CHAPTER XXIIIThe night that Dawn left her husband's home marked the beginning of an era of sorrow in the history of the Winthrops.The distracted young husband and his father rode all night long.Charles reached the Van Rensselaers' home a little sooner than old Mr. Winthrop, who had further to go. The young man's white, drawn face startled Mrs. Van Rensselaer as he stood to greet her in the gloomy parlor, where the scent of the wedding roses still lingered.She was in workaday attire, to set her house in order and prepare for what she hoped was to be a season of peace in her hitherto tempestuous life. Dawn was off her hands finally, she felt, and she had no serious forebodings concerning her share in the matter. The hard part had been to get the girl off without her finding out the trick that had been played on her. It had amazed the step-mother that her plan had worked so well. She had been prepared for the discovery to be made soon after the ceremony, but she had trusted to Dawn's fear of publicity, and Charles's evident infatuation, to hush the matter up. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had been reasonably sure that she could even keep it from her husband's knowledge, though she was prepared with a plausible story in case he remonstrated. His sense of pride would make him readily persuadable to almost any plan that would hide their mortification from curious friends. She had been sure that she could make him see that the whole thing had been done for his daughter's good. And now that the step-mother had succeeded even better than she had hoped, in getting the couple off on their wedding trip without either one discovering her duplicity, she had been at rest about the matter. Charles was enough in love to be able to make everything all right, and he would never blame her for having furthered his plans, even though not quite in the way he had arranged. Dawn could not fail to be pleased with the husband her step-mother had secured for her, and even would thank her in later life, perhaps, for having helped her to him.And so Mrs. Van Rensselaer had gone placidly about the house, putting things to rights, and enjoying the prospect of a comfortable future without the fear of an unloved step-daughter's presence haunting her.But when she saw Charles's face a pang of fear shot through her and left her trembling with apprehension. His voice sounded hollow and accusatory when he spoke:"Is Dawn here, Mrs. Van Rensselaer?"A thousand possibilities rushed through the woman's brain at once, and she felt herself brought suddenly before an awful judgment bar. What had she done? How had she dared? How swift was retribution! Not even one whole day of satisfaction, after all her trouble!She tried to summon a natural voice, but it would not come. Her throat felt dry, and as if it did not belong to her, as she answered:"Here? No. How could she be here? Didn't you take her away?"The young man sat down suddenly in the nearest chair with a groan, and dropped his head into his hands. The woman stood silent, frightened, before him."Mrs. Van Rensselaer, what have you done? Why did you do it?""Well, really, what have I done?" The sharp voice of the woman returned to combat as soon as the accusation pricked her into anger. "I'm sure I helped you to get a wife you seemed to want bad enough and never would have got if I hadn't managed affairs. You haven't any idea how hard she was to manage or you'd understand. It was a very trying situation, and it isn't every woman could have made things go as well as I did—not to have a soul outside your family know there had been a change of bridegrooms. You see, none of our friends had ever seen your brother, and as the name was the same there were no explanations necessary.""Mrs. Van Rensselaer, I would never have married Dawn against her will. It was not right for you to deceive her. She ought to have been told just how things stood, and what my brother had done.""H'm! And had a pretty mess, with her crying and saying she wouldn't marry anybody, and all the wedding guests coming? Young man, you don't know what you're talking about. That girl isn't easy to manage, and I guess you've found it out already. She's like a flea: when you think you have her, she's somewhere else. I knew something desperate would have to be done before she ever settled down and accepted life as it had to be, and I did it, that's all. Well, what's the matter, any way? Have you got tired of your bargain already and turned her out of your house?"Mrs. Van Rensselaer was exasperated and frightened. She scarcely knew what she was saying. Any moment her husband might come into the house. If she could only get the interview over before he came, and perhaps hide at least a part of the story from him! She dreaded his terrible temper. She had always had an innate presentiment that some time that temper would be let loose against her, and she knew now the moment was come.Charles looked up with his handsome and usually kindly eyes blazing with amazement and indignation:"Mrs. Van Rensselaer, my wife has gone away. We have searched all night and cannot find her. I was sure she had come home. Oh, what shall I do?""Well, I'm sure I don't see how I'm to blame for her having left you," snapped out Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "I did my part and made sure you got her. You ought to have been able to keep her after you had her. How'd she come to leave you?""I cannot tell exactly. She went up to see Mother a few minutes after supper, and then——""Oh!" said Mrs. Van Rensselaer, with disagreeable significance."And then we could not find her," went on Charles, unheeding. "She left a note with good-by. That was all. I have no clue."The front door opened, and Mr. Van Rensselaer walked in. His face was white, for he had not slept well. In a dream his dead wife had stood before him and seemed to be taking him to task about her child, the daughter who left her father's house but a few hours before. He had gone out for the morning mail, hoping to get rid of the phantoms that pursued his steps, but his head was throbbing.How much he had heard of what they had been saying, they did not know. He stood before them white and stern-looking, glancing from one to the other of the two in the dim parlor."Where is my daughter?" he asked."She is gone, Mr. Van Rensselaer," answered Charles pitifully. "I have searched for her all night long. I hoped she was here.""Gone?" repeated the father in a strange, far-away voice; then he wavered for an instant, and fell at their feet, as if dead. The accusations of his own heart had reached their mark. The iron will yielded at last to the finger of God.They carried him to his bed and called the doctor. Confusion reigned in the house. The old doctor shook his head and called it apoplexy. Mr. Van Rensselaer was still living, and might linger for some time, but it would be a living death.And so, while he lay upon his bed, breathing, but dead to the world about him, they made what plans they could to find his daughter. Charles's father came in sadly, reporting no success in the search. They started out once more after a brief rest.Mrs. Van Rensselaer was in no condition to help them now. She had her hands full, poor woman. One thing had been spared her: her husband did not know her part in the disappearance of his daughter. Perhaps he might never need to know; yet as she went about ministering to that silent, living dead, whom she had loved beyond anything earthly, her heart was full of bitterness and fear.The months that followed were terrible to Charles. After a few days of keeping the matter quiet and hoping they would find her by themselves, they made the disappearance public, and the whole countryside joined in the search.The greatest drawback to success was that so few people had seen Dawn since she grew up. The servants in her father's house had seen her during the week she had been home from school, but scarcely any one else except for a passing glance on the street. All searching was in vain. There were notices put in the papers of that region. They sent to her old school for knowledge of her; they left no stone unturned. And the wonder of it is that Dawn's friend, the minister, or some of the selectmen, especially Silas Dobson, did not see the notices that appeared in New York papers and in those of smaller towns, and connect the mysterious disappearance with the new teacher that had come to their village. But the old clergyman had vouched for her, and there was apparently no mystery about her. This good man did not often have opportunity to read papers of other towns, save his regular weekly religious sheet. Then, too, the place where Dawn had found refuge was small and insignificant, and not on the line of most travel. She could not have been better sheltered from the searchers.It was the day after Charles had been to see the body of a young woman who had been found in the river some fifty miles distant from his home, that he became ill with typhoid fever.Not for a day had he rested or given up his search. When one clue failed, he went to the next with restless, feverish energy, and a haunted look in his eyes. The boy had become a man, and the man was bearing a heavy burden. His father saw it, and grieved for him. His mother saw it, and accused herself. His sisters saw it, and did their best to help him. Betty was constantly thinking up new plans for the search, and saying comforting, cheering things to her brother. Charles loved her dearly for it, but nothing brought relief. His affection for Dawn had been such as rarely grows in a human heart, even after years of acquaintance. It had sprung full-bloomed into being, and filled his whole soul. It is said that to the average man love is but an incident, while to a woman it is the whole of life. If that be so, there are exceptions, and Charles was one of them. He kept his love for his girl-wife as the greatest thing life had for him, and thought of nothing else day or night but to find her.No one dared to suggest his going back to college. That would be to admit that the search was hopeless, and that might prove fatal to Charles. The neighbors had begun to shake their heads and pity him. It was even whispered that the girl might have run away with another man, though no one ventured to say such a thing in the hearing of the family.If it had been in these days of telegraphs and telephones, railroads and detectives, it would have been but a matter of days until they had found her, but in those times travel and search were long and hard. There seemed little hope. It was the third dead face which Charles had searched for likeness to the girl he loved. He came home worn and exhausted, his spirit utterly discouraged and weary, and he was an easy prey to the disease which gripped him from the first in its most violent form.Silence and sadness settled down upon the Winthrop household while the life of Charles was held in the balance. The father carried on the search for the lost wife more vigorously than ever, believing that the sight of her might bring his boy back even from the grave; but nothing developed.News from the Van Rensselaers gave no hope of the paralyzed man's recovery. He was lying like a thing of stone, unable to move. He could not even make a sound. Only his eyes followed his tormented wife, like haunting spirits sent to condemn her. The face was set in its stern expression, like a fallen statue of his proud, imperious self.It was mid-winter before Charles began slowly to creep back to life, and there was still no clue to Dawn. They dreaded to have him ask about her; though they had noticed how he had searched their faces every morning after consciousness returned to him. He knew as well as they that nothing had been accomplished toward finding her.One day he seemed more cheerful and a little stronger, and called old Mr. Winthrop to his side."Father," said he, "I've been thinking that perhaps she'd not like to come back here, the way she feels about it. There was a little white house on the hills beyond Albany that we noticed as we came along on the train. We both said we should like to live there among the trees. Would you be willing that I should take the money Grandfather left to me and buy that little house for her to come to? Then I could put a notice in the papers telling her it was ready, and perhaps she would see it and understand."The old man's heart was heavy, for he had begun to believe that Dawn was no longer in the land of the living; but he would have consented to any plan that would comfort his boy and give him a new interest in life, and so as soon as Charles was able to travel they went together to purchase the small farm and little white house. The next day there appeared in the New York papers this notice, which was printed many weeks and copied into numerous village papers:Dawn, the little white house we saw near Albany is ready for us. Write and tell me where to find you. CHARLES.But nothing ever came in answer, though Charles watched every mail with feverish anxiety; and he still kept up his search in other directions. So the spring crept on, and almost it was a year since Dawn had left him.CHAPTER XXIVDawn had been in New York two months, after various trying experiences in getting there, and all that time she had been unable to find anything to do by which she could earn her living.The miserable little boarding place, the best she could afford, was growing more and more uncomfortable as the hot weather came on. Dawn was thin and worn and sad. Her money which she had earned during the winter, and which she had always carried sewed inside her garments, was fast melting away. A few more weeks, and she would be penniless. She began to wonder what would come next, and to question whether it would not have been better to stay with the school, and trust the old minister and Daniel to protect her from Harrington Winthrop. But always, after thinking it over, she