Dawn of the Morning Part 39

Dawn came quickly over to the bed and stood in the path of light that the candle shed from the hall doorway. She took the patient's hands in her own and noticed that they were not so cold as they had been, and she asked gently: "Do you want anything?"

For a moment her step-mother only looked at her, and then her lips stirred as if in an effort to speak, but she uttered only one word, "Forgive?"

Dawn's heart bounded with a sudden, unexpected pleasure, and the tears sprang to her eyes.

"Of course!" she said briskly, "it's all right, but you must lie still and help get well."

A gentler light came into Mrs. Van Rensselaer's anxious eyes. Once more, as if to make sure that she had heard aright, she murmured her question, "Forgive?"

Dawn stooped impulsively and kissed her. Then an actual smile of peace settled into the hard face of die woman on the bed, changing it utterly.

"It's all right," said Dawn again eagerly. "And now, you must take your medicine and not talk any more. You are going to get well. The doctor says so, and you must go to sleep at once."

She administered the new medicine, and with another smile like a tired child the sick woman sank away into a gentle, restful sleep.

It was late in the afternoon of the following day that the doctor returned with Mrs. Van Rensselaer's sister, who established herself by the bedside with energy and competence. The doctor, noticing Dawn's wan look and sleep-heavy eyes, ordered her to go to bed at once or there would be two patients instead of one to look after. Mrs. Van Rensselaer he p.r.o.nounced decidedly better.

Dawn, as she slipped away from the sick room, felt dizzy and faint with weariness. She reflected that she would probably contract the disease herself, and it might come upon her suddenly. She had read of many cases that died almost at once. The thought gave her no alarm. It would be good to go quickly. She went to her own room feeling that she had come almost to the end of things.

Her dress was torn and wet from much working with the hot water and flannels. Her face and hands were blackened with soot from the fire.

Tired as she was she must freshen herself a little before going to sleep.

She bathed and dressed in fresh garments that she found hanging in her closet, and put on the little white frock she had worn the day before her marriage, smoothed her hair, and then, taking a pillow and some comfortables from the bed, she went downstairs. The thought had come to her that it would be good to get out to the arbor again. If she were to die, it would be as well there as anywhere.

As she pa.s.sed down the garden walk, a rose thorn caught her white gown, and in freeing herself she noticed a spray of roses like those Charles had picked for her a year ago. Their fragrance seemed to touch her tired senses like healing balm.

After she had spread her comfortables on the floor of the little summer-house, she stepped back and broke off the spray of roses, and lay down with their cool leaves against her hot cheek. Breathing in their odor, she fell into a deep sleep, in which no dreams came to ruffle her peace.

She had not noticed when she lay down that the long, red rays of the sun were very low. The excitement through which she had lived, the lack of food, the unusual exertion and the sudden release from the necessity of doing anything, made her stupid with weariness. The sun slipped quickly down, and the cool darkness of the garden soothed her. A tiny breeze gave her new life, and she slept as sweetly as the sleeping birds in the trees over her head, while the kind stars looked down and kept watch, and the roses nestled close and spoke of him she loved.

In the village, pestilence stalked abroad and the shadow of death hovered, but in the garden there were quiet and peace and rest. And if the languid winds played a solemn dirge among the pines near the old house, they disturbed her not, safe sheltered among G.o.d's flowers with others of his beautiful, dependent creatures.

CHAPTER XXVII

Charles and Dan had stayed in Albany several days, questioning coach drivers and making enquiries at all the inns; but no one seemed to remember Dawn. It happened that the driver with whom she had left Albany had broken his leg the very day after, so he was not there to be questioned. Heartsick and despairing, the two young men did not know what to do. Even Rags was dejected, and whined at having to leave the boat. Somehow he seemed to think it would bring them to her if they but stayed by it long enough. He was for going back to New York when the boat went, and told the others so with a wise bark, but they heeded him not. He went about snuffing helplessly, and spent much time with his nose in his paws, one sad blinking eye open to a disappointing world.

