WARNING.
KIT did her errands at the village store, gathered her parcels together, and not without fear and trembling, prepared to set out on her homeward walk. At the door, she found Abner Bassett with his father's team and wagon.
"Halloo, Kitty! Want a ride home?" was his cheery greeting.
The offer of a ride was an ordinary civility; and Kit was a great favorite with the family at the mill, from Ma Bassett down to the latest baby. Kit gratefully accepted the offer, and climbed into the rattling lumber-wagon with as much pleasure as if it had been the finest coach in the land.
"I have to go round by Aunt Betsy's to take home her molasses-jug, so I can set you down right at your own gate," said Abner as he took his seat, and started up his horses. "Well, and how are you getting on at your house? Your uncle doesn't come to Bible class any more?"
"No," said Kit sadly, "I can't coax him to come, but he lets me go, and he doesn't say a word against my going to Sunday school. Last Sunday he took my library-book, and read it all through. That was nice, wasn't it?"
"Very," said Abner encouragingly. "I'll tell you what, Kitty: next Sunday I'll pick out a real interesting book, and you shall take it home to him."
"Oh, thank you! Perhaps he will come after a while, if he likes the books."
"Perhaps so. You love your uncle, don't you, Kitty?"
"Yes, I do," said Kit with emphasis. "Uncle Phin is always good to me when he doesn't drink, and he was always good to poor aunt Martha. It seems to me sometimes as if he was two men; and one man wanted to be good, and the other wouldn't let him. I don't know as you understand what I mean."
"Yes, I do: I've felt that way myself a good many times."
"Well, I can't help hoping that the good man will get the best of it some time," said Kit.
"We will all hope so," returned Abner. "Here we are at Aunt Betsy's, and here she is looking out for us. Now she will have something nice and pleasant to say. Can you hold the lines while I get out the parcels?"
"Oh, yes: I am never afraid of horses," replied Kit. "When we lived in the Indian country, I used to ride the ponies bare-backed."
"Good for you! I'll give you a ride on my black colt some day.—Halloo, Aunt Betsy! Here's your shopping."
Aunt Betsy appeared at the door, candle in hand.
"Dear me, Abner! You needn't holler so. I never did see such boys for yelling in all my born days. Did you get the coffee? Seems to me it feels dreadful light for half a pound. Where's the molasses? Now, you didn't go and forget that molasses-jug, Abner Bassett? There never was any thing like boys."
"Hold on, Aunt Betsy. The jug is in the wagon all safe. Here it is, you see; and here is some ham, or something, Mrs. Andrews sent you."
"Why couldn't you say so, then?" snapped Aunt Betsy. "Ham, is it? Just like Harriet Anne Andrews. Why couldn't she send me some fresh meat?"
"On the whole, I believe it is beefsteak, and not ham, Aunt Betsy."
"There is a slice of ham in with the beef," observed Kit from her perch in the wagon.
"Yes, I dare say you looked at it. What business had you a-peeping and a-swooping into my parcels, Kit Mallory?"
"I didn't look into it," answered Kit indignantly. "I was in the kitchen, and saw Mrs. Andrews do it up. She told me last Sunday she would give me some nice papers if I would come after them, so I did. And I had to wait a little, because she said she was just doing up some things for Aunt Betsy Burr."
"Yes, that's a likely story; not but that it would be just like Harriet Anne Andrews to tell everybody what she was doing.—Well, there, I guess you've got every thing, for once. You can tell your ma, if she has got more plums than she wants, I should like a few to make sauce of."
"Aunt Betsy is rather worse than usual," said Abner as he drove away.
"What does make her so cross?" asked Kit. "Is it because she has had so much trouble?"
"She has never had any great trouble that I know of," replied Abner. "Her husband, Uncle Jonathan, was one of the best and kindest men that ever lived, and always waited on her like a slave. But he was not one of the kind that make money, and that vexed her. I do think she fairly worried the old man into his grave. Since then, all the neighbors have looked after her and done for her, but she is never satisfied, and never would be, whatever they did."
"I often think she must be lonesome living by herself so."
"Well, that is her fault too. Lucinda Jane Peabody went to stay with her, but after she had tried it a month, she told ma she would rather go and keep house for old Kettle on Indian Hill than stay with Mrs. Burr. And I am sure I would," concluded Abner. "The old Indian is good-natured, at any rate. Well, here we are, Kitty. Have you got all your papers? Good-night, and thank you for your company."
Kit had been in some measure diverted by Abner's chat and Aunt Betsy's scolding. But as she climbed the somewhat long and steep ascent from the bars to the house, her fears returned upon her with double force. And it was with a very anxious and troubled face that she sought out Symantha, whom she found taking care of the milk.
"Well, Kit, did you have a nice walk, and get your papers? Why, what ails you, child? You look as if you had seen a ghost."
"I have seen something worse," answered Kit in a low tone. "Symantha, what do you think! I have seen Gale again, and he was talking to Selina Weston."
"Are you sure?" asked Symantha.
"Just as sure as that I see you. I went down the brook-path; and when I came round the corner, there he stood talking with Selina. I saw him shake hands with her."
"Impossible!"
"Yes, he was. He has got white hair and whiskers, but I should know him by his eyes and the shape of his face if he were to paint his face black."
"What did you do?"
"I turned and ran till I came to the road. And then I waited for Selina, and told her who he was."
"And what did she say?"
"She called me silly and impertinent, and said he was a gentleman from Boston that she had met in Oldbury. But I knew him well enough; and what is more, I believe he knew me."
"I hope not," said Symantha, evidently much discomposed. "I do wish I knew what was going on. I believe that man is making a tool of father, and drawing him into some scrape."
"Then you believe it was Gale?"
"Yes, Kit, I do, because I think I saw him myself down in our woods the day the steer was lost,—the day Selina Weston came home. He was dressed very smart, and had white hair, as you say; but I thought of Gale in a moment. More than that, I believe some one has slept in the barn chamber more than once, and that father has carried provisions to him. What can he be about?"
