The Gold Brick Part 50

"By-and-by madame began to wash cups, and do work. Then one man he say: 'Come, supposing we go up-stairs and see how that pretty bird comes on.

The old woman don't mean to give her any breakfast this morning, by her was.h.i.+ng the dishes so soon.'

"Then madame, she stop short, so, and look much frightened, very cold, and she say nothing, only look, look."

"Wal, now, I'd a thought better of that 'ere woman, she's disappinted me," said Tom, settling both hands in his pockets, and planting his feet apart on the ground. "It's scandless. Wal, now, what did the fellers do arter that?"

"They go up-stairs and knock; one, two, three times, very loud, then great noise with feet, and the door open, no one there, bed empty, garret window open."

"But no ladder, darn 'em--don't say as I swore now, Paul, cause it's a lie. I didn't--Jube and I took care of that 'ere ladder between us.

Golly, how I'd liked to have seen 'em looking out of that 'ere window like two foxes in a box trap. Wal, what did they do then?"

Paul smiled and looked around to see that no one was within hearing.

"Well, now I tell you, Mr. Tom, they come along tramp, tramp, on the floor--great noise and much talk, down the stairs--madame, she stand white, like snow, but with her eyes very sparkle. Jube, very brave, stand close by the stairs. Madame say something quick, then Jube he put his arm through the iron, so, and hold tight the door, madame go out, like lightning, and bring long piece of wood from out door. Then Jube take his arm away and make bar. Bang, bang, but the door no open, very strong."

Tom, with a spasmodic spreading of his feet and elbows, almost set himself down into the snow. "He, he, hi, hi, ho, ho-o-o-o!" he shouted, rolling about in furious glee; "I take it all back; that 'ere woman is a sneezer--I give up--own beat. She knows a thing or two, she does! Bang, did you say? I reckon it was bang! but, oh, she had 'em tight!"

"Very tight. They kick and call loud, and make great noise, but madame wash her dish and say nothing. Jube he stand by the fire and laugh; I laugh, too, very little."

"Laugh! wal, now I reckon you did. If you hadn't I'd a licked yer right where ye stand, if you be a furrener. I wonder you didn't march right up and hug the old woman--I'd a-done it."

"Madame don't like that; she keep on her work, no smile, nothing but work. The men make more noise; she no take care, but work, work."

"She's a Queen of Shebe, she is. I tell you what, Paul, I'm proud of that woman. She ought to have been my marm. Wal, so she worked on, and let 'em take it out in stomping, didn't she?"

"Yes; she work all the time; not seem to hear till somebody open the gate, then she stop, with the broom in her hand like a staff, and held her breath, so."

"What was that for?"

"We all hold our breath, for under the heavy step come a soft one like little child walking. The door it open, and that man from next house come in, and with him mademoiselle."

"You don't say so. Paul, you furrenir, I dare you to say that over agin.

If you want a licking, do it, that's all!"

"Yes; it was the poor, pretty lady," said Paul, nothing daunted by this grand threat. "She come in very softly, with the pet.i.te bonnet over her face. She looked like one angel. Madame stood still. She bear on her broom like a staff, and her eyes open wide. Mademoiselle, she go up to madame and take her hand. 'Mother,' she say, 'guilty people run away, and I am not guilty. G.o.d knows it, and He is good; so I come back!' Ah, Monsieur Tom, it broke my heart in pieces to hear her speak so sad, so sweet. I can't help it, the tears will come!"

"Now don't," said Tom, drawing the sleeve of his jacket across his eyes.

"It's enough to make a feller forget that he's a man!"

Paul went on, twinkling the tears away with his black eyelashes.

"So then she come home once more like a poor little bird that flies round and round its nest. Madame said no one word, but took mademoiselle's head, so, between her hands, and kissed her very much, once, twice. I never saw madame do that till now; it made me sad very much."

"What did she come back for?" cried Tom. "I can't understand it, no how."

"She took off her pet.i.te bonnet, and sat down by the fire, holding out her hands. Then the good man from the house with trees before it, very tall, he speak to madame so kind, and say that mademoiselle is very right not to run great way off like guilty people; that the great G.o.d was very strong to take care of her, and she must not have too much fear, but keep brave heart. Then madame began to cry; oh, how she cry, with great sobs, like the wind in trees that give all their leaves away to winter, she say 'G.o.d help me, for I am a coward;' and then she goes to the stairs and opens the door, and says to the men, 'Come down, my daughter has not run away, she is here.'"

"Then mademoiselle stood up and say--ah, so sweet: 'Yes, I am here, do with me as you please;' and a smile was on her mouth like the sun on the snow, and----"

"Don't, I tell you don't," cried Tom, stamping furiously. "It's enough to bust a feller's heart, if his jacket was b.u.t.toned ever so tight.

She's a brave gal. You, and I, and Jube, may just hang up our fiddles, for the law's got her now, tight enough. That old Thrasher has done the business for her this time, anyhow. Gracious, what's that? Look a there--didn't I tell you?"

