The Gold Brick

CHAPTER XXXIX.

OUT IN THE DEPTHS OF THE NIGHT.

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.

CHAPTER XL.

TAKEN IN FROM THE COLD.

The old couple were in bed, but not sleeping. Since the return of their son, weary, broken nights and most anxious days had marked the lives of these blameless people. It had been very hard to part with their son when he almost seemed domesticated with them. It had been hard to expect him back, day after day, and always with keen disappointment following the morning's hope. But more bitter than all was the news that had reached them within the last few days. Nelson had sailed again—sailed on a long voyage into those seas which take the youth out of a man before he returns.

How could they help being wakeful? Were they not worse than childless? Of the grave they knew something—its length, its depth, and how long it required for the green turf to spring up and draw the uncouth mound back into the loving bosom of nature. But what did they know of those far off waters where ships were lost in immensity, and fishes of monstrous size tempted men away from their homes. A whaling voyage—that was like a life banishment to an old couple who had so many gray hairs on their temples.

They could not sleep, though each kind heart strove to cheat the other—both were wakeful and miserably anxious.

"Father?"

The old man would not speak, but drew a long, heavy breath, which smothered a sigh, while it was intended to deceive the good soul into a belief of his sound slumber.

"Father, I say?"

Still he would not answer, for the poor mother had got a habit of keeping herself awake with midnight conversations in these days, and he was determined to put it down with masterly inactivity.

"Dear old man, I'm glad he can sleep so sound," she murmured, rising softly to her elbow and putting the gray locks back from his forehead, which she kissed with infinite tenderness. "It's a shame to wake him up."

The old man turned softly, and said with inward contrition, "I am awake, wife."

"Father, I think there's some one knocking at the window."

The old man lifted his head, and listened.

"Mrs. Thrasher! oh, Mrs. Thrasher, wont you let me in?"

There was a moan of anguish in the words that struck to the heart at once. The old man held his breath, while the wife clung to him with her head lifted from the pillow.

"It's her, it's Katy Allen," she whispered.

The old man slipped out of bed and hurried on his clothes. She, good soul, followed him, groping for her dress in the dark, but another faint knock on the glass, and a mournful voice crying, "Wont you let me in? I'm freezing! I'm freezing," sent her to the window in nothing but her long night gown and cap, with its double borders shading a very pale and startled face.

Mrs. Thrasher lifted the sash and looked out. A dark figure sat crouching on the snow where it had just fallen after losing its hold on the window sill.

"Katharine, Katharine Allen, is it you?"

The figure struggled to its feet, and clinging to the window-frame with one hand, put the other through the opening, where it touched Mrs. Thrasher on the bosom. A lump of snow could not have chilled her more completely, but nothing cold had power to reach that kind heart. She lifted her plump little hands and folded the trembling fingers to her bosom tenderly as if some stray bird had fluttered there. Then the sharp wind swept over them both, and dropping the hand with a caress, the woman said, kindly:

"Go round to the door, Katharine. Father is unbolting it now."

Katharine turned away. Mrs. Thrasher closed the window, and hurrying on a garment or two, went into the next room, where the embers of a noble hickory wood fire lay smouldering under a bed of ashes. While she was raking out the fire Mr. Thrasher came in, treading softly in his stocking feet, and with the suspenders he had forgotten to button, trailing to the floor behind him. From the darkness beyond came Katharine Allen; her hood was pushed back, and sparkles of ice shone in her hair as the ruddy light from two brands thrown hastily together flashed over her. She had been crying, but the tears had frozen to pearls on her cheeks, and filled her eyelashes with delicate frostiness.

She entered the room and sat down in Mrs. Thrasher's chair, looking wistfully at the old woman, and begging pardon with her eyes as she touched the blue and red patchwork cushion, which, in those days, was sacred to the mistress of a New England home.

"I am very cold," she said, with a wan smile; "it chilled me through standing by the gate so long."

"Poor child," said Mrs. Thrasher, gathering the stray brands together with a pair of heavy tongs. "Father, just hand in a stick or two of wood from the entry way. There, now, set up close to the andirons. Never mind us, we're not a-cold."

Katharine drew close to the fire, and held out her hands, that trembled and fluttered to the heat like half perished birds.

"I ran away," she said, piteously; "crept out of the garret window, and came off here. They want to kill me, you know."

The old people looked at each other and turned away, with their faces in shadow.

"You'll not be afraid to hide me a little while?" she questioned, anxiously.

The old lady bent over her, with tears in her soft eyes.

"Afraid, dear? no; we're not afraid, are we, father?" she said, lovingly.

A noise outside startled Katharine; she sprang up and fixed her wild eyes on the window.

"They've seen the light—they're after me."