decided that she could not have been safe when he knew her whereabouts.There was one other thing which troubled her constantly now. It was that sentence of Daniel's: "He'd rather have youandthe trouble, than to have no trouble without you." Was it true? Did Charles love her that way? Was she giving him trouble by staying away? "If he's anything like you say he is, he's most crazy hunting you," Daniel had said. Wasthattrue, too? Could he be hunting her yet? Had she been wrong in coming away? Gradually she came to admit to herself that there might have been a better way. She might have made a mistake. But it was too late now to remedy it. She could not go back on her promise that she would trouble him no more. She could not bring added disgrace to him now that she had stayed away all these months and everybody must know it. Oh, how long and hard life was! And then she once more went wearily at her task of hunting a position.Slowly, stealthily, up from the south; strangely, unexpectedly, down from the Canadian border, there crept a grim spectre of death. Heard of from afar with indifference at first, it gradually grew more terrifying as it drew nearer. Now and then the death of a well-known victim caused uneasiness to become more manifest.Hotter grew the sun, and nearer drew the spectre. The daily papers contained advice for protection against it. The cities cleaned their streets and warned their citizens. The temperance societies called attention to the fact that hard drinkers were in more danger than others. Meat and milk and vegetables were carefully inspected. Water was boiled. Cheerfulness was put on like a garment, and assurance was flaunted everywhere. People were told to keep up a good heart and keep clean, and there was little danger. Still the spectre crept nearer, laying hands upon its victims, and daily the reports grew more alarming. It was near the end of June when the ministers met in New York and petitioned the President to appoint a general day of fasting and prayer to avert the oncoming pestilence. Andrew Jackson replied that it was in their line, not his, to decide whether this matter was important enough to bring to the notice of the Almighty, and he left it in their hands. The days went by, and the spectre crept on. The Governors of the States began to appoint days of prayer. At last the cholera was a recognized fact. It had come to do its worst. The newspapers abandoned their talk of its impossibility, and set about making the best of things, describing the precautions to be taken, the preliminary symptoms, and the best method of treatment. For a time, during the latter part of June and the early part of July, it was hoped that by vigilance and care it could be kept out of New York City. The worst of the pestilence was in the Southern States, though it had made great ravages as far north as Cincinnati. And from Canada it was spreading south into New York State. Here and there a little town would have a single case, which would send terror throughout the county, and daily the number grew greater.Charles was looking worn and thin. He had bought the little house, and had had it renovated. It was furnished now, and waiting for the bride who did not come. His heart grew sick with the great fear that was growing within him, the fear that he should never find her on this earth. Of late, a new worry had come to him. A letter had come to his father from Harrington's wife, saying that she was destitute, as her husband had deserted her again. He had stayed with her but a week after he brought her home, though he had promised many things.In spite of himself, Charles could not get it out of his mind that Harrington had spirited Dawn away somewhere. He did not doubt her for an instant. He would not let himself think that she might still have some lurking love for the man who had not scrupled to do her a wrong. He laid all blame, if blame there was, upon his brother. Harrington had sometimes appropriated his younger brother's boyish treasures to his own use when they were both younger, and Charles had no doubt he would not hesitate to do thus even with his brother's wife, were such a thing possible.Sometimes the remembrance of the terror in Dawn's eyes when she asked about Harrington and where she would have to meet him, made Charles fairly writhe, and he felt that he must fly somewhere, to the ends of the earth if need be, and find her.He lay on the couch in the library one warm evening in early July. Betty sat beside him, reading the New York paper which had just been brought by the evening coach. She was trying to distract his mind from the ever-present sorrow over which he seemed to brood every minute when he was not in actual motion trying to find his wife. This evening there was a deeper gloom over them on account of having received that morning news of the death of Mr. Van Rensselaer.Charles lay still, with his face shaded from the candlelight, and let Betty read. He was paying little heed, but it made Betty happier to think that she was helping him to bear his pain. The little sister's sympathy was a great comfort, and so if she could think she was helping him, he was glad. He was occupied in trying to think out a plan for finding Harrington, just to make sure that he knew nothing about Dawn."Here's something about the new railroad, Charles. Shall I read that, or would you rather have me readParley's Magazinethan theCommercial-Advertiser?""Oh, read theCommercial-Advertiser, by all means," said Charles, trying to rouse himself to take an interest for Betty's sake. His head was aching, and he was weary in both body and soul."Well, listen to this, Charles. Isn't this wonderful? They've completed the railroad from Saratoga to Ballston. They can go eight miles in twenty-eight minutes! Think of that beside the stage-coach travelling! It takes only an hour and five minutes to go from Ballston to Schenectady, and you can go from Albany to Saratoga in three hours. Who would ever have believed it true? Do you suppose it is true, or have they exaggerated?""Oh, I guess they can do it," said Charles, with a sigh. The new railroad made him think of his wedding journey. Oh, to take it over again and never let his bride out of his sight!Betty read on:"Governor Howard, of Maryland, has set July 4th as a day of prayer that the cholera may decline. Governor Cass says——"but a low moan from Charles made her fly to another column to distract his mind:"Here's the report of the meeting of the Foreign Mission Board in New York. Would you like to hear that? It looks interesting. The evening address was made by the Honorable Stephen Van Rensselaer. Why——" Betty stopped in dismay, but Charles answered the wonder in her tone quietly:"Yes, Betty, Stephen Van Rensselaer is a cousin of Mr. Van Rensselaer. He is a fine speaker. Read about it."But Charles did not attend, though Betty rattled off a lot of statistics glibly, inwardly blaming herself for constantly coming upon things that would remind Charles of his loss."There are twelve missions now, with fifty-five stations, under the Board. Seven are in India, two in Asia, four in the Mediterranean, seven in the Sandwich Islands, twenty-seven among the southwestern Indians, four among the northeastern Indians, and four among the Indians of New York State. There are seventy-five missionaries, four physicians, four printers, eighteen teachers, twenty farmers and mechanics, and one hundred and thirty-one females, married and single, sent out from this country.""My! Isn't that a lot!" commented Betty.Just below the report of the missionary meeting was a brief paragraph. She plunged into it without stopping to glance it over."Disappeared. A female dressed in a white straw bonnet trimmed with white satin ribbon, a black silk gown, white crêpe shawl with flowered border, black silk stockings, and chocolate-colored parasol.""Oh!" cried Betty in dismay, and then went wildly on to the next column, not daring to look at her brother:"The Honorable William Wort has purchased a plantation in Florida, and is going to work it with hired hands. This will do more toward opening the eyes of the slaveholders than all the declamatory efforts of the free States since the adoption of the Constitution.""That is quoted from theUnited States Gazette, Charles, and the editor of this paper has a long, dry-looking comment on it. Do you want to hear it?"Betty looked uneasily at her brother, but his white face was turned toward the wall."Here's an article about Barnabas Bidwell, and something about General Prosper Wetmore. Doesn't father know General Wetmore, Charles?" Betty felt she was not getting on well at all."I believe he does," answered her brother patiently, and then the knocker sounded insistently through the house, and Charles came to an upright position in an instant. He seemed ever to be thus on the alert for something to happen. And this time something did happen.A negro boy stood at the door with a note scrawled on a leaf from a memorandum-book. He said he was to give it to Mr. Winthrop at once. As his father was out, Charles read it. Betty held the candle for him to see. It was badly written, with pale ink. Betty's hand trembled and made the candle waver. She felt that something momentous was in the air."Come to me at once. I'm desperately ill.—Harrington," read the note. It was like the writer to command and expect to be obeyed.Charles pressed the note into Betty's hand, saying, "Give it to Father as soon as he comes, and don't let Mother or Aunt Martha know." Then he seized his hat and sprang out into the night, urging his escort into a run, and demanding an explanation as he went.But the boy could tell little of what was the matter. He knew only that he had been sent in great haste, and that the gentleman was very sick.The night was still and warm. There was a yellow haze over the world, and a sultry feeling in the air. People had been remarking all day how warm it was for the season of year.Charles plunged through the night with only one thought in mind. He was to see his brother in a few minutes, and he must take every means to find out whether he had any knowledge of Dawn. His whole soul was bent on the purpose that had been his main object in life during the past year.It occurred to him that Harrington might be in need of medical attendance, though that was a sort of secondary consideration at the time. So he sent the negro boy after their family physician. He himself went on alone to the inn, some two miles from the village, where the boy said his brother was stopping.When Charles reached the inn he found a group of excited people gathered near the steps, and the word "cholera" floated to his ears, but it meant little to him.In a moment he was standing by his brother's bedside.Harrington turned away from him with a groan."Is it only you?" he muttered angrily. "I sent for Father.""Father was not in. He will come as soon as he returns. I will do anything you want done. I have sent for the doctor. But before I do anything, you must answer me one question. Do you know where Dawn is? Have you seen her since the day of the wedding?"Harrington turned bloodshot eyes upon his brother."Who is Dawn?" he sneered. "Oh, I see! You mean Miss Van Rensselaer. Yes, I remember you were smitten with her the only time you ever saw her. I believe in my soul it was you who cheated me out of my little game, and not Alberta at all. Well, it doesn't matter. I've got something better on the string now, if I ever get out of this cursed hole. Let the doll-faced baby go. She wasn't worth all the trouble it took to keep track of her."Then suddenly he was seized in the vise of an awful agony, and cried out with oaths and curses.Down below his window a group of huddled negroes heard, and a shudder went through them. They drew away, and whispered in sepulchral tones.Charles stood over his brother in helpless horror until the agony was passed, and Harrington gasped out:"Go for the doctor, you fool! Do you want to see me die before your eyes?"Charles's voice was grave and commanding as he stood over his brother and demanded once more:"Answer me, Harrington. Have you seen her since the day of the wedding? Answer me quickly. I will help you just as soon as I know all. I shall not do a thing until you tell me."A groan and a curse were all the answer he got, and a cold frenzy seized him, lest he should never get Harrington to tell what he knew. He understood that his brother was a very sick man. Great beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead."Get me some whiskey, you brute!" cried out the stricken man. "That awful agony is coming again. Well, if you must know, she's teaching school in a little forsaken village over beyond Schoharie—Butternuts, they call it. At least, she was till I appeared on the scene. Then she made away with herself somehow. I stayed three days, waiting for her, but she didn't come back. I stopped off last week, and the people said she'd never returned. No one knew anything about her but a tow-headed boy who called himself Daniel and said he helped carry her bag to the stage-coach. Now get me that whiskey quick. I feel the pain coming again."Charles turned without a word and dashed downstairs to the landlady, demanding hot water and blankets. He knew little about illness, save what his mother's semi-invalid state had taught him, but he had read enough in the papers lately to make him sure that Harrington had the cholera, and he knew that whiskey was not a remedy. Before he could return to his brother the doctor arrived, and together they went up to the sick man, who was writhing in agony, and again demanding whiskey.The old doctor shook his head when he saw the patient."He has indulged in that article far too much already," he said.Then began a night of horror, followed by a day of stupor on the part of the patient. The doctor had said from the start that it was cholera, and that the disease was almost always fatal to persons of intemperate