OLDHAM

OR

BESIDE ALL WATERS

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "LOVEDAY'S HISTORY," "LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," "IRISH AMY," ETC.

NEW YORK

THOMAS WHITTAKER

2 AND 3 BIBLE HOUSE 1886

COPYRIGHT, 1885 BY THOMAS WHITTAKER.

ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY BOSTON.

PREFACE.

I THINK this book tells its own story, such as it is. It is simply a tale of quiet country life in a New England parish, with some of its oddities and advantages, and a little of the tragedy which is found everywhere. It is not meant specially either for old or young, though I hope both classes may find entertainment and profit in it. One word as to the Bible-class service. I believe such neighborhood meetings would be found of the utmost advantage both in city and country parishes. In the city especially may always be found a large class of women who have been brought up to attend church regularly, but have fallen out of the habit, at first, perhaps, kept at home by the cares of young children, and afterward from indifference. Such persons may often be induced to attend a service in a neighbor's house or some such place, of an evening, when they would not go to church. My idea of such services would be to make them "Bible-readings," in which all should be invited to take part. I do believe that a great deal of good might be done in this way. LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.

CONTENTS. ——————

CHAPTER I.

THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE

CHAPTER II.

NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS

CHAPTER III.

KIT AT HOME

CHAPTER IV.

STRANGERS

CHAPTER V.

THE MEETING

CHAPTER VI.

THE ENEMY

CHAPTER VII.

THE SPRINGING GRAIN

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SNAKES

CHAPTER IX.

TWO TEA-PARTIES

CHAPTER X.

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR

CHAPTER XI.

NEW PROJECTS

CHAPTER XII.

HARMONY AND DISCORD

CHAPTER XIII.

KIT'S VICTORY

CHAPTER XIV.

MISS VAN ZANDT

CHAPTER XV.

MORE CHANGES

CHAPTER XVI.

THE TEA-PARTY

CHAPTER XVII.

MRS. ORME

CHAPTER XVIII.

TROUBLE AT HOME

CHAPTER XIX.

OLDHAM AFFAIRS

CHAPTER XX.

WARNING

CHAPTER XXI.

THE NET CLOSED

CHAPTER XXII.

THE END

OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS.

CHAPTER I.

THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE.

IT was not in the least like the red schoolhouses one may see every day in the city. They are great piles of brick, usually all the uglier for the attempts at ornament bestowed upon them. They have any number of rooms for any number of grades, with A classes and B classes, and all the other machinery for grinding out scholars by the hundred, all done to one pattern. My red schoolhouse was more like the little "custom mill," built by the side of a dashing, flashing mill-stream, with trees growing about it, and a row of sheds where stand steady, sober old horses, patiently waiting while their owners sit inside or about the mill-door discussing politics and neighborhood news and waiting in their turn for their separate "grists" of sweet-smelling meal and flour. There was just such a mill not far from the red schoolhouse; and the hum of the machinery could be heard in the schoolroom when the boys and girls were particularly quiet, as was the case on the special occasion when my story begins.

There had been a talk two or three times, in school-meeting, of re-furnishing the schoolhouse on modern principles, but it had never been carried out. A long desk ran around two sides of the room, with a bench before it where the elder scholars sat; in front of this bench was another, mostly used for recitations; and before all, a still lower seat for the little ones who were just learning their letters. The rest of the furniture consisted of the teacher's desk and chair, standing on a platform by themselves; a good serviceable blackboard, a little the worse for wear; and a map of the world, and another of the United States, which was so many States behind the times that it must needs be an old inhabitant.

There were not more than twenty scholars present that June afternoon. And those were mostly girls or very little boys, for the big boys of the district were busy with another branch of their education,—helping their fathers on the farm. All the children were seated with their faces toward the teacher, and the room was so still that the hum of the mill sounded like the drone of a big bumble-bee. Miss Armstrong was standing on the platform, her hand resting upon a book which she had apparently just laid down. She could not be called a very pretty woman, and yet there was that in her face and manner which made one look at her again. She had a certain air of peace and cheerfulness overlying steadiness and resolution,—what you would call a face to be trusted.

"She looks as if she had come through the wars, and 'beat,'" said Patience Fletcher, who, poor thing, had been beaten many times in her warfare.

All the children joined in the repetition of the Lord's Prayer with one exception.