"It's only an icicle dropping from the eaves," said the old lady, smiling. "There isn't a soul near but father and I, Katharine, dear, and you aint going to be afraid of us?"

Katharine looked at her lingeringly and sat down again.

"No; I'm not afraid of you. He told me to come, and not fear any thing."

Mrs. Thrasher drew close to the girl and bent over her.

"He, dear; tell us, father and I, you know, who it is you mean by he?"

Katharine looked up, and a strange light came to her face; it was as if a pearl had been suddenly illuminated at the heart.

"It was Nelson who told me to come," she said, in a tender voice.

"Nelson Thrasher—our son?" interposed the old man, almost sternly.

Katharine shrank together in her chair, and looked at him with a frightened glance.

"Did I say Nelson?" she questioned, faintly. "Not if it makes you angry with him."

The old man rose from his chair, and stood up in the fire light.

"Katharine," he said, "tell us the truth—was it our son who brought this shame and trouble on you?"

The words were stern. The old man trembled in all his limbs, but still there was strength both in his look and utterance.

"Shame, no; it is not shame for him—you might be sure of me there," she said, with pathetic simplicity. "I never mentioned him, and never will. So don't speak of shame and Nelson in one breath. The disgrace is mine, you know; and the sorrow, he shall never hear of it—never."

The old lady looked imploringly at her husband, and shrank back into the shadows of the room, wringing her hands.

"And this is my son! He brings ruin on an innocent, thoughtless girl, and then abandons her for years—her and his parents."

"Ruin! No, not that!" cried Katharine. "Shame! No! no! It is I that somehow have brought disgrace on him! Only I never told his name—never will ask for it! Don't be afraid. I didn't come for that—only to beg a hiding-place for one day. Those men will never know that I have any right to come here. Let them search. If they tear the house down, nothing will be found under the rafters. I've got the paper here!"

CHAPTER XLI.

THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE.

"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.

CHAPTER XLII.

ON THE FIRST STAGE TO PRISON.

"Oh, they found out nothing at first. Madame, that is Mrs. Allen, came down-stairs so softly and made one good breakfast, very nice, and they sat down, eating plenty. Madame look very white, and her hand shook when she pour coffee into their cups, but the men very sleepy and never see that, but sit so, with eyes almost shut and opening the mouth wide two, three times, sleepy a good deal."

"Wal, I reckon it warn't for want of snoring over night. My, didn't they go it in them two chairs," cried Tom, gleefully.

"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 washing 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 petite 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. God 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 petite 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 God 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 'God 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 buttoned 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 God 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 passion 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.

All this comforted Mrs. Allen. She had great faith in the justice of God, 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.

"Well, now, to begin at the root of the matter, Thrasher. This thing wants money."

"I have some in the house and more out at interest. Tell me how to use it best."

"You're a prime old chap. A church full of such members would be enough to save the whole country, bad as it is. How much money in all, brother?"

I am afraid the word brother broke into a slight sarcasm on the doctor's lips, for he rather disliked these empty titles of endearment, and was apt to laugh at them a little in ordinary times. This one word had sprung from his heart in spontaneous warmth, but it was so strange to the lips that they threw it off irreverently.

Mr. Thrasher named a sum of money larger than any one could have believed at his command.

"It isn't mine," he said, noticing the look of surprise. "My son brought home all his profits and savings the last voyage, and told me to put them out at interest, and always consider them as mine if I wanted means. I shall use this money now—every cent, if needful for her safety or support."

"You think the girl innocent, then?" said the doctor.

"Innocent as I am," answered the good old man.

"As a baby," chimed in the mild voice of Mrs. Thrasher.

"As the children of heaven," said Mrs. Allen, standing up, and speaking with all the authority of conviction.

"And this is why you would not let the poor thing run away?" inquired the doctor, sharply.

The two women looked at each other guiltily. They had been willing enough that she should run away. It was the sublime faith of the old man, appealing to a consciousness of innocence in the girl herself, that had wrought the noble act of self-abnegation, carried out in Katharine's return.

As for the kind-hearted women, to them Katharine's safety was the first thought; it was with heavy hearts that they had seen her return like a bird to the snare.

"Innocent or guilty she was in the hands of her God," answered the old man. "It was not for weak man like me to wrest her therefrom."

"Perhaps not; but I shall do my best to put all that stuff out of the lawyers' heads," answered the doctor, dryly.

The two women sighed heavily. Mrs. Thrasher looked a little shocked, and was troubled with vague misgivings that no lawyer of less strict principle would be tolerated by her husband.

"We must try and get a conscientious lawyer, if possible," said the old man, coloring under the doctor's words.

The doctor took up his crutches, and crossed them angrily before him.

