OUT IN THE DEPTHS OF THE NIGHT.
How she got to her room, Katharine never knew; but little Paul sat with
his back to the door which led from her chamber to his, and heard faint
shudderings with that icy sound which had disturbed the men, for a long
time after she entered the room. It troubled him so much at last that he
went into the outer garret and sought Jube, who stood like a bronze
statue by a window in the gable.
"Jube, I'm sure that she is up now, you can hear her tremble through the
door."
Jube put a finger to his lip, and lifting Paul in his arms, pointed
through the window. The end of a ladder rested against the sill, and Tom
sat perched on one of the upper rounds, motioning to Jube that he must
stoop down and help him in.
The moment after he stood in a broad space of moonlight that paved the
garret, whispering eagerly:
"I've come before the time, I have, and hain't got a sign of a wagon nor
sleigh; for, consarn him, par locked the stable door to-night, the first
time he ever did it in his life, I'm a'most sartin. But it's got to be
done. Them constables will be arter her to-morrow, sartin. We'll get her
out somehow this very night, and trust to luck arterward."
"What shall we do?" inquired Paul, full of generous courage. "Jube has
got the gold."
"That's half," answered Tom, promptly. "Now, Paul, you go into the room
and tell her to get right up and huddle on all the furs, and cloaks, and
things that she's got, and tell her to be still as twenty mice. Them
chaps below are as wide awake as nighthawks. I've been watching 'em
through the winder since twelve o'clock; but they've just begun to pitch
into the hot ginger and cider, and that'll put 'em to sleep, sure."
"But if she wont come?" said Paul.
"Wont? she must, or stay here and be----oh, I can't bear to think of it.
Now get along, Paul, and do as I tell you."
Paul went softly into Katharine's room. She was sitting on the bed in
her long nightgown, cold and still, frozen, as it were, in the
moonlight, which fell over her from a near window.
Paul shrunk back at first, her face looked so deathly; but he found
courage, and took the cold hands that lay clasped on her lap.
What he said in those low, eager whispers, the boy himself scarcely
knew; but after the first words she bent down, listening greedily.
Friends in the outer room, a ladder at the window, money to take her
from that guarded house, life, liberty, away from the terrible shadow of
those men, clear from that gaunt horror which they talked about so
calmly. Yes, she would go. Life was very sweet, and she so young. Out to
sea in a vessel bound for a long voyage. Thus, she would in time meet
her husband, whose name her silence had saved from disgrace. She began
to love herself for this thought, and, gathering fresh energy, put on
her outer garments.
Paul went into the garret and told his friends that Katharine was
getting ready. His voice was raised imprudently, it penetrated to a room
at the other end of the garret, and might have disturbed the guards, but
their deep potations at the warm cider had, as Tom predicted, thrown
them into a sound sleep.
All this while Mrs. Allen had been lying in the back of her daughter's
bed with her face to the wall. The wearing effect of nights without
sleep and days of harassing labor lay heavily upon her. At most times
she was a sound sleeper, but now it seemed as if death itself had taken
possession of her faculties. She knew nothing of Katharine's absence
from the room--nothing of Paul's entrance, but the first cold touch of
the fugitive's hand was enough. The gray eyes opened wildly in the
moonlight, and she started up in bed.
Katharine stood before her fully dressed, and with some heavy dark
garment in her hand. Mrs. Allen heard Paul speaking in the garret
outside, and comprehended the scene.
"Mother, I am going. They want to kill me; I am innocent, and have a
right to my life. I am going away, mother."
The whispers in which Katharine spoke were broken, and came gasping from
her lips. Mrs. Allen started from the bed and began to put on her
clothes.
"Yes," she muttered, wildly, "I have thought of this night and day. One
does not see a lamb go to the slaughter without a wish to help it. The
child of one's old age is better than a lamb. I said to myself, if the
instincts of innocence lead her to it, she shall escape. She has
forfeited nothing--her life is her own--God gave it to her, and God will
instruct her how to keep it."
Tom opened the door, and came into the room on tiptoe.
"Hush! don't, Mrs. Allen. We can hear you a muttering clear into the
garret. Them men down-stairs love cider, but they ain't moles. Just give
'em a chance, and they'll be after us full split afore you know
it--hish!"
