The next morning the roosters crowing under her window awakened her, and
for the moment she thought she was back in school, with the barn-yard
not far away; but other and unfamiliar sounds and odors brought her back
to realities, and she remembered she was a lone traveller putting up at
an inn.
She lay still for some time, thinking over the strangeness of it all,
and the tragic happenings of the last few days. The thought of Charles
brought tears to her eyes. The dearness and loss of him came over her as
it had not had time to do while she was hurrying on her way. But this
morning, for the first time, she felt that she was far from every one
who knew her, and hidden securely so that she could never be found, and
that she might look her life in the face and know what it all meant. It
was inevitable that in reviewing her life the first and largest part of
all should be Charles and her brief but sweet acquaintance with him.
That she was his wife thrilled her with unspeakable joy. The fact that
she had deliberately renounced him took away to some extent the sting of
the manner in which she had been married.
As she thought it all over, she realized that the only real shame in the
whole affair was that she had been about to marry Harrington Winthrop
when her heart was full of fear and hatred for him. She seemed to see
many things in a new light. In fact, the child had become a woman in
the space of a few days, and she understood life better, though it was
still one vast perplexity.
One thing remained of all the past, and that was the memory of the love
of Charles. Even the remembrance of her dear mother was dimmed by it.
It seemed to be the one eternal fact which stood out clearly, and in the
light of which she must hereafter live. That he had been generous and
kind enough to marry her for the sake of relieving her from humiliation,
as his mother had intimated, only made Dawn love him the more. But
because of the generosity of that act, she must never trouble him again.
She had renounced him. It was the least she could do for him, under the
circumstances, in return for his great kindness. But whatever happened,
she must be true to his memory, and be such that he would always be
proud of her if he should chance ever to hear of her, though she meant
to take care that he did not.
If she had been a little older and wiser, if she had understood the ways
of the world better, she would not have been so sure that she was taking
the most direct way to reward Charles for his kindness to her. But she
did not understand, and so was sincere and earnest in her mistaken way
of being loyal to him. One thing, however, made her glad. She felt
that no matter how far apart they might be during the rest of their
lives, they had understood each other, and their souls had met in a
deep, sweet joy. As she thought of the moment before supper at his
home, when he had held her in that close embrace, and laid his face upon
hers and kissed her, the sweetness and pain of it were too much for her,
and with a sharp cry she hid her face in her pillow and wept bitterly.
It never occurred to her, poor little pilgrim, that he might be grieving
just as deeply over her absence and the mystery of her whereabouts as
was she for him, or she would have flown to him in spite of all
mothers-in-law, and made him glad.
The tempest of her grief swept over her like a summer storm, and was
gone. At her age she could not grieve long over what had been hers so
briefly that it had scarcely become tangible. But as it had been the
dearest happening of her life, and the only bright thing in her
girlhood, it took the form of a mount of vision from which ever after
she was to draw her inspiration for the doing of the monotonous tasks of
life.
She arose and washed away the marks of the tears, and dressed herself
carefully in her green silk for church, arranging her hair demurely on
the top of her head, with the curls as little in evidence as possible.
She wished to look old and dignified, as befitted a person travelling by
herself, and looking for a chance to teach school.
The village was a pretty one, and as she walked down the street to the
church her heart went out to it. As she sat in the tall pew where the
beadle placed her, she glanced shyly around at the people who came in,
and wished she might stop here and get something to do. Yet her heart
shrank from any attempt to speak to them or beg their help.
A lady came in leading a little girl by the hand, a sweet-faced child
with a chubby face, and ringlets in clusters on either cheek, held there
by her fine white, dunstable straw bonnet, with its moss-rosebuds and
face-ruche of soft lace. After they were seated, across the aisle, the
little girl leaned over her mother and stared at Dawn, then smiled
shyly, and the young wanderer felt that she had one friend in this
strange place.
