Therewas rare confusion and riot at the red school-house. The weather had changed suddenly, the wind blew from the south, the sun lay warm and dazzling upon the snow-drifts; but its treacherous kisses subdued their cold strength and wasted their beauty.
At last it settled into a regular "thaw"—a New England one at that. From the mud, a stranger might have thought the very foundations of the earth had beenploughed up. Every snow bank dissolved itself into a pert little rivulet, that swelled the general tide, and formed a muddy lake on each side of the road, along which horses and men passed so bespattered and stained that one could easily believe they had been formed entirely from clay, and were fast resolving themselves back to the original element.
A tiny brook, that died out in dry weather and sprung to existence on rainy days, ran along one end of the school-house. It had slept quietly for weeks under its icy bridge, but woke up with great commotion as thousands of tiny streams flowed down from the hills, and poured their excited little wavelets into its channel, swelling the brook to such a size that it evidently believed itself a stupendous sort of river. It must have been so; nothing but that idea very firmly impressed, could ever have excused the reckless conduct of that overgrown brook.
It raved, and scolded, and tore along its banks, tumbling the great stones about, uprooting the poor little frozen shrubs that had clung in fancied security to its brink. Fuming, splashing, and rioting madly across the road, the brook plunged down a gully at one end of the school-house, and set up a famous little waterfall on its own account. Then, rampant and muddy, it hurled itself forward, melting the snow as it went, and pouring over a high bank of the river, plunged in with tumultuous violence, making the deeper and slower stream swell, and eddy, and fume for a whole minute as it swallowed up the noisy affair.
The rush of this brook reached the boys caged up in the school-house, and nearly drove them frantic. They could hear the snow sliding off the roof of the school-house,and fall in heaps under the eaves, which dripped with incessant moisture. Now and then came a crash of icicles, breaking up the sunshine like splintered diamonds, and scattering broken fragments of crystal all over the snow.
This riot of waters and crashing of ice were enough to disorganize the best school in New England. The boys might be kept on the hard benches; but no power on earth would tame them down to real study. There they sat, burning with impatience, yet trying their best to look studious and quiet, whenever the master's eyes were upon them.
For some reason, there was to be a half holiday that afternoon, and the poor little sinners waited as restlessly as so many wild pigeons, with their wings tied, for the hour which should contain their release.
A plan of operation for the afternoon had been already decided upon—I do not think there was one dissenting voice—and of all the fun which the whole year might bring there would be nothing equal to that which they anticipated as soon as the school was dismissed.
But it really seemed as if twelve o'clock never would come! Those boys began to think, one and all, that the master had never been so slow in hearing the lessons. At last he became so irritated by their restlessness and inattention, that great fears arose that the holiday might be lost altogether.
When that horrible prophecy was whispered about—it originated with an unhappy-looking little Belshazzar, who was afflicted with a step-father, and who, from the vast stores of his experience, was always ready to draw out sorrowful warnings—I say, when it got whispered about, several of the larger boys nodded their heads ateach other and looked ferociously rebellious, while the little ones eyed them with profound admiration. Just at that moment, the master's hand glided softly toward the great ferule that lay upon his desk; and somehow, at that sight, the mutineers became wonderfully interested in their lessons, and their small admirers retreated into their spelling-books so far that there seemed danger of their disappearing altogether.
The moment came at last. The master pulled out his silver watch, which ticked so loud and wrathfully that it could be heard all over the room—glanced at it, while every boy held his breath with anxiety. He waited an instant, in order to give due solemnity to the occasion, then down came the ferule on the desk with a grand crash. School was dismissed.
Out rushed the boys, tumbling over each other in hot haste, shrieking, hallooing, and plunging into the snow with shouts of eager delight. Even Belshazzar forgot his forebodings, and was foremost in this race after fun.
The teacher, a kind, elderly man, went to the school-house door and watched the tumult benignly from beneath the steel-bowed spectacles that had been hastily thrust across his forehead. His face, which had been severe, in a strained effort to keep up the dignity of his school, now beamed with infinite satisfaction, and rubbing his hands gleefully, he was sorely tempted to take a share in the fun himself. Damming up a torrent like that which came tumbling across the road, was something worth while, even for a man.
The boys rushed down to the swollen brook where it entered the gulley and made a tumultuous descent to the river, which was only concealed from the bulk windowsof the school-house by a growth of young hemlocks that contrasted richly with the crusted snow. Here the boys were bound to make a dam big enough to drown a fellow in, neck and heels. Who cared for the mud? Who was afraid of the snow? Hurrah! hurrah! come on all hands and pitch in. There is a broken rail. Look out for the loose stones in that tumble-down, old wall. Bring up drift wood from the river, dead branches from the trees; tear loads of moss from the white oak stumps; bring any thing, every thing. Had any boy pluck enough to drag out some logs from the school wood pile? "Oh, golly! there is the master standing square in the door, and little Paul, the furrener, talking to him. Hurrah! the master is sending him off to join the fun. Isn't he a trump?"
Some of the boys stood still, knee deep in the water, frightened half to death by that wicked word—trump. But Tom Hutchins cried out with wonderful audacity, "Trump! who'se afeard? He's a high, low, jack, and the game, he is! There he goes into the school-house just to give us a chance at the wood pile. Come on, boys!"
Away the little fellows went, leaping like deer out of the mud, and directly a whole team of boys came dragging a walnut log through the snow, leaving a deep path all the way from the wood pile, which the master never could be made to see, spectacles or no spectacles, anymore than he could hear the tumbling logs close under the window where he was sitting. I am inclined to think the boys were right, and that old man was a trump, though he did belong to the church.
