A TERRIBLE DISCLOSURE.
Alas! the sad and heavy-hearted sorrow that was left behind on the day
that little Paul went forth to his school-boy life. Twice, Mrs. Allen
went into Katharine's room and sat down, pale and soul-stricken, waiting
to be questioned; but her daughter had been exhausted by her
conversation with the doctor, and lay with her eyes closed, weary of all
things. So, drawing a deep breath from a consciousness of this reprieve,
the wretched woman went away again still more heavily laden with the
duty that clung to her like a vampire, and so a week passed by without
another attempt. At last, toward nightfall one day, Katharine spoke:
"Mother?"
"My child."
"What is it that you are all afraid of telling me?"
"A great trouble, Katharine; something that even I, who have some
courage, tremble to speak of."
"Is it about my baby, mother?"
"Yes."
"I am glad you are willing to answer me; the doctor put me off."
"But I will not put you off, my poor child."
"What is it, mother? This frightens me--your voice is husky, your face
strange--did my baby die a hard death?"
"Yes, very hard. It was killed."
The voice was indeed husky that uttered these words.
Katharine rose up in the bed, her eyes grew large and wild.
"Killed?"
"Yes, God help us--it was dead and buried when we found it."
"Dead and buried; mother, mother!"
The words came forth in a sharp cry, breaking the pale lips apart and
leaving them so.
"I left it alive, Katharine--sleeping by your side. Can you remember
when I went out that day after a man to haul some wood from Castle
Rock?"
Katharine held both hands to her temples, rocking to and fro as if the
effort to think cost great pain.
"Yes, mother, I remember about the wood. You put the shawl, that David
sent me, over my shoulders. The baby was asleep then, with one hand to
its mouth. I took the hand away just to see it nestle; its pretty lips
were moving all the time."
"What then?"
"It was a noise, mother--a trumpet sounding through the house--dead
leaves, white leaves flying all about me; then, mother, then immense
heaps of snow rolling, heaving, and spreading everywhere. I--I cannot
remember how I got in or out of this cold whiteness. It seemed to bury
me in a long sleep."
"Poor child--poor little Katharine."
"Oh, I remember you called me that when I was a very small child."
"Katharine, try; can you remember nothing more?"
"Nothing more, only as one recollects that she has been miserably
asleep."
"But it was in this time, while I was away to see about that wood, that
our baby was killed."
"Killed!--how?"
"Strangled."
"Mother--mother!"
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 butternut 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 God 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 fortitude 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. God 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.