"Now, let me hear you say that verse all together," said Miss Armstrong; "and then we will join in repeating the Lord's Prayer. I hope I shall hear every voice. Stand up, if you please."

Every voice was heard as the children repeated, in tones that were reverent from feeling,—

"'Like as a father pitieth his own children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'"

All the children joined in the repetition of the Lord's Prayer, with one exception. A thin, dark little girl with black, crispy hair, stood looking down at her closely clasped hands with a curious movement about her lips. You would say she had much ado not to burst out crying.

As the school was dismissed, and this little girl made her courtesy at the door (for this school was so far behind the times that "manners" were still taught therein), she suddenly raised her eyes, and looked her teacher in the face. Those eyes of Kit's were always a kind of surprise. They were dark violet-blue, with black level brows, and very long black lashes,—Irish blue eyes,—and had an extraordinary brilliancy about them, like precious stones or sunlit water. They now flashed upon Miss Armstrong with a look of love and thankfulness which went to the teacher's heart.

"'She' has taken in something, at any rate," thought Miss Armstrong. "I must talk more with her. I wonder why she did not join in the prayer."

Somebody else wondered also; for the moment she was outside the door, Kit was met with the sharp question,—

"Kit Mallory, why didn't you say the Lord's Prayer?"

"I don't know it," replied Kit, coloring up to the roots of her hair. And then, after a moment, she added, as if with an effort, "Our folks don't believe in such things."

"You wicked girl!" exclaimed the first speaker, a pretty well grown girl of sixteen, very neatly dressed. "You wicked child, not to believe in the Lord's Prayer!"

"I didn't say I didn't believe in it: I said I didn't know it," replied Kit with some spirit. "How can I believe in what I don't know any thing about?"

"Well, you ought to know it, then," said Selina. "You could have learned it if you had chosen, I know."

Kit did not seem disposed to pursue the subject. She walked a little way down the road, climbed the bars, and was soon ascending the rocky hill-pasture.

"I declare, I don't think that girl ought to be allowed to come to school," said Selina. "Phin Mallory is a regular infidel, and Melissa makes all kinds of fun of religion. Kit isn't Phin's niece, either, though she calls him uncle. She is only a little foundling taken out of the poorhouse; Melissa told me so herself."

"If she had been out of the orphan-asylum, it would have been all right, I suppose," said a girl who had not yet spoken.

It was now Selina's turn to color. Her eyes flashed, and she turned absolutely white with anger.

"For shame, Sarah!" said Faith Fletcher. "It isn't Selina's fault."

"Nor Kit's either."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself to take my part, Faith," said Selina in a voice which trembled with anger. "If Sarah—" But here she stopped; and, tying on her bonnet, she walked rapidly away in a direction opposite to that which Kit had taken.

"You are too bad, Sarah," said Faith. "Now she will go home and cry half the night."

"Why am I too bad, any more than she?" asked Sarah. "What did she say about Kit?"

"Two wrongs don't make a right," said Faith, very truly.

"And as to her crying, what is there to cry about?" continued Sarah. "I think she might be thankful that she has a good home. Nobody would ever think of her being an adopted child if she did not put on such airs. I must say I do like to take her down."

"And how do you like it when somebody takes you down?" asked Faith.

"When it happens, I will tell you," said Sarah lightly. "Where is that child?—Come, Gerty. You can't stay to play to-night: I promised to come home early, and help mother."

"And I must go home and help sister," said Faith, with a little sigh, as if the prospect were not the most alluring in the world. "Come, children. Eddy, see how you have mussed up your clean apron; and Eben has got his knees all green on the grass. What do you think sister will say? Take hold of hands now, and walk along pretty."

The prospect of what sister would say seemed to have a very sobering effect on the little boy and girl—twins of six years old. They at once gave up their play, and marched off in the most orderly manner. Faith followed them.

And when Miss Armstrong came out of the schoolhouse and locked the door, there was not a human being in sight. She hesitated a moment, and then took the same road that Kit had followed. She had gone about a quarter of a mile, when she stopped, and looked about her with a puzzled expression. As she did so, a light figure sprang over the stone wall, and Kit Mallory stood beside her.

"Please, Miss Armstrong, ain't you taking the wrong road?" said she as soon as she could gather breath enough to speak. "Don't you want to go to Mr. Weston's to-night?"

"To be sure I do, Kitty," answered Miss Armstrong. "I was just thinking I had made a mistake. Have I come very far out of my way?"

