spangled shepherdess that she had set her heart on! She said that such
things were going out of fashion, and that this would be so expensive
no one would buy it, and she should do something less ambitious.
Antoinette said pertly she did not care whether any one bought it or
not, she should have the credit of it, and if the picture did not
sell, she should have that too. You should have seen Miss McPherson
look at her! And then Elizabeth Howell asked Miss McPherson if she did
not think it would be better to have the things sent in just from the
school, without any individual names at all."
"That is just like Elizabeth—especially as she is doing the prettiest
piece of all; I mean her muslin apron. Well, what did Miss McPherson
say?"
"She said we could take time and think the matter over, and then we
could decide."
"And then Charity Latch—just think, Calista—Charity said for her part
she wanted the credit for what 'she' did."
"She works so elegantly," said Calista, and all the girls laughed,
for it was notorious that Charity had never learned to sew up a seam
decently.
"But how do you like the idea, Calista?" asked Mary Settson.
"Oh, it suits me very well," answered Calista, with a little
bitterness, "so long as I have nothing to do at all."
"I am sure your bureau cover will be lovely."
"It isn't mine, it is Miss McPherson's. How do you like it, Mary?"
"Well, I must say, with Charity, I don't see why we should not have the
credit of what we do," said Mary. "I know I like to, for one, as well
as she does."
"The Bible says we should not let our left hand know what our right
hand does, thee knows, Mary," said Elizabeth Howell, who had joined the
group in time to hear Calista's question and Mary's answer; "and we are
not to love the praise of men."
"Not better than the praise of God," said Mary, quickly.
"And how is one to set a good example, if one's doings are never to be
known?"
"I can't say I think much of examples that are set on purpose,"
remarked Belle Adair. "And I don't believe one ought to be always
thinking about them, either. That just comes to thinking, what people
will say about you. And I suppose it is just as much loving the world
to care too much about being looked up to, as it is to care too much
about money, like some folks."
"I suppose it is," said Tessy, thoughtfully, while Mary looked annoyed.
"I thought it was every one's duty to set a good example. Have you
learned a verse, Emma? This is Bible morning, you know."
"Yes; Miss Jessy showed me a nice one," answered Emma:
"'Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.'" (John 2:5)
"Exactly," said Elizabeth, smoothing the little girl's hair; "let us
only remember that, and our example will take care of itself."
"I wonder if Belle and Elizabeth think that I do love the world,"
thought Mary, as she took her seat; "I don't see why they should."
Calista did not find the day altogether a pleasant one. Her desk-mate,
Antoinette, was in a desperate fit of the sulks, and she gave her
companion the full benefit of it, making herself disagreeable in all
the ways which the ingenuity of ill temper could contrive. Calista
herself was preoccupied; and though she tried very hard to adhere to
the rule she had laid down of thinking of nothing in school but her
lessons, she did not succeed very well. She had allowed herself to fall
into bad habits in this respect.
And she had, besides, a cause of considerable anxiety. Putting her
hand into an inside pocket to find a pencil, her fingers encountered
something hard, which her touch did not recognize. She drew it out, and
there was the little working equipage she had found in the book-case
drawer. She had taken it almost without thought, only considering that
the scissors and bodkin would be convenient to use; but as she looked
at it she saw that the little bottle, which still smelled of otto of
roses, had a gold or gilded stopper, and that all the handles of the
implements were the same. The whole was evidently of considerable
value. Nor was that all. As Calista looked at it, she remembered the
pile of books and magazines she had intended to take to her room, and
which she had left lying on the floor by the book-case. Then, too,
there was the broken lock to her grandfather's room She did not know
whether Aunt Priscilla ever went thither, but if she did, she would be
sure to see that some one had been meddling. She would suspect Calista,
of course, as she always did suspect her of any mischief that was done
in the house.
"Well, if she does, I must just tell her the truth, whatever comes,"
thought Calista. "After all, where was the harm? She never told me not
to go there."
Calista still held the case in her hand when the recess bell struck,
and she was roused from her reverie by hearing Antoinette, say,—
"Oh, Calista, what a pretty case! Where did you get it? Let me see it,
won't you?"
"It is not mine," said Calista, holding it out for inspection. "I did
not know I had it with me."
"Did your aunt lend it to you? How curious it is! Do you suppose those
handles are gold? Let me take it, won't you?"
