THE ENEMY.
KIT hoped she might reach home and go to bed without being missed. She
had often played out on the hillside till after dark, and no questions
had been asked as to where she had been.
But fate was against her—or rather the Devil, acting by one of his
most harmful agents, a malicious woman, determined neither to be good
herself, nor let any one else be so if she could help it. Melissa
Mallory was not indifferent to religion, by any means: on the contrary,
she hated the very name of it. She had not succeeded in making herself
an absolute unbeliever, though she had tried very hard. There always
would stay by her, hid in some inner recess of her soul, a terrible
lurking dread,—the conviction, that, after all, there was a superior
power, a great Being who knew of all her sins, and would some day exact
a full account of them; and she felt toward this power as the Eastern
king in the story might be supposed to feel toward the lion which he
knew was shut up somewhere in his palace, and which might break out any
day and devour him. There were people all about, wherever she went,
who professed to be friends with this great enemy of hers, to hold
intercourse with and receive benefits from Him; and all such persons
she held as her own foes.
Melissa had never loved Kit; she considered her an interloper, taking a
share of the common funds which she might have enjoyed if Kit had not
come into the family. Moreover, she was jealous of Kit's undeniable
beauty and wit; and strange to say, of the child's growing influence
over poor Mrs. Mallory. Melissa had never loved her stepmother, and
she was habitually unkind to her, professing to believe that half her
insanity was affectation, and declaring that it might be driven out of
her if Symantha did not indulge and coddle her so. Mrs. Mallory was
afraid of Melissa, and always worse when left to her care, but she
liked Kit though she did not always know her, and unless when at the
worst, was usually docile, or at least passive, in her hands. Melissa
felt this to be a new injury. She liked, as Symantha said, to get a
handle against the child; and now she flattered herself that she had
found one. She had suspected Kit's purpose, had watched her go, and
seen her return, and was all ready to catch her when she came in.
"Well, Kit, did you have a good meeting?"
Phin Mallory had been to Oldbury, and had come home in a very bad
humor,—a circumstance on which Melissa had fully calculated. He was
reading his newspaper by the light of a very dismal kerosene lamp,
which burned viciously sideways when he turned it up, and smoked
sulkily when he turned it down,—a circumstance which did not improve
his temper in the least.
"Meeting!" said Phin, dropping his paper. "What do you mean?"
"I haven't been to meeting," said Kit.
"You didn't go into the house, but you stood and listened under the
window," said Melissa. "You needn't deny it, for I saw you with my own
eyes."
"Well, suppose I did: where was the harm?" said Kit boldly, though she
trembled as she saw her uncle's eyes fixed on her. "I like to hear the
singing. There was one of the young ladies at the stone house, and she
sang beautifully."
"Come here," said Phin sternly.
Kit dared not disobey. Her uncle took her by the shoulder, and shook
her till she was giddy, ending with a sharp box on the ear.
"Take that for a sample of what you will get if you ever go to that
place again," said he, pushing her away. "I won't have you go near
these people. Do you hear?"
Kit looked at him with a white fact and blazing eyes, but did not
answer.
"Just look in her pocket, and see what you will find there, pa," said
Melissa with a sneering laugh. "You didn't know what a saint you had in
the family. See here!"
She caught hold of Kit's dress as she spoke, and, despite her
struggles, pulled out her precious Testament, which she handed to
her father. Phin took it, and threw it into the fire. With a cry of
anguish, Kit sprang to rescue her treasure, but only succeeded in
setting fire to the sleeve of her dress, and burning her own hand
severely.
"Serves you right," said Phin. "You let me see you have such a book
again, and I'll put you where you won't see book or school either. I've
had enough of pious folks, without your taking up the dodge,—a set of
hypocrites who set themselves up above everybody else, and look down
on their betters. I won't have it. Do you hear? Stop that noise, and
answer me."
Quite beside herself with pain and anger, Kit turned on her uncle, and
would have returned his blow, if Symantha had not caught her hand.
At that moment, there came a cry from the inner room,—a wail of such
despairing anguish as might have come from a lost spirit,—"They have
taken away my Lord. They have taken Him away, and I know not where they
have laid Him."
