Dawn fled through the dark grass, straight from the house, not knowing
or thinking where she was going, only to get away. In a moment she
reached a high hedge of dense growth, and, not daring more than to
glance toward the house, she crept swiftly along toward the street. A
few rods from the sidewalk she found a small opening and slipped through
into another great yard. Keeping close to the hedge, she soon reached
the front, and slid out at the gate like a wraith, wondering what she
would do if some one in the neighbor's house should accost her. But no
one was near. She could hear footsteps coming, and gay voices, so she
turned and hurried the other way, though it carried her past the house
she had just left. It would not do, she thought, to meet any one just
yet.
It was this little circumstance that determined the direction of her
flight, and carried her away from the road her kindly pursuers expected
her to take.
She presently reached a lane and turned into it. It happened to be a
private lane leading to a farm-house set far back from the street, and
as she approached the house the deep bay of hounds heralded her coming.
Her heart stood still with fright, for she had read much about the
horror of being pursued by bloodhounds. In those days there was much
talk of the pursuit of escaped slaves, and the girl's imagination
suddenly saw herself surrounded by a great pack of hounds sent to bring
her back. She paused and crouched beside the fence. Presently she
heard a man's voice not far away, and saw a speck of light moving and
bobbing here and there near the dark outline of the house. Then her
senses came back. This was not a dog sent after her, but a man, who had
heard her, an intruder, near the house. Perhaps he would come and
search her out. She must get over that fence as fast as possible.
The silk skirts rustled horribly, and cold chills of apprehension crept
down Dawn's back, as she found how much harder it was to climb a fence
encumbered by long skirts and a bundle, than when dressed as a care-free
school-girl. That gave her an idea. She ought to get off that silk
dress as soon as possible, for its noise would attract attention.
Another howl of the dog startled her just as she cleared the fence, so
she began to run. Fortunately, the house was between her and the town,
and she had not to turn back upon her way. She discovered by the humps
and hillocks that she was in a meadow, and she struck out as far away
from the house as possible, though the way was rough, and several times
she fell. But the dog's howling was more distant now, and she concluded
he had been chained. Ahead of her, she could see a dark line of trees,
and she hurried toward them. At least, she could pause there a minute
and arrange her clothing.
She crept within the edge of the woods, and dared not look around, so
easily her imagination could people it with evil spirits. She was
naturally of a courageous nature, and at school had always been ready to
dare anything just for fun, but it was a different matter to be running
away into the great night world of a place you had never seen.
With trembling fingers, she unfastened her bundle, being careful to
stick the pins on the corner of her handkerchief in her hand-bag, where
she could find them in the dark. It was a work of time and care to
extricate the little gray frock from the bundle and be sure to lose
nothing in the darkness. She unrolled it cautiously, gathering the
other things within the largest garment she had brought, and then
slipped the dress out from underneath, first taking the precaution to
pin the smaller bundle together. Then she took off her mantle, slipped
out of her silk frock and into the gray one, all the time nervously
staring into the darkness of the fields through which she had just come.
What if some one should catch her now?
The blood pounded through her heart, and poured up into her face, as
though it were on a mad race to strangle her. Her hair was wet with
perspiration and clinging to her forehead, yet she felt a chill. It
seemed as if her fingers were growing wooden and clumsy as she turned
the silk frock inside out and folded it carefully, pinning it over the
other bundle, so that it would show only a gray cotton lining. The silk
mantle she put on again, and, feeling carefully about to see that she
had left nothing behind, she turned to face the blackness of the woods.
It was only a maple sugar grove on the edge of a prosperous farm, but it
looked inky black, and might have been filled with all sorts of wild
animals, for aught she knew. Yet she pressed on. She felt as if the
woods were a friend, at least. She had been used to walking among the
trees and telling her troubles there to the birds and breezes, and now
it seemed a natural refuge, in spite of its blackness. If only it were
the old woods she knew at the school, she would not be afraid at all.
