the snakes, so she was not at all alarmed, but went on gathering her
flowers, and then, catching sight of a great prize—a fine cluster of
yellow moccasin-flowers—she descended to the centre of the hollow,
and, stepping lightly and carefully—for the centre of the hollow was
dangerously soft and boggy—she secured her prize. As she did so, she
was startled by an odd, hollow-sounding laugh, and rose hastily,
to find herself face to face with a very tall woman, dressed in
indescribable rags, whom she at once guessed to be Old Jael, the
fortune-teller.
"Well done!" said the woman, with another mocking laugh. "'Tis a bold
young lady who comes alone to the Murderer's Hollow to gather flowers."
"Why, you come here yourself, it seems," said Calista, whose spirit
always rose against any attempt to frighten her; "why should I need any
more boldness than you?"
"Ah, but I go to many places where the young lady dare not go,"
answered the old woman; "and in the dead of night, too."
"I dare say," returned Calista; "but you see I come in broad day, and
for a good purpose, so I carry the blessing of God with me, and have
nothing to fear."
"Nothing!" repeated the old woman. "Not even the snakes!"
"I have often been here and have never seen any snakes," said Calista.
"Well, I like a bold spirit," said the old woman. "Don't pretty Missy
want her fortune told? Old Jael can tell her any fine things past and
future."
"I know the past for myself, and as for the future, it is in God's
hands," answered Calista; "he knows it, and that is far better than
knowing it myself."
"Mighty fine words!" said the old woman; "but maybe I can make the
proud young lady change her tune, when I tell her where she was—say
last Wednesday evening—peeping and looking for the red gold all alone
in the secret chamber!"
"I can do as much as that," said Calista, struck by a sudden thought;
"I can tell who was climbing up on an old wall, peeping through holes
and crannies like a cat."
The old Woman, who had evidently calculated greatly on the effect of
her words, drew back as if some one had struck her, and turned more
ashy pale than she was before.
"No, Mother Jael, I want none of your skill," said Calista, as she
turned to go. "As you have offered to tell my fortune, I will tell you
something in return: 'he that believeth on the Son of God hath eternal
life, and he that believeth not shall not see life, but the wrath of
God abideth on him.' I advise you to go to the meeting Wednesday night,
and learn what will do you good. Good-morning."
The woman nodded not ungraciously, and stood looking till Calista was
out of sight.
"You are a bold one, anyhow, and I like your spunk; but—Yes, we must
have her out of the way, or we shall do nothing."
Muttering thus to herself, she walked away in the opposite direction
with more activity than could have been expected.
Calista put her flowers in water, changed her draggled dress and shoes,
and then went to see Miss Druett, whom she found, to her surprise, up
and ready for breakfast.
"Are you able to go down?" asked Calista. "I was coming to ask if I had
better not stay at home and take care of you."
"Nonsense, child! I am not sick; it is only a cold. Where have you been
so early?"
"I have been in the Red Hollow after flowers, and I have met the
presiding genius of the place."
And Calista recounted her adventure.
"Were you not frightened?" asked Miss Druett.
"Not a bit! I believe I scared her a good deal more than she did me."
"Still, I don't like your meeting her."
"But, dear Miss Druett, I can't stay in the house all the time for fear
of Old Jael. Do you think, like Chloe, that she is a witch?"
"I think she is an unscrupulous, wicked woman, and that is bad enough,"
replied Miss Druett. "I don't like to have you lose one of your few
pleasures, but I must say I don't fancy your meeting her. How bright
you look!"
"I feel bright; I feel as if I were in a new world. Oh, Miss Druett, if
you would only find him too! Why won't you try?"
"There, don't talk about it, child," replied Miss Druett, hastily;
"pray that he may find me, and perhaps he will. Come, it is time to go
down."
Calista walked somewhat more slowly than usual this morning, and
reached the school-room just as the first bell rung. She went directly
to her desk and looked into it, half hoping to see the missing
needle-case, which she disliked losing, both for its own sake and
because she knew the trouble the loss would occasion at home. It was
not there, however, and her desk was exactly as she left it.
"It is very strange," thought Calista; "anyway, I am sure Mary did not
take it."
Mary Burns and Antoinette Diaments were the last to enter—the latter in
her riding-dress, which she had had no time to change. She had hoped
to reach school in time to restore the case to its place, but in this
she was disappointed; and as she looked at its beauty, she could hardly
make up her mind to return it at all.
