"Do they all know and understand?" whispered Dawn to Charles, as they
turned to walk up to the house, Betty fluttering ahead carrying Dawn's
hand-bag and silk cape.
"Yes, they all know and understand, dear. It is all right," said
Charles reassuringly.
Old Mr. Winthrop stooped and kissed her as she came up the steps, and
said, "Welcome home, daughter!" Cordelia and Madeleine, too, made her
warmly welcome. Just behind them stood Aunt Martha, with arms spread
wide to receive her in a motherly embrace.
"Mother is lying down, resting now," explained Betty, "and sent word she
would see you after supper."
They bore Dawn off to the second story, where Betty took entire
possession of her and showed her the rooms they had hastily prepared;
for of course Harrington had not intended bringing his prospective bride
home, and Betty and her sisters had had much ado to put things in bridal
array after their own arrival home from the wedding.
"We'll get some of these pictures and things out of your way to-morrow,
so you will have room for your own things, but we hadn't much time
to-night, you know. We got home only two hours ahead of you, if we did
come by a shorter cut. Horses cannot travel as fast as railroad trains,
I guess," chattered Betty. "Do you think you will be comfortable
to-night? Or, I could take some more things out, if you want to unpack
your own," she added anxiously.
Dawn looked around on the exquisitely appointed rooms. The great
bedroom, with high-canopied bed; curtains and valance of blue-flowered
chintz to match the window draperies; the wall-paper of dreamy
landscapes, with hazy blue skies, and rivers winding like blue ribbons
among sunny hills; the fine old mahogany furniture; the little glow of
fire in the open fireplace, with the great, stuffed, chintz-covered
chair drawn up before it--all seemed like heaven to her.
Through the open door one entered a hastily improvised private
sitting-room. The girls had had the furniture taken from the connecting
bedroom, and in its place had put a desk, reading-table, chairs, and
bookcase of mahogany. Candles burned brightly everywhere in silver
candlesticks, with tall glass candle-shades over them. Some books and
papers were scattered on the table, and a comfortable chair stood ready
for some one to occupy. The rooms could not have been more home-like.
And all this was for her and--him! She caught her breath with the
happiness of it, and a pink tinge stole into her cheeks.
"Do you think you can be happy here?" Betty asked anxiously.
"Oh, happier than I ever was in my life!" cried Dawn. "Only, it seems
too beautiful to be true. It seems as if I was dreaming;" and in a
pretty little way she had when she was surprised and pleased, she
clasped her hands over her heart.
"Oh, I'm so glad!" said Betty. "And let me whisper a secret: I always
loved Charles more than Harrington. Charles is a dear!"
Dawn's eyes shone with her deep joy.
"Oh, do you?" was all she could say, but she wished she dared tell Betty
that she was a dear also.
Then her little sister-in-law went away and left her to wash her hands
and smooth her hair for supper, and in a moment Charles came in.
Dawn stood in the middle of the room, looking about, her eyes shining,
the firelight glimmering over her dark hair and bringing out the green
lights in the silk frock she wore. She looked so young and sweet and
dear as she stood there alone, taking in the picture of her new home,
that Charles paused to watch her, and then came softly up, and folded
his arms reverently about her, drawing her close. It was a long,
beautiful moment of perfect bliss, the memory of which stayed with the
two through all that came afterward. Then their lips met and sealed the
sacredness of their union.
But Betty's voice broke in upon the joy:
"Charles, the supper is getting cold, and you know I told you to bring
her down at once. Come quick!"
Reluctantly they prepared to go.
"One minute, Betty!" Charles called. "I must wash my hands first!"
"Charles, you know you are just admiring your wife, and not hurrying a
bit," called back saucy Betty. "Do make haste. I want to admire her
myself."
"Before we go down, Dawn, I must say one word. Don't let them know
anything about your not knowing. They think that you understood it all
and were willing. I can't see how it happened. Mrs. Van Rensselaer went
upstairs last night to tell you all about Harrington, and to take my
offer to you, and when she came down she said you wanted to think it
over."
The deep color came in Dawn's cheeks, and the flash into her eyes.
"She did not speak to me last night after you came," she said.
"But in the morning, after I saw you in the garden--did she tell you
nothing then?"
"She only talked to me about the wedding, and told me I must not look up
during the ceremony, that it was not nice. That seemed to be the only
thing she cared about."
"Didn't she tell you at all about Harrington?"
"Not a word, except that I ought to go down and talk with him before the
ceremony? Was he asking for me?"
The dark eyes took on their frightened look.
Charles frowned heavily behind the big damask towel with which he was
drying his face.
"Never mind, dear. Harrington has behaved outrageously, but we will not
talk about it now. I'm ashamed to call him my brother."
"Oh! He is your brother, isn't he?" said Dawn, suddenly perceiving the
fact. "Of course!"
"Didn't you know even that? What could the woman have been thinking
about? What object could your mother possibly have had in not telling
you everything?"
"Charles!" Betty's voice was insistent now.
"Yes, Betty. Just ready," answered Charles impatiently.
"She is not my mother, you know, and she never liked me," said Dawn, in
a low voice, as if she were ashamed of it all.