Kit thought a moment. And then she drew Symantha into a little room which opened from the pantry, and shut the door.
"Symantha," she whispered, "I don't know what you will say, but do you suppose they can be planning to rob Mrs. Van Zandt?"
Symantha dropped on a seat, her face as white as her apron.
"Kit, what do you mean? What makes you think so?"
"Well, a good many things. It is the only house round here that would be worth the risk, for one thing. And there is another reason. You know uncle Phin would not let me go near Mrs. Van Zandt's for ever so long. He did not like it because I went to the flower party; and he would not let me go again, though Miss Van Zandt asked me, and offered to teach me to make lace. Then all at once, he turned round, and wanted me to go." Kit sank her voice still lower. "And ever since I began, he has asked me such queer questions when I am alone with him."
"What sort of questions?"
"Well, about the silver,—how much they used, and where they kept it. And yesterday, when I was helping him pick the harvest apples, he asked me if I had ever been in the ladies' rooms, and where they kept their jewels."
"And what did you tell him?"
"I told him I didn't know any thing about it, and that I had never been in any of the up-stairs rooms only Miss Bogardus's when she was teaching me the lace stitches. And I didn't believe they had any jewels with them only the diamond ear-rings Madam Van Zandt always wears. And then he muttered that he knew better, and that folks ought to have more sense than to bring such things to lonely country houses. And it is lonesome," added Kit. "The house stands so far back from the road, with no other anywhere nearer than this, except Miss Claxton's; and I don't know what good they could do. You don't think uncle Phin would be led away to do such a thing as that?"
Symantha pressed her hands hard together.
"I don't know, Kit. If he were left to himself, he would cut his hand off before he would do any thing to injure Mrs. Van Zandt. But he is in this man's power,—at least he thinks so,—and there is no telling—Hush! There he is."
And at that moment Phin's voice was heard, calling harshly, "Here, Symantha, Kit, where are you all?"
"Don't say a word, for your life," whispered Symantha. Then aloud, "Here I am, pa. What is it?"
"Where's Kit? I want her.—See here, Kit, what do you mean by hanging round Andrews's store, and being out after dark?"
"I was not out after dark, uncle Phin," answered Kit. "I have been home this half-hour. I went to get some papers Mrs. Andrews promised me, and caught a ride with Abner Bassett."
"Yes, I know you did; and a nice figure you made, perched up on his wagon-seat. I won't have you riding round with young fellows in that way. Do you hear me, or not?"
Kit could not well help hearing, for Phin spoke very loud; and hard as his language was, Kit could not help thinking that his anger was assumed. She answered quite meekly,—"I am sorry, uncle Phin. I didn't mean any thing wrong."
"Oh, no, you never mean any thing wrong," returned Phin in the same loud, harsh tone. And glancing toward the window as he spoke, "You go to bed, and stay there,—that's what I want of you. Go this minute," as Kit cast a glance toward her papers. He paused a moment, and then added, with a curious irresolution in his tone and manner, "There, you can take your books and a light, if you like. But go up-stairs, and stay there.—Symantha, I want you to take a light, and look up in the back chamber for the bottle of horse-liniment. I know I put it up there somewhere, but I can't find it."
"Here's the bottle on the shelf by the clock, uncle Phin," said Kit, taking it down as she spoke.
Phin snatched it from her, and set it back with such a trembling hand that he dropped it, and it broke to pieces on the hearth.
"There! See what you made me do. That is not what I want. It is a large green bottle with a wooden stopper. I know I put it up in the back room. Kit, why don't you go to your room, as I told you?"
"I am going, uncle Phin," said Kit, gathering her papers together. "And I'll tell you what I am going to do when I get there: I am going to kneel down, and ask God to keep you away from wicked men who want you to do wicked things."
Then coming close to her uncle, she threw her arms round his neck, and whispered in his ear,—
"Uncle Phin, don't, please don't. Just think what aunt Martha would say if she knew. And God loves you more than she did,—I know He does. O uncle Phin, don't!"
"Don't what? Don't be a fool," said Phin. "There, I am not angry with you, child," he added with the same curious irresolution in his tone, unclasping, but not ungently, the arms which clung round his neck. "Go to bed, like a good girl, and pray as much as you like. You sit up too late, and that is what makes you so thin.—Symantha, are you going to find that bottle? Or do you want the colt to die before I get it?"
"I don't think I can, father," said Symantha, who had dropped on the nearest chair. "I have had one of my headaches all day, and I am so dizzy just now I can hardly stand. I was going to ask you to help me up-stairs."
She tried to rise as she spoke, but nearly fell to the floor.
Phin caught her in his arms. "I'll carry you up," said he. "Come, Kit: you hold the light, and then go to bed yourself."
Phin laid his daughter on the bed, and kissed her tenderly enough.
"There, Kit will help you to get settled," said he. "You will be better when you have had a good rest."
As soon as Symantha had dismissed Kit, she rose, and though blind and giddy with pain, she crept to the other side of the house, where a small window looked toward the barn. She had waited only a few minutes when she saw her father leave the house with a basket. And presently she saw, or thought she saw, a gleam of light from the loft. Yes, there it was again; and then she saw it, but only for a moment, from the window of the little bedroom over the stable, which Kit had used all summer for a playroom. Phin had lately taken possession of this room for a harness-room, as he said, and had fitted it with a stout lock and key.
Symantha sighed deeply, and even groaned. She was like one who sees a friend in horrible peril, and is unable to lift a finger to save him. She knew there was no use in talking. Like other weak people, Phin had an abundant fund of obstinacy, and was excessively jealous of being governed. Such people are sometimes said to be easily led; and so they are in some directions, as a stone is easily started down hill. But try to roll your stone up hill, and you will find that a very different matter.
Symantha had wondered at her father for taking Kit's remonstrance so quietly. But then, he had been exceedingly kind and indulgent to the child ever since his wife died, even going so far as to attend the schoolhouse meetings with her two or three times, where he had been made very welcome. But all the good in the universe is of no use to a man so long as it is outside of him, as the wise old German has it.
