MORE CHANGES.
KIT had not been able to attend the school regularly since it had been
under Ida's administration, though she had managed to slip away two or
three times for an afternoon. Mrs. Mallory was failing rapidly. Dr.
Chase came to see her, and told her friends there was nothing to be
done.
"She may last six weeks, or she may drop away at any moment," said he,
in answer to a question from Phin. "Get her to take nourishing food and
the tonic I have left her, and keep her as quiet as possible. I should
not be surprised if her mind should clear at the last. I am glad to see
her so well taken care of."
"She has had all I could give her," said Phin. "I don't amount to much,
but I have tried to be good to her."
"It is easy to see that, by the way she confides in you," replied the
doctor kindly. "But I don't see, Mr. Mallory, why you should not amount
to as much as any one in the county. Why not?"
"Too late," said Phin. "When a man has sold himself to the devil, he
can't break the bargain."
"Perhaps not; but there is One who can, and who will if you turn to
Him."
Phin shook his head. "I don't know," said he; "sometimes I think so,
but—Well, there we won't talk about it. It is too late for me, anyhow,
but I'd like to think there was a good time ahead for that poor thing
in there."
"I believe there is, as surely as I believe in my own existence," said
the doctor.
"Well, I hope so. You will call again, doctor?"
"I will if you wish it; but I tell you frankly, I can do nothing for
her."
It was a solemn, but, on the whole, not an unhappy time for Kit. Phin
staid at home, not drinking at all, but attending to his farm-work, and
taking care of his wife. As Kit said, he was always good-natured when
he did not drink. Kit helped Symantha with the work, waited on Mrs.
Mallory, and when she had a little time, studied her school lessons,
and read in her Testament, which she now produced without fear in her
uncle's presence. Phin did not even laugh at her.
And when Melissa, who came home for a Sunday, began her old fashion of
teasing, she was promptly silenced by her father.
"Let the child alone. She is doing the work you ought to be about, by
rights; and she shall read what she pleases. Perhaps it would be all
the better for you if you read something of the same kind, instead of
the stuff you do."
"Dear me, how good we are, all at once!" said Melissa, with a toss of
her head. But she did not venture any further, knowing, that if she
came to an out-and-out contest with her father, she was sure to get
the worst of it. She took her departure on Monday, unregretted by any
one. Mrs. Mallory was afraid of her, and she and Symantha were never
comfortable together.
The next week a letter was received from her, saying that she was going
to a place in New York; and that was the last that was heard of her for
many a long day.
Mrs. Mallory failed every day. And as so often happens in such cases,
as her body decayed, her mind grew clear and calm. The old despairing
wail was never heard now. Kit had learned to watch and anticipate her
moods, and as soon as she saw the cloud coming, she would begin to
sing, or read in the Testament; and the remedy was always successful.
After a while, Kit ventured to ask the meaning of things which she did
not understand, and was surprised at the clearness of the explanations
she received.
"I do think aunt Martha is as sensible as anybody now," Kit said one
day to Symantha. "You don't know how nicely she explained my Sunday
school lesson to me. But, Symantha, she seems to think I am her little
girl; and she wants me to call her 'mother.' Isn't it funny? Did she
ever have a little girl?"
"Yes, she had a child who would have been about your age," answered
Symantha, bending over her work. "Call her 'mother' if it pleases her.
It won't do any hurt."
"I do," said Kit. "But isn't it queer that she should be crazy about
that, when she seems all right about every thing else?"
"Not at all," replied Symantha: "people often are that way. I read of
a man who thought he was a glass bottle, though he was straight enough
about every other subject. He was always afraid people were going to
break him. Isn't this the day for your singing-class?"
"Yes; but I didn't know whether you could spare me."
"Oh, yes, I will manage. I will tell ma you have gone to learn some
new hymns for her. Put on your other frock, and run along while she is
asleep; and you will have a little time in school."
Kit had carried her point about going to Sunday school, and a very
happy though very shy little girl it was who presented herself at the
church door the first Sunday morning in August.
For the church repairs were quite finished now. The painting was done,
the belfry made secure, the aisles carpeted, and the weedy, brambly
graveyard reduced to such order and neatness, that, as Edward Kettle
said, it wouldn't know itself. The ladies regarded the result of their
work with great satisfaction, and Mr. Blandy remarked with great
complacency that "we" had made a good piece of work of it.
"Whose class would you like to be in, Kitty?" asked Mr. Bassett, the
superintendent.
"I don't care," answered Kit; "only I think I had better go with the
little ones, because I don't know any thing hardly."
"I think I shall put you in my wife's class," said the superintendent.
