"What is that, mother?"
Katharine had heard the deep breathing of her guard, and turned her startled face toward him.
"It is a neighbor come to stay with us."
"What! in the night, mother! Why don't he go to bed, then?"
"No one has slept in this house for two nights," answered the mother, sorrowfully.
Katharine started, and began to tremble.
"Why did you sit up? Was my baby sick?"
Mrs. Allen folded her child closer, but said nothing.
"You won't tell me, mother."
"I—I cannot."
Katharine broke from her mother's arms, and stood up, white as death.
"Is my baby dead, mother?"
"Yes."
Before it left the woman's lips, Katharine had advancedto the cradle, and drawn away the coverlet. She saw what is concealed—the little coffin and her child lying coldly within it. Without a word or even a quick breath, she sank down like an image of snow which the sun has touched.
Another morning, and the stillness of death fell upon that house. While the young mother lay bereft of all strength, and scarcely alive, but with a guard of strong men at her door, the infant was carried out and reverently buried. No mourners followed it. The old woman watched by the living mother, not with the leaden despair of former days, but with calm resignation, which deepened into pathetic tenderness, whenever she approached the sufferer.
Katharine had whispered a request to see her babe before it was carried forth. It was brought to her bedside, for those who condemned her as guilty had some compassion on her youth. It was like a shadow passing near her, a pale, wan shadow, which would forever float before her vision, but was devoid of positive reality then. She had no idea of the way of its death, and suffered like any other bereaved parent, who sees the first child of love carried away after it has been folded close to the yearning heart that gave it life.
So the funeral went forth, the saddest of many years, and wound its solemn way through the snow-trodden streets down to the graveyard, which gave its white stones to the sunlight on Falls Hill. The shadow of the church steeple lay softly upon the snow as the funeral passed in, and when the tiny grave was closed, and all was white and pure as the clouds of heaven above, the broad Naugatuc sweeping toward its falls below the hill, seemed chiming a solemn requiem. Thenthe crowd dispersed in groups, whispering with awe over the terrible crime which no one seemed to doubt, and all regretted. A few thoughtless girls there might have been, who spoke recklessly of the sin and disgrace which had fallen upon their lovely schoolmate, but a feeling of compassion predominated, and even those who came to that little grave condemning the mother, went away subdued and doubting. Gossip there certainly was—what country village ever existed without that?—but Katharine's fault was far too serious for light comment. Even strong men held their breadth when the penalty of death was mentioned in connection with that helpless girl.
I haveforgotten one circumstance which happened that morning. Just as the funeral was turning from the highway toward the graveyard, a colored man and a young boy, both of foreignappearance, came up the hill from the bridge, where one of the river sleighs had set them down. After standing for a moment watching the procession with curiosity, they walked reverently after it, looking very sad, as if trouble were familiar to them. The negro led the boy by the hand, and both stood apart from the crowd while the funeral service was read. It was remarked that the negro seemed greatly disturbed as he looked upon the grave, and that his eyesfilled with tears when he turned them on the serious face of the boy. Poor fellow! he was thinking of another funeral, where orange blossoms perfumed the air, and hosts of wild flowers brightened the turf which was laid above the dead.
When the ceremony was over, and the people began to disperse, Jube approached a little group of men who lingered by the gate, and inquired, in very imperfect English, if some one would show him the way to a place called Bungy, and if a widow lady by the name of Allen did not live there.
This was a new source of excitement. The foreign look and broken language peculiar to the strangers, were something to be wondered at and talked over, even at this solemn hour. The men drew away from the neighborhood of the burying-ground before they indulged in the curiosity which was consuming them, and for once answered a question directly, without asking another in the same breath, an instance of forbearance deserving of honorable record in these pages. But the moment they reached the road the awe of the place left them, and the direct examination of poor Jube commenced.
Mrs. Allen—of course everybody knew the widow Allen, and no wonder, after that funeral; but what did the stranger want of her—wanted to hire out, perhaps. Jube did not know what hiring out meant, and answered vaguely that perhaps he did, but wasn't quite certain.
This rather excited curiosity. What if this black fellow should prove to know something about the murder, or, at any rate, of the person who had led poor Katharine Allen into all this trouble. This idea whetted the questions that were let loose on the travellers, till both the negro and boy were thoroughly bewildered.
"Mebbe you're acquainted with Mrs. Allen—knew her afore she moved here, I dare say!" suggested a farmer from over the hill.
Jube shook his head, more to express his incapacity to understand than as a negative to the question.
"No; that's sort o' strange; but then, perhaps, you're related to some of the colored people hereabouts?"
"No, agin; stranger and stranger yet—not know Mrs. Allen, nor any of the colored population of this neighborhood. Then jist excuse me if I ask who on arth you are acquainted with?"
"We know Mr. Rice, the widow lady's son," answered Paul, in his sweet, broken language, and lifting a face to the stranger that softened every feature of his rough visage.
"You know David Rice, my little shaver! Wall, we reckon not, for he was drowned three months or more ago. Wrecked at sea. Captain Thrasher e'nmost saw him go down."
"It was on that ship we with him! Jube he help him bring her into port!" cried the boy, his great, velvety eyes filling with light as he lifted them exultingly to the negro.
The story of two persons—a negro and a boy—having insisted on sharing the fate of David Rice, on the disabled vessel, had gone the rounds of the village, and a general burst of surprise followed the boy's speech.
"Now, you don't say so! You the little shaver that sot right down by Dave Rice on that deck, and wouldn't get up on no consideration!" cried one. "Wall, now, how things du turn out. I couldn't a believed it, and sich a slender little critter, too; I swan to man, it beats all!"