But fear henceforth must have no part in her life. She had herself to
look out for, and she would never, never go again where any one could
talk to her as that dreadful woman had talked. She shuddered as she
remembered the cold, cultured voice, and the scorn that had pierced her
soul with a shame that she knew was unjust. Her rising anger helped her
to go on and put down any timidity that she might have felt, and
presently, through feeling from tree to tree, she came out to the other
side of the maple grove. Far away to the east she could see a pale moon
rising. She started toward it, keeping close to the maple grove, as if
it were a friend. The way led over two or three more meadows, and now in
her little gray frock she found it much easier to climb the fences.
At last she came to a straight, white road in the country, with the
slender moon hanging low over it. With relief, she climbed the
intervening fence and took her way along the beaten path. Her light
prunella slippers had found it hard travelling in the meadows.
The day had been a long one, and filled with excitement, beginning with
fear and trouble, and preceded by a sleepless night. Dawn was very
weary now that she felt herself safe from the terror that possessed her,
yet she must walk all night, for it would not be safe to lie down, she
knew. She had heard of wild beasts lurking on the edges of towns, and a
wolf or a bear would not be a pleasant companion.
On she went through the sweet summer night, slackening not her pace,
even though there was now no longer need for haste. It seemed to her
tired spirit that she must go on and on thus, throughout ages, always
alone and misunderstood and pursued. The thought of her husband and
their beautiful day together seemed like some tantalizing dream, that
hovered on her memory and sickened her with its impossibility. Such joy
as his love offered her was too great for her ever to have hoped to
attain. Yet in her secret soul she knew she was glad to have had it,
even if only to have it snatched from her.
As she thought over her own hasty action in leaving her husband's home
forever, she could not feel she had done wrong. Never, never could she
have lived with others taunting her that she had been married out of
pity--for that was what his mother's words had meant. Charles had not
married her for love, but for pity, because, for some unexplained
reason, Harrington had chosen to desert her at the last minute. Her
exhausted spirit did not care to know the reason. She could but be
thankful that he had. Anything, anything was better than to have been
married to him.
All at once a wild fear possessed her that perhaps by leaving the refuge
of his brother's home she had again put herself in danger of Harrington.
Perhaps he would find her out, follow her, and compel her to come with
him.
As the night went on, all sorts of curious fancies took possession of
her excited brain, until she started at her own shadow, and thought some
one was following her when all was still in the empty road behind.
Once or twice she sat down by the roadside to rest, but the awful desire
for sleep which crept over her frightened her, and she staggered to her
feet again.
The road wound into a lonesome wood of tall forest trees, so high that
the moon's faint glimmer served only to make the path look blacker. But
now she was too dead with weariness to have any fear, and she walked on
and on into the blackness of the forest, with no care save to keep
going. At last, under a group of pines that huddled together as if they
were of one family, she stumbled over a great root that obtruded among
the slippery pine needles and fell headlong. She lay still for a
moment, dazed, and then the sense of relief and exhaustion became so
great that, without a thought of wild beasts, she drew her bundle up
under her head and continued to lie still on the soft, sweet bed of
needles.
The great pines bent their feathery heads over her, and the wind crept
into the branches and softly sang a lullaby over the lonely little
pilgrim. Regardless of dangers that might be stalking about her, she
slept.
Quite early in the morning, before the first faint streaks of day had
penetrated the cool retreat where Dawn lay asleep, there came a soft
murmur of gentle music from the trees all about; and soon a sleepy
twitter brightened and grew into a chorus of melody, bird answering to
bird from tree to tree. Up and down and around, in and out and over,
the threads of song spun themselves into a lovely golden web of harmony
that seemed to shut the vaulted forest in loftily from all the world,
and in the midst of it all Dawn awoke.
It was quite gradual, her return to consciousness, as if the atmosphere
of sweetness and melody pervaded her soul, and stirred it from its
slumber in spite of itself, bringing new life and a great peace.
