Chapter XV: 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."