Paul understood that the man was praising him for something, and in his modest innocence strove to set him right.
"No, no, no; not me; I am very little boy, very weak, and so small. I only eat great deal, and drink water, when Jube wanted it very much to keep him strong. It was Jube, my Jube, that helped save the ship. I wish you could see how him swing the pump handle—all the time, daylight and dark, no matter, Jube work, work, work, I no!"
The farmer who had been the most ardent spokesman, stepped forth now, reaching out his hands.
"I say, cuffy, give us yer hand. If you're the feller that stood by Rice when he hadn't a chance left, I'm proud to know ye. If you raly did bring him safe ashore—well, by golly, if I aint e'enamost a crying! Now, you don't say that Dave Rice is alive?"
"Left him much well in New York two days ago; me and Jube," answered the boy, smiling at the farmer's enthusiasm.
"Yes, little masser."
"Master! Now, you don't mean tu say that this little black-eyed shaver is your master, in earnest, cuffy?"
"Yes," said Jube, showing every white tooth in his head. "Reckon little masser won't say no!"
"And you're his slave—a rale, downright sarvant, ha?"
"Yes; that's it!" answered Jube, with another happy laugh. "Little masser hasn't none but me now."
"You don't say so!"
"But we both owned to Captain Rice, now. Jube, you not forgot that," said Paul, earnestly.
"What's that you're a saying! Dave Rice a bringinghome slaves into old Connecticut, and one uv 'em e'enamost white! I say, neighbors, what will the selectmen say to that?"
Instantly there was a season of whispered and eager consultation. With all their joy over the deliverance of Rice from a watery grave, the neighbors were not prepared to accept the slaves he seemed to be sending home from foreign parts.
"What do you think," said the chief speaker, "they'll perhaps become an expense to the town, and have to be bid off for their board with the other paupers—supposing we send them back."
"Wait till we've examined 'em according to law," interposed another, who was a selectman of the township. "Perhaps I'd better do it. Now jest stand by and listen."
"What do you do for a living, if I may ask," he commenced, planting himself in the road in front of Jube, "before we admit strangers, especially colored, it's as well to be sure that they wont be a town charge—what do you foller?"
Jube shook his head—the whole speech was a mystery to him.
"What do you foller?" persisted the selectman, getting impatient.
"What do I folly!" repeated Jube, with a puzzled look, then brightening up all at once, he added with a smile:
"Me folly little masser."
"But how do you get your living?"
"He's my father now, and me support him," said Paul, with dignity, for he began to comprehend a little of the conversation.
"And who supports you, my little shaver?"
"Me have money," answered Paul; "Jube, show monsieur much money there in the purse."
Jube took a heavy shot bag from his pocket, and opening it exhibited more gold than the selectman had ever seen in his life. The whole group of countrymen gathered around him, full of eager curiosity.
"I should think that satisfactory," said one of the speakers, addressing the selectman.
"No doubt on that point," was the answer; "but where on arth du they come from, I should raly like to know."
"Will you please tell us some way," said Paul, modestly. "It is much cold here, and Jube likes a fire too much."
"You want to know the road to Mrs. Allen's?"
"Yes, monsieur, that is the name!"
"Well, she lives over the hill."
"Which way we go, monsieur?"
"No, it isn't monsur, but Bungy that you're after."
"And that way, if you please?"
"Turn round that great willer tree on the corner, keep to the left of the white house back of it, and then go straight along. It's a brown house with a narrow door yard, and a shag bark walnut tree standing at one end—you can't miss it, no how."
"Thank you," said the boy, lifting his cap with the grace of a little prince, "monsieur are much kind."
Jube also lifted his cap, and stood close by his master, a good deal puzzled and disturbed by the conversation that had been forced upon them.
The men who were left behind drew together in a group.
"It's a bad time for strangers to be asking the way to that house," said the selectman, looking after the travellers, "but one couldn't make them understand. With officers in charge, and that miserable girl lying at the point of death, as I may say, it will come hard on Mrs. Allen. I almost wish some of us had taken them home."
"Let them go," said the man addressed. "They bring good news from the son that was lost—poor woman, she will find that God does not altogether forsake her, though it is an awful trial she is going through."
With a parting salutation, so respectful from Jube, and so elegant from the boy, that the men stood quite confounded, the old negro and his charge passed on up the hill.
"It's the first brown house," one of the little group called out, as soon as he recovered his power of speech, which, like those of any true New Englander, were not to be checked long by any condition whatever; "the first brown house, and ask for widder Allen."
The two strangers looked back, comprehending the gesture which accompanied these words, and, with another courteous salute, disappeared along a bend in the road.
"We've almost reached our journey's end, Jube," the boy said, in their native tongue, after they had walked some distance.
"Yes, little master," said Jube, in the same tongue, "that's the house I see now up yonder."
"I wonder if she is a kind woman?" the boy continued, his thoughts reverting to all the trouble and cruelty of the past months.
"I hope so, little master; it's a woman's nature, most times; and if she have a spark of goodness in her heart, it must come out when she see that blessed young face."
"Dave's mother ought to be kind and good, I am sure."
"Very nice man, that Master Rice; Jube will never forget him, never!"
With such broken conversation, they pursued their way, and soon reached the summit of the hill. Just before them was the old farm house which once looked so cheerful and pleasant, but now a quiet so profound pervaded the whole place that it seemed like a shadow deepening under the trouble which oppressed its inmates.
With his refined instincts and sympathies, the boy felt a peculiar restlessness creep over his mind as he approached the dwelling.