At first she did not open her eyes, nor think where she was. It was
enough that she smelled the pines and felt the soft lap of nature where
she lay. It seemed still, very still and restful; cool and sweet and
dark. That she knew with her eyes closed. Up above, where the birds
sang, she seemed to feel a golden light coming, coming, and knew that it
would soon grow into morning. But now she might just allow herself this
little time to lie still and listen and wait. There came to her
consciousness a thrill of freedom that in her fright and hurry the night
before she had not realized. For months now she had been half-planning
to run away from the things that were saddening her life, and now she
had done it. She was free! Free to order her small life for herself.
Down deep in her heart tugged the agony of a great loss, yet it was as
of the loss of something she had never really had--only dreamed of
briefly. She would not let herself think of Charles now. She wanted to
keep his memory as something sweet to take out and look at sometimes
when she was lonely, but that could not be until the first bitterness of
the shame of her union to him was past. She wanted to forget the scene
in his mother's room, her terrible helplessness before the onslaught of
the woman's tongue; and just to rest and feel that she was free.
Freedom meant getting away from Harrington Winthrop and from her
step-mother, and from her father's wrath, or his possible efforts to
shape her life. What else it meant, she had yet to learn. She supposed
there was some place in the world where she might work for what she
needed. The thought of her livelihood did not trouble her. Youth feels
equal to its own support always, if it has any spirit at all. Dawn had
plenty of spirit, and felt sure she could earn her "board and keep." At
present, she was concerned only in getting rested and getting away as
far as possible from all the evil things which seemed to have combined
to crush her.
The light came on, and the morning entered the forest. A saucy little
squirrel ran up the tree beneath which the girl lay, and, poised on a
high twig, looked down and chattered at her noisily. Down fell a bit of
bark upon Dawn's face, and, laughing involuntarily, she sat up and
looked about her. The dim aisles of the forest were lit with golden
lights now, and the birds, their matins almost finished, were hurrying
about with breakfast preparations. A wood-thrush spilled his liquid
notes out now and then, like a silver spoon dropped into a glass. A
robin called his mate, and a blackbird whistled forth a silken melody.
Dawn laughed aloud again at the squirrel, and tossed back the curls that
had come loose from the confining comb during her sleep. It was good
just to be here and to be free.
The squirrel chattered back at her and ran up the tree. Dawn unpinned
her bundle and made her simple toilet. There was no brook near, where
she could wash her face, but perhaps she would come to one by and by.
She combed out her hair as well as she could with only a back-comb, and
did it up on her head, for she must have dignity now if she were going
out in the world to shift for herself. Then she looked over her small
possessions carefully, as a shipwrecked mariner might take account of
the wreckage he had saved. She took a kind of fierce joy in the thought
that she had brought none of the elaborate garments which her
step-mother had prepared for her trousseau. They were all the simple
school garments that had been put at the bottom of her trunk.
She rolled up the bundle again and pinned it closely, then tied her
bonnet on demurely, straightened her frock, and was ready for the day.
A soft little pathway of light beckoned her through the woods, and she
followed it, her bundle tucked under her cape, her hand-bag with its
cords safely twisted about her wrist.
The bar of light grew brighter and broader, and led her to another road.
Unwittingly, she had come a way that would take her far from the place
where she started more directly than any other she could have chosen.
The sight of the white road in the dewy morning light gave her new zest
for her journey. Her sleep, short though it had been, had rested her
wonderfully, and she was eager to get on her way.
She climbed the fence and fairly flew down the road. It was very early,
and she would be far on her way before people were up and stirring.
There were mile-posts on this road, and guide-boards sometimes at
cross-roads. That meant that a stage-route came that way. She studied
the next guide-board carefully, and decided that she was on the direct
route to New York, and that the miles might mean from New York to
somewhere else. Not Albany, of course, for she must be far to the west
of that. Perhaps she would find out later, as she went on. What if she
should go as far as New York? How long would it take her? She could
not go all at once, probably; but gradually she might work her way down.
