The Gold Brick Part 48

"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 sc.r.a.p 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 G.o.d 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--G.o.d 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.