more. "She is displeased about something. I am sure I have always done
my best with the little girls. If I have not told them stories and
amused them, I have tried to have them learn, and it is very hard to
have anybody put over my head without giving me any reason." Mary was
fairly crying.
"Mary, you are too silly for anything," said Calista, vexed for
the moment. "Nobody has been put over your head. Don't you see how
naturally it all happened? Suppose I had asked Miss McPherson, and she
had said, 'No, I prefer Miss Settson should do it;' do you think I
should cry about it? Not I. I should just have thought, 'Mary has had
more experience; it is natural Miss McPherson should prefer her.'"
"That is just what I say. I have had more experience."
"You had not more experience when you began, I suppose. There must be a
first time. I dare say Miss McPherson thought it would be a good lesson
for me."
"I am sure Miss McPherson would not have chosen some one else unless
she had something against me," continued Mary. "She acted as if she had
yesterday. She praised Mary Burns's work up to the skies, though it
only a rug made of bits out of her father's shop, and all she said to
mine was, 'Yes, very pretty, my dear.'"
"Well, you know Mary is poor, and has very little to give, and I do
think her rug is wonderful, considering what it is made of. It looks
like a bit of Persian carpet. I have always noticed what a good eye
Mary has for colors. She would paint better than Clary Whitman if she
had the chance to learn."
"Oh, yes, she is the eighth wonder of the world, no doubt! But I don't
think I shall send anything to the table, or go to the meetings any
more. If my work is not worth noticing, it certainly is not worth
selling."
"Look here, Mary," said Calista, gravely, "you are always lecturing me
about loving the world, and now I am going to lecture you a little.
You think a great deal too much about being praised—about having
people think well of you. Now it seems to me that the praise of men,
as Elizabeth Howell says, is just as much one of the things of the
world that we are not to love, as money or fine clothes. Of course we
all like the good opinion of our friends; but when it comes to being
distressed because somebody else is asked to do something, or because
some other person's work is praised more than one's own, why I think it
is time to take a look and see where one is going."
Mary was silent, and twisted her chair. She felt the words were true,
and she did not like them any the better for that. She had always
assumed a certain superiority over her friend, to which Calista had
humbly assented, and it was not agreeable to be taken to task in her
turn.
"Come, don't let's spoil our recess," said Calista, in a lighter tone;
"you know you promised to teach me the fan stitch, and I brought my
needles on purpose."
"You had better ask Mary Burns to show you," answered Mary, in a tone
which was meant to be dignified, but was only stiff; "I don't know that
I care about teaching any one who has such an opinion of me as you seem
to entertain. I thought I had one friend at least in the school, but
it seems I was mistaken!" And Mary's wounded feelings and temper—two
things which are apt to get very much mixed up together—found vent in a
flood of tears.
"Nonsense!" said Calista, vexed in her turn. "Mary, you are too absurd.
You are always lecturing me, and I am content you should; but the
minute I say a word to you, you flare up in this way. I should think I
had enough to put up with, without your turning on me. I don't know but
that is the 'spirit of Christ,'" she concluded, alluding to the verse
Mary had repeated in the morning, "but I must say it does not seem much
like it to me."
And with this parting shot, which was a sufficiently sharp one, Calista
went away and left Mary to her own reflections.
"Dear me!" she said to herself, in some natural impatience. "It does
seem as if I never could be comfortable half an hour together. Who
would ever have thought of her taking matters in that way!"
If Calista was uncomfortable, Mary was still more so. She was really
trying very hard to be a Christian, but on this particular point she
had never learned to know herself, or to call things by their right
names. She had often said to herself that she did not love money, or
fine clothes, or gay amusements—all of which was true—therefore she
did not love the world. But "the world" takes a great many shapes,
and creeps in at a great many holes and corners; and whatever petty
disguises it may put on, it is the same world still, the intimate ally
and friend of "the flesh and the devil."