habits. Charles held himself steadily to the task of the moment, and tried to still the calling of his heart to fly at once and find Dawn. Not another word had he been able to get from his brother. The pain had been so intolerable that Harrington had been unable to speak, and little by little he grew delirious until he did not recognize any of them. At times he cried out as if in wild carouse. Once or twice he called "Alberta!" in an angry tone, then muttered Mr. Van Rensselaer's name. Never once did he speak the name of Dawn. This fact gave Charles unspeakable relief.All through the night and day the doctor, the brother, and the father worked side by side, but each knew from the first that there was no hope, and at evening he died.They buried Harrington Winthrop in the old lot where rested the mortal remains of other more worthy members of the family; and the father turned away with bowed head and broken heart for such an ending to his elder son's misspent life, and kept saying over to himself, "Has it been my fault? Has it been my fault?"They were almost home when Charles, who had been silent and thoughtful, touched the older man on the shoulder."Father, shall you mind my going away at once?" he asked. "I have a clue, and must follow it."Mr. Winthrop lifted his grief-stricken head, and, looking at his son tenderly, said:"Go, my boy, and may you gain your heart's desire!"CHAPTER XXVThe next evening at sunset Charles stood beside the Butterworth gate, about to enter, when Daniel came out. The boy had finished his early supper, and was going to the village on an errand. His face was grave and thoughtful, as always since the teacher's departure.Charles watched him coming down to the gate, and liked his broad shoulders, and the blue eyes under his curly yellow lashes as he looked up."Are you Daniel Butterworth?" asked Charles."I am," said Dan, eying him keenly."Are you the one"—Charles was going to say "boy," but that did not seem to apply exactly to this grave young fellow—"are you the one who carried the teacher's baggage to the stage-coach when she went away so suddenly?"Charles had studied the question carefully. He did not know by what name Dawn had gone, whether she had used his or kept her own maiden name, or had assumed still another. He would not cast a shadow of reflection upon her, or risk his chance of finding her by using the wrong name, therefore he called her "the teacher." On inquiring about her at the inn where the stage-coach stopped, he had been referred at once to Peggy Gillette, who immediately guided him to the point in the road where he could see the Butterworth house.Daniel started, and looked the stranger over suspiciously. There was a something about this clean-faced, long, strong fellow that reminded him a little, just a very little, of the scoundrel who had frightened the teacher away; yet he instinctively liked this man, and felt that he was to be trusted. Rags, too, generally suspicious of strangers, had been smelling and snuffing about this man, and now stood wagging his tail with a smile on his homely, shaggy face. Rags's judgment was generally to be trusted."I might be," responded Daniel slowly, "and then again I mightn't. Who are you?"Charles understood that the boy was testing him, and he liked him the better for it. His heart warmed toward the one who had protected Dawn."That's all right," responded Charles heartily. "I'm ready to identify myself. I'm one who loves her better than my life, and I've done nothing for a year but search for her."He let Daniel see the depth of his meaning in his eyes, as the boy looked keenly, wistfully, into his face. Daniel was satisfied, and with a great sigh of renunciation, he said:"I knew it, I told her so. I knew you would be half crazy, hunting her. You're the one she said she belonged to, aren't you?"A great light broke over Charles's face, bringing out all the beauty of his soul, all the lines of character that suffering had set upon his youth, and that love had wrought into his fibre."Oh, Daniel, bless you! Did she tell you that? Yes, she belongs to me, and I to her, and if you'll only tell me where to find her, you'll make me the happiest man on earth!" He grasped the boy's hand in his firm, smooth one, and they stood as if making a life compact, each glad of the other's touch. "Daniel, I feel as if you were an angel of light!" broke out Charles.The angel in blue homespun lifted his eyes to the stranger's face, and was glad, since he might not have the one he loved, that she belonged to this other. He had done the best he could do for her, and his was the part of sacrifice."I can't tell you just where she is," said Daniel gravely. "I thought mebbe you'd know from this. She's sent me two books since she went away, and they're both post-marked 'New York.' That's all I know."He pulled out a tattered paper that had wrapped a parcel, and together they studied the marks. Charles's face grew grave. New York was a large place even in those days. Yet it was more definite than the whole United States, which had been his field of action thus far. He would not despair. He would take heart of grace and go forward."Daniel," said he, handing back the paper to its owner, with a delicate feeling that the boy had the first right to it, since he was the link between them, "will you go to New York to-night with me and help me to find her?"Dan's face lit up until he was actually handsome."Me?"Rags wagged his tail hard, and gave a sharp little bark, as if to say: "Me?""Yes, both of you," said Charles joyously. He felt as if he were on the right track at last, and his soul could fairly shout for happiness."Rags might do a lot toward finding her. He'd track her anywhere. It was all I could do to get him away from her when she got into the stage-coach to go away." Dan looked down at his four-footed companion lovingly, and Rags lifted one ear in recognition of the compliment, meanwhile keeping wistful eyes on the stranger. It almost looked as if he understood.Charles stooped down and patted him warmly, and the ugly little dog wriggled all over with great happiness,"Of course he must go with us, then," said Charles."Yes, and the way he lit into that dressed-up chap that came and frightened her away was something fine," went on Dan."Tell me about it," said Charles.Dan gave a brief account of Harrington's visit to the village and Dawn's departure.Charles's face was grave and sad as they spoke of his brother. Harrington's death was too recent and too terrible to admit of bitter memories. He kept his head bent down toward Rags, who was luxuriating in the stranger's fondling, while Daniel was talking. Then he gave the dog a final pat and stood up."Daniel," said he, "that man was my brother, and he died of cholera three days ago. He did wrong and made a lot of trouble, and he almost broke my father's heart, but his death was an awful one, and perhaps we'd better not think about his part in this matter any more. He's gone beyond our reach.""I didn't know," said Dan awkwardly. "I'm sorry I said anything——""It's all right," said Charles heartily. "I saw how you felt, and I thought I'd better tell you all about it. I need your help, and it's best to be frank. And now, how about it? Will you go with me to help find her? Will your family object? I'll see to the expense, of course, and will make it as pleasant as I can for you.""I'll go," said Dan briefly, but his tone meant a great deal. If he had lived in these days, he would have answered "Sure!" with that peculiar inflection that implies whole-souled loyalty. Charles understood the embarrassed heartiness, and took the reply as it was intended."How soon can we start?" he asked anxiously. Every moment meant something to him, and he was impatient to be off. He took out his watch. It was quarter to six. "They told me there was a night-coach making connection with the early boat for New York. It starts at seven o'clock. Would that be too soon for you?""That's all right," said Daniel, in a voice that was hoarse with excitement. "I just got to change my clothes. Will you come in?""Suppose I wait on the front stoop," suggested Charles, seeing the embarrassment in the boy's face."All right," said Daniel. "I won't be long."Mrs. Butterworth looked up anxiously as Dan came into the kitchen. She had been watching the interview from the side window."I'm goin' to New York with one of Teacher's friends, ma," he said, in the same tone he would have told her he was going to the village store. "Have I got a clean shirt?""To New York!" echoed the woman, who herself had never been outside of the county. "To New York!"—aghast. "Now, you look out, Dan'l. You can't tell 'bout strangers. He may want to get you way from your friends an' rob you.""What is there to rob, I'd like to know? He's welcome to all he can get.""You never can tell," said his mother, shaking her head fearfully. "You better take care, Dan'l.""What's the matter with ye, Ma? Didn't I tell you he's a friend o' Miss Montgomery? She told me all about him. We're goin' down to New York together to see her. Where's my shirt? He's invited me. You needn't to worry. I may be gone a few days. I'll write you a letter when I get there. I'm goin' to take the dog. We're goin' on the seven o'clock stage an' mebbe I'll find out somethin' about goin' to college. I'm goin' to college this fall if there's any way. I don't know whether he's had any supper. You might give him a doughnut. He's on the front stoop. Say, where is my clean shirt, Ma? It's gettin' late."Daniel had thrown off his coat and was struggling with a refractory buckle of his suspenders as he talked. His mother was roused at last to her duties, and brought the shirt, with which he vanished to the loft. Then the mother, partly to reassure herself about the stranger, filled a plate with cold ham, bread and butter, a generous slice of apple pie, and three or four fat doughnuts, and cautiously opened the front door.Rags, not having to change his clothes, had remained with Charles, and was enjoying a friendly hand on his head while he sat alert waiting for what was to happen next. When Dan appeared things would move, he knew, and he meant to be in them. He wasn't going to trust any verbal promises. He was going with them if he had to do it on the sly.Charles arose and received the bountiful supper graciously. When Mrs. Butterworth saw the manner of the stranger who sat on her front settle she was ashamed to be handing him a plate outside, as if he were a tramp. "Dan'l said you wouldn't come in," she said hospitably, "and I couldn't bear not to give you a bite to eat. You should 'a' happened 'long sooner, while supper was hot. We all thought a lot o' Miss Montgomery. Was you her brother, perhaps?"While she had prepared the lunch, she had questioned within herself what sort of "friend" this might be with whom Dan was going to visit the teacher. If Dan wanted to "make up" to Teacher, why did he not go alone?Charles perceived that Daniel had not explained to his mother, and, keeping his own counsel, returned pleasantly:"Oh, no, not her brother," and he began to tell Mrs. Butterworth how glad he was to have her son's company on his visit to New York. His manner was so reassuring that she decided he was all right, and as Dan came down, his face shining from much soap, and his hair plastered as smoothly as his rough curls would allow, she said pleasantly:"You'll see my boy don't get into bad company down in New York, won't you? I'm worried, sort of, fer his pa said last night there was cholera round."Charles's face sobered in an instant."We'll take good care of each other, Mrs. Butterworth; don't you worry. I'm much obliged for your letting me have Daniel for company, and I'll try to make him have a pleasant time."The village people stared at Dan as he got into the stage with the stranger. They wondered where he was going. One of the boys made bold to slide up to the coach and ask him, but he got little satisfaction."Just running down to New York for a few days," Dan answered nonchalantly, as if it were a matter of every-day occurrence.Amid the envious stares of the boys, the coach drove away into the evening, and Daniel sat silently beside his companion, wondering at himself, his heart throbbing greatly that he might within a few hours see the girl who had made such a difference in his life.About midnight everybody but Charles and Daniel got out of the coach. Comfortably ensconced, the two young men might have slept, but Charles was too nervous and excited to sleep, and Daniel was not far behind him."Daniel," said Charles, suddenly breaking the silence that had fallen upon them, though each knew the other was not sleeping, "by what name did she go? Your mother spoke of her as Miss Montgomery. Was that the name she gave?""Yes," said Daniel, wondering; "Mary Montgomery.""It was her mother's name," said Charles reverently. Dawn had talked to him of her mother on their wedding trip."Daniel, there is something more that perhaps I ought to tell you. Did she tell you that she and I are married?""No," said Dan. His voice was shaking as he tried to take in the thought. It was as if he were expecting an unbearable pain in a nerve that had already throbbed its life out and was at rest. He was surprised to find how natural it seemed. Then he stammered out:"I guess I must have known, though. She said she belonged to you, and so nobody else could take care of her.""Thank you for telling me that," said Charles. He laid his hand warmly on Dan's. The boy liked his touch. Rags, who was sleeping at their feet, nestled closer to them both with a sleepy whine. He was content now that he was really on his way."I guess," said Dan chokingly—"I guess I better tell you the whole, because I like you, and you're the right kind. You seem like what she ought to have, and I'm glad it's you—but—it was kind of hard, because, you see, I'd have liked to take care of her myself. I didn't know about you till she told me, and though I