pinch of snuff to restore his equanimity.
"My dear Calista, you should think twice before even hinting at an
accusation of such a crime against your aunt. No, I do not believe
her capable of such an action—at least at that time. At present I do
not hesitate to say that I should hardly be surprised. I believe the
love of money has grown to be a disease with her, as it does with most
people who indulge in it. Never let it get hold of you, my dear child."
"There seems no great danger of my having any money to love," said
Calista, rather bitterly.
"Oh, but you may love money without having it," said Mr. Settson. "I
suppose as many poor people love money as rich people—perhaps more in
proportion."
"I am taking up a great deal of your time," said Calista, becoming
suddenly aware of the fact, and rising as the church clock struck.
"You are welcome to it, my child. Sit down again for a moment; I have
something more to say to you."
Calista sat down, wondering what was coming.
"My dear Calista, I have always been interested in you," began Mr.
Settson, "for the sake of your grandfather, who was my father's friend
and mine, as well as for your own sake, and also because I consider
myself as your guardian by your grandfather's appointment. When
Miss Druett brought you home, I applied to Miss Priscilla Stanfield
for permission to take you and bring you up as my own, but this she
refused, and for some reason, which I do not understand, has always
refused. I have, however, kept my eye upon you. Thus I prevailed upon
your aunt to send you to school—"
"I thought that was Miss Druett's doing," interrupted Calista,
surprised.
"It was, in a great degree; that is, I should never have carried my
point but for her. What I wish to say is, that you may always come to
me for any advice or help you need. Consider me as standing to you in
the place of a father."
"Thank you, sir," said Calista, gratefully; "I am sure you are very
good. It is a comfort to think I have even one friend to look to."
"'You have one Friend far more powerful than I am, my child, if you
will only seek him. Try to cultivate a sense of personal religion. Do
you do so?"
"No, Mr. Settson," answered Calista, with the perfect frankness which
was one of her best traits. "I don't even know exactly what you mean by
personal religion."
"I mean personal loyalty to a personal God and Saviour," said Mr.
Settson, emphatically. "You can understand that."
"Yes, sir; but I am afraid I don't feel it. Mr. Settson, will you just
tell me one thing?"
"If I can, certainly."
"Do you really and truly, I don't say believe, but feel and realize it,
that God is your own Friend and Father, and loves you so that he really
cares for what you do and what happens to you?"
"I most certainly do!" answered the old lawyer, with an earnestness
equal to her own. "I don't say that I am able to realize the fact at
all times alike, but I know and believe it as firmly as I do in my own
existence. Calista, I have had a reasonably prosperous and happy life,
but I solemnly declare that, only for my children, if I believed this
life was all, and that there was no God, or that God did not love and
care for me, I would give up life as a bad business, and be rid of the
trouble."
"But would that be right?" asked Calista.
"Perhaps not; but I fear the idea of right and wrong would not be very
strong with me under such circumstances as I have supposed."
"What about Mr. Simpson's mortgage?" asked Calista, as she rose to go.
"Oh! Tell Miss Priscilla that the man has been sick and unfortunate,
but he is sure to pay in the end, and I think she had better give him a
little more time. The investment is safe enough."
"Please write it," said Calista. "She will only rave at me."
"Perhaps it would be better." Mr. Settson wrote his note.
Calista put it in her pocket and walked away, with her head fuller of
thoughts than it had ever been before. She was so absent in school,
and made so many mistakes that Miss Jessy observed to Miss Meeks that
Calista's head was far too full of her fancy work, and Miss Meeks
returned with a sarcastic smile, that she had never expected anything
else.
CHAPTER SIXTH.
THE SECRET DRAWER.
FOR several days Calista went about like one in a dream. She was so
absent that Miss Druett wondered what had come over the child; and she
made so many blunders in school that she brought down on her head a
sharp reprimand from Miss Meeks.
"It is just what I predicted when this nonsense fair was first gotten
up," said that lady. "Your head is so full of your fancy work that you
can think of nothing else."
"Eh! What is that?" asked Miss McPherson.
"It is that Miss Stanfield is so careless that there is no bearing it,
ma'am," answered Miss Meeks. "Her exercise is just a disgrace with
blots, and the writing looks as if a powowet * had wagged over it."