"Never mind, dear; let's forget it now, and be happy."
He stooped and drew her face against his for just an instant, and then
they went out to the impatient Betty.
Downstairs it was all gaiety and brightness. Once Charles said with a
soft light in his eyes, "I'm sorry Mother couldn't be down to-night.
How is she feeling now?" and Dawn looked at him in awe and love, and
thought how beautiful it was to have a mother that one longed to have
about.
"Your mother will be all right in the morning, I think," answered his
father, with just a tinge of sadness in his voice; and a quietness
settled over them all for a moment. Dawn thought it was because they
loved her so much and were sorry she was sick.
"We didn't ask any of the neighbors in to-night, because we thought you
would be so tired, and it would be better to wait till you were rested,
so we could have a real party and do things up nicely, not in such a
hurry. They don't even know yet that Charles is married, you know."
Betty's voice gushed into the pause that had come in the conversation,
as if she wished to fill it quickly, no matter with what.
"Yes, that's right," approved Charles. "We don't want a lot of folks
around. We just want you folks for a while."
After supper Cordelia took Dawn up to their mother's room.
Dawn's heart beat high with hope. She had caught but a glimpse of
Charles's mother that morning, and did not remember clearly how she
looked. The young bride's heart went out to her with a double love,
because her own lost mother had been so dear.
Mrs. Winthrop was lying in a great bed with a rose-colored canopy. The
bed-curtains were of white starched dimity, and the white linen all
about her made her look like some delicate flower in an elaborate vase.
The canopy threw sea-shell tints on the delicate complexion that had not
darkened in spite of years, and the rosy light from the open fire on the
other side of the room played over her beautiful white hair that was
carefully arranged in curls on her cheeks. The bed-gown she wore was of
homespun linen, fine and elaborate in make; her small, patrician hands
were glowing with rare jewels. The delicate face was that of a
beautiful woman; beautiful yet, in spite of the fact that she had grown
old; beautiful and proud, yet lovable. She looked like some rare bit of
Dresden china, perfect of its kind, and perfectly cared for. Dawn
paused on the threshold shyly and admired her. Then she came forward at
Cordelia's introduction, but, instead of taking the delicate hand that
was held out coldly to greet her, she stooped over impulsively and
kissed her new mother. She had never done such a thing to any one since
her own mother died, but she wanted to give her best to Charles's
mother, she was so glad to-night.
"Sit down," the high-bred voice commanded politely. "Yes, there in the
chair where I can see you. Cordelia, you need not remain."
Dawn sat down, and there was a pause until the door closed after
Cordelia. Somehow, the young wife's heart began to sink a little. The
room looked so very large, the bed was so high and big, the beautiful
old lady so small and far away, and her smile was so like a picture.
Madam Winthrop turned her handsome eyes with an uncordial coolness upon
her new daughter-in-law, and looked her through. She was a loving and
lovable woman at times, but she did not seem so now.
"I have sent for you"--she spoke the words with deliberation and
incisiveness--"to tell you that I forgive you."
Dawn gasped, and looked at her in amazement; but the lady paid no heed
to her, only further to fix her with her eyes, and went on:
"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!"
Dawn sprang to her feet, her hands clasped, her face white with anger,
the lightning in her eyes.
"You are saying things that are not true! You are blaming me for what I
have not done. I will not hear another word of it. I did not want to
marry your son Harrington. He came after me while I was in school and
tormented me to marry him. Afterward, he told my father and made him
think it was all fixed between us and Father wrote and gave his consent,
and they planned the wedding and everything without asking me a thing
about it. I did not want to go home, because I was frightened. I did
not want to be married. I knew Father would be angry if I should break
it off after everything was arranged. He is very proud, and has a
terrible temper. But I dreaded it so that I was almost crazy.
"I don't know yet how it came about that Harrington didn't come to the
wedding. No one has told me, and I hadn't thought to ask, I was so glad
to find I wasn't married to him. I didn't know anything about being
married to your other son. I thought I was being married just as it was
planned to--to Harrington. I don't know how that happened either. I
haven't had time to ask Charles yet. I just found out a few minutes ago
that he and I had been married."
"That is a highly improbable story," began the astonished woman in the
bed. "You will not gain anything by telling me tales like that.
Nothing but the strict truth is ever spoken in this family. You will
only bring trouble upon yourself by telling what is not true. Besides,
you certainly know that I would not believe a thing like that. In the
first place, why shouldn't you want to marry Harrington? He certainly
is as good as you are. And the very idea that a girl in her senses
could be married without her own consent! It would be impossible to be
married and not know it."
Dawn stood quite still for a full minute, surveying her antagonist. The
beautiful color had flown into her cheeks again at mention of untruth,
but, as was her wont in moments of great provocation, she had herself
under perfect control. The elder woman acknowledged to herself that the
girl was very beautiful, and lay there watching her victim with a degree
of satisfaction she would not have felt, could she have known what was
passing in the girl's mind.
Dawn's voice was clear and controlled when she spoke again. All
excitement seemed to have gone out of it, but every word went straight
to the mark like sharp steel:
"You say I have robbed you of your son. You may have him back again at
once. I did not ask him to marry me, and I cannot stay in your house if
you doubt my word. I shall never trouble either of you again."