A sudden loneliness gripped her heart, and she wished she were a little
girl again, sitting by her mother's side. How many, many times she had
wished that the last few months! The thought made her heart ache, it
was so old a hurt. She felt the smart of tears that wanted to swim out
and blind her vision, but she straightened up and tried to look
dignified, remembering that she was a woman now--a married woman. She
wondered, would it be wrong to pretend, as she used to do at school
sometimes? She wanted to pretend that Charles sat by her side, they two
going to their first church service together. She decided there would
be no harm in that, and moved a little nearer the corner to make room
for her dear companion. It gave her a happy sense of not being alone,
and she glanced up now and then as if he were there and she were
watching him proudly. It was not hard to imagine him. She was good at
such things. It thrilled her to think how his arm would be close to
hers, his sleeve touching her hand, perhaps, as he held the hymn-book
for her to sing with him. And to think that if only her marriage had
been like others, she would in all probability have been singing beside
him in his home church at this very minute! The thought of it almost
brought the tears.
There were no hymn-books in the little village church, but the minister
lined the hymn out, and Dawn stood up to sing with the rest, her clear
voice lifting the tune till people near her turned to look at the sweet
face. She tried to think that Charles was singing by her side, but when
they came to the stanza:
When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain,
But we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.
it was almost too much for her, and she had to wink hard to keep back
the tears, for it came over her that she could not hope to meet Charles
again, but must go on with the being asunder always.
The minister had gray hair and a kindly face. He preached about
comfort, and Dawn felt as if it were meant for her. As she listened, an
idea came to her. She would go to the minister and ask him to help her
find a school. Ministers knew about such things.
She went to the afternoon service also, and after it was over two or
three women shook hands with her, looked curiously, admiringly at her
rich silk gown, and asked her if she were a stranger.
She smiled and nodded shyly. Then the minister came and shook hands
with her, and brought his tired-looking wife to speak to her. She
watched them go across the churchyard together, and up the steps of the
old parsonage. The minister seemed tired, too, but there was sympathy
between the two that seemed to rest them both when they looked at each
other and smiled. It touched the girl-wife. Here were two who had
walked together, yet who seemed to be agreed, and to be happy in each
other's company. She felt instinctively, from the minister's face, that
he would not have sent his wife away from his home, no matter what she
had done. He would not have thought she had done anything wrong in the
first place. It came to Dawn that perhaps it had been her father's
quick temper and hasty judgment that had made all the trouble for her
mother. She remembered lately an unutterably sad expression about his
eyes. Perhaps he was feeling sorry about it, and ashamed. It made the
girl have a tenderer feeling for the father she had never really loved.
She pitied him that he must live with her step-mother. She had not as
yet connected Mrs. Van Rensselaer with her own present predicament. Her
main sensations were dislike for her father's second wife, and
thankfulness that she was out of her jurisdiction. It remained for
deeper reflection to tell Dawn just how much her step-mother was to
blame for her having been married to one man, supposing all the time
that he was another.
The next morning quite early, Dawn attired herself in her little gray
frock and tied her bonnet neatly, then, leaving her bundle in her room,
ready to move in case her mission failed, she presented herself at the
parsonage and asked to see the minister.
She was shown into the study, where the good man sat in a big hair-cloth
chair by the open window, reading.
He received her kindly and gave her a chair.
"I've come to gee whether you can help me to find something to do," she
began shyly. "My mother is dead, and I must earn my own living. I have
relatives to whom I should be a burden, and I have come away so that
they will not be troubled with me."
She had thought out during the night watches just what to say.
The minister looked at her keenly and kindly through his spectacles.
Long experience had made him a good judge of character. He saw nothing
but guileless innocence in the sweet young face.
"What is your name?" he asked, by way of preliminary.
Dawn's face flushed slightly, but she had anticipated this question.
"I should like to be called Mary Montgomery," she said shyly. "It is
not my real name, but my relatives might be mortified if they should
hear of my being at work. They are very proud, and would not like to
have their name mixed up with one who works. Besides, if they should
hear of my being here this way, they would think that they must come
after me and take care of me, and I don't wish them to. I want to be
independent."
She gave the minister a most engaging smile, which put a well rounded
period to her plea.
"How do I know that you have not run away?" he asked her, half smiling
himself.