Praise was Mary's "world"—appreciation she called it. She loved to
stand well in the eyes of other people, to be called the best scholar
and the neatest worker in school, the model member of the catechism
class in church. She liked to know that she was pointed out as an
example of early piety by the pastor, as a good sister and daughter at
home. She loved the praise of men, and that love, as it always does,
was beginning to spring up and bear fruit—poison fruit, which, if the
vine was not plucked up by the roots, threatened to choke the word and
make it unfruitful, as surely as the deceitfulness of riches would have
done. It was coming to that with her that she did not like to have any
one praised but herself—that she felt all commendation of another as so
much taken from her own share.
Miss McPherson had praised Mary's homely work more than her own
exquisite netted fringe. That very morning, in the French class, she
had told Anabella Adair that she had improved very much in accent and
style, and had only included herself in the "very well, my dears,"
addressed to the whole class. And now, to crown all, she had given the
charge of the little ones to Calista, who had not only taught them,
but interested and amused them as well. No doubt the ungrateful little
things were saying at that moment that they liked Miss Stanfield better
than Miss Settson—very likely they would say so to Miss Meeks and Miss
McPherson. Mary almost felt as though she could never come to school or
speak to Calista again.
John Bunyan, with that wonderful experimental knowledge which seems
like inspiration, says that one leak is enough to sink a ship, and one
sin to destroy a sinner. There is no doubt at all that one known and
acknowledged sin is enough to undermine the Christian character of the
best saint that ever lived, if it is indulged or harbored after its
true character comes to be known.
Mary had, for some time, had an uneasiness as to this very matter. She
felt that here was her weak point, but she did not like to examine
and make sure of it, which was as wise as if a ship's captain should
refuse to examine a suspected spar or defective cable. She was strong
everywhere else, and she did not consider that the weakest link—not the
strongest—measures the strength of the chain. Even now she was made
aware that she had been unkind to Calista and unjust to Miss McPherson,
but she would not acknowledge to herself that the root of the trouble
lay in her inordinate love of praise. No, Calista had provoked her and
Miss McPherson had taken pains to mortify her, but it was her duty to
overlook it, and she would do so by treating Calista just as usual,
even by offering to show her the fan stitch—no, she would not do that,
either; but if Calista asked her again, she would not refuse.
Smoothing matters over in this fashion was not the way to attain peace,
and Mary was destined to have a still harsher lesson.
Calista ran up to Miss Meeks's room and tapped lightly, opening the
door in answer to the summons from within. She found Miss Meeks up and
dressed. She looked pale and worn, but declared herself quite able to
come down stairs.
"I thought I would just tell you that the little girls behaved very
well and said their lessons nicely," said Calista.
"Did they? I am very glad. I think they are usually good, though I fear
I am sometimes sharp with them. Did they say their English kings?"
"Yes, ma'am, nicely; and I told them about King Alfred and the
oat-cakes, to reward them. Was that right?"
"Quite right. I often wish I possessed the talent for narration
which some people have. It is quite invaluable in dealing with young
children. Will you please fasten my dress, my dear? I am glad you
succeeded in interesting the children," continued Miss Meeks. "I shall,
perhaps, ask you to help me again, some day. Miss Settson is very good
and conscientious, but she has an unfortunate manner with children."
"I am sure I shall be glad to help you at any time, Miss Meeks," said
Calista, as they went down stairs together. "But I am surprised to hear
you say that about Mary. I thought she did everything better than any
one else—let alone poor me."
"It is not to be denied that she does a great many things better than
'poor you,'" replied Miss Meeks, with a smile, which was not at all
severe this time. "Keeping her desk in order and copying her exercises,
among others. But different people have different gifts, you know."
"I am sure I am glad if teaching is one of mine," observed Calista. "It
seems the only way for a lady to earn a living nowadays."
"Surely there will be no necessity for that," said Miss Meeks. "I
supposed you were your aunt's heir as a matter of course."
"Oh dear, no," answered Calista. "My aunt barely tolerates my
existence. I should not be one bit surprised at her throwing me on my
own resources any day. So, Miss Meeks, I shall be glad if you will let
me help you at any time, not only because I like to be of use, but
because I like to learn all I can."