Miss Meeks was apt to get to her Scotch when excited. "I tell her,
ma'am, it is a poor return for your kindness about the knitting work,"
pursued the teacher; "verra ungrateful, I must needs say."
* A tadpole or pollywog, as we call it hereabouts.
"It was not the knitting work," said Calista, very much hurt, but
trying to speak civilly, as she knew how Miss McPherson was vexed by
any rudeness to poor Miss Meeks. "I have had a great deal to think of
this week, Miss Meeks, and I know I have been careless, but I will try
to do better. I handed you the first copy of the exercise instead of
the second—that is all. Here is the right one."
Miss McPherson took it from her hand and looked it over. "That is not
bad," said she; "but you should not allow yourself to write carelessly
at any time. However, Miss Meeks will excuse you this once."
"Of course," said the teacher, not very graciously however, and as she
went away, she murmured something about favorites and absurd indulgence.
Miss McPherson only smiled. She understood Miss Meeks's good qualities,
and she knew that the poor lady's irritability had a better excuse than
that of most people.
"Really, Calista, my dear, you must try to do better, for your own
sake," said she, gently. "Remember that you are losing opportunities
which you may not have very long, and for which you are responsible.
Whatever it is that's occupying your mind, put it aside in school time
and give your whole attention to your lessons."
Calista felt the wisdom of the advice, and tried to follow it in school
hours, but out of school, all her thoughts were occupied about what Mr.
Settson had told her. Then the old Stanfield place was really hers, by
right. Her grandfather had meant her to have it; he had made a will to
that effect, and her aunt had either hidden or destroyed it. Of that
Calista had no doubt, and conviction embittered her feeling towards
Miss Priscilla to an almost intolerable degree.
"Oh, if I could find a chance, wouldn't I take one good look into
grandfather's room?" she said to herself, looking up at the shutters,
which she had never seen unbarred since she lived in the house.
The room in question opened from the now never used back parlor, and
had been the General's private office. The back parlor was high and
spacious, and contained two or three tall book-cases, at which Calista
often gazed with longing eyes. They were always kept locked, and
the faded green silk linings of the glass doors hid their contents
effectually. The front parlor was kept in some sort of order, but the
shutters were always closed, and the room was forbidden ground to
Calista.
It was Wednesday, and the afternoon session of school was to be devoted
to working for the much-talked-of fair. Calista had asked to be
excused, and had come home. To her surprise, she found no one in the
sitting-room.
"Where are my aunt and Miss Druett, Chloe?" she asked, going into the
kitchen.
"Gone to town to see about some law business, I expect," was the
answer. "What brings you here at this time of day?"
Calista explained.
"Oh, all right. Honey, you won't be afraid to stay in the house alone
a little, will you? I want dreadful bad to run over and see Sally a
little. She's got some stuff for the rheumatism, and I want to get the
receipt. You can lock the doors, you know, if you are afraid. You won't
be scared, will you?"
"No, of course not," replied Calista, inwardly rejoiced at being left
alone in the house; "but you know what aunt will say if she comes home
and finds you gone."
"Let her say," returned Chloe; "anyhow, I shall be back before she
will. But I'd lock the doors if I were you."
There was no danger of Calista's neglecting this precaution. She had no
mind to be surprised in the work she proposed to herself.
With a beating heart, she betook herself to the back parlor. She found
the book-cases all locked but one, which seemed to contain nothing,
only odd bound volumes of magazines and old newspapers. From these,
Calista extracted some numbers of the "Gentleman's Magazine" and a
couple of volumes of "La Belle Assemblée," which she laid aside,
intending to carry them to her room. She then closed the doors and
proceeded to examine the drawers under them. They contained nothing but
rubbish—bits of old fancy work and such like—but in one of them she
discovered a pretty leather working-case or equipage, as is used to be
called, containing a still serviceable pair of scissors. This she put
in her pocket, not without some misgivings.
Then she went out to the kitchen, and finding all still, she returned
and tried the door of her grandfather's room. It was locked, as she
expected, but as she gave the door a push, something fell within, the
lock turned in her hand, and the door opened. Astonished and almost
terrified at her own success, she examined the door, and perceived that
the socket which held the bolt had fallen through the decay of the wood.