"How still it is, Jube," he said, unconsciously sinking his voice to a whisper, as they lingered for an instant by the gate; "it seems as if they were all sick or dead."
"Not that, little master," replied Jube, occupied with the reflection that his beloved charge had at last reached a place of tranquillity, and incapable of the vague emotions which agitated the sensitive nerves of the child.
He opened the gate, and held it ajar for the boy to pass through. Never once, in all their sorrow and confusion, had he forgotten the respect which was due to his old master's son.
"Go in, Master Paul; don't be afeard, Jube is with you yet."
"I am not afraid; I only feel sorry for these strange people; but why, I cannot tell."
Jube made no answer to the fancies which he could not comprehend; and, after that momentary hesitation, the boy passed up the little garden path to the house, and waited, while the negro gave a quick, eager rap upon the door.
Mrs. Allen was occupied in the bedroom, and did not hear the summons, but it aroused the officer who sat over the kitchen fire, struggling with sleep and the dreary reflections to which the place and his duty gave rise.
"Come in!" he called, in a low voice; then, fearful of disturbing the sick girl, whom he had already begun to pity, in spite of the sin and guilt which he believed to be upon her, he rose from his chair, and walked to the door, starting in astonishment when he opened it, and saw the two strangers standing there.
Paul looked at Jube for assistance, and Jube looked back at him so helpless and confused, in his efforts to recall his very imperfect English, that the boy was obliged to depend upon his own courage and knowledge of the harsh tongue.
"Madame Allen live here?" he asked, while the officer, between astonishment at his grace and foreign accent, only stared the harder, instead of answering.
"Moder to Masser Rice," added Jube, coming to his young master's assistance, and after successfully pronouncing so much in his best English, he rushed into a flood of French, which completed the man's bewilderment.
"Land's sake!" he exclaimed. "What on arth does the critter mean—never heerd such a lingo in all my life!"
"Chut!" whispered Paul to his companion; "he doesn't understand you."
The recollection quite took Jube by surprise. He ceased at once, his mouth gaping wide, and the whites of his eyes displayed in bewildering astonishment.
"We wish Madame Allen," pursued the boy.
"De moder of her son," put in Jube, coming to his senses, and determining to assist his master by every means in his power.
"The widder Allen lives here," replied the man, "if you want her—the Lord knows she near enough crazy, anyhow," he continued, in a lower tone. "But walk in, walk in."
Theguard left Paul and his black friend standing on the door step, and went toward the bedroom, calling, in a half-whisper,
"Here, Mrs. Allen, somebody wants you."
The old woman heard his voice, and came out into the kitchen, closing the bedroom door, and looking with as much astonishment at the strangers as her numbed faculties would permit her to feel.
"They want to see you," said the officer, turning toward her; "I can't make out nothing more—they talk such outlandish lingo."
Paul motioned Jube to follow, and entered the kitchen. He walked up to the old lady and removed his cap with a low bow, saying:
"It is Madame Allen—the mother of Monsieur Rice?"
"I was his mother," she replied, in a hollow voice, "but he is dead. What do you want of me, little boy?"
"This letter for you," Paul continued, taking the carefully preserved epistle from his pocket.
The old woman shrunk away, and put out her hand as if to thrust the letter aside.
"More trouble," she muttered. "What can come now?"
Paul understood, rather from the expression of her face than a comprehension of her words, that she was startled.
"Very good news," he said. "The lady much happy now."
"Happy!" she repeated. "Who is that from?"
"From him—from madame's own son!"
She only looked incredulous; she was so stunned by suffering that her mind could not readily receive any new impression.
"I haven't any son," she said; "my son is dead."
The boy glanced anxiously toward Jube, and the old negro felt bound to offer his assistance, although sadly at a loss to remember a single English word by which matters might be explained.
"No dead, lady!" he exclaimed; "bery live, Masser Rice; yes, certainement; very much so."
The old woman gave him a wild look, snatched the letter from Paul's hand, and tore it open, while the three stood gazing at her in astonishment.
"His writing," she muttered. "Oh, I must be going crazy!"
She read the page, retreated backward, and fell into achair, while the letter fluttered slowly to the floor. She understood the contents, but had wept so much during the past days, that no tears were left; even joy could not revivify the wasted fount.
"What is the matter, Mrs. Allen?" exclaimed the officer, frightened by her appearance. "Don't look so; don't now; it skeers a fellow!"
She pointed to the letter.
"Read it to me," she whispered; "read it, I say; maybe I shall believe it then."
The man picked up the sheet, and spelled out the tidings as well as his astonishment and Rice's crabbed writing would permit.
"My son is alive," muttered the woman. "God has not altogether forsaken me!"
"Alive!" repeated the officer; "gone another voyage, and sent these two here."
Paul had crept close to Jube, and slipped his slender fingers into the broad palm of his trusty companion, startled by the scene.
"You came from my son?" said the woman, looking earnestly at them.
"Yes," interrupted the officer; "seems to be a sort of adoptation on Dave's part; he's dreadful perticular to have the boy sent to the district school to once."
Mrs. Allen struggled with herself, managed to rise, and walked toward the chamber door.
"Stay here," she said; "sit down and wait for me."
They understood her words, and seated themselves as she directed. Her heavy tread upon the stairs echoed down into the room, and when it died away in the garret, they sat waiting, while the officer stared at them asif they had been two strange birds, placed there for his observation.
When Mrs. Allen reached the cold, silent garret, she sank upon her knees on the bare boards and tried to pray. Broken and faint were the murmurs which fell from her lips; but gradually, through that silent prayer, a ray of holy happiness stole over her haggard features—God had sent one gleam of light into the terrible blackness which surrounded her.