knew, of course, I wasn't much to look at beside her, I could have done a lot for her, and I mean to go to college yet, any way, just to show her. You see, I guess it ain't right to go along with you to see her, and not tell you what I said to her. I told her I loved her! And it was true, too. I'd have died for her if it was necessary. If that makes any difference to you, Rags and I'll get out and walk back now. I thought I ought to tell you. I couldn't help loving her, could I, when she did so much for me? And, you see, I never knew about you."It was a long speech for the silent Dan to make, but Charles's warm hand-grasp through it all helped wonderfully, as well as Dan's growing liking for Dawn's husband."Bless you, Daniel!" said Charles, throwing his arm about his companion's shoulders, as he used to do with his chums in college. "You just sit right still where you are. It was noble and honest of you to tell me that. I believe in my heart I like you all the better for it. We are brothers, you see, for I love her that way, too, and it gives me a lot of comfort to know you can understand me. But, old fellow—I don't quite know how to say it—I'm deeply sorry that your love has brought you only pain, and I feel all the more warmly toward you that you tried to help her when you knew she belonged to some one else. I never can thank you enough.""I couldn't have helped it," said Dan gruffly. "If anybodylovedher, they'dhaveto take care of her,if it killed 'em.""Dan, old fellow, I loveyou," said Charles impulsively. "You can't know what this is to me, that you took care of her when I couldn't. I'll love you always, and I shall never forget what you've done for me. Now, begin at the beginning and tell me all you know about her, won't you? I'm hungry to hear."And Dan found himself telling the whole story of how Dawn had conquered him, the ringleader of mischief in the school, made him her slave, and helped him up to a plane where higher ambitions and nobler standards had changed his whole idea of life.As he listened to the homely, boyish phrases and read between the lines the pathos of Dawn's struggles, Charles found tears standing in his eyes to think his little girl-wife had been through so much all by herself, without him near to help and comfort. Would he ever, ever, be able to make up to her for it?He expressed this thought clumsily to Dan, and the boy, all eager now with sympathy, and loving Charles as loyally as Dawn, said royally:"I calculate one sight of your face'll make her forget it all. Leastways, that's the way it looks to me."They talked at intervals all night. Charles drew from Daniel his ambition to get an education and be worthy to be the friend of such a teacher as he had had. The boy said it shyly, and then added, "And you too, if you'll let me," and there in the early breaking of the morning light the two young men made a solemn compact of friendship through life. When the sun shone forth and touched the hills, glinting the Hudson in the distance, Daniel sat up and looked about him with a new interest in life, and a happier feeling in his heart than he had had since Dawn went away.Three days they spent in New York, searching for Dawn. The paper that had wrapped Dan's book they took to the post-office first, and by careful inquiry were able to discover in what quarter of the city the package was mailed, though, of course, this was very slight information, as she might have been far from her living place when she mailed it. They also discovered the store where the books were bought, for Charles had had the forethought to send Daniel back for them before they started. The clerk who had sold them to her remembered her, and described her as beautiful, with black curls inside a white bonnet, and a dark silk frock. He said she had sad eyes, and looked thin and pale. This troubled Charles more than he was willing to admit to Dan.Having narrowed their clue to this most indefinite point, they held a consultation and decided that the only thing to do was to walk around that quarter of the city and see if they could get sight of her. Or possibly Rags would get on a scent of her footsteps in some spot less travelled than others. It was almost a hopeless search, yet they started bravely on the hunt, and talked to Rags in a way that would have made an ordinary dog beside himself.Charles had with him the gloves that Dawn had dropped on the floor beside the bed when she fled from his home. He always carried them with him in his breast-pocket. He took them out and let Rags smell of them. Then Dan said:"Rags, go find Teacher. Teacher! Rags! Go find Teacher!"Rags sniffed and looked wistfully in their faces, then barked and started on a sniffing tour all about them, his homely yellow-brown face wearing a look of dog anxiety. He thought he comprehended what they wanted, but was not sure. He had felt a great loss since the teacher went away. Was it possible they expected him to find her?During the three days, they haunted the streets of the city, both day and evening, and Rags was quite worn out with sniffing. Once or twice he thought he had found a trail, but it came to nothing, and he scurried dejectedly on ahead, hoping his followers had not noticed him bark. On the morning of the fourth day they turned into a narrow street which was almost like a lane compared to other streets. There were only tiny, gloomy houses, and noisy, foreign-looking people stood in the doorways or conversed across the street. It seemed a most unlikely neighborhood for their search, and Charles was half of a mind to turn back and take another street, but almost at the entrance to the street Rags had gone quite wild and nosed his way rapidly down the uneven pavement until he stopped beside a humble doorstep and went nosing about and yelping in great delight. The door was closed, but he tried the steps, and even sniffed under the crack, and then came bounding back to his companions."What have you found, Rags, boy?" said Charles half-heartedly. He did not believe they would find any trace of Dawn here."He thinks he's found her," said Dan convincingly. "He never acts like that without a reason. Rags, find Teacher! Where is she, Rags?""Bow-wow!" answered Rags sharply, as much as to say, "Why don't you open the door and find her yourself?"An old woman came to the door, and looked sharply at the dog on her clean step. Charles took off his hat."We are looking for a friend, madam, who is stopping in this neighborhood somewhere, and we do not know her address. Our dog thinks he has found a trace of her, but he is probably mistaken. You don't happen to have noticed anywhere near here, a young woman with dark eyes and dark, curling hair, lately come to the city—not more than two months ago, perhaps?""You wouldn't be meanin' pretty Mary Montgomery—bless her heart!—would ye?" the old woman asked quizzically, surveying the two.But Rags had stayed not on the order of his going. He had dashed past the old woman and up the stairs to the floor above."Och! Look at the little varmint!" said the old woman, forgetting her question and dashing after the dog, thus missing the startled look that came into the faces of both young men.But after a series of short, sharp barks, Rags returned as quickly as he had gone, almost knocking the old lady down her rickety stairs, in his delight, and bearing in his mouth a fragment of gray cloth which he brought and laid triumphantly at his master's feet.Dan stooped and picked it up almost reverently and smoothed the frayed edges. It was a bit of Dawn's gray school-dress that she had torn off where the facing was worn and had caught her foot as she walked. Dan recognized the cloth at once. Charles had never seen the gown, but he saw that the bit of cloth had some significance to Dan. He rushed in after the old lady, who had now descended the stairs wrathfully behind the dog."Tell me where this Miss Montgomery is, please," he said as quietly as he could. He had followed so many clues and seen them turn into nothing before his eyes, he scarcely could dare hope now. His heart was beating wildly. Was he to see Dawn again at last?"Och! An' I wish I knew, the darlint!" said the garrulous old woman. "She lift me yistherday marnin', an' it's thrue I miss the sight o' her sweet smile an' her pretty ways. She was a young wummun of quality, was she, an' I sez to me dauther, sez I, 'Kate, mind the ways o' her, the pretty ways o' Mary Montgomery,' sez I, 'fer it's not soon ye'll see such a lady agin.'""Has she been here in your house, do you say?" asked Charles anxiously. He felt he must keep very calm or he might lose the clue."Yis, sorr, that she was. She ockepied me back siccond floor, an' a swater lady niver walked the earth, ef shewashuntin' work fer her pretty, saft hands to do, what she couldn't get nowhere, sorr, more's the pity. Would yez like to coom up an' tak a luik at the rum? It's as nate a rum as ye'll find in the sthreet, ef I do say so as shouldn't, though a bit small fer two. But there's the frunt siccond floor'll be vacant to-morry, at only a shillun more the wake."Daniel held up the fragment of cloth."It's the frock she wore to school," he said. He spoke hoarsely and handled it as though it belonged to the dead. It seemed terrible to him to have found where she had been, and not find her.They followed the old woman upstairs, scarcely hearing her dissertation, nor realizing that she took them for possible roomers.The room was neat, as the woman had said, but bare—so bare and gloomy! Nothing but blank walls and chimneys to be seen from the tiny window, where the sun streamed in unhindered across the meagre bed and deal chair and table which were the only furnishings. Charles's heart grew tender with pity, and his eyes filled with tears, as he looked upon it all and realized that his wife had slept there on that hard bed, and had for a time called that dreary spot home. He glanced involuntarily out of the window, noting the garbage in the back yards below, and the unpleasant odors that arose, and remembered the warnings and precautions with which the papers had been filled even before the cholera had come so close to them. He shuddered to think what might have happened to Dawn."But where has she gone?" he asked the old woman."Yes, that's what we want to know," said Dan."Yes, where!" barked Rags behind the old woman's heels, which made her jump and exclaim, "Och, the varmint!" until Dan called the dog to his side."She's gone. Lift me, an' no rason at all at all, savin' thet she couldn't find wark, an' her money most gahn. I sez to her as she went out that dor, sez I, 'Yez betther go hum to yer friends ef yez kin find 'em. It's bad times fer a pretty un like you, an' you with yer hands that saft;' but she only smiled at me like a white rose, an' was away, sayin' she'd see, and she thankin' me all the whilst fer the little I'd been able to do fer her—me that's a widder an' meself to kape."Nothing more could they get from the good woman, though they tried both with money and questions. Dawn had been there for two months, and had gone out every day hunting work. She had come back every night weary and discouraged, but always with a smile. At last she had come home with a newspaper, her face whiter than usual, and, as the old widow had put it, said: "'Mrs. O'Donnell, I'm away in the marn, fer I'm thinkin' it's best;' and away she goes."The two young men turned away at last, after having made Rags smell all around the room. He insisted upon their taking a folded bit of paper that he found on the floor by the window, as if it were something precious belonging to her. They bade Mrs. O'Donnell good-by, after Charles had given her something to solace her for losing two prospective roomers, and went out to search again.Rags preceded them down the street, following the scent rapidly until he reached the corner, where he seemed in some perplexity for a time. Finally, he chose the street leading to the river, and going more slowly and crookedly, sometimes zigzagging and sometimes going back to make sure, he brought them at last to the boat-landing.Perhaps, they thought, she might have followed the advice of the old woman and gone back to her own home region—who knew? With heavy hearts, they set about finding what boats had left the wharf the day before, about the hour the old woman had said that the girl had left her house.But the morning boat of the day before had just come in and was lying by for repairs. After some questioning, the captain professed to recall such a passenger as they described, but as all the decks had been scrubbed, Rags with his eager nose was unable to corroborate the captain's testimony. Charles and Dan lost no time in securing passage on the boat, which was to sail that evening for Albany, where the captain said he was sure the young lady had gotten off the evening before.The remainder of the afternoon they spent in making inquiries in every direction, leaving written messages directed to Miss Mary Montgomery, and putting notices in the various city papers. Rags, meantime, was much annoyed and disturbed by their digression. He felt that the boat was the place to stay. He was satisfied they were on the right track. If he had been managing the expedition, he would have had the boat start at once. When it finally did leave the wharf, he sat up on deck with his fore-feet on the railing and barked his satisfaction, then settled down to rest at the feet of the two beloved ones, with a smile of satisfaction on his grizzly face.
CHAPTER XXIII
The night that Dawn left her husband's home marked the beginning of an era of sorrow in the history of the Winthrops.
The distracted young husband and his father rode all night long.
Charles reached the Van Rensselaers' home a little sooner than old Mr. Winthrop, who had further to go. The young man's white, drawn face startled Mrs. Van Rensselaer as he stood to greet her in the gloomy parlor, where the scent of the wedding roses still lingered.