A wagon was coming up the road, slowly ploughing its way through the muddy snow: a single-seated wagon, with a rush-bottomed chair standing in front, upon which a man sat conspicuously, driving the horse. In the seat behind sat another man, with his arm thrown around a slender female, who shrunk away from his embrace, and cast wild glances toward the group of school children, that gathered in a crowd by the side of the road.

"Ah, me, it is her," said Paul, turning his eyes upon the wagon, and clasping his hands.

"Yes," said Tom, and the great tears leaped down his cheeks. "It's no mistake, them men are the keepers, and that is her. They're taking her up to the Squire's. It's all day with us, Paul; she'll never sleep in that brown house agin. Don't shake so, Paul; don't cry like a baby; I tell you it's enough to make a feller ashamed of your company!"

That moment the wagon came opposite the place where the two boys were standing: the prisoner saw them, and leaning forward tried to smile.

Tom's bosom heaved, every feature in his face quivered, and then his feelings broke forth in a burst of tears that shook him from head to foot.

"Cry, Paul; cry, if you want to! I wont say a word agin it," he sobbed; "if you and I was giants, fifty feet tall, we needn't be ashamed of boo-hooing right out at a sight like that. Poor gal, poor gal, she looks like a blessed lamb between two butchers. Never mind, Paul, cry if you can't help it. I'll stand between you and the boys--they know me--by jingo, wasn't that one of 'em laughing? I'll maul him, see if I don't."

"Ah, no," said Paul, whose grief had been far less turbulent than that of his friend, "they not understand it as we do. She would not like you to fight, or think of any thing wrong. Let us be good, very much, and perhaps G.o.d will take care of her as He took care of Jube and me, when there was nothing but sky and water, very deep, all around us."

"Oh, why didn't she cut when we got her off!" cried Tom, bursting into a fresh pa.s.sion of sobs. "It's like climbing a high tree after a young bird, and then seeing it flip out of your hand just as you touch ground.

What's the use of being a gineral if your sojers wont work! That old Thrasher has undid us, Paul."

"Don't, please!" said Paul, listening. "I can hear the wagon yet, and it seems to be saying good-by--good-by. Oh, it is very sad, too sad, Mr.

Tom."

True enough, the wagon was out of hearing, and Katharine Allen proceeded on her first stage to prison.

CHAPTER XLIII.

FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.

There was a mournful council held in Mrs. Allen's house on the morning after Katharine was carried away to prison. Old Mr. Thrasher and his wife had gone to the widow's residence early in the day, in great humility, seeking to share her sorrows, and take the burthen of Katharine's defence upon themselves. In words, they kept the promise that the poor girl had extorted, and never mentioned their son in connection with her, but the truth broke out from their innocent bosoms in every way. It breathed in their voices, and looked kindly forth from their eyes. They called Mrs. Allen sister, and there was a tenderness in the words that no common ideas of brotherhood ever possessed. They spoke of Katharine as the dear child on whom G.o.d had laid a heavy hand, but who had proved as brave as she was innocent.

All this comforted Mrs. Allen. She had great faith in the justice of G.o.d, and would not believe but that the truth must prevail even against the iron rule of law. She did not hesitate to accept the aid which Mr.

Thrasher offered, and in one hour those three persons who had been so far apart two days before formed one little community of grief, and consoled each other like members of one household.

At first the two women had their secret misgivings, and, dear old cowards as they were, regretted that Katharine had even rendered herself up to the laws. Flight seemed to them the only sure way of escaping the horrors that threatened her. But the old man silenced these secret repinings with his firm Christian faith. His faith in divine goodness was perfect; believing Katharine innocent, he trusted her to the laws, certain that in some way her safety would be wrought out. Still he was not one of those men who indolently resign every thing into divine hands without individual effort. While ready to trust, he was equally ready to work for her deliverance in any way that seemed best.

The doctor came while these three persons were consulting together. A long ride was before him that day, but he scouted all ideas of fatigue, and left a host of patients to wait while he rode off to the widow Allen's in pity to her forlorn condition. Under the eccentricities which marked this man's character was a fund of sterling good sense and shrewd worldly knowledge, both of which he brought into the general council, where it was greatly needed, for three more inexperienced and single hearted creatures than he found in that kitchen seldom existed, even in New England, before stage-coaches gave way to railroads. Every face in the little group brightened when the doctor came in with his usual quaint joviality, which often covered more true benevolence than people suspected.

"That's right! all in Indian council round the fire. Something to be done; you're ready to go at it, and I'm here to help. I say, Thrasher, if you can't save that girl, don't ever dare to pray in the face of heaven again."

"It must be a greater than I who saves her," answered the old man, reverently; "but all that an honest man has power to do I am ready for."

"Well, now give me a chair, Mrs. Allen; don't keep me standing, it's bad policy; I may be a widower some of these days, can't you understand that!"

Mrs. Allen got up and placed a chair for her old friend, who dropped into it, deposited his crutches conveniently, and began to rub his hands before the fire.