And Kit was quite content, for like every child that came near her, she
dearly loved "Ma Bassett."
"Well, how did Kit get on?" asked Mr. Bassett of his wife after school.
"Nicely," answered Mrs. Bassett; "no child could behave better. And as
to her not knowing any thing, she has more Scripture in her head, and
her heart too, than half the grown people in town. It is wonderful to
see such a growth of grace in a child who has had so little teaching."
"Grace is not dependent on human means, happily," remarked her husband.
"Did she say any thing about her aunt?"
"Only that she is failing. Dr. Chase says she cannot live many days. He
says, too, what I was glad to hear, that they are very kind to the poor
thing, and that it is easy to see, by the way she depends, upon her
husband, that he is habitually good to her."
"Well, I am sorry for Phin Mallory," observed Mr. Bassett. "I don't
think we have treated him quite right, either. After all, nobody really
knows any harm of him, so far as his conduct goes, except that he
drinks now and then. Can't you make an errand up there, ma? Perhaps you
might get a chance to talk to him."
"I can try, at any rate. If he is so fond of his wife, he won't be
likely to insult any one who comes to do her a kindness."
Accordingly, next day Mrs. Bassett presented herself at Phin Mallory's
door with a little basket of ripe apricots, the first of the season,
and some other dainties, for the invalid. But she could not flatter
herself that her visit had any very particular result. She did not see
Symantha, who was lying down with a headache. Phin took her into his
wife's room, and she exchanged a few words with the invalid, who was
much pleased with the prettily decorated basket of fruit, and made her
acknowledgments in a way which showed her to be a cultivated, well-bred
woman.
Mrs. Bassett's womanly eye remarked with pleasure the delicate neatness
of every thing about the sick woman, and the gentleness of her
husband's manner toward her. But Mrs. Mallory was so weak that she did
not venture to prolong her visit.
"Good-by, Mrs. Mallory. I hope you will let us know if we can do any
thing for you."
"Thank you," answered Mrs. Mallory, "but I have the best of care. And
it is an unspeakable comfort to have my little girl with me again."
"Whom does she mean by her little girl?" asked Mrs. Bassett when they
had left the room.
"She means Kit," answered Phin. "She thinks Kit is her daughter; and we
let her think so, since she takes comfort in it. There isn't much use
in arguing with crazy people."
"Not a bit of use," agreed Mrs. Bassett. "Kit is a dear child. I am so
glad you let her come to Sunday school! Miss Celia Claxton was saying
Sunday, she remembered your sister Chloe coming to church and Sunday
school when she was just about Kit's age."
"Yes, Chloe was a good girl: she took after my mother. But she died
young."
"So Celia was saying. She was telling me how happy she was in her last
sickness and death. It is a blessed thing, Mr. Mallory, to have one's
dying pillow smoothed by such a hope."
"Well, perhaps it is," replied Phin, with something of a sigh. "But
what if it turns out all a delusion, and there should be no such thing
as heaven and the rest of it, after all?"
"Well, what if it does?" answered Mrs. Bassett with spirit. "Then I
shall be just as well off as you are, and there won't be much danger of
your laughing at me, as somebody says. But if I am right, and you are
wrong, you will be making rather an awful mistake, Mr. Mallory."
"There is something in that," admitted Phin. "Anyhow, I am willing
folks should take all the comfort they can."
"But won't you think about it yourself, Mr. Mallory? Won't you come to
our Friday evening meeting?"
"Well, no, I guess not. Folks wouldn't want me there."
"You are very much mistaken," answered Mrs. Bassett eagerly. "We should
all be very glad to see you. Only come, and see if you don't have a
welcome."
"I will see about it. Well, Mrs. Bassett, I am very much obliged to
you for coming to see my wife, and for your kindness to Kit. You and
your husband live up to what you profess, anyhow; and that is more
than most folks do, even according to their own showing. I heard two
church-members talking in Oldbury the last time I was there, and it was
all about the worldliness of the churches, and how little they were
doing."
"They might have been better employed."
"I thought so myself. It was a little too much like the ill bird that
spoils its own nest. I'd stick up for my own side, anyhow."
"Well, Mr. Mallory, if you need help any time, I hope you won't
hesitate to ask for it. Celia and Delia Claxton told me to say that
they would come and sit up any night."
"Much obliged, but I take care of my wife myself nights.—Old cats!
They just want to satisfy their curiosity, and find something to talk
about," muttered Phin to himself as he returned to his wife's room.
"And yet I won't say that, either. It was kind of them to offer,
anyhow."
But Mrs. Mallory was soon to be beyond the need of earthly aid. That
night she seemed better and brighter than usual. She talked to Kit
about her Sunday school lesson, and heard her read and sing, as usual.