"Well, quite a piece," answered Kit, "but if you don't mind going cross-lots, I could show you a shorter way than the road. It's real pretty, too, only it is kind of steep part of the way."

"I don't mind the steepness at all, and I love to go cross-lots," answered Miss Armstrong. "I am not sure that I can climb that wall quite as easily as you did, however."

"There are bars only a little way from here," said Kit: "I can take them down for you."

"How did you come to my help so opportunely, Kitty?" asked Miss Armstrong as they walked along toward the bars.

"I saw you from the hill," answered Kit as she took down the bars, and then carefully put them up again. "There is a little hollow up yonder, where I always stop to rest. It is real pretty when you get there. Now we have to go up, you see, but it isn't so steep very far."

Miss Armstrong not only saw, but felt, the steepness of the path, which taxed all her strength for a few minutes, for she was not used to mountain-climbing. Presently, however, they came to a kind of break or niche in the steep rocky ledge which crowned the hill like a rampart. The grass in this hollow was short and fine, and beautifully green; and lovely tufts of lady-fern and maiden-hair grew about the rocks. A low, wide-spreading oak-tree stood at the entrance of the nook; and a bright, clear spring, bursting to light from under the ledge, made quite a deep pool, and then prattled cheerfully away down the mountain-side. The view from the spot was lovely enough to have pleased a more cultivated eye than Kit's. The long valley, with the river and the road winding through it, was spread out like a map; and the "folded hills" rose one behind the other, till the prospect was closed by the top of a great blue mountain. Almost at their feet lay the schoolhouse, and Bassett's mill with its flashing mill-dam. Miss Armstrong uttered an exclamation of delight.

"I'm glad you think it pretty," said Kit. "Please sit down and rest."

As she spoke, she pointed out a flat rock as a desirable seat. And then, disappearing for a little, she presently came back with one hand full of young wintergreens, and the other of the last year's stems, each with its coral berry.

"I can get you a drink if you like," said she. And searching in a hollow among the rocks, she brought out a cracked teacup, which she filled at the spring-head, and offered to Miss Armstrong.

"Thank you, my dear; this is very refreshing," said Miss Armstrong. "You have made me a nice little treat. I do not wonder you like to stop here."

"I think it is pleasant," said Kit: "you can see so far, and the colors are so nice. Folks say red houses are ugly and old-fashioned, but somehow the red schoolhouse and mill seem just to fit in—I don't know how to say what I mean."

"I understand you," said Miss Armstrong. "They do just exactly fit in, as you say. You have an eye for color, Kitty."

"I love colors, I know that," said Kit; and then, her face darkening as if with an unpleasant recollection, "Melissa says I am a fool because I love flowers, and because I am always picking up stones, and snail-shells. She threw away all my pretty stones that I got up on the mountain, but I'll be even with her some day."

"You should not speak like that," said Miss Armstrong gently. "Don't you know that it is wrong to wish for revenge?"

"Is it?" asked Kit.

"Yes, my dear. Do you never read the Bible?"

"I never saw only the outside of one," answered Kit. "Uncle Phin won't have one in the house. He says all pious people are humbugs, and that it was religion that made aunt Martha crazy."

"Is your aunt crazy?" asked Miss Armstrong.

"Yes, ma'am. She isn't raving crazy all the time, but she just sits still in her chair, and takes no notice of any thing. Sometimes she would not eat any thing for days together if Symantha or uncle Phin did not coax her. They are real good to her, but Melissa hasn't a mite of patience with her."

"And would you like to read the Bible, Kitty?"

"Yes, ma'am, if there are nice stories in it," answered Kit doubtfully. "I love stories."

"And so do I," said Miss Armstrong. "Yes, there are plenty of beautiful stories in the Bible. But that is not the reason we love it: it is because the Bible is God's word,—his letter or message to us, to teach us about him. If you had a kind friend out in California, and he should write you a letter saying he had a delightful home all ready for you, and telling you what you must do in order to come to that home, you would think a great deal of that letter, wouldn't you? You would want to read it over and over, and learn all it had to tell you."

"I guess I would!" said Kit with emphasis. "I would learn it off by heart, and think about it all the time."

"Well, the Bible is very much such a letter to us. In it, our Heavenly Father tells us about Himself, and all He has done for us, and especially how He sent His Son to take our nature upon Him, and die for us on the cross, and then to rise from the dead, and go into heaven to make ready a place for those who love Him."

