Chapter XX: 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.