"Look here, my old friend, we must divide this work, I see. You shall take the church and I'll take the law. You pray night and morning, I'll work morning and night; and if we don't save that poor child in the end, why it wont be for want of a suitable division of labor."

Mr. Thrasher yielded to this, for he had the great good sense which gives to every man a clear insight into his own capacities.

"I never had any thing to do with the law in my life," he said, meekly; "and for the whole world I wouldn't injure her by meddling with what I don't understand. If you'll undertake it, doctor, I'll——"

"Be content to play second fiddle—that's exactly what I am up to. Leave these law matters to me, and if you can do any thing to comfort her—if your religion can teach the poor thing to be cheerful or patient, my part wont be the most important after all. Well, now, Mrs. Allen, what are you good for? Why didn't you go with the girl?"

"I wished it; but they wouldn't let me. The jail was only for those who commit crimes, the constable said, and I had no right there."

"But you shall have a right, if I have to sin for you," said the doctor, dashing his crutch on the floor. "This is what you must arrange. Shut up the house here; take some of Thrasher's money, and go down to New Haven, take board close by the jail, and I'll answer for it you shall spend half your time with Katharine. If Thrasher and his wife could go with you, all the better—plenty of time to convert her in the prison. If the worst comes to the worst, she'll need you, and you can do more good than fifty ministers."

"Is it really your advice that I go?" said Mrs. Allen, with painful eagerness.

"It's my opinion that you should all go; nothing to do in the country at this time of year. You can comfort one another, and do her a world of good."

"I'm sure he's right," said Mrs. Thrasher, casting an appealing glance at her husband. "We might be a great comfort to her. How can we spend Nelson's money better?"

The old man arose and went out with the doctor, and the two consulted together some minutes by the gate, then Mr. Thrasher returned.

"There is a thing we have not considered," he said; "these two strangers. What can be done with them?"

Mrs. Allen went to a cupboard and took from one of the shelves a New York Journal, dated months back, in which Mrs. Prior's advertisement for scholars and boarders was conspicuous.

"These people live in my native town," she said; "it's a long time since I left it; but Paul would be much better off with this good minister than here with a broken-hearted old woman. My son has forwarded money for his support. While this trouble hangs over us, I will send the child to a happier home; as for Jube, he can stay on the place."

Jube heard this, and clasped his great hands with the sudden shock of her words. What! part from his little master—let the boy go off alone among strangers! It was more than he could bear. But obedience had been the first lesson of his life, and though every nerve of his heart protested, he uttered no complaint. Still, as he went heavily about his work that day, tears were constantly dropping from his eyes, and once he approached the window with such creeping humility that she half relented, and was tempted to let him go with his young charge.

But with a true Connecticut woman, industry is one of the leading virtues. The idea of a stalwart man passing his life in petting a little boy, was out of the question. True, it was very painful for her to separate these two singularly matched friends, but it was not in her nature to encourage idleness, so Paul's destiny for a time was decided.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE SEPARATION.

"You wont forget me, never, little masser?"

"Forget you, Jube, I couldn't do it; never, never; when 'sleep, it will be Jube who stands by in the dreams that our lady will send. If I pray, I will ask her to bless Jube."

"Oh, little masser, how Jube's heart aches!"

"And mine, Jube. What shall I do, all alone?"

"Yes, little masser, who will wake you up in the morning and warm your hands in his?"

"No one," sobbed Paul—"no one ever will be good to me like you, Jube."

"And you'll want Jube?"

"Want you—oh, very much."

Jube gathered the little fellow to his bosom and cried over him in forlorn silence.

"Little masser?"

"Well, Jube?" was the mournful answer.

"I'll try, little masser—I'll do very much to stay in this house when you're gone; but don't be frightened if I come often. Masser," sobbed the negro, "it does me good to say 'little masser,' but to-morrow no one will hear me."

Paul clung to his friend. "But I shall know it. In my soul I shall hear Jube's voice saying, 'little masser.'"

The rattle of wheels disturbed them. Tom Hutchins had driven up in his father's yellow wagon, and sat cracking his whip, ready to convey Paul to the stage house, where the doctor was waiting to see his youthful friend off. There was brief leave-taking between Mrs. Allen and her son's protégé. The sorrows that possessed her were so absorbing that all lesser griefs passed as nothing. She kissed the boy with a mournful farewell, and saw him driven away heavy-hearted and heavy eyed, wondering that any one, even a child, could feel sorrow for so slight a cause.

Jube, poor, faithful Jube, lifted Paul into the wagon, folded the checked blanket which draped the seat tenderly around him, and turned away, covering his face with both hands.

When Paul looked back to wave his last adieu, Jube was following down the road with long strides. He soon reached the wagon, and kept up with it, notwithstanding Tom's splendid driving, till they reached the stage house on the hill at Chewstown.