Kit looked puzzled for a moment, and then her eyes lighted up.

"I believe I read about Him in the 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" said she. "Isn't He the Lord that it tells about?"

"Yes," answered Miss Armstrong. "So you have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress'?"

"Not all of it. I found an old, torn book of it up in the garret when we came here; and it was a story, so I read it. Uncle Phin said it was all a heap of nonsense, like 'Bluebeard' and 'Jack the Giant-Killer,' but it always did seem to me more than that. So there really is such a person?"

Miss Armstrong looked at the child for a moment in amazement. With all her experience, she found it hard to realize that here, in the midst of a Christian community, was a child of twelve who could ask such a question. Kit did not understand the teacher's glance, and took it for one of displeasure.

"I don't know any thing, hardly," she said humbly, "only to read and write a little. Where we lived out West, there was hardly ever any church or meeting, and we only had school three or four months in the year. When we came here, Miss Celia Claxton called, and asked uncle Phin to let me come to Sunday school, but he wouldn't: and he talked so to her she has never been near us since. He says religion is all priestcraft and lies, and that nobody really believes in it."

"That is a great mistake, and one that I fear he will be very sorry for some day," said Miss Armstrong. "Kitty, my dear child, before I go, I want to teach you a verse out of the Bible. Listen, and say it after me."

It was with a very serious face that Kit repeated after her friend,—

"'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

One or two repetitions enabled her to say the verse perfectly.

Then Miss Armstrong took out of her pocket a pretty little card, on which was printed that time-honored and always beautiful prayer which begins,—

"Now I lay me down to sleep,—"

and also a verse for the morning.

"I will give you this for your own," said she. "Learn these verses, and say them night and morning. But, Kitty, if you want your Heavenly Father to give you any thing else, you can ask Him in your own words. He will always hear you if you ask for the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord."

"And will He always give it to me?" asked Kit eagerly.

"Yes, if it is best for you to have it. But He knows better than we do what is good for us; and when we ask for what we ought not to have, He does not give it."

"I see," said Kit thoughtfully. "Just as if a baby should want a sharp knife: its mother would not let it have the knife, if the baby cried ever so hard."

"I see you understand me, my dear. Now we must walk on, or we shall be late.

"Have you always lived with your uncle, Kitty?" asked Miss Armstrong as they walked down the hill.

"No, ma'am. Melissa says uncle took me out of the poorhouse, but I don't believe it," said Kit in a confidential tone. "I remember a place that was not a bit like the poorhouse."

"What was it like?" asked Miss Armstrong.

Kit stopped for an instant, seeming to send her thoughts inward. "It was a room with a bright carpet on the floor," said she. "I used to sit on the floor, and run my fingers over the figures. And there were plants, like Miss Claxton's, and a big bird. That is all I can remember when I am awake. Sometimes I dream about another place where I have been, but I can't tell what it is like. And it doesn't seem to me as if my name was Keturah, either."

"Perhaps it was Catherine," suggested Miss Armstrong.

"I can't tell," said Kit, knitting her brows. "It doesn't seem as if that was it exactly. I asked Symantha one day, but she hushed me up, and told me never to talk about it, because uncle Phin would be very angry if he knew. But I think about it a great deal," concluded Kit with a kind of triumph in her tone. "They can't keep me from thinking."

"Here is Mr. Weston now," said Miss Armstrong as they came out of the pasture into the lane which led out to the road beside a great barn.

"Well, I declare! I was just going to hitch up, and go after you," said Mr. Weston. "You staid so long, I thought you must be lost."

"That is exactly what happened to me," replied Miss Armstrong. "I stupidly took the wrong turn coming out of the schoolhouse; and I don't know where I should have been by this time if Kitty had not come to my rescue, and brought me over the hill. We should have been here long before, only that we sat down for a rest and a chat."

"Did you put up the bars, Kit?" asked Mr. Weston.

"Yes, sir, I always do when I take them down, but I generally climb over," answered Kit. "I must be going," she added with an effort. "Symantha will want me."

"Wait a minute," said Mr. Weston. He went into the barn as he spoke, and came back with a basketful of June russet apples.

"There! You don't see many such apples this time of year," said he.

"Oh, thank you!" said Kit gratefully. "Aunt Martha will eat an apple sometimes when she won't touch any thing else."

"That child has hard times, I am afraid," said Mr. Weston, as Kit disappeared behind the barn. "But what has become of Selina?"