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?"

"Oh, Miss McPherson would not let her work the grand picture with the 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?"