Front matter (continued 3)

The argument had waxed hot, and at one point Dawn had declared that she would not be married at all unless she could wear her hair as she had always worn it. Finally her step-mother threatened to go for the girl's father to settle the dispute. Dawn's face was white, and she turned away to hide her emotion. Then in a strange, hard voice she said:

"I will put it up if it must be."

After all, what did that or anything else matter? Certainly not enough to invoke her father's wrath upon her at this most trying moment of her life.

She drew the mass of beautiful curls up on her head, fastening them with a large tortoise-shell comb which had been her mother's and was treasured by the young girl. The ends of the curls fell in a little shower over the back of the comb, making a lovely effect. The step-mother thought it far too careless and mussy-looking, and frowned at the sweet, artistic head, but Dawn gave it a pat here and there and would have no more to say about it. With her own hands, she arranged the filmy veil. She would not have her step-mother's assistance. Mrs. Van Rensselaer stood by, watching the quick, assured way in which the young bride draped the delicate fabric. The elder woman was half jealous of the girl's deftness.

"Put on your gloves, and you'll do very nicely, though I must say I'd rather see your hair smooth for once. But the veil hides the frowsiness. Now, is there anything you'd like to know about what you've got to do?"

Dawn looked at her step-mother in horror.

"I haven't got to do anything, have I?" There was genuine distress in her voice. She had been so absorbed in the great thought of the result of this act that the ceremony itself, about which so many girls worry, had not entered into her mind in the least.

"Well," said Mrs. Van Rensselaer—there was satisfaction in her voice, for Dawn was unconsciously making it easier for her than she had dared to hope—"there isn't much, of course. Nothing but to keep your eyes down and walk in and say yes. It's all very simple. The main thing is never to look up. It is counted very bad manners to look up. A bride who raises her eyes during the ceremony, or before, is called very bold and—and immodest!"

The step-mother's voice sounded queer to herself, and she picked at an invisible thread on her sleeve. This was the first out-and-out bald lie she had ever told in her life, though she had made many a misleading statement; but that, of course, to a woman with a conscience, was a very different thing. This woman thought she had a conscience, and she was excusing her present action on the ground of necessity, and the circumstances. "She's getting a far better husband every way, anyhow, and it isn't as if she was much attached to the other man. One can see she was afraid of him. I'm really doing her a service, and she'll thank me when she finds it out." This was what she told her conscience now, and went on with her advice to Dawn.

"You want to walk downstairs very slowly, with your eyes on the hem of your frock. You mustn't look up for anything."

"I'm sure I don't know what I should want to look up for," said Dawn coldly. "I'd much rather look down. I'm glad it's quite polite to do so."

"That's right," commended her step-mother, with unusual alacrity. "And it won't do a bit of harm to keep it up some afterward too, at least, till you get out to the dining-room, and then you can look into your plate a good deal. People will only think you are shy and modest, and say nice things about you for it."

"I don't care what people think," observed the girl. "Is that all?"

"Oh, there'll be things he'll ask you—the minister, you know. The regular service. He'll say a lot of things, and then ask you, 'Do you thus promise?' And then you say, 'Yes,' or you can just nod your head."

"But suppose I don't like to promise those things? Won't he marry me?" The girl asked the question sharply, as if she saw a possibility of escape somewhere; but the older woman was so relieved that her task had been performed that she took little notice of the question.

"Oh, yes," she answered carelessly, thinking the girl was anxious about saying her part at the right time. "If you don't get it in, he'll go right on, any way, and it'll soon be over. You know Doctor Parker is very deaf, and he wouldn't know whether you said yes or no. Now, if there isn't anything else, I'll go down, for I hear more carriages coming, and I'll be needed. You're sure you don't want to see him before the ceremony."

"No," said Dawn, turning away from her with a quick gasp of her breath. Oh, if she need never see him, how happy she would be!

"Well, then, I'll go down. You be all ready when I call you to come. Now, mind you don't once raise your eyes until the ceremony is over and you are out in the dining-room. Above all things, don't look up at your husband even then. Nobody should see you look at each other. It makes them think you are foolish and silly."

"I shall certainly not look at him," said Dawn with white lips.

Then the step-mother went out of the room.

Dawn fastened the door and went quickly over to the stand, where the roses had been unnoticed by Mrs. Van Rensselaer. Had she seen them, it would have been like her to throw them out of the window, lest the water should upset on the white satin frock.

The girl bent over and breathed in their fragrance again, and then, carefully drying the stem on a towel, she slipped them up under her veil and fastened them upon her breast with a little pearl pin that had belonged to her mother. She went to her glass and viewed the effect through her veil, with a white, wan smile at the buds nestling among the beautiful lace. She would have one thing as she wanted it, any way: if she must be married, she would wear the flowers that had been given to her with a smile by somebody that understood. This was the last time she would have the right to wear another man's flowers. After to-day she would belong to her husband, but until she did she would wear the only flowers that had ever meant anything to her.

Then she closed her eyes and tried to get her spirit calmed, but she felt like one of those old queens in a tower that they used to study about at school: who was soon to go out and have her head cut off with the guillotine.

A few minutes later Mr. Winthrop again ascended the stairs to his wife's room.

"They want you to come down, Janet," he said gently. "Martha and the girls have come, and they are all waiting for you."

"I shall not come down until I have had a talk with my son Harrington," said that lady decidedly.

"Are you not coming down to the ceremony?" asked her husband. It went very hard with him to deceive the wife of his youth, but there seemed no other way to deal with her in the present situation.

"The ceremony?" She arose with alacrity. "What do you mean? Has Harrington come, and has he explained everything? It has turned out just as I supposed it would."

She stopped in front of the glass and smoothed her hair. She had arrayed herself in her best immediately after breakfast.

"I should think it was time an apology was due from you, Mr. Winthrop." Madam Winthrop stood haughtily in the middle of the room, aware that her small figure was elegant, and feeling that she had entire command of the situation. There was a becoming triumph in the brightness of her eyes and the set of her cameo lips.

"The wedding is to be at once," said her husband gravely, motioning her to precede him.

"What was Harrington's explanation?" she whispered, eager as any girl, now that she thought she had come off triumphant.

"There is no time to talk about it now," said her husband, again motioning her down the stairs.

