely
maundering about that dull old garden she had haunted ever since her
return from school.
With that, Mrs. Van Rensselaer looked out of the window, just in time to
catch sight of her young guest cutting the roses. With keen
apprehension, she saw what might be about to happen, and knew that
instant action was the only thing that could prevent a catastrophe.
Regardless of dressing-gown and slippers, and of the night-cap which
concealed her scant twist of hair, she descended the stairs, strode out
the front door and down the garden path, coming in sight of the young
man just as he turned the corner of the yew hedge into the walk that led
into the green arbor.
Charles stopped suddenly, for there sat Dawn in her little white gown,
with her head bowed upon her arms, on the rustic table, and her wealth
of dark curls covering her. Her young frame shook with sobbing, yet so
quietly did she weep that he had not heard her.
Her ear, alert with apprehension, caught the sound of his foot upon the
gravel, and she raised her head as suddenly as he had stopped.
She looked at him with frightened eyes, out of which the tears had fled
down her white cheeks. The face was full of anguish, yet sweet and
pitiful withal, framed in its ripple of dark hair.
One instant she looked at him as if he were a vision from whence she
could not tell, then that great light grew in her eyes, as he had seen
it on the hillside, and before he knew what he was doing he had smiled.
Then the light in her eyes grew into an answering smile and lit up her
whole beautiful, sorrowful face. It was like a rainbow in the pale dawn
of the morning, that smile, with the tear-drops still upon her lashes.
"Jemima, what on earth!" broke in the harsh voice of her step-mother.
"You certainly do take the craziest notions! You out here in that rig
at this time in the morning! I guess you didn't count on company rising
early, too. And your hair not combed either! I certainly am mortified.
Run in quick and get tidied up. There's plenty to do this morning,
without mooning in the garden. You'll excuse her"--to the guest. "She
had no idea any one else would be out here so early."
The smile had gone from the girl's face, and instead the fright had come
back at sound of her tormentor's jangling voice. She looked down at her
little rumpled frock, put back her hair with trembling hand, and a flood
of sweet, shamed color came into the white face, just as the sun burst
up behind the hedge and touched the green with rosy morning brightness.
Without a word in reply, she turned to go, but her eyes met those of
Charles with a pleading that went to his heart, and his eyes answered
unspeakable things, of which neither knew the meaning, though each felt
the strange joy they brought.
As he stood back to let her pass, he held out to her the spray of lovely
rosebuds, and without a word she took them and went swiftly on into the
house. Not a word had passed between them, yet each felt that something
wonderful had happened.
Dawn looked neither to right nor to left, fearing lest she should see
some one less welcome, and so she fled to her room, with the sound of
her step-mother's clanging voice, uttering some commonplaces about the
morning and the garden, floating to her in indistinct waves.
"You will let me see her now just as soon as she is ready to come down?"
Charles asked eagerly at the door.
"I will talk with her at once, and let you know what she says," answered
the vexed lady evasively. She was all out of breath and flurried with
the anxiety lest she had been too late. It had been a narrow escape.
She did not like to begin an important day like this with being
flustered. Besides, she had become conscious of her night-cap, the ugly
lines of her dressing-gown, the flop-flop of her slippers. A long wisp
of hair had escaped from her cap and was tickling her nose, as she
ascended the stairs with as much dignity as the circumstances and her
slippers allowed, in full sight of the ardent lover.
"Well, Jemima Van Rensselaer, I hope you're satisfied!" she flared out,
as soon as she was inside the girl's door. "What on earth took you out
in the wet at this unearthly hour? And on your wedding day, too! I
should think you'd be ashamed! I declare I shall be glad to my soul
when this day's over and I can wash my hands of the responsibility of
you. If your father knew the freaks and fancies and the queer actions
of you I'm not sure what he wouldn't do to you! Now, look here! Sit
down. I want to talk to you."
But Dawn had flung herself upon her bed in a paroxysm of tears, and was
smothering her wild sobs in the pillow. She did not hear a word.
Nor could threats nor protests, nor even a thorough shaking, bring her
out of it until the tears had wept themselves out. But finally she lay
quiet and white upon the bed, and even the hard-hearted woman who did
not love her was stirred to a sort of pity for the abject woe that was
upon her face.
"Say, look here, Jemima"--even the hated name brought forth no sign from
the girl--"now put away all this foolishness. Girls always feel kind of
queer at getting married and making a change in life. I did, myself."
Dawn wondered indifferently if her step-mother had ever been a girl.
She certainly had not been one when she married Dawn's father.
"You'll feel all right once you get in your own home and have things the
way you want them around you."
Dawn shuddered. She would have _him_ around her.
"Now, do get up and wash your face. A bride oughtn't to look as if she
was just getting over the measles. Besides, you'll be wanted pretty
soon to go downstairs----"
"Oh!" Dawn involuntarily put her hand over her heart. "Must I go down
and see all those dreadful people? Couldn't I just stay here
till--till--till it's time?"
Now, this was exactly what Mrs. Van Rensselaer wanted her to say, and,
moreover, had been counting upon. If Dawn had assented to going down,
her step-mother would have found some excuse for keeping her upstairs.
But she did not wish the girl to know it, so she assumed a look of mild
disapproval.
"It's very queer for you not to want to meet your mother-in-law and
father-in-law, and all your new sisters----"
Dawn shuddered more violently, and clasped her hands quickly over her
eyes, as if to shut out the unpleasant vision of her new kindred.
"Oh, no, no, please!" she besought, looking up at her step-mother with
more earnest pleading than she had ever shown her before.
"Well"--grimly--"I suppose it can be managed, but you'll want to have a
talk with him that's so soon to be your husband----"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Dawn wildly. "I do not want to see him. I cannot
talk with him now. I could never, never, go through that awful ceremony
afterward if I were to see him now. I should run away or something. I'm
sure I should. I don't want to see anybody until I have to."
"He'll think it very strange. I don't see how I can explain it. He's
very anxious to talk to you. He sent you a message last night, but you
were asleep."
So that was what the knock had meant! Dawn was glad she had not
answered it.
"Oh, please, please," she said, clasping her hands in the attitude of
pleading, "couldn't you just explain to him that I'm a very silly girl,
but I should like just these last few minutes to myself. Tell him that
if he has any message, please to tell it to you, and to let me be by
myself now. Tell him he doesn't know how a girl feels when she is going
to stop being a girl. Tell him, please, that if he has any sympathy for
me at all, he won't ask to see me now. It is only a little while, and I
want it to myself."
Her great pleading eyes met Mrs. Van Rensselaer's cold gaze, and her
whole slender figure took an attitude of intense wistfulness. The elder
woman, cold and unloving as she was, could not but acknowledge that the
girl was very beautiful. Her heart might have been touched more had it
not been for the gnawing thought that this child's mother had been the
canker-worm which had blighted the step-mother's whole life.
She turned grimly from the girl, well content that her plans were coming
out as she desired, yet not entirely comfortable in mind or conscience.
Almost she determined to risk telling the girl everything, yet dared
not, lest she utterly refuse to be married even at this late hour.
"Well, I suppose you must have your own way. You always have," she said
grimly.
Dawn wondered when.
"I'll do my best to explain your state of mind," continued Mrs. Van
Rensselaer, "though I'm sure I don't know how he'll take it. It's my
opinion he isn't going to have a bed of roses through life, being a
husband to you, any way, and I suppose he may as well begin to learn."
With which unsympathetic remark, she went heavily out of the girl's
room, and into her own, where she speedily got herself into her wedding
garments. A red spot burned in either sallow cheek, but her mouth wore
the line of victory. So far she had carried out her schemes well.