DAWN OF THE MORNING

CHAPTER XXV

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.