Why not? The world was before her. She would watch the mile-posts and
see how long it took her to go a mile.
Thus dreaming, she flew along like a bird.
Here and there she passed a farm, and soon she began to see signs of
life about. The men were coming from the barns with brimming pails of
milk. As she passed one house somewhat nearer to the road than the
rest, she caught the fragrance of frying ham and the aroma of coffee.
It made her hungry.
A mile further she came to a small white house not far from the
roadside. Outside the door a woman who wore a sunbonnet and a big apron
sat on a three-legged stool, milking a mild old cow. As Dawn came near,
the woman gave the last scientific squeeze, and moved the pail from its
position under the cow, then, taking the stool in one hand and the pail
in the other, started for the house. The face she showed beneath the
deep sunbonnet was a kindly one.
Following an impulse, Dawn turned in at the front gate, and the old
woman paused to see what she wanted:
"Could you let me have a glass of milk?" Dawn's voice was sweet, and
she held her purse in her hand. "I would be glad to pay for it. I
started early this morning, and am hungry. I'm on my way to the next
village."
The woman's face lit up at the sight of the girl's smile.
"A glass of milk?" she said. "'Course I can, but I don't want no pay
for it. Just you keep your pennies for a new ribbon to wear under that
pretty chin. Set down under the tree there on the bench, an' I'll bring
a cup."
She put down her pail on a large flat stone, and hurried in, coming out
in a moment with a plate of steaming johnny-cake and a flowered cup of
delicate china. The woman strained the milk into the cup and stood
watching her while she ate the delicious breakfast.
"Come fur?" asked the hostess, eying the sweet young tramp
appreciatively.
"From beyond Schoharie," she answered quickly, remembering the name on
the last cross-road signboard she had passed.
"H'm! Right smart way fer a little slip of a thing like you to come
alone. You must 'a' started 'fore light."
"Soon after," laughed Dawn. She felt as if she were playing a game.
Then, perceiving that the old lady was curious and would ask questions
that she did not care to answer, she launched into a description of the
morning sky and the early bird songs. The old woman watched her as if
she were drinking in a picture that did her good.
"Bless me!" she said. "That sounds like poetry verses. How do you
think it up?"
Then she whisked into the house again and came out with a paper of
doughnuts.
"You might get hungry again 'fore you get to the village, and these
doughnuts was extra good this time. Just take 'em an' eat 'em to pass
the time as you go. If you feel hungry when you come along back, just
stop in. I'll be glad to see your pretty face. It does a body good.
Goin' back before sundown?"
"No," said Dawn; "I may stay some time. I'm not sure. But I thank you
very much for your kind invitation, and I know I shall enjoy the
doughnuts. I love doughnuts. We used to have them in school once a
week in the winter, but only one apiece."
"So you've been to boardin'-school!"
The old woman would fain have detained her, but Dawn edged away toward
the gate, thanking her sweetly all the while, and saying she must
hasten, for the sun was getting high. She hurried down the road at
last, pretending not to hear the old woman's question about who were her
friends in Schoharie, and where she was going to visit in the village.
Her cheeks were bright with the excitement of the little episode, and
she trilled a gay song as she fled on her unknown way. For the time
being, all sadness was put away, and she was gay and free as a lark.
Just a happy child.
A farmer's boy on a hay-wagon crawling along to the village stopped his
whistling and stared at her; and the hired man on top of the load called
out to him some remark about her that made the color grow brighter in
her cheeks and her heart flutter wildly in her breast. She could not
hear what words the man had spoken, but his tone had been contemptuous
and familiar. She fairly flew by the team, and fled on down the road.
