Chapter XII: Harmony and Discord

THE trustees made no objection to the singing-school. And in two or three days Miss Armstrong announced that Miss Van Zandt would meet after school such of the children as would like to learn to sing.

"Any of us? Little ones and all?" asked Ednah Fletcher.

"Little ones and all; every one who would like to learn to sing nicely in church and Sunday school. Miss Van Zandt is very kind to give up so much time to you, and I hope you will reward her by being very good and attentive."

"I am sure I will," said Kit. "I think she is awful good."

"Yes, very kind indeed," said Selina when school was dismissed. "For my part, I am not so fond of being patronized by city people."

"If city people want to do me a kindness, I am willing they should," said Faith.

"Well, I don't know," answered Selina. "I don't think we were quite ignorant heathen before Miss Armstrong and Miss Van Zandt came here, though one would think so to hear them talk."

"Why, what do they say?" asked Lucinda Hurd.

"Oh, Miss Van Zandt says she is used to teaching in mission schools, and wants to keep her hand in. And Miss Armstrong says she would not teach here at all if it were not for teaching the Bible."

Faith and Agnes exchanged a glance which annoyed Selina. It seemed as if they were laughing at her.

"Where did you hear all this?" asked Sarah.

Selina thought there was some incredulity in the tone, and she answered positively,—

"I heard her in our house, the very night Miss Van Zandt came there to talk about this singing-school concern."

"Oh," said Sarah demurely. "I thought I heard somebody delivering a lecture to Agnes on Sunday about repeating what was said in her mother's house, that was all."

Selina colored scarlet, and wished she had held her tongue.

"If you have such a dislike to being patronized by city people, I wonder you should care to go so much with Milly Richmond," continued Sarah. "She is patronizing. I could hardly help laughing at the tone in which she talked to Miss Armstrong about her little country seminary and her 'little rustics.'"

"What 'is' 'patronizing'?" asked Kit, who had been listening to the conversation with wide-open eyes.

"'Patronizing,' little one? Why, I hardly know how to define it," said Sarah. "It really means, to defend or support. But I suppose, as Selina uses it, it means to do good to any one in a condescending way, as if you were a great deal better than they."

"Then I am sure Miss Van Zandt is not a bit patronizing," said Kit eagerly. "She doesn't put on one bit of airs."

"Pray, what do 'you' know about it?" asked Selina. "Where have you seen Miss Van Zandt, I should like to know?"

The tone was rude enough to bring the color to Kit's face. But she answered quietly,—

"I have seen her two or three times. She and Miss Bogardus have been very kind to me. They gave me my Testament and my hymn-book."

"Well, I must say I agree with Selina," said Lucinda Hurd. "I don't want any stuck-up city folks coming and doing good to 'me.'"

"I don't believe you are in any danger of being done good to," said Sarah. "For my part, I mean to learn all I can. Miss Van Zandt does sing splendidly."

"Ezra says he never heard such a voice in his life," said Faith Fletcher.

Now, Ezra Fletcher was a college senior, and a great personage in the red schoolhouse district.

"Oh, very well; go and be patronized if you like," said Selina. "I shall not, that's all."

"Selina, are you ever coming home?" asked Milly Richmond, appearing round the turn of the road just by the schoolhouse. "I have been waiting for you half an hour at least," she added, putting her arm through Selina's, with a condescending nod to the rest of the girls as she walked away.

"There's distinguished city breeding for you," said Sarah.

"What is the use of calling it 'city' breeding?" asked Agnes. "It is no more city than country. One sees underbred people everywhere."

"City folks always are stuck-up, anyway," said Lucinda. "They always look down on country folks."

"I don't think so. Dr. Madison did not talk to us in Sunday school as though he looked down on us."

"Not half as much as Mr. Martin used to," observed one of the girls. "It used to make me sick to hear him begin, 'Now, my dear children,' and then go on to talk baby-talk for half an hour. I just hated to go. Dr. Madison talks sense, and so did Mr. Brace when he was here. And Mr. Martin was no such great man: his father used to keep a little candy-shop over in Oldfield when my mother went to school there."

"It is nothing against Mr. Martin if he did," said Sarah. "Keeping a candy-shop is an honest trade."

"It is a sweet trade anyhow," said Faith. "I should like to keep a candy-shop myself, and then I could have all the candy I wanted."

"But, suppose it wasn't an honest trade, would that be any thing against Mr. Martin?" asked Kit. "He wouldn't be to blame for what his father did, would he?"

