Chapter XIII: Kit's Victory

WHEN Kit came down-stairs, she found breakfast ready, and her uncle just come in.

"Halloo! Here's the saint," said he roughly. "Come, let us hear some more of those pretty words you said last night,—those nice lessons Miss Armstrong teaches you down there."

"Uncle Phin," said Kit, growing pale, but speaking firmly, "I never learned those words from Miss Armstrong, and you know it. I am sorry I said them; it was very wicked. And I am sorry I struck you."

"Humph!" said Phin, considerably taken aback. "And what about the beer? Are you sorry for that too?"

"No," answered Kit. "I should like to do as much for all the beer-kegs in the world. You are never ugly to me only when you have been drinking beer."

"Humph!" said Phin. "There, hold your tongue, and eat your breakfast. But mind, you are not going to school."

Kit dared not say any more. Phin did not go to Oldbury, but staid about the house doing odd jobs of repairing, and waiting upon his wife, who had been very unwell for several weeks. His fondness and tenderness for her was one of his best traits. He never spoke harshly to her in his worst moments, and would take any amount of pains to give her a little comfort. Symantha brought out her basket of mending, and asked Kit to help her with the stockings; saying, with a meaning look,—

"You can take your work up in your own room, if you like. I am going to clean the floor."

Kit understood, as well as if the words had been spoken, that Symantha meant to give her a chance to read. She fastened her door, and, having despatched her task of mending neatly and quickly (for, thanks to Symantha's training, she was an expert needle-woman), she drew her precious "Pilgrim's Progress" from its hiding-place, and read for a long time.

Then she got out her Testament, and read the two last chapters of St. Luke's Gospel. She was going through the book in course, wondering and delighted more and more at all she found there. Her lively imagination and quick sense of the beautiful gave reality to all the stories; and she pondered over them as she walked to and from school, or drove up the cows from their pasture, or helped Symantha with the sewing.

This morning she was deeply impressed with the story of the Resurrection. She seemed to see it all,—the women coming to the sepulchre (something like the burial-vaults she had seen in the cemetery at St. Louis, she thought) in the early morning, while it was yet dark; the visit of the apostles; Mary mourning by herself, not recognizing her risen Lord in the perplexing dusk of the early twilight, till he called her by name.

Her meditations were interrupted by a call to dinner.

"Where is uncle Phin?" she asked.

"He is sitting with ma. She is very bad to-day."

"I have not heard her."

"No, she has not spoken at all; and I cannot persuade her to eat a mouthful.—Come, father; come to dinner."

The meal passed almost in silence.

"Let me wash up the dishes," said Kit after it was finished. "You look so tired!"

"I did not suppose such a fine lady as you are could wash dishes," said Phin. "I dare say Miss Armstrong never washed a dish in her life."

Kit made no answer. She was determined not to be provoked again if she could help it. She did up the work neatly. And then, taking her hat and her book, she went up to her old resting-place on the hill, from whence she could see the schoolhouse.

It would be something even to look at the roof which held Miss Armstrong, and where had been passed the happiest hours of her life. She knew just what was going on, and could almost see the larger girls engaged in preparing their grammar lesson, and the little ones taking it in turn to read their small tasks by Miss Armstrong's side. It would be about Jenny Hurd's turn now, she thought. She would lean against Miss Armstrong. Perhaps Miss Armstrong's arm would be around her. What would she not give to be in her place! Jenny did not like to come to school, and would rather play all day; and yet Jenny could have the privilege from which she was shut out. It was very strange, Kit thought.

"Anyhow, uncle Phin can't ever take away from me what I have learned. He never can make things as they were before I knew Miss Armstrong; nothing in the world can do that. And they are things which will last for ever and ever," said Kit, half aloud, realizing in her sorrow the truth which has come to so many other people in times of change and bereavement,—that the things which are seen are temporal; while it is only the things which are not to be seen by mortal eyes, or handled by mortal hands, that are real and eternal.

Then another thought occurred to Kit, which made her take out her little Testament, already showing signs of the wear it suffered by being carried in her pocket. She turned to the second chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, and was soon so deeply engaged in study that she started as if she had been shot when Ida spoke to her.

"Why, Kitty! How does it happen that you are not in school?"

"Uncle Phin won't let me go," answered Kit, with a quivering lip. "He says I shall not go any more."