She looked round her. The room was almost dark, but a little light came
through the round holes in the top of the shutters, enough to show
her the old mahogany desk and arm-chair, the silent clock, and the
once rich Turkey carpet which partly covered the floor, and from which
quite a cloud of little moths rose up as she stepped upon it. Over
the mantlepiece hung a portrait which she supposed to be that of her
grandmother, and under it a beautiful painted miniature of a little boy.
[Illustration: _Old Stanfield House._
She advanced to the desk and lifted the lid.]
"That was my father, I suppose," said Calista to herself. "I am glad
grandfather kept his picture, at any rate."
She advanced to the desk and lifted the lid. It was empty, save for
a few papers which did not seem to be of any special value; only old
bills and leases. There was a recess in which lay an old-fashioned gold
seal; Calista took it up, and put her hand back to see if there was
anything else. There was nothing; but as she felt about, she touched
a spring, a small cupboard door opened, and she saw, lying upon its
shelves, half a dozen or more bright gold pieces of different sizes.
A strange feeling came over Calista at this sight—almost like that of a
starving man at the sight of food. She saw the gold, and felt as if she
must have it at any price—at any risk.
"It is yours by right," something said to her; "that and a great
deal more. Take it. Take a part of it, at any rate. Very likely Miss
Priscilla does not know of its existence, and will never miss it. She
never comes into this room. Take the gold. Who has a better right?"
It seemed afterward to Calista that she stood debating the matter
with herself for an hour. In reality, it was not for two minutes. She
listened to the voice of the tempter, and stretched out her hand for
the gold. She would have taken it in another moment—made the false step
which, perhaps, she would never have retrieved. What stopped her?
Merely an old recollection. Merely the words which had come to her mind
that night when she had first spoken to her Creator. The remembrance of
Miss Malvina's words, "Your mother was a true Christian, and is waiting
in her heavenly home for her little daughter."
Calista drew back her hand, like one who had seen a rattlesnake coiled
under the fruit he was just going to gather. In all haste she pushed to
the cupboard door, closed the desk, and fled to her own room, utterly
forgetting that she had left a witness of her presence behind her in
the books she had laid aside. Once in her own room, she threw herself
on the bed, sobbing hysterically.
"Oh, mother! I didn't take it—I didn't take it!" she cried, as if
speaking to an actual presence in the room. "Oh, mother! You saved me!
I did not take the gold! I am not a thief! Oh, how glad I am that I
didn't even touch it—"
She was still sobbing when she heard the clock strike, and knew that
her aunt must soon be at home. She arose, bathed her face and smoothed
her hair, and went down to the kitchen just in time to let in Chloe.
"I didn't mean to leave you alone so long, honey," said the old woman.
"There's a cake old Sally sent you, to make up for it. But what's the
matter?" she asked, looking curiously at Calista. "Did anything scare
you?"
"Yes; I was a little frightened at staying alone so long; but never
mind. You must hurry and get tea ready, for my aunt will be here
directly."
"That's so, and she'll raise old Ned if she's kept waiting. There, put
your cake away up stairs, and keep it for yourself. But first run and
pick up some chips for me, there's a dear."
Calista was not sorry to get into the fresh air. She picked up the
chips, and then wandered across the road to the old graveyard, and read
the inscription on her grandfather's monument.
"Twelve years ago he died," she said to herself. "For twelve long years
all his money and land have been no more to him. No, not as much as
this little wild strawberry is to me. And his life in the other world
has hardly begun yet. Twelve years. My mother has been dead longer than
that; and what difference does it make to them that one died rich and
the other poor!"
"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we carry
nothing out." Calista had heard these words many times, till they
were as trite to her as they are, perhaps, to you and me; but to-day,
sitting by her grandfather's grave, they took on a meaning as new as
though an angel had just spoken them in her ear. She saw, as it is
given to people sometimes to see, this life and the next in their
true proportions and relations. She saw how near that other life lay
to hers; how her daily path ran along its very margin, which it might
cross at any minute. She saw how immeasurably little—how absolutely
nothing—were all the interests of this life compared with that. A few
times in almost every person's life, the veil is lifted which hangs
between this life and that, and the spectator is shown a glimpse of the
fair and dreadful things behind it; and a voice, not of this world,
says,—
"These, THESE are the real things!"