She turned swiftly and silently and went out of the room, closing the
door noiselessly behind her. The old lady lay still in blank
astonishment. For any one to speak to her in that manner was
unprecedented. To disappear and leave no opportunity for rebuke was
outrageous. She felt helpless and outgeneraled. Not in years had her
superiority been so rudely set aside as during this whole affair. For
the moment she was bewildered, and lay thinking it over, unable even to
make up her mind whether or not she should pull the bell rope and call
some of the family, to tell what had happened. Truth to tell, she was
mortified that her well-laid plan had ended so ignominiously.
Dawn went swiftly across the hall to the door of her own room, which she
had left so joyously a short hour before.
The candles had burned low, but the firelight was flickering softly over
everything, and made the room look a very haven of comfort. The poor
child searched it furtively now, to make sure that no one was there.
For just a moment she stood in the middle of the room, looking about,
her hands clasped tragically over her heart, her eyes full of unspoken
agonies. The whole ugly import of the new mother's words swept over her
and seemed as if it would overwhelm her. Then she girded herself to
carry out the resolution she had formed, her proud nature stung to the
quick.
On the big white bed lay her bonnet and mantle. It was the work of but
a moment to put them on, though her fingers trembled so that she could
scarcely tie the ribbons under her chin.
Charles had unfastened her trunk before he went down to supper, and set
it open for her. There on the top, where she had slipped it in after
her step-mother had shut the trunk and gone downstairs, lay the sombre
gray frock she had worn at Friend Ruth's school. She had put it in with
sudden impulse, as being the only thing she had left of her girlhood.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer had seen to it that her step-daughter's outfit was
perfect, as befitted the daughter of her father. No Winthrop should
criticise her for lack of elaborate and costly outfit. But the gray
dress which had been cast aside was the one Dawn had worn afternoons at
the school, and it reminded her of pleasant days among the girls, with
care-free thoughts--a little gray girlhood, which had nevertheless
become bright in comparison to the new life. She snatched the gray
frock, and in it wrapped a few light articles she felt she might need,
taking only necessities, and of those but few. These she rolled tightly
in the frock, pinned the bundle firmly, saw that it could be hidden
under her mantle, caught up her hand-bag which contained a purse with
twenty-five dollars which her father had put into her hands when she
left home, and was ready.
She had not stopped to think how she was going to get out of the house
without being seen. A glance out of the front window showed a balcony
with a wrought-iron railing, which hung inside the white pillared front
piazza, but Charles and his father sat just below, talking in low,
pleasant voices. She could not get out that way. Equally impossible,
of course, would be the front door, even if she could get through the
hall without Betty's seeing her.
With one long look down at Charles, she put out a protesting hand toward
him, as if bidding him farewell. It wrung her heart to look at him.
She turned quickly away, paused an instant in the middle of the room,
and swept it with her eyes, then, with a little tragic wave of
renunciation, she went swiftly into the room beyond. The open desk
caught her attention. She stopped and, taking up a pen, wrote on a
sheet of paper:
Goodby. I had to go.--DAWN.
She wrote hurriedly, feeling that she had but a brief respite for her
flight. Then, casting down the pen, she went to one of the windows in
the room and looked out. There was another balcony here, and she stepped
out. It was dark, but the candle-light from the dining-room showed a
terrace below. It did not look to be a great distance.
For an ordinary runaway bride, this balcony would have been impossible
as a mode of egress; but Dawn and her schoolmates had practised all
sorts of gymnastics from the windows and roof of the old barn, and even
on the gables of the house itself. She knew how to drop like a cat from
a considerable distance. She could swing from the great high limb of
the old cherry tree that overlooked the Hudson, longer than any of the
other girls, and then drop gracefully in their midst, without ruffling
her composure in the least.
But to perform such a feat attired in her first long dress of rustling
silk, with a bonnet tied under her chin, and a bundle and hand-bag to
look after--to say nothing of doing it in an unknown and almost entirely
dark place--was another thing.
Dawn glanced back into the room, but could think of no other way. It
wouldn't be pleasant to fall and break her leg at the outset, but she
fancied she heard steps coming up the stairs, and to hesitate might
bring discovery.
She leaned quickly over the railing of the balcony and dropped her
bundle down to the terrace. It fell with a hushed thud among the tall
grass, and did not sound as if the distance were great.
Twisting the cords of her hand-bag twice about her wrist, she swung her
feet over the railing and stood on the outer edge of the balcony,
holding the rail lightly, and shaking out her skirt so that it would not
impede her progress. Then she cautiously crept down, holding to the
ironwork of the railing, and then to the floor of the balcony, and hung
for a moment to get her breath and be sure of herself before she let go.
Then, closing her eyes, she dropped to the terrace like a thistledown,
in spite of the voluminous skirts.
She paused an instant to pick up her bundle and make sure her hand-bag
was safe, then, gathering her skirt and holding it close with one hand,
that her feet might be freer, she sped down the terrace and away into
the unknown darkness.