"No, I can't; I told you it was not mine," and Calista put out her hand
for the box.
"But you can just lend it to me for a day or two. Come, do. I am going
over to Graywich to spend Sunday, and it would be so nice to carry.
Come, do."
"I tell you it is not mine," answered Calista; the more angrily because
she was vexed with herself. "Give it to me this minute."
"Take it, then," said Antoinette, as angrily as herself. "For my part,
I would not carry about such valuable things belonging to other people.
Would you, Miss Meeks?"
Now, Antoinette had succeeded in getting on the favorable side of
Miss Meeks—an operation which she had never performed with Miss
McPherson. Moreover, Miss Meeks did not like Calista, who was somewhat
opinionated, and had a way of asking questions and wishing to go to the
bottom of things, not always agreeable or convenient to Miss Meeks.
Therefore, when appealed to in this way, by Antoinette, she was quite
ready to take up on her side.
"What do you say, Antoinette?"
"I say that, if I were Calista, I would not carry about a valuable
gold-mounted working-case belonging to somebody else."
"Certainly not. It is very improper," said Miss Meeks, with sharp
decision. "I wonder at you, Miss Stanfield—that is, I should if it
were any one else. Pray, did your aunt give you leave to take her
working-case and bring it to school?"
"It is not my aunt's working-case, that I know of, and I did not mean
to bring it to school," returned Calista; answering sharpness with
sharpness, and certainly speaking not very respectfully.
"Yes, that is very likely," sneered Antoinette.
"And if Antoinette thinks it so very improper to carry a working-case
belonging to somebody else, I think it rather singular she should be
so anxious to borrow this one to carry down to Graywich—that is, I
should if it were any one else," added Calista, with a very successful
imitation of Miss Meeks's manner.
"Miss Stanfield, you are very impertinent. I shall report you."
"Eh, what! What is the matter?" asked Miss McPherson herself, who had a
habit of suddenly appearing where she was least expected.
"The matter is, ma'am, that Miss Stanfield is insolent and disobedient,
as usual," said Miss Meek; in a tone and manner of irritability so
disproportioned to the occasion that Calista looked at her in surprise.
The poor lady's lips were white, and the drops stood on her forehead.
"How is that?" asked Miss McPherson.
"Miss Stanfield has brought to school a valuable working-case of her
aunt's, as I understand without leave; and when I reproved her, she not
only answered me back, but actually mimicked me to my face," said Miss
Meeks, in a voice which shook so she could hardly articulate.
"How is that, Calista?"
"I will tell you all about it, Miss McPherson," said Calista,
recovering herself a little, but still very angry. "I found this case
in a drawer with some old rubbish, yesterday, and I put it in my pocket
without looking at it very much; I thought I would ask Miss Druett if I
might use it, because I have no scissors of my own. But she was not at
home; and when she did come, my aunt was very unwell, and several other
things happened, which, altogether, put the case out of my head, and
I forgot I had it. I found it in my pocket, just now, and Antoinette
wanted to borrow it to take down to Graywich with her when she went to
spend Saturday and Sunday. I told her it was not mine and I could not
lend it. Then she said she would not carry about valuables which did
not belong to her, and appealed to Miss Meeks, who found fault with me,
as usual. That is the whole story."
Miss McPherson looked seriously displeased, and her displeasure fell,
to begin with, in an unexpected quarter. Antoinette knew how particular
was Miss McPherson in exacting respectful treatment towards her
subordinates, and particularly towards Miss Meeks, and she waited with
ill-concealed satisfaction to hear what would be said to Calista. As it
was, however, the principal's first words were addressed to herself.
"Antoinette, did I not strictly forbid your borrowing or asking to
borrow anything whatever from your schoolmates?"
Antoinette, surprised at the sudden change of programme, could only
stammer something about not meaning to use it in school time.
"Was anything said about school or school time? Did I not positively
forbid your borrowing anything from your schoolmates on any pretext
whatever? Answer me!"
"I didn't mean—" stammered Antoinette.
"Don't tell me what you meant! Answer my question."
"Yes, ma'am," Antoinette was forced to answer.
"And yet I find you trying to borrow this very working-case from
Calista, and that when she tells you in so many words it is not hers.