She was in workaday attire, to set her house in order and prepare for what she hoped was to be a season of peace in her hitherto tempestuous life. Dawn was off her hands finally, she felt, and she had no serious forebodings concerning her share in the matter. The hard part had been to get the girl off without her finding out the trick that had been played on her. It had amazed the step-mother that her plan had worked so well. She had been prepared for the discovery to be made soon after the ceremony, but she had trusted to Dawn's fear of publicity, and Charles's evident infatuation, to hush the matter up. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had been reasonably sure that she could even keep it from her husband's knowledge, though she was prepared with a plausible story in case he remonstrated. His sense of pride would make him readily persuadable to almost any plan that would hide their mortification from curious friends. She had been sure that she could make him see that the whole thing had been done for his daughter's good. And now that the step-mother had succeeded even better than she had hoped, in getting the couple off on their wedding trip without either one discovering her duplicity, she had been at rest about the matter. Charles was enough in love to be able to make everything all right, and he would never blame her for having furthered his plans, even though not quite in the way he had arranged. Dawn could not fail to be pleased with the husband her step-mother had secured for her, and even would thank her in later life, perhaps, for having helped her to him.
And so Mrs. Van Rensselaer had gone placidly about the house, putting things to rights, and enjoying the prospect of a comfortable future without the fear of an unloved step-daughter's presence haunting her.
But when she saw Charles's face a pang of fear shot through her and left her trembling with apprehension. His voice sounded hollow and accusatory when he spoke:
"Is Dawn here, Mrs. Van Rensselaer?"
A thousand possibilities rushed through the woman's brain at once, and she felt herself brought suddenly before an awful judgment bar. What had she done? How had she dared? How swift was retribution! Not even one whole day of satisfaction, after all her trouble!
She tried to summon a natural voice, but it would not come. Her throat felt dry, and as if it did not belong to her, as she answered:
"Here? No. How could she be here? Didn't you take her away?"
The young man sat down suddenly in the nearest chair with a groan, and dropped his head into his hands. The woman stood silent, frightened, before him.
"Mrs. Van Rensselaer, what have you done? Why did you do it?"
"Well, really, what have I done?" The sharp voice of the woman returned to combat as soon as the accusation pricked her into anger. "I'm sure I helped you to get a wife you seemed to want bad enough and never would have got if I hadn't managed affairs. You haven't any idea how hard she was to manage or you'd understand. It was a very trying situation, and it isn't every woman could have made things go as well as I did—not to have a soul outside your family know there had been a change of bridegrooms. You see, none of our friends had ever seen your brother, and as the name was the same there were no explanations necessary."
"Mrs. Van Rensselaer, I would never have married Dawn against her will. It was not right for you to deceive her. She ought to have been told just how things stood, and what my brother had done."
"H'm! And had a pretty mess, with her crying and saying she wouldn't marry anybody, and all the wedding guests coming? Young man, you don't know what you're talking about. That girl isn't easy to manage, and I guess you've found it out already. She's like a flea: when you think you have her, she's somewhere else. I knew something desperate would have to be done before she ever settled down and accepted life as it had to be, and I did it, that's all. Well, what's the matter, any way? Have you got tired of your bargain already and turned her out of your house?"
Mrs. Van Rensselaer was exasperated and frightened. She scarcely knew what she was saying. Any moment her husband might come into the house. If she could only get the interview over before he came, and perhaps hide at least a part of the story from him! She dreaded his terrible temper. She had always had an innate presentiment that some time that temper would be let loose against her, and she knew now the moment was come.
Charles looked up with his handsome and usually kindly eyes blazing with amazement and indignation:
"Mrs. Van Rensselaer, my wife has gone away. We have searched all night and cannot find her. I was sure she had come home. Oh, what shall I do?"
"Well, I'm sure I don't see how I'm to blame for her having left you," snapped out Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "I did my part and made sure you got her. You ought to have been able to keep her after you had her. How'd she come to leave you?"
"I cannot tell exactly. She went up to see Mother a few minutes after supper, and then——"
"Oh!" said Mrs. Van Rensselaer, with disagreeable significance.
"And then we could not find her," went on Charles, unheeding. "She left a note with good-by. That was all. I have no clue."
The front door opened, and Mr. Van Rensselaer walked in. His face was white, for he had not slept well. In a dream his dead wife had stood before him and seemed to be taking him to task about her child, the daughter who left her father's house but a few hours before. He had gone out for the morning mail, hoping to get rid of the phantoms that pursued his steps, but his head was throbbing.
How much he had heard of what they had been saying, they did not know. He stood before them white and stern-looking, glancing from one to the other of the two in the dim parlor.
"Where is my daughter?" he asked.
"She is gone, Mr. Van Rensselaer," answered Charles pitifully. "I have searched for her all night long. I hoped she was here."
"Gone?" repeated the father in a strange, far-away voice; then he wavered for an instant, and fell at their feet, as if dead. The accusations of his own heart had reached their mark. The iron will yielded at last to the finger of God.
They carried him to his bed and called the doctor. Confusion reigned in the house. The old doctor shook his head and called it apoplexy. Mr. Van Rensselaer was still living, and might linger for some time, but it would be a living death.
And so, while he lay upon his bed, breathing, but dead to the world about him, they made what plans they could to find his daughter. Charles's father came in sadly, reporting no success in the search. They started out once more after a brief rest.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer was in no condition to help them now. She had her hands full, poor woman. One thing had been spared her: her husband did not know her part in the disappearance of his daughter. Perhaps he might never need to know; yet as she went about ministering to that silent, living dead, whom she had loved beyond anything earthly, her heart was full of bitterness and fear.
The months that followed were terrible to Charles. After a few days of keeping the matter quiet and hoping they would find her by themselves, they made the disappearance public, and the whole countryside joined in the search.
The greatest drawback to success was that so few people had seen Dawn since she grew up. The servants in her father's house had seen her during the week she had been home from school, but scarcely any one else except for a passing glance on the street. All searching was in vain. There were notices put in the papers of that region. They sent to her old school for knowledge of her; they left no stone unturned. And the wonder of it is that Dawn's friend, the minister, or some of the selectmen, especially Silas Dobson, did not see the notices that appeared in New York papers and in those of smaller towns, and connect the mysterious disappearance with the new teacher that had come to their village. But the old clergyman had vouched for her, and there was apparently no mystery about her. This good man did not often have opportunity to read papers of other towns, save his regular weekly religious sheet. Then, too, the place where Dawn had found refuge was small and insignificant, and not on the line of most travel. She could not have been better sheltered from the searchers.
It was the day after Charles had been to see the body of a young woman who had been found in the river some fifty miles distant from his home, that he became ill with typhoid fever.
Not for a day had he rested or given up his search. When one clue failed, he went to the next with restless, feverish energy, and a haunted look in his eyes. The boy had become a man, and the man was bearing a heavy burden. His father saw it, and grieved for him. His mother saw it, and accused herself. His sisters saw it, and did their best to help him. Betty was constantly thinking up new plans for the search, and saying comforting, cheering things to her brother. Charles loved her dearly for it, but nothing brought relief. His affection for Dawn had been such as rarely grows in a human heart, even after years of acquaintance. It had sprung full-bloomed into being, and filled his whole soul. It is said that to the average man love is but an incident, while to a woman it is the whole of life. If that be so, there are exceptions, and Charles was one of them. He kept his love for his girl-wife as the greatest thing life had for him, and thought of nothing else day or night but to find her.
No one dared to suggest his going back to college. That would be to admit that the search was hopeless, and that might prove fatal to Charles. The neighbors had begun to shake their heads and pity him. It was even whispered that the girl might have run away with another man, though no one ventured to say such a thing in the hearing of the family.
If it had been in these days of telegraphs and telephones, railroads and detectives, it would have been but a matter of days until they had found her, but in those times travel and search were long and hard. There seemed little hope. It was the third dead face which Charles had searched for likeness to the girl he loved. He came home worn and exhausted, his spirit utterly discouraged and weary, and he was an easy prey to the disease which gripped him from the first in its most violent form.
Silence and sadness settled down upon the Winthrop household while the life of Charles was held in the balance. The father carried on the search for the lost wife more vigorously than ever, believing that the sight of her might bring his boy back even from the grave; but nothing developed.
News from the Van Rensselaers gave no hope of the paralyzed man's recovery. He was lying like a thing of stone, unable to move. He could not even make a sound. Only his eyes followed his tormented wife, like haunting spirits sent to condemn her. The face was set in its stern expression, like a fallen statue of his proud, imperious self.
It was mid-winter before Charles began slowly to creep back to life, and there was still no clue to Dawn. They dreaded to have him ask about her; though they had noticed how he had searched their faces every morning after consciousness returned to him. He knew as well as they that nothing had been accomplished toward finding her.
One day he seemed more cheerful and a little stronger, and called old Mr. Winthrop to his side.
"Father," said he, "I've been thinking that perhaps she'd not like to come back here, the way she feels about it. There was a little white house on the hills beyond Albany that we noticed as we came along on the train. We both said we should like to live there among the trees. Would you be willing that I should take the money Grandfather left to me and buy that little house for her to come to? Then I could put a notice in the papers telling her it was ready, and perhaps she would see it and understand."
The old man's heart was heavy, for he had begun to believe that Dawn was no longer in the land of the living; but he would have consented to any plan that would comfort his boy and give him a new interest in life, and so as soon as Charles was able to travel they went together to purchase the small farm and little white house. The next day there appeared in the New York papers this notice, which was printed many weeks and copied into numerous village papers:
Dawn, the little white house we saw near Albany is ready for us. Write and tell me where to find you. CHARLES.
But nothing ever came in answer, though Charles watched every mail with feverish anxiety; and he still kept up his search in other directions. So the spring crept on, and almost it was a year since Dawn had left him.
CHAPTER XXIV
Dawn had been in New York two months, after various trying experiences in getting there, and all that time she had been unable to find anything to do by which she could earn her living.
The miserable little boarding place, the best she could afford, was growing more and more uncomfortable as the hot weather came on. Dawn was thin and worn and sad. Her money which she had earned during the winter, and which she had always carried sewed inside her garments, was fast melting away. A few more weeks, and she would be penniless. She began to wonder what would come next, and to question whether it would not have been better to stay with the school, and trust the old minister and Daniel to protect her from Harrington Winthrop. But always, after thinking it over, she decided that she could not have been safe when he knew her whereabouts.
There was one other thing which troubled her constantly now. It was that sentence of Daniel's: "He'd rather have youandthe trouble, than to have no trouble without you." Was it true? Did Charles love her that way? Was she giving him trouble by staying away? "If he's anything like you say he is, he's most crazy hunting you," Daniel had said. Wasthattrue, too? Could he be hunting her yet? Had she been wrong in coming away? Gradually she came to admit to herself that there might have been a better way. She might have made a mistake. But it was too late now to remedy it. She could not go back on her promise that she would trouble him no more. She could not bring added disgrace to him now that she had stayed away all these months and everybody must know it. Oh, how long and hard life was! And then she once more went wearily at her task of hunting a position.