She had a mind to make another stand before his grave authority, but in reality she was too much relieved from the awful strain she had been under during the past twenty-four hours for her to care to hold out against him longer. She went quietly down the stairs and took the place Mrs. Van Rensselaer most ungraciously assigned her. There was in that lady's eye something unquelled which gave the bridegroom's mother some uneasiness and took her mind from the ceremony, so that she failed to notice as the little procession passed by her almost immediately, that Harrington was not a part of it, and that her youngest son occupied the place of the bridegroom.

It was not until the clear voice rang out in the words, "I do," that something in the boyish accents made her look up and stretch her neck to see her son. How strange that Harrington's voice should sound so exactly like Charles's! But some one was standing so that the bridegroom's face could not be seen by her.

The little bride, with downcast eyes and palpitating heart, stood demurely by his side, her cold hands trembling within the gloves her step-mother had brought from New York for the occasion. One lay upon a fine black coat-sleeve that had put itself within reaching distance. She had not put the glove there herself. A hand, a strong, warm hand, had taken it and put it there, a hand that against her will had sent a strange thrill through her, and left her faint and frightened. That had been at the foot of the stairs, and she had walked with it thus down the room. She had not looked up to see to whom that sleeve belonged. She believed she knew, and it sent no pleasant thought to her heart. Yet she had to acknowledge that the arm had steadied her and kept her from stumbling, and had guided her safely into the vacant spot in front of the minister.

Dawn did not look beyond the hem of her garments, but kept her long lashes drooping on her crimson cheeks, a lovely but frightened bride. She felt keenly the moment the service began, and knew that she was surrendering forever her liberty and girlhood. Good-by to everything that she had ever counted happy in this life. No house, no pretty dishes, no handsome furniture, could ever make up for that now, and her heart cried out in anguish that she had not vetoed the idea when it was first proposed to her, before it had gone so far that retraction was dishonorable.

When the vows were read, and she heard their terrible binding import, she longed to cry out her horror in a great, echoing, "No!" that should leave no doubt in any mind, and would even penetrate to the good minister's deaf ears. But her tongue was tied by fear of her father and his friends, and she dared not lift her voice. Yet she would not speak to make promises her heart could not echo, and so she stood silent, with no nod of her head, no breath of a "yes." The minister, after waiting an instant for the desired assent, passed monotonously and solemnly on to the end, and pronounced those two, who knew each of the other as little almost as it was possible for two human beings to know, man and wife.

During the prayer that followed, Dawn had hard work to keep back the tears that were struggling to creep out and cool her flushed cheeks; but the breath of the roses at her breast seemed to steal up and comfort her, and once, just before the end, a strong hand, warm and gentle, was placed over her gloved one for just an instant, with a pressure that seemed to promise help. Yet because she thought it was an unloved hand, it only made her heart beat the more wildly, and she was glad when the prayer was ended and the hand was taken away.

They came crowding about her after it was over, in the order of their rank, stiffly at first and with great formality. The bride still kept her eyes drooped, barely glancing up at those who took her hand or kissed her and never once lifting her eyes to the man who stood by her side. It was the first and only mandate of her step-mother's that she obeyed to the letter and to the end.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer gave her a cold kiss, and whispered that she was doing very well; and her father gave her the second kiss she could remember from him since he had sent her own mother away, and said in a low tone: "Poor child! I hope you will be happy now!"

She puzzled over that sentence long. Why had he called her "poor child," and yet seemed so sure by his tone that she had attained a height upon which happiness was assured? It touched her more than anything else that he had ever said to her.

Mr. Winthrop bowed low over Dawn's hand and told her he was glad to have another dear daughter, and Madam Winthrop, coming up from the side away from the bridegroom, graciously kissed her and called her a sweet child. Then she turned to meet her son, and stopped aghast, saying, "Charles! Where is Harrington?"

Now, Dawn might have heard the disturbance and been much enlightened, and all Mrs. Van Rensselaer's fine plans might have been exposed, if it had not been that Madeleine and Cordelia stepped up to their new sister-in-law close behind their mother, while Betty had rushed in and smothered her with kisses, whispering: "Oh, you darling sister! How I am going to enjoy you!" The three girls stood gushing and fluttering over the young bride, so that she did not hear what went on.

For, as it happened, Charles bent low over his mother, so that the stream of relatives should not hear, and said in a quiet voice:

"Mother dear, congratulate me instead of Harrington. It is I who have been married. Harrington has just gone away on the train with his wife and children. Don't feel sorry, little Mother. You would not let us tell you. Be careful, Mother; people are looking, watching you. Mother!"

But Madam Winthrop said not a word. Instead, her pretty cameo face went white as death, and she slipped quietly down at the feet of her husband and son in a blessed unconsciousness. For the sake of herself and all concerned, it was the best thing she could have done. What might have happened had she kept her senses, it is not pleasant to contemplate, for she was a person of strong will and a fiery temper, although cultured and beloved beyond most women of her day.

They said that the room was close, and she had fainted. They made way for her and brought fans and ice water, but her husband and her son quietly carried her from the room, and when Betty suddenly realized that something was going on, and turned around, they told her that her mother had fainted. Someone—an angular old maid, with a sarcastic twirl to her mouth and an unpleasant way of always saying the wrong thing at the right time—told Dawn she hoped it wasn't a bad omen that her husband had had to leave her side just when the ceremony was over. This was the first intimation that the young bride had had that her husband was gone. She cast a sidewise glance and discovered that there were ladies all around her. She raised her eyes again, just a little higher, and swept a wider circle, and finally cast a guarded glance about the entire room, but could not see the dreaded face. Then she drew a sigh of relief at this small respite. She heard some one say that he had gone to help his father take his mother upstairs. Dawn had a wild impulse to fly away where he could not find her when he returned, but knew she could not.

She would gladly have gone upstairs to wait on the sick mother, if only he were not there also.

People kept coming around to congratulate her, and saying how sad it was that Madam Winthrop's strength had given way at just that moment. Betty stayed close by, and Dawn dared to look at the other girl's sweet dimpled face, all pink and white, with heavenly blue eyes and golden hair. They reminded the bride of him whom she had seen in the garden that morning. It was a pleasant thought, and Dawn continued to watch Betty, when she was sure her step-mother was not looking at her.

By and by Mrs. Van Rensselaer passed behind her and whispered: "They are coming downstairs now. Mrs. Winthrop is better. We will go out to the dining-room, and you must cut the wedding cake, you know. You are doing very well, only remember what I said: not to look around too much. A shy bride is the very best kind of bride."