"Calista is so giddy, Miss McPherson will think she lost it herself;
and so will Miss Meeks, if I can only get held of her first."
Mary Burns looked tired and worn with grief and watching, as, indeed,
she was; but her face, in all its sorrowful paleness, had a steadfast,
settled expression. She knew in whom she had put her trust, and she
did not believe he would desert her in the hour of need, however he
might suffer her to be tried. For this poor, plain, stammering tailor's
daughter had a faith which nothing could shake. She would have faced
all the sophistry of all the infidels in the world with the simple
unanswerable argument of St. John:
"WE have SEEN him."
It was the custom on Monday morning for each person in the school-room,
beginning with Miss McPherson herself, to recite a verse from Holy
Scripture. The verses this morning were unusually significant to those
who were in the secrets of the past few days. Miss McPherson's was from
the thirty-second Psalm and fifth verse:
"'I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord; and thou
forgavest the iniquity of my sin.'"
Miss Jessy's (with a beseeching glance at poor Mary) was:
"'If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'" (1 John 1:9.)
Miss Meeks (sharply, and with a glance in the same direction):
"'Be sure your sin will find you out.'" (Numbers 32:23.)
It was Mary Burns's turn next, and she spoke up clearly, and with a
bright light in her usually pale blue eyes.
"He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment
as the noonday." (Ps. 37:6.)
"How hardened she must be to choose that verse!" thought Miss Meeks.
But Miss McPherson and Miss Jessy exchanged a glance which said, "She
is innocent, whoever is guilty."
Antoinette was unfortunate. She had opened hastily to the same Psalm,
and, keeping her Bible in her lap (for she had quite forgotten to learn
a verse), she read the first her eye fell upon:
"The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous is
merciful, and giveth." (Ps. 37:21.)
Calista's eyes brightened and her color deepened beautifully as she
repeated:
"We have found him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did
write, Jesus of Nazareth." (John 1:45.)
There was a short silence after Miss McPherson's prayer, is which
she asked that the innocent might be justified and the guilty led to
confession and amendment. Then she made a little speech. She said most
of those before her had heard of the loss of the needle-case from Miss
Stanfield's desk, and the suspicion which had fallen on one of their
number. If the matter had not become public already, she should not
have made it so, but she hoped all would suspend their judgment.
Then she asked, "Can any one throw any light on this matter?"
Then, as no one else said anything, Calista spoke modestly:
"Miss McPherson, there is one point at least in which Mary Burns can be
cleared. She said that she saw Antoinette come out of the school-room
at a quarter to nine, but Miss Meeks thought she must be wrong, because
Antoinette went away before eight."
She paused and looked at Antoinette, who gave her a vengeful glance in
return.
"Well, what then?" asked Miss McPherson, after waiting a moment for
Antoinette to speak.
"Tessy told me that her cousin came back because some accident happened
to the horse," answered Calista. "Antoinette staid in Tessy's room till
just before the quarter bell rung, and then went to the school-room, or
so Tessy thought. So Mary might have seen her, as she said."
"Is this true?" asked Miss McPherson of Antoinette.
"Yes, ma'am," answered Antoinette, temper and the wish for revenge
getting the better of her prudence. "I did not mean to say anything,
but, since Miss Stanfield seems determined to throw the blame upon me,
I must tell the whole story. I was in the school-room a moment, my
skirt came untied, and I stepped behind the study door to fasten it. As
I stood there, I saw Mary Burns come into the room and look into Miss
Stanfield's desk. She turned the things over till she found something,
and dropped it into her inside pocket. Then she took a book, shut the
desk, and went hastily out."
"You did not see what she took?" said Miss McPherson.
"No, ma'am. It was something pretty heavy, which pulled her pocket
down, and jingled a little."
"What do you say to this, Mary Burns?" asked Miss McPherson, turning to
her.
"It is not true, Miss McPherson. I did not turn over one thing. I took
up the 'Lady of the Lake' and read a little, and then I laid it down,
took the volume of Goldsmith, and carried it away. I have no more to
say."
"I am sure I don't know what to think," said Miss McPherson, much
perplexed.
"I should say it was all very plain," said Miss Meeks, not perplexed
at all, as, indeed, people seldom are who have made up their minds
beforehand. "Here is positive evidence on one side, and simple denial
on the other."