Slowly, stealthily, up from the south; strangely, unexpectedly, down from the Canadian border, there crept a grim spectre of death. Heard of from afar with indifference at first, it gradually grew more terrifying as it drew nearer. Now and then the death of a well-known victim caused uneasiness to become more manifest.
Hotter grew the sun, and nearer drew the spectre. The daily papers contained advice for protection against it. The cities cleaned their streets and warned their citizens. The temperance societies called attention to the fact that hard drinkers were in more danger than others. Meat and milk and vegetables were carefully inspected. Water was boiled. Cheerfulness was put on like a garment, and assurance was flaunted everywhere. People were told to keep up a good heart and keep clean, and there was little danger. Still the spectre crept nearer, laying hands upon its victims, and daily the reports grew more alarming. It was near the end of June when the ministers met in New York and petitioned the President to appoint a general day of fasting and prayer to avert the oncoming pestilence. Andrew Jackson replied that it was in their line, not his, to decide whether this matter was important enough to bring to the notice of the Almighty, and he left it in their hands. The days went by, and the spectre crept on. The Governors of the States began to appoint days of prayer. At last the cholera was a recognized fact. It had come to do its worst. The newspapers abandoned their talk of its impossibility, and set about making the best of things, describing the precautions to be taken, the preliminary symptoms, and the best method of treatment. For a time, during the latter part of June and the early part of July, it was hoped that by vigilance and care it could be kept out of New York City. The worst of the pestilence was in the Southern States, though it had made great ravages as far north as Cincinnati. And from Canada it was spreading south into New York State. Here and there a little town would have a single case, which would send terror throughout the county, and daily the number grew greater.
Charles was looking worn and thin. He had bought the little house, and had had it renovated. It was furnished now, and waiting for the bride who did not come. His heart grew sick with the great fear that was growing within him, the fear that he should never find her on this earth. Of late, a new worry had come to him. A letter had come to his father from Harrington's wife, saying that she was destitute, as her husband had deserted her again. He had stayed with her but a week after he brought her home, though he had promised many things.
In spite of himself, Charles could not get it out of his mind that Harrington had spirited Dawn away somewhere. He did not doubt her for an instant. He would not let himself think that she might still have some lurking love for the man who had not scrupled to do her a wrong. He laid all blame, if blame there was, upon his brother. Harrington had sometimes appropriated his younger brother's boyish treasures to his own use when they were both younger, and Charles had no doubt he would not hesitate to do thus even with his brother's wife, were such a thing possible.
Sometimes the remembrance of the terror in Dawn's eyes when she asked about Harrington and where she would have to meet him, made Charles fairly writhe, and he felt that he must fly somewhere, to the ends of the earth if need be, and find her.
He lay on the couch in the library one warm evening in early July. Betty sat beside him, reading the New York paper which had just been brought by the evening coach. She was trying to distract his mind from the ever-present sorrow over which he seemed to brood every minute when he was not in actual motion trying to find his wife. This evening there was a deeper gloom over them on account of having received that morning news of the death of Mr. Van Rensselaer.
Charles lay still, with his face shaded from the candlelight, and let Betty read. He was paying little heed, but it made Betty happier to think that she was helping him to bear his pain. The little sister's sympathy was a great comfort, and so if she could think she was helping him, he was glad. He was occupied in trying to think out a plan for finding Harrington, just to make sure that he knew nothing about Dawn.
"Here's something about the new railroad, Charles. Shall I read that, or would you rather have me readParley's Magazinethan theCommercial-Advertiser?"
"Oh, read theCommercial-Advertiser, by all means," said Charles, trying to rouse himself to take an interest for Betty's sake. His head was aching, and he was weary in both body and soul.
"Well, listen to this, Charles. Isn't this wonderful? They've completed the railroad from Saratoga to Ballston. They can go eight miles in twenty-eight minutes! Think of that beside the stage-coach travelling! It takes only an hour and five minutes to go from Ballston to Schenectady, and you can go from Albany to Saratoga in three hours. Who would ever have believed it true? Do you suppose it is true, or have they exaggerated?"
"Oh, I guess they can do it," said Charles, with a sigh. The new railroad made him think of his wedding journey. Oh, to take it over again and never let his bride out of his sight!
Betty read on:
"Governor Howard, of Maryland, has set July 4th as a day of prayer that the cholera may decline. Governor Cass says——"
but a low moan from Charles made her fly to another column to distract his mind:
"Here's the report of the meeting of the Foreign Mission Board in New York. Would you like to hear that? It looks interesting. The evening address was made by the Honorable Stephen Van Rensselaer. Why——" Betty stopped in dismay, but Charles answered the wonder in her tone quietly:
"Yes, Betty, Stephen Van Rensselaer is a cousin of Mr. Van Rensselaer. He is a fine speaker. Read about it."
But Charles did not attend, though Betty rattled off a lot of statistics glibly, inwardly blaming herself for constantly coming upon things that would remind Charles of his loss.
"There are twelve missions now, with fifty-five stations, under the Board. Seven are in India, two in Asia, four in the Mediterranean, seven in the Sandwich Islands, twenty-seven among the southwestern Indians, four among the northeastern Indians, and four among the Indians of New York State. There are seventy-five missionaries, four physicians, four printers, eighteen teachers, twenty farmers and mechanics, and one hundred and thirty-one females, married and single, sent out from this country."
"My! Isn't that a lot!" commented Betty.
Just below the report of the missionary meeting was a brief paragraph. She plunged into it without stopping to glance it over.
"Disappeared. A female dressed in a white straw bonnet trimmed with white satin ribbon, a black silk gown, white crêpe shawl with flowered border, black silk stockings, and chocolate-colored parasol."
"Oh!" cried Betty in dismay, and then went wildly on to the next column, not daring to look at her brother:
"The Honorable William Wort has purchased a plantation in Florida, and is going to work it with hired hands. This will do more toward opening the eyes of the slaveholders than all the declamatory efforts of the free States since the adoption of the Constitution."
"That is quoted from theUnited States Gazette, Charles, and the editor of this paper has a long, dry-looking comment on it. Do you want to hear it?"
Betty looked uneasily at her brother, but his white face was turned toward the wall.
"Here's an article about Barnabas Bidwell, and something about General Prosper Wetmore. Doesn't father know General Wetmore, Charles?" Betty felt she was not getting on well at all.
"I believe he does," answered her brother patiently, and then the knocker sounded insistently through the house, and Charles came to an upright position in an instant. He seemed ever to be thus on the alert for something to happen. And this time something did happen.
A negro boy stood at the door with a note scrawled on a leaf from a memorandum-book. He said he was to give it to Mr. Winthrop at once. As his father was out, Charles read it. Betty held the candle for him to see. It was badly written, with pale ink. Betty's hand trembled and made the candle waver. She felt that something momentous was in the air.
"Come to me at once. I'm desperately ill.—Harrington," read the note. It was like the writer to command and expect to be obeyed.
Charles pressed the note into Betty's hand, saying, "Give it to Father as soon as he comes, and don't let Mother or Aunt Martha know." Then he seized his hat and sprang out into the night, urging his escort into a run, and demanding an explanation as he went.
But the boy could tell little of what was the matter. He knew only that he had been sent in great haste, and that the gentleman was very sick.
The night was still and warm. There was a yellow haze over the world, and a sultry feeling in the air. People had been remarking all day how warm it was for the season of year.
Charles plunged through the night with only one thought in mind. He was to see his brother in a few minutes, and he must take every means to find out whether he had any knowledge of Dawn. His whole soul was bent on the purpose that had been his main object in life during the past year.
It occurred to him that Harrington might be in need of medical attendance, though that was a sort of secondary consideration at the time. So he sent the negro boy after their family physician. He himself went on alone to the inn, some two miles from the village, where the boy said his brother was stopping.
When Charles reached the inn he found a group of excited people gathered near the steps, and the word "cholera" floated to his ears, but it meant little to him.
In a moment he was standing by his brother's bedside.
Harrington turned away from him with a groan.
"Is it only you?" he muttered angrily. "I sent for Father."
"Father was not in. He will come as soon as he returns. I will do anything you want done. I have sent for the doctor. But before I do anything, you must answer me one question. Do you know where Dawn is? Have you seen her since the day of the wedding?"
Harrington turned bloodshot eyes upon his brother.
"Who is Dawn?" he sneered. "Oh, I see! You mean Miss Van Rensselaer. Yes, I remember you were smitten with her the only time you ever saw her. I believe in my soul it was you who cheated me out of my little game, and not Alberta at all. Well, it doesn't matter. I've got something better on the string now, if I ever get out of this cursed hole. Let the doll-faced baby go. She wasn't worth all the trouble it took to keep track of her."
Then suddenly he was seized in the vise of an awful agony, and cried out with oaths and curses.
Down below his window a group of huddled negroes heard, and a shudder went through them. They drew away, and whispered in sepulchral tones.
Charles stood over his brother in helpless horror until the agony was passed, and Harrington gasped out:
"Go for the doctor, you fool! Do you want to see me die before your eyes?"
Charles's voice was grave and commanding as he stood over his brother and demanded once more:
"Answer me, Harrington. Have you seen her since the day of the wedding? Answer me quickly. I will help you just as soon as I know all. I shall not do a thing until you tell me."
A groan and a curse were all the answer he got, and a cold frenzy seized him, lest he should never get Harrington to tell what he knew. He understood that his brother was a very sick man. Great beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead.
"Get me some whiskey, you brute!" cried out the stricken man. "That awful agony is coming again. Well, if you must know, she's teaching school in a little forsaken village over beyond Schoharie—Butternuts, they call it. At least, she was till I appeared on the scene. Then she made away with herself somehow. I stayed three days, waiting for her, but she didn't come back. I stopped off last week, and the people said she'd never returned. No one knew anything about her but a tow-headed boy who called himself Daniel and said he helped carry her bag to the stage-coach. Now get me that whiskey quick. I feel the pain coming again."
Charles turned without a word and dashed downstairs to the landlady, demanding hot water and blankets. He knew little about illness, save what his mother's semi-invalid state had taught him, but he had read enough in the papers lately to make him sure that Harrington had the cholera, and he knew that whiskey was not a remedy. Before he could return to his brother the doctor arrived, and together they went up to the sick man, who was writhing in agony, and again demanding whiskey.
The old doctor shook his head when he saw the patient.
"He has indulged in that article far too much already," he said.
Then began a night of horror, followed by a day of stupor on the part of the patient. The doctor had said from the start that it was cholera, and that the disease was almost always fatal to persons of intemperate habits. Charles held himself steadily to the task of the moment, and tried to still the calling of his heart to fly at once and find Dawn. Not another word had he been able to get from his brother. The pain had been so intolerable that Harrington had been unable to speak, and little by little he grew delirious until he did not recognize any of them. At times he cried out as if in wild carouse. Once or twice he called "Alberta!" in an angry tone, then muttered Mr. Van Rensselaer's name. Never once did he speak the name of Dawn. This fact gave Charles unspeakable relief.
All through the night and day the doctor, the brother, and the father worked side by side, but each knew from the first that there was no hope, and at evening he died.