"But that is a great pity, when you were getting on so nicely," said Amity. "Why did he say that?"

"He got angry at me," said Kit. "I was naughty, I know, but I don't think that was the reason. It was just because he was put out about something else. I was in hopes he had forgotten all about it this morning,—he does that way very often,—but he says I shall never go there again."

"We will hope that he will change his mind, as you say he has done so before. What are you doing now?"

"Learning verses out of the Testament," answered Kit. "I was thinking that uncle Phin nor any one else could take away the things I had learned. And then I thought, 'What if I should lose my Testament again, or go where I couldn't have any teaching?' So I made up my mind to learn as many verses as I could; because, don't you see, nobody can take away the things I have in my mind."

Ida and Amity exchanged glances.

"Other people besides you have done that, little Kitty," said Amity. "Last summer I went to visit a mountainous country in Europe, where live a brave and good people who for many hundred years were dreadfully persecuted on account of their religion. The popes, and the governors of that country, were determined to make these people give up reading the Bible, and worshipping God as they thought right. They wanted them to become Roman Catholics; so they made war on them, and burnt their houses, and shut many of them up in prisons and convents, and put others to cruel deaths."

"That was a queer way to make them like the Roman-Catholic religion," said Kit.

"It was a way which did not succeed very well," said Amity. "The more these people were persecuted, the more closely they clung to their own religion, and the more they loved the Bible. But, because they were liable at any time to lose their books, they used to do as you are doing. All the children were taught to commit to memory the whole of the Gospels. As they grew up, they learned more and more, till many grown men and women could say the New Testament from beginning to end. They had very few books; and so the little children used to walk miles upon miles to their schools, over rocks and mountains, and ice and snow, through places which it made me giddy to look at, in order that they might learn the Bible."

"And are they persecuted now?" asked Kit.

"No: they have their liberty, and can read the gospel as much as they like. Now they are sending out missionaries to teach other people to read and love the Bible."

"That is nice," said Kit. "Miss Armstrong told us about the missionaries. I thought then I should like to be one, but I shall never know enough to be any thing if I can't go to school."

"Oh, you must not despair," said Ida. "I hope things will take a turn for the better some time. See here, I want you to look at this picture, and tell me if you ever saw any one like it."

Kit took the photograph Ida offered her, and regarded it long and earnestly.

"It looks very much like aunt Martha, only it is younger," said she. "I think she might have looked like that when she was a girl."

The girls exchanged glances again. "I suppose nobody sees your aunt," said Amity.

"Nobody ever comes to our house," replied Kit.

"Uncle Phin doesn't like to have them, because aunt Martha is afraid of strangers. At least, he says that is the reason, but I don't really think so," she added, after a moment's reflection.

"Why not?"

"Because she was not afraid on the cars, when we came here," said Kit: "she liked it. She used to look out of the window. And sometimes she would say quite sensible things. She did not have a single bad time all the way."

"How has she been since she lived here?" asked Amity.

"She has not been as well. She has grown thin, and coughs at night. Symantha thinks she has got the consumption."

"And about her mind?"

"Well, sometimes she is better, and then she is worse; but, on the whole, she is worse. She cries a great deal, and some days she will not eat at all. But I must be going," said Kit, looking at the sun.

"One thing more," said Amity. "Excuse me for asking so many questions, Kit; I have a reason for them. Are your uncle and Symantha kind to her?"

"I am afraid that is hardly a fair question, Amity," said Ida.

"Oh, yes, they are very kind to her," replied Kit. "Symantha is good to everybody, and uncle Phin would do any thing in the world for aunt Martha. I never heard him speak a hard word to her, even when she was the most troublesome. And even Melissa never dared to be cross to her when he was in the house. I don't think uncle Phin would be cross to any one if he would let the beer alone. When we first came here, before he began to go to Oldbury, he was just as good as he could be. But I must go. It must be nearly five o'clock."

"Yes; we won't keep you any longer," said Ida. "That is an excellent idea of yours, about learning the Gospels by heart. Good-night, little one."

"I believe that aunt of hers is really Kathleen Joyce," said Amity as she and Ida turned homeward.

"So do I. And I believe, moreover, that she is the child's mother. I do wish aunt Barbara could see her, but I don't know what excuse she could make for forcing herself in, especially as we have no proof that the poor thing is ill-treated."

