MEMORIES AND RESOLUTIONS.
They carried Catharine Lacy to the station-house. A doctor was sent for,
but it was a long time before he came, and when he did arrive, the poor
girl refused all assistance, but lay upon her couch, which was worse
than a beggar’s, racked with a sense of her utter desolation, till
thought caused fever, and fired her whole system with artificial
strength.
She spent the night without sleep, and in profound darkness, tortured
with visions of her lost child, its pauper grave, and of its father. For
the first time she thought of the latter with doubt and bitterness. Had
he deserted her? She had read of these things. And her aunt, how cruelly
she had taken up the belief of her unworthiness. What had she done to be
thus treated by those who should have protected her? Why was she of all
human beings selected out for wrong and insult?
These were severe questions for a girl not yet eighteen to ask of her
own proud spirit, in the degrading darkness of a station-house; and if
her soul was filled with bitterness, when it could make no reply, who
will wonder or blame her.
It is a terrible thing when a warm, young heart learns to distrust
humanity, and is thrown into the world without shield or buckler, to
contend with that coarse reality which crushes out all the rich poetry
of youth and leaves bitterness in its place. No wonder, poor
inexperienced creatures, like Catharine, sometimes become reckless and
sin against that society which taunts them onward by cruel and
undeserved reproach.
What Catharine might have done, after that night of fearful trial, if
left wholly to herself, I cannot say; but God puts no human soul upon
this earth to leave it altogether subject to evil influences. When
humanity fails, then comes a sweet, low voice from the throne of God,
and those who listen grow calm and strong, as flowers brighten beneath
the soft dew which visits them in the night-time.
True, Catharine was an orphan, but who knows that the mother who has
gone with all her earthly affections to heaven, purified and holy, is
not a better guardian to the soul of her child than she ever could have
been on earth. No, no, Catharine Lacy was not alone in all that night.
Spirits hovered around her, and when waves of bitterness would have
rushed over and filled her soul, they were swept aside, leaving the
young girl more tranquil and strong of heart than she had been for
months.
The heavenly love of a mother, who had partaken of divinity, and that
earthly love, which draws us closer to the gates of heaven, had watched
over the young girl in her deepest humiliation. Toward morning, she fell
asleep, with a fragment of the Lord’s Prayer upon her lips. It seemed to
her in that half dreamy state, as if her parents were both listening as
they had done years ago, and smiled to think that she was asking help of
God once more. All day the poor girl slept. Once or twice an officer
came in to arouse her, but there was something so child-like and happy
in her slumber, that he went out again, leaving her undisturbed.
Toward nightfall, Catharine awoke, and after partaking of some coarse
food, which the captain of police had ordered for her, she took up her
little bundle and prepared to go forth into the streets again.
Her plans were no longer in confusion. She would go to Madame De Marke,
and ask the protection denied by her own relative; this was a duty which
she certainly owed to De Marke, before throwing herself upon the wide
world. She had little hope of conciliating the eccentric old woman, but
resolved for his sake to brave the interview. Very slowly, for she was
still too feeble for much exertion, Catharine made her way down the
city, strengthened by her own steady purpose, and saved from torturous
feelings of suspense by the very hopelessness of her project.
It was nightfall before she reached her destination. The dim stairs,
over which she trod, creaked gloomily beneath her light footsteps,
adding to the evil foreboding that crept closer and closer around her
heart, as she entered the shadow of that now half-deserted building.
Her pace grew more rapid as she advanced, for the courage of desperation
was upon her; and her knock against the half-closed door of Madame De
Marke’s room was clear and firm.
“Who is wanting me?” inquired a snappish voice, and the door was partly
opened. “Who is it? you, Jane Kelly? come in, my pet, come in. Is it
good news or bad that you bring me? Come in out of the passage. What
keeps you hanging back so? Putting on airs, eh? making believe you are
in no hurry for the mate to that ear-ring, the sparkler? All fudge and
nonsense; just as if I didn’t understand it all. Come in with you—there,
there, now lift your veil.”
The old woman had drawn Catharine through the door with great eagerness,
clutching her arm with those claw-like fingers till the poor child
almost called out with pain. She felt that the old woman was trembling
with some emotion, which struck her as intense rage, and when her veil
was drawn aside it revealed a face so pallid with affright, that for a
moment the old woman did not recognize it.
“What? what?” she hissed at last, as the certainty of her identity
forced itself upon her, “you alive and here. Oh! ha! she shall pay for
this!”
As she spoke, the wretch clutched her hand with a more cruel gripe
around the young girl’s arm, and gave her a fierce shake.
“Alive!—you alive and here?” she repeated, “oh! but some one shall pay
for this.”
“You hurt me,” said Catharine, shrinking with pain. “I come to you for
help; do not harm me!”
“Help! to me for help—you, you!” cried the old woman, drawing back and
pointing her lean finger almost into Catharine’s face; “help you shall
have. Help to the house of correction. I’ll help you there, certainly.
You can depend on me. But where is the baby—the dear little infant; what
have you done with that, eh?”
“It is dead!” answered Catharine, with simple pathos. “I am all alone.”
“So the dear little baby is dead, is it? what a pity! There must have
been lots of mourners at the funeral. Why didn’t you send for me? I’d a
come with pleasure.”
“Don’t,” said Catharine, lifting both her hands, and holding their palms
out as if to ward off a blow, “don’t, unless you wish to kill me. It was
your son’s child.”
“My son’s child, was it? oh! yes, I remember now. You were married to my
son, as you call him, the last time I saw you. Perhaps you will give me
another sight of that precious marriage certificate.”
“Don’t ask me for it?” murmured Catharine.
“And why not? I must look at it again and again, before the fact will
make itself clear. Come, come, let us see the paper.”
“It is lost!” said Catharine, in a low voice; “there is nothing left but
my word to prove that I am really and truly your son’s wife!”