"Well, no, I suppose not," answered Faith rather doubtfully; "but people think a great deal of family about here."

"Of course he would not," said Sarah decidedly. "If a man is good, he is good, and if he is bad, he is bad, whatever his father was. Mr. Martin was a good man, but he was no hand to manage a Sunday school."

"If I could go to Sunday school, I don't think I should care very much who managed it," said Kit sadly.

"Can't you?" asked Eddy.

"No: uncle Phin won't let me. I couldn't help crying last Sunday when I sat up on the hill, and watched the children coming out with their books."

"Think of that, Eddy," said Faith. "Somebody I know cried last Sunday for a very different reason from that."

Eddy blushed at the recollection, and made up her mind that she would never quarrel with her Sunday school lesson again.

"You will come to the singing-school, won't you, Kit?" said Sarah.

"Yes, if they will let me. I think it is lovely in Miss Van Zandt to teach us, don't you?"

"I think it is very nice of her. Good-night, little one." As she kissed Kit she added, "Don't be down-hearted, Kit; I hope better times will come for you by and by."

"Won't you please ask God to let me go, Sarah?" whispered Kit as she returned Sarah's kiss.

"You love Him, don't you?" said Sarah.

"Yes; and I love you too," answered Kit, "you are so kind to me."

"It would be a hard-hearted creature that could be any thing but kind to such a kitten as you. Come home with me, and I will give you some flowers."

"Oh, thank you!" answered Kit gratefully. "Aunt Martha loves flowers better than any thing."

"What were you all talking about?" asked Milly of Selina as they walked down the road together. "You seemed wonderfully interested."

"About Miss Van Zandt's singing-school. She is going to set up a singing-school for the enlightenment of us ignorant savages here in the country."

"A singing-school! What do you mean?"

Selina told the story, adding, "But I am not going, I can tell her. I don't want any of her patronage."

"I think you will be very silly if you don't," was Milly's unexpected rejoinder.

"I don't know why I should take lessons of her," said Selina. "I don't know why I can't sing as well as Miss Van Zandt."

"Because you have not her voice nor her training," returned Milly. "Why, Selina, the idea of comparing your singing with Ida Van Zandt's! She is Signor A.'s crack pupil; and I know Professor G., who trains the Handel Chorus Society, considers hers the best female voice he has. Not but you do sing very well, considering. But the idea of comparing yourself to Ida Van Zandt!"

Selina had often admired and defended Milly's bluntness, which she called frankness and sincerity. But she did not find this same frankness so pleasant when it was applied to herself. She had a great opinion of her own powers; and to have that opinion so coolly set aside was almost more than she could bear, even from Milly.

"You were talking the other day of your voice making you independent," continued Milly. "If I thought of any such thing as that, I would not lose such a chance as this of singing with Miss Van Zandt. I have no more voice than a crow, and no talent for music anyway; but if I had, I would go down on my knees to her to let me come."

"I am not in the habit of going down on my knees to people," said Selina loftily; "I am not so fond of being patronized."

"I call that nonsense," replied Milly, who possessed a certain common-sense which might have made her a valuable woman under good training. "In the first place, nobody wants you to go down on your knees, or to be patronized either. I dare say Miss Van Zandt never thought of such a thing. All Mrs. Van Zandt's set are engaged in missions or some such work. Ida teaches in the St. Timothy's School, I know, when she is in town, and in another in the country; and so does Miss Bogardus."

"That is just what I say," persisted Selina. "I don't want to be made a mission of."

"Anybody might make a mission of me who would teach me to sing like that," said Milly. "And, as to patronage, you ought to see how ladies in society will contrive and plan and scheme to get invitations from those who are a little more fashionable than themselves. I believe ma would not only go on her knees, but walk on them across Fifth Avenue, to get a card for Mrs. Anderson's Fridays or one of Mrs. Van Zandt's quiet lunch-parties."

"I call that downright mean," said Selina.

"Oh, well, every one does it. I wouldn't go as far as some do, myself; but I would like to know the Van Zandts."

"How is Cordelia to-day?" asked Selina, willing to turn the conversation.

"She is about the same; I don't think she is quite as well. Mother left her with Agnes on Sunday, and Agnes must go to reading the Bible and talking pious to her. And ever since, she thinks she is going to die, and is always wanting to have Dr. Madison come to see her. Mother won't hear of it, though; and she was angry enough with Agnes for putting it into her head."

