Daniel found Dawn huddled at the foot of a tree, behind a thicket of
laurel, with her bag beside her, and tears on her frightened face.
The dog had broken away from her and met him with a joyous bark, wagging
his tail and running back and forth between them, his ragged, hairy body
wriggling joyously; for had he not both of them here together, far away
from intruding strangers? Why should not all be well now?
"Oh, Daniel!" said Dawn, in a voice that was almost a sob. "Why did you
come after me?"
"I had to," said Dan, looking almost sullen. "I couldn't let you come
off alone. Besides, you don't need to go. We won't let anybody hurt
you. I can knock that fellow into the middle of next week if you say
the word."
But the trouble was not lifted from her face.
"You are very good, and I thank you more than I can ever tell," she
answered him; "but I must go away. He is a bad man, and he thinks he has
some power over me. It would be of no use for you to knock him into
next week, for he would be on hand again the next week to deal with. He
would tell the minister and everybody that he had a right to take me
away, and they would all believe him. He can make wrong things seem
right to people. He has done it before. I'm afraid of him. I never
expected to meet him here. There is nothing to do but get away where he
can't find me. I must get away at once, or he may follow me. Will you
please take Rags and go back now, and will you take a letter that I left
in the school-house to the minister? I am so sorry to go this way, but
it cannot be helped. I must get away from that man."
"Is he--has he any right?" began Daniel lamely and then burst out: "I
mean, is he anything to you--any kind of relation, you know?"
"Nothing in the world, I'm thankful to say, and he never shall be as
long as I live. But I never could feel safe again, now that he knows
where I am."
Dan stood puzzled and troubled.
"Say, don't you know how you're going to make all the school feel bad if
you go this way? The little ones'll wait for you to-morrow morning, and
they'll go there to the school and you won't be there. We never had a
teacher that made everybody like to study before. You oughtn't to go
this way. You _can't_ go!" He stopped, choking.
Dawn looked at him a moment, the tears gathering anew in her own eyes;
then suddenly down went her head in her hands, and she cried as if her
heart would break.
"Oh, Daniel," she said, "please don't! I don't want to go. I shall
never be as happy again, I know, and you have been so good to me! But I
must----"
The big boy went down on his knees beside her then, and put his rough
hand reverently on hers.
"Don't," said he. "Don't. I've _got_ to tell you something. Perhaps
you won't like it--I don't know. I'm not near as good as you, and I
don't know as much as you do, but I'll study hard, and go to college,
and do anything else you say, just to please you. If you only won't go
away. If you'll just stay here and let me take care of you! I love
you, and I don't care who knows it! I've been feeling that way about
you all winter, only I thought perhaps you'd like me better when I got
more education; but now you see I've just got to tell you how it is.
Don't you like me enough to stay and let me take care of you? I love
you!"
But Dawn interrupted him with a moan.
"Oh, Daniel! You too? Then I haven't got anybody left. Not a friend
in all the world!" She sobbed afresh. Daniel dropped down on the moss
beside her in dismay. His heart grew heavy as lead within him, and the
world suddenly looked blank.
"Yes, you have," he said. "I'll be your friend if you won't let me be
anything else. I was afraid it would make you mad," he spoke
hopelessly. "I ain't good enough fer you, I know, but I'm strong, an'
I'd study hard and get an education, and I'll take wonderful care of
you. You shouldn't ever have to work. You're a lady. That's why I like
you. You're the prettiest thing that was ever made, an' I'd like
nothing better'n to work hard for you all my life. But I might 'a'
known you wouldn't think I was good enough." He broke off helplessly,
and she saw that his broad chest was heaving painfully and that his
usually smiling lips were quivering.
She put out her hand and laid it gently on his.
"Dear Daniel," she said, "listen! It isn't that at all."
He caught the cool little hand and pressed it against his eyes that were
burning hot with boyish tears he was ashamed to shed. It was years
since tears had been in those eyes. He had almost forgotten the smart
of them. He had scorned the thought of them even in his babyhood, yet
here, just when he longed to be a man, they came to make his shame
complete.
"Listen, Dan," said Dawn earnestly. "It isn't that at all. You're good
and dear enough for anybody, and I do love you, too, for you've been
very good to me. I love you for yourself, too, but not in that way,
Dan, for I love some one else. I loved him first and shall always love
him, and--and--I belong to him. I couldn't belong to any one else, you
know, after that. I'm sorry, Dan, so sorry you feel bad about it, but
you see how it is. I _belonged_ to some one else first."
"Is it _him_?" he blurted out fiercely.
"Oh, no, Dan! Oh, no! I'm very, very thankful it isn't that man. If
it were, I should die. I couldn't love him. You wouldn't think I
could!"
There was silence in the quiet woods for a moment.
"It ain't Sile Dobson?" he asked fearfully at last.
Dawn's laugh burst out softly then.
"Oh, Dan! You know better than that. You knew without asking. How
could any one love him? No, Dan; the one I belong to is fine and grand
and noble--everything he ought to be."
"Then, why doesn't he take care of you?" burst forth Dan indignantly.