"There, now you have done it," said Symantha angrily. "Now we shall
have no rest all night, and perhaps have the neighbors coming in to see
what is the matter.—Don't cry, Kit. Come here, and let me do up your
hand.—Just see there, father!" she added indignantly, holding up Kit's
arm for his inspection.
The hand and wrist were fearfully scorched, and already covered with
blisters.
"Why didn't she mind, then?" said Phin sullenly. "I'm sure I didn't
mean to burn her." To do him justice, he was already ashamed of his
outburst. He was not usually so ill-natured, but he had had a hard time
in Oldbury that day. He had, so to say, fought for his soul, and lost.
"There, don't cry any more," said Symantha after she had covered the
burnt arm thickly with flour, and done it up in cotton. "I'll help you
to bed. And maybe you will get another Testament some time: Who knows?
Don't cry if you can help it, that's a good girl: you will make ma
worse, and then I shall not know what to do."
"I'll do any thing for you, because you are so good, and I love you,"
said Kit, trying hard to restrain her sobs. "But I hate Melissa, and I
hate uncle Phin. So!"
"Hush, hush! There, try to go to sleep. Pa will be sorry to-morrow. He
was dreadfully put out when he came home. I'm afraid—"
"Afraid of what?" asked Kit, as Symantha checked herself.
"I'm afraid ma is going to have a dreadful night," answered Symantha
hastily. "There, don't cry any more, but try and lie still, and lay
your hand on this pillow; and I hope you will go to sleep. Poor child!
It was a bad day for you when you came to us."
Kit's hand was badly burned, and smarted terribly. But her tears,
which had full way when Symantha left her, were caused more by anguish
of heart than by bodily pain. She was furious against her uncle and
Melissa, especially the latter, whom she justly considered the cause
of all the trouble; and Kit was one of those natures to whom rage
was grief. But that was not the worst. The little wild girl who had
so lately set out in the Christian pilgrimage had already met with
Apollyon in his worst form.
"And I was trying so hard to be good!" she sobbed, talking to herself
as lonely, neglected children so often do. "I was trying so hard to do
what I thought He would like! And Miss Armstrong said He would help me,
and that old lady said the same in the meeting; and He didn't help me,
oh, He didn't help me a bit. He let Melissa tell of me, and uncle Phin
shake me, and burn my Testament. Oh, dear, oh, dear! What if uncle Phin
should be right, and there shouldn't be any such person, after all?"
Kit sobbed anew, and even cried aloud, in the anguish of this doubt.
The story which had brought such light and comfort, such wonderful and
glorious possibilities, into her dark and sordid life, which had added
such new beauties to what she loved best,—if that story were nor true,
after all!
"Oh, I don't want to live, I don't want to live," cried Kit aloud. "If
there isn't any Lord Jesus, I don't want to live at all." ¹
¹ A fact.
"Stop that noise, Kit, or I'll whip you," said Melissa, opening the
door. "You little fool, to make such a fuss about an old book full of
silly stories!"
Somehow this appearance and assault of her enemy seemed to give Kit
a little comfort. Satan is always easier to fight when he comes in a
bodily shape.
"It isn't a book full of stories: it is the truth, and you know it,
Melissa Mallory. You 'know' it is true. There 'is' a God, and He is my
Father; and if you abuse me, He will punish you. He can see all you do.
Don't you dare to touch me!"
And she did not. That something she had never dared to search out, and
had never been able to silence, stirred in her heart. What if it should
be true, as Kit said? She contented herself with a threatening gesture,
and withdrew, shutting the door.
Kit's sturdy profession of faith had at least comforted herself. Yes,
she would believe in Him. If He was good, as Miss Armstrong said,
perhaps He would make some good come out of this trouble, after all.
Then Kit remembered that she had not said her prayers. She rose softly
from her bed, and kneeling down in the bright moonlight, she said her
little hymn, and as much of the Lord's Prayer as she remembered, for
she had not yet learned it quite perfectly. There was something in it,
she knew, about forgiving trespasses.
"That means sins, Miss Armstrong said; if we don't forgive people,
He won't forgive us. But, oh, dear! How can I forgive uncle Phin for
burning my book? And Melissa—it was all her fault."