"Hurrah! stand from under," said Tom Hutchins, looking down upon a swarm of schoolmates who werebusy as bees in the mud and water of the gully. "Here comes the crowner—A number one, and no mistake. Come up here and give a boost, you chaps."
The boys sprang up the muddy sides of the gully, dripping like water-gods, reckless of wet jackets, torn trowsers, and shoes from which the water came up in gushes, and helped pitch that great, knotty log end foremost into the gully, where it was to form a line for the water to sweep over.
"Take it by the end—lift all at once—now, heave all together. Hurrah! hurrah!"
Paul had, indeed, lingered around the school-house door till the master sent him off to join the play. Then he went down to the brook and stood disconsolate on its high bank, as all this wild fun went on. He was cold and confused. No one asked him to help dam up the brook, so he stood in the snow, buried to the ears in his overcoat and comforter, and thinking that the watery sunshine was a very poor imitation of the tropical warmth in which he had formerly luxuriated.
He was at a loss how to take part in their play; besides that, the very roar of the water, and riot of the boys, reminded him of that fearful night when he was made an orphan, and so recalled his sufferings, that he longed to get beyond the sound. As for the boys, they were all too much engaged to notice his abstraction or ask his assistance.
I havedone a little injustice to Tom Hutchins—the warm-hearted lad who had been so in love with little Rose Mason, and was sure to be in love with every boy or girl who awoke his admiration, or needed his help. It was he who had proposed to draw Paul home on his sled, on his first lonely school day, and since that time a warm friendship had sprung up between the two lads. The first liking had been cemented by an exchange of doughnuts, wonder cakes, and red-cheeked apples. Then Tom had undertaken to teach Paul English in conversational lessons, and picked up a few scraps of French from the boy, fairly believing himself to be speaking a foreign language when he twisted his hard, New England tongue into imitations of Paul's pretty broken English, in which the boy could now make himself understood.
In the midst of his eager work on the dam, Tom saw Paul standing alone on the bank and called to him. But Paul shook his head, with a sad smile, and shrunk further away from the water. Then Tom gave one great heave at the log which was to complete the dam, shook the mud from his hands, and went dripping up the bank, with his face all aglow, and smiling as if he had just come out of a spring shower, and was inviting his friend down to watch the wild flowers start up in his track.
"Are you cold, Paul?" he asked, dancing about till the water splashed over the tops of his boots.
"A little," Paul said, shivering. "Only a little."
"Why, it's a'most like summer," returned Tom. "Splendid."
"Is it?" Paul asked, shivering worse than ever, as he thought what a forlorn idea of summer people must have in that frigid land.
"Why, how you do shiver," cried Tom. "Let's take a run up the hill and back, or you'll freeze solid."
"But you want to play," Paul said; "go with the boys, they are calling for you."
"Let 'em," replied Tom, philosophically, consoled at once by the idea that his playmates needed his assistance, and too full of generous kindness for any thought of leaving Paul to his loneliness. "Come along—let's see who'll get to the top first."
At the conclusion of their race Paul had got a color in his cheeks, and felt somewhat less like an icicle than before.
Then Tom paused, and looked Paul in the face quite seriously.
"Come down here among the hemlocks; I want to talk to you where the boys can't hear. We might do it in French, you know—you and I—but mebby we'd better have it out according to the spelling-book."
Paul smiled, and followed his friend to the bank of the river, where they sat down under the sheltering hemlock boughs. Tom shivered a little, but he shook the weakness off, and broke forth at once into the subject that was on his mind.
Tom's head was full of Katharine Allen and her troubles, a subject upon which he and Paul had held many earnest conversations, interspersed by mysterious hints about Rose Mason and Tom's unhappy state of mind regarding her absence in some unknown country.
"Paul, how is Katharine Allen this morning?" he said, abruptly.
Paul shook his head sadly by way of answer.
"Not any better?" asked Tom. "Wal, I'm sorry for her, anyhow. Little Rose liked her, and she was always good to Rose. It scares me to death to think what they're going to do to her."
"Who?" asked Paul.
"Why the law, of course," replied Tom, shocked at his friend's ignorance. "You know they're going to take her to prison as soon as she's well enough to be carried there."
"Yes, I know. They are wicked men, too wicked," exclaimed Paul; "why can't they leave her alone?"
"You mustn't say any thing agin the squire," returned Tom, with his New England respect for the law and its ministers. "I'm sorry for her, but you see she kinder killed the baby, poor little critter—I guess she was crazy, though, I do, but marm won't hear on it."
"Why don't her husband come and help her," Paul suggested.
"She haint got any—oh, dear no, that's the worst on it, marm says."
"Oh, she must have."
"Oh, must she!" retorted Tom, exulting in his knowledge of this world's wickedness, gained from conversations he had overheard concerning the poor girl, yet perplexed, and quite unable to settle the matter to his own satisfaction. Still he had no intention of allowing Paul to suppose that his wisdom was more than half assumed.
"I'm glad Miss Rose ain't here, anyhow," he observed; "she'd break her heart about all this. I know she would."
Paul thought the girl's heart must be colder than the weather if it would not have that effect, and nodded his approbation of Tom's sentiment.
"Katharine is getting stronger; they talk of carrying her off in a day or two," continued Tom. "I heard our folks say so this morning."
Paul's great eyes dimmed with tears, then a quick passion turned them into fire.
"I could kill them," he said. "Yes, I could."
"'Twouldn't be no use," remarked Tom, sapiently; "'cause they'd only take you off too. I wish we could do something, though—I wish we could."