She rose, at length, strengthened, and able more clearly to reflect upon the joy that had come so unexpectedly into the midst of her anguish.
Her son was alive—it was better that he should not be there—he could in no way aid Katharine. As for her own portion of the agony, only God could help her to endure that. But he was alive, and would come back in time to comfort her.
Nearly half an hour must have elapsed before she descended the stairs and again entered the kitchen. The strangers were still seated by the fire, and the officer had sufficiently recovered from his stupor of astonishment to overpower them with all sorts of questions, very few of which they understood; but as they made up for this lack of comprehension by a courtesy altogether new and puzzling to him, he had to make the best of matters.
"They come from 'way off, goodness knows where," he said, turning toward Mrs. Allen. "Dave's the queerest fellow to pick up odd critters!"
The woman paid no attention to his words, but went up to Paul and laid her hand on his shoulder; the look of childish comprehension and sympathy which he lifted to her face seemed to go to her heart as no expressionsof kindness from another had been able to do. A faint dew gathered in her eyes, but no absolute tears.
"Are you hungry?" she asked. "I will get you something to eat."
"Madame must not trouble much," Paul said, respectfully.
"It's the natur' o' children and darkies to eat," remarked the officer, sapiently; "you'd better hunt 'em up a cold bite. I feel kinder hungry myself, Mrs. Allen."
The old woman went about her duties in a methodical way, finding a kind of relief in the occupation. She placed such food as she had prepared upon the table, and motioned Paul to sit down. Before the little fellow touched a morsel himself, he heaped a plate with great slices of gingerbread and mince pie, and carried them to Jube.
"Do look at that," muttered the officer; "wal, I never seed a little chap have so much manners afore."
"You are much kind," Paul said to Mrs. Allen; "so was good Rice—le grand Dieuwill bless both."
"Granite do," remarked the officer; "I wonder if that's his name?"
"The letter says, Paul," returned the woman.
"Me; that me," said the boy, catching his name, and looking up with a smile.
The woman once more took up the letter, and sat down to gain a clearer knowledge of its contents.
"And you're sent here to stay," she said, with a weary sigh, as she folded the sheet. "Dear me, what a place for anyone to come to!"
"Yes," replied the boy, understanding her first words; "in few months—tree, four, Monsieur Rice come too."
"His name is Dave," said the officer; "but, la! I calculatethey have all sorts of queer names for folks in them out of the way countries."
When Paul had finished his meal he returned to his old place on the little stool by Jube's side, and the pair sat looking wistfully at each other, oppressed by the strangeness and gloom of the place.
Mrs. Allen paid little attention to them. She washed the dishes with her usual care, and put them away in the corner cupboard, brushed the hearth, moved restlessly about, finding that relief in constant occupation which the mind is sure to seek during a great sorrow.
Paul sat watching her with his large, wistful eyes, for she had strangely excited some inexplicable sympathy in his heart.
After a time a feeble voice called from the bedroom.
"Mother; where are you, mother?"
Katharine had awakened, and was startled to find herself alone; but at the summons the old woman went into the bedroom, and the murmur of their voices reached the kitchen faintly.
In a few moments Mrs. Allen came out with a cup in her hand. She went to the fire, took a tin basin from the hearth, and poured a portion of the contents into the cup, but her hands shook so tremulously that the hot liquid spilled over them.
Paul arose, and took the dish from her with his usual gentleness.
"Let me carry it," he said. "Madame very tired."
Poor old madame! His kindness touched her like a new pang. She followed him to the bedroom and took the cup again.
"Sick lady there?" he whispered.
Mrs. Allen bent her head, she could not speak just then.
"Paul will help," continued the boy. "Paul nursed mamma once—please let him help the sweet mademoiselle."
The boy had caught a glimpse of Katharine's face, and his own brightened.
The old woman felt as if an angel had unexpectedly been sent to aid her in her misery—the pitying light in those beautiful eyes went to her heart like a blessing.
After that, every time she went in or out, Paul watched her movements and assisted her in his unobtrusive way, then crept back to Jube, and waited to see in what manner he could next express his desire to be of use.
"He goes about as handy as a pet kitten," said the officer at last, sorely perplexed in his mind. "Got a mother, little chap?"
The negro understood these words, and put up his hands with a warning gesture.
"Hush!" said Mrs. Allen, sternly; "you know what the letter said."
"I forgot," returned the man, and he began uneasily biting his finger nails, to hide his confusion; but the nails proved very horny and tough, and he failed to get rid of much contrition in that way.
Paul made no answer to his question; he only retreated a little closer to Jube, and laid his head upon the negro's knee. The simple action wrung Mrs. Allen's heart with a new pang. Hard and severe as her nature was, it had become so softened under her grief that she was unusually observant, and touched by trifles which at another time would have passed by unheeded.
"I expect you're tired," said the officer, pointing hisfinger, with its dilapidated nail, at the boy; "you're tired now, aint you?"
"A little," said Paul, without raising his head. "Only very little."
Jube knew by the sorrowful voice that the child was thinking of his mother, and had been pained by the man's thoughtless question in regard to her. He attempted no consolation in words, but laid his great hand protectingly upon the boy's shoulder. The two crept a little closer to each other, feeling a sort of safety and comfort in that silent companionship.
"I expect they feel kinder cold," remarked the officer.