"Oh, I have run away," answered Dawn frankly. "I knew they would try to
keep me if I told them, but I left word I had gone, and they will not
worry. They do not love me. They wanted me to stay only because they
felt it a duty to care for me, and they will be greatly relieved to be
rid of me without any trouble. That is why I came. You see, they told
me as much, and it was very uncomfortable. You would not want to stay
where you knew you were in the way, would you?"
Dawn looked into the old minister's eyes with her own wide, lovely ones,
and won his heart. She reminded him of his little girl who had died.
"I suppose not," he said in a half amused tone. "But don't you think it
would be better for you to confide in me? Just tell me your real name,
and where you come from, and all about it, and then I can help you
better. I shall be able to recommend you, you know."
"Thank you, no," said Dawn decidedly, getting up as if that ended the
matter. "If I told you that, and then you were asked if I were here,
you would have to say yes. Then, too, if you knew, you might think it
was your duty to let my friends know where I am. Now you have no
responsibility about it at all, don't you see? But I don't want to make
you any trouble. If you don't know of some work I might do here, I will
go elsewhere. I can surely find something to do without telling my real
name. I know I am doing right. You were so kind when you spoke to me
yesterday, that I thought I would come and ask though I had intended
going on this morning."
"Wait," said the minister. "Sit down. What do you want to do? What
kind of work are you fitted for?"
"I have been educated at a good school," said Dawn, sitting down and
putting on a quaint little business-like air which made the minister
smile.
"Did you ever teach school?" There was much hesitation in the
minister's voice. He was not altogether sure he was doing right to
suggest the idea, she was such a child in looks.
"No, but I could," replied Dawn confidently. "And, oh, I should like
it! It is just what I want. I love to show people how to do things,
and make them learn correctly. I used to help the girls at school."
There was great eagerness in her face. The minister thought how lovely
she was, and again that fleeting likeness to his dead child gripped his
heart.
"You are very young," he mused, watching the changing expression on her
face, and thinking that his child would have been about this girl's age.
"I am almost seventeen," said Dawn, drawing herself up gravely.
"Our village schoolmaster left very suddenly last week, to go to his
invalid mother's bedside, and it may be some months before his return.
Indeed, it is possible that he will not come back at all. He intimated
as much before he left. We have not had opportunity as yet to find
another teacher, and the school has been dismissed for a few days until
we can look about for a substitute."
"Oh, will you let me try?" Dawn sat on the edge of her chair, her hands
clasped, her lovely eyes pleading eagerly.
"But some of the scholars are larger than you are."
"That will not matter," responded Dawn, undaunted. "I could always make
the girls at school do what I wanted."
"There are some big boys who might make you a good deal of trouble,"
went on the minister. "Our school has the name of being a hard one to
discipline. We have always had a man at its head."
"I am not afraid," said Dawn, fire in her eyes. "I should like to try,
if you will let me. You cannot tell whether I can do it unless you let
me try."
"That is true," agreed the minister gravely. "I suppose there would be
no harm in your trying. I could talk with the trustees about it, though
the matter has been practically left to me."
"Oh, then, please, _please_, try me! I am sure I can do it," Dawn
pleaded, and the look of his dead child's eyes in her face conquered the
minister's scruples.
"Very well, I will try you," he said, after a thoughtful pause. "I will
see the trustees and have the notices put up at once. School will open
to-morrow morning. But I warn you it will be no easy task. I feel that
it will be an extremely doubtful experiment."
"Oh, thank you!" cried Dawn, her eyes bright with anticipation. "I am
not afraid, and I shall do my best. I am sure I can teach a school."
"Poor child!" thought the minister. "Am I doing right to send her into
such a trial?"
Aloud, he only said:
"You will receive sixteen dollars a month, and will board around, Miss
Montgomery."
Dawn looked up at the new name she had chosen, and saw a twinkle in his
eye. She smiled in recognition of his acceptance of it.
"Where are you stopping?" he asked.
"I am at the Golden Swan," she answered. "I can stay there a little
while yet. I have a little money, though it will not last many weeks."
She wrinkled her sweet face into dimples and smiled at him, as if having
no money were a matter of little consequence.
