Chapter XXII: 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?