Unluckily, this speech was overheard by Antoinette Diaments. Antoinette
hated Calista with all the venom of a small and mean nature, because
of the scrape she had gotten into about Tessy's change; though Calista
had nothing to do with the transaction, beyond being an accidental
witness of it. Moreover, Antoinette considered Miss Meeks as her own
particular property, and had hitherto, as we have said, succeeded in
keeping that lady very much in the dark as to her real character. She,
therefore, instantly resolved to "put a spoke in Calista's wheel," as
she elegantly expressed it.
"Well, Calista, I should think you would be ashamed to ask such a thing
of Miss Meeks, after the way you were talking and laughing about her
not half an hour ago."
Miss Meeks's pale cheek flushed, and she cast one of her old suspicious
glances at Calista.
"Antoinette, what do you mean?" exclaimed Calista. "I have not said a
word to any one but Mary Settson about Miss Meeks."
"Just so; and you were laughing with her about Miss Meeks's throne and
sceptre. I heard you myself."
"You can ask Mary about it, Miss Meeks," said Calista. "Here she is.
Mary, Antoinette says I was laughing about Miss Meeks to you this
morning. Is that true?"
Calista spoke with a trust in Mary's uprightness as firm as her trust
in the ground she walked on. But even the ground is sometimes shaken.
Mary had opened the gate of her heart to the world, and the world in
turn opened to its friend the devil. If the ground had, indeed, opened
under her feet, Calista could not have been more astounded than she was
when Mary answered:
"I don't know, of course, whether you were laughing at her or not. You
certainly were laughing when you told me that you had been sitting in
her throne and wielding her sceptre, and when you told how you went to
her room and found her sick."
Calista's face grew pale, and then flushed with honest indignation and
wounded feeling.
"Mary!"
It was all she said. Miss Meeks looked keenly from one to another.
She was clear-sighted enough when not blinded by prejudice or by the
irritability of suppressed suffering, and she knew Mary's weakness far
better than did Mary herself.
"I shall believe what you say, Calista," said she. "Did you mean to
turn me into ridicule or not?"
"No, Miss Meeks, I never thought of such a thing—never." said Calista,
with emphasis. "I did use those words, as any one might; but I no more
thought of turning you into ridicule, or above all laughing about your
illness, than I should think of laughing about my own dead mother."
"I believe you," said Miss Meeks. "You have your faults, but I never
knew untruth to be one of them. To show you that I trust you, I shall,
if agreeable to you, request Miss McPherson to allow you to sit with me
in the small room this afternoon and oversee the children's work."
"Thank you, Miss Meeks; I shall like it very much," said Calista, and
she turned away and followed the teacher into the dining-room, without
so much as looking at Mary.
She usually enjoyed the school dinners, which, if plain, were abundant
and dealt out without stint; but to-day her roast mutton and cherry
pie tart seemed to choke her. That Mary should use her so! She did not
wonder at Antoinette; but Mary—Mary, whom she had looked upon as the
very pattern and exemplar of all that was good, and loved with the
passionate love of a first friendship. It seemed to Calista as if she
would never believe in anybody again.
If Calista was sorrowful, Mary herself was utterly wretched. At first
she had tried to excuse herself to herself—to gloss the matter over as
she had done with a good many things lately; but it would not do. She
felt that she had told a lie, and meant to tell one, though every word
she had said had been literally true. Calista had used these words,
and had laughed as she did so; but Mary knew well enough that she had
conveyed a false impression, and meant to convey one; that Calista had
not laughed at Miss Meeks, but on the contrary had spoken of her with
the greatest kindness.
Ever since she had first been awakened in religious matters, Mary had
cultivated the habit (and a most useful and excellent one it is) of
retiring a few minutes at noon for self-examination and prayer. As she
entered her room this day, she was strongly tempted to omit her usual
exercise, and hurry down stairs; but the habit was too strong for her.
She sat down in her usual place, and almost mechanically opened her
Bible.
"If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy
brother hath aught against thee; leave there thy gift before the altar,
and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and
offer thy gift." (Matt. 5:23, 24.)
Mary shut her book almost impatiently, and opened again.
"Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any
man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him." (1 John
2:15.)