The others are but dreams and shadows; or, at most, empty toys, broken
before enjoyed, wounding the hand that grasps them. Woe to him if,
having seen that sight and heard that voice, he goes on still in his
own way, living as if there were no such thing! The other day I saw
some sparrows busily making a nest in a building which was at that
moment being torn down. The silly little birds were wise compared to
such a man.
Calista rose at last, and busied herself in pulling up the weeds and
thistles which grew on her grandfather's and grandmother's grave.
She would have done the same for that of the first Mrs. Stanfield,
Priscilla's mother, but it was overgrown with a poison vine which she
dared not touch. She had but just finished her task when she saw the
chaise drive up with her aunt and Miss Druett. She gathered a bunch of
the fragrant honeysuckle and some of the exquisitely fluted buds of the
laurel, and went in.
It was very easy to see that Miss Priscilla was in one of her worst
humors. Calista had not exaggerated in saying that at such times she
was like some strong wild animal. She glared at Calista when she came
in, but said not a word. Calista put her flowers in water and came down
to tea. Not a word was spoken till Miss Druett said, not unkindly—
"I saw you come across the road, Calista. Where had you been?"
"Only in the graveyard, Miss Druett."
"And what took you there, child? It is not cheerful place."
"No, indeed. I took a fancy to read the inscription on grandfather's
monument. It is terribly out of repair, and will be tumbling down if it
is not mended. And, Aunt Priscilla, your mother's grave is all covered
with poison ivy!"
Miss Priscilla set down her teacup with shaking hands and stared at
Calista, while her cheeks and even her lips became white.
"How dare you go there?" she stammered. "How dare you speak to me of
graves?"
"Why, where is the harm?" said Calista. "I wanted to see the monuments.
We must all go there some time or other, I suppose. Death seems about
the only certain thing one has to look forward to," she continued,
musingly, and speaking more to herself than her companions. "We are
sure of that, whatever else happens."
"Be still!" almost screamed Miss Priscilla. "I won't hear such words!
Druey, make her be still! Send her away! I shall dream of dying—I know
I shall—and of the grave!"
"Hush, Priscilla. Don't excite yourself so. The child meant no harm,"
said Miss Druett. "There, run away, child, and ask Chloe for some
supper, or go up to my room if you like. There is something for you on
the bed."
Calista obeyed, wondering at the storm she had raised. She did not care
for more supper, so she went up to Miss Druett's room, where she found
two cheap but pretty new frocks and a straw bonnet such as other girls
wore. Miss Druett had evidently carried her point somehow.
She ventured down to the sitting-room after awhile. She found Miss
Priscilla asleep in her chair, as usual, and Miss Druett looking out of
the window, as usual. Calista stole to a low seat beside her, and Miss
Druett laid a hand on her head.
"Thank you ever so much for the dresses, Miss Druett," Calista
whispered; "I know they were your buying—were they not?"
"Partly, and partly Mr. Settson's. Calista, you must never again speak
to your aunt as you did to-night. I thought she would have a fit."
"I did not mean any harm, Miss Druett."
"I know it, child."
"And surely Aunt Priscilla knows that she must die some time."
"We know a great many things we do not like to think or speak about,
child; and Priscilla has a greater horror of death than any one I ever
saw."
"I don't see why she should, when she thinks that death ends
everything," observed Calista.
"Yes, but you see there is always a terrible perhaps; and then the
thought of annihilation is dreadful to most people. But—not to talk
any more about that—tell me, Calla have you seen Old Zeke or his wife
anywhere about lately?"
"No, not lately; at least, not that I am sure of," said Calista,
considering. "I saw a very tall woman on the edge of the woods as I was
coming home yesterday, but I was not near enough to see what she was
like, only, as I said, she was very tall. Why?"
"Can I trust your discretion if I tell you?"
"I think so," answered Calista—less proudly than she would have said
the words in the morning, for she still felt humbled in her own eyes.
Miss Druett put her head down to Calista's and whispered very low—
"Because I am afraid they are getting an influence over Priscilla
again. I am much mistaken if she has not had an interview with one or
other of them, and she has dropped more than one hint about spies and
so on. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open, and tell me if you
see anything. Hush, she is waking up. Get your knitting, child. You
should not sit idle all the evening."