"But if she should die, Milly, your mother would be sorry she did not let her have her own way."

"She isn't going to die," said Milly angrily. "I believe she would be a great deal better if she would exert herself a little. Not but what I would let her have her own way in this, and so I told ma," she added in a gentler tone. "Dr. Madison is a nice old gentleman, and I don't believe he would hurt her. But, as to this singing-school business, Selina, you will be very foolish if you don't go."

"I can judge for myself, I suppose," said Selina.

"All right; judge for yourself all you like. It is the last time I shall ever offer you any advice, you may be sure of that," returned Milly. "I had no idea you were such a grand personage, or I would not have ventured on such a liberty. Good-afternoon, Miss Weston, or whatever your name is. I won't trouble you any further."

And Milly turned and walked away.

Selina was confounded for the moment. Like other passionate people, she was always surprised and aggrieved when any one else showed any temper. To do Milly justice, such outbreaks were rare with her. She had not reached home before she told herself that she had been silly to mind Selina's tantrums, and resolved that she would make up on the first opportunity. She forgot that she had dealt Selina a cruel and cowardly blow in the allusion to her name, knowing, as she did, how sensitive Selina was on that point.

Selina stood still a moment, and then, turning round, walked rapidly toward home.

"I will never speak to her again,—never," she said to herself. "And I will not go to the singing-school either, if I can help it. I suppose, though, I shall have to, or make a fuss at home. They are all bewitched with this Ida Van Zandt, and Milly is as bad as the rest. I wish she had never come here."

The singing-school began prosperously with a full attendance. All the children came; and a good many grown people would have liked to do so, but Ida good-naturedly but firmly declined having any pupils outside of the school.

"It is only for the little ones," she explained. "And I find they do their best when I have them by themselves. Besides, I am not setting up for a teacher—I am only practising a little with the children."

Selina made up her mind to attend the class, partly because she could not contrive any valid excuse for not doing so, and partly because on consideration she was obliged, however unwillingly, to own that Milly's advice was good. It would be foolish to throw away such a chance for improvement; and moreover, if she did, Mr. Weston might make it a reason for refusing to let her have singing-lessons in Oldbury. As may be guessed, she was not in a very good frame of mind for profiting by the lessons, since her chief end and aim was to show that she could sing as well as her teacher.

To Kit the singing-lessons were a source of unmixed joy. She had a real genius for music, and a wonderfully quick ear, which caught in a moment all the beauties of Ida's style, and reproduced them in a manner quite marvellous to the other girls.

"Kit will beat us all," cried Faith in honest admiration. "What a beautiful voice she has!"

"Yes, she is going to make a fine singer," said Ida. "But we must not let her practise too much for a year or two, or she will hurt her voice. She sings with a great deal of expression. Now, you must all be very attentive, because I am going to give you a lesson on reading the notes."

Symantha made no objection to Kit's singing-lessons, and nothing had been said to Phin about them. He was away in Oldbury a good deal of the time, and often came home in a very bad humor. Kit kept out of his way at these times as much as possible. She noticed that Symantha's face began to assume the old anxious expression, which it had almost laid aside for a few months past. And she shrewdly guessed, that, as she said, "uncle Phin was going wrong again."

One day she came home with a very grave, not to say scared, expression, and followed Symantha into the pantry.

"Symantha, do you remember that man who used to keep the saloon in our street in Goldsburg,—the one they said shot the peddler?"

"Yes," answered Symantha, startled. "What of him?"

"I saw him this afternoon," said Kit.

"Impossible, child! He is in State-prison, and long may he stay there!"

"He is not in State-prison now," persisted Kit. "I tell you I saw him this afternoon. I met him down by the bars, and he walked part of the way home with me. I was scared, I can tell you."

"What did he say to you?"

"He asked the nearest way to Oldfield, and I told him: and then he asked who lived in Mr. Weston's house, and in Mrs. Van Zandt's; and I told him. Then he said he supposed Mrs. Van Zandt was very rich, and I said I didn't know any thing about it. He asked if I had ever been in the house, and I said, 'No.' Then he offered me a quarter, and I told him I didn't take money from strangers."

"Quite right," said Symantha. "But, Kit, I think you must be mistaken. Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, and I will tell you how. He has bleached his hair, and got white whiskers, but don't you remember one of his eyes was of two colors? He could not change that, and I knew him by it directly."

Symantha's face grew dark. "I thought he was out of the way, at least," said she. "I wonder what brings him here."