There was not much comfort in that, either. She wished to find some
"promise" on which she might dwell and meditate or imagine herself into
a state of complacency; but One was dealing with her who would allow no
such comfortable self-deception. She was, as it were, set down before
the mirror of truth and made to see herself, and that in despite of
her will to the contrary. What had she done? She had been envious of
another's pleasure and honor, and she had allowed herself to indulge in
a slanderous misrepresentation to injure her best friend, because that
friend had been accidentally preferred before her. Nor was she allowed
to take refuge in the idea that she had been overcome by a sudden and
irresistible temptation. She knew better. Her fall had not been sudden,
as indeed such falls seldom are.
Looking back, she could see that she had been preparing the way for
just such a failure. It was true, as Calista said: she had allowed
herself to indulge in that envy which eats like a canker. She had not
liked to hear any one praised but herself for a long time past. She had
done her work in school and at home, not for her Lord and Master, but
that she might be seen of men.
The same was true of her charitable work among the poor children whom
she taught and helped to clothe. She had been provoked downright when
Mrs. Lee showed her the pretty and useful little dress which Belle
Adair had made out of one of her own for poor Chloe Jackson's youngest
girl, and she turned scarlet as she remembered how she had taken
occasion to say that Belle was a very gay girl who would never listen
to a serious word.
And now she had wounded Calista to the heart, and disgraced herself
in the eyes of her teacher and herself, all for what? Because Calista
had been asked to do, and had done well, something which she did not
like, and never undertook willingly. Calista had been praised, that was
enough.
"Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!" said Mary, almost aloud, and
with bitter tears of grief and self-abasement. She opened her Bible and
read again:
"Remember therefore from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do
the first works." (Rev. 2:5.)
And again:
"If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is
not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive
us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:8,
9.)
Clearly this was the right and only way to peace. Mary knelt down and
then and there confessed this her besetting sin, asked for deliverance
and forgiveness, and that cleansing promised to all who seek it. She
did not deceive herself now, but called things by right, plain Bible
names—envy, emulation, slander, detraction.
There is an old fairy tale found in almost every language, which has
always seemed to me to shadow forth a great truth. It is that of a man
beset by a demon or malign imp of some sort, for whom he is obliged to
perform all sorts of hard tasks and pay all sorts of penalties, till
he succeeds in discovering the true name of his tormentor, after which
the thing has no more power, but flies discomfited. Mary had called her
demons by their right names, and their power was broken for that time,
at least.
She was still on her knees when she was interrupted by a knock at the
door and a call of:
"Miss Mary!"
"Yes, Miranda; what is it?" asked Mary, without opening the door.
"Oh, nothing, only your pa and Miss Alice have gone out to old Mrs.
Skovell's, at Greenwich, and won't be back till night. I thought maybe
you wouldn't care about much dinner alone, so I just got you a cup of
chocolate and a strawberry short-cake and some sandwiches. But I can
cook some meat if you'd rather have it."
"No, thank you, Miranda; I would rather have the chocolate than
anything. I am in a hurry to get back to school."
Mary did not feel like eating, but she took a cup of chocolate and a
piece of the tempting short-cake, to spare Miranda's feelings, and
hastened back to school. She went straight to the little school-room,
where she knew she would find Miss Meeks. That lady looked up, when she
entered, in surprise and some displeasure. She did not like to have her
hour of leisure interrupted.
"Miss Meeks," said Mary, in a voice which trembled a good deal, "I have
come to tell you that what I said about Calista this morning was not
true. She did use those words, but there was no disrespect in the way
she used them, and I am sure she meant none. She was very much pleased
because she succeeded so well, and I—" Mary's voice faltered, but she
steadied it and went on—"I was provoked because she succeeded, and
envious and jealous of her being praised."
"So I saw," said Miss Meeks. "I am very glad you have come to a sense
of your fault, Mary. I hope it will be a lesson to you to check the
beginnings of a spirit of detraction, and I doubt not it will. I shall
have to ask your help this afternoon, after all, for I am not feeling
well."
"I am sure I shall be very glad to help you," answered Mary, swallowing
a great lump of pride which would rise in her throat at that "after
all." "But where is Calista?"
"Oh, she has gone home. Her aunt sent for her. I felt sorry for her,
for I think she anticipated something not very pleasant. I fancy her
aunt is an odd-tempered woman."