A cold trembling came over the young wife. He was coming back, and a chill seemed to have crept into the sunny day. She hastily dropped her eyes, with the strange determination not to look upon her husband until absolutely compelled to do so. There seemed somehow a fascination to her in keeping this up as long as possible.

When Charles came down and hastened to her side, she was talking earnestly with his Aunt Martha, who was telling a pretty little incident of Charles's babyhood. Dawn had not the faintest conception of who Charles was, but she nodded and smiled, and Aunt Martha thought her a sweet child, and took her immediately into her gentle heart. She was somewhat aghast at the manner in which events had marched into the family history that day, but she thought it not polite to mention it to Dawn.

A distant relative of Mr. Van Rensselaer came up just then and murmured in a disagreeable whisper:

"Your husband is a sight younger than I expected, Jemima! I had been led to expect he was quite a settled man, a good ten or fifteen years older'n you, but he's real handsome. You mustn't get proud, child."

Dawn started back as if she had been stung, and became aware at once of a black-coated figure standing close by her side.

She was grateful to the people who kept talking to her and to him, so that there would be no chance of his speaking to her, or of her having to answer him now. She felt it would be more than she could do, and look at him now she would not, not till she absolutely must. It would unnerve her to look him in the face and know that she was his wife, and that he had a right over her from henceforth. Then, all at once, she heard his voice, and it was not Harrington's at all. A quick glance assured her it was her friend of the roses. Perhaps, then, Harrington was still upstairs with his mother. She drew a breath of relief.

A few mouthfuls of the wedding breakfast she managed to swallow, and she pushed a knife through the great white-coated fruit-cake, black with spice and all things good, which had been made when Mrs. Van Rensselaer first heard of the possibility of this marriage, and kept in ripening ever since. Dawn's step-mother was a fine housekeeper, and knew how to be ready for emergencies.

It was over at last, and Mrs. Van Rensselaer came to say that it was time for her to go upstairs and change her frock for the journey. Dawn had never before followed her step-mother with so much willingness as now. Her feet fairly kissed the oaken stairs as she mounted; but she had gone up only three steps when some one came quickly up and, standing by the stairs, touched her on the shoulder, saying in a voice that sent a thrill of joy through her:

"We're to go in the train; did you know it?"

Forgetting her vows and her step-mother's warnings, she looked down and saw that it was the young man of the garden again. Her face lit with a beautiful smile, and some people down in the hall, who were watching them, said one to another: "See how much they love each other, the dear children!" and turned away with a regretful smile and a sigh toward their own lost youth.

"Oh!" breathed Dawn. "I did not know it, but"—she paused—"I'm so glad you are going, too!"

In saying this, she had no thought of disloyalty to the man she thought she had married. It was merely the involuntary expression of her frightened heart that suddenly saw a rift in the dark cloud.

"Oh, so am I," he smiled. "And I'm glad you wore my roses next your heart. Put them on again when you come down, won't you?"

"I will," she promised, and let her eyes dwell on him for an instant; then fled up the stairs as her step-mother called in a voice intended to be a whisper:

"Jemima, do, for pity's sake, hurry! You will be late for the train, and then there'll be a great to-do."

Mrs. Van Rensselaer was in hot water lest the girl should learn the true state of affairs before she got away from the house. It had given the step-mother no small fright to see Charles talking with the girl over the railing. She looked at Dawn keenly, but there actually was some look of interest in the girl's eyes. Mrs. Van Rensselaer drew a sigh of relief as she hurried about to help the young wife with dressing.

CHAPTER XIII

There were no pleasant memories about the room Dawn occupied for her to look about upon for the last time, and bid good-by. Long ago Mrs. Van Rensselaer had cleared away every trace of her predecessor, by remodelling all the rooms, and taking for her own the large, sunny one which had been occupied by the child. If there had been memories left after the overhauling, they would have been made hateful by the new occupant. Dawn had been away from home so long that during this brief stay she had been given a guest-room, and now she turned from it without a glance, if anything, to get away from the place that had witnessed her deepest grief.

She would have liked to run down into the old garden and get one more glimpse of her woods, the ravine, the old mill, and the moss-covered dam, with the babbling brook in the distance, but that of course would be thought unpardonable; so she walked quietly downstairs, turning over in her mind the comfort it was that during the journey she was not to be entirely alone with the man she had married. She did not know where she was going. She had not cared to inquire which of several houses he had told her about had finally been purchased. She was going with him as any thoughtless child might have gone.

If only the step-mother had let what conscience she had guide her, and had told the girl the truth, many things might have been different. If allowed to hear the earnest profession of love from Charles Winthrop's lips, Dawn would undoubtedly have gone to him gladly, out of the shadow of horror that seemed about to engulf her. A sweet memory of her wedding morning would have been saved to her, and she would have been spared much pain. The step-mother might have kept her contented conscience, too, to the end of her days, and not been tormented with the thought that she had veered from the righteous path.

But Dawn did not know, and went down the stairs with a heavy heart, looking for only a brief alleviation of her trouble. She determined that she would not look at her husband, if possible, until this stranger was gone.

The little bustle of departure was over at last. They put her into the carriage, and still Harrington Winthrop had not appeared. She began to feel her heart beating wildly at the thought that he would soon be coming to sit beside her. Some one standing on the piazza asked where Mr. Winthrop had gone, and some one else said that his mother had sent for him, that she was conscious again and had wished to see him before he left. Dawn thought they were speaking of Harrington. She wished his mother would keep him a long time, and then it occurred to her that the train would go, and the young man with it probably, and she would be left, after all, to take the journey alone with her husband. Of course it would have to be alone with him sooner or later, for the rest of her life, but oh, how she dreaded it!

Then, to her inexpressible relief, Charles came rushing down the stairs, and some one called out a question about his father:

"Is not Mr. Winthrop going to be able to get away just to the station?"

Dawn again thought they were speaking of Harrington.

"Yes," said Charles; "he will be down in a moment. He told me to drive on, and he would come in our carriage, which is here, you know."

With that, he jumped into the seat beside Dawn, the servant fastened the carriage door, and the horses started on their way down the curving carriage drive and out through the great gate, with its two white balls on the tops of the white pillars.

Dawn could scarcely believe it true that she was going to the station without Harrington. His mother must be very ill indeed, poor lady! Was it wrong to be glad, she wondered, because it gave her another reprieve, brief though it might be?

