Dawn of the Morning Part 37

The day before Dawn left New York the city papers officially announced that the cholera had reached the city. Their columns were filled with admonitions, and the symptoms of the disease from start to finish were plainly told. Everybody was ordered to clean up and keep clean.

There seemed to be nothing but cholera news in the paper. A full report was given of every case, and two long columns reported the progress of the disease in other States and cities.

As Dawn pa.s.sed wearily away from an office where she had spent the entire day waiting for a man who she hoped might use his influence to get her a chance to teach a small school in a country district, but who did not come, she caught the cry of the newsboys.

"_New York Commercial-Advertiser_! All 'bout the cholera!"

It was not often she spent her h.o.a.rded pennies for a paper, but a sudden desire to know the truth about the fearful epidemic seized her. She bought a paper, and turned to the general report column. Almost at once her eye caught the name of a town not far from where her father lived, with a report of three cases of cholera. She read on down the column, and suddenly her heart stood still with horror.

"SLOANSVILLE [she read]. A man who gave his name as Harrington Winthrop died here last week of cholera. He was in an advanced stage of the disease when he arrived in a hired carriage, and died a few hours later.

His father and brother were sent for and arrived before his death. This case has caused a panic among the negroes in the vicinity, and there have been a few suspicious cases of illness which are being carefully watched. Everything is being done to prevent a further spread of the disease.

Dawn felt a sudden weakness, and hurried back to her wretched boarding place to lie down. She did not feel like eating any supper, though the old woman prepared some tea and toast and brought it up to her.

Dawn lay panting on her hard little bed, and the hot breath of the night came in at her window, redolent of all the departed dinners of the neighborhood. A stench of garbage sometimes varied the atmosphere as the faint breeze died away, and the noises of a careless, happy-go-lucky community jangled all about her. She thought of the rules of cleanliness that had been laid down in the papers, and of the probability that they would not be carried out in this street. She pictured herself sick with cholera, with no one but the poor old woman to wait upon her, and no doctor. The smells, the awful smells, would be going on and on, and she would be unable to get up and get away from them. She thought of the hot, hot sun that would stream in at her curtainless window when the day broke again, and wondered why she had come to this terrible city, where there was no work, and no place in the world for a lonely pilgrim whom n.o.body wanted.

Then over her rolled a deep relief at the thought that Harrington Winthrop would trouble her no more, though it seemed awful to rejoice in what must have been a terrible death. Yet it could not but make life freer for her, for she would have one thing less to fear.

Gradually, as she thought about it, another fear seized her. Charles, his brother, her husband, had been with him when he died. Perhaps he too would take it and die, and she would never know, never see him again in this life. She would be left alone-alone in this awful world where she had no friends, and none to love her, save a poor boy to whose kind heart she had brought only pain.

Why not go back to the neighborhood where Charles was? She need not let herself be known. She could surely find some secluded place where she could earn enough to keep her, yet where she might find out how he was, and maybe catch a glimpse of him now and then!

It was strange this idea had not entered her mind before. It had never seemed to her possible that she could go back. But now the spectre of death had made her see things in a different light. She wanted to get back to the greenness and the coolness of the country, and, most of all, she wanted to know if Charles was living and was well. After that, it did not matter what became of her; but now she knew she was going back, and she was going at once-in the morning.

She went down to tell the old lady her purpose, and after that she slept. The next morning she gathered up her few belongings and took the boat for Albany.

She had no settled purpose of where she would go after reaching her objective point. She did not know the name of the town where Charles lived. Strangely enough, it had never been mentioned in her hearing, and she had not thought to ask. She was beginning to feel as if she must have been half asleep when a good many important events in her life happened. Was she half asleep now also, she wondered idly?

As they pa.s.sed the old school of Friend Ruth, Dawn looked out hungrily and longed inexpressibly to be a girl again, studying her lessons and knowing little of the hardness of life.

When the boat reached Albany she took the first stagecoach that appeared, without asking where it went. Her money was almost gone, but she paid the fare without a pang. What did anything matter, now that she was out of New York?

Everywhere the talk was of the cholera, and her heart grew sick as she heard the details of the dread disease, and long, minute descriptions of how best to nurse it.

The stage-coach reached a pretty village late in the afternoon, and Dawn left it, to take a walk and rest herself from the long sitting.

She had but a few dollars left. Perhaps she ought not to use any more for fare, but stay where she was if she liked it, or walk farther.

She did not feel like eating anything, so she grasped her little bundle of well-worn garments, and walked down the village street.

There was a white church with a wide porch, and stairs in front, leading to the gallery. At the side was the graveyard, its wicket gate shaded by a great weeping willow. Just inside was a seat under the tree. Dawn tried the gate and found it unlatched, and she went in and wandered about among the graves, reading here and there a name idly, and wondering how it would seem to lie down and sleep in that quiet resting place.

Deep in the centre, so far from the street that she could not be seen, she sank in the gra.s.s at the foot of a green mound, and laid her face down upon the blossoming myrtle. How nice it would be if this were a great, free inn where strangers might come and lie down, and the servants would bring each one a green blanket for covering, and a white stone at the head of his pillow, and let him sleep in peace and quietness forever. She was so weary, so weary, body and soul.

At last she roused herself, and, looking up at the stone above her, traced the name with startled senses:

MARY MONTGOMERY, Born 1798, Died 1825.

_Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see G.o.d._

Now, indeed, Dawn was wide awake! This, then, was her mother's grave.