"Can't we?" questioned Paul, his face kindling with eagerness. "Oh, don't you think we could?"
"You're such a little bit of a chap," Tom replied, eyeing his companion, with a natural exultation at his own superiority in point of inches and weight.
"I'm little," Paul said, "but I am very brave—oh, you don't know! And Jube—Jube is strong like a lion, he could do any thing."
"I wonder if she couldn't run away," Tom burst out, quite overcome by his own inspiration. "I don't suppose she could run, you know, but she might get away."
"And we could help," Paul said, his quick intelligence seizing at once upon the suggestion; "I am sure we could."
"Why, my marm would kill me!" exclaimed Tom. "Wouldn't I ketch it, oh, my!"
"You would beg and pray," said Paul; "she could not refuse—she would be willing."
"Wal, I guess we wouldn't ask her—'tain't disobeyin' when you hain't been told not to do a thing, and nobody can tell you what to do when they never heerd of it."
Tom got dreadfully bewildered in his labyrinth of negatives and Paul was unable to make much of his speech, but he was certain that it harmonized with his own ideas, even if he did fail to comprehend its entire signification.
"We could help her," he kept repeating; "I am sure we could."
"I do wonder what the squire would say?" said Tom, giggling at the very idea, although somewhat frightened at its audacity. "Wouldn't there be a rumpus—oh, my golly!"
He laughed outright, and Paul joined him from sympathy with that merry face; but he became thoughtful again in a moment.
"You are certain they would take her away from home and lock her up in that dark, lonesome place you call a prison?" he inquired.
"Sure as a gun. Par says so, and he knows the squires and lawyers about here all to pieces; but that aint the worst of it, not by a jug full."
The good-hearted little fellow's voice began to choke in his throat, and he burst into a laugh to keep from sobbing outright.
"What can be worse than that?" inquired Paul, startled by his friend's demonstration.
"They'll kill her!"
Paul turned deadly pale. The horror in Tom's words had struck him dumb.
"They'll hang her up on a gallows made of two high posts, with a cross-bar on the top," continued Tom, shuddering at his own words, "and a halter fastened to the cross-bar, which they will tie round her pretty white neck, that Rose used to hug so much."
"Don't, oh, don't!" whispered Paul, putting up his hands; "it makes me tremble all over."
"And so it does me," cried Tom, dashing the tears from his blue eyes. "But you ought to know it just as it is, the burning brand and all."
"The burning brand—what is that?" asked Paul, faintly.
"The hot iron that they stamp M—that's for murderer, you know—on her hand!"
"Oh, me!" sighed Paul. "That petite white hand!"
"Sometimes the courts do that, and let 'em live in Simsbury all the rest of their lives. Sometimes they hang 'em right up. I don't know which they'll do to her."
"But they will do some of these awful things?" questioned Paul, breathing as if he was chilled through with the cold.
"Of course, they've got to do it. The law won't let 'em back out if they wanted to."
"Oh, dear, it makes me feel so wicked," cried Paul, brave thoughts kindling through the pallor of his face. "I want to cry and strike somebody at the same time."
"Strike! I want to maul some of 'em! Oh, if them courts was only little boys, and I the law, wouldn't they come down on their marrow bones and beg her pardon for thinking of such a thing. Besides, do you see, Paul, I don't believe she killed the baby. Anyway, them little creatures, with long flannel petticoats a hanging over their feet, are always doing things to torment grown folks, catching the rash, and measles, and chickenpox, to say nothing of a habit they get into of hiccuping right in a feller's face when he's told to tend 'em. Babies! They're the only thing I ever raly had aginmarm—she always would be keeping one on hand, just for us to rock, and tend, and hush up. Par never would make a fuss about it, as a man aught ter with such goings on in the house."
"Perhaps he rather liked them!" suggested Paul.
"Liked 'em. Well, maybe he did, there's no saying; besides, they're well enough in their place, and that, according to my notion, is sound asleep in the cradle. Anyhow, what's the use of making sich a time about it when one of 'em stops crying for good and all, and what on airth could anybody think that ere young gal wanted with one of 'em a tagging after her?"
"I don't know," replied Paul, tenderly; "but from the way she looks at the empty cradle sometimes, it seems to me as if she wanted it there very much."
"Of course she does. It's a way of the wimmen folks have. I don't know about marm, for our cradle never is empty; but some wimmen make such fools of themselves, it's enough to set a feller agin the whole pack and boodle on 'em."
"You don't mean all the beautiful ladies," said Paul, thinking sadly of his own sweet mother.
"There's marm—she's a purty good kind of a woman after all, and Miss Mason, harnsome as a pictur. Then, little Rose—oh, my! don't you wish you could see her, with her white aprons ruffled all around, and her long curls, just like a wax doll. But then the generality of 'em—well, I don't want to say nothin'."
"That was a very nice little lady that gave me one apple with the brown coat."
"She? yes, she'll do; but we're going off the handle, you and I. What's the good of talking about the best on 'em if Katharine Allen has got to be hung! As Iwas a saying—when you would go on about wimmen folks in gineral, as if I cared any thing about them—as I was a saying, she never hurt that baby no more than I did. It went off and buried itself up in the snow—stealing Katy's shawl to wrap itself up in, then took cold and went into a conniption fit just out of spite. Them little sojers are up to all sorts of tricks; don't I know 'em!"
"I am sure it died of its own accord," said Paul.
"Of course; anybody but a squire would a found that out long ago."
"And she would be much glad to have the little baby back again."
"Wall, I don't know about that," said Tom, shaking his head doubtfully; "Katharine Allen's got some sense, I reckon; squalling must come unnatral in that ar house—now I leave it to you."