Phin's feelings had been touched, and his natural musical taste pleased by the singing, but his will remained the same. He had made a solemn promise to his dying wife, which at the time he fully meant to perform. But he was waiting from day to day, "till things should be different," he said. Meantime, Satan was not idle, but was working by one of his most active agents, now awaiting Phin in the barn chamber.
"Well, here you are at last," was the salutation Phin received as he entered the room. "I thought you were never coming. What kept you?"
"Well, I had to get the women-folks out of the way."
"Bother the women! Why don't you send them adrift? That young one will bring you into trouble yet. I believe she knew me this afternoon."
"Nonsense! How could she know you? She has not seen you since she was a baby. But say, Harry, I wish you would give this thing up."
"Why?"
"Oh, because. I have a feeling that harm will come of it. And besides, the old lady was kind to my poor wife."
Gale poured out a flood of abuse upon cowards and soft-heads who did not know their own minds, ending with, "But I'll tell you what, Phin: if you play me false, I'll have your life, just as sure as you live. I have planned to do this thing, and I am going to carry it through. And you are going to help me, or you are not going to see sunrise to-morrow."
"Who said any thing about playing false?" asked Phin sulkily. "You do well to bully me, don't you? Where would you be this minute but for me?"
"I know, and I don't forget it, but I won't be played fast and loose with."
"And as to playing false, you had better look out for somebody besides me," continued Phin. "Much need to talk to me, when you put your head in that woman's pocket."
"What, Sally? She's as true as steel. You ought to see her playing the fine lady there in Oldbury. Well, there, go and get a nap, and I'll do the same. But keep one eye open, and call me at one: and remember, no fooling!"
Phin crept back to the house ashamed, enraged, wretched as a man could be, feeling himself a slave, and lacking courage to make a stroke for freedom. A French writer has said, that to reap any benefit from sin, a man must be altogether wicked; and Phin was not that. His conscience, though blunted, was not dead. Since he had lived in Oldham, a good many things had happened to bring to mind the teachings of that Christian mother and sister whose memory he still revered. He had more than half made up his mind to give up all his old courses, and betake himself to a decent, sober life.
But then the tempter had come in his way,—the man who, as he believed, had him in his power,—and the weak will had yielded to the strong one. He had been led into more than one piece of wickedness in his absences from home. Now came the crowning atrocity, for so he felt it. He was being made a tool of to rob, perhaps murder, the woman who had been a mother to his wife. To be sure, Gale had promised that there should be no violence, but what was his word worth? The fright alone was enough to kill such an old lady. There was not a man about the place, he knew, for the coachman had gone to Oldtown to meet some friends of Mrs. Van Zandt's who were coming by the early morning train. Nobody was there but three or four weak women.
Phin flung himself down in the rocking-chair,—his wife's chair,—and groaned almost aloud.
"Talk of going to sleep!" he said to himself. "You might as well tell a man to go to sleep when the Indians were pouring hot coals on his head."
The clock struck nine—ten—eleven. How dreadfully fast the hours were going on! It would soon be time to call Gale.
Suddenly a thought flashed across him. What if he should send them warning? If they were all awake and up, and the house lighted, surely Gale would never dare go near it.
Nothing is so dear to a weak mind as a compromise. Phin rose to his feet in an instant, found his way softly up the stairs in the dark, and opened Kit's door. He dared not strike a light, lest a ray should betray him. But it was a starlight night, and the large window was wholly uncovered, so that his eyes, accustomed to the darkness, saw the bed and its occupant. As he bent over, and laid his hand on her arm, Kit, who was always a light sleeper, started up broad awake on the instant.
"Uncle Phin, what is it?"
"Hush!" said Phin sharply. "Kit, listen. Are you afraid to run up to Mrs. Van Zandt's? You can go along by the trees, and nobody will see you. Are you afraid to go—to save Mrs. Van Zandt and the young ladies?"
"I'm afraid, but I'll go," was Kit's characteristic answer. "But how shall I get out without—any one seeing me?"
"Go down the front stairs, and out at the little side door: that is out of sight from the barn. Keep along the road in the shadow of the trees till you come to the turn by Crossett's red barn, then go across lots. Quick, now, if you are to do any good."
Kit was up and dressed in an instant. "What shall I say?" she asked.
"Tell them to get up and have lights burning, and to make as if they had company. Tell them—Oh, bother! Tell them what you like, but be quick if you are going to do any good."
"Wait one minute," said Kit.
For a brief space, which did not seem long even to Phin's impatience, she knelt by her bedside.
Then taking her shoes in hand, she crept down-stairs, slipped out of the little side door, leaving it ajar behind her, and glided like a shadow out at the gate, and up the road shaded with maple-trees of sixty years growth.
Phin watched the little figure as far as he could see it, and then went to the other side of the house, and looked toward the barn. All was quiet there. And he returned to his chair, to be tormented by a hundred misgivings, and to wish he had let the child alone. He had sent her into terrible danger, for he well knew that Gale would never hesitate to murder Kit if he caught her.
The hour set, one o'clock, was drawing very near. Why could he not have thought of it before? Kit would never have time to reach the stone house. And perhaps she could not succeed in waking the ladies, even if she did. He wished he had gone himself, or let the matter alone. Poor Phin! A great part of his life had been spent in doing things, and then wishing he had not done them.
THE NET CLOSED.
KIT sped swiftly and silently as a mousing-owl under the shadow of the great maple-trees, where the soft, short grass returned no sound to her tread. It was not till she reached a spot out of sight of house and barn that she stopped to put on her shoes, without which she dared not try to ascend the stony path. It was soon done; and she took her way up the hill, stopping more than once to look round, and strain her eyes through the darkness. She could not resist the conviction that some one or something was following her, stopping when she stopped, and moving when she moved. Her blood chilled at the thought. Could it be Gale, who had seen her, after all? Or was it—what?
