ALL ALONE.
Madame de Marke stood a moment irresolute, then she spoke out. “My son!
you will call the young reprobate De Marke, my son, as if he ever had a
drop of my blood in his veins. I tell you he was De Marke’s son by a
first wife, and I——Well, yes, I am his stepmother, his father’s widow,
and his guardian till, till——But what’s the use of talking? You couldn’t
understand it.”
“But I understand this, and thank God for it. De Marke is not your own
son.”
“No more my son than he is your husband, honey-bird, be sure of that,”
cried the old woman, with a spiteful laugh.
Catharine’s eyes sparkled. It was something to know that the old woman
had really no claim on her for respect.
“But you have always looked upon him as a son, and you _know_ that I am
his wife.”
“Indeed, _how_ do I know that? Let me read over the certificate, and
then—”
“He told you that we were married, I am sure of it.”
“Oh! they are deceivers all; don’t put any faith in the blood, my dear;
but just go away like a nice girl and hide your shame in the country.
I’ll give you a trifle for travelling expenses, and then you might make
a nice match, where no one ever heard of you before.”
“Hush, madam, I will not listen to this; it degrades me and my husband.”
“Your husband, ha! A tender, attentive husband, isn’t he? Don’t you
wonder when he will come back?”
“Tell me where he is gone. Oh, tell me that, and I will trouble you no
more!”
“Why? what would you do?”
“I would follow him to the uttermost ends of the earth, as a true wife
should follow the man she loves.”
“Would you, my dear? But that is just what the young fellow does not
want. He has left you, girl, and I tell you he will never return, never,
never, do you hear?”
“I do not believe it. Sooner or later he will come back to contradict
this wicked slander. He is _not_ a bad man!”
“Just as you please to think, my dear; only he is a long time in
coming!”
Catharine gave a quick motion of the hand, as if to silence the slander,
and turning upon the old woman, demanded if she would give her shelter
and protection?
“No, no, my dear, the thing is just impossible,” answered the old
creature, with jeering malice in her look and voice; “that would be
owning to the world that I gave some faith to your romance about
Philadelphia, the clergyman, and all that.”
“I am almost glad of it,” answered Catharine, conscious that a sensation
of unaccountable relief went with her words. “Now I have nothing but God
to trust in; all his creatures have forsaken me.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the old woman, kissing her crucifix, “what has God, or
the mother of God, to do with heretics but to punish their sins? Go
away, dear, go away.”
“I will,” was the sad reply. “You send me out among men like a wild bird
into the woods, but God takes care even of them.”
“That’s a nice girl, you’ll go into the country away west or east, where
no one will ever hear of you again. Don’t come back to disgrace the poor
boy, and I’ll pay your passage in the emigrant cars just as far as you
will go. Only let it be a long way off, and remember, dear, how much it
will cost me.”
“No,” answered Catharine, “I cannot leave the city till he comes back.”
“I tell you he never will come back, never! You hear me, never! never!”
Catharine turned very white, and clenched her little hand hard on the
back of a chair.
“How do you know this, madam?” she questioned, in a faint voice.
“He told me so himself, dear; depend on it, he never will come back, and
never can marry you; it would make him a beggar.”
“Why?”
“Why, darling? because his father just left it in his will that his son
should never marry without my consent; if he did, all the property
should come to me. So, my dear, you understand how it would turn out if
you were really married; he would be a beggar, and I rolling in
gold—rolling in gold. Oh, if you only had been married, now wouldn’t it
have been a run of luck for me? But he won’t do it—not fool enough for
that—never thought of such a thing.”
“Do you mean to say that George has practised a deception on me?”
“Oh, a little cheat, nothing else, of course you understand all about
it; the certificate that you made so much of, all fudge and nonsense.
Just go away, darling, as I tell you; he’ll never come back till you do,
and never then, I dare say.”
Catharine held by the chair still trembling from head to foot. In all
her trouble she had possessed one source of consolation and
strength—deep faith in her husband’s love and integrity. Now her very
heart seemed uprooted. For a moment, she had no faith in anything. She
leaned heavily on the chair, grasping it with both hands, but her limbs
trembled and gave way; she sunk slowly downward, and bowing her face,
cried out in bitter anguish:
“Oh, my God, what have I done that all Thy creatures turn against me?
Let me die—let me die!”
Madame De Marke turned away. At the head of her cot was a small hen-coop
such as farmers use in transporting poultry to market. Through the bars
of this coop, two or three lank, hungry fowls were protruding their long
necks, and set up a low chuckle as if they joined the old woman in
mocking at the poor girl. “Ha, ha! you understand it, dears,” said the
crone; “here now, my pets, help yourselves.”
She went to a platter that stood on her deal table, and dividing a cold
potato with her fingers, thrust half of it through the bars. As the
hungry fowls devoured it, she began quietly eating the other half, while
she eyed the poor girl with a look of malicious cunning, apparently
quite unmindful of the anguish that made her very heart quiver.
At last Catharine lifted her head and looked steadily at the old woman.
“Madam, if you have deceived me in this, if you know this of my
husband.” She paused—the name almost suffocated her; goaded with fresh
agony, she arose to her feet.
“Woman, woman, as you have dealt with us, so will the God of heaven deal
with you on your death-bed!”
The next instant Catharine Lacy passed through the door, as one flees
from an impending death-blow.
Madame De Marke looked after her with a wild, fierce look; then she
snatched up her crucifix and kissed it.
“A heretic, a heretic—why should I mind the words of a heretic? What
right has she to call on God?”
But her grim features worked with fear long after she ceased speaking,
and she repeatedly kissed the crucifix in her hand, as if striving to
bribe protection from it.