"But they will hang her dead."
"No doubt about it."
"Or burn her poor petite hand."
"Both on 'em, for all what I know, without you and I stand up to the rack like men, and tell the laws, and squires, and constables to go to old scratch."
"What is old scratch?"
"Well, I don't just know; but he's a feller that's always about times like this."
"But hadn't we better let the laws, and the squires, and all the rest alone, and try very much to help her?" suggested Paul.
"In course we had; I only threw them in sort of promiscuous. Now I'll tell you what my idee is: Katharine is getting stronger every day, you know."
"Yes," said Paul; "she sat up in a chair this morning,and eat very littledéjeuner—breakfast, I mean—and the man—that great big man that sits on the hearth always—said she was getting much strong, and the window is too near the ground—not safe."
"Did he say that?" inquired Tom, breathlessly.
"Yes; the man said that. Then madame—that is the old mother—she look frightened very much, and said, no take the poor sick child away too soon. Then the man said up-stairs was best—high from ground, very sure."
"That's bad," muttered Tom. "Ladders are scarce and heavy to lift."
"So," continued Paul, "they move my bed into another room, and take up many things for her, because the man thinks it sure."
"Well," cried Tom, coming out in force, "'what can't be cured must be endured,' as par says. There may be a ladder about Mrs. Allen's premises. To-morrow morning, when I come after you, we'll just take a survey there. About that cuffy friend of yourn, I want to have some talk with him. When there's ladders to be used, I'm afraid you and I couldn't come quite up to the scratch."
"But Jube, Jube he come right up to old scratch for us—very strong Jube—very brave, like lion."
"You're sartin that cuffy would do it; that he wouldn't slump through?"
"What, Jube? oh, yes, he do any thing I say; very good Jube, never slump."
"Well, then, we're a hull team, you and I and the nigger. Yes, and a hoss to let. If we don't get Katy Allen out of that end window, I don't know what's what; but, then, what are we to do with her when that's done?"
Paul shook his head in sudden despondency.
"Oh, dear, where can we go?"
Tom folded his arms and drooped his head. Here was a difficulty which he hadn't thought of before.
All at once Paul brightened up.
"We will take her to New York. If David Rice is there he'll be very good, and so glad Jube and we did it for his sister."
"Yes," cried Tom, "That's a genuine idee. I'll hook par's yaller wagon and drive down to the sloop atween two days, they'll never think of searching aboard a sloop. But oh, golly, golly, here's a fix. It takes money to travel in that ere genteel way, and I haint got more'n a ninepence on earth."
"Money?" cried Paul, eagerly. "What you call gold with the king's head on it?"
"I don't know about gold, never saw none of that ere money. What I mean is silver with a spread-eagle on one side and a woman's head on t'other."
"I am sure that gold is money," said Paul, recovering from his first look of disappointment, "for Jube gave it to the people as we came along, and they gave him back silver like that you speak of, more pieces than the gold, oh very much."
"And how much have you got?"
Paul put his delicate hands together.
"So much full, three, four, five times."
Tom emitted a low whistle. "Oh, golly, that's up to chalk, and you're sartin the tavern keepers and captains gave you silver money for it?"
"Sure I saw."
"And Jube will shell out—no mistake about that, ha?"
"Jube what?"
"'ll hand over," persisted Tom, counting imaginary gold into his palm.
"What, give the money?"
"Yes; chink!"
"Oh, yes—sure."
"Then we're sot up in business. Three stout fellers, saddles lying about loose in some barn or other, yaller wagon standing ready, harness chucked under the seat, horses whinnering to be druv, and that ere poor gal ready to jump out of the window when we say the word. Now, Paul, this is just what you must do. Get the nigger—I mean our friend Jube—for when a darkey has his double hands full of chink to do as he pleases with, he's got a right to be treated like folks, for that makes him an individual; get him ready to toe the mark when we give the word. Jest tell her that Tom—she knows me—is on hand, and working for her like sixty, and just the minute she's well enough to cut, we'll have her out of that winder. Then you sleep with one eye open, and tell me every word that officer says."
"Yes," said Paul, "I'll do every thing; but hadn't we better say something to madam?"
"Do you mean Mrs. Allen?" answered Tom, dropping his chin into the hollow of one hand, in a thoughtful way. "No; I should rather say not. She's got strict notions about things, and might put the wrong spoke into our wheel. Now, if I was going to tell anybody, it would be the doctor; he's clear grit, he is, and wouldn't stop us if we run through his own home lot with that ere gal. Ketch him telling."
By this time the boys were chilled through with standing in the wet and cold. Tom's teeth chattered in his head as he uttered this encomium on the doctor, whowas the most popular person among the juveniles in all the neighborhood, and Paul shivered in his garments like a tropical bird brought into the midst of a foreign winter. Besides, the boys had conquered the brook, which was storming its way to the river over a pile of stones and rubbish, which he triumphantly pronounced the finest dam that had ever been built on this side of creation; and Tom, though a philosopher, philanthropist, and hero, loved fun above all. So away he started, shouting hurrah, and made a rush clear through the turbulent waters of the brook, just to let the boys know that he hadn't been shirking; but amid all the noise and fun, he resolved to be faithful to his young confederate, and only hold council with the true-hearted negro.
As Paul went toiling up the hill that day, he saw Jube coming toward him—a circumstance that often happened on his way from school. How his beautiful face kindled up at the sight of his friend. His pace quickened, and the trouble went out from his eyes as he held out the little, cold hand, in its wet mitten, for Jube to lead him home, as usual.