She had tucked the spray of roses into the bosom of her travelling frock—a dark green silk, plaided with bars of black, and a little black silk mantilla, which made her feel quite grown-up, and which, Mrs. Van Rensselaer had been assured by the New York merchants, was the very latest thing for brides. A great, wide poke-bonnet of white chip, trimmed with dark green ribbons and a modest plume to match, framed her sweet face, and helped to hide its shyness as she sat tremblingly happy at her escape. Her hands, in pretty gray kid gloves, lay meekly folded in her lap. Nothing about her demure manner told of the tumult of emotions in her heart.

Beside her sat a friend—she knew that by the light in his eyes. Before her was a brief ride to the inn where the train stopped. It would last but a few minutes, and during that time she would like to say something, to have him say something, anything, just to feel the pleasant comradeship which she had seen in his eyes, that she might remember him always, her one friend. But her tongue was tied, and her eyes could not raise themselves to look upon his face any more than if he had been the dreaded husband.

Charles was kept busy for a minute or two, bowing to the guests who had lined themselves up along the driveway to see the couple depart. Dawn glanced shyly at them from her lowered lids, and smiled now and then as she recognized a relative or the kindly face of an old servant. Then the carriage passed out into the street, while her companion sat back very close to her, as if she needed him, and, reaching over, took one of her little cold hands in his strong, warm one. It brought comfort and a thrill of joy. Dawn did not stop to question if he had a right, or if she were doing wrong to allow such familiarity in a stranger, with her, a married woman, and belonging to another man. Such questions had not been brought up for her consideration, though she had a few fixed little principles of her own, sweet and fine and natural. But now she thought only on her great need, and how this strong hand met it. She longed to turn and fling her tired head upon his big, high shoulder and weep out her sorrow.

She did not do so, of course, but sat quietly with her hand enfolded in his for a moment, and dared to lift her sweet eyes to his. Then, without any warning, the tears, which had been repressed so long she had forgotten any danger from them, sprang into her eyes.

He thought her heart was tender with memories of the home she was leaving, and perhaps, he thought jealously, she was sighing for her false fiancé; but with a lover's true impulse, and in spite of the village street through which they were passing—although it happily chanced that this was a quiet part—he bent and kissed her.

An old lady out among her flowers in the front yard saw them, and nodded to herself: "Bless their dear hearts! May they always be so happy!" and brushed away a tear as she thought of a grave upon a hillside, and a day far agone when her own hopes were put beneath the ground.

It was a very short drive. Almost immediately after they had passed the old lady's house, they turned a corner which brought them into the liveliest part of the town, where people were stretching their necks to watch them, and all was stir and bustle. Only a few rods away stood the inn, with the railroad tracks gleaming in the distance. People were already gathering to watch for the incoming train; and some few to go a journey, though there were not so many travellers in those days.

With his kiss upon her lips and a tumult of strange joy in her heart, Dawn was handed from the carriage to the platform. Then her heart stood still with fear again, as she remembered who was to come in the other carriage, soon after them.

A part of the company had started on foot for the station, among them Betty Winthrop, and they now came trooping up around the bride and groom, with laughing talk of slippers and rice which they had reserved for the novelty of throwing at a train instead of a carriage.

Dawn was surrounded and taken possession of. She had no further opportunity to wonder, or to think, or to fear. But over her there hovered a sense of calamity, for with that kiss had come a consciousness that she was not being loyal to her own ideals of what a wife should be, and it troubled her more than had all her fears. Nevertheless, it had been sweet, and she kept trying to cast it aside with the thought that it was over forever now and she would have no further cause to err in this way again. Perhaps the kiss was sent to comfort her on the dreary way she had yet to go.

The other carriage drove up at last. It had been a long time coming, for Madam Winthrop had returned to consciousness only to fall from one fit of weeping into another, and then to blame the unfortunate girl, whom she called "that little scheming hussy," declaring that "she wasn't satisfied with leading astray a man of integrity like Harrington, but when she found it was impossible to make him swerve from his duty she had worked upon Charles's tender heart and made him marry her out of pity."

She was scarcely to blame, poor lady, for her nerves had been on a continual strain for many hours, and when one took into account her extraordinary love for the son who had left her when but a boy, and whose faults she had entirely overlooked, it was not strange. But it was hard on her son Charles, and on her devoted husband, whose love for her was deep, yet whose desire to make everybody else happy and comfortable was also great. It had been a trial to him, indeed, that she should behave in this unseemly way in the house of his friend. He had found it useless to talk with her or to try to pacify her, so at last he left her with his sister until she should grow calm, and hastened in the carriage to see the bridal couple off. It had been arranged that Charles should bring his young wife home for the present until further arrangements for their new life could be made.

Dawn's heart bounded with excitement when she saw that no one was sitting in the carriage but the elder Mr. Winthrop. She did not know whether to be glad or sorry. If he did not come in time for the train, perhaps her new friend would go on without them, and yet, after what had happened, perhaps it was right that he should. But her heart sank at the thought, and involuntarily she lifted her eyes to drink in the strong, handsome outlines of his face.

Charles Winthrop turned instantly and met the gaze of his wife with a look of such deep love, reverence, and tender care that it sent the color rushing to her cheeks, and the blood bounding through her heart. It seemed almost as if she were again on the point of tears, so many emotions had followed one another through her weary soul that morning; but just then there came a distant rumble, and they said the train was coming. Everybody rushed at Dawn at once and kissed her. Betty fairly smothered her, saying: "Oh, you dear, dear, dear! I shall have you to-night at home!"

Then they hurried her to a seat in the railway carriage, and Charles sat down beside her. Nobody seemed to think it strange that he had done so, and nobody said it was too bad her husband was detained. They did not even seem to be looking for him, and wondering why he was not there. Dawn was bewildered and fairly held her breath, wondering if it could be possible that she was to start off on her wedding journey without the bridegroom. Though, she had not been to many weddings, she knew enough to feel that her situation was a strange one. The only explanation she could think of was that his mother had been so ill that he had to remain with her for a time, and would come later and explain. But even then it made her heart sink to think that he should have cared so little for her embarrassment that he had sent her no word. It augured ill for the future. Nevertheless, she was conscious of a great relief that he had not come, and a great comfort in the presence of this other man.