Kit thought a little, and then knelt down again. Her prayer was very
simple:
"I can't forgive them myself, but if it is true, what teacher says,
you can make me. Please do, and help me; for I haven't got any friends
only Miss Armstrong."
Kit's faith was but weak and faltering, like that of the poor father,
"If thou canst do any thing, have compassion on us, and help us." But
the same compassionate ear is ready to hear, and the same hand to save,
now as then.
Kit lay awake a long time. But at last, the pain in her hand grew less,
and she fell asleep. She slept longer than usual, and when she waked
the sun was shining into her room.
"It must be ever so late," thought Kit. She started up, and her first
move reminded her of all that had happened the night before.
"How shall I ever get dressed?" she thought.
She made out to put her clothes on, but to fasten them was beyond her
power, so she went down to find Symantha.
Symantha was moving softly about the kitchen, busy in setting things to
rights. She held up her finger as Kit opened the door.
"Is aunt asleep?" asked Kit in a whisper. "Did she have a bad night? I
thought I heard her."
"Yes, she did not go to sleep till sunrise. Pa has gone out to the barn
to get a nap on the hay, and Melissa is not up yet."
"Oh, yes, they can all sleep but you; that is always the way," said Kit
indignantly.
"I'm used to it," answered Symantha, smiling rather grimly. "Here's
your coffee hot on the stove, and I'll fry you an egg. How does your
hand feel?"
"It doesn't smart so much, but it is 'awful' sore," said Kit, wincing
as she tried to move it. "I can't bear to put it down, it hurts so."
Symantha found a large handkerchief, with which she made a sling
for the wounded arm, which she did up again in fresh, clean
cotton-wool,—the very best dressing for a burn.
"That is more comfortable," said she. "You must be careful not to hurt
it or get cold in it, or you will have a bad hand."
"Can't I go to school?" asked Kit in dismay.
"Oh, yes, if you will be careful, and not hurt yourself playing. You
will be as well off there as here. Eat your breakfast or dinner,
whichever it is, and you will be in good time for afternoon."
"Is it as late as that?" asked Kit.
Symantha pointed to the clock, which stood at half-past eleven.
"I never thought it was so late," said Kit. "Why didn't you call me?"
"Because you needed the sleep, child. There, eat your breakfast while
it is hot."
Symantha took her sewing, and sat down by Kit in the window.
"How good you are to me!" said Kit gratefully. "You do love me, don't
you, Symantha?"
"Yes, child, I do," answered Symantha with sudden earnestness. "You are
about the only comfort I have, but I love you so much that I should
like to send you a thousand miles away, where I should never see you
again, if I could only get you a good home by it."
"But I don't want to go a thousand miles away," said Kit. "I want to
stay with you, and help you, for I love you."
"Then, Kit, if you love me, promise me one thing," said Symantha.
"Promise me that you won't let any one—pa, or Melissa, or anybody—drive
you, or coax or bribe you, to do any thing wrong. If you have any doubt
about the matter, come and ask me."
"I won't," answered Kit earnestly. "There isn't much danger with
Melissa, because I don't like her a bit, but uncle Phin is real good to
me sometimes. I don't see what ailed him last night."
"He was put out about something when he came home, and he was vexed
about your going to meeting. And, Kit, that is a thing you must not do
again, at least, not now. Nothing makes father so angry."
"I won't, then," said Kit, "but I should like to." She was silent a
while, and then asked, in a half whisper, "Symantha, was it religion
that made aunt Martha crazy?"
Symantha nodded.
"I thought it might be, because she always says 'that,'" said Kit. "How
was it?"
"She was brought up to be very religious, and to go to church, and
all that," replied Symantha in the same low tone. "She was a regular
church-member when she married pa, and, oh, such a pretty, bright
creature! Kit, whatever happens, you must always be good to ma. There
is more reason for it than you know."
"I will," said Kit. "I think she likes me too. But, if aunt Martha was
such a religious woman, how came she to marry uncle Phin? Wasn't he the
same that he is now?"
"Yes, very much the same, so far as that goes; only he was not so rough
in his ways. He was very handsome in those days, and could make himself
very agreeable; and ma thought she was going to influence and convert
him, but it worked the other way."
"Seems to me I should rather convert a man first, and marry him
afterward," said Kit. "And what then?"