"Good!" thought Antoinette. "You might have held your tongue, Miss
Stanfield."
But another witness was to the fore on whom she had not calculated.
Elizabeth Howell had come a little late and sat down quietly by the
door. She now rose up, tall, fair, and prim, as delicate as an August
lily, in her light-gray bombazine and clean muslin kerchief and apron.
"I should like to speak to thee in private, Friend McPherson."
"What can she have to say?" thought Antoinette, but without much
misgiving. "She does not know anything about the matter. I took care of
that."
After a few minutes' conversation, Miss McPherson opened the door of
her private room and called—
"Miss Meeks, will you come in? Miss Burns, Miss Stanfield, Miss
Antoinette Diaments, Miss Settson, please come also. The young ladies
will recite their French grammar to Miss Jessy."
The party tolerably filled the little room. Elizabeth looked a little
flushed, and Miss McPherson both grieved and angry.
"You will please listen, Miss Meeks and young ladies, to what Elizabeth
Howell has to say."
"First, if Friend McPherson pleases, I should like, Calista, to hear
thee describe the needle-case."
Calista did so, taxing her memory to be exact in every particular.
"Precisely so!" said Elizabeth. "I saw Antoinette Diaments at her
cousin Richard Whitecar's, in Graywich, and she had and was using just
such a case as Calista describes."
"How could you see it, I should like to know, when I put it in my
pocket before you came into the room?" asked Antoinette, unguardedly.
"Then you admit that you had it!" said Miss McPherson.
Antoinette saw she had betrayed herself, and was sullenly silent.
"Please answer her question, Elizabeth."
"I saw the whole through the window, and reflected in the large mirror
opposite," answered Elizabeth. "I came in by the back way, as I often
do." (The two families being relations as well as neighbors.) "I stood
two or three minutes watching some kittens at play, and then looked
into the room. I could not see Antoinette—only her reflection in the
glass, and this case on the table, with the scissors, by her side.
Antoinette was using the thimble. I was rather struck, and it did occur
to me to wonder whether this was the needle-case that had made all the
trouble. Then Richard Whitecar came along and spoke to me, and I saw
Antoinette hastily gather up the things and put them in her pocket.
Then I felt quite sure. I meant to speak to Antoinette about the
matter, but had no private opportunity. It seemed to me this morning
that the attempt to throw blame on Mary Burns was a clear call to tell
what I knew."
There was a moment's silence, and then Miss McPherson said, in a
sterner tone than had ever been heard from her before—
"Antoinette, where is the needle-case?"
Antoinette was obstinately silent.
"Miss Meeks, you will please search Miss Diaments's room thoroughly,
and especially her travelling-basket and work-bag. Antoinette, stay
here—" (For Antoinette was moving toward the door). "Sit down on that
chair, and do not stir from it till I give you permission. I will have
this matter sifted to the bottom."
There was a short but very awkward pause till Miss Meeks returned
without the needle-case, and looking a good deal excited.
"I cannot find it," said she.
"Of course you can't, when it is not there!" said Antoinette, in a tone
of triumph.
"Look in her desk," was the next order.
"Look as much as you please!" said Antoinette insolently.
But her manner changed as Miss Meeks said pointedly, "There are some
things in Miss Diaments's room which need investigation."
"I will attend to that matter," said the principal. "Look in her
pockets."
Antoinette turned pale.
"I won't have my pockets searched!" she stammered. "It is a pity if the
daughter of one of the richest men in the state is to be insulted for
the sake of beggarly tailor's girl!"
Antoinette had kept fast hold of her work-bag, but in her agitation she
dropped it. It fell on the floor with a heavy, ringing sound.
Miss Meeks picked it up and opened it. There was the case.
"Antoinette, I beg for your own sake you will confess the whole
matter," said Miss McPherson, earnestly. "Tell the whole truth, my poor
child."
"I shall not tell anything!" answered Antoinette. "If you choose to
make a fuss about it you can. I guess you will lose more than I shall.
I don't think you will make much by quarrelling with the richest man in
the state for the sake of tippling old tailor Burns's daughter."
Those who knew Miss McPherson actually trembled for the effect of these
words. That lady, however, answered with a calmness more alarming than
any storm—
"Miss Diaments, you are no longer a member of this school. You will
remain in this room till I can send for your uncle. Mary Burns, my
dear, you are entirely cleared from the shadow of blame. Is she not,
Miss Meeks?"