Jube drew off the mitten, and took the chilled hand in his broad palm, caressing it as if it had been a bird.
Severalmonths had passed since the arrival of Mrs. Mason at the minister's house, in Bays Hollow.
During that time she had not been idle. When she placed herself under the quiet lady's instruction, she had announced that she wished to make all the progress possible and turn every moment to account—truly, she had done so.
Had the woman kept some good design in view, the assiduity with which she labored would have done her honor—as it was, vanity took the place of any better motive and perhaps was the strongest incentive which a nature like hers could have felt.
The facility with which she gained a knowledge of things astonished the minister's wife, whose education was thorough and solid, yet Mrs. Mason made far more show with her little accomplishments than her instructress could with all her learning. She had an excellent verbal memory, was quick to seize every movement or expression, and as Mrs. Prior was a true lady she could not have had a better model.
Among the gifts with which Thrasher had presented Mrs. Mason, there were many articles of which she did not know the use or even the name, but nobody would ever have dreamed it—she gained the knowledge so adroitly from Mrs. Prior, that the little woman had an unpleasant feeling that the wealthy Southerner considered her very ignorant, and desired to enlighten her.
She did wonders in her French lessons—she promised to make a showy, dashing performer upon the piano, and her quick ear taught her speedily to regulate any little inaccuracies of speech by the correct, although sometimes formal language, of her companion.
Yet she carried it all off with so lofty an air, that her teacher often felt that she was the only person instructed. She corrected herself with so much assuranceand dignity that Mrs. Prior would color modestly, almost inclined to believe that it was she who had been guilty of false syntax, and that the stately lady opposite had set her right with good-natured insolence.
In the box of books which Thrasher sent Mrs. Mason, there were a large number of novels, principally French, and those she read with great avidity, although there were many, after she began to read the language with ease, which she did not think proper to display to the criticism of her hostess.
The little parlor had assumed quite a different aspect since the introduction of the piano and various articles of furniture which Mrs. Mason ordered from New York. Her own rooms were furnished with a degree of elegance she had never seen equaled, yet from her manner one would have thought she only endured their meagreness with the condescension of one accustomed to a very different state of affairs.
Little Rose grew prettier every day, and made herself happy, as was natural at her age. She became a great favorite with Mrs. Prior, and even with the dreary clergyman. But beyond a certain point, Mrs. Mason would not permit any intimacy to extend. She was jealous of Rose's affection for the worthy pair, as she would have been at the idea of sharing love with any one.
Neither the minister nor his wife were able to understand the character of their inmate, but they felt a sort of repulsion in regard to her which it was impossible to overcome, although they reproached themselves as if they had been guilty of a deadly sin, but after all their struggles they sunk back into the same unpleasant state of mind.
The minister really felt uneasy while going through family worship in her presence; not that she appeared irreverent, on the contrary, she was as strict in her performance of such duties as the rest of the house, but she acted all the while as if she were doing a great favor to all concerned, even to the Being to whom she prayed.
Mrs. Prior knew very well that her pupil had not always been in possession of the wealth which was evidently then under her control; yet, as weeks wore on, and Mrs. Mason grew more stylish and elegant, the little woman almost began to think that her first impressions had been false and impertinent; that, on the whole, the lady had no need of instruction, and only gave herself to study from the whim of the moment.
Every little graceful, lady-like way, every pretty habit of voice or manner which the minister's wife possessed, did Mrs. Mason assume, only she carried it off in such a showy manner that it appeared an original grace of her own, and which Mrs. Prior was imitating in a modest fashion and with indifferent success. In fact, it really seemed more as if the minister's wife were a sort of humble pattern of her dashing companion than as if Mrs. Mason had ever gained a hint from her.
One day the household was thrown into a gentle sort of confusion by the arrival of a visitor for Mrs. Mason. He was an elegant and handsome man as Mrs. Prior could have desired to see; but she shrunk instinctively from him as she had always done from her guest.
The minister's wife left this strange man in the little parlor, and went up to tell Mrs. Mason that some one desired to see her.
"Who, if you please?" the lady asked, negligently turning from her book, as if troops of visitors had beenan every-day occurrence in her life, and were rather a bore than otherwise.
"Mr. Thrasher," replied the little person, still in a flutter.
"I will be down presently," was the answer; but still Mrs. Mason did not rise from her seat, or lift her eyes from the book upon which they had again fallen.
The door closed behind the bewildered lady; then Mrs. Mason sprang from her seat and began a hasty, but careful toilet.
At the beginning of her residence in that house, Mrs. Mason would have obscured and vulgarized her beauty by dress and ornaments unsuitable to the hour or place. Mrs. Prior's remarks and her own observations had already made her much wiser.
When she turned from the glass, there was an expression of triumph upon her face which plainly betrayed a consciousness of her own surpassing beauty.
She went down-stairs, opened the door of the room where Thrasher sat, and glided in as self-possessed and elegant as any city belle of three seasons, and a more dashingly beautiful woman you would not find in a day's journey.
He started forward to meet her, his face flushed and lighted up with excitement.
He caught Mrs. Mason's hand between both his own and faltered out an almost timid greeting, very unlike the usual boldness of his manner.
"Are you well?" he asked. "Have you been well and contented?"
"A fine question, truly!" she replied, putting aside his eagerness with a sort of unconcern very well assumed, and which evidently displeased and pained him.
"As if any one could be contented shut up in a bird-cage."
"Have you been anxious to go away?" he questioned, as if hoping to derive some comfort from her answer.
"I have not thought much about it; I find one thing which pleases me greatly."
"And that?"
"Nobody interferes with me; I can do just what I like."