"Odd-tempered is no name for it," said Mary.
"Oh, well, I am sorry for her. I have had some experience. I don't know
how it is," added Miss Meeks, musingly, "but all my life long it has
been my fate to live with odd-tempered people."
Mary could not help thinking that this fate was one likely to follow
Miss Meeks as long as she retained the infirmities of mortality; but
she said nothing, and busied herself with the basket of patchwork on
which the youngest children were learning to use their fingers. She had
had too plain and too recent a view of her own faults and infirmities
to be very hard on those of other people.
CHAPTER NINTH.
THE STORM BREAKS.
MISS MEEKS was right. It was with no pleasant anticipations that
Calista took her seat in the rickety chaise which her aunt had sent for
her. Old David, who drove, was evidently in a state of deep and dire
offence, and nothing could be got out of him except that Miss Priscy
was in one of her tantrums, and if Chloe was a-going to stand such
goings on any longer, he wasn't.
Calista alighted and went straight up the back stairs to her own room,
hoping for a few minutes of solitude in which to collect her spirits.
She was disappointed. The door of a certain store-room opposite her
own, which was usually kept fast locked, was open, and in it stood
Miss Priscilla, clearly in a "tantrum" of the worst sort. Her face was
flushed, her cap half off her head, and her gray hair all in disorder.
Opposite her stood Miss Druett, more disturbed in appearance than was
at all usual with her. Miss Priscilla faced round as Calista came
across the passage, and caught her by the arm with a grip that seemed
to crush the very bone.
"So, here she is," she said, through her set teeth. "This fine young
lady, who prowls about the house, prying and meddling, to see what she
can steal. A worthy daughter of Richard Stanfield and his low-born
scheming wife!"
"Take your hand off my arm, Aunt Priscilla!" said Calista, in a voice
which sounded strange to herself. "Do you hear me?"
Miss Priscilla released her arm; but it was only to pour out a renewed
flood of abuse, directed to Calista herself, her father and mother,
Miss McPherson, and every one else for whom Calista had any regard,
or with whom she had any connection. At last, as she paused to take
breath, Calista said coolly,—
"Well, now, I should like to know what all this is about?"
"About!" Miss Priscilla fairly gasped. "You dare to ask such a
question?"
"It does not take any particular bravery that I know of," answered
Calista, whose own blood was up by this time. "When one sees an old
lady raving like a mad woman, one naturally likes to know the reason,
if she has any."
"Calista!" said Miss Druett, warningly.
"Tell me, you—you spy and traitor—did you not go into the back parlor
and pull over the book-cases, and into my father's room? Tell me this
instant. Dare you deny it?"
"Why should I deny it?" asked Calista. "Where was the harm? I was here
alone, and I went to look for something to amuse myself with, and to
see what there was in the house."
"And what did you carry off? What did you steal?"
"As it happened, there was nothing in the book-case I looked into
that was worth stealing, unless it were this old working-case," said
Calista, producing the article in question from her pocket. "That has a
good pair of small scissors in it, and I want a pair, so I took them to
use. There they are, if you want them."
Miss Priscilla snatched the case from her hand.
"So, you took it to school, did you? Well, you won't take anything else
to school very soon. You have had all the schooling you will get for
some time, my fine lady. I will find you plenty of work at home."
Miss Priscilla turned into the little store-room, and began taking down
the dusty, moth-eaten garments with which the walls were plentifully
hung. Calista followed her into the room, reckless of consequences, for
she had caught sight of something which made her forget everything,
even her aunt's rage. The something was a pile of two or three
trunks—old-fashioned heavy leather portmanteaus—marked on the end
"Calista Folsom."
Calista remembered them on the instant. They were the very trunks Miss
Malvina had shown her, and on which she had made the little girl spell
out the name, so many years ago.
"My mother's trunks!" exclaimed Calista, feeling as if she must have
them, whether or no. "My own mother's things! Oh, Aunt Priscilla, let
me have them, and I will do anything for you—anything you tell me!"
"Oh, you will!" said Miss Priscilla, with a malicious smile. "You are
very submissive all at once. I fancy, before we have done, you will do
what I tell you without any trunks."