She verified the dates with her own memory. She traced the letters tenderly with her fingers, she took in the significance of the quotation, and read her mother's story as she had never been told it by any one. Her mind, made keen by suffering, could understand and sympathize. Her young heart ached with longing for the mother who was gone from her. How might they have comforted each other if they could only have been permitted to stay together!

A little later she moved her position and saw that there was a smaller mound beyond her mother's grave, and that the white stone read:

CARROLL MONTGOMERY VAN RENSSELAER, Aged 2 years and 9 months.

_He shall gather the lambs in His arms._

Before this stone Dawn knelt in wonder. Had she, then, had a brother?

And how much more of the story was there? Oh, if she had only asked her father more questions! Perhaps some day she would dare to go to him and find out many things. Not now-not till she was older and had forgotten some of the troubles she had borne. Poor child! She knew not that his body had been resting beneath a stately monument these ten days past!

Beyond her was her grandfather's stone, and beside it her grandmother's, much older and moss-covered. In the same enclosure were many other Montgomerys who had lived and died. Some of their names she thought she remembered. She sighed wearily, and, going back to her mother's grave, touched the letters of her name gently, as if she would bid them farewell, picked a spray of the blossoming myrtle, and went sadly out into a lonely world again. She could not stay here; it was too sorrowful.

She walked to the next village that afternoon, and took another coach, the first that came along, going she knew not where. When she reached the end of the route the next morning, she took up her walk again, resolving to spend no more money for riding. She did not realize how long she had walked, but some time in the afternoon she came into a familiar region. She could not tell where she was at first, but as she drew near to the village she recognized it as her native town.

At first she was frightened, and stopped by the roadside to think what to do. Then a great longing to see the garden once more, and creep into the old summer-house, came over her. Skirting the woods on the outside of the village, and going around by the saw-mill, she at last came to the hedge at the lower end of her father's garden, and slipped through to the summer-house, as she had wished.

The mansion looked quiet. No one seemed moving about. But, then, it had always seemed that way. She had no fear that any one would discover her, for the hedge was thick and tall, and had not been cut lately. She crept into her old corner in the greenness and quiet. The cus.h.i.+ons were there as they used to be, but they looked weather-beaten, as if no one had been there in a long time. She brushed them off, spread her mantle upon them, and lay down. It was very still all about, and she soon slept. Some time in the night she awoke with a feeling of chill and loneliness. It was night, she knew by the darkness, and a sense of something strange and sad brooded in the air. But she was very weary, and soon slept again.

When she awoke again it was late morning. She knew by the sun that the day was well begun, and she was impressed almost immediately by the quietness of her surroundings. There seemed to be no one about. Not a sound came from the house. The bees and the cicadas droned and whetted their hot scythes in the burning day, but otherwise there was a torrid silence.

The little hedged summer-house was not far from the street. It seemed strange to the girl that she heard no one pa.s.sing. She got up and made herself as tidy as the circ.u.mstances allowed, and then stole toward the house, keeping within hiding of the hedges. She had no mind to let any one see her, but a strange fascination led her to look again upon her old home.

The shutters were all staring wide, as if forgotten, and the front door stood open, but no one was about. Dawn wondered if the old servants were still there, but no sound came from the direction of the kitchen.

She stole nearer, though her judgment warned her to go away if she did not wish to be seen and recognized. A power stronger than she realized seemed drawing her on.

With sudden impulse, she stepped softly up to the front door and peeped in. She had no deep love for this old house, for the memories of her mother there had been dimmed and marred by later happenings; but Dawn had been a wanderer so many months now, that even to look upon a place where she had once had a right to be, was good.

The hall looked much as ever, though there was no hat lying on the polished mahogany table, and a coating of dust showed clearly in the stream of suns.h.i.+ne from the front door. Her father's walking-sticks were not in their accustomed place either. She wondered a little, and then was impressed again by the deep stillness that lay over everything.

What could it mean? Was no one about? Surely they had not gone off and left the house alone and the front door wide open!

The curious longing for a sight of something familiar which had brought her thus far drew her on. Cautiously she stepped into the hall and peered into this room and that-the parlor, the library, the dining-room, and back through the servants' quarters into the kitchen. All were empty!

The fire was out, and a heap of ashes lay on the hearth, as if no one had made an attempt to put things to rights for hours. There were unwashed dishes on the kitchen table, and on the bread board, beside the knife, lay half a loaf of bread which had moulded in the warm, moist atmosphere. It was all very strange. What could have happened?

With a growing sense that the house was empty now, Dawn went upstairs, looking first into her own old room and the guest rooms, and coming at last to the door of that which had been her step-mother's. It was closed, and she hesitated to open it. What need had she to go in there, any way? It could profit her nothing. If her step-mother was there, Dawn did not wish to see her. The girl paused an instant, then her soft tread turned back again to go downstairs, but a low sound, like a moan, caught her ear, and something made her turn again and open the door, though cold chills were creeping down her spine, and a frenzy of fear had seized upon her.

There upon the high four-poster bed lay her step-mother, her eyes sunken into deep sockets, her cheeks hollow, her nose thin and pointed, her whole face pinched and blue, with lines of agony in her expression.

Dawn felt her heart leap in fear, but she went forward. There seemed nothing else to do.

The sunken eyes turned toward her dully, and the blue lips uttered a low moan, then, suddenly, the sick woman fixed her gaze upon the girl's face in growing horror, and a livid look came into her face.