I want no more words. You will take your Racine, learn the first two
speeches in Alexander by heart, and recite them to me to-morrow morning
before breakfast. No crying," added Miss McPherson, as Antoinette burst
into a flood of tears. "I will give you another ten lines for every
tear you shed."
"Well, really!" said Miss Meeks.
"Excuse me, my dear Eliza, but had you not better retire to your room
and rest a little?" said Miss McPherson in a tone of gentle authority.
"I will deal with this rebellious girl, and see that she makes you a
proper apology."
Miss Meeks murmured something not very intelligible, and went away
rather against her will, as it seemed, and Miss McPherson drew Calista
into her own special sanctum, a small, cheerful book-room opening from
the school-room.
"Now, Calista," said she, after she had taken her seat and motioned
Calista to another one, "I am going to read this article in the paper.
I want you to employ the time in thinking over your conduct this
morning, and then I shall request you to tell me whether your conduct
to Miss Meeks was ladylike or becoming. I think I can depend upon you
to be honest both with yourself and me."
Miss McPherson took up her paper and adjusted her double eye-glass, and
Calista was left to her own reflections, which were not very agreeable.
She was vexed with herself for taking the working-case at all, for
bringing it to school, and for having lost her temper, at Antoinette
for getting her into the scrape, and at Miss Meeks for her injustice
and partiality.
"I need not have spoken so to her, and above all I need not have
mimicked her; but it certainly is very vexatious to have some one
always ready to see the wrong side of you, and make the worst of
everything you say and do. Who would have thought of her getting in
such a rage over such a trifle! Her very lips were pale. I thought she
was going to faint. Oh dear, I wish I could ever have any peace or
comfort in all my life!" thought poor Calista, and the tears rose to
her eyes. "I should wish I were dead if it were not wicked, and if I
were sure of being better off!"
Miss McPherson finished her article—I am able to inform the reader that
it was a critique upon a volume of tales published by one Mr. Irving,
then a young author of some promise—and laid down her paper.
"Well, Calista," said she.
Calista could not be obstinate under the kind, penetrating look of
those dear motherly gray eyes. She said at once:
"Miss McPherson, I own that I was rude to Miss Meeks this morning. I
did repeat her words, and I suppose I mimicked her. I am sorry. But if
I am to say all I think—"
"Say on, bairn," said Miss McPherson, using a tender Scotch word, which
she seldom did use. "Let me hear all that is in your mind."
"Well, Miss McPherson, I do think that Miss Meeks was unjust to me, as
she most always is. She never stopped to hear what I had to say, but
jumped to the conclusion that Antoinette was right and I was wrong.
And that is the way she always does. I never can do anything right in
her eyes, however much I try, and I do try to please her a great many
times. I should not have minded so much this morning if I had not been
troubled about other things. But, oh, Miss McPherson, I have such hard
times at home, and then when I come to school thinking to have some
rest and comfort, to be taken up so, I could not bear it."
And Calista burst into passionate tears.
"Hush, hush, my dear lassie! Don't cry so!" said Miss McPherson,
gathering the bowed head and shaking form to her bosom as if Calista
had been a little child she was comforting. "I know you do have hard
times, and I know Miss Meeks is not always very wise; but, Calista, she
has hard times too, and is likely to have harder. You, at least, have
youth and health; poor Miss Meeks has neither."
"Isn't she well?" asked Calista, interested and diverted for the
moment. "I notice she turns very pale sometimes. She did this morning.
I thought it was because she was angry."
"I don't think so. She has times of great pain, and they are the harder
to bear because she is so determined to keep them to herself. The very
suppression makes her irritable. Can you understand that?"
"Yes, indeed!" answered Calista. "But what is the matter with her?"
"I do not know, though I may guess," answered Miss McPherson; "but,
Calista, you must not breathe a word of this to any one. She cannot
endure to have the subject mentioned."
"I am sure I will not," said Calista. "I am very sorry for her. Has she
no friends?"
"Not one that I know of except a half-demented body of a sister who has
just sense enough not to be put into an asylum, but not enough to earn
her own bread or find for herself in any way. Miss Meeks maintains her
almost entirely."
"Poor thing!" said Calista. "I suppose that is the reason she makes her
dresses over and over, and wears her bonnets forever. If the girls knew
that, they would not laugh at her stingy ways, as they call them."