Kit had heard plenty of wild stories, and had abundance of superstitious fears. She had heard from her Indian friends, of creatures which roamed at night to entrap unwary travellers, first scaring them out of their senses, and then tearing them to pieces. She had heard, too, from the school-children, about the great snake, which at least once in the year crossed the town of Oldham from Indian Hill to the Big Swamp, and back again,—who should say on what errand? She had heard, too, of panthers (or "painters," as the children called them),—wild animals, but endued with more than animal cunning and malice; and like every old New England town, Oldham had plenty of legends of goblin and ghost, witch and what not.
"But they can't hurt me unless He lets them, and I don't believe He will," said Kit sturdily to herself, after a longer pause than usual, during which she was sure she had heard the breaking of a dry twig under some one's foot. "I don't believe Gale saw me, and I'm sure nobody about here would hurt me."
So saying, she hastened on more rapidly, as if to atone for her delay. But it seemed an age to her before she reached the turn by her favorite ledge, and saw the stone house not far away, and a dim light burning in Madam Van Zandt's window. The next room was Amity's, she knew. But how to rouse them? She stood a second to consider, and then took up a handful of gravel, and threw it against the window.
Waked by the noise, Amity started up. But before she could strike a light, the sound came again, and a soft voice called, "Miss Bogardus!"
She sprang to the window, and, opening it, saw a little dark figure below.
"O Miss Bogardus, hurry and let me in!" said Kit in a tone of entreaty, for her courage was fast giving way. "Oh, do hurry! I am sure I hear them."
"What is it, Amity?" asked Ida sleepily from the next room.
"It is Kit, and she wants to come in," answered Amity.
And again came the agonized entreaty, "O Miss Bogardus, do hurry!"
It seemed an age to Kit, though it was not more than a few minutes, before she was admitted to the side hall, where were assembled Mrs. Van Zandt, Amity, and Ida, and another tall young lady whom Kit did not know.
"Fasten the door, quick!" were Kit's first words. "Fasten all the doors and windows."
"Yes, yes, we will fasten them," said Amity soothingly. "My dear child, what is the matter?"
"Fasten the doors; never mind me. Oh, do be quick! They will be here."
"Who will be here?" asked Ida.
"The robbers. Uncle Phin sent me to tell you. They are coming to rob the house to-night. Don't ask me any more questions, but hurry and fasten up every thing. They will be here: I heard some one coming up the hill: Oh, do hurry! They will kill you."
Ida, never very courageous, looked at Amity in dismay. The tall young lady, whom Kit did not know, stepped into her room, and brought out a neat little case, which she began to unlock.
"There will be two words to that," said she coolly.
"How many are there?"
"Only two that I know of, but there may be more. Uncle Phin sent me to tell you. Oh, why 'don't' you hurry and fasten up every thing?" said Kit, clasping her hands in an agony of impatience, as the girls looked at each other.
"My dear child, I don't understand you," said Mrs. Van Zandt soothingly. "I almost think you must have been dreaming."
Kit stood up, and strove to speak calmly.
But before she could answer, Percy broke in,—
"Excuse me, Mrs. Van Zandt, but I think we are the dreamers. If the child's story is true, we have not a moment to lose. If it is false, we shall only have lost our labor. Don't stand staring, girls, but collect the valuables, and carry them to some safe place.—Aggy, get together Mrs. Van Zandt's jewels and laces. Amity, you and Ida take the spoons and silver. Is there any money in the house?"
"Only a few dollars."
"So much the better. Come, girls, be quick."
"Wouldn't it be better to dress, and run down to Miss Claxton's?" suggested Amity.
"And so run right into the arms of these men, as likely as not," said Ida. "Besides, aunt Barbara could not do it. No, Amity, Percy is right. Don't waste a moment.—What are you going to do, Percy?"
"Stand here and keep guard for the present," answered Percy, examining the charges of her revolver, and changing a doubtful-looking cartridge.
"But you won't shoot anybody?" said Mrs. Van Zandt.
"Not if I can help it. Dear Mrs. Van Zandt, do let Aggy take you up-stairs."
"How cool you are!" said Ida, pausing a moment, with her lap full of spoons. "I wish I were like you. I am horribly frightened."
"So am I," answered Percy. "But if you had lived two years and a half in Arizona, you would know that the more scared you are, the cooler you need to be."
In a very few minutes, every thing of value was stored in a strong closet built for such purposes, and not easy to find unless the searcher knew where to look. And the ladies betook themselves to the front bedroom over the door, and awaited their unwelcome visitors. They had not long to wait. In less than half an hour, stealthy steps were heard, and the handle of the door was carefully tried.
To Ida's terror, Percy opened the window and called, "Who is there?"
"Let us in," was the response.
"Not till I know who you are."
"Look here, young woman, just you let us in peaceably, and we won't hurt you: if we have to let ourselves in, perhaps we shall. We mean to have what is worth having in this house, and you can't help yourself."
"That's Gale," whispered Kit. "He'll kill you all, as likely as not, if he gets in. He doesn't care what he does."
"He won't get in," answered Percy. Then speaking to the men outside, "We have fire-arms, and know how to use them. The first man who enters this house is a dead man."
"Do come away, Percy: he will shoot you," urged Ida.
"No, he won't. But I have said my say, so I'll shut the window."
"Hark! What are they doing now?"
"Sawing out the panel of the door," answered Percy. "Don't you hear them? I must unfasten this door so as to meet them before they can get up the stairs. Did you lock all the doors below, Amity?"
Amity held up the keys.
"Good! Then they can't do any thing 'but' come up-stairs. What are they stopping for, I wonder? Hark! What is that?"
There was a little silence, then the sound of a scuffle. And a shot was heard, followed by a heavy groan. Percy ventured to open the window and look out. She saw two figures stretched on the ground, surrounded by two or three more.
"What is it?" she called.
"All right, ma'am," answered a cheery, manly voice from below. "We got here just in the nick of time. Please open the door: there's no danger now."
"Who are you?" persisted Percy.
But before she could receive an answer, two more figures appeared upon the scene, and a voice she well knew called out, "Halloo! What does this mean?"
"What are you going to do, Perry?" asked Mrs. Van Zandt as Percy sprang to the door and unlocked it.