They buried Harrington Winthrop in the old lot where rested the mortal remains of other more worthy members of the family; and the father turned away with bowed head and broken heart for such an ending to his elder son's misspent life, and kept saying over to himself, "Has it been my fault? Has it been my fault?"
They were almost home when Charles, who had been silent and thoughtful, touched the older man on the shoulder.
"Father, shall you mind my going away at once?" he asked. "I have a clue, and must follow it."
Mr. Winthrop lifted his grief-stricken head, and, looking at his son tenderly, said:
"Go, my boy, and may you gain your heart's desire!"
CHAPTER XXV
The next evening at sunset Charles stood beside the Butterworth gate, about to enter, when Daniel came out. The boy had finished his early supper, and was going to the village on an errand. His face was grave and thoughtful, as always since the teacher's departure.
Charles watched him coming down to the gate, and liked his broad shoulders, and the blue eyes under his curly yellow lashes as he looked up.
"Are you Daniel Butterworth?" asked Charles.
"I am," said Dan, eying him keenly.
"Are you the one"—Charles was going to say "boy," but that did not seem to apply exactly to this grave young fellow—"are you the one who carried the teacher's baggage to the stage-coach when she went away so suddenly?"
Charles had studied the question carefully. He did not know by what name Dawn had gone, whether she had used his or kept her own maiden name, or had assumed still another. He would not cast a shadow of reflection upon her, or risk his chance of finding her by using the wrong name, therefore he called her "the teacher." On inquiring about her at the inn where the stage-coach stopped, he had been referred at once to Peggy Gillette, who immediately guided him to the point in the road where he could see the Butterworth house.
Daniel started, and looked the stranger over suspiciously. There was a something about this clean-faced, long, strong fellow that reminded him a little, just a very little, of the scoundrel who had frightened the teacher away; yet he instinctively liked this man, and felt that he was to be trusted. Rags, too, generally suspicious of strangers, had been smelling and snuffing about this man, and now stood wagging his tail with a smile on his homely, shaggy face. Rags's judgment was generally to be trusted.
"I might be," responded Daniel slowly, "and then again I mightn't. Who are you?"
Charles understood that the boy was testing him, and he liked him the better for it. His heart warmed toward the one who had protected Dawn.
"That's all right," responded Charles heartily. "I'm ready to identify myself. I'm one who loves her better than my life, and I've done nothing for a year but search for her."
He let Daniel see the depth of his meaning in his eyes, as the boy looked keenly, wistfully, into his face. Daniel was satisfied, and with a great sigh of renunciation, he said:
"I knew it, I told her so. I knew you would be half crazy, hunting her. You're the one she said she belonged to, aren't you?"
A great light broke over Charles's face, bringing out all the beauty of his soul, all the lines of character that suffering had set upon his youth, and that love had wrought into his fibre.
"Oh, Daniel, bless you! Did she tell you that? Yes, she belongs to me, and I to her, and if you'll only tell me where to find her, you'll make me the happiest man on earth!" He grasped the boy's hand in his firm, smooth one, and they stood as if making a life compact, each glad of the other's touch. "Daniel, I feel as if you were an angel of light!" broke out Charles.
The angel in blue homespun lifted his eyes to the stranger's face, and was glad, since he might not have the one he loved, that she belonged to this other. He had done the best he could do for her, and his was the part of sacrifice.
"I can't tell you just where she is," said Daniel gravely. "I thought mebbe you'd know from this. She's sent me two books since she went away, and they're both post-marked 'New York.' That's all I know."
He pulled out a tattered paper that had wrapped a parcel, and together they studied the marks. Charles's face grew grave. New York was a large place even in those days. Yet it was more definite than the whole United States, which had been his field of action thus far. He would not despair. He would take heart of grace and go forward.
"Daniel," said he, handing back the paper to its owner, with a delicate feeling that the boy had the first right to it, since he was the link between them, "will you go to New York to-night with me and help me to find her?"
Dan's face lit up until he was actually handsome.
"Me?"
Rags wagged his tail hard, and gave a sharp little bark, as if to say: "Me?"
"Yes, both of you," said Charles joyously. He felt as if he were on the right track at last, and his soul could fairly shout for happiness.
"Rags might do a lot toward finding her. He'd track her anywhere. It was all I could do to get him away from her when she got into the stage-coach to go away." Dan looked down at his four-footed companion lovingly, and Rags lifted one ear in recognition of the compliment, meanwhile keeping wistful eyes on the stranger. It almost looked as if he understood.
Charles stooped down and patted him warmly, and the ugly little dog wriggled all over with great happiness,
"Of course he must go with us, then," said Charles.
"Yes, and the way he lit into that dressed-up chap that came and frightened her away was something fine," went on Dan.
"Tell me about it," said Charles.
Dan gave a brief account of Harrington's visit to the village and Dawn's departure.
Charles's face was grave and sad as they spoke of his brother. Harrington's death was too recent and too terrible to admit of bitter memories. He kept his head bent down toward Rags, who was luxuriating in the stranger's fondling, while Daniel was talking. Then he gave the dog a final pat and stood up.
"Daniel," said he, "that man was my brother, and he died of cholera three days ago. He did wrong and made a lot of trouble, and he almost broke my father's heart, but his death was an awful one, and perhaps we'd better not think about his part in this matter any more. He's gone beyond our reach."
"I didn't know," said Dan awkwardly. "I'm sorry I said anything——"
"It's all right," said Charles heartily. "I saw how you felt, and I thought I'd better tell you all about it. I need your help, and it's best to be frank. And now, how about it? Will you go with me to help find her? Will your family object? I'll see to the expense, of course, and will make it as pleasant as I can for you."
"I'll go," said Dan briefly, but his tone meant a great deal. If he had lived in these days, he would have answered "Sure!" with that peculiar inflection that implies whole-souled loyalty. Charles understood the embarrassed heartiness, and took the reply as it was intended.
"How soon can we start?" he asked anxiously. Every moment meant something to him, and he was impatient to be off. He took out his watch. It was quarter to six. "They told me there was a night-coach making connection with the early boat for New York. It starts at seven o'clock. Would that be too soon for you?"
"That's all right," said Daniel, in a voice that was hoarse with excitement. "I just got to change my clothes. Will you come in?"
"Suppose I wait on the front stoop," suggested Charles, seeing the embarrassment in the boy's face.
"All right," said Daniel. "I won't be long."
Mrs. Butterworth looked up anxiously as Dan came into the kitchen. She had been watching the interview from the side window.
"I'm goin' to New York with one of Teacher's friends, ma," he said, in the same tone he would have told her he was going to the village store. "Have I got a clean shirt?"
"To New York!" echoed the woman, who herself had never been outside of the county. "To New York!"—aghast. "Now, you look out, Dan'l. You can't tell 'bout strangers. He may want to get you way from your friends an' rob you."
"What is there to rob, I'd like to know? He's welcome to all he can get."
"You never can tell," said his mother, shaking her head fearfully. "You better take care, Dan'l."
"What's the matter with ye, Ma? Didn't I tell you he's a friend o' Miss Montgomery? She told me all about him. We're goin' down to New York together to see her. Where's my shirt? He's invited me. You needn't to worry. I may be gone a few days. I'll write you a letter when I get there. I'm goin' to take the dog. We're goin' on the seven o'clock stage an' mebbe I'll find out somethin' about goin' to college. I'm goin' to college this fall if there's any way. I don't know whether he's had any supper. You might give him a doughnut. He's on the front stoop. Say, where is my clean shirt, Ma? It's gettin' late."
Daniel had thrown off his coat and was struggling with a refractory buckle of his suspenders as he talked. His mother was roused at last to her duties, and brought the shirt, with which he vanished to the loft. Then the mother, partly to reassure herself about the stranger, filled a plate with cold ham, bread and butter, a generous slice of apple pie, and three or four fat doughnuts, and cautiously opened the front door.
Rags, not having to change his clothes, had remained with Charles, and was enjoying a friendly hand on his head while he sat alert waiting for what was to happen next. When Dan appeared things would move, he knew, and he meant to be in them. He wasn't going to trust any verbal promises. He was going with them if he had to do it on the sly.
Charles arose and received the bountiful supper graciously. When Mrs. Butterworth saw the manner of the stranger who sat on her front settle she was ashamed to be handing him a plate outside, as if he were a tramp. "Dan'l said you wouldn't come in," she said hospitably, "and I couldn't bear not to give you a bite to eat. You should 'a' happened 'long sooner, while supper was hot. We all thought a lot o' Miss Montgomery. Was you her brother, perhaps?"
While she had prepared the lunch, she had questioned within herself what sort of "friend" this might be with whom Dan was going to visit the teacher. If Dan wanted to "make up" to Teacher, why did he not go alone?
Charles perceived that Daniel had not explained to his mother, and, keeping his own counsel, returned pleasantly:
"Oh, no, not her brother," and he began to tell Mrs. Butterworth how glad he was to have her son's company on his visit to New York. His manner was so reassuring that she decided he was all right, and as Dan came down, his face shining from much soap, and his hair plastered as smoothly as his rough curls would allow, she said pleasantly:
"You'll see my boy don't get into bad company down in New York, won't you? I'm worried, sort of, fer his pa said last night there was cholera round."
Charles's face sobered in an instant.
"We'll take good care of each other, Mrs. Butterworth; don't you worry. I'm much obliged for your letting me have Daniel for company, and I'll try to make him have a pleasant time."
The village people stared at Dan as he got into the stage with the stranger. They wondered where he was going. One of the boys made bold to slide up to the coach and ask him, but he got little satisfaction.
"Just running down to New York for a few days," Dan answered nonchalantly, as if it were a matter of every-day occurrence.
Amid the envious stares of the boys, the coach drove away into the evening, and Daniel sat silently beside his companion, wondering at himself, his heart throbbing greatly that he might within a few hours see the girl who had made such a difference in his life.
About midnight everybody but Charles and Daniel got out of the coach. Comfortably ensconced, the two young men might have slept, but Charles was too nervous and excited to sleep, and Daniel was not far behind him.
"Daniel," said Charles, suddenly breaking the silence that had fallen upon them, though each knew the other was not sleeping, "by what name did she go? Your mother spoke of her as Miss Montgomery. Was that the name she gave?"
"Yes," said Daniel, wondering; "Mary Montgomery."
"It was her mother's name," said Charles reverently. Dawn had talked to him of her mother on their wedding trip.
"Daniel, there is something more that perhaps I ought to tell you. Did she tell you that she and I are married?"
"No," said Dan. His voice was shaking as he tried to take in the thought. It was as if he were expecting an unbearable pain in a nerve that had already throbbed its life out and was at rest. He was surprised to find how natural it seemed. Then he stammered out:
"I guess I must have known, though. She said she belonged to you, and so nobody else could take care of her."
"Thank you for telling me that," said Charles. He laid his hand warmly on Dan's. The boy liked his touch. Rags, who was sleeping at their feet, nestled closer to them both with a sleepy whine. He was content now that he was really on his way.