"Well, there isn't much to tell. She used to try to argue with pa, but
she was no match for him that way. She used to get vexed, and then he
would laugh at her. By and by, she got to not going to church; and then
pa coaxed her to go out riding with him Sundays, and do other things
that she thought were wrong. After a while, she began to be melancholy
and queer, and at last, one day she tried to kill herself. Ever since
then she has been as she is now."
"Seems to me it wasn't her religion that made her crazy, so much as
losing it," said Kit shrewdly.
"Sometimes I have thought that, myself. It was a bad day for her when
she got acquainted with our family."
"What was aunt Martha's name before she was married?" asked Kit.
"I don't remember," answered Symantha, getting up and going into the
pantry. "Don't you want to run out and see if you can find some fresh
eggs? If you can, I'll make ma a custard."
"Why, my dear child, what is the matter?" said Miss Armstrong as Kit
made her appearance at school with her arm in a sling. "What has
happened to your hand?"
"I burnt it," answered Kit, coloring painfully; for she saw the girls
looking at her, and felt, as one is apt to do at such times, as if they
must know all about it.
"You look hardly fit to come to school," remarked Miss Armstrong
kindly. She did not ask how the accident happened; guessing, with
the happy instinct that belongs to some people, that there was some
unpleasant story connected with it. "Do you feel able to learn your
lesson?"
"Yes, ma'am, I would rather study than not," answered kit. "My arm does
not hurt me so very much now when I keep it still."
Kit was quite sincere in what she said. She felt, rather than thought,
that the labor of fixing the column of words beginning with "Abase,
Abate," would be a relief from the tormenting thoughts which had driven
her almost wild. She set herself to work in good earnest to master her
lesson. But her mind would wander, in spite of herself; and when she
came to recite, she missed two or three times, and went down to the
very bottom of the class. Kit was tired and nervous for want of sleep,
and very unhappy besides; the consequence of which was, that as Faith
Fletcher went above her, she lost her temper, gave Faith a push, and
called her by a very naughty name. The children looked at each other in
horror. Miss Armstrong only said,—
"Kitty may go and sit down. I will talk to her by and by. The children
may have a recess."
"Well," said Selina as soon as they were out of doors, "I hope Miss
Armstrong has got enough of her favorite. It is lucky for Kit she had
not Miss Martin to deal with. Wouldn't she have caught it!"
"Maybe she will catch it as it is," remarked Agnes Gleason.
"I don't believe Miss Armstrong will do any more than talk to her. I am
sure I hope not," said gentle Faith. "Poor Kit is half sick: any one
can see that by looking at her. And it isn't as if one of us had said
it. I don't believe she has ever been taught any better."
"Well, for my part, I hope Miss Armstrong will send her home," said
Selina; "she has no business here, using such language, and teaching
the children it. But, girls, didn't we have a good meeting last night?
I think that old Mrs. Van Zandt is just lovely. Miss Armstrong says she
is a great missionary woman; perhaps she will start a society here."
"Then she will do what nobody else has done," remarked Agnes Gleason.
"I remember how hard Miss Martin tried. But what does this Mrs. Van
Zandt do, Selina? Did Miss Armstrong tell you?"
"Oh, she is always sending boxes to poor missionaries in the
West; and she keeps two ladies in India, and pays all their
expenses,—Bible-women, Miss Armstrong called them. I wish she would
send me. I should love to go, dearly."
"Yes, you would be a fine hand!" said Sarah Leet. "I suppose, the first
time a little Chinese or African child said a bad word, you would send
it home, and not let it come to school any more."
"That would be very different," said Selina, coloring, as the girls
laughed.
"Yes, very different; having a whole village full of children who never
learned even the commonest decency, and having one poor little thing
who is trying her best to be good," returned Sarah. "Suppose she did
forget herself for once: we all do it sometimes; if not in one way,
then in another. Don't you ever forget yourself, and say things you
ought not to?"
"Yes—you—did—you—know—you—did!" chimed in from the ring of little ones,
who were "counting out" for a game of tag. All the girls laughed, the
words came so pat.
"Yes, we did, we know we did," repeated Agnes. "But, Sarah, you need
not be so hard on Selina, either," she added, as Selina walked away.
