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.