"I wouldn't let you teach school if you belonged to me, and I wouldn't
let that fellow frighten you. He can't be all you say, or he'd take
care of you."
Dawn's cheeks were very red.
"He doesn't know where I am," she said softly. "I went away
because--well, it was for a good reason. It was for his sake. I had to
go. Things had happened. I can't tell you about it, but it would have
made him trouble if I had stayed."
Dan sat looking at her steadily, a great, wistful yearning in his eyes.
"I guess you're wrong 'bout that," he said thoughtfully. "I guess he'd
rather have you _an'_ the trouble, than to have no trouble without you.
Leastways, I would, an' ef he don't love you that way, he ain't much
account."
A troubled look came into Dawn's eyes. It was the first time she had
questioned, from Charles's standpoint, the wisdom of her running way.
"It would have made a lot of trouble all around," she said, shaking her
head doubtfully.
"Say, look here!" said Dan, sitting up suddenly. "You tell me where that
fellow is, an' I'll go tell him all about you, and how that other fellow
is worrying you, and how you need him to take care o' you; an' then if
he don't seem to want to find you and look out for you, why, I won't
tell him where you are. I'll come back and take care of you myself, any
way. You needn't like me nor anything if you don't want to, but I ain't
going to stand having you off running around the world, frightened of
that fellow all the time, not if I have to chop him up myself. I tell
you, I _love_ you!"
Dan's blue eyes were flashing, and his cheeks were red with
determination. He had let go of her hand as if it were a gracious favor
she had bestowed upon him for the moment in his dire distress, and he
had no right to keep it, but Dawn put it out again and laid it on his
gently.
"Daniel, you are my dear friend for always, and I am glad to feel that
you would take care of me if you could, but truly there is nothing you
can do. I would not have you go to him for the world. He must not know
where I am, nor be troubled ever by any thought of me. It was for that
I came away. You would grieve me more than I can tell you if you did.
I want him to forget me, because it could only make him trouble if he
found me. He would _have_ to come to me. He would want to come, I know,
if you told him. But I don't want him to come. You don't understand, of
course, and I mustn't tell you any more, only there is nothing can be
done but for me to go away and find a place somewhere where no one can
find me. Then people will forget, and I shall not bring any trouble or
disgrace on him--though it wasn't at all my fault," she added. "I want
you to know that, Daniel."
"Of course," growled Dan, looking down at the little hand on his as if
it were an angel's and might be wafted away with a breath. "But I'm
going with you myself, then, and see you to some safe place."
"Oh, but you mustn't, Dan. I couldn't let you. It wouldn't be right,
you know. People would think it very strange."
"People needn't know anything about it. I don't need to talk to you. I
can keep far enough away to see that no one hurts you, till you get a
good, safe place."
"But, Dan, the folks at your home? They would think we had gone away
together! I do not want them to think wrong of me, even if I'm not
there to bear it."
Dan was baffled. He saw at once that it would not do. He must go back
and bear the loneliness and the thought of her fighting her own battles.
"Well, I'll go with you now, any way," he said at last, with
determination. "I'll see you safe to some coach somewhere, an' come
back in the night. I can get to my room without Mother hearing me. She
never worries about me now any more, an' don't stay awake to listen for
me. She'll never know when I get in. I'll go back an' tell 'em I
helped carry your bag across country to Cherry Valley coach, or
somewhere. I've got the parson's letter here in my pocket. That
villain came to the school-house after you, an' I picked up the letter
so he wouldn't see it."
"Oh, did he come to the school after me? Then perhaps he has followed
us. Dan, I must go quickly!"
"Come on," said Dan, as though he were proposing to walk to his death.
At least, he was not to leave her yet. He picked up her bag, and helped
her to her feet; then, still holding the hand by which he had helped her
up, he bent over and kissed it reverently. Then he straightened up with
a royal look of manhood in his eyes and turned to her:
"You won't mind that just once, will you? That hand did a whole lot fer
me, beginning when it gave me that first licking."
Dawn smiled sadly. Then with sudden impulse she reached up, caught his
face between her hands, drew it down to her own, and gently, seriously,
kissed him upon the forehead as if it were a sacred rite.
"I love you, Dan," she said. "I'm so sorry it can't be the kind of love
you want. But I'll be your dear friend always. I never had a brother.
Perhaps I might call you my brother. It would be nice to have a brother
like you. You have been very, _very_ good to me, and I shall never
forget it."
Dan looked at her as if she had laid a benediction upon him. After all,
he was young, and it was much to have her friendship. And if another
had her love, at least he, Daniel, was on the spot and might help her
now, which went a great way toward making him feel better about the
other fellow. The boy had begun to have a lurking pity for him,
besides. And who was he, Daniel, that he should hope to hold a girl
like this for himself? It was much that he had known her. It was right
that she should have a lover such as she had described--"fine and grand
and noble." Almost the great heart of the boy-lover felt he could take
them both in and care for them, and bring them together, perhaps--who
knew?
They hurried through the woods, the boy directing the way now, and she
depending upon him. He decided that It would be well for her to take a
certain stage line that could be reached only by a good walk of several
miles across the country. He knew the way, and she was only too glad to
have a guide.