"So far as this matter is concerned, certainly," said Miss Meeks; "but
I must remind her that but for certain past equivocations, to call them
by a mild name, I should not have suspected her."
"I know I have not always told the truth exactly, Miss Meeks," answered
Mary, humbly. "I have been easily frightened and confused, and
sometimes I have seemed to tell lies when I did not mean to. But I hope
I shall be enabled to do better, and not think so much of what men will
think of me."
Miss Meeks was melted. She kissed Mary, and told her she had no doubt
she meant to be a very good girl.
"You will now all return to your places," said Miss McPherson. "Miss
Meeks will clear Miss Burns, and I hope we shall none of us be the
worse for the lesson we have received."
Miss McPherson spent some time in trying to persuade Antoinette to
a confession, but Antoinette was obstinate. The fact was, she did
not believe Miss McPherson would dare to expel her, and took all her
persuasive gentleness for a method of getting gracefully out of the
scrape.
"Very well, I shall say no more," said Miss McPherson. And rising she
led Antoinette to a smaller room which opened from her own, and which
was used in extreme cases as a kind of chamber of penitence. "You will
remain in this room, seeing no one, till I can see your uncle, and make
arrangements for you to return with him."
"I must put up my things," said Antoinette, for the first time showing
some alarm.
"I shall myself look over and put up your things with the assistance of
Mrs. McGregor."
Antoinette now gave way entirely, and with tears and sobs and the most
abject entreaties begged to be allowed to go to her room, if only for a
few minutes, to put up her own things.
"No," answered Miss McPherson, her suspicions confirmed by Antoinette's
conduct. "I must attend to that matter myself. The servant will bring
your dinner, but you will not leave this room."
So saying Miss McPherson left the room, shutting and locking the door.
She was sorry for the girl, but hers was not the false compassion
which will expose the innocent to contamination on the mere chance
of reforming the guilty. She found more than enough in her search of
Antoinette's room to confirm her resolution. It was astonishing to see
how many little articles, some of considerable value, which had been
given up for lost by their owners, were found carefully hidden in boxes
and under beds. It seemed evident that Antoinette must have carried on
the business of petty thieving almost ever since she had been in the
school.
Antoinette departed in the afternoon, regretted by no one, unless by
Tessy, who had been the greatest sufferer by her meanness. I may as
well say that neither her father nor mother believed one word against
their daughter, her mother declaring that Antoinette never told a lie
in her life. Two or three large sums paid on account of shoplifting
performances, and a final disgraceful elopement, partly opened her
father's eyes, but her mother persisted in declaring that it was all
the fault of the influences under which poor Antoinette was thrown at
that abominable Cohansey school.
This is no fancy sketch, as many a teacher can testify. It is no
wonder, seeing of what it is the root and spring, that God abhors
covetousness.
CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
EVIL INFLUENCES.
"WELL, I am sorry for Antoinette, after all," said Calista, as the
girls gathered in the play-ground.
"So am not I," returned Mary Settson. "She brought it all on herself,
and deserves a far worse punishment."
"I don't deny that, but still I am sorry for her. And, Mary, what would
have become of all of us if somebody had not been sorry for us while we
were yet sinners?"
"But she was so mean to try to throw all on poor Mary."
"That is true. I don't extenuate her fault in the least, but still I am
sorry for her."
"Well, I ain't so sure, after all, about this business," said Charity
Latch, who was a great worshipper of wealth. "It seems a great deal
more likely that a poor beggar like Mary Burns should steal than that
Antoinette should."
"I should like to know what makes Mary Burns a beggar," said two or
three girls at once, and Emma added, "Did she ever beg anything of you?"
"If she did, she didn't get it," said Belle. "We all know Mary is poor,
but there is not a girl in the school less of a beggar than she. I
think she even goes too far the other way. She just hates to receive
a favor. As to Antoinette, there can be no doubt. She not only took
the needle-case, but a good many other things besides, my button-hole
scissors and cornelian necklace, that I thought I lost in the street,
among others. One would think she need not have done that, when she had
such lovely cameos of her own."
"I am glad Mary is cleared, anyhow," observed Calista. "Dear little
soul, how pretty she looked when she stood up and said her verse! And I
am glad I have my needle-case back, but I am sorry for Antoinette, and
I think—" Calista hesitated a little and blushed as she added—"I think
we ought to pray for her."
