The old woman had drawn Catharine through the door with great eagerness, clutching her arm with those claw-like fingers till the poor child almost called out with pain. She felt that the old woman was trembling with some emotion, which struck her as intense rage, and when her veil was drawn aside it revealed a face so pallid with affright, that for a moment the old woman did not recognize it.
“What? what?” she hissed at last, as the certainty of her identity forced itself upon her, “you alive and here. Oh! ha! she shall pay for this!”
As she spoke, the wretch clutched her hand with a more cruel gripe around the young girl’s arm, and gave her a fierce shake.
“Alive!—you alive and here?” she repeated, “oh! but some one shall pay for this.”
“You hurt me,” said Catharine, shrinking with pain. “I come to you for help; do not harm me!”
“Help! to me for help—you, you!” cried the old woman, drawing back and pointing her lean finger almost into Catharine’s face; “help you shall have. Help to the house of correction. I’ll help you there, certainly. You can depend on me. But where is the baby—the dear little infant; what have you done with that, eh?”
“It is dead!” answered Catharine, with simple pathos. “I am all alone.”
“So the dear little baby is dead, is it? what a pity! There must have been lots of mourners at the funeral. Why didn’t you send for me? I’d a come with pleasure.”
“Don’t,” said Catharine, lifting both her hands, and holding their palms out as if to ward off a blow, “don’t, unless you wish to kill me. It was your son’s child.”
“My son’s child, was it? oh! yes, I remember now. You were married to my son, as you call him, the last time I saw you. Perhaps you will give me another sight of that precious marriage certificate.”