Mrs. Allen heard, and remembered that there was a fireplace in the chamber where she intended them to sleep. She went out into the wood house for pine knots to kindle a fire, but Paul had followed her with that solicitude to which she was so unaccustomed, and when he saw her errand, motioned Jube to follow.
"Jube very strong," he said; "carry me—carry wood—likes to do it too much."
The old woman attempted no opposition; she allowed the negro to take up an armful of sticks, and led the way up-stairs in silence, Paul still accompanying them, from an unwillingness to remain alone with the strange man.
Jube's intentions were of the most praiseworthy description, but it must be confessed that his success in making a fire was not equal to his ambition. When Mrs. Allen saw that he only succeeded in raising a smoke instead of kindling a flame, she took the matter into her own hands, and speedily the knots and kindlings were hissing and snapping on the unused hearth at a famous rate.
"Jube learn," Paul said, smiling at both, and trying to comfort the negro's evident discomfiture, "learn very quick.Tout suit!"
"Yes, little masser," he replied; "Jube know how next time."
Mrs. Allen signified to them that they were to sleep in that room; there was a trundle bed for Paul, which Katharine had occupied when a child, and she improvised a very comfortable sort of couch for the attendant. She spread a bit of rag carpet before Paul's bed, and made every thing homelike and tidy for the shivering strangers.
"Come down and warm," she said, when her preparations were completed, noticing that they shivered with cold.
Paul and Jube followed her down-stairs and took their former seats by the fire, while she, after stealing into the bedroom, to be certain that Katharine slept, took her station by the hearth likewise, and remained gazing drearily into the fire.
At last she seemed to remember how late it was, and, getting up, took a brass warming-pan, with its long wooden handle, which she filled with hot coals. Thus armed, she went up-stairs, came down again after an absence of ten minutes, and told her guests to go up to bed before the sheets got cold.
When the two went up-stairs, Jube found his humble bed warmed comfortably, like that of his little master.
Oneentire week that poor girl lay upon the verge of death; but so still, so mournfully feeble, that it would have pained you to look at her. The sound of her voice must have sent you from her presence heart-broken. The doctor visited her every day. At times he attempted to arouse her with some of his droll sayings, but the voice in which they were uttered was so pitiful that she understood it only as a compassionate attempt to comfort her, and so, in truth, it was.
One day, when the fever had left her brain, and she could scarcely speak for want of strength, Katharine whispered the doctor to sit down a little while, as she had something to ask him about.
The doctor slid his crutches along the floor, and seated himself on the edge of the bed, looking very grave, for he felt what the poor thing was about to say.
"Doctor."
"Well, my child."
"What is that man always staying in the kitchen for?"
"That man—oh! he's help."
"Night and day, night and day, he's always there," murmured the unhappy girl. "He tries to keep out of sight; but every time the door opens I see his shadow on the wall."
"And it frightens you, poor child; is that it?"
"Yes, doctor, it troubles me. I want to know what it means?"
"He has been sent here to keep your mother company."
She looked at him with reproachful earnestness, tried to shake her head, but the languid eyelids only drooped over the blue orbs fastened on his face, and, directly, tears began to swell under them.
"I heard people talking in the other room, doctor; what was it about?"
"I cannot tell you, not knowing what they said."
"They were talking about my baby."
The word broke out in a sob, and tears gushed through her trembling eyelashes. The doctor laid his hand on her head, and then the convulsion of her grief became heart-rending.
"Hush, child, hush! don't cry, don't cry—it will hurt you."
"Doctor, what—what did my baby die of?"
The doctor turned white with the pain and surprise of that question.
"Won't you tell me, doctor?"
He looked at her in stern distrust. Her face was innocent as a child's. She interrogated his countenance imploringly through her tears.
"Don't you know, Katharine?"
She began to cry bitterly.
"How could I? no one tells me, and I can't remember any thing."
"Katharine, is this true?"
"Is what true, doctor?"
"Have you no knowledge how the child died?"
"No; I was in bed here, shaking with cold and burning up with fever. I wanted the baby, and got up; it was in the cradle, dead. Oh, I remember so well howwhite its little face was—how white and cold. I came back again, crept into bed, and wished that God would let me die, too."
"And this is all you know?"
"Yes, doctor; I was afraid to ask mother about it—she looks so strange; but you will tell me every thing."
The doctor gathered up his crutches hurriedly, and stamped his way into the next room.
"Mrs. Allen," he said, sharply, "you are a brave woman. I'm nothing but a poor, miserable coward. I'm going to sneak off, and let you talk to that poor girl. I could cut the throat of a lamb when it was looking into my eyes as soon as tell her what must come. You're a Christian, Mrs. Allen, a downright Christian, and no sham—crusty and bitter, sharp and honest. You can do it; I can't. You're a Bible woman; I'm an old sinner, and am running away—do you understand—because I'm an abominable old coward. Tell her yourself."
Mrs. Allen turned white as parchment. She understood the doctor's meaning in full.
"Has she been asking questions, doctor?"
"Yes; enough to break a commonly good heart—but mine is tough as sole leather."
"She is better?"
"Yes; a great deal better."
"And when she is well enough to be moved, they will take her away?"
"I suppose so—the hounds."
The woman stood motionless—her hands tightly clasped, and her lips stiffening with pain.
"You are right," she said; "who but her mother should take up this burden. I will tell Katharine."
"Not 'till I am out of sight!" cried the doctor, wheelingsharply on his crutches. "I tell you, woman, I can't stand it—feel like a butcher for what I have done. The law is an abomination. Why can't they let my pretty pigeon alone? As if there wasn't babies enough without making a fuss if one does drop off a little out of the common way?"