"What, is Saul among the prophets?" said Belle. "Are you going to be
another Mary Settson? We sinners are likely to be deserted entirely."
Mary put on her "martyr face," as Belle called it, and turned away.
Calista only said, gently and seriously—
"Don't, Belle. I know you don't mean any harm, but don't make fun of
religion or things connected with it. Think if your words should come
true!"
"Well, I won't," said Belle, more seriously; "I know you are right,
even as a matter of good taste. But tell us, Calista, do you really
mean to be a Christian, like Mary and Clarissa Whitman?"
"I don't know that I shall be like anybody," replied Calista, "but I do
really mean to be a Christian if I can."
"Well, for my part, I'd wait and see if I was going to persevere,
if I were you, before I spoke out so plainly," said Charity. "But I
don't call any girl in this school a consistent Christian, for my
part. There's Clary Whitman—just look at her playing battledore and
shuttlecock with Emma Ross."
"Well, where is the harm? I don't know anything in the Bible against
playing battledore and shuttlecock, do you? I am sure Clary Whitman
is a good girl, if there ever was one," said Belle, warmly; for she
was one of those happy spirits that delight in the goodness of other
people. "Come, Calista, will you have a game, or do you think it is
wicked?"
"Not a bit," said Calista; "but I can't play now, Belle. I must find
Mary; I have something to tell her."
Calista found Mary Settson sitting pensively in the school-room, and
sat down by her.
"What is the matter?" she asked. "Surely you don't mind Belle's words.
You know she means no harm."
"I don't know how you can say that, when she laughs at religion as she
does."
"Oh, she was not laughing at religion exactly, she was laughing at us.
Besides, when I told her I did not think it was right, she stopped
directly. But I want to tell you ever so many things, Mary—so many, I
don't know where to begin. But, first of all, Mary, I have found him,
as my verse said. I have found Jesus of Nazareth."
The little snake of jealousy and ill-humor which had been hissing in
Mary's heart for a few minutes was silent and dived into his den. She
kissed Calista.
"Tell me how it was," said she.
"It began with mother's Bible, and some letters I found in her desk—for
you must know that, thanks to Miss Druett, I have all mother's things.
I made up my mind that I must and would be a Christian, and then I
found a letter—such a letter!—from Aunt Priscilla to mother.
"That upset me again, for I knew I must forgive, or my own sins would
never be forgiven; and I felt sure I never could. But Sunday evening
Mr. Alger preached in the old red meeting-house, and I went to hear
him. His text was,—
"'Behold the Lamb of God!'
"Oh, Mary, I can't tell it all, but he made me see him in the garden
and on the cross, and all for me. All the bitterness seemed to go out
of my heart, and I felt I could forgive anything—even the cruelty to my
poor, gentle mother. I said,—
"'Lord, if thou wilt—'
"And he did. I did not do it at all."
"I am sure I am very thankful," said Mary; "I did not suppose Mr. Alger
was a very eloquent preacher."
"I don't know whether he was eloquent or not," said Calista; "I did
not think of the preacher at all—it was what he said. He brought me
just the help I wanted. And we are to have another meeting Wednesday
evening, and perhaps a Sunday-school."
"I rather wonder your aunt should let you go," said Mary.
"Oh, I did not ask her. Miss Druett let me. I am to be Miss Druett's
girl now. But, all the same, I mean to qualify myself for a teacher,
as you advised me. I think one can do as much good in that way as any
other; don't you?"
"Yes, indeed; but I hope you won't ever have to work for a living,
Calista."
"Oh, I shall not mind, if only I am as well and strong as I am now. By
the way, when is your father coming home?"
"Oh, not for a long time, and that is something I had to tell you,"
replied Mary. "Father has written from Princeton for Alice and me to
join him there, and we are going a long journey with him up to Vermont
or somewhere. This is the last day I shall have in school."
"Oh, how sorry I am! I was counting on having you sit with me."
"I will next term. And, Calista, if you like, you can have my place in
the drawing-class. There are three weeks to vacation, and you might do
quite a good deal in that time."
"Oh, thank you! I shall like it ever so much! I have all mother's
pencils and paints. But I am so sorry you are going away. I shall miss
you more than ever now."