"You think she ought to have patience and charity with Kit. Why can't
you have a little for her, instead of always poking her up?"
"Well, she puts on such airs. I like to make her show her true colors."
"You don't always make people show their true colors in that way,"
remarked Agnes. "Suppose I should slap your face, and make your eye all
black and blue: would those be your true colors?"
"Well, no, perhaps not," returned Sarah, whose frankness was her most
promising trait, "but then, you know, I don't pretend to equal St.
Agnes." Sarah had read somewhere of a St. Agnes, and liked to tease
Agnes with the name.
"I am not a saint. I wish I were," replied Agnes, coloring. "But I
will tell you one thing, Sarah and Faith," she added, with an evident
effort: "if by a saint, you mean a true Christian, I am going to try
and be one. I have been thinking about it a good while, and I made up
my mind last night."
"Well, I only hope you will stick to it, that's all," said Sarah, while
Faith got hold of Agnes's hand and squeezed it. "The trouble of these
sudden conversions is, that people don't hold out."
"Well, I don't know; St. Paul held out pretty well, and so did St.
John."
"Oh, well, they were saints."
"What is a saint, anyhow?" asked Faith. "I have heard the word all my
life, and don't know, really, what it means."
"I thought a saint was a person who never did any thing wrong," said
Sarah.
"Then I am sure none of the apostles were saints, for they all did
wrong. Let us ask Miss Armstrong after reading-class. It will come in
easily enough, for the lesson is about Polycarp, and he was called a
saint, I know. Come, there is the bell."
Kit's ill temper, if it deserved so harsh a name, found vent in a
flood of tears as soon as she reached her desk. She expected and half
hoped that Miss Armstrong would scold her, and perhaps punish her, for
bad language was justly looked upon as a grievous offence. But Miss
Armstrong did nothing of the kind. She waited till the first violence
of the storm had spent itself, and then said in that firm, kindly tone
of hers, which somehow carried obedience with it,—
"There, Kitty, don't cry any more: you will only make yourself worse.
Wash your face and hands, and then I should like to have you run down
to the mill, and ask Mr. Bassett to send me some chalk; we are quite
out. As to this trouble of yours, we will talk about it after school.
You need not hurry; I will excuse you if you are a little late."
"How good she is!" thought Kit, with a feeling of absolute wonder, as
she bathed her red eyes and aching head at the spring which boiled up
in a corner of the yard. "Oh, if I could only be good, like that!"
As she was going out of the yard, she met Faith, who spoke to her
pleasantly.
"Where now, Kitty? Going home?"
"No; Miss Armstrong sent me of an errand." She was passing on when it
occurred to her that here, at least, was something she might do. She
called "Faith!"
And as Faith turned back, she said, with a quiver in her voice, "I am
sorry I called you that name. It was real mean, for it was not your
fault that I missed."
"Never mind," said Faith, kissing her. "I'm sure I don't bear malice.
But, Kitty dear, I wouldn't say such words if I were you."
"I won't—not if I can help it; but you don't know how hard it is to be
good."
"Don't I!" said Faith. "It is as hard for me as any one, I guess. But
there, don't cry," for Kit's tears were running over once more. "I'm
sure you won't do it again."
Kit went on her way with her heart greatly lightened. She found Mr.
Bassett busy, as usual, but not too busy to lend an ear to her request.
"Chalk, eh? Oh, yes; I've got plenty, if I can only find it. Let me
see. Here's an apple for you, anyhow. If we don't find one thing, we
find another, you see. Don't you want this little box to put your
pencils and things in? Well, here's the chalk, and plenty of it; and
here is a little paper for you. Let me see; I didn't see any of your
folks at the schoolhouse last night."
"No, sir; I wanted to go, but I knew they wouldn't let me. I did listen
under the window, and uncle Phin did not like it a bit."
"Poor child!" said the miller kindly. "Well, well, you must take your
troubles to the right place, and you will find help somehow. You know
that, don't you?"
"Yes, sir: I heard Miss Armstrong say so. But I must hurry back now,
because she will want the chalk."
"Poor little young one!" repeated Mr. Bassett to himself. "I must talk
over her case with ma, and see what can be done for her."