"I'll tell her. It's hard, but what is before me I can do," said the woman.
"Can't I help little?" said a sweet voice from the hearth, "or Jube? he's very strong."
The doctor looked down on little Paul with a glance half quizzical, half serious.
"You, little shoat, you?"
"Yes, if madame please," said Paul, with a sad smile; "if there's trouble, I and Jube very used to it. We've been in a boat together three days, with nothing but red hot sun and many waters to look on, till they blind us. We know how to be hungry and cold, and he knows how to be whipped on his back and never say a word. That is why we can help."
"That little trooper is what I call a pilgrim," muttered the guard, nodding at the doctor with a wink of the left eye.
Mrs. Allen laid her unsteady hand on Paul's dark curls. "He is a good boy, and God will bless him," she said.
Paul, with that touching grace that is so beautiful in highly bred children of foreign birth, took the hard hand of his benefactress and touched it to his lips.
"He ought to have been sent to school," she said, in a weary voice, addressing the doctor. "My son charged it upon me, but I could not leave her."
The doctor wheeled round, and examined Paul's face from beneath his heavy eyebrows.
"Go get your cap and great coat," he said with gruff kindness. "If you've got a wedge of mince pie or a slice of gingerbread, Mrs. Allen, drop it into a dinner basket, and I'll put the shaver on his course of studies in double-quick time. Send him out when all is ready."
It took the doctor some minutes to mount his horse. By the time he was in the saddle, Paul came forth with a painted dinner basket on his arm. A new pair of mittens imprisoned his delicate hands, while the yarn comforter that Rice had given him was twisted around his neck, and concealed the lower part of his face.
"That's right, little trooper; climb up the fence and hop on behind. That's it—sharp as a steel trap. Sit up close and hold on to my belt. All right. Here we go! Get up! Get along, I say!"
The doctor's horse had been used to carrying double in all sorts of ways, so he only threw up his head, and cast his long mane on the air like a banner, intending this action as a protest against extra burdens in general, before he started off in a heavy trot toward Falls Hill.
The doctor was heavy-hearted enough, but he took some note of the strange child under his charge, told him to hang on to his belt like a dog to a sassafras root, and expressed a decided opinion that Paul would be a man before his mother, which filled the boy's heart with sadness, as that word mother was ever sure to do.
The red school-house at Shrub Oak was half a mile out of the doctor's way, but instead of setting Paul down at the willow tree on the corner, he put his eccentric steed to its mettle, and drew up in front of that sublime seat of learning with considerable dash.
"Holloa there, Tibbles! Holloa! I say! Come out and get a new scholar."
Mr. Tibbles, the master, heard this shout while in the midst of his pupils, and laying down his ruler with dignity, moved toward the door, leaving a hum and rush of whispers behind, which might have reminded one of Babel before the inmates had ventured entirely upon their new tongues.
"How do you do, Tibbles? Young ideas shoot prosperously—ha? Give 'em the birch—give 'em the birch. Nothing like it. Whipped half out of my skin before I got through Webster's spelling-book. Did me good. Give 'em birch; and if you can't find that handy, try hemlock sprouts. Tingle beautifully."
The master took these suggestions demurely, and asked if the little boy upon the horse wanted to come to school.
"Yes. Hop down, shaver. Give him a lift, Tibbles. A little Frenchman from St. Domingo. Nothing but a nest of niggers left there. Killed all the white folks off. Nice country, that. You have heard of the boy that stuck to the wrecked brig with Dave Rice?"
"Oh, yes, doctor," answered Tibbles, brightening.
"There he is, large as life. Take good care of him, for he's worth a dozen of your common fellows. Put him through English, and give him a touch of Latin, if you remember any. Who knows but I may take him for a student one of these days?"
While the doctor was speaking, he took Paul by the hand, and swung him lightly to the ground. Mr. Tibbles took possession of the handsome boy with no little pride; for the child who had stood so manfully by David Rice had become a historical character in Shrub Oak, and the master felt the dignity of his school enhanced by Paul's advent there.
Paul was a good deal embarrassed as he entered school with thirty pairs of eyes levelled at him, sparkling with every possible degree of curiosity. He sat down on a little bench, blushing like a girl, but looking so modest and gentle withal, that the whole school felt a general and kindly impulse toward the stranger. The bluest covered spelling-book was handed to him from the master's desk. One boy volunteered to lend him a slate, and another took a new pencil from his pocket and gave it to him outright, looking triumphantly round at the little girls' bench to be sure that his intimacy with the distinguished stranger had made its impression in that quarter.
At noon time there was no limit to the hospitalities of the occasion; wonder-cakes, biscuits, and wedges of pumpkin pie, made their way into Paul's dinner basket. One pretty little girl slily offered him a rusty coated apple, and another was ambitious to teach him how to slide on a strip of ice that lay, like a mammoth looking-glass, a little distance down the turnpike.
Paul received all these kindnesses with gentle grace. His broken speech, the sweet expression of his eyes, the natural refinement which even children could feel, made him a general favorite in less than two hours. The large boys were already arranging to lend him their sleds. As for the girls, the whispering and nudging that took place among them whenever the lad lifted those splendid eyes from his book, was a scandal to the whole school and sex.
When Paul went out of school at night he felt very lonesome and forlorn, not exactly knowing his way home, and a good deal dismayed by the snow, which was getting damp and heavy, with a succession of warm,foggy days. While he was standing in the door, uncertain which way to turn, two large boys, rosy from the fresh air, came racing up harnessed to a hand sled, in their opinion a marvel of workmanship, which was expected to lift the stranger off his feet with admiration.