"Miss Celia says she screams dreadfully at times, and that the neighbors have talked of interfering," remarked Amity. "If they should, something might be done. At any rate, it will be a comfort to aunt Barbara to know that the poor thing is kindly treated."

As Kit came down the hill behind her uncle's house, she stopped and listened as the sound of wild and piercing screams, poured forth in quick succession, fell on her ear.

"Aunt Martha is bad again," she thought.

And quickening her steps, she reached the house, and entered her aunt's bedroom. The poor woman was sitting up in bed, uttering scream upon scream, and making frantic efforts to escape from her husband's arms, and throw herself on the floor; while he and Symantha strove in vain to soothe her.

"What 'shall' we do?" said Phin, glancing at his daughter with a look almost of despair. "She will hurt herself, and rouse the neighbors besides."

"Let 'me' try," said Kit, unable to keep quiet any longer. An idea had darted into her head which she longed to put in practice.

"Well, do," said Symantha. "You can't do any harm. She is as bad as she can be, now."

Kit seated herself on the side of the bed, and without a word of what she was about to do, she began singing,—

"Jesus, lover of my soul,—"

to the tender, pleading music of the Spanish Hymn.

The poor woman's screams and struggles ceased at once. She leaned back on her husband's breast, and listened like one entranced till Kit sang the hymn all through.

"I used to sing that," said she when Kit was silent. "I used to sing a great many hymns before they took away my Lord. But they have taken Him away, they have taken Him away; and I know not where they have laid Him."

"Oh, no, aunt Martha!" said Kit cheerfully. "They haven't taken Him away: nobody could do that. You know Mary thought they had, but she was mistaken. He had risen from the dead, and was close by her all the time, only it was so dark she couldn't see to tell who it was. But when He spoke to her, then she knew Him."

"But He won't speak to me," said the invalid. "He never speaks to me now. Do you think He ever will?"

"Yes, I know He will. I am going to read you what He says." And forgetting every thing in her desire to comfort the sufferer, forgetting even her fears for her chiefest treasure, Kit took her precious Testament from her pocket. And opening it at random, she began to read from the third chapter of St. John.

Mrs. Mallory listened with evident pleasure. Presently, however, her eyelids began to droop, her fingers ceased to pick at the bed-clothes, her head sank back. She had fallen into a quiet slumber. Phin gently laid her head on the pillow, while Symantha darkened the window.

Presently, he went to the door, and beckoned out Kit, who was still reading in subdued tones.

Kit obeyed, though she was terribly frightened when she thought of what she had done.

"But I don't care," she said. "I know it was right."

To her amazement, Phin lifted her in his arms, and kissed her.

"You are a good girl, Kit. You shall do as you like. You may go to school, and to meeting too, if you want to."

"O uncle Phin! Do you mean it?"

"Yes, I mean it. There, child, don't strangle me," as Kit threw her arms round his neck in a vehement hug.

"And may I really go to meeting and to Sunday school?" asked Kit.

"I didn't say any thing about Sunday school. However, I don't care," said Phin. "Yes, you may go, though I don't see what pleasure you find in it."

"Go yourself, and you will find out," said Kit.

"See here! You are one of the folks, that when you give them an inch, they take an ell. Go to meeting, if you like, but don't take to preaching, yourself. But see here, Kit; how did you dare get out that Testament? Wasn't you afraid I would burn it up, as I did the other one?"

"I didn't think any thing about myself, anyway," answered Kit: "I only thought of comforting aunt Martha. And, you see, it did comfort her. You won't burn it up, will you, uncle Phin?"

"No, child. Don't be afraid, I won't hurt your precious book. Where did you get it?"

"Miss Van Zandt gave it to me. I found a book she lost up on the hill, and took it to her. And then she gave me this one."

"All right," said Phin, apparently not caring to pursue the subject. "There, run out to the barn, and find my pipe; I have left it out there somewhere."

"Just to think that I can go to meeting!" said Kit to Symantha that night as she was helping her wash up the dishes. "It seems too good to be true. Ain't you glad, Symantha?"

"Yes, child, I am glad to have you take all the comfort you can," answered Symantha wearily. "There is none too much going in the world, anyway; and you have had less than your share."

"I have had more than you have," said Kit. "I wish I could do something for you."