Miss Druett said these words aloud.
Miss Priscilla glanced sharply at her, but apparently saw nothing to
rouse her suspicions, and the evening passed away as usual.
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
MISS MEEKS.
CALISTA waked early the next morning, and lay a long time thinking over
what had happened the day before. She shuddered at the narrowness of
her escape.
"Oh, how differently I should be feeling if I had taken that money! It
was mother who saved me," she said to herself.
And then a sensation of awe came over her as she asked herself the
question, "But who was it that sent the remembrance of mother at the
critical moment? Did he really care? Did he save me—me, who never did
or tried to do one thing for him in all my life? Can it be that Mary is
right, and that he really loves 'me?'"
Calista rose, dressed herself, and sat down in her accustomed place in
the deep window. She revolved many things in her mind. She went back
over her past life, and considered her present situation. She looked
herself fairly in the face, so to speak, and she did not find a great
deal in the view to flatter her vanity.
It was true, as Mary had hinted: she was in danger of thinking as much
of money as Aunt Priscilla herself.
Looking back over the past few weeks, she was astonished to see how
much of her time and thoughts had been bestowed on that subject alone.
Walking by the way, alone in her own room, in the school-room when her
book was before her and her mind should have been on its pages—even
in the house of God itself—her one subject of contemplation had been
money, or what money would buy; what she would do when Aunt Priscilla
was out of the way, and the Stanfield place should be her own; and
latterly, how she would find her grandfather's will; how she would
confront Aunt Priscilla, and humble her in the dust; how she would take
possession of the old mansion, and put it in perfect repair; these had
been her dreams day and night. These had led her into temptation—had
almost brought her to the commission of an act at the thought of which
she still turned cold and sick.
"I am resolved I will do so no more," she said to herself, decidedly
and almost aloud. "I will give my whole mind to my lessons, and so
prepare myself to make my own way in the world. I will try to be civil
to Aunt Priscilla, and not provoke her; but whatever I do, I won't be
thinking of nothing but money all the time, I am determined upon that.
She can't live forever, that is certain, and—"
And then Calista, pulled herself up short, vexed and ashamed to find
her thoughts, even in the very moment of her resolution, going off into
their old channels. She would find, as many another has found, that
resolutions made in mere human strength are, as opposed to the force of
inbred and indulged sin, as a rope of sand to a mountain torrent.
She rose with an impatient movement, and taking her grammar, which she
had brought home, she set herself determinedly to commit to memory the
notes under the rules, and to frame examples to illustrate them; and
she grew so interested in her work as to be surprised when the clock
struck seven, the signal for breakfast.
"Oh, Calista, why didn't you stay yesterday?" said Belle Adair, as
Calista entered the school-room. "We had such a nice afternoon! Miss
McPherson sat with us and told us stories about the time she went to
school in Scotland and in Paris."
"That must have been lovely," said Calista. "I wish I had staid."
"Why didn't you?"
"I thought of something I wished to do at home, but I didn't accomplish
it, so I might as well have been here, and better, too. What work did
you do?"
"I worked at my lace veil, and Tessy began her curtains, and did quite
a piece upon one; and Mary Burns has a rug of sewed-on work, and
Elizabeth Howell a tucked skirt, and Clary Whitman a painted velvet
stool, and I can't tell you all, only we had a lovely time!"
"All but Antoinette!" remarked Emma.
"Why, what was the matter with Antoinette?"
"Well, several things. In the first place, you must know that Miss
McPherson has been changing the rooms about. She has put Tessy in the
little room that opens from Miss Jessy's."
"Poor Tessy! She will have to learn to keep her things in order."
"Well, Tessy says she doesn't care: she wants to learn to be neat. And
Antoinette is in the other little room by herself, next to Miss Meeks.
She doesn't like it one bit, because she can't borrow of Tessy now
without being found out, and none of the other girls will lend to her.
Even Elizabeth Howell said to her, when she wanted some hairpins, 'Thee
is just as well able to buy hairpins as I am!'"
"Well, so she is. Now Mary Burns is really poor, but you don't find her
sponging!" said Emma.
"Well, but that needn't have spoiled Antoinette's comfort yesterday
afternoon. What was the matter then?"