There was a good deal of fun and confusion when at last the train started, with a showering of rice and old slippers, and a stretching of necks from the other carriages to see what it was all about. But they were soon under way, and Dawn sat back with intense delight to enjoy the new sensation of a railway ride, without the expected attendant inconvenience of an unloved husband. It was perhaps not ideal, but she could not help it, and when one's heart has been breaking slowly for weeks and rapidly for the last few hours, it is but nature to let it throb on naturally for a few minutes if it will. How could she help being happy? The sky was blue, blue; the bits of water they glimpsed far away, the winding ribbon of the river in the distance, were blue also. The trees seemed fairly to spread themselves in the summer sunshine, and the whole world looked washed anew for happiness, basking in the sunlight of heaven. The birds that flew away at sound of the strange creature that went rumbling through the country, the sleepy cows that grazed diligently upon the hillsides, the dull sheep that raised unwondering eyes and bleating voice at the moving monster, all seemed new creations to the girl. She cried out with delight at everything, and Charles entered into her joy.

It was not Charles's first ride upon a train, therefore when she asked some question about their wonderful mode of travel he fell to explaining it all carefully to her, with a learned manner that fascinated her, and before she knew it she was watching his face and his eyes, and her heart was glowing with the thought of him. Then he suddenly caught her hand that lay in her lap, and, taking its forefinger between his own thumb and finger, her hand enclosed in his, he made it point to a tiny white house nestled upon a hillside far away, with a glimpse of water in the distance and a shelter of feathery trees all about.

"There! See there!" he cried. "Do you see that house up there? How would you like it if you and I lived there?"

Instantly that little house seemed to Dawn a very heaven of peace, to which she would gladly fly from the grander house that she thought awaited her at the end of her journey. She caught her breath and pressed her free hand hard upon her frightened, happy heart, and cried, "Oh! Oh!" so wistfully that he stooped and kissed her once, and then again, and whispered, "Darling! My darling!"

They were alone in their carriage, you remember, and as the train was not then going round a curve, but was sleepily jogging through a lovely wooded place, no one in any of the other carriages could see.

Dawn felt the thrill of his touch go through her again, and then her conscience roused, and she drew herself away, quite shyly, and not at all as if she were angry. Her cheeks were crimson under her drooping lashes.

Her lover watched her adoringly. He was shy himself, and felt that maybe he had gone too far in a public place like a railway carriage; but she had been so charming, and was she not his?

Then her trembling lips brought out a question which shot a pang of jealous pain through his heart.

"Won't you tell me—please—where is—m'—where is——" She hesitated painfully, wishing he would understand and finish the sentence for her; but he only looked down anxiously, trying to understand what she wanted.

"Won't you please tell me where—Mr. Winthrop is?"

He understood at once that she did not mean his father, but his scoundrel brother. His face shadowed with a frown. Was she, then, thinking only of him who had tried to cover her with shame and disgrace? And would it always be so, that she would hark away from his love to that which had gone before? He sighed impatiently, but tried to answer her gently, a strange pity in his voice:

"I thought they had told you. It was strange they did not. He took the train at once. He found it was necessary, you understand."

"Oh!" There was immense relief in Dawn's exclamation, and the color came back to her cheeks, which had grown pale with apprehension when she asked the question.

"Then he will not come on this train at all?" she asked, and a light broke into her eyes.

"You poor child!" said he gently. "Were you afraid of that?" He laid his hand over hers comfortingly.

"I have been so tired and so frightened," murmured Dawn; and now she had to let the tears come rolling down her cheeks, though she tried hard enough to keep them back. But somehow she felt he would understand it all, and she lay back and let him wipe them away with his large, cool handkerchief that smelled of rose-leaves; and between the tears he laid a kiss now and then that seemed like healing ointment to her sore heart, so she no more tried to contend with her conscience as to what was right for married women to do in such circumstances. She only knew she had found some one who acted toward her as she remembered her dear mother doing. The kisses seemed such as an angel's might be, if an angel stooped to kiss. So she ceased trying to understand, and just took the comfort of it. Perhaps it had been sent to her to help her in her time of need. Remember, she was very young, and had been facing a great terror.

They presently trundled out of the woods into a little village, and the comforting had to cease. Dawn sat up with rosy cheeks and bright eyes, the tears all gone, and looked about her with interest. They talked in low tones of the people they saw come and go on the platform, and laughed at a couple of geese who were squawking and gabbling at the train for coming so close to their nice mud-puddle by the track, putting in a natural protest against the march of civilization.

But an old lady with many bandboxes and a carpet-bag was put into their coach just before the train started on its way again, and there could be no more quiet confidences. Dawn had thought she would presently ask a few more questions about her husband, and why he had found it necessary to take another train. Most of all, she wanted to know when and where she was to meet him. But now there was no more opportunity to ask questions.

At Albany, they waited for the stage-coach, and walked about exploring the city, more absorbed in their own pleasant converse than in sight-seeing, however.

"Do you know, they have never told me your name. I heard it first in the ceremony this morning," said Charles, with a smile. "It is strange, isn't it? But we have had so little time, and before that I was away, and they always wrote of you as 'Miss Van Rensselaer.' I never asked your name because I liked to think of you as I saw you first, all spring blossoms, like some spirit of the air, and I thought a name might destroy the vision."

The pink came softly into the girl's cheek at his earnest words, and it filled her heart with a glow of pleasure like to nothing she had ever felt before.

"They wouldn't have told you my real name if you had asked," said she, showing her dimples in a smile answering to his. "I was christened Jemima, but my mother, my own dear mother, who died a good many years ago, told me my name was Dawn, and she always called me that. She wouldn't consent to my being named Jemima until she found out that the meaning of it was 'Dawn of the Morning,' and she always called me that. I always made everybody at school call me so too. They did not know the other name at school. I love the name because my mother loved it, and said it meant something sweet and dear to her."

She looked up, and the eyes she met were full of sweet understanding.

"Dawn! What a beautiful name! How glad I am it is that! It just fits you as I saw you first. You might have been personifying Dawn. You shall be the Dawn of my morning always."

They were in sight of the stage-coach now, and as they saw that the driver was preparing to start, they had to hurry to it, so they had no further opportunity to talk; but each had been given a vision into the heart of the other.

Dawn was still ignorant of where she was going, and as she sat in the coach and saw others climbing in to fill the seats, she suddenly realized that there would be no more opportunity now for the questions she should have asked while they were walking. But she had hesitated to spoil their pleasant walk, and had dismissed her fears and troubles, entering into the spirit that Charles had seemed to manifest.

As he sat close beside her through the long miles, his arm rested against hers, and now and again came a gentle pressure, as if he would let her know he was there. Then the remembrance of his lips upon hers swelled over her in a mingling of remorse and joy, and her heart cried out to itself, "Oh, I love him! I love him! What shall I do? If I only were not married, perhaps I might have him for a friend. I never had a real friend. But now, I suppose, I can never see him any more."