Mrs. Allen did not speak again, but took a heavy cloak from the wall and
folded it over the garments which she had just put on. She took
Katharine's hand in her own firm grasp, and led her into the garret. The
gable window was open, and a cold, sharp wind came sweeping through,
while the moonlight thus let in fell half across the garret.
Jube was on the ladder outside, waiting. Paul stood aside from the
light, but the eager fire of his eyes could be seen even in the
darkness. The mother and child were half way across the garret, when
Katharine broke away suddenly, and went back, her face uplifted, as if
she were counting the rafters. She disappeared in the gloom, and her
hand made a creaking noise, as it passed along the torn shingles
projecting themselves from one of the rafters. But she darted back into
the moonlight with a scrap of paper in her hand, which rustled to the
wind like a dead leaf.
"I am ready now, mother," she whispered.
"Hist! he! he!"
It was like the lowest hiss of a serpent, the sound with which Tom
warned his allies, and signified that all was ready.
Mrs. Allen lifted her daughter in both arms, held her one moment in a
clinging embrace, then passed her through the window, and leaned out
till Jube stood with her at the foot of the ladder. After that, she
followed, while Paul and Tom crept after, noiselessly as shadows.
"Come this way," said Tom. "It's a glare of ice all around, but I
scattered ashes along here, so keep straight ahead, while I take a peep,
and see if them old chaps are sleeping yet."
The little group drew close together, and moved quickly along the path
which Tom had made safe with wood ashes. Directly that youngster joined
them, chuckling to himself, and rubbing his yarn mittens gleefully
together.
"They're in for it! Oh, Miss Allen, that cider of your'n must be
scrumptious stuff. They've drunk up the hull bilin of it, and there the
great pewter mug lies atween 'em, upsot on the harth, a little gingery
stream a running and a hissing from it into the fire. There they set,
each of 'em, with his legs half way across the harth, and the toes of
his boot a sticking up, sliding off from them chairs till their boots
eenamost touch, and each on 'em has got his head pitched forward and his
face hid in his bosom, and snoring like all nature. Oh, Paul, I'd a gin
the world to have boo-hood right out as loud as I wanted to."
All this was said in a loud whisper that sounded sharp and distinct on
the frosty air, but no one heeded it. The two women hurried forward in
dead silence; Paul and Jube went before, making a path, for they had
turned into the field, and had instinctively crept within the shadow of
the stone wall which Katharine had fled along on that fearful day. They
were fast approaching the old butternut tree, when Katharine, whose
breath had come quick and short with each step, reeled and fell back
against the wall.
"I can't go this road," she gasped, pointing to the butternut tree,
which flung its gaunt skeleton shadow far out on the snow. "Take me any
road but this."
Tom, who had been running along in the moonlight, came up, speaking for
the first time in his full voice.
"That's right; we may as well stop and make up our minds what to do
next, as Robinson Crusoe did when he reached that ere uninhabited
island; for the old soger warn't much wuss off than we are, I reckon,
'specially now that we've got another woman 'tached onto the consarn."
"She's ill, the poor mademoiselle," whispered Paul.
"No, no--we havn't time for that ere; tell her she mustn't think of it."
"Mother," whispered Katharine, "take me away! It seems as if my ghost
had been here before."
Mrs. Allen drew close to her child and tried to shelter her alike from
the cold and a sight of that gaunt old tree.
"What shall we do next?" inquired Tom, feeling the want of some
efficient counsellor. "Miss Allen, as you've kinder broke into this ere
concern without asking, I give up being leader, 'specially not knowing
what on 'arth to do. I've sot her free, and that's glory enough for one
little feller, so now I throw up and consign."
Mrs. Allen gathered Katharine closer in her arms, and looking in the
boy's face, strove to comprehend the position in which they were placed.
"Tell me what it was you hoped to do for my daughter," she said, gently.
"I know nothing more than that she was ready to escape, and I followed.
The idea was in my dreams, and we are here. Was there any place you had
in view where she could be safe?"