Before Tom could explain his meaning to the negro, the doctor rode up and shook Paul by the hand.

"Come, hop out, my little shaver—seat all ready—driver's got his orders. Here's a letter that you must give Mr. Prior, that's a good boy. Open the door, driver—lift him up, cuffy—ho, heave, ho!"

The stage took a splendid sweep, that nearly broke Tom's heart with envy, then swung down the sand banks across the bridge and away.

Paul leaned from a window, and wildly flung kisses back to his friends. Jube shaded his eyes with one hand, but tears dropped heavy and thick from under it, while Tom jumped out of his wagon, and ran after the doctor.

"Doctor, I say, you jest listen to reason. That ere nigger is breaking his consarned black heart 'cause you amongst you wont let him go with Paul. It's a burning shame of you, doctor; he'll jest pine away into a consumption; and that'll be what you have done."

"Why, Tom, what is all this about? I haven't kept your snowball; he can roll where he pleases for any thing I care about it."

"And you didn't set the widder up to this, doctor?"

"Set her up to it?—no."

"Doctor, give us your hand. I ought to have known better. If ever there was a chap that I look up to he isn't far off from this 'dentical hoss. If you'd gin orders for cuff to stay, stay he should, right or wrong; but if it's only a specimen of woman's work, then Jube is his own boss. A woman's a woman, and a nigger is a nigger—neither uv 'em can vote or train according to law. Then what right has one over t'other I should like to know?"

The doctor's eyes twinkled under their heavy brows.

"That is logic," he said, leading the boy on. "If women could vote, and——"

"If wimmin could vote!" exclaimed Tom, with magnificent disdain. "The idee! Who'd take care of the young ones while they trapsed about 'lection days? Well, I reckon it wouldn't be me—I've had enough of that 'ere."

"Well, Tom, as women can't vote, and have no right to order negroes, what course would you advise Jube to take?"

"Cut, doctor; that's what I'd do in this case!"

"Well, if he wants to cut, and has the money to afford it, I don't see the harm."

"You don't? Hurrah, Jube! You don't?—that's enough. Good-by, doctor."

Away the lad rushed, and sprang with a bound into the wagon.

"Come, Jube—hurry up. I've got something splendid to say to you. Jump in, and I don't mind driving you over the hill. Chirk up, old fellow, we'll be after him yet, but I'll think it over till morning."

Jube obeyed this boisterous summons, and climbed into the wagon.

The next day, Mrs. Allen left her house, and took up her lonely abode in New Haven. Old Mr. Thrasher went with her, leaving his wife behind for a few days, when she too would give up her home. Jube was left alone in the house, alone in the cruel cold, so heartbroken and desolate that he had not sufficient energy to build a fire, or cook necessary food. Tom was right—a few weeks of this life would have killed the noble fellow outright. On the third day after Paul left, he was sitting drearily on the hearth, with his feet in the ashes, when Tom came in.

"Just as I expected," he said, dropping into Mrs. Allen's high-backed chair. "Down in the mouth—clean give up—not worth salt."

Jube did not speak, but sat supporting his head with both hands, looking gloomily into the ashes.

"Look a here, cuff, to-morrow is stage day agin."

"I know it," said Jube. "The doctor stopped here and told me."

"He did?"

"Yes."

"Well, why didn't you take the hint?"

Jube looked at Tom, with a languid question in his eyes.

"Pick up your money, jump on the top of the stage, and dash away after Paul. That's what he meant by coming here."

"Ha! ha! what that?" cried Jube, starting to his feet.

"Now, don't go off the handle; but pack up your bundle, and be off in the morning. What are you skeered about? What's the use of working when you've got lots an' lots of cash? Just up and go after Paul. He's breaking his heart, and so are you; besides, this old house is enough to set a feller crazy. I couldn't stand it. Just up and go; that's my advice. The doctor'll make it all right with the old woman."

"But the animals—the poor cow and the birds—who feed them when Jube gone?"

"That's exactly what I come about. If it hadn't been for that difficulty, I'd a had you off afore this. I've been talking to par about the chores to hum, and he's kinder promised to let me off from part of 'em and give me time to stop here on my way to school and back. I'll take care of the critters and feed the chickens till some of 'em get home again; so don't worry yourself about them, but chirk up and act like a man. What are you looking away for? Don't it suit you?"

Jube turned his face upon the boy; a face all quivering and aglow with happiness.

"Oh, Masser Tom, a great rock is lifted right off from my heart. Masser Paul! Masser Paul!"

"It wont take you more than a day to get there."

"One day? to-morrow night? no more?" questioned the negro, earnestly.