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 anybody _loved_ her,
they'd _have_ to take care of her, _if it killed 'em_."
"Dan, old fellow, I love _you_," 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 she _was_ huntin' 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.