"Don't be in a hurry, Percy," chimed in Ida. "It may be all a plot to get in."
"A plot, you goose! Do you think I don't know Abram's voice?" Percy ran down the stairs.
And Amity advanced to the head of them in time to see her unlock and unchain the front-door, and throw herself upon a tall, stalwart figure, with a cry that had something decidedly shaky in its sound.
"There, there, my girl, don't go into hysterics. What's the matter?"
"No wonder the lady is scared," said a voice from behind, as a stout man in a blue uniform entered the hall: "it was enough to scare any one. But the danger is all over now, only we must get this wounded man under cover. There is a heavy thunder-gust coming up. If the lady will tell me where to find a small mattress, it will be easier for him."
"In the little blue room, Aggy," said Mrs. Van Zandt.
"With your leave, I'll help her, ma'am," said the stout man, stepping up the staircase with two strides, as it seemed. "Ah, yes, this is it. Careful now, men; mind the other fellow.—Perhaps you and your friend will bear a hand, sir."
In another minute or two, a desperately wounded man was laid on the wide sofa in the hall, and Kit had thrown herself on her knees beside him with a cry of anguish.
"Uncle Phin, O uncle Phin! Speak to Kitty."
"Kitty," said Phin, opening his eyes. "Is Kit safe? Then it's all right." He sank back with a sigh, and closed his eyes.
"Oh, do some one go for the doctor!" cried Kit, wringing her hands. "Don't let him die. O uncle Phin!"
"Hush, my child. I am a doctor, and I will see to him," said the second new-comer, advancing to the sofa. "Ladies, please step out of the way. Policeman, I shall need your help. Take the child away, Ida.—Yes, my dear, you shall see him again directly."
"And now what is all this about?" asked Abram van Alstyne, depositing his wife on the sofa. "Frank and I walked over from the railroad, and the first we knew found ourselves in the midst of a battle."
Ida told the story as far as she knew it. "As for the rest, you must ask our champions themselves," she concluded. "They may have come out of a cloud, for aught I know. I am sorry poor Mallory was the one to be shot, for it was he who sent us warning."
"So much the better for him," remarked the tall policeman. "But it was none of us who shot him: it was that fellow Gale, or Burchard—he has a dozen names or more. We have been watching for him for a week. His wife put us on his track at last. We came up just as they started out, and followed them every step of the way.—But what brought you up here, sis?"
"Uncle Phin sent me," sobbed Kit. "He told me to come up and tell the ladies. Oh, do you think he will die?"
"I don't know, child. He is badly hurt, I am afraid, but we shall hear what the doctor says. Here he comes now.—Well, doctor?"
"It is a desperate case," said Dr. Van Alstyne. "He may last till morning, or even a little longer if kept perfectly quiet, but it would be instant death to move him. He knows his condition, and is very anxious to see Mrs. Van Zandt and his daughter."
"Potter, you might go down for the woman," said the tall policeman. "Get out the horse, and bring her up."
"Well, my poor man, this is very sad," said Mrs. Van Zandt, seating herself beside the wounded man. "Dr. Van Alstyne says you wish to speak to me."
"You are Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt, who adopted Martha Kathleen Joyce?" said Phin.
"Yes, my friend."
"She was my wife," said Phin, speaking slowly but quite clearly. "She was my cousin's widow,—David Selkirk's widow. He died, and left her and her child to my care; for I was pretty steady then, and was helping him in his business. Afterward, I married her. There was quite a good deal of money coming to her and the child, but I fooled it away gambling and horse-trotting. Gale got most of it. Then my wife went crazy; and I was afraid a fuss would be made about the money, so I passed off Kit as an adopted child. Her mother never knew her till just at last. Then she made me promise to put the child into your hands, and I meant to do it, but I kept putting it off: I hated to part with her. And there was the money."
"I should not have troubled you about that," said Mrs. Van Zandt. "O my poor little Kathleen! To think of her dying so near me!"
"There was more about it than that," said Phin. He paused a little, and then added, "The farm is Kit's by rights. Grandfather left it to David. I found the first will at Mr. Green's in Oldbury, and proved it. Afterward, I found the second in grandfather's desk. It is there now. Symantha don't know any thing about it. You'll be kind to Symantha, won't you?" said Phin, turning his eyes wistfully on the old lady. "She is a good girl, and she was good to Matey."
"Indeed I will!" answered Mrs. Van Zandt. "As kind as if she were my own daughter. Oh, if you had only come to me at once!"
"Well, I meant to," said Phin feebly, "but, you see, I kept putting it off. I felt so ashamed. David left them ten thousand dollars, and I just fooled it away. I've been a fool all my life, but I was good to my wife, wasn't I, Kit?"
"Yes, indeed!" sobbed Kit. "Always."
"He must not say another word if he is to live to see his daughter," said Dr. Van Alstyne in a low tone. "He is sinking fast."
"Just one thing more," said Phin. "I want to see Gale."
The prisoner was brought forward strongly guarded. He gazed at the dying man without a sign of emotion in his hard, cruel face.
"Gale, do you think I sold you?"
"I know it," answered Gale.
"You are mistaken," said Phin eagerly. "I did send Kit up to warn the ladies, but I never betrayed you, did I, Cap?"
"No," answered the policeman, "you had nothing to do with it. Some one else put us on the track at last."
"Who?" asked Gale, changing color for the first time.
"Never mind, my man: you'll hear all about it in time."
"Not—not Sally?" Then, as it seemed reading an assent in the man's face, he set his teeth hard.
"Phin, I'm sorry," said he, suddenly turning to the dying man. "You've saved my life, and I've taken yours, but I was mistaken. I'm sorry, that's all I can say.—There, take me out of this."
Phin was silent for a little, and seemed to fall into a doze, from which he waked with a start.
"Where am I? Oh, I know. It's most over, I guess. Kit, can't you sing that hymn you sung for aunt Martha? Seems to me I should like to hear it."
Kit tried hard to sing, —
"Jesus, lover of my soul,—"
but the effort was too great. Ida took it up; the two gentlemen joined her, and they sang it all through.