After Kit had gone to bed, Mrs. Mallory called her husband, and had
a long private conversation with him,—so long that Symantha became
uneasy, and went to the door.
"I am afraid ma is talking too much," said she.
"I have done now," said the invalid, smiling sweetly as Symantha kissed
her. "I shall not talk much more. Good-by, Symantha. You have been a
kind friend to me; and I have tried you sadly, I know. Be kind to my
child, as you have been to me. Will you promise me that?" she asked,
holding Symantha's hand, and looking wistfully at her. "Yes, ma, I
promise you I will always be kind to Kit as long as it is in my power.
Now lie down and go to sleep."
Phin remained with his wife, as usual, through the night. The sky
was just growing bright with the approaching sunrise when he opened
Symantha's door.
"Come quick!" said he.
Symantha lost not a moment. She called Kit, and hastened to the bedside.
Mrs. Mallory seemed to be still sleeping, but her face showed the
approach of the shadow that never falls but once. Kit saw the change,
and was awe-struck.
"Is she worse?" she whispered, taking hold of Symantha's hand.
"Speak to her, Kit. Call her mother," said Phin hoarsely.
"Don't you feel so well, mother? Shall I get you something? Dear
mother, speak to your own Kitty."
The blue eyes were opened, and lighted up for a moment with unearthly
brilliancy. "Dear child, hold fast to your Father in heaven. Never let
go—never—" Her voice faltered.
"Don't you know me, Matey?" asked Phin, bending over her.
The eyes rested on him with a look of unutterable tenderness, but the
power of speech was gone. There was a sweet smile, a long, soft sigh,
and all was over. The tired and troubled spirit had found rest.
Mrs. Bassett and the two Claxton sisters came with offers of neighborly
assistance, which were accepted by Symantha; and the last offices
were kindly and tenderly performed by their friendly hands, as is the
beautiful custom of the country. Long may it continue!
When the old ladies returned to their home, they found Aunt Betsy
sitting on the front steps.
"So you have come at last," said she. "Here I've been a-waiting and
a-waiting as much as half an hour. Seems to me it is pretty early for
folks to be going a-visiting."
"I think as much, Aunt Betsy. What brought you here before eight
o'clock in the morning?" returned Miss Delia.
"I came to borrow some ginger and some molasses," snapped Aunt Betsy.
"And I expect I've got my death of cold waiting for you. Where have you
been?"
"Oh, we have been out on business," answered Miss Delia, calmly
proceeding to kindle her fire. "Now we are going to have some breakfast
if we can get a chance.—Celia, will you have tea, or coffee?"
"Just as you like," said Miss Celia, who never had any choice in
household matters. Delia used to say it would never do for her to go
away for a whole week, since Celia would starve because she could not
make up her mind what to cook.
"Where 'have' you been, anyway?" demanded Aunt Betsy in a tone of
exasperation.
"We have been up to Phin Mallory's, helping to lay out his wife,"
answered Miss Celia. "The poor thing died at sunrise, and Symantha sent
Kitty down for us."
"Do tell! Was she alone?"
"No: her father was there."
"Do tell! Well, and how did you find things? Folks say they kept the
poor thing tied down to her bedstead and half starved, and beat her to
make her quiet."
"Folks say more than there is any call for," answered Miss Delia. "It
is easy to see that poor Mrs. Mallory has been well done for. Her bed,
and every thing about her, was as neat as wax. Besides, Dr. Chase has
been to see her several times, and he told me himself that it was plain
she was well treated."
"Well, I don't know. Folks are very deceitful," said Aunt Betsy,
evidently disappointed. "I don't believe she would have screamed so if
she hadn't been abused. And when is the funeral to be?"
"On Friday, I believe."
"That's awful quick, seems to me."
"Two days, and you know it is very hot weather."
"And where will she be buried?"
"Here, I presume."
"Are any of her own folks coming to the funeral?"
"I'm sure I don't know. It is no business of mine," answered Miss
Delia, whose patience, never her strongest point, began to grow
threadbare. "Celia, do come and get your breakfast. You will be
fainting away.—There is your ginger, Aunt Betsy; but we haven't any
molasses, and sha'n't have till I get a chance to send down to the
store. I suppose you have had your breakfast, of course, long before
this time. Good-morning."
"Mean, stingy old maid!" said Aunt Betsy as she went away with her
ginger.
"You might have asked her to breakfast," said Miss Celia, coming from
the pantry. "Why didn't you?"
"Because I wanted you to have your breakfast in peace. You are like
a cat without claws, Celia. It is well you have me to do a little
scratching for you now and then."