“Besides this—to help them on—they can prove that Catharine Lacy is dead by the hospital books. I know that well enough, though you may not,” said the woman, with a confidential air; “but what then?”
“It would be sufficient proof against anything I could say, if that be true.”
“But he would know you. True enough, your hair is a shade darker, you look taller and larger, your whole person is changed; but you have the old smile, and the same eyes. I knew you, why should not he?”
“Oh, do not ask—he will not wish it.”
“And you will see him marry another. This may be refinement, ma’am; but to my thinking, it’s taking part in the wickedness.”
Catharine shrunk within herself, and her features grew pinched with sudden anguish. For a long time she remained silent, gazing wildly on the woman. At last her pale lips parted.
“True, true. O my God, my God, guide me—guide me!” She sunk upon a fragment of rock, as these words broke forth, and buried her face in the drapery of her shawl.
The woman stood over her, and said, “You see it must be done.”
Catharine moaned faintly.
“Or a great crime will lie at your door.”