"If we knew about the hidden life of most people, I dare say we should
find more to pity than condemn," observed Mir McPherson. "But now that
you know—in confidence, remember—thus much about poor Miss Meeks, I am
sure you will go and ask her pardon and make friends with her."
"I will go this minute," said Calista, starting up; "and, Miss
McPherson, I am sorry I have made you so much trouble."
"Pardon is granted, my child. As to the bone of contention—the
working-case—I do not understand all the circumstances, and so I have
nothing to say; only, my dear, whatever happens, never be tempted into
being sly or doing anything underhanded. Mind, I don't say you have,
but, situated as you are, the temptation is likely enough to beset you.
For the sake of your own soul, I beseech you not to yield to it. Now go
and find poor Miss Meeks."
Calista knocked at the door of Miss Meeks's room in the third story,
and hearing a sound which she took for "Come in," she opened the door.
The room was darkened, but she saw Miss Meeks leaning back in the
rocking-chair.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Meeks," she began. And then, with a sudden
change of tone, "But what is the matter?"
Miss Meeks did not answer except by a feeble motion of the hand and a
moan. Much alarmed, Calista sprung to her side.
"Are you faint, Miss Meeks? Shall I call some one?"
"Shut the door!" whispered Miss Meeks.
Calista did so and returned, but Miss Meeks was clearly fainting.
Calista had the nursing instinct—the capacity of doing the right
thing—which is born with some people, and which others never acquire.
She loosened the broad ribbon belt and buckle which Miss Meeks wore,
and slipping her hand behind her, unhooked her dress.
"How can she dress so tight? No wonder she is faint!" was her thought.
Miss Meeks wore a thick white cape crossed over the bosom of her
low-cut dress—all dresses were cut low at that time. Calista opened it
to give the patient air, but with the instinctive delicacy of a born
lady she closed it again. She had had a glimpse of poor Miss Meeks's
hidden trouble, and a glimpse was enough.
"Poor thing! I won't bring any one to spy on her," her first thought.
She sought on the toilet table for a bottle of cologne, with which she
bathed the face of her patient, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing
her color come back. Miss Meeks opened her eyes, put her hand up to her
neck, and started.
"You are better," said Calista, gently. "Shall I help you to lie down
on the bed?"
"No, no; I am better in the chair. My drops—in a little bottle—do you
see?"
"Is this it?" asked Calista. "How much?"
"Ten drops, in water."
Calista prepared the medicine and gave it into her hand.
She swallowed it eagerly, and then, looking up, seemed for the first
time to understand who her companion was.
"Is this you, Calista? How came you here?"
"I came to tell you that I was sorry for being rude to you this
morning," said Calista, blushing; "and then I found you were ill, and
staid to wait on you. Are you better?"
"Oh, yes. It is over for this time. But you unfastened my dress!" she
added, in a tone of alarm. "Did you see?"
"I saw you had a great trouble," answered Calista, gravely; "but don't
be alarmed, Miss Meeks. I shall never mention it, I give you my word.
But—excuse me—ought you not to have a doctor?"
"No, no, child. There is nothing to be done—at least, not yet. Oh,
what will become of me and my poor sister?" Miss Meeks leaned against
Calista, and gave way to a burst of agonized sobs.
Calista wisely let her cry on, supporting her, and looking down on
her former enemy with a mixture of pity and reverence which she never
thought she could feel for Miss Meeks.
"There is the bell," said Miss Meeks, starting; "I must go down."
"You are not fit," said Calista; "cannot you lie still and rest till
dinner?"
"No; there are the little girls' spelling and reading classes; and Miss
Jessy is too busy to hear them."
"Could not I hear them, for once?" asked Calista, wondering at herself.
"They are all nice little things. I dare say they would be good with
me."
"But your grammar lesson?"
"I learned it before I came to school. Do keep still and let me try,
Miss Meeks. It won't do any such great harm if I don't succeed as well
as you, for once; and I am sure you are not fit to go down. Your lips
are white now."
"The pain takes a great deal out of me," said the poor lady, yielding
to the temptation and leaning back in her chair. "Well, Calista, if you
think you can, and Miss McPherson is willing, you may try. The children
are good little things, as you say, and will make no trouble."
"And you will forgive me for being so rude this morning?" said Calista.
"Indeed, Miss Meeks, I have my own troubles, too, or I should not have
forgotten myself so."