He frowned, although he appeared more troubled than annoyed.
"Good gracious!" she exclaimed, with an affected laugh. "What a face of greeting for a man to wear—one might think you were a jailor, come to announce that the day of my execution was at hand."
He dropped her wrist and turned away; she sank negligently into a chair, in the very attitude she had admired in a picture of some forgotten French marchioness, which embellished one of her favorite novels.
"I did not expect a welcome like this," he said, bitterly.
Mrs. Mason looked at him with an expression of surprise which an actress might have envied, and laughed again, not the hearty, ringing merriment of old time, but a low, subdued sound, which did her infinite credit.
"In what have I been amiss?" she asked, coolly.
"I thought, at least, you would be glad to see me."
"Oh, did you? Upon my word, the vanity of mankind is beyond all belief! Certainly, I am glad to see you"—he brightened at that—"quite so," she added, with such carelessness that he looked more annoyed than before.
"This is abominable!" he exclaimed. "Ellen, I would not have believed that you could treat me so."
"Have you come here to lecture and find fault?" she asked, gayly. "Are you sure that you have not made a mistake—wasn't it Rose you wished to scold?"
"I did not come to find fault, Ellen. For weeks I have been crazy to see you; nothing but your express commands kept me away; at last you wrote that I might come; I hurried here, and now you are as cold and distant as if I were a stranger."
"Poor boy, poor boy!"
She patted the hand which he had laid upon the arm of her chair, very much as if it had been a pet lapdog.
Thrasher looked at her, overpowered by astonishment. Where had she learned those arts—that playful manner? He had desired her to educate and improve herself in every way; but here was a change beyond any thing he could have expected.
"How handsome you have grown," he said, suddenly.
"You might as well tell me at once that I was a plain person before."
"You know I always thought you handsomer than any woman I had ever seen; but you are really beautiful now."
Mrs. Mason smiled; her insatiable vanity was gratified by his words and the glance of admiration that enforced them.
"Would you like to see Rose?" she asked.
"Certainly; very much."
Mrs. Masonstepped into the hall, and called the little girl, who came bounding gayly in; but when she saw Thrasher, an expression of dislike, beyond her years, crossed her face, and she clung to her mother's side, as if for protection.
"Won't you come and speak to me, Rose?" he asked.
Rose only clung closer to her mother, and hid her head in her dress.
"Go and speak to Mr. Thrasher, child," said Mrs. Mason. "How foolish you are."
"Come, Rose, and see what I have got for you," he added; "such a pretty present."
"I don't want any present," replied the child, her voice sounding smothered and choked.
Thrasher looked so much displeased, that Mrs. Mason angrily commanded the little girl to go and shake hands with him, though all the while she had an evident enjoyment of his discomfiture.
"Do as I bid you, Rose, or I will shut you up for the day. Go, I am very angry with you."
Thus commanded, the child raised her head, and walked slowly toward Thrasher, still keeping her face averted.
He took her hand, spoke pleasantly, and tried to kiss her, but that she would by no means permit.
"Are you sorry I have come, Rose?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, honestly.
"And you wont kiss me?"
"No; you can get me whipped if you want to, but it wont do any good. I wont kiss anybody but my own pa when he comes."
"Rose, Rose!" expostulated her mother, losing a little of her bright color.
"Obedience does not appear to be one of her virtues," Thrasher said, smiling even through his agitation.
"I never saw her behave so before," replied Mrs. Mason; "she is generally very tractable. Go out of the room, Rose, and don't speak to me again to-day."
The child broke away from Thrasher, and ran out of the room with a loud burst of sobs, leaving them both disconcerted.
"You should not have allowed her to dislike me so, Ellen," he said, after an instant.
"Dear me, I cannot control the child's fancies. Do you think the whole world must be in love with you?"
"I should be satisfied if I only felt certain that you cared for me," replied Thrasher, earnestly.
She rose and gave him a look of coquettish defiance.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To call Mrs. Prior."
"What for, I should like to know?"
"To bring you back to your senses, of course."
"You will drive me out of them!" he exclaimed, catching her hand. "Do listen to me, Ellen."
"Yes; well—I am listening."
"Tell me that you love me—even yet I cannot feel certain—you are so restless, so capricious."
"Certainly I had better call Mrs. Prior."
"Hang Mrs. Prior."
"That would be very cruel; besides, I should lose my French teacher."
"Let us start for Paris. You can finish your studies there."
"Thank you; I am quite comfortable where I am. I believe I am afraid of the water."
"You! the bravest woman I ever met!"
"But I have reason to dread the sea."
This time there was no affectation in the shudder with which she broke off—her husband's memory for a moment pierced even her vanity and egotism like a blow. Thrasher grew pale with jealousy and a thousand feelings more painful still.
"Let us think only of the future," he said.
"Well, what of that?" she asked, forcing those sad thoughts aside, and becoming gay and selfish once more.
"Why should we wait for its happiness?" he continued. "I am rich, far richer than you guess. We are both young. Marry me at once, Ellen, and let us go away in search of pleasure and new scenes."
"Not yet," she answered. "I cannot."
"Why should we wait?"
"I will not be married until the year is up," she replied, more seriously.
"You will die in this stupid place."
"I am used to quiet."
"But now you have had a glimpse of another life; you know what money can do for you; your books have told you what a delightful life we might lead in France or Italy."
"That may be, but——"
"What? You torment me on purpose to enjoy my distress! What were you going to say?"
"I am not certain that I had better make any change in my life."
"Not make any change! Do you mean to treat me as if I were a child?"
