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?