"Just in time, Kitty," said Miss Armstrong pleasantly, as Kit entered,
somewhat out of breath. "Now, as you cannot very well do sums with your
left hand, you may take this book, and learn the hymn I have marked;
and we will hear you repeat it in the reading-class."
Kit took the book with pleasure, for she loved learning verses. The
hymn was the time-honored one beginning,—
"Jesus Christ, my Lord and Saviour,
Once became a child like me."
"I suppose that is so," thought Kit as she laid down the book to repeat
the first verse to herself. "He was just as old as I am, once, but He
never would say such words.
"'All my nature is unholy;
Pride and passion dwell within.'
"I'm sure 'that' is true enough. But I don't see how I am to help it:
the more I try, the worse I am. I never knew I was half so bad till I
began to read in the Testament.
"'Lord, assist a feeble creature.'
"That means me, I am sure. There isn't any one more feeble than I am.
'Assist' means 'help,' I know. Oh, dear! I do wish He would help me."
And Kit put her head down on the desk, and cried a little. But the
tears did not scorch her eyes, like the others: they were cool, and
seemed to take some of the weight off her heart which had lain there
ever since the night before.
"Now we will have Kitty's hymn," said Miss Armstrong as the
reading-lesson was finished. "And then, if there are any questions to
be asked, I shall like to hear them."
All the girls looked at Kit, some of them expecting that she would
refuse to obey. They were mistaken. Kit repeated her hymn with a
somewhat unsteady voice, it is true, but without hesitation and without
a single blunder. Then, with a visible effort, she said,—
"Please, Miss Armstrong, I am sorry I was so naughty in the
spelling-class. I won't do so again."
"That is right, Kitty," said Miss Armstrong, much gratified. "But there
is one thing more for you to do."
"Please, Miss Armstrong, she did tell me she was sorry," said Faith
eagerly. "She said so in recess."
"So much the better. And you do forgive her, Faith, I am sure."
"Yes, indeed!" answered Faith heartily. "I didn't mind much about it,
anyway. I don't believe she would have done it if she hadn't felt sick."
"That wasn't any excuse," said Kit. "I was just as cross as I could be."
"We will let the matter drop now," said Miss Armstrong. "I should like
to talk with Kitty a few minutes after school. Now, are there any
questions to be answered?"
"Please, Miss Armstrong, what is a saint?" asked Agnes.
"Can any one answer that question?" asked Miss Armstrong. "What is a
saint?"
"A very good person; one that never does any thing wrong," said one of
the girls rather doubtfully.
"That is what I said, but Faith thought it was not right, because the
apostles all did wrong things."
"A saint is somebody who pretends to be better than other folks," said
Lucinda Hurd, who always resented any praise bestowed on another person
as so much taken from herself.
"I think not," said Miss Armstrong, "or St. Paul would hardly have told
the Corinthians that they were called to be saints. He would not have
told them that they were called upon to pretend to be better than their
neighbors."
"Of course not," said Selina. "But I always thought a saint was
somebody like the people we read about who went and lived in caves and
hermitages, and never married, or had any families, or ate any meat."
"That will not answer the conditions, either," remarked Miss Armstrong,
"because the Corinthian Christians were not called on to do any such
thing as that."
"I can't remember that any one in the Bible was called on to do that,"
remarked Faith. "But, Miss Armstrong, won't 'you' tell us what a saint
is?"
"I will tell you what I think," said Miss Armstrong. "A saint is a
person whose life is consecrated to God; that is, given to Him to be
His entirely. Or, to put it in other words, a saint is one who has
made up his mind to serve God with all his powers of body and mind.
Such a person may be faulty and imperfect, often stumbling and even
falling, but he keeps his purpose always in view. When he falls, he
confesses his sin, and asks forgiveness, and begins again, humbled but
not discouraged. When he sees a duty, he strives to do it at whatever
inconvenience or sacrifice to himself. He tries always to keep alive in
his heart a sense of the presence of God and his Saviour, and to see
every thing as they would see it. That is my idea of a saint."
"But could any one be like that?" asked Faith doubtfully.
"'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me'" (Phil.
iv. 13), quoted Miss Armstrong. "There is the secret, depend upon it.
Now we must not talk any longer. Take this matter home, and think about
it."