THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE.
She pressed one hand to her bosom, and smiled proudly, as if they ought
to be grateful for something she had done.
"The paper--what paper?" questioned Mrs. Thrasher.
"That which the minister gave us. It is more than three months, and he
told me not to wait longer than that."
"Let me read the paper, girl!"
"Yes," joined in Mrs. Thrasher, coming out of her obscurity. "Let father
read the paper."
"He told me to bring it here after three months," said Katharine,
looking at them doubtfully; "but he did not know how it would happen.
Dreadful things have been done that he never thought of, so I must be
careful. I am only a poor girl, and they have almost done the worst by
me. Nothing can disgrace me more, but it hasn't reached him yet. I
wouldn't even tell the doctor. Nobody ever saw the paper. That is my
secret--the only thing I have left. When they have killed me I will eat
the paper, and die with it in my bosom, be sure of that."
"But you will tell us--remember he is our only child, and it is hard not
to know the truth--hard to think badly of him," pleaded the mother.
"Badly of him--who has a right to do that?" said Katharine, excitedly.
"You ought to know better. But you are only his mother, not his--"
"His what, dear?"
Katharine shook her head, and bent her eyes on the fire.
"If you have a paper that belongs to my son, let me read it, girl. I
have a right," pursued the old man.
"Right--when you can think badly of him? I never could do that; but he
told me to come here and ask shelter, not knowing how much I should need
it. I want to obey him--want to make you think well of him--but how can
I do it?"
"Give us the paper if that will tell us the truth about our son,"
answered the old man, firmly.
"But you might use it to disgrace his name."
"We are his parents, girl."
"But you suspect him, what of?"
"Of wronging you--we have suspected him of this!"
"Yes, Katharine, father couldn't help it, you know. It broke his heart,
but he--that is, we couldn't clear Nelson in our minds. If you can only
help us, dear!"
Katharine bent toward the fire, clasping both hands around her knees,
and muttering to herself, "It would be worse than death to think ill of
him. They have a right."
She drew back slowly, and turned to the old man.
"Promise me something, Mr. Thrasher."
"I will promise any thing that will be for your good."
"Promise never to let any human being know what is in this paper, and
I'll show it to you."
"We are his parents, and are not likely to tell any thing that would
disgrace our son."
"Promise her, father; no matter what it is, promise!" pleaded the
mother, creeping round to her husband's side.
The old man hesitated. Katharine bent slowly toward the fire again.
"Promise," whispered the mother. "If our son is wrong, we shall never
have the heart to speak of it. If he is innocent, no one but his own
parents have had the cruelty to suspect him."
"I never thought wrong of him, never in my life," murmured Katharine,
gazing into the fire; "that would kill me before those dark men had a
chance."
"Well, girl, what promise shall I make?" questioned the old man, who
had been listening to his wife with serious attention.
"Only that you will never mention the paper, nor what I tell you, till
Nelson comes back."
"Well, I promise that."
"Yes; we promise," repeated the mother.
Katharine took a scrap of paper from her bosom, unfolded it with a
loving touch, and gave it to the old man. There was no candle in the
room, but his spectacles lay on the closed Bible, where he had left them
on going to bed. He put them on, and knelt down by the fire, from which
his wife forced a shower of sparks with the tongs. As the old man read
the paper, she bent over him, and when his head fell forward and buried
itself in his hands, her sobs mingled with the broken thanks that sprang
from the father's heart.
At last he arose to his feet, and looked at his wife, who crept into his
arms, and laying her withered cheek on his bosom, whispered:
"Remember, husband, I told you so. Told you from the first, either that
it was not true, or that she was our daughter."
As the sweet words fell from her lips, the good woman looked on the girl
with a countenance so heavenly, that Katharine smiled under it, and for
a moment forgot what a wretched fugitive she was.
"Now," said the old man, seating himself, and stooping toward their
midnight guest; "now that our son is cleared from this great guilt, tell
us--for remember you are our child--tell us about this terrible thing
they accuse you of."
Katharine turned cold and white, then she lifted her sweet young face,
and with her eyes turned clearly to his, told him all that she knew,
word for word, feeling for feeling; and from the depths of her true
heart he saw how innocent she was.
The old woman listened with him, but her gentle heart gave way long
before Katharine had done her story; when it was finished she gathered
the poor girl in her arms and wept over her.
"What can we do? How help her?" she said, addressing the old man. "The
law is like a hound--it will take her anywhere; and she is our
child--our innocent, innocent daughter."
Katharine clung to the woman, as she uttered these words, and began to
cry. It was sweet to be so trusted and cared for in the midst of her
desolation.
"Where can we put her? What can we do, father?"
There was no answer--the old man sat looking at her very sadly and with
deep thoughtfulness.
"Let us first ask what the good God intends in all this. He does not
lead the young into peril, or the innocent into shame for nothing. It is
a fearful risk, but let us do right."
Katharine looked on him in affright, her eyes growing wildly large, her
lips falling apart, till the white teeth shone through.
"You will not give me up? They will kill me! Oh, father, they will kill
me!"
She had called him father for the first time in her life, and the word
came forth in a cry of anguish that made even his strong heart shrink.