"Yes, marm, there was," answered Tom. "Jube and Paul can tell you all
about it. We got it up together, us three. I meant to have brought par's
hoss and wagon, but the old man locked 'em up. Besides, we did not mean
to go into it till to-morrow night, only the constable let out as he'd
take her off in the morning, so we had to come right up to the rack,
ready or not; and now we are free and independent. But where to go? that
ere is the question."
Mrs. Allen uttered a low groan; the frail form in her arms grew heavier
and heavier. The desperate course they had taken presented itself to her
mind in all its hopelessness.
"Oh, my God, must I take her back?" she moaned, lifting her face to
heaven.
"Has madame no friends--no house where mademoiselle could hide one
little day?" said Paul. "Jube has gold, great deal of gold, that people
in this country like very much. People that have much gold can run
away--Tom says that--oh, very far. We will take mademoiselle to Monsieur
Rice; he very strong, like Jube; nobody touch him--never dare."
"Yes, marm," struck in Tom. "The sloop which goes out of New Haven twice
a week, sails Saturday. Jube's got lots and lots of chink. Just send him
to Dave Rice; he's the fellow to tell the constable what's what--he is."
Mrs. Allen gathered in the whole plot, and her clear judgment saw at
once that it was the only means of escape left for her child. The
attempt, which had seemed a moment before so rash, took consistency and
wisdom in her mind. God himself seemed to have provided the means of
escape for her child.
"Well, now, what do you think it's best to do?" asked Tom, flattered by
her grave attention. "You are the gineral now; I'm only a soger."
"May the God of heaven bless you, my brave boy," said the mother, with
deep feeling.
Tom hastily wiped the cuff of his jacket across his eyes.
"Don't, Miss Allen; don't say that ere; 'cause, you know, I was kinder
diserbaying my parents, and I'm afeared he'll remember to set one agin
t'other, and I might git the worst of it."
Mrs. Allen looked around along the dreary road.
"Is there no one of all our neighbors who would shelter us for one
night?" she cried.
"Mother," said Katharine, struggling from her arms and trying to stand
up, "_his_ father. I will go to him. It was his wish. I will go to his
home. Where else should a wife ask shelter?"
Mrs. Allen drew a heavy breath.
"Come, mother, come."
"Where is it you have an idea of going?" inquired Tom, forgetting that
he had resigned all command of the party, and was only a "soger."
"Up yonder," answered Mrs. Allen; "we will ask them to hide us for one
night, in the barn, or anywhere."
"Us? you say us?" persisted Tom, shaking his head. "Now I'm only a
soger, you know, Mrs. Allen, but if I had the lead yet, I'd jest observe
that one is easier hid than two. If them fellers get up, and find the
house empty, they'll search like blazes, and the fust thing after
daylight; but if you're there to get 'em a warm breakfast, and Jube's on
hand to pile on the wood, they'd kinder be content, and not ask about
anybody else mebby till noon."
"You are right," said the mother. "Let me know that she is safe and I
will go home again. My child, can you walk?"
"Yes, mother."
"No, no; she trembles. Let Jube carry her--he is so strong," said Paul.
Jube came forward with his brawny arms extended. Mrs. Allen gave up her
child, and she was carried away so swiftly that the boys were compelled
to run in order to keep up with the negro, but Mrs. Allen walked close
to him, never faltering or pausing to draw breath till the whole group
stood in front of Mr. Thrasher's house.
Jube sat Katharine quietly down upon the snow, where she stood gazing
wistfully toward the house, till her mother reminded her that there was
no time to spare.
"Leave me," said the poor creature, "leave me here, mother. I would
rather go in alone--quite alone--it will be easier."
Mrs. Allen hesitated, but Tom came up with one of his clinching
arguments.
"It's nigh on to morning, Mrs. Allen, and we are only doing her hurt. If
she goes in alone they wont have the heart to send her off, but if we
all stand here ready to go farther, they'd tell us to keep on just as
like as not."
"He is right, mother," said Katharine, faintly. "Give me one kiss--God
will help me--have no fear."
The old woman pressed her cold lips to that still colder face, and went
away, looking mournfully behind, from time to time, until a bend of the
road took her out of sight.