Phin listened quietly.
"My mother used to sing that," said he. "She believed in Him. She taught me to say my prayers, too, but I can't remember them now, it is so long ago. Kit, what was that verse you said at the Bible class that night I went with you? Say it for me."
"'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin,'" repeated Kit. "O uncle Phin, do believe in Him! He will save you, I am sure He will.—Won't He?" she asked, appealing to Mrs. Van Zandt.
"Yes, indeed He will, if you look to Him," answered the old lady. "It is never too late to turn to Him in this world.—O Frank! Pray with him."
All knelt, while in a few plain, earnest words, Frank Van Alstyne commended the dying man to the Fountain of all mercy.
Phin evidently followed, and understood the words.
"Thank you," said he faintly. "I guess ma was right, after all. I am a poor wretch, but He can save me if He is what you say.—There, don't cry, Kit. Be a good girl, and mind Mrs. Van Zandt.—Lord, have mercy on me!"
These were his last words. He lay in a sort of slumber, starting now and then, till Symantha came in. He evidently knew her, for he pressed her hand, and tried to put it into Mrs. Van Zandt's. The old lady understood the movement, and bent over him.
"Have no fear, Mr. Mallory: your daughter shall have every care and help."
Phin smiled, sighed once, and all was over.
THE END.
OF course, by nine o'clock the whole town of Oldham was ringing with the news of the robbery and the capture. Aunt Betsy burst in upon Mr. Weston's family at the breakfast-table. But, before she had time to tell her tale, Miss Delia Claxton popped in at the other door.
"Oh, 'have' you heard? Isn't it dreadful! And that poor man to be taken so!"
"It serves him right," said Aunt Betsy grimly. "I only hope folks will have enough of those Mallorys," with a fell glance at Miss Armstrong. "I always said it was a shame to let that young one go to school with decent folks' children."
"But what is the matter?" asked Mrs. Weston. "What has happened?"
"Why, a gang of robbers, with Phin Mallory at their head, have robbed Mrs. Van Zandt's house, and would have murdered every one in it only the police came and caught them," said Aunt Betsy. "And that Kit showed them the way, and told them where all the jewels were, and all. Only last night she was at my house riding on the wagon-box with Abner Bassett, just as bold as brass. I hope he feels proud of his company, that's all."
"You are very much mistaken, Aunt Betsy," said Miss Delia: "it was Kit who gave them warning. Phin sent her on purpose."
"Yes, that's likely. I should like to know how you know so much better than any one," snapped Aunt Betsy.
"Because I had the news from headquarters," answered Miss Delia. "Mrs. Van Zandt sent Aggy down for me by daylight this morning. And when I was helping to lay poor Phin out, Aggy told me the whole story;" which story Miss Delia repeated with great precision.
"So Phin is dead," said Mrs. Weston. "Poor fellow!"
"Yes, he is dead, but I can't help hoping he had grace to repent at last, from what they told me. The other robber was—who do you think?—Harry Burchard. Yes, that very little curly-haired boy that I dressed in the first trousers he ever had on. It seems his wife has been living in Oldbury, pretending to be a great lady from New York; and he has been visiting her off and on, calling himself Pyncheon, and disguised like an old gentleman. She took that Whitman cottage, and they say it was she who betrayed him, to try to get off herself, but she didn't, for the house was just full of stolen goods." Miss Delia stopped for want of breath.
"Selina," said Miss Armstrong, "would you mind going up to my room to shut my window? I left it open, and my papers will be blowing about the carpet."
"Selina looks pale," observed Miss Delia as Selina disappeared.
"She has not been well for a day or two," answered Miss Armstrong. "I think she has worked too hard for her strength. So it was Kitty who carried the warning?"
"Yes. It seems poor Phin's heart misgave him at the last; so he put Kit out at the front-door, and the poor child ran all the way over the hill, and got there just in time."
"There! I knew she had a hand in it somehow," said Aunt Betsy triumphantly. "Well, give me folks that one knows something about. What could you expect from a poorhouse young one like that?"
"But that she should risk her life to save her friends," said Miss Armstrong, finishing the sentence.
"And as to knowing about people, I am sure we know all about Harry Burchard," said Miss Delia. "His grandfather was minister of Rivermouth; and his father was old Mr. Burchard of Pentaquam, as good a man as ever lived. Such sacrifices as they made to send that boy to school and college!"
"They used to indulge him awfully, though," returned Aunt Betsy. "His mother used to let him put sugar in his bread and milk. I have seen him do it."
"And as to Kit's family, it turns out to be as good as anybody's," continued Miss Delia. "Her father was Phin's own cousin, David Selkirk,—you remember him, Abby,—and her mother was a Miss Joyce, daughter of an excellent Irish minister who emigrated to this country. His wife died of cholera on the ship, and the poor man only lived a few months after her. Mrs. Van Zandt adopted the little girl, and brought her up. But when she was eighteen, she got acquainted with David: so marry him she would, and did, and went out West with him; and Mrs. Van Zandt never saw her afterward."
"Yes, that's the way," said Aunt Betsy. "Adopting children is flying in the face of Providence, anyway."
"Mrs. Van Zandt told me she was struck with Kit's resemblance to this poor thing the first time she saw her," continued Miss Delia. "She is going to keep the child for her own, only Kit stays with Symantha for the present."
"How did Symantha take it all?" asked Mrs. Weston.
"Very hard, poor thing. She closed her father's eyes, and kissed him. But she never shed a tear, and her face was like ashes.
"Presently she says to Mrs. Van Zandt, 'Did pa tell you about the child and the money?'
"And Mrs. Van Zandt said yes, but not to mind about the money: she had plenty.
"And then Symantha said, 'I should like to keep Kit with me for a few days.'
"And Mrs. Van Zandt said Kit should stay as long as she liked; and she kissed Symantha, and thanked her for all that she had done. And they got her to crying at last. Then she went home, and I went with her, and got her to lie down and take some tea. Celia is up there now, helping Ma Bassett put the house in order."
"I should think she'd be afraid," said Aunt Betsy.
