The woman was ruthless. The glitter grew sharper and keener in her eyes. She had no compassion on the terrible agitation that shook the young man.
“Go up to the Almshouse, if you want to know more. She may be there yet with her child!”
“With her child, her child? my wife, my poor, poor wife! I tell you, woman, she was my wife. Before God and man, she is my wife—mine, mine—do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear; she said the same thing. I didn’t believe her. I don’t believe you. It is the old crazy blood up. You would cover her shame with your own. Like father, like son.”
“Woman, you insult me, you wrong that dear girl!” cried the young man, trembling with passion, “I repeat again, she was my wife!”
“Perhaps you can give me the proof?” said the old woman, holding out her hand, while a quiet sneer stole across her lips. “She had nothing to show—you may be better off!”
“Catharine has the proofs. I left them with her.”
The old woman laughed, or rather hissed out her satisfaction.
“She was a careless thing to lose them, I must say that. All I asked was some written proof of her story. If she had a certificate, why not show it? I wouldn’t have let her go to the Almshouse, if she had!”
The old woman seemed to love the repetition of this hateful word, the Almshouse, for she saw that it made the young man wince; and this was a joy to her.