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 b.u.t.ternut 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 G.o.d 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 fort.i.tude 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. G.o.d 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 in her 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.
CHAPTER x.x.xIII.
THE OLD COUPLE ON THEIR SHADOWED HEARTH-STONE.
During the 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 sat with 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."