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 you _and_ the 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. Was
_that_ true, 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 read _Parley's Magazine_ than the
_Commercial-Advertiser_?"
"Oh, read the _Commercial-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 crepe 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 the _United 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!"