That was Dan's great day of happiness. For years afterward he
remembered every little incident. He seemed to know while it was all
happening that it was a special gift granted him in view of the sorrow
and sacrifice he must pass through. His was no passing love of a boy.
He realized that the girl beside him was one in a thousand, and that it
was enough for a lifetime just to have known her, and to be able to
remember one such perfect afternoon as this.
To Dawn, it was given to understand her power for that brief season, and
to use it to its utmost for the boy's good. She talked to him earnestly
about himself and his future, and urged him to make the utmost of every
opportunity. She made him understand that he had the gift of leading
others, and that some day he might take a great stand in the world for
some cause of Right against Wrong, when others would flock to his
standard and let him lead them to victory. It was an unusual thing that
a girl like Dawn should see his possibilities and point him to a great
ambition, but Dawn was an unusual girl.
Some girls, even though they might have done no real wrong, would have
taken advantage of the boy's confessed love, and have coquetted with
him. Dawn treated him with the utmost gentleness, as if she understood
the pain she must inflict, and would fain give him something fine to
take the place of what he had lost.
When they came to a hill they took hold of hands and raced down. When
they came to a brook he helped her gravely across, just as he had helped
her ever since she came to teach the school. He said no more about his
love. It was understood between them that it was a closed incident, to
be put away in the sacred recesses of their hearts. Into the girl's face
had come a tender, womanly interest that for the time being almost made
up to the boy for the loss of her. It was while they were walking down
a long stretch of brown road, straight into a glorious sunset, that the
boy asked quite suddenly:
"Has he been to college?"
Dawn knew at once whom he meant, and began simply to tell all about
Charles. It did her good to speak of him. It seemed to bring him
nearer. Her face blossomed into sweetness as she talked. There was not
much to say, not much about him that she could tell to a stranger, from
her one brief day's acquaintance with her husband, yet she managed to
say a good deal. Charles would have been amazed to hear her describe
his high ambitions and noble thoughts. He did not dream how well the
girl had read him during their one blissful day together. And now she
was painting him as an ideal for the rude boy who walked beside her and
listened, with his heart filled with patient envy; that presently lost
its bitterness in pity for the other one, who might have her great love,
yet might not walk beside her as he was doing.
At last Dan broke in upon her words:
"'Tisn't right he shouldn't know where you are. If he's anything like
what you think he is, he's 'most crazy hunting you. I know how he
feels."
Dawn shook her head sadly and told him he did not understand, but his
words sank into her heart for future meditation, and she could not quite
get away from the thought that perhaps she had been wrong, after all, in
going away. Perhaps it might have been more heroic to stay and face the
hard things right where she had been.
The long spring twilight had almost faded into darkness as they came at
last to the inn where the coach would pass. Neither had spoken for some
time. There was upon them a sense of their coming separation, and it
depressed them. Already Dawn was looking into her lonely future, and
dreading to lose this only friend she had. Already Dan was realizing
what the going back was to be.
They had arranged it all. Dan was to take the letter to the minister,
and explain that he had helped the teacher to catch a cross-country
stage. He had taken it upon himself, also, to carry messages to the
scholars and to her kind friends--brief messages of good-by, and haste,
and sorrow; with the promise, too, at Dan's earnest solicitation, that
if she ever could she would return to them.
Then at the end they had no time for parting. The stage was just
driving up to the inn as they reached there. There was no time even for
supper, though neither of them thought of it at the time.
Dan put her into the coach and arranged her bag comfortably, but he had
to get out at once, as others were pressing in. He went outside in the
dim light and stood by her window, looking up, trying to keep Rags from
breaking away and getting into the coach. Something in his throat
choked him. He could not speak.
The people were all in, and the driver was climbing to his place, when
Dawn reached out her hand and caught Dan's, giving it a quick little
squeeze.
"Dear Dan," she whispered as she leaned out, "don't forget to be the
best you can."
He caught the little hand and laid his lips against it in the
half-darkness. Rags had broken away and was barking wildly at the coach
door, but the horses started and took Dawn away from the boy and the
dog, and in a moment more they stood alone in the road, looking down the
street at the dim black speck in the distance which was the coach.
Then slowly, silently, the one with downcast head, the other with
drooping tail, Daniel and his dog took their way back over the road they
had come so happily that afternoon. The dog could not understand, and
now and then stopped, looked back, and whined, as if to say they ought
to go back and do things over again. At last, when they reached the
country roadside where all was still, and there were only the brooding
stars to see, Dan sat down on a bank by the roadside, buried his face in
his hands, and both down upon the cool, wet earth that was just
beginning to spring into greenness. Then he gave way to his grief,
while Rags, almost beside himself with distress, whined about him,
snuffed up and down the road, and then sat down and howled at the late
moon, which was just rising over a hill.
By and by Dan got up and called the dog. Together they started on their
journey again, a silent, thoughtful pair. But never afterward did the
boy Dan return. He was a man. He had suffered and grown. In his face
were born resolve and determination. People wondered at the change in
the careless, happy boy, and grew proud of his thoughtfulness.