"Oh, there's nothing to be afraid of: an officer or policeman is staying there. They searched the house and barns, but they didn't find a thing but what belonged there. And nobody thinks Symantha was any way mixed up in it. Of course she may have had her suspicions, but nobody could expect her to betray her own father, even if she had known for certain."
"Poor thing! And poor Phin!" said Mrs. Weston. "I hope he had grace to repent.
"Between the saddle and the ground
If mercy's sought, mercy's found."
"Maybe so, but I don't believe in death-bed repentances," said Aunt Betsy. "I never knew one to come to any thing."
"I never knew many people 'after' their death-beds, so I can't judge," said Mrs. Weston dryly. "I guess I'll send Ezra up to Mallory's with a loaf of bread and the chicken-pie I made yesterday. I can get something else ready for Sunday, and it will save them trouble in cooking."
Selina went up to Miss Armstrong's room, and closed the window. Then she retreated to her own, and sat down, not so much to think as to stare aghast at the gulf which had opened at her feet, and into which she had been so near falling. For she had been very near it: only last night, sitting in that very chair, she had made up her mind that she would write to Mrs. Orme, and arrange to return to New York with her. She would have done so then and there, but that, on opening her desk, she found she had used all her paper.
Suppose she had done so. Suppose the exposure had been delayed a few days, long enough for her to leave her home, and meet Mrs. Orme at Elmfield, as that person had proposed. The thought turned her cold and sick. It never occurred to her to doubt the truth of the story. On the contrary, a hundred things went to confirm it. She had had more than one fit of cold misgiving as to the character of her friend, since her return home; and her talk with Milly had shaken her more than she had been willing to own to herself at the time.
But then, the net had been such a very tempting one, and it had been so skilfully laid in the sight of the silly little field-bird, discontented with its nest, and longing for a wider flight. And now it would all come out, and every one would know. Kit would tell how she was talking with that murderer. What should she do? Where could she hide? She rose to her feet with some wild idea of running away, and hiding from the disgrace. But her limbs trembled so, she could not stand, and she dropped down again.
She was sitting with her head hidden on her folded arms, conscious of nothing but a crushing load of shame and misery, and that vague, unreasoning wish to die which so often seizes on young people in the presence of their first overmastering trouble, when a gentle hand was laid on her arm, and a gentle voice said,—
"My daughter."
"O mother, don't!" moaned Selina. "Oh, send me away somewhere, where I shall not be a disgrace to you. Oh, I wish you had never seen me."
"Hush, my dear, hush. Don't say such things," said Mrs. Weston gently. "Why should I send you away? Suppose you have been foolish, and made a mistake: what better place than mother's house could you find?"
"I have been more than foolish," said Selina, raising her head. "You don't know half how wicked and ungrateful I have been. Only last night—Oh! I can't tell you. Oh, what shall I do?"
"Don't try to say any thing," said Mrs. Weston. "Drink this coffee, and lie down; and by and by you shall tell me the whole story. Don't be afraid, dear: mother will always stand by her girl."
Selina was thankful for the permission to stay out of the reach of prying eyes and questioning tongues. Mrs. Weston undressed her, and bathed her hot head.
"God help you, my child!" said she, kissing her. "Try to compose yourself, and to look to your heavenly Father. Trust Him, my dear. Whatever happens, your father and mother will not forsake you; and His love is stronger than theirs."
"How good, how lovely, she is!" thought Selina, with a feeling of absolute wonder. "She knows I am mixed up in this horrible, disgraceful business, and yet she never gives me a word of reproach or unkindness. And I was ready to leave her for that—How could I be such a fool? But I have always been a fool. How shamefully I have treated Miss Armstrong, and how kind she was this morning! I do believe I should have dropped in another minute."
It was a very long day that Selina spent in her room, but it was the most profitable of her whole life. The flinty rock of her heart, which refused to be softened by the rain, was crushed and powdered by the hammer. The trodden path was hard, but the ploughshare could turn it, and make it fine for the seed. Her eyes were opened to see herself, in some degree, as she was. She could hardly have endured the sight, but that the same One who showed her sin showed also her Saviour.
That night, Selina opened her heart to her mother as she had never done before, and received her full and free forgiveness.
"You have had a hard lesson, my child, but we will not grudge it," said Mrs. Weston. "It will be worth all it costs if it leads you home to your Father's house."
"I hope it has," said Selina. "Do you think it is wrong for me to hope that He has forgiven me?"
"No, my dear. Why should it be wrong for you to take Him at His word?"
"Well, you know, Mr. Martin used to say he had no faith in sudden conversions, and that the religious life must be a gradual growth."
"How many conversions can Mr. Martin find recorded in the New Testament that were not sudden?" asked Mrs. Weston. "If I am lost on the mountain in a fog, and the sun comes out and shows me that I 'am' lost, it may take me a long time to get home, but it will not take me a minute to turn round and set off in the right direction. Thank Heaven, you have turned round! It makes me shudder to think of the horrible danger you have escaped."
But Selina's trials were not all over, by any means. It was known in Oldbury that she had been on very intimate terms with Mrs. Orme, as she called herself. And on examination, Kit was obliged to reveal the fact that she had seen Selina talking with the prisoner. What was known in Oldbury was known in Oldham, and Selina knew that the whole town was talking about her. Moreover, she was called as a witness on the trial; and though her testimony amounted to nothing, except to show how she had herself been victimized, it was a terrible ordeal, and when at last she was dismissed, she felt as if she could never hold up her head again. As she dropped into a seat beside her mother, a little hand sought hers, and a soft voice whispered,—
"O Selina! Don't be angry with me. I didn't mean to tell, but they would make me."
"You couldn't help it," returned Selina, pressing Kit's hand.
"You see, I knew him the minute I saw him," continued Kit. "You don't know how it made me feel to see him talking to you,—just as it did to see the copperhead twisted round Eddy's ankle. I was scared to death, for I thought he knew me, but I was determined to warn you."
"You were real good, and I have always treated you so badly too," said Selina.