"Oh, my dear, don't mention it. I dare say I was unreasonable. I have
been in so much pain all the morning. You won't tell what you have
seen—not to any one?" Miss Meeks held her hand and looked imploringly
in her face.
"No, indeed," answered Calista, solemnly. "I promise you, Miss Meeks, I
never will. Now, can I do anything else for you? For I suppose I should
be going."
"Only hand me my Bible from the table. Thank you. Oh, my love, believe
me, if you have trouble, as you say, this is the only source of
comfort. I should die without it, or go mad. There, there, God bless
you! Go."
"Who would have thought,—" said Calista, as, having obtained Miss
McPherson's permission, she assumed Miss Meeks's place in the little
school-room, and called the children to their lessons—"who would have
thought that I, of all people, should be Miss Meeks's deputy?"
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
MARY.
"WHERE have you been all the morning?" asked Mary Settson, as she met
Calista just after the noon recess was proclaimed. "I have not had a
sight of you."
"You would never guess," said Calista. "I don't know how to believe it
myself."
Calista spoke gayly. She felt in better spirits than she had done for a
long time. Anything like a quarrel was always an annoyance to her; and
she was very much pleased at having at last made friends with poor Miss
Meeks.
Then she had thoroughly enjoyed her hour and a half of teaching. Every
one likes to be of use, not to say of consequence. The little girls
had been very good and orderly. They had read and spelled well, and
recited their small portion of Pinnock's "Catechism" without a mistake;
and Calista had rewarded them with the story of King Alfred learning
to read and afterward watching the cakes. She had a great talent for
narration, and had the pleasure of seeing her small audience listening
with rapt attention, and of hearing a universal cry of:
"Oh, please, Miss Stanfield, go on. Tell us some more."
She had promised another story "some time;" and had promised to tell
Miss McPherson and Miss Meeks how good they had been. So teacher and
pupils had parted with mutual satisfaction.
"I am not good at guessing," said Mary.
"Well—but don't look incredulous, however strange my tale may appear—I
have been sitting upon the throne of Miss Meeks and wielding her
sceptre for a full hour and a half. In other words, I have been keeping
order and hearing lessons in the little school-room. I—even I, myself.
Think of that!"
Mary did think of it, and it did not please her. For the last year
she had been used to being called upon to hear the little ones on
emergencies; and though she was not fond of teaching, and often
complained of the trouble, she did not dislike the consequence it gave
her any more than did Calista. So it came to pass that there was some
sharps in her tone as she said:
"How in the world did that happen? I should say you were the last one
in the school likely to be called on to help Miss Meeks. I thought you
had a quarrel only this morning."
"So we had, and that was exactly the way the wonderful event came to
pass."
"You must speak more plainly if you want me to understand you."
"Well, it happened even so: Miss Meeks and I did have—well, not just a
quarrel, but an outcome, as Miss Jessy says. It began with Antoinette
in the first place, who called Miss Meeks to take her part, which she
did, and scolded me as usual. I was vexed, and answered her back. Miss
McPherson said I was rude—or, what was still worse, she made me say
so,—" continued Calista, laughing and blushing—"and sent me to Miss
Meeks's room to apologize. I found the poor thing very ill, and all but
fainting away with a pain in her side, or something of the sort. She
would not let me call any one, and I waited on her as well as I could,
till she was better.
"But she felt very faint and weak after the pain, and so I persuaded
her to keep quiet till dinner, and let me hear the little girls. She
said I might if Miss McPherson was willing. So I asked her, and she
said I might. The children were very good and said their lessons
nicely, and I rewarded them with the very new and original narration
of King Alfred burning the oat-cakes, with which they were as hugely
delighted as if nobody had heard it before. And, in fact, though it
is hard to believe it, I suppose a story is new to every child that
hears it for the first time;" with which original reflection Calista
concluded her own story.
"Well, I must say, I think it was odd in Miss McPherson to send you,"
said Mary, in a tone which trembled a little in spite of herself. "I
wonder what I could have done to displease her?"
"Nothing, I presume," answered Calista, in surprise. "Why should you
think so?"
"Because she has always asked me to hear the scholars in the little
room before, and I don't see why she should choose some one else."
"Why, goosie, because I went to her. Miss Meeks told me to ask her,
and of course she said yes. Besides, you were busy, and I was not. I
learned all my lessons before I came to school. What could be more
natural?"