They reached the Winthrop home a few hours before Mrs. Van Rensselaer's letter arrived.

It was Betty who brought the strange, scrawled letter to Charles, and she wore an anxious look. She had half-hesitated whether she would not keep it till morning, he looked so tired and worn. These were troublous times, and no one knew at night but that his dearest friend might be dead by morning. Betty would have spared her brother if she had dared.

Charles noticed the postmark, and tore the envelope open quickly, some premonition quickening his heart-beats.

"Dawn is here!"

He read the significant words, then repeated them aloud, his voice containing a solemn ring of wonder and joy. Could it be true?

"Betty, tell the boy to saddle two horses and have them ready at once.

Dan, you'll go with me, of course.... No, I've no time for supper....

Well, just a cup of hot broth. Or, stay, put some in a bottle, and I'll take it with me. I might need it on the way.... Are you ready, Dan?

... Tell father, Betty. I'll be downstairs in just a minute."

They were off almost immediately, for the willing servant had hastened with the horses, and had ready a lantern for their use when the moon should go down. Betty handed each of them a bottle of hot broth tightly sealed, to put in their pockets. They rode through the night, silent for the most part, each gravely apprehensive of what might be at the end of the journey. It was a strange, abrupt message Charles had received, and he pondered over and over what its purport might be. Was Dawn sick, or dead? Why had not Mrs. Van Rensselaer told him more? Perhaps before he could reach his wife she would be gone again, as before. With this thought, he hurried his horse. Once he caught a glimpse of a sharp abyss within a few feet of where he pa.s.sed. One misstep and the journey would have ended. Charles marvelled how he was going through unknown dangers without a thought, just because his heart was full of a great purpose.

It was in the early morning that they reached the village where the Van Rensselaers lived.

Rags was tired and splashed with mud. His tail dragged wearily behind him, his head drooped, and his tongue hung out. He wasn't used to being up all night, nor to travelling on foot behind fast horses. He thought his companions must be crazy to come away off here where there was no scent. How could they expect to know what they were doing in the night?

Rags wanted a good juicy bone, and a rug in a quiet place.

As the two young men turned their horses in at the great gate, the sound of the hoofs clattered hollowly and echoed back in the empty place.

Rags mounted the steps and sat down, looking disconsolately around. He did not care for this place, fine though it might be. He was dreadfully tired. The front door was open, but he had no desire to investigate.

Charles dismounted and went into the house. It struck him as strange that the front door should be open so early in the morning. He had noticed the deserted look of this part of the town, and he felt the chill of fear grip his heart. Had the cholera reached her ahead of him?

Was it in this town? Even in this house?

As Dawn had done, he looked into the empty rooms.

Rags got up and limped to the door after him, snuffed around, and then suddenly gave a short, sharp bark, and was off with his nose to the ground. He disappeared among the rose-bushes down the garden-path, and his young master sprang off his horse and hastened after him.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Quickly as Dan followed, Rags was before him, with his sharp, peculiar bark, and then a sudden low whine of fear or trouble. The boy's heart stood still, and he hurried the faster. Rags came whining to his feet as he reached the arbor. And then Dan saw her.

She lay sleeping on the pile of comfortables, in her little white frock, with the spray of roses in her hand and a slight tinge of color in her cheek, like the flush on a half-open rosebud. The comb had fallen from her hair, and the beautiful curls lay tumbled out upon the pillow in lovely confusion.

The boy gazed with awe, and then turned his head reverently away. But Rags went whining about her feet again.

Dan signed to the dog to be still, and, bending over with sudden anxiety, watched to see if she were breathing naturally.

Gently as a child she slept, and the roses trembled with her soft breathing. His heart leaped with joy.

"Rags, stay here and guard her!" he commanded. "Sit right there!" He pointed to a spot in the garden walk. "Now be still."

Rags whined softly. He was trembling with excitement.

"Be still!"

The little dog thumped his tail in acquiescence, but looked wistfully after his master as he turned away, and then at the sleeping G.o.ddess.

Dan hastened back to the house.