By noon the johnny-cake and milk were dreams of the past, and she was
exceedingly hungry, yet she had not come to a place where she cared to
ask for dinner. Every farm-house she came to seemed to have plenty of
farmhands about, coming in to their dinner, and she dreaded their eyes
upon her. So she sat down under a tree by the roadside and ate her fat,
sugary doughnuts, rested a few minutes, and plodded on.
The afternoon was more wearisome. Her slippers hurt her feet, and she
had to stop often to rest. About five o'clock she came to a
neat-looking inn by the roadside, where a decent woman sat knitting by
the door, and Dawn decided to sacrifice something from her small store
of money and stop overnight.
The woman eyed her curiously when she asked for a room and supper. Not
many pilgrims so young or so beautiful passed her way unattended. Dawn
explained that she was on her way to another town, to look for something
to do.
"I suppose you're expecting to teach school," said the woman
disapprovingly. "They all do nowadays, when they better be home,
helping their mothers make bread and pies."
"My mother is dead," said Dawn quietly, "and I must earn my own living
now."
The woman was silenced, and gave the young traveller a pleasant little
whitewashed room, where she slept soundly. But an idea had come to her.
A teacher! Of course, she could be a teacher. Had she not led her
classes, and always been successful in showing the girls at school how
to do their sums? She would enjoy playing the part of Friend Ruth, and
putting a class through its paces. It quite interested her to think how
she would do it. But how would she get her school? Should she go to
New York and try, or begin in a country one first?
This thought interested her all through the day, which was Saturday, and
kept away the undertone of consciousness of a deep loss. But once,
toward evening, she passed a shiny new carryall in which rode a young
man and a girl, and a sharp pang shot through her heart as it brought
back vividly to her memory the beautiful day which she and Charles had
spent together. And then her mind went back to the first time she had
seen him, that day when she was standing on the hilltop with, her small
audience before her, and had looked up and seen the shining of his eyes.
It came to her then that she had a certain right of possession in him,
as if that day had given her to him and him to her in a bond that could
never be broken, no matter how far they might be separated. Quiet joy
settled down upon her with the thought that, whatever might come,
whether she ever saw him again or not, she was his wife, and nobody,
nobody could ever take the thought of it from her.
The sun was setting, and evening bells were ringing in the spire of a
little white church, as she came into a small village nestled at the
foot of a circle of hills. It reminded her that the next day was the
Sabbath.
That day had no sweet association for her since her mother's death, but,
though she had been only a little child, she could remember walking by
her mother's side to church, with her little starched skirts swinging,
and her mitted hands folded demurely over her pocket handkerchief, while
the bells rang a cheery call to prayer. There had been no bells on the
meeting-house to which the scholars of Friend Ruth's school were taken
every First Day, and nothing about the service to remind her of the
church where she had sat by her mother's side in the high-backed pew and
heard the hymns lined out, trying to follow the singing of the
congregation with her wee sweet voice; but now the bells harked back
over the years and brought an aching memory of her almost forgotten
little girlhood. A sudden longing to go to church as she used to do came
over her, and she decided to find a place in the village to stay over
Sunday and go to service in the little white-spired church. Besides, it
was against the law in those days for any one to travel unnecessarily on
the Sabbath day. Dawn never thought of doing so, any more than she
would have contemplated the possibility of stealing.
It chanced that she arrived at the village tavern about the same time as
the stage-coach from the opposite direction, and no one noticed that she
had not come on the stage, for there were a number of travellers who
stopped off here for the Sabbath. Seeing them descending from the
coach, she went in haste to the landlady and begged that she might have
a tiny room to herself. She was a little frightened at the thought of
paying a whole dollar out of her small hoard for the lodging and her
meals until after breakfast Monday morning, but she shut her eyes to the
thought of it and took the room. It was only a tiny one over a shed
that was given her, but everything was clean and sweet, and the supper
smells came richly up through the open window to her hungry senses. On
the whole, she was quite content when she lay down to rest in her own
little room that night and dreamed of church-bells, and weddings, and
sweet fields of clover and new-mown hay.