By and by, when they stopped to change horses, Charles found seats for them on the top of the coach with the driver. It was lovely up there, with a wide view of the beautiful country through which they were riding, and no one to bother them; for the old coach driver was not of a garrulous disposition, as most of those worthies were, and they had their talk to themselves. Still, he was there, and Dawn dared venture no more confidential questions.

The day drew to a close, and they came to the last change of horses before reaching the home of the Winthrops.

CHAPTER XIV

"We are almost home," said Charles joyously. He felt that it was a very happy moment.

"Oh, are we going to your home?" she asked, catching her breath and wondering what that meant.

"Why, yes, didn't you know? I supposed Mrs. Van Rensselaer would tell you all the plans. She said you did not wish to come down to talk them over beforehand."

"I know," said Dawn, a shadow creeping over the happy face. "I could not." She looked at him with appealing eyes, as if she knew he would understand.

"I understood," he answered her. "You had been through too heavy a strain, a shock——" He paused.

She looked puzzled, and wondered how he knew that her marriage was a shock to her. Was it because his eyes understood her from the first? Was it a kind of spirit understanding spirit? Dawn was not a philosopher, but something like this flashed through her thoughts.

"But she told me nothing. Indeed, I did not ask. Perhaps it was my fault," she added.

"Certainly not," said Charles vehemently. "It was her business to tell you the plans. I expressly asked her to do so after we had them all arranged. I asked her to see if they had your approval. I should not have made any arrangements without it."

"Oh!" Dawn had never had her approval of anything asked in her life. She could scarcely understand why it should be done. It was very nice, but how and why did this delightful person seem to have had the arranging of her plans? It was all a mystery, but she could not ask about it now before the coach driver. Perhaps the future would unravel the mystery.

"Just how much did she tell you, any way?" asked Charles, lowering his voice as much as possible, to make it confidential without actually putting it beyond the hearing of the driver.

Dawn considered.

"Why, I don't really think she told me anything," she said at last, half apologetically, "except how to behave during the ceremony. I think it was my fault, I really do. She said I ought to go down and talk it over, but I said I didn't need to go, that I wanted to be by myself at the last. I suppose she thought I didn't care about the arrangements. I never thought I had anything to do with them, any way. I thought that was all fixed, like everything else."

There was a sad little droop to the corners of her red lips, which gave Charles's heart an unhappy twinge. The driver turned a suspicious eye toward them, and they sat silent for a while, Charles thinking it over, and being somehow depressed that she should feel so about their marriage. To her, of course, it must be somewhat of a forced thing, but to him it had been all joy until now when he was suddenly brought face to face with the situation as he thought he saw it.

Dawn was going over sadly all their bright beautiful day together, and thinking, wondering, how near it was to the end, and whether she would ever see this dear companion again. She treasured every moment of his company, even when they were silent together; every glance, every syllable, yes, every kiss and gentle touch of his hand; even while she dimly perceived (and chided herself) that this was not the right attitude for a bride of a few hours to have toward a man who was not her husband. But to her it was like stolen sunshine to a lifetime prisoner. She felt she must take it, as it would never pass her way again. All the same, her conscience was beginning to trouble her, for she was naturally a right-minded girl, and, in spite of the fact that her ideals of married life were not as some girls', she had her own ideas of what should be. She turned toward him suddenly:

"I want to tell you how much I thank you for this beautiful day," she said, her heart in her eyes. "It is the best day I ever had—I mean our part of it. I was afraid I might not have another chance to tell you."

The dusk was growing deeper now, and dim lights ahead showed that a town was not far away. Charles reached out his hand and took hers gently in his own, hiding them both under his coat on the seat between them. The driver was looking the other way, hunting for his big tin horn, wherewith to announce his approach somewhere, and had not seen.

"Dear! You dear!" Charles murmured softly in her ear. "But there'll be plenty of chances to tell me everything soon now."

"Oh, will there?" she said joyfully. "I was afraid there wouldn't be."

"Did you think we were going to spend our days in a coach?" he laughed.

Dawn's hand trembled in the big, comforting grasp, and longed to settle down and take strength from it; but she knew she ought to put a stop to this, and she sat shrinking and pondering how to draw away her hand without offending her kind friend, who, in spite of his frank, true eyes, seemed not to have a thought but that the course he was pursuing was perfectly right and proper. It all puzzled her, more and more as she felt the approach of the moment when she must meet her unwelcome bridegroom.

A long blast on the driver's horn sent a startled shock through her slender frame, and instantly Charles's grasp on the little, timid hand tightened, as if he would enfold her in his greater strength and soothe her fears. She was glad it was dark, for she was sure there were tears in her eyes; yet she dared not lift her other hand to wipe them away, lest he see her.

With a swirl and a lurch the coach turned in at an open gateway and drove furiously up to a wide farm-house on a hill behind a circle of elm trees. The driver jumped down and began to unfasten a trunk from behind. Dawn could not see whether it was her own or not, but she took heart from the fact that Charles sat still and steadily held her hand, and that other people were climbing out of the coach below, and talking to a man and woman who came out of the big hall door in a stream of light to greet them. This was not her new home yet, then. There were still a few moments more of grace before her doom should fall. Now she must know. It was her only chance. In a moment more the driver would be back beside them, and perhaps the next stop would end their ride.

She leaned over close to Charles and whispered in his ear: "Tell me quick before the driver comes back: will he be there?" The tears were trembling on her lashes. She was glad she was not on the side of the coach next to the house.

"Will who be there, dear?" murmured Charles, marvelling at the sweetness of having her so close to him.

"Oh, don't you know?" she said desperately, as if it hurt her to speak the name. "Why—my—Mr. Winthrop—Mr. Harrington Winthrop."

It was a pitiful attempt to put into the name the dignity that her position as wife demanded. She was scarcely more than a little girl, and her situation was terrible to her.

Charles started and looked down at her. Was she still wanting to see the man who had sought to do her so terrible an injury, or was she dreading to see him? He looked at her and saw fear written in her eyes, and his heart was touched. However she might have felt toward Harrington before, of course now she dreaded having to meet him after what he had done. But whatever had put into her head the idea that he would be there? How strange of Mrs. Van Rensselaer not to have told her that Harrington had gone away on the train with his wife!