"Never mind," returned Kit. "It has all come right at last, only for poor uncle Phin; and I can't help hoping it is right for him too. Uncle Phin wasn't naturally so bad, only he never had any mind of his own. He was always so easy to lead away. But somehow these people who are so easy to lead wrong don't seem to be so easy to lead right."
"Are you really going to live with Mrs. Van Zandt in New York?" asked Selina as they walked away from the court-room together.
"I am not going to live with her at first," answered Kit. "She says her house is too dull for a little girl: so I am to stay with Miss Ida's mother, and take lessons of her this winter."
"You will like that," observed Selina, "you are so fond of Miss Ida."
"Yes, it would be lovely only for leaving Symantha. But she says aunt Martha—mother, I mean: it seems so queer that aunt Martha should be my mother—Symantha says mother made uncle Phin promise to give me to Mrs. Van Zandt, before she died, and that is just what she should have chosen for me."
"And what is Symantha going to do?"
"Oh, Miss Armstrong has got her a place as nurse in some institution in New York where they take weak-minded people. It seems like a very hard place, but Symantha likes the idea; and she is just the one for the work, she had so much experience taking care of mother."
"And when are you going?"
"As soon as school closes. Selina, do you remember that first day Miss Armstrong taught, when I could not say the Lord's Prayer?"
"Yes, indeed; and how I behaved!"
"That was about the best day of my life," continued Kit thoughtfully. "I shall never forget how different the world looked to me after Miss Armstrong told me I had a Father in heaven who loved me."
"And you believed it the very minute you heard it?" said Selina. "And you loved Him?"
"Why, yes, I couldn't help it," answered Kit simply.
"And I had been taught about Him all my life; and yet, if any one had made me believe there was no God, I should have been rather glad," said Selina. "Your heart was the good ground, Kit, but mine was so hard, it is a wonder that any thing good could ever grow in it."
There is little more to add to our story. When the school closed, Miss Armstrong proposed that Selina should accompany her on a visit to her sister in Colorado. It was a long journey, she said; she should be glad of a companion, and her sister and niece would make Selina more than welcome. Mr. and Mrs. Weston gladly consented, willing to remove the girl for a time from the unavoidable annoyances which surrounded her in Oldham.
But we all know the dangers which beset young ladies who go visiting in new States. Selina found employment as a teacher in one of the schools which Christian enterprise has set up. She returned home in a year, but not to stay. A gentleman who owns a great sheep-farm in those parts came on in the summer, and, overruling all objections on the score of Selina's youth, carried her off in triumph.
Aunt Betsy was present at the wedding, of course, and remarked that she had always known the Westons would never have any comfort out of that girl. Such sights as they had spent on her! And now, just as she was old enough to be good for something, off she went. Aunt Betsy hoped he was a respectable man, but there were queer folks out there, and she shouldn't wonder a bit if something was to happen. It is not supposed that Aunt Betsy will grow more amiable as she grows older.
Patience Fletcher recovered after a long illness, but she was never so well as before, and she was obliged perforce to give up a great deal of the work into Faith's hands. Under these circumstances, Patience learned gradually to believe that the balance of the universe was not much disturbed though the teacup handles were turned east instead of west, and even to be resigned when the cat put her kittens in the second best clothes-basket, and a fly got into the front-room. In a word, the thorns which had so long choked the good seed, being rooted up, she found there was room not only for the wheat which is the staff of life, but for the flowers which beautify it. Faith grew up a capital housewife, and Patience confessed that Faithie made the house pleasanter than ever she had done.
Poor Cordelia Richmond had the comfort of opening her heart before her death. Mr. Brace conveyed an inkling of the case to Dr. Madison, who at once called upon Mrs. Richmond with his sister, who was a very great lady in that world which Mrs. Richmond beheld from afar with envious eyes. She could not for very shame refuse to let the Doctor see Cordelia when Milly told her, before him, that Cordelia had asked for him. The Doctor was a man of experience. He wasted no time in idle words, but went at once to the root of the matter. And before he left, he had the comfort of laying the poor trembling child at her Lord's feet. Even Mrs. Richmond could not be angry when she saw how peaceful and happy Cordelia was after the interview.
Three days after, the poor child passed away in great peace and happiness.
The next winter, Mrs. Richmond married a very rich man with a great house, for which he wanted a mistress, and forthwith plunged into "society." Her new interest broke the force of her disappointment in Milly, who has turned out "very eccentric; just like her poor father, you know," Mrs. Richmond says. "But she is a good child, after all; and I let her take her own way."
That way leads Milly to a great many strange places, to an Italian mission school, and a sewing-school, and not seldom to Mrs. Van Zandt, whose almoner she is among her poor pupils, a circumstance which almost consoles her mother for her oddity.
Kit is staying with Ida Van Zandt at Rockdale, studying, and working very hard at her music. She spends most of her Sundays with Mrs. Van Zandt, who finds great delight in her society, and promises to take her to see Miss Armstrong next summer.
For Miss Armstrong is settled in Oldham for good. She has actually married Mr. Brace, and settled down in the Oldham parsonage, which has been beautified to such an extent that it hardly knows itself. More than that, the parish has built a fine, convenient Sunday school room, which it is Mr. Kettle's pride and delight to keep in the best of order, remarking as he does nearly every Sunday, that he don't grudge the work so long as it keeps the wear and tear of the school out of "his" church. For Mr. Kettle looks upon the church and the minister, not to mention the minister's wife, cow, horse, and pig, as his own private property, and the best in their several ways to be found in the United States, and pays no heed to the remark of Aunt Betsy (also repeated every Sunday), that Mr. Brace may be all very well, but he will never fill Dr. Munson's pulpit.
We must now take our leave of Oldham and its people. Perhaps some time or other we may visit there again. I hope the moral of my story is clear enough to tell itself. To all of us comes the sower bearing precious seed. Shall we let it lie by the wayside, the prey of every wandering bird? Shall we let the thorns grow up, and choke it, so that no fruit shall be brought to perfection? Or shall we receive it into an honest and good heart, that it may bring forth fruit unto everlasting life?