He admired her courage, and, bending upon her a look of benediction,
said kindly:
"We will arrange the matter of boarding as soon as possible. I will see
Mrs. Gillette, the wife of the proprietor of the Golden Swan. They have
a daughter in school, and possibly their two boys will attend also,
though sometimes at this time of year they are both out working on the
farm. But the Gillettes always take the teacher for their share of the
term."
Dawn went smiling down the parsonage path. It seemed to her the
larkspurs had grown bluer and the verbenas pinker since she came up a
few minutes before, and her feet fairly danced down the street, she was
so happy over her good fortune. It was like a beautiful story, the way
it was turning out. She had no apprehensions about her ability to
handle the village school, for she had had no experience of what bad
boys could be; so there was nothing to cloud her bright day, save now
and then a brief pang of longing for Charles. For the most part, her
mind was too much filled with anticipation of the morrow to have room
for thoughts of the past. She went to the Golden Swan, and told Mrs.
Gillette that she was to remain there for a few days at least, then she
found the village store and made a few simple purchases, among them
needles, thread, and a thimble. Then she chose material for an apron,
and hurried home to make it. The school-teachers she had known had
always worn aprons. They were a badge of office. But the apron she made
was not like Friend Ruth's. It was small and coquettish, and edged with
a tiny ruffle.
Dawn knew how to sew beautifully, for that had been one of the
accomplishments Friend Ruth required of all her pupils. With a pair of
borrowed scissors, the young girl fashioned the garment, and cut the
tiny ruffles, rolling the hems as she had been taught to do, and
scratching the gathers scientifically. By night she had a dainty little
apron ready to wear to school. It was a frivolous bit of a thing, but
it filled her with delight, for it was such an apron as she had always
desired, but had not been allowed to have while in school. Simplicity
held sway where Friend Ruth ruled.
At the supper table it was whispered around that a new school-teacher
had come to town. There were notices up at the corners and all the
cross-roads. School was to "take up" on the morrow. Some of the people
at the table looked suspiciously at the pretty young stranger sitting
demurely by herself at the end of the table, and wondered if she were
the new teacher, but others said no, she was entirely too young.
After supper Dawn went to the big book wherein were registered the names
of the guests, and wrote down "Mary Montgomery" in a clear, round hand.
Mr. Gillette watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye. As he
saw her about to turn away, he said gruffly:
"Put down the place. We like to know where our folks belongs."
"Oh!" said Dawn, a pink flush stealing into her cheek. What should she
put? Then, quick as a flash, she thought, "I have adopted a name--why
should I not adopt a home, too? I am on my way to New York. If I do
not remain here, I shall go there--if I can get there. I will choose
New York for my home. It is a large place, and no one will expect me to
know every one there. Besides, it will also stand for New York State."
So, without another word, she wrote "New York" beside her name. She
might as well have written "Heaven," for it stood to her as a kind of
final destination, far away and pleasant, the only place now that she
could look to for a real home.
"You ain't the new schoolmarm, be you?" inquired the worthy proprietor
of the Golden Swan cautiously.
"Why, yes," said Dawn, happily conscious, and laughing merrily to think
of the word "schoolmarm" as applied to her who but yesterday was a
scholar.
"Now, you don't say!" said the proprietor, settling back in his chair
and putting his feet on the office table in front of him, while he
shoved up his spectacles to get a better view of her. "Some said as how
you was, but I couldn't think it. You look so young."
"Oh, I'm quite old," said Dawn anxiously. "I'm far older than I look."
And she hurried away, lest she should be questioned further.
It was soon noised abroad that the new teacher was stopping at the
Golden Swan, and many a villager dropped in to have a look at her. But
she was nowhere in evidence. Up in the little whitewashed chamber, with
her candle lighted and the shades drawn, she was standing before her
tiny looking-glass, arrayed in her new, beruffled apron, and trying to
look grave and dignified, and as much like Friend Ruth as possible.
If Charles could have seen her all absorbed, his heart would have been
sadly cast down to see how little she seemed to miss him. But later,
when she had put out her candle and crept into her bed, she sobbed a
long time into her pillow with loneliness and excitement.