"You do a great deal for me. I don't know how I should live without you; and yet, if I could get you such a home as Selina Weston has, I would let you go."

"Selina is not contented, though," said Kit; "at least, I think not. And only fancy, Symantha, she does not like Miss Armstrong and Miss Van Zandt. She says they are patronizing, and feel above her."

"And you don't think they feel above you, I suppose?"

"I never thought any thing about it," answered Kit. "Of course they are above me. Just think how many things they know, and I am only an ignorant little girl. But I don't think that is all the trouble with Selina. She liked Miss Armstrong ever so much at first. It seemed as if she did not want to have her speak to any one else."

"Perhaps 'that' is the trouble. If Selina has a jealous disposition, she will never be happy anywhere. There, go to bed, child. You have had a hard day."

"It has turned out good, so I don't care," said Kit. "I am so glad I thought of singing to aunt Martha!"

"Yes, it was a happy thought. What put it into your head?"

"I don't know, unless God did," answered Kit with an odd kind of matter-of-fact reverence. "But I am so glad I can go to school! I shall feel like dancing all the way."

But Kit did not go to school next morning, after all. Mrs. Mallory slept late, and the moment she waked, she asked for the child.

"Was somebody singing to me? Or did I dream it?" she asked of Symantha.

"You did not dream it," answered Symantha gently. "Kit was singing for you."

"And can she sing again?" asked the invalid imploringly. "Will she come and sing for me again? Won't your father let her?"

"Oh, yes! She shall sing for you again," said Phin, answering for himself. "Try what you can do," he said to Kit. "Perhaps you can coax her to eat something. She did not touch a bit yesterday."

Kit glanced at the clock in some dismay. It was almost school-time.

"'He' would want me to stay with aunt Martha, I know," she thought, "and I believe Miss Armstrong would too."

Without a moment's hesitation, she sat down by her aunt, and began to sing again.

"Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Mallory; "you have done me a great deal of good. But I feel very weak and faint."

"That is because you haven't eaten any thing," said Kit. "Let me give you your breakfast, and then I will read to you as I did yesterday. I will wash your face and hands, and then you will feel more like eating."

Mrs. Mallory submitted to all Kit's toilet offices without resistance, and even with some show of pleasure. As Kit tied on her cap, she held her hand for a moment.

"Who are you, little girl?" she said, gazing wistfully at her. "I seem to remember you."

"Why, yes, aunt Martha: I am Kit. Don't you know Kit?"

"I don't think that is what I used to call you," said the poor woman, "but my mind is a good deal confused. I don't think I understand any thing very well."

"That is because you are sick and weak," answered Kit with ready tact. "When you are better, you will know all about it. See, here comes Symantha with the nice breakfast."

Mrs. Mallory ate with some appearance of appetite. "Now sing to me if you are not tired," said she.

"Oh, I am not tired," answered Kit. "I love to sing." She sang two or three hymns, and then read till Mrs. Mallory fell asleep again.

"She is asleep," Kit reported, stealing out of the room. "And, Symantha, you don't know how sensibly she talked."

"What did she say?" asked Symantha.

"Oh, not much; only she asked me if I thought any one could be saved who had denied their Lord. And I told her yes, and read her what it says about Peter. Then she tried to remember a verse; and I found it, and read it to her. It was about the blood of Christ cleansing us from all sin, you know."

"Well?"

"Then she asked if I knew a hymn about that; and I told her I did, and sung it for her. Then she whispered to herself a little while. I think she was praying," said Kit with a look and tone of awe. "And finally she went to sleep."

"That does seem as if she were getting better," said Phin. "Kit, if she does, there is nothing I won't do for you."

Symantha shook her head sadly. "Her mind may get better, but her body won't," said she. "Can't you see how it is, father?"

"You think it is the lighting-up for death?"

"I think so," said Symantha; "and I don't know that we ought to wish it otherwise, if she dies happy."

Phin sighed deeply. "Well, no, I suppose not, but this world will be an empty place when she is gone. Symantha, I haven't been a good father to you, I haven't been good at any thing that I know of; but I do thank you for your kindness and patience with that poor thing."

"Then, if I have done any thing for her, do something for me," said Symantha: "stay away from Oldbury, and let the drink alone."

Phin shook his head, but he said no more; nor did Symantha pursue the subject any further.