"I guess," said Dan chokingly—"I guess I better tell you the whole, because I like you, and you're the right kind. You seem like what she ought to have, and I'm glad it's you—but—it was kind of hard, because, you see, I'd have liked to take care of her myself. I didn't know about you till she told me, and though I knew, of course, I wasn't much to look at beside her, I could have done a lot for her, and I mean to go to college yet, any way, just to show her. You see, I guess it ain't right to go along with you to see her, and not tell you what I said to her. I told her I loved her! And it was true, too. I'd have died for her if it was necessary. If that makes any difference to you, Rags and I'll get out and walk back now. I thought I ought to tell you. I couldn't help loving her, could I, when she did so much for me? And, you see, I never knew about you."
It was a long speech for the silent Dan to make, but Charles's warm hand-grasp through it all helped wonderfully, as well as Dan's growing liking for Dawn's husband.
"Bless you, Daniel!" said Charles, throwing his arm about his companion's shoulders, as he used to do with his chums in college. "You just sit right still where you are. It was noble and honest of you to tell me that. I believe in my heart I like you all the better for it. We are brothers, you see, for I love her that way, too, and it gives me a lot of comfort to know you can understand me. But, old fellow—I don't quite know how to say it—I'm deeply sorry that your love has brought you only pain, and I feel all the more warmly toward you that you tried to help her when you knew she belonged to some one else. I never can thank you enough."
"I couldn't have helped it," said Dan gruffly. "If anybodylovedher, they'dhaveto take care of her,if it killed 'em."
"Dan, old fellow, I loveyou," said Charles impulsively. "You can't know what this is to me, that you took care of her when I couldn't. I'll love you always, and I shall never forget what you've done for me. Now, begin at the beginning and tell me all you know about her, won't you? I'm hungry to hear."
And Dan found himself telling the whole story of how Dawn had conquered him, the ringleader of mischief in the school, made him her slave, and helped him up to a plane where higher ambitions and nobler standards had changed his whole idea of life.
As he listened to the homely, boyish phrases and read between the lines the pathos of Dawn's struggles, Charles found tears standing in his eyes to think his little girl-wife had been through so much all by herself, without him near to help and comfort. Would he ever, ever, be able to make up to her for it?
He expressed this thought clumsily to Dan, and the boy, all eager now with sympathy, and loving Charles as loyally as Dawn, said royally:
"I calculate one sight of your face'll make her forget it all. Leastways, that's the way it looks to me."
They talked at intervals all night. Charles drew from Daniel his ambition to get an education and be worthy to be the friend of such a teacher as he had had. The boy said it shyly, and then added, "And you too, if you'll let me," and there in the early breaking of the morning light the two young men made a solemn compact of friendship through life. When the sun shone forth and touched the hills, glinting the Hudson in the distance, Daniel sat up and looked about him with a new interest in life, and a happier feeling in his heart than he had had since Dawn went away.
Three days they spent in New York, searching for Dawn. The paper that had wrapped Dan's book they took to the post-office first, and by careful inquiry were able to discover in what quarter of the city the package was mailed, though, of course, this was very slight information, as she might have been far from her living place when she mailed it. They also discovered the store where the books were bought, for Charles had had the forethought to send Daniel back for them before they started. The clerk who had sold them to her remembered her, and described her as beautiful, with black curls inside a white bonnet, and a dark silk frock. He said she had sad eyes, and looked thin and pale. This troubled Charles more than he was willing to admit to Dan.
Having narrowed their clue to this most indefinite point, they held a consultation and decided that the only thing to do was to walk around that quarter of the city and see if they could get sight of her. Or possibly Rags would get on a scent of her footsteps in some spot less travelled than others. It was almost a hopeless search, yet they started bravely on the hunt, and talked to Rags in a way that would have made an ordinary dog beside himself.
Charles had with him the gloves that Dawn had dropped on the floor beside the bed when she fled from his home. He always carried them with him in his breast-pocket. He took them out and let Rags smell of them. Then Dan said:
"Rags, go find Teacher. Teacher! Rags! Go find Teacher!"
Rags sniffed and looked wistfully in their faces, then barked and started on a sniffing tour all about them, his homely yellow-brown face wearing a look of dog anxiety. He thought he comprehended what they wanted, but was not sure. He had felt a great loss since the teacher went away. Was it possible they expected him to find her?
During the three days, they haunted the streets of the city, both day and evening, and Rags was quite worn out with sniffing. Once or twice he thought he had found a trail, but it came to nothing, and he scurried dejectedly on ahead, hoping his followers had not noticed him bark. On the morning of the fourth day they turned into a narrow street which was almost like a lane compared to other streets. There were only tiny, gloomy houses, and noisy, foreign-looking people stood in the doorways or conversed across the street. It seemed a most unlikely neighborhood for their search, and Charles was half of a mind to turn back and take another street, but almost at the entrance to the street Rags had gone quite wild and nosed his way rapidly down the uneven pavement until he stopped beside a humble doorstep and went nosing about and yelping in great delight. The door was closed, but he tried the steps, and even sniffed under the crack, and then came bounding back to his companions.
"What have you found, Rags, boy?" said Charles half-heartedly. He did not believe they would find any trace of Dawn here.
"He thinks he's found her," said Dan convincingly. "He never acts like that without a reason. Rags, find Teacher! Where is she, Rags?"
"Bow-wow!" answered Rags sharply, as much as to say, "Why don't you open the door and find her yourself?"
An old woman came to the door, and looked sharply at the dog on her clean step. Charles took off his hat.
"We are looking for a friend, madam, who is stopping in this neighborhood somewhere, and we do not know her address. Our dog thinks he has found a trace of her, but he is probably mistaken. You don't happen to have noticed anywhere near here, a young woman with dark eyes and dark, curling hair, lately come to the city—not more than two months ago, perhaps?"
"You wouldn't be meanin' pretty Mary Montgomery—bless her heart!—would ye?" the old woman asked quizzically, surveying the two.
But Rags had stayed not on the order of his going. He had dashed past the old woman and up the stairs to the floor above.
"Och! Look at the little varmint!" said the old woman, forgetting her question and dashing after the dog, thus missing the startled look that came into the faces of both young men.
But after a series of short, sharp barks, Rags returned as quickly as he had gone, almost knocking the old lady down her rickety stairs, in his delight, and bearing in his mouth a fragment of gray cloth which he brought and laid triumphantly at his master's feet.
Dan stooped and picked it up almost reverently and smoothed the frayed edges. It was a bit of Dawn's gray school-dress that she had torn off where the facing was worn and had caught her foot as she walked. Dan recognized the cloth at once. Charles had never seen the gown, but he saw that the bit of cloth had some significance to Dan. He rushed in after the old lady, who had now descended the stairs wrathfully behind the dog.
"Tell me where this Miss Montgomery is, please," he said as quietly as he could. He had followed so many clues and seen them turn into nothing before his eyes, he scarcely could dare hope now. His heart was beating wildly. Was he to see Dawn again at last?
"Och! An' I wish I knew, the darlint!" said the garrulous old woman. "She lift me yistherday marnin', an' it's thrue I miss the sight o' her sweet smile an' her pretty ways. She was a young wummun of quality, was she, an' I sez to me dauther, sez I, 'Kate, mind the ways o' her, the pretty ways o' Mary Montgomery,' sez I, 'fer it's not soon ye'll see such a lady agin.'"
"Has she been here in your house, do you say?" asked Charles anxiously. He felt he must keep very calm or he might lose the clue.
"Yis, sorr, that she was. She ockepied me back siccond floor, an' a swater lady niver walked the earth, ef shewashuntin' work fer her pretty, saft hands to do, what she couldn't get nowhere, sorr, more's the pity. Would yez like to coom up an' tak a luik at the rum? It's as nate a rum as ye'll find in the sthreet, ef I do say so as shouldn't, though a bit small fer two. But there's the frunt siccond floor'll be vacant to-morry, at only a shillun more the wake."
Daniel held up the fragment of cloth.
"It's the frock she wore to school," he said. He spoke hoarsely and handled it as though it belonged to the dead. It seemed terrible to him to have found where she had been, and not find her.
They followed the old woman upstairs, scarcely hearing her dissertation, nor realizing that she took them for possible roomers.
The room was neat, as the woman had said, but bare—so bare and gloomy! Nothing but blank walls and chimneys to be seen from the tiny window, where the sun streamed in unhindered across the meagre bed and deal chair and table which were the only furnishings. Charles's heart grew tender with pity, and his eyes filled with tears, as he looked upon it all and realized that his wife had slept there on that hard bed, and had for a time called that dreary spot home. He glanced involuntarily out of the window, noting the garbage in the back yards below, and the unpleasant odors that arose, and remembered the warnings and precautions with which the papers had been filled even before the cholera had come so close to them. He shuddered to think what might have happened to Dawn.
"But where has she gone?" he asked the old woman.
"Yes, that's what we want to know," said Dan.
"Yes, where!" barked Rags behind the old woman's heels, which made her jump and exclaim, "Och, the varmint!" until Dan called the dog to his side.
"She's gone. Lift me, an' no rason at all at all, savin' thet she couldn't find wark, an' her money most gahn. I sez to her as she went out that dor, sez I, 'Yez betther go hum to yer friends ef yez kin find 'em. It's bad times fer a pretty un like you, an' you with yer hands that saft;' but she only smiled at me like a white rose, an' was away, sayin' she'd see, and she thankin' me all the whilst fer the little I'd been able to do fer her—me that's a widder an' meself to kape."
Nothing more could they get from the good woman, though they tried both with money and questions. Dawn had been there for two months, and had gone out every day hunting work. She had come back every night weary and discouraged, but always with a smile. At last she had come home with a newspaper, her face whiter than usual, and, as the old widow had put it, said: "'Mrs. O'Donnell, I'm away in the marn, fer I'm thinkin' it's best;' and away she goes."
The two young men turned away at last, after having made Rags smell all around the room. He insisted upon their taking a folded bit of paper that he found on the floor by the window, as if it were something precious belonging to her. They bade Mrs. O'Donnell good-by, after Charles had given her something to solace her for losing two prospective roomers, and went out to search again.
Rags preceded them down the street, following the scent rapidly until he reached the corner, where he seemed in some perplexity for a time. Finally, he chose the street leading to the river, and going more slowly and crookedly, sometimes zigzagging and sometimes going back to make sure, he brought them at last to the boat-landing.
Perhaps, they thought, she might have followed the advice of the old woman and gone back to her own home region—who knew? With heavy hearts, they set about finding what boats had left the wharf the day before, about the hour the old woman had said that the girl had left her house.
But the morning boat of the day before had just come in and was lying by for repairs. After some questioning, the captain professed to recall such a passenger as they described, but as all the decks had been scrubbed, Rags with his eager nose was unable to corroborate the captain's testimony. Charles and Dan lost no time in securing passage on the boat, which was to sail that evening for Albany, where the captain said he was sure the young lady had gotten off the evening before.
The remainder of the afternoon they spent in making inquiries in every direction, leaving written messages directed to Miss Mary Montgomery, and putting notices in the various city papers. Rags, meantime, was much annoyed and disturbed by their digression. He felt that the boat was the place to stay. He was satisfied they were on the right track. If he had been managing the expedition, he would have had the boat start at once. When it finally did leave the wharf, he sat up on deck with his fore-feet on the railing and barked his satisfaction, then settled down to rest at the feet of the two beloved ones, with a smile of satisfaction on his grizzly face.