"No, he will not be there!" he said almost harshly, "I doubt if he is ever there again."

There was something in his tone that Dawn could not understand, but she must find out quickly what it all meant, though she was trembling now from head to foot, and scarcely knew what question to ask next. It was all so strange and mixed up.

"Then, where—where will I have to meet him?" she asked, grasping his arm with her free hand and watching his face as if her very life depended upon the answer.

Charles looked down at her, his whole soul in his eyes.

"Never, dear, never. I will guard you from that, at least."

"Oh, why!" cried Dawn, more than ever bewildered by his words. "Why—but, how can you? Hasn't he the right? Wasn't I married to him this morning? Nobody can keep us apart now, can they? The minister said, 'Till death do you part!'" A long, slow shudder passed over her as she spoke, and though her words were low, lest some one hear, her tone was like the cry of one who had given up for lost.

Forgetting the people who were clattering joyous welcomes below, Charles put his arm close about her, as if he were shielding her from a present terrible danger. He looked into her face and spoke in low, firm tones:

"I don't just seem to understand you, dear, but you mustn't be so frightened. There isn't anything in the world to be afraid of. I will try to make everything just as you want it——"

"But how can you?" Dawn's breath came in short sobs. She was almost at the limit of her self-control. "Will he let you? Will it be right?"

"Dear, listen! I don't know what you mean by some of the things you have said. I'm afraid all the trouble has upset you. Perhaps you have a fever——"

"No! No!" said Dawn, almost impatiently, for she saw that the driver had landed the trunk on the piazza and was preparing to come back to the coach, and that some of the passengers were climbing in again. There would be but a moment more.

"It is I that do not understand," she added, and her voice was very steady. She felt as if she must make her meaning plain now. "I was married to him this morning, and now he is gone away somewhere, and you say I need never see him again. He went away just after the ceremony. They said his mother fainted and he took her away. I have not seen him since. What does it all mean? I do not understand. It is like some awful dream."

Charles's heart sank in horror as he listened to her words. Had she lost her mind, or, more awful yet, had she in some mysterious way been married to him without knowing it? The latter seemed almost incredible, yet if it were true, what sorrow might it not mean to them both! Poor child! He must be very gentle with her, whatever were the case. And meantime the driver's foot was upon the wheel.

Charles leaned over as if to tuck the linen robe about her to protect her from the dust, and whispered:

"You were not married to him at all. Don't you remember?"

"Do you mean I was not married, then? But I heard the minister say the words, 'I pronounce you husband and wife, and what God hath joined——'" Dawn shuddered again. "I heard it. I didn't look up, but I heard it. You needn't be afraid to tell me the truth. I will not cry or anything."

The driver plumped down on the seat with a loud laugh at some joke the old farmer was getting off, and vowed he would be late if they kept him any longer, that he must go around by Applebee's and Deacon Forsythe's yet, and it was almost dark. Then with another hearty laugh he chirruped to his horses, and they strained and started, and with a lurch and a swirl of the coach they were flying down the stony road to the gate again, and there was no more opportunity to talk unheard.

Dawn braced herself to endure the awful uncertainty that her question had put into tangible form, and Charles, as he took hold of the little, trembling hand once more with a reassuring pressure, sought in his mind for something to say which should calm her fears and at the same time not enlighten the driver as to their subject of conversation.

"Don't worry," he said in a tone that tried to be light and gay. "I'll explain it all as soon as we get home. Meantime, do you want to be told where we are?" and he launched into a voluble description of the people who dwelt along the road.

Dawn understood, and kept silent except for a monosyllable now and then, to keep up appearances before the driver, and presently the coach halted again before the gate of another farm-house, where the gleaming candles from the many-paned windows testified to the comfort of the inhabitants. To their relief, the driver jumped down again to deliver a big package, and they had another moment to talk.

"Wasn't I married at all, then? Tell me quick, please," she pleaded, the minute the driver had left them.

"Yes, but not to Harrington," he said gravely. He had not yet decided how he ought to tell her or whether he had not better wait until they were at home, lest it make her ill. It seemed so strange for her to talk in this way. He paused an instant, and looked keenly into her face, but the light from the coach lantern did not shine in the right way for him to see her clearly, and it was dark now. He did not see the wave of relief that swept over her anxious face.

"Oh!" she gasped, as if a great burden had suddenly been lifted from her and she could breathe the free air again. "Oh!" And for a minute she could think of nothing else save that she was free from the man she had come to dread almost more than death. How it came about, or what else might have happened, must stand in abeyance until she could take in this great, soul-reviving truth. She was not married to Harrington Winthrop!

Charles waited an instant, and then, seeing that the driver would soon be back, and that Dawn was not going to ask a question to help him on, he spoke again.

"Don't you remember, Dawn"—his voice lingered over the name, the first time he had used it, and it went through her heart with a wonderful thrill—"don't you remember that you and I were married this morning?"

"Oh, was it you?"

Dawn's face shone up at him out of the darkness, but he dared not interpret the look. The driver suddenly jumped up on the seat and started the horses on again, but Dawn clasped her hands close about his arm and clung to him in the darkness, her whole soul surging with gladness.

He held her arm close to him within his own, but his heart was beating anxiously to know what effect this would have upon her, and whether she remembered now. At last she ventured the question—for how could the driver attach any significance to such simple words:

"Are you sure?"

"Sure!" he answered gravely, and added as if he could not keep the words back: "Are you glad or sorry?"

"Oh, glad, glad!" instantly came the words, and then they said no more, but let the joy and the wonder of it sweep over them. They were both very young and very happy just then, and what are hows and whys to such as they?

The lights of the village grew closer, and beamed past them, and in a moment more, with a rattle and flourish, they drew up before the old Winthrop house, a beautiful colonial structure, with lights in all the windows and a festive air about it that made all the passengers in the coach look out and wonder. A shout of laughter, and, "Here they come!" was heard from the house, and Betty, in white, with blue ribbons all in a flutter, came flying down the path of light from the open door to greet them.

"I'll explain it all when we get by ourselves, dear," whispered Charles, leaning over her again, as if to see if she was leaving any baggage behind. "Don't worry. Just be happy."

"Oh, I will!" laughed Dawn joyously. "But how did it ever come to be true?" And then as she got down from the coach she was instantly smothered in Betty's open arms.

CHAPTER XV

"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.