"What a look! A reasonable woman would certainly hesitate about placing herself in the power of a man with such a dreadful temper."
"You need have no fear on that score," he replied, subduing his passion. "Nowhere in the world, Ellen, could you find a man so devoted and patient as I would be. Remember how long I have loved you——"
"Now you are reminding me of my age."
"You are not old enough yet to dislike thinking of it."
"Well, what were you saying?"
Thrasher returned, and stood directly before her.
"Ellen," he said, firmly; "I will not be trifled with—I must have an answer."
She looked up a little startled, thinking, perhaps, she had carried her coquetry too far, but when she saw how troubled he looked, how his eyes sunk under her own, she became certain again of her own power over him, and with that security a desire to tease came back.
"I am not your slave," she replied; "how dare you address me in that tone?"
"I did not mean to offend you."
"But you have offended me seriously; if you only came here to play the tyrant, I would advise you to return at once."
It took many moments to make his peace, not that she was in the slightest degree offended, but to a woman of her character there is always great pleasure in the exercise of authority, no matter how petty it may be.
"Then you will not promise to set my mind at rest?" he asked, after a short period of more serious conversation.
She shook her head.
"I do not see why you should be otherwise than at rest now."
"You know I am not, Ellen; you know that I cannot be. At least name some period when my suspense shall end."
"Not now; the next time you come, perhaps."
She could not bear to relinquish the pleasure of torturing him. Her own heart was so little touched that she could have no pity for his troubles; indeed, it seemed somewhat to appease the few reproaches which haunted her, in spite of her vanity and selfishness, to occasion him uneasiness and pain.
"When I come a second time you will put me off with some new pretext," he said, angrily.
"Then you cannot take my word? Very well; if you will not believe me, what can I do?"
"I have never doubted you, Ellen."
"Indeed you have had no reason to think about it either way," she replied, carelessly; "we were nothing to each other more than common acquaintances."
"You know that I have loved you for years—that I have given up my home, my profession—have endured and suffered every thing on your account."
"I would not give much for affection which would be unwilling to do that much," she retorted.
"I was willing," he said; "but at least now, let there be an end to all this—tell me when you will become my wife?"
"When I am accomplished enough to set up for a lady."
"That you were always."
"Heused to call me so," she replied, with a shade of sadness.
Thrasher turned pale.
"Don't speak of him in my presence, Ellen; it is cruel."
"To his memory, yes," she answered, with real bitterness in her voice.
Thrasher sat down irritated and pale. "Ellen," he said, "it would be far better if you would consent to take a voyage and be married at once in France or Italy. I am restless in this country—it is hard to breathe the same air with one's parents—and such parents, Ellen, without sometimes wishing to see them."
"I thought you wished to give them up as I was willing to put away all the friends who had been kind to me," answered the heartless woman. "How else could you or I hope to enjoy our new life? Besides, it was your own proposal; I never asked you to sacrifice the old folks—merely said something of how much out of place they might be, and how provoking their ways would become in a house like that we were building in the clouds."
"In reality, Ellen, the house I talked of shall be nothing to the palace I am building for my queen."
Mrs. Mason's eyes flashed triumphantly.
"I am half tempted," she said.
"Ah, my love, be wholly tempted!" he pleaded, with genuine tenderness in his voice. "No woman ever was worshipped as you shall be."
"Ah, but one gets tired of worship."
"No queen upon her throne shall have more admirers."
"But you'll be jealous as a Turk. I am sure of that."
"Try me, but do not put me off in this cruel fashion."
"Well, Thrasher," she said, seriously enough, "get every thing ready, and I'll take the time into consideration; but one thing is positive, we must be married here, in this country, in this State of Connecticut. I will have no question or mistake about that. The laws of other States, and particularly of other countries, may be different, but I know what they are here."
"I would rather be married abroad, Ellen," was the agitated reply, "for many reasons."
"But I will be married in the State of Connecticut, or not at all."
Thrasher bent his head, and the woman saw, with astonishment, that all the color left his face. It scarcely excited her suspicion, but the wanton cruelty of her nature came back, and she gave a little, mocking laugh.
"Perhaps you are afraid that our pretty Katy may hear of it, and put in a protest?"
"What do you mean, woman?" cried Thrasher, starting to his feet.
The widow drew herself up in magnificent displeasure.
"Woman, indeed."
Thrasher sat down, with his eyes fixed keenly on her.
"What did you mean, Ellen?" he said, more quietly.
"What did I mean? When you can look and talk like a gentleman, perhaps I may admit that there was no meaning at all in what I said, only that girl was dead in love with you, Thrasher, or I don't know what love is."
"We will let her alone, if you please," he answered, with a manner that checked her flippancy. "The poor girl is nothing to us."
"I should hope not," replied the widow, with a disdainful motion of her head. "In my poorest days I was always above that sort of people; and remember, Thrasher, when we are married—if I ever could make up my mind to it, you know—these old neighbors must be kept at a distance."
"Have I not promised? Is it not decided that we go by my Christian name after that?"
"Yes, I remember something was said about it. A good idea. That will be cutting them off root and branch, old folks and all; besides, Mrs. Nelson has a refined sound."
Thrasher sighed heavily.
"Yes," he said, "we shall be alone in the world then, you and I."
"But we shall go out of our old world and find a new one," she answered, proudly. "Millionaires are never alone."
"How worldly you are getting! But it becomes you."
"Worldly? No, only wise! But we are staying here a long time; Mrs. Prior will wonder what it is all for, and Rose will cry her eyes out, poor thing."
"You wish me to go?" he said, in a mortified tone.