With cordial hospitality, the boys offered this conveyance to Paul, who accepted it in good faith, and the boys carried him away in triumph, dashing off toward Falls Hill, and up the crossroad, in splendid style.
The next day, one of these boys—the same little fellow who had given Rose Mason the string of robins' eggs, might have been seen hanging around Mrs. Allen's gate, looking wistfully at the front door. When it opened, and Paul came forth, the lad ran to meet him, and the two went away together, talking earnestly on the road to school.
Alas! the sad and heavy-hearted sorrow that was left behind on the day that little Paul went forth to his school-boy life. Twice, Mrs. Allen went into Katharine's room and sat down, pale and soul-stricken, waiting to be questioned; but her daughter had been exhausted by her conversation with the doctor, and lay with her eyes closed, weary of all things. So, drawing a deep breath from a consciousness of this reprieve, the wretched woman went away again still more heavily laden with theduty that clung to her like a vampire, and so a week passed by without another attempt. At last, toward nightfall one day, Katharine spoke:
"Mother?"
"My child."
"What is it that you are all afraid of telling me?"
"A great trouble, Katharine; something that even I, who have some courage, tremble to speak of."
"Is it about my baby, mother?"
"Yes."
"I am glad you are willing to answer me; the doctor put me off."
"But I will not put you off, my poor child."
"What is it, mother? This frightens me—your voice is husky, your face strange—did my baby die a hard death?"
"Yes, very hard. It was killed."
The voice was indeed husky that uttered these words.
Katharine rose up in the bed, her eyes grew large and wild.
"Killed?"
"Yes, God help us—it was dead and buried when we found it."
"Dead and buried; mother, mother!"
The words came forth in a sharp cry, breaking the pale lips apart and leaving them so.
"I left it alive, Katharine—sleeping by your side. Can you remember when I went out that day after a man to haul some wood from Castle Rock?"
Katharine held both hands to her temples, rocking to and fro as if the effort to think cost great pain.
"Yes, mother, I remember about the wood. You put the shawl, that David sent me, over my shoulders. Thebaby was asleep then, with one hand to its mouth. I took the hand away just to see it nestle; its pretty lips were moving all the time."
"What then?"
"It was a noise, mother—a trumpet sounding through the house—dead leaves, white leaves flying all about me; then, mother, then immense heaps of snow rolling, heaving, and spreading everywhere. I—I cannot remember how I got in or out of this cold whiteness. It seemed to bury me in a long sleep."
"Poor child—poor little Katharine."
"Oh, I remember you called me that when I was a very small child."
"Katharine, try; can you remember nothing more?"
"Nothing more, only as one recollects that she has been miserably asleep."
"But it was in this time, while I was away to see about that wood, that our baby was killed."
"Killed!—how?"
"Strangled."
"Mother—mother!"
The anguish of this cry made the poor woman tremble; but she must speak out all her fearful knowledge or her daughter would never be prepared for the future.
"Mother, tell me—tell me!"
The poor young creature lay gasping upon her pillow. It was a terrible scene to witness.
"It had been strangled or smothered, and buried deep in the snow, by the rocks under the butternut tree, half way to Mr. Thrasher's."
"There—there in sight of his father's house!"
She writhed in anguish on her bed, weak, fragile, tortured,it seemed as if she must die before another shock reached her.
"Dead—buried in the snow," she kept repeating.
The mother knelt by the bed, holding forth her arms, which the wretched girl could not see.
"Ask God to give you strength, Katharine."
"You ask him for me, mother; my heart aches so."
"Oh, Katharine, we have greater trouble yet to come."
"Greater trouble than the death of one's little babe—that can never be!" Katharine answered with pathetic pain. "No, no, mother, that can never be!"
"Katharine, the neighbors believe that—" she paused, put a hand to her throat, as if the words strangled her, and went on in a voice so near a whisper that it sounded unearthly, "believe that you killed the child."
"Kill my child! Did they know I was its mother?"
"Killed and buried it with your own hands in the snow," persisted the woman, drearily. "This is what they charge you with, my daughter."
"No, no, mother!"
"A jury have decided so."
"A jury! What cruel thing is that?"
"It is a court."
"A court! What was that for?"
"To say if you were innocent—"
"Guilty of murdering my own baby—his and mine! Do the neighbors want a court to prove that of me?"
"It has been held, Katharine, here under my roof."
"Held here?"
"And that is why we are never alone."
"That man—you mean that man!" cried Katharine,shrinking back in the bed with a look of affright. "Did the neighbors put him here to watch me? Why?"
"They fear you will attempt to escape!"
"Escape where? Is not this my home?"
The old woman wrung her hands in bitter agony. This scene was racking every nerve in her body. That young creature had not fully comprehended that which no mother living could have told. All her own strength was exhausted—she had no fortitude left. Katharine lay with her great, wild eyes searching her mother's face, as it fell helplessly downward upon her bosom.
"Mother, if the neighbors believe this, what will they do to me?"
"Kill you, my poor lamb!" the woman whispered.
Katharine did not seem to feel this so keenly as other things that had been said; it was beyond her comprehension—she could not realize it.
"No, mother, that can never be. God knows all things!"
The young creature almost smiled as she said this, and closing her eyes turned her face to the wall.
It was strange that, in all her trouble, she never once alluded to Thrasher with an idea of protection, or seemed to have any hope of succor from him. The letter he had sent left no impression on her memory, but some more subtle intuition possessed her soul, and this secret second-sense held all hope in check. This half supernatural feeling also had doubtless given vague after-shadowings of her child's death without absolutely awakening her consciousness, for when the terrible truth was revealed to her she seemed struggling to remember something that had gone before.