CHAPTER XVI

It was Charles who had come up the stairs. He had grown impatient of the delay, and come in search of his wife. He paused before his mother's door and listened to hear the pleasant voices of the two who were most dear to him. He had pictured them getting acquainted with each other, and he meant to walk in and say that the time was up and he must not be kept out any longer. He listened, but he heard nothing. He waited a moment longer, but still the silence. What could it mean?

He tapped gently at the door, and called, "Mother, may I come in?" His mother gave a cold assent. She had not yet recovered from the shock she had received.

"Why, where is Dawn?" he asked, pausing on the threshold and looking about the room, as if expecting to find her in hiding, just to tease him, perhaps.

"If you wish to come in, please have the goodness to close the door after you, Charles," said his mother severely. "You are in danger of forgetting everybody else in your sudden and extraordinary infatuation."

The joyous spirit of the young man came down to earth with a thud, and he closed the door and stood looking at his mother blankly, as if to try to fathom the look in her face.

"Your wife left me some minutes ago," his mother answered the question which his eyes repeated. She spoke haughtily, as if the offence had been partly his. "She did not seem to enjoy my company."

"Mother!" said Charles, aghast at his mother's tone even more than at her words.

"Oh, yes, 'Mother'!" she repeated, angered anew at the reproach in his tone. "I suppose it will be that from now on. She left the room declaring her intention of also leaving my house. I suppose by this time she has seen the impossibility of that, but you will find you have married no angel, I can tell you. Whatever possessed you, I cannot understand. Such a little spitfire! You should have seen her great eyes flash."

"Mother, what had you been saying to her?" Charles tried to speak gently. He saw that here was something that needed careful handling. He blamed himself inwardly that he had not had more forethought than to prevent a meeting between the two while his mother was still wrought up over his brother Harrington.

"What had I been saying to her? Indeed, Charles, you forget yourself! You would better ask what had she been saying to me." In her indignation, Madam Winthrop rose on one elbow and faced her son. "I had been most kind and patient and forgiving. I had made up my mind for your sake to put everything by, and I sent for her to tell her so. I told her I would forgive her all she had done to spoil your brother's life and yours——"

"Mother! You never told her that!"

Charles towered above the little woman in the bed, every inch of his manhood roused in honest indignation.

"I certainly did," said the mother, her own anger rising anew. "I explained the whole matter to her, and told her I would forgive her entirely. And then just because I suggested some things she might do to help you who are so young and inexperienced, and who had so generously given up all your own ambitions just to save her from a few hours' mortification, she got very angry. She turned perfectly white, and her eyes looked like two devils. You wouldn't have known your pretty little angel if you had seen her. I will admit, of course, that she is pretty, but 'handsome is that handsome does' is a very true adage. You will find it out yet. She was most insulting—told me that I was lying, or words to that effect—and then she got off the most extraordinary yarn about not knowing she had married you. I told her she must know I couldn't believe such a story as that, and, now that I think it over, I don't see how she can be quite right in her mind. Perhaps Harrington had suspected as much and took this way of getting out of a most unfortunate union, and you were so blind that you just jumped in head-foremost, without ever waiting to make an inquiry——"

"Mother, stop!" Charles's face was white, and his voice was trembling with suppressed horror. "Remember you are talking about my wife!"

"Yes, your wife!" exclaimed his mother, beginning to cry. "That's the way it goes. A child forgets all his mother has ever done, the minute he sees a pretty, silly face."

Then she sat up with sudden resolution.

"Well, take your wife and go out of my house, then, if you and she are going to combine against me, and dictate to me how I shall talk!"

Then with a moan she threw herself back upon her pillows and lost consciousness again.

Charles stood looking down miserably at her for an instant, his mind in such a whirl of emotions that he scarcely knew which was strongest. Then, with a remembrance of Dawn, he turned, half-distracted, and pulled the bell-cord that hung by the head of his mother's bed. These fainting spells were frequent and not alarming, he knew. Stepping to the head of the stairs, he called:

"Betty, tell Aunt Martha to come to Mother at once. She has fainted again."

He waited only to hear Aunt Martha's quick, excited step upon the stair, and then he went to find Dawn.

Opening the door of the sitting-room, it startled him to feel the emptiness that pervaded the place. He had expected to find Dawn weeping in the big chair, or perhaps huddled upon the bed. That would have been Betty's way. He had often acted as comforter to Betty during her childish woes. Even in his anger and trouble, he was thrilling at the thought of how he would comfort Dawn, his own little girl. He was the only one in all the world now to whom she had a right to look for comfort.

He strode through the rooms hurriedly, looking in every possible place for her, and unwilling to accept the conclusion his mind had instantly jumped to, that she was not there at all.

He even pushed aside the curtains and stepped out upon first the front balcony and then the side one, thinking that she had taken refuge there from intrusion by Betty or the other girls. But there was no sign of her recent step, and in the darkness the tall grass down below on the terrace told no tales of a little crushed place where her bundle had fallen and where her feet had rested lightly when she dropped. Next morning, before any one would think to look, the grass would be standing tall as ever, and they would never know how she went.

Stepping back into the room again, Charles at once saw the writing on the sheet of paper lying on the desk. When he had read it, he caught it hastily in his hand as if it could give him some clue to her whereabouts, and started down the stairs and out of the front door to find her. He knew only one thing then, and that was that he must find her and bring her back before any one else discovered her flight. She could not be far away yet. Charles hurried out into the darkness. The family were attending to the mother, who had recovered consciousness. He could hear her moaning, and a sudden bitterness came over his soul, that her blindness and selfishness should make them all so much trouble. He had never thought of her in any but a gentle, loving way before, and it shocked his spirit to have to think differently now; but his indignation at her treatment of his young and blameless wife was roused beyond his present control.

He searched the grounds and garden carefully, going over every possible hiding-place twice. As he did so, he reflected that she could not have known where to go to hide, and he felt sure he would find her in a minute or two. The minutes grew into thirty, and he had found no trace of her. He went down the street quite a distance in one direction, only to be sure she would have chosen the other, and to hurry back. An hour passed with no trace of her, and then he began systematically to go over the grounds again, calling her name softly; but a screech owl mocked him, and the night wind only echoed back his voice emptily.

Once he drew near the house and under the balcony where Dawn had escaped. He heard his sister calling him, "Charles, Charles! Mother wants you!" and his heart grew bitter. Then Betty's head came out of the window, and she called again:

"Charles, where are you and Dawn? Mother has been moaning and crying for half an hour. She wants you, and nothing else will stop her but the sight of you."