"Why, yes; one must not risk a good name among strangers. It is something a little unusual for me to receive gentlemen."
"I am glad of that, Ellen."
"Oh, I have no desire for visitors of either sex."
"But when may I come for good? I must know that."
"Well, I cannot tell the exact time, but it shall be within a few months; weeks, perhaps, if you are good."
"Then it shall be. You promise that?" he said, kindling with delight.
"Yes, Thrasher, I promise now. Only give me time," and she held out her hand, he kissed it, and went away.
Itwas true the officer had insisted that Katharine should be removed to one of the upper chambers. She was gradually recovering strength, and though he had not the heart to propose her removal to prison, the dangers of escape became more apparent each hour. At last he suggested the only means of safety that presented itself—Katharine must be confined in the upper story, from whence flight would be difficult, unless assistance should come from without, a thing that he considered more than improbable.
Mrs. Allen made no resistance to these arrangements, for well the poor mother knew that all protest would be in vain. In some respects she preferred the change. It would remove Katharine from the sight of her jailor whenever the door of her room was opened; a presence that had become unspeakably oppressive of late. She seemed afraid of understanding what it meant, but every time his face passed by, or his shadow appeared on the wall, a terror came into her eyes, and she would look wistfully out, as you have seen a poor little rabbit peering with his great brown eyes through the trapsome cruel boy had baited for him when the snow covered all other food.
Mrs. Allen had seen this with an aching heart. The man who usurped her own high-backed chair, with his feet stretched out stolidly on the hearth, watching the door of her child's room, had become a torment to her, patient and undemonstrative as she was. So the room was prepared, and in gentle silence Katharine took possession of it. She had no courage to question her mother, but shrunk with sensitive pain from the truth, harassed with fears, yet dreading to have them confirmed.
The mother, too, shrunk from the subject, which was forever lying cold at her heart. What good would it do were she to place all the hideous danger before her child? The law would strike hard enough when its time came; she had no heart to help it by a word.
They were very silent together, those two wretched women, for—with the one subject that filled their existence held in abeyance—what could they talk about? But the mother grew so gentle, so exquisitely loving, that some gleams of joy broke through their misery; still, the tenderness of this affection almost broke her child's heart. It was the offshoot of a great sorrow, which had softened the stern character of the mother, and lifted the young girl into sudden womanhood. The hour of maternity, be it in joy or grief, breaks down all the barriers of age, and, as in this case, the extremes of womanhood meet with some degree of equality.
But a painful apprehension was always at Katharine's heart. No one told her the terrible fate of which that man, sitting forever on her mother's hearth, was the harbinger, butthetruth pressed vaguely upon her understanding,and her solitude was a perpetual terror. She grew keen in her observation. She searched even the mournful eyes of little Paul and the grieved features of Jube, in her silent quest after the knowledge she had no courage to claim in words.
Now two men kept guard in the room below. Their prisoner was getting strong, and more vigilance became advisable.
The night that this double guard was set upon her, Katharine could not sleep, for the two men conversed in low voices that penetrated to her chamber, and tortured every nerve in her body. What evil things were they saying in those muffled tones? Perhaps talking about her babe? What would they do with her in the end?
Dark ideas of the terrible truth came slowly over her. She was seized with an uncontrollable wish to hear what it was that kept her jailors in such close conversation.
Shivering with dread, yet filled with a sort of wild courage, she arose and crept from her room down-stairs. A door opened from the stairway into the kitchen—it was left slightly ajar—and through the crevice came a gleam of light from a candle that stood on the mantlepiece. Katharine sunk down on the lowest step and listened keenly.
"Yes," said one of the men, "it's a settled thing—they'll take her off in the morning. Tough, though, aint it."
"Does the old woman know it?"
"I reckon not; the constable says he can't find the heart to tell her till the last minute."
"What will they do with her in the end? Have you any idea?"
"Well, law's law, you know, and I calculate they'll hang the poor critter."
"No!"
"Sartin; the constable was saying so at the hill store only yesterday. The strangling," says he, "might a been got over; but that burying of the poor little critter in the snow was the pint that no lawyer could ixplain."
"Yes; that allus stops a feller's mouth when he sets out to defend her, and yet—"
"What was you a saying?"
"And yet I can't bleave she really did it."
"It's unnatural; but facts are facts."
"Poor critter; I wonder if she's told any thing about its father yet. The feller ought to be hung fifty times where she had once."
"I reckon not; the old woman said that her daughter was married, at the examination, but she would not name the man, and people were left to guess."
"Was it Nelson Thrasher, do you really think?"
"There's no telling, and maybe it wont come out till court day."
"And when it does, what'll the law do with him?"
"Well, I aint quite sure; but suppose it would be brought in preup terus criminus; that is, 'complice 'fore the act."
"You don't say so. Then it'll be a hanging matter for him, too?"
"Sure as Sunday."
"But how will they find him? Maybe, Katharine wont inform."
"Oh, she'll tell; women always do."
The poor young mother behind the door was quaking with fear, and chilled through and through with the cold. Her teeth chattered so loudly that she lost the next few words; but those that followed were horrible enough.
"Did you ever see a person hung?"
"Yes; once."
"Wall!"
"Don't ask me about it; the rope broke, and—"
"Hark! wasn't that a voice?"
"No; it's one of the icicles falling from the eaves."
"It seemed to come from the stairs, I thought; suppose we look."
"Oh, be still. It's the ice, I tell you. Just hand me a drink of that ginger cider. This talk about hanging makes the cold chills run over me."
There was a moment's silence, then a deep, satisfied breath, and the jingle of a pewter mug as it was set down between the andirons.