"He said he was going to Oldfield, and wanted to know the shortest road. I was glad when he walked on, for I am always afraid of him."

"He is a wicked wretch," said Symantha. "I have heard that he was born somewhere about here. Well, don't say a word, Kit. You were quite right not to answer his questions."

"I hope he won't get hold of uncle Phin," said Kit. "I thought he would get out of his old ways when he came to this nice place, and had the farm and all."

"And so did I; but, when people are bound to go to destruction, they will go," said Symantha, with a sigh which was almost a groan.

"It is too bad of uncle Phin, because he is so nice when he is good," said Kit. She paused, and then added timidly, "Symantha, why don't you ask our Father in heaven to make uncle Phin good? Don't you believe He could?"

"I don't know, child; I suppose so. Do you believe it?"

"Yes, I do. There was the thief on the cross: I read about him this morning. And I know other wicked people have been made good."

"Well, child, pray for him, then, and for me too, if you like. I am sure I am glad if you take comfort in that or any thing else. How do you get on with your singing-school?"

"Oh, nicely!" replied Kit with animation. "We have learned 'Jesus, lover of my soul,' and 'There is a green hill far away,' and 'Onward, Christian soldiers.' That is splendid. They are going to sing it in meeting to-morrow night," said Kit with a sudden change of tone. "Don't I wish I could go!"

"Don't you wish you could go where?" asked Phin. He had left his boots at the door and come quietly in, in his stocking-feet, so that no one had heard him.

"To meeting," said Kit, rather alarmed, but standing her ground, and half hoping her uncle might relent.

"Well, you won't do any such thing."

"I don't see what harm it would do," said Kit. "If it is all nonsense, as you say, it would do no more hurt than going to the circus or the theatre; and you used to let me go there. And if it is true—"

"Hush, Kit," said Symantha.

"True or false, you won't go. And you are not going near that schoolhouse for any thing again. Do you hear?"

"Not to school?" faltered Kit.

"No!" thundered Phin. "Not to school nor for any thing else. If you say another word, I will take you over to Oldbury, and set you to drawing beer at Stillwell's. I was a fool not to do it before."

Kit's own temper flamed up. "I'll never draw beer at Stillwell's nor anywhere else," said, she. "I hate the beer,—it is that makes you so ugly, uncle Phin,—and I'll never touch it."

"You won't, eh? You will go down cellar and get me a glass this minute."

"I won't."

"Father!" said Symantha warningly, but Phin was not to be controlled.

He had come home from Oldbury vexed at losing money in gambling, irritated as a weak man always is at the slavery to which he was reduced by his own weakness, and ready to visit that irritation on the first helpless object that came in his way. He took Kit in his arms despite her struggles; and, carrying her down-stairs, he set her down, and ordered her to draw the beer. But Kit was by this time quite beside herself with rage, and the old habit asserted itself, as old habits will with the best of us at times.

The beer-keg stood on a table at quite a height from the floor. With a volley of hard words, Kit seized it, and, by a sudden exertion of strength, flung it violently to the ground. The head, coming in contact with a large stone, was smashed in, and the beer poured out on the cellar-bottom.

"There's your beer drawn for you," said she. "Now drink it."

Phin's rage was something fearful. He whipped Kit till her screams alarmed him.

"There, now go to bed; and don't let me see you again to-night," said he, releasing her at last. "Come, we'll know who is to be master."

Kit crept away to bed, trembling so she could hardly stand. Sorely beaten as she was, the pain was the least of her troubles.

That which she had most feared had fallen upon her. To stay away from school,—that was the worst. To have no Miss Armstrong to go to in her troubles, to have no one to answer her questions, and explain to her what she did not understand,—oh, it was too dreadful to think of!

Symantha watched her chance, and brought the child some supper, but she could not eat.

Even her prayers seemed to bring her no comfort. She had been so wicked! She had been so angry, and used such bad words! What if she should never be forgiven? She slept only in snatches till the cocks began to crow, and the light to shine into her uncurtained windows.

Then she rose, and sought her Testament in the place where she kept it hidden. As she read, her face became calmer, and she ceased her sobs. Yes, she had been very naughty, but He would forgive her as He had forgiven Peter, who cursed and swore. Hope was not all gone, as she had thought the night before. Her Guardian was still in heaven. He saw and knew it all. He would forgive her, and take her part. Kit kneeled and poured out her heart in prayer; and then, lying down, she fell at last into a deep, quiet slumber.