"No," he said, gently. "Not for all the gold of Ophir would I do this
thing."
Katharine drew a long breath. The old woman folded her in a closer
embrace, and softly whispered:
That she must have no fear--God always guarded the innocent.
And so they rested a little while in silence. The old man buried in
thought. The women watching him with anxious faces.
"I will take her to _his_ chamber," said the mother, at last, "the
blinds are down and we can find the way without light."
Mr. Thrasher said nothing, but regarded the fugitive in grave sadness.
"Stay with her till morning," he said; "she has left her mother behind,
poor woman."
Katharine arose and went up to the old man.
"You are his father and believe me," she said.
"Yes, Katharine, I believe you--I will give all that I have to prove how
innocent you are--I will mortgage the farm to-morrow, if that will do."
"Only tell me where I can find him. He will not let any one harm me; you
know that."
"If we knew--if we only knew; but the sea is a broad desert of waters,
where no man finds his fellow for seeking."
"Has Nelson gone to sea?" faltered the poor girl.
"Yes, Katharine, on a long voyage. He may not come back for years."
She stood still, dumb with pain, and thrills of awe ran through her
voice when it struggled back to her.
"Who told me of this before?"
"No one, my child; it came in a letter, and we never mentioned a word of
it to a living soul."
"A letter to you and none to me; but who told me, I say? or when did I
dream something like it? I wish all this was clear. Nelson writes to
you, and yet I know beforehand what news the letter brings. It has kept
me awake nights, but in the daytime fell back into dreams again."
She stood a moment with one hand to her forehead, then dropped it, and
said, quickly:
"Let me read his letter, may I?"
The old man opened the great Bible, and took the letter from between its
leaves. She knelt down upon the hearth and read it through.
"Yes," she said, "it is true. He has gone. I might search the world over
and never find him. They might kill me, and my husband never hear of it.
This is worse than their threats, worse than death, for it shuts out all
hope. Where could I go? The world is so wide, and I have not learned the
way anywhere."
"Oh, if you could but stay with us till he comes!" exclaimed the old
lady.
"But they will not let me. To-morrow, perhaps, those men will come here
and force you to give me up."
"I never will, never on earth," cried the old woman, flushing with the
generous courage that filled her heart. "They shall tear me all to
pieces first."
The old man stood up. The solemn thoughtfulness had left his face, and
it was sadly calm, as if some painful doubt had left his mind. He went
up to Katharine and laid both hands on her head. She looked at him with
her sad eyes, and almost smiled, his face was so pleasant that it
reassured her.
"You have thought of some way by which we can find him?" she said, with
a gush of gratitude mellowing her voice.
"No, Katharine, that is impossible. Ships that have sailed can never be
overtaken; but have you forgotten, child, that the guilty alone stand
in need of flight--God protects the innocent."
"Oh, he has abandoned me," sighed the poor fugitive. "Some wicked thing
has woven snares about me that look so like guilt that even he turns
away."
"He never turns away. By-and-by, child, his doings will be made clear.
Out of the depths of tribulation great mercies are sometimes wrought."
"You do not think it wise that I escaped from those men," she faltered.
He pressed one broad hand lovingly on her head. The touch sent a holy
shock through her frame. Some of the broad courage that filled his
Christian heart entered hers, and it flashed upon her how cowardly her
flight had been--how much like a confession of guilt it appeared.
"I have nowhere to go," she said, mournfully. "If I get away every one
will think it was from a sense of guilt that I left. I am his wife, your
son's wife, and must not let myself be unjustly condemned. Is that what
you mean, father?"
"Go to bed, child, and before you sleep ask these questions of our
Father who is in heaven. He will turn your heart aright."
She bent her head and clung for a moment to the hand which he had
extended; a great pain struggled at her heart; she knew what his words
portended. Like the angel who met Hagar in her extremity, he was about
to warn her back to her bonds.
They parted for the night, and Katharine went up to Thrasher's chamber,
led through the darkness by the gentle guidance of his mother. The
moonlight lay full in the room, and she could see all the objects it
contained--his bed, the glass in which he had feared to look, and the
carpet which his boyish knees had pressed.
The old lady helped her undress, and after she lay down, arranged the
bed-clothes and pillows as she had a thousand times for her son.
"Shall I stay with you, child?" she said, at last, stooping down and
kissing her in that sweet, motherly fashion which carries protection
with it.
Katharine lay in her husband's bed overpowered by a strange
tranquillity. Her face looked out sweetly through the moonlight, and
both hands were folded over her bosom; she had dropped unconsciously
into an attitude of prayer.
"Shall I stay with you, dear child?"
"No, it is his room, I am not afraid; go to your own bed, mother; in the
morning I shall be strong."
She had called his parents father and mother more than once that
evening; there was a fascination in the words that could not be
conquered. It made the old woman's heart swell to be so addressed. Her
son's wife--it was next to having him there in person. She kissed
Katharine on the forehead, and went away through the darkness, knowing
well that a violent death hovered over that young head, but feeling
glows of happiness in her heart all the time; for, like her husband, she
believed devoutly that God protects the innocent. He does--He does, but
not always in the way His creatures are presumptuous enough to mark out
for Him.