The Gold Brick Part 29

CHAPTER XXVIII.

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, hara.s.sed 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 ma.s.sive 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 companions.h.i.+p 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?"