OUT OF HER DELIRIUM.
Alas! it was an unhappy house. Poor Katharine! when the dead child was
brought to her, wrapped in the gorgeous shawl which had been her
brother's gift, she uttered a low wail, so prolonged and mournful that
it never left the memory of those who heard it. As the moan died on her
lips, it seemed to carry her life with it, for she fell into a state of
dumb apathy, and lay for hours together gazing on the wall without a
sign of animation. Then she would mutter, in a low, terrified voice,
"They have found it, they have found it."
The magistrates came to the house and examined the evidences of the
case, but she took no heed of them. The doctor was summoned, but his
opinion, as far as it went, was all against the probabilities of a
natural death. He made every exertion in his power to win the poor
mother to a state of consciousness, but all in vain; she only looked in
his face and muttered, "They have found it, they have found it."
Mrs. Allen was called forward. She had grown old since the day before.
The hair on her temples was white as frost now, and her figure stooped,
as if some ponderous weight had been laid upon it. Yet the old woman was
calm and still. Had the truth struck her dead at the magistrates' feet,
she would, nevertheless, have spoken it. Her old neighbors knew this,
and refrained from pressing her too far. It would be hard enough, they
whispered in consultation, when she was brought into court; why should
they torture her when the evidence was so conclusive.
So the magistrates sat all day with the dead infant lying in its little
coffin on the table before them, deliberating solemnly together; while
that poor mother in the next room, harassed and demented, lay with her
face turned to the wall, muttering beneath her breath, "They have found
it, they have found it."
Mrs. Allen sat on the hearth in her own high-backed chair, gazing with
heavy eyes on the magistrates. She was chilled and shocked to the soul.
The stiff pride of her nature was broken in twain, leaving her body
bent, and her soul inert. Still, such is the indomitable power of
household routine, in a woman of New England, that she replenished the
fire from time to time, and prepared drink for the poor creature in the
next room. But no food appeared in that dwelling during forty-eight
hours. The cow moaned in its stable from the pain of its abundant milk,
and the pigs, in a pen back of the house, thrust their noses between the
boards and begged for food, with uncouth noises that penetrated into the
house without arousing the mistress. A flock of hens huddled about the
door, pecking at each other and raking up the snow with their claws.
All this made no impression on the woman. When the ashes grew deep in
the fireplace she mechanically shovelled them behind the back log and
sat down again, unconscious of the act; when a stick of wood broke into
brands on each side the andirons, she lifted the massive tongs and
placed them in the midst of the fire again, but with this action her
soul had no part; that seemed dead within her.
At last the magistrates brought in their verdict. _The infant had been
murdered by its mother_, and she was bound over for trial at the county
court.
Mrs. Allen drew a deep breath when the verdict was announced, and that
was all the sign she gave. The magistrates retired, leaving the house in
charge of the constable. From that hour Katharine Allen was a prisoner
and under arrest. Poor soul, she knew nothing about it. The officers
walked in and out of her room, but she neither spoke nor looked at them.
They stooped over the bed and questioned her persistently, but she took
no heed; a regiment might have tramped through that little room and she
would not have known it.
All that night Mrs. Allen sat by the little coffin in which the babe lay
smiling in its eternal sleep. Nothing but the form of a guard was wanted
for those two helpless women, so the man left in charge fell asleep upon
the hearth, with his head bowed forward and his feet extended. Thus the
night wore on. The grandmother never closed her eyes, and scarcely
moved, but a dead numbness was closing around her heart; she began to
feel the terrible position in which her child was placed--to feel that
the beautiful babe which had crept into her heart, awaking all its
pristine tenderness, was nothing but cold death.
As these thoughts crowded to her mind, a world of anguish gathered over
that old face, 'till every feature quivered with awakening pain.
As if the anguish of this strong woman had struck some electric spark in
the bosom of her child, a faint moan was heard in the next room. But
that gray head had fallen forward, and the face was buried in her locked
hands. The old woman was trying to pray. But she could not even send up
a moan to the Almighty. For that moment she had no faith. The anguish
of a great trouble was upon her which shook her whole being; but the
tenderness that leads to prayer had not yet descended upon her grief.
Under these awakening feelings, she began to be sensible of all the
gloomy surroundings that had helped to oppress her. The tallow candle
upon the table was surmounted by a long wick with a death blossom
trembling at the top, which smothered half its feeble light. Thus the
little coffin was filled with shadows, through which the white face
gleamed mournfully.
Mrs. Allen was all alone. The officer sat sleeping soundly in his
chair--the young mother lay insensible in the next room. The old woman
was, nevertheless, alone, for such companionship was an added misery.
She could not endure to sit still with that mournful little face
reproaching her from its coffin for its mother's sin; for, as yet, its
death took that shape in her mind. She had no courage to get up and
search for the snuffers, wherewith that ill-omened crest could be
separated from the ungainly wick. An empty cradle stood in one corner of
the room. She took the coffin in her arms, and sat it reverently into
this cradle, spreading the patchwork coverlet over it, thus removing the
pale reality of death from her sight. This done, she sat down by the
table, and let the candle smoke on, indifferent to what it revealed, so
long as the thing was not death.
It is possible that she may have dropped to sleep after this, for nature
was sinking within her; certain it is, her face fell upon the locked
hands, while profound quiet reigned for a little time throughout that
miserable dwelling.
While her face was bowed thus, a frail figure, clad in white drapery
from head to foot, came out of the bedroom and glided up to the table.
She wavered in her walk, and leaned both hands on the table, or she must
have undoubtedly fallen, in feeble helplessness, to the ground.
Mrs. Allen looked up and saw her daughter, worn and trembling, gazing
wistfully upon her.
"Mother, what have you done with it? Who has taken my baby away?"
The voice was sweet, but troubled; the face innocent as an angel's.
"Katharine, oh, Katharine!"
It was all the poor woman could say; but the first gleam of hope shot
athwart that gloomy face and thrilled through the voice. From that
moment the mother felt that her child was innocent.
"Oh, Katharine, my child! my poor, poor child!"
She held out her arms, while great tears rained down her cheeks.
Katharine tottered around the table, and falling on her knees, leaned
heavily on the mother's lap, lifting her face full of wistful tenderness
to the troubled countenance bent over her.
"Tell me what you did with it, mother."
Mrs. Allen trembled under the wistful earnestness of those pleading
eyes. She had no power of speech in her voice. It was choked up with
sorrow for her daughter's inevitable anguish, with thanksgiving that she
was innocent. With a tenderness which is the gift of true Christianity,
link it with the sternest nature you may, she reached forth her arms and
gathered the young thing to her bosom.
"Do tell me, mother, what you have done with my baby?"
"Rest a little, my child. That's right--keep your arms around me. How
weak you are; and it is cold. Shall I carry you back to bed, my poor
darling?"
"When you have told me. I want the baby, mother; my heart aches for it;
my bosom is full of pain. If we only had it here between us, mother. Do,
do tell me where it is?"
Mrs. Allen bent her face and kissed her.
"Isn't it pleasant to kiss one's own child, mother? I never thought what
a comfort it was to you before."
Mrs. Allen could not answer; she only bent her withered cheek to the
sweet face on her bosom, and sighed heavily.
"Come, mother."
"One minute, Katharine."
"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 advanced to 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. Then the 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.