Thus the real and the visionary were so mingled inher mind that a true realization of her danger was impossible, and knowing her innocence, a sweet trust in the Divine justice sprang up in her soul, keeping out all fear.
Duringthe days that had followed Katharine Allen's arrest—days so terrible that their memory could never die wholly out of the neighborhood—the old couple in the farm house beyond the widow Allen's dwelling, bore their full share of the horror and grief which oppressed all who had known and loved the girl.
But both Mr. Thrasher and his wife were bowed beneath a deeper sorrow than mere commiseration for one unfortunate creature—beneath a horror more painful than any thought of her sin.
For a time neither spoke of it. They avoided looking in each other's face—those true hearts that had never had a secret before—lest the fear that haunted their minds should find utterance in their eyes.
One night, as they sat by the kitchen fire, the old lady mechanically knitting, and her husband looking mournfully into the cheerful blaze, her thoughts found an almost unconscious utterance.
"Oh, if I could only be certain—if Nelson was only here to answer for himself."
Mr. Thrasher glanced quickly at her, then back into the fire, while the old lady let her work fall, and satwith her hands clasped in her lap, that mild, womanly face darkened by a deeper shadow than it had ever before worn.
"If I could send for him, I would," replied Mr. Thrasher, with a sternness his voice seldom took in addressing his wife. "I don't want to believe wrong of any one, but if he were here, I'd question him."
"I wouldn't," broke in the mother; "my heart would break if I was sure of it."
"It's a black thing," continued he, taking no notice of her remark, although the nervous twitching about his mouth, and the tremulous movement of his hands, proved that he had heard and shared in her feelings. "If I could look him in the eyes," he continued, the sternness creeping over his face again, "I should be answered."
"Don't think harshly of him!" returned his wife. "Don't do that! If we were to hear he was dead, remember how we should blame ourselves for any wrong feeling."
"I would rather see him lying dead yonder, where he used to sit, than know that he had tempted that poor girl into sin."
"Yes, I know. But don't talk in that way, father; don't look like that! I feel as if it wasn't you, with that frown on your face."
She put out her hand and took his. He clasped his hard fingers about hers with the faithful love of a lifetime; but the determination and gloom did not leave his features.
"I want to go down to the house," pursued the old lady, "but I've put it off—I hadn't the courage, somehow."
"Nor I," replied Mr. Thrasher; "but isn't it a dreadfulthing when we are dreading to ask questions, for fear we should stand face to face with our son's crime?"
"No, no, I don't believe it! I won't believe it, father! Such cruel words are unbecoming his parents!"
"I don't mean to be cruel to you or him, wife. Was I ever so?"
"Never! You have been one of the best husbands that ever lived."
She could not longer keep back her tears—they rolled down her cheeks, and fell, drop by drop, on her apron.
"I must go to the house," she said; "who knows but what Mrs. Allen is all alone. I feel as if I had been hard-hearted in not going before."
"You'd better go," he answered. "Yes; it's your duty."
"I thought of asking you to go with me, if you don't mind. I should have more courage with you by my side."
Mr. Thrasher was silent for a moment, then he said:
"Yes; we will go to-morrow morning."
They put the subject aside; nor was it again resumed. The chapter in the Bible was read, the prayer was uttered—no trouble could make those hearts forget that duty—and, in their affliction, they only turned more earnestly toward the help and comfort of their whole lives.
The next morning, when breakfast was over, and the work for the forenoon arranged, the husband and wife took their way down the hill toward Mrs. Allen's house, keeping close together, as if great comfort lay in that silent companionship.
When they reached the gate, both paused, looking, anxiously at each other; when Mr. Thrasher saw thepale trouble which agitated his wife, he tried to say a few comforting words, but they broke on his lips.
He opened the gate, and they passed up the walk to the house. Mr. Thrasher knocked, but there was no response; a second time, but no better success.
"Maybe we might go in," whispered his wife, but he shook his head, and again tapped upon the door.
After another instant of suspense, which seemed very long to them, they heard footsteps, the latch was lifted from within, the door slowly opened, and Mrs. Allen stood before them, so changed by those terrible days, that the old friends of years could hardly feel that it was her.
When Mrs. Allen saw who stood there, she started a little, and the old pride gathered slowly over the anguish of her face.
"We—we came to ask how Katharine is," Mrs. Thrasher said, faintly, taking it upon herself to break the silence.
"She is better," returned the widow, neither moving to give them entrance, or turning her eyes from that steady gaze.
"Do you think I could see her?" persisted the old lady, trembling all over and ready to cry aloud.
"Nobody sees her but the doctor," replied Mrs. Allen.
"I thought maybe I could do something—"
"There isn't any thing to do."
Then there was another awkward silence, which Mrs. Thrasher broke, with a timidity which she could hardly overcome.
"I should like to see Katharine," she said, "very, very much."
"She cannot see any one now—it is forbidden."
There were a few more faint remarks from Mrs. Thrasher, then the pair turned away. Mrs. Allen closed the door, they walked silently out of the yard and back toward their house, which had never appeared so cheerless to them.
As they passed the butternut tree both the old people turned away their heads, for the remembrance of that morning when they stood together and watched their son making signals from that very spot, for the wretched prisoner to whose presence they had been denied not half an hour before, filled their hearts with sensations which neither of them could ever express.
It was a mournful thing to see those two good souls in their bungling efforts to cheat each other into